An American in Dakar

2003-05-05T13:08:00.000-07:00

Meet me in Saint Louis, Louis (Louis, Louis)

My Senegalese name is Daouda Ndiaye. Daouda becuase that's David. (One thing I like about my name is that there's a version of David in almost every language...not so for the "Chelsea's" of the world) Ndiaye because that's the name of my host family. Having a complete Senegalese name is vital to being here, more than in any place I've ever been. People ask you your name, in most interactions, even ones Americans would consider casual, business interactions. And when they do, they always say to me, "Daouda Naka?" Which means "David what?" They are looking for my family name.

The last name is especially important, being the one that is used by griots. A griot is "gëwël" in Wolof, translating roughly to minstrel, the person playing the Kora (Senegalese harp) at most social events such as baptisms or weddings. In any event, the griot will use your last name and a corresponding praise name to sing praises about you (that is, essentially, the entire griots' job) so that you'll give them money.

The griot is strictly a phenomenon of the Wolof culture, which, although it dominates Senegal especially around Dakar, is not the only ethnic group. You often hear about "Wolofization" referring to the fact that although only 40 percent of people are native Wolof speakers, another 40 percent acquire it but are actually mostly Pulaar, Serer, or Mandink speakers, for example. I also happen to personally believe that there is a cultural wolofization, if only a perceived one. In other words, practices such as praising from griots and deep hierarchical social structures that prevent certain people from becoming griots (or president) are seen as Senegalese, when in fact there are cultures within Senegal that do not have griots and that are very egalitarian. If I talk about Senegal as if it is completely Wolof, that's only because I, like many human beings, enjoy generalizing to make things easier. My wonderful director Serigne Ndiaye told us he once shut a door in the face of a griot woman praising him to get money. This happened because his wife is Wolof, and he is Serer. In his cultural context, the griot was rediculous, and he would have none of it. Though many people may speak Wolof, not everyone is.

When a griot praises your name, he or she uses a specific "praise name" attached to the last name. If a griot came up to me, they would say, "Ndiaye, njaat."

The last name is important in other ways as well. Most names, in Wolof society at least, correspond to a caste or profession. There are some names that you can tell immediately if that person is in the caste of "blacksmith" or "artisan." Castes and orders are a whole other issue, but let me at least let you know that they are very rigid and have a lot of superstition and stereotypes tied to them:

Many people will not shake a blacksmiths hand in the morning or ride his horse at any time, and there are villages TO THIS DAY that will not allow someone with a specialized profession such as an artisan to spend the night or even enter at all. Characteristics of the "baadoolo" (slaves) are that they eat until they are full and tired because they don't have self restraint like the "buur" (kings, nobility, those who are free). It was after eating too much and announcing to our Senegalese chaffeur that drove us to and from Saint Louis this weekend that That I had eaten too much and was sleepy, that he called me baadoolo. I know these examples seem disjointed, out of context, and bizarre, but to be here, it's just the way things work.

At the hotel in Saint Louis, a man that worked there had the last name of "Diop." An "Ndiaye" and a "Diop" are something like "joking cousins," and the proper protocol for me in this case was to tell the man that he was greedy and liked to eat rice a lot. He informed me, of course, that in fact it was I who enjoyed eating rice, and not he. I pretended to be offended, and we both had a good laugh about it.

As I've mentioned before, the last name is also what is traditionally repeated over and over when two people meet, and you will find that elderly or pious Muslims outside of Dakar will do this. So if Louis were your Senegalese last name, when I saw you I'd continue shaking your hand for a minute while saying "Louis, Louis, Louis, Al hamdulilaay (praise the Lord), Louis, Louis, yaa ngi ci jaam (are you in peace?), Louis, etc."

Saint Louis ("Ndar" in Wolof) is the former capital of Senegal (and of all of French West Africa), found in the Northwest Corner of the country at the opening of the Senegal River, which borders Senegal and Mauritania. Now a sleepy town barely echoing the activity of its colonial heydey, Saint Louis has become overshadowed by it's cousin Dakar, which now contains, well, literally everything. Part of this is because the colonialists never bothered developing the infrastructure of the interior of the country, focusing mainly on the cost and the way to exploit the raw materials and human resources so as to bring the most wealth to mother France. Nowadays, the interior is still underdeveloped, and western countries are still exploiting Senegal by way of companies, although this is gradually changing. All the opportunities are in Dakar, so that's where all the population that can't make a living in the countryside has been heading.

While in Saint Louis I got to see a pristine beach at the place where the ocean meets the river, a museum dedicated to the rich colonial history surrounding the town, and a black and white photography exhibit put together by a Senegalese boy two years my younger. Now he is touring Europe with his intimate, haunting, and powerful pictures of men, women, and children in the streets of Saint Louis sleeping at night in the street, or in crowded ghettos. The photographer started out in a place much like where I'm volunteering, where they taught street children arts and crafts. Starting at the age of 13 with a disposible camera, he is now bringing his painful call to social justice around the world. He was at the exhibit, and was extremely modest, down-to-earth, friendly, and even slightly shy.

