This morning the volunteers and I visited the school where, starting tomorrow, we will be teaching French and English, as well as playing games. Its very small, and they are re-doing the roof, but the kids are adorable and really enjoyed meeting us. They are so full of energy and jump all over you, tugging you this way and that: the girls want to start braiding your hair, and the boys want to play soccer. All of them speak Wolof, the primary tribal language of Senegal, though the older ones (5+ years) speak French too. So I chat with them in both, or at least I try. I've picked up a lot of words and phrases in Wolof, which is a really fun language to speak, though the Senegalese my age have really enjoyed mocking my Wolof skills... but I just spit some Akon and its even:-)
Anyhow, expect some stories about the school kids very soon. Our first full day with them is tomorrow!
After the school visit, me and two other volunteers hopped in a cab to get to the city-center of Dakar. I'm living in a suburb called Cambérène, which is about 45 minutes from "downtown", and is definately a village. In fact, only the "Plateau" neighborhood of Dakar (government buildings, banks, etc) bears some resemblance to a city.
Its really not far from Cambérène but the traffic is bad.
And so are the roads...they are currently building the first real highway here, and you can imagine what the work in progress looks like in this sand and dust covered place.
And so are the drivers...
Long story short, we got into accidents on our way to and from the center. On our way there, the taxi driver hit a young girl who was crossing the street. As the roads are dirt/sand, there are no separator lines, and she was in the middle of the street, getting ready to cross the second half. It would have been fine, but just as the cab driver was about to pass her, she takes a step back...
Thank goodness we were going relatively slowly and the cabs breaks worked. She was hit and fell to the ground, but got up covering her face and walked off. Of course, the driver stopped and got out and everyone gathered around. We did the same, and when we saw that despite the shock she was ok (a few cuts and bruises) we continued our journey by foot until we found another cab driver to accept our price for a ride into town.
On the way home, we were just leaving the center, and there were exits everywhere indicating the way to the airport, to the North, to the East, and somewhere in all this chaos a taxi brousse (the cheapest rides and known for their wrecklessness, they are brightly colored mini buses almost always full to the brim with passengers standing on the rear bumper of the bus) rams our taxi from the side (perpendicular) in an attempt to traverse the street at an traffic-light-less intersection. The driver got out, cursed a few times, yelled something in Wolof to those in the taxi brousse and got back in.
"C'est bon, on y va"
I asked if he was sure, and he smiled and said there was a big dent, but not to worry. He couldn't do much and it could have been worse.
I couldn't help but spend the rest of the ride imagining what would have happened in the exact same situation in the States. An appearence in court would certainly have been necessary.
Half an hour later we got to Cambérène. Indeed, there was an enormous dent.
But then again, he was right...it could have been much worse.
Inshallah
lundi 30 juillet 2007
Electricity
In the last 48 hours, we have spent more time without electricity than with it. When this happens it effects the entire neighborhood. Rather than stay inside, people go out into the streets or onto the beach.
So last night, after a candle-lit dinner (yes, very romantic)with the other volunteers, I made my way down to the crowded shores squinting to find the way since the street lights didn't work either. It was slightly surreal, and each step I took made me feel like the protagonist of a cinema verité style film. Music was coming from all angles, people were talking, laughing, praying, and singing religious chants in the obscurity. By the time we got to the beach, our eyes had adjusted to the moonlight (which happened to be a full moon) and it was so strong, you would have thought the sun was about to rise on the ocean.
Anyway, it was fun for an evening, but not so much when I woke up this morning still without electricity and additionally, without running water.
So last night, after a candle-lit dinner (yes, very romantic)with the other volunteers, I made my way down to the crowded shores squinting to find the way since the street lights didn't work either. It was slightly surreal, and each step I took made me feel like the protagonist of a cinema verité style film. Music was coming from all angles, people were talking, laughing, praying, and singing religious chants in the obscurity. By the time we got to the beach, our eyes had adjusted to the moonlight (which happened to be a full moon) and it was so strong, you would have thought the sun was about to rise on the ocean.
Anyway, it was fun for an evening, but not so much when I woke up this morning still without electricity and additionally, without running water.
vendredi 27 juillet 2007
Ile de Gorée
Today we went to an island twenty minutes by ferry from Dakar. It was a hub and stronghold for the slave trade in West Africa.
The ferry was packed with people heading out for a day at the beach, and tourists (Toubabs and Senegalese alike) going to visit and remember the past. I lost the two other volunteers in the rush to get a seat, so I ended up standing at the back alone. Next to me was an elderly man, from Dakar, who was accompanying a young family member visiting from elsewhere. The man was briefly explaining the history of the island and the nature of the slave trade. I plunged into my book. He started speaking louder as the conversation got heated but I continued to read...
I looked up right as he was concluding: "mais bon, c'est pas pour cela qu'il faut tuer les blanc. Non, c'est pas bien de les tuer."
What?! I had clearly missed an interesting conversation.
He then leans over and says to me chuckling: "T'es pas ancienne colonisatrice toi, hein?"
Non.
Awkward.
On the island we visited La maison des esclaves, built in 1776. Slaves were kept there temporarily until they were auctioned (which occured only when they had been engraissés to the minimum weight of 60kg). At that point they walked through "la porte du voyage sans retour" and embarked, usually for the Americas.
(ran out of time. to be continued...)
The ferry was packed with people heading out for a day at the beach, and tourists (Toubabs and Senegalese alike) going to visit and remember the past. I lost the two other volunteers in the rush to get a seat, so I ended up standing at the back alone. Next to me was an elderly man, from Dakar, who was accompanying a young family member visiting from elsewhere. The man was briefly explaining the history of the island and the nature of the slave trade. I plunged into my book. He started speaking louder as the conversation got heated but I continued to read...
I looked up right as he was concluding: "mais bon, c'est pas pour cela qu'il faut tuer les blanc. Non, c'est pas bien de les tuer."
What?! I had clearly missed an interesting conversation.
He then leans over and says to me chuckling: "T'es pas ancienne colonisatrice toi, hein?"
Non.
Awkward.
On the island we visited La maison des esclaves, built in 1776. Slaves were kept there temporarily until they were auctioned (which occured only when they had been engraissés to the minimum weight of 60kg). At that point they walked through "la porte du voyage sans retour" and embarked, usually for the Americas.
(ran out of time. to be continued...)
jeudi 26 juillet 2007
Dakar first impressions
Dakar is much poorer than I expected.
In truth, I didn't have any idea what to expect, but Sénégal is by far the worst of the third-world countries I've visited. I would say it is slightly worse than Haiti, the poorest country in the western Hemisphere. Nonetheless, the people are proud to be Senegalese and are so happy to share their culture with others. Senegal is the land of terranga, or hospitality, and for the most part that is felt throughout Dakar.
Far from being a busy cosmopolitan city, it is definately bustling but retains that small village feel. It is divided into quartiers, and is hardly centralized, though there is une place central at the southern tip of the city. Foreigners stand out here. They call us les toubabs (the Senegalese equivalent of a gringo in Latin America) One kid I met in the street almost had a fit when he saw me and the two other volunteers: he started screaming and pointing at us. Les toubabs are so rare here. I literally haven't seen a single tourist since I got here, just a few UN diplomats at the airport.
Asphalt doesn't really exist here, and the streets are all sand (which really lets me imagine the famous Paris-Dakar car race) and mostly littered. We took la route principale through Dakar, which was more like "off-roading". All along the roads are cinder block buildings, many of which are unfinished, and probably won't be for some time. My host father explained: whenever people make the slightest bit of money they start building. But they inevitably use up their resources before finishing the construction, and thus abandon their project.
People live off of practically nothing. My bathroom is a hole in the ground, and my shower is the water pipe directly above the toilet. But they are happy to be together, with family and friends.
Electricity is spotty. Actually, it'll probably go off in a bit because I've been on the computer too long. So on that note, à la prochaine!
In truth, I didn't have any idea what to expect, but Sénégal is by far the worst of the third-world countries I've visited. I would say it is slightly worse than Haiti, the poorest country in the western Hemisphere. Nonetheless, the people are proud to be Senegalese and are so happy to share their culture with others. Senegal is the land of terranga, or hospitality, and for the most part that is felt throughout Dakar.