I'll be in the states in three weeks. I miss all of you very deeply.

Love,
David

2003-04-24T15:04:00.000-07:00

Before I begin the real meat of this post, let me just make a few announcements:

This is included partly because my mother thought it would be interesting, and partly because she's right.
I do not think my grandmother is chopped liver, and I send her much love.

Bisimilahi...roughly translating to "let's begin" or "come in" which can be said at the start of anything ("alhamdulilahi" being the finish of anything) which is one of those Wolof words that you often hear that comes from arabic, i.e., the Koran. Bisimilahi is the first word of the Koran, their version of "In the beginning, God..." so that's why it has that starting kind of sense to it. I wasn't planning on explaining that, but while I'm at it, every light proposition such as "I'll see you tomorrow" is followed by "In ch'Allah," also Arabic, translated as "soo bugge Yalla" in Wolof, "Si dieu le veut" in French and "God willing" in English, for all you polyglots out there (don't be shy now!). NOW, is this merely random information that I felt like telling you OR does it reveal a glimmer of the complex relationship between Senegal and Islam, Wolof and Arabic, Language and religion, Culture and counter-culture? You be the judge.

With all due respect to Paul Harvey...And now, the rest of the story.

So today I went to get my backpack. Which I left at the lovely home of the American Consul to Senegal, whose wife is a very kind teacher, and whose children, Gabriel and Hannah, are smart as whips and great kids. I got to chat with the maid in Wolof about a radio program for women's issues also in Wolof (but too difficult for me to grasp), and when the kids came home, play both Nintendo 64 and an upright, intune piano, which for me was like a walk in Central Park after a day in Manhattan (the piano, not the nintendo, although both were fun). One might ask, now, what I was doing leaving my backpack in this home in the first place, which is like a little slice of America. Well, that all goes back to two weeks ago, when I was putting up signs in the Baobab Center to organize a meeting for anyone interested in having a Passover Sedar....

Lillian, the director of the center, noticed that I had these signs up, and told me that if it didn't work out, she would try to find me a palce to have passover. When nobody showed up to the meeting, she tried calling the Israeli embassy, and when they couldn't take someone, she asked her friends where she was having a Sedar of Friday if they could take an extra student. So, long story short, I was generously invited by kindly Jewish folks whom I didn't know to come to their house and participate in a passover Sedar and dinner, both of which were incredible, interesting, and deep. The guests were two fulbright scholars, slighty older than I, two married USAID (an American Non-Governmental Organization focusing on development) executives with their adorable kids, all Christians but there to enjoy the tradition, the consul of course, his wife and children, another girl about my age teaching English at a Senegalese school, Lillian, me, and the ambassador to Senegal from America whom everyone addressed as simply "Ambassador" but was remarkably down-to-earth and good natured. Most of the people Jewish, all of them American, 5 of them former Peace Corps volunteers, all enjoying a Sedar of real Jewish American Stock (we're talking shipped in ahead of time kosher-for-passover matzah, and of course, gafiltah fish). It was about as different a meal as I could have had in Senegal, at least compared to the normal eat-around-the-one-bowl, Wolof chattering, T.V. watching, eating-with-your-hands meals I normally have at my home here.

The Sedar was really fun, with occasional songs like Di-eh-nu, the four questions, a dash of commentary from the Talmud, and lots of commentary from the Non-talmud. Hannah, the elder child, read some Hebrew, as she is practicing for her Bat Mitzvah which will take place soon in Philadelphia. And there I was: listening to the old traditions and the story of the Jews being led out of slavery in Egpyt by God through a sea split in two, and then listening to conversations about taking the entrance exam for foreign service (something everyone in the room either had done or was thinking about doing, besides maybe me), and the ambassador talking about the briefings he gets so that he can talk to all the ministers in the Senegalese Government without spending days doing research, and the problems people get into taking "confidential" information outside of the physical space of the embassy via laptop in order to finish work at home, and how some of them used to read confidential info on airplanes even though it was technically not allowed because that's what time permitted, and the lifestyle of living in a different country every 2 to 4 years, so that your children end up knowing places like Senegal, Morocco, Portugal, a few other countries, and of course the good ole' United States "Freedom Fries" of America all before their 15th birthday.

I also got to play the piano that night as well, including a duet with 10 year old Gabriel which didn't go as well as the duet with his mother, who teaches them piano, but which was very fun and goofy nonetheless. I had by and far the best meal I've had since I've been here, and I got to joke around with some intersting, warm, and generous folks and their kids, and did I mention I played a piano? And I also left my backpack there, which I managed to pick up today and get to see the kids again. :)

I also got invited to HASH, but that's another story which I know very little of yet, but another unique part of foreign service culture that I may be able to share with you soon, especially if I decide to go.