Far from being a busy cosmopolitan city, it is definately bustling but retains that small village feel. It is divided into quartiers, and is hardly centralized, though there is une place central at the southern tip of the city. Foreigners stand out here. They call us les toubabs (the Senegalese equivalent of a gringo in Latin America) One kid I met in the street almost had a fit when he saw me and the two other volunteers: he started screaming and pointing at us. Les toubabs are so rare here. I literally haven't seen a single tourist since I got here, just a few UN diplomats at the airport.
Asphalt doesn't really exist here, and the streets are all sand (which really lets me imagine the famous Paris-Dakar car race) and mostly littered. We took la route principale through Dakar, which was more like "off-roading". All along the roads are cinder block buildings, many of which are unfinished, and probably won't be for some time. My host father explained: whenever people make the slightest bit of money they start building. But they inevitably use up their resources before finishing the construction, and thus abandon their project.
People live off of practically nothing. My bathroom is a hole in the ground, and my shower is the water pipe directly above the toilet. But they are happy to be together, with family and friends.
Electricity is spotty. Actually, it'll probably go off in a bit because I've been on the computer too long. So on that note, à la prochaine!
The third's a charm?
After a great night's sleep under the net (I didn' get bit) my host father and I headed to a bank to convert my traveller's cheques into CFA (local francs).
First bank: the person who is trained in exchanging travellers was out.
Second bank: no more electricity so the bank was out of order for the morning
Third bank: the security guard looked at us with his AK47 and told us to try elsewhere because he didnt know what we were talking about
Fourth bank: No success either.
We walked and drove for probably an hour and a half, remaining optimistic despite the numerous failures, and finally decided to go the the airport. So we drove back to the airport, I did what I had to do, and that was that. I'm glad things ended up how they did because I got to see the preparations underway at the airport for Sarkozy's arrival. He is in Dakar, after his stop in Libya, to give a talk on France's ties to Africa.
Time doesn't matter here. As witnessed, you can easily spend hours trying to get something done, and that is normal. My host father warned me that if I have rendez-vous with a Senegalese at 8pm that means at earliest 9, and probably 10pm. I think this attitude towards came about partially out of desperation for things taking so long and needing justification for it, but also out of the Senegalese idea that every moment must be savoured and cherished. Life is too short to stress, my father assured me "Dieu nous a pas mit ici pour stresser". I have a feeling its going to take me a while to shake off the New Yorker in me.
First bank: the person who is trained in exchanging travellers was out.
Second bank: no more electricity so the bank was out of order for the morning
Third bank: the security guard looked at us with his AK47 and told us to try elsewhere because he didnt know what we were talking about
Fourth bank: No success either.
We walked and drove for probably an hour and a half, remaining optimistic despite the numerous failures, and finally decided to go the the airport. So we drove back to the airport, I did what I had to do, and that was that. I'm glad things ended up how they did because I got to see the preparations underway at the airport for Sarkozy's arrival. He is in Dakar, after his stop in Libya, to give a talk on France's ties to Africa.
Time doesn't matter here. As witnessed, you can easily spend hours trying to get something done, and that is normal. My host father warned me that if I have rendez-vous with a Senegalese at 8pm that means at earliest 9, and probably 10pm. I think this attitude towards came about partially out of desperation for things taking so long and needing justification for it, but also out of the Senegalese idea that every moment must be savoured and cherished. Life is too short to stress, my father assured me "Dieu nous a pas mit ici pour stresser". I have a feeling its going to take me a while to shake off the New Yorker in me.
Arrival in Dakar
I arrived in Dakar last night at around 9pm. Everything went rather smoothly, customs, etc though I was lucky to have a distinct bright red suitcase, as the luggage from all the flights arriving to Leopold Sedar Senghor Int'l Airport were placed on the airport's one conveyor belt. I took my bag before it could be accidentally taken by passengers from the flight coming in from Casablanca and headed to the exit but not before passing a final security checkpoint, where I was told by an official that I could cut the line in exchange for a few coins. I didn't have any so I told him so, and he assured me that bills were acceptable too, even Euros. I finally exited the terminal, fought my way through the crowd, and found my ride (my host father).
My host father brought me home, to a quartier slightly north of Dakar's city-centre called Cambérène. On the ride from the airport we had an interesting discussion, in which he told me of a few Senegalese values: family, religion, "le marchandage" (selling/bargaining) and flirting.
Religion is very important here, and people are very observant, praying 5 times a day. 95 percent of the population is Muslim and there are mosques every few blocks. The other 5 percent are either Christian or Animist. Regardless, they are very superstitious, and wear and adorn their belongings with talismans. At a stop light he popped off the steering wheel of the car to show me the crumpled up pieces of paper with phrases from the Koran attached with a string that he keeps there. Because of it, he's never had a car accident. I guess its the Senegalese version of car insurance.
As for family, many Senegalese men have several wifes. By law, they are allowed to have up to four. My host father has only one, but he dabbled in the several wifes deal and decided it just wasn't for him. He's been married 12 years (he is 32) but for 5 weeks he decided to take on a second wife, and the first wife expressed her sincere disapproval, saying he could do whatever he wanted except that, and so there was the end of wife numero dos.
When we arrived at home, his wife brought us dinner. Meals are eaten sitting or kneeling on the ground, shoes off, from a communal dish and ONLY with the right hand. The left hand is for other things, namely bathroom stuff (yes, I did indeed try to use my left hand, and yes, I was looked at with disgust and then scolded) I ate until my stomach practically exploded, to be polite of course, but I still hadn't eaten enough. "Maya, mange" was repeated probably about a dozen times in the span of 10 minutes. But listen, it was all for my benefit! "Ici, on aime les femmes avec de grosses fesses, et de bonnes cuisses" Basically in translation he told me that in Senegal they liked women with big butts and thick thighs, and not to worry because he was going to feed me exactlywhat I needed for that. Splendid. Check back later for progress on my booty!
After dinner, I went to bed, but not before securing my mosquito bed-net. In fetal position, and with nothing but my sticky self, I drifted off to sleep.
My host father brought me home, to a quartier slightly north of Dakar's city-centre called Cambérène. On the ride from the airport we had an interesting discussion, in which he told me of a few Senegalese values: family, religion, "le marchandage" (selling/bargaining) and flirting.
Religion is very important here, and people are very observant, praying 5 times a day. 95 percent of the population is Muslim and there are mosques every few blocks. The other 5 percent are either Christian or Animist. Regardless, they are very superstitious, and wear and adorn their belongings with talismans. At a stop light he popped off the steering wheel of the car to show me the crumpled up pieces of paper with phrases from the Koran attached with a string that he keeps there. Because of it, he's never had a car accident. I guess its the Senegalese version of car insurance.
As for family, many Senegalese men have several wifes. By law, they are allowed to have up to four. My host father has only one, but he dabbled in the several wifes deal and decided it just wasn't for him. He's been married 12 years (he is 32) but for 5 weeks he decided to take on a second wife, and the first wife expressed her sincere disapproval, saying he could do whatever he wanted except that, and so there was the end of wife numero dos.
When we arrived at home, his wife brought us dinner. Meals are eaten sitting or kneeling on the ground, shoes off, from a communal dish and ONLY with the right hand. The left hand is for other things, namely bathroom stuff (yes, I did indeed try to use my left hand, and yes, I was looked at with disgust and then scolded) I ate until my stomach practically exploded, to be polite of course, but I still hadn't eaten enough. "Maya, mange" was repeated probably about a dozen times in the span of 10 minutes. But listen, it was all for my benefit! "Ici, on aime les femmes avec de grosses fesses, et de bonnes cuisses" Basically in translation he told me that in Senegal they liked women with big butts and thick thighs, and not to worry because he was going to feed me exactlywhat I needed for that. Splendid. Check back later for progress on my booty!
After dinner, I went to bed, but not before securing my mosquito bed-net. In fetal position, and with nothing but my sticky self, I drifted off to sleep.
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