Jusqu'à la prochaine,
Daouda Ndiaye

2003-04-19T10:25:00.000-07:00

Lorenzo needs you

I don't really have much to post, except that there are fifteeen minutes left from teaching my host brother Djibril how to type so I figure I'd use them wisely. He wants to say something. I will dictate/translate:

[Start transmission]

My name is Djibril Ndiaye. I live at Sicap Baobab. I'm 14 years old. I go to Sacre Coeur for school. I like to do sports. My father's name is Ibrahima Ndiaye. And my mother is Seynabou Paye. I have one older sister and two brothers. I like to learn English and Mathematics and geography. I would like to have lots of diplomas about everything. I have a lot of JOM (ambition).

[End transmission]

So other than that, I got some feedback from my wonderful mother that these posts were generating more questions than answering them. If these posts have sparked your curiousity as well, and if you would hold me to the grass-roots education kinda guy that I claim to be and the "top-down colonial weed-kids-out and French-is-better" system that I claim to be against, then please just send those questions right on in to dwein@wesleyan.edu. That's right, that means you!! So please don't hold back your desire to know from me, and I will answer the questions to the best of my ability, even doing in-depth research and interviews to find out because that's how much I care about what you care about.

A bientot, mes chers amis,
Daouda

2003-04-13T15:03:00.000-07:00

Insert Subject Here

Groucho Marx once said, "When only the upright are left, they'll be downright wrong." Now, that has nothing to do with this post, nor did he say that, but it gives you an idea of ridiculousness, which is sometimes felt in Senegal.

One cannot talk about Senegal without talking about Islam. And it's not just because 95% of Senegalese are Muslim. And it's not your standard Arabian islam you can find at any Arabian Kmart on special. This past weekend I went with my group to Touba, which is the religious center of the Mouride brotherhood, and arguably, of Senegal. In about a week the city will be literally flooded with people up the wazoo, celebrating the exile of the founder, Bamba, into Gabon. They will come to commemorate him, but also to participate in commerce and to be part of a sociocultural hub. Touba is the kind of nostalgic place that exists more elsewhere than in Touba...that is to say, the mouride brotherhood is connected all over the world by a strong belief in work, a veneration (almost worship) of their leaders called Marabouts, and by a literal network providing anything from money to visas to those abroad (for example, Italy) in the same organization. And that's just one kind of brotherhood. The omnipresence of Islam on the daily life in Senegal is undeniable. The other day while talking to my three-year-old brother, Amadou, I had an interesting experience. The child cannot form a complex sentence in either French or Wolof, but he started rattling off verses of the Koran in Arab like nobody's business. Koranic schooling takes an important place alongside (and sometimes instead of) colonial school, which has it's own issues don't get me started. Obviously, Amadou has started his Koranic education well before his formal/colonial one. And there are certain prayer times that it's amazing to be outside, with everyone facing the same direction, doing the same gestures, kneeling on similar mats, repeating the same lines that the Imam calls from the nearby mosque. Essentially, what I want to say is that tt's a complex interaction between religion and culture that goes alongside non-muslim practices (carrying amulets, hierarchical social structures) and everyday life.

Looking at my host brother's homework, I can tell it's something merely copied off the board, something any SOL proponent would smile proudly at. The system, along with everything else inherited from colonialism, is about weeding people out, not about providing useful skills that valorize or really EDUCATE people. The reason for weeding out is simple...there simply aren't enough spaces in teh middle schools, high schools, and universities for everyone. Imagine your first day of school in Senegal, when someone at the front starts talking to you in a language that means nothing to you (especially if your parents aren't educated). This person does not TEACH this language, but rather just talks it at you and expects you to know it, and later teaches you everything else (math, science, geography) in this language, all because French is "forward" and Wolof is "backward." And reforms are slow in coming.

i think my host brothers are getting restless. I might as well share since I brought them to the internet cafe and they have to go to bed soon. More on everything later.

Much love,
Daouda Ndiaye

2003-03-19T05:39:00.000-08:00

Second Impressions

We walked into the Gambian customs office bleary-eyed after having travelled for about 5 hours in a cramped sept-place. The 6 AM call to worship could be clearly heard, gently lulling early-rising muslims out of bed and into the mosque for the first of five obligatory prayers. Inside the office, however, the combination of a new dialect of wolof that was hard to get used to and that old familiar English (The Gambia was colonized by the British, as Senegal was by France) ran through my head as I finally realized I was on a new journey. A few hours earlier we had left Dakar on the night of tamxarit, a muslim holiday whose commercial form roughly resembles the American halloween. While devout Muslims repeat a certain prayer 1000 times on this night, the more popular celebration is occuring as scores of children dress up, paint their faces, and go from house to house beating drums, singing, dancing, and asking for cous-cous, sugar, or whatever else people give them. Apparently it's supposed to be the Islamic new year, also celebrating a certain flight of the Jews from captivity way back when, but information is hard to glean.

In any event, it's a holiday, and because of this, the next morning we arrive in sleepy downtown Banjul (the capital of The Gambia) everything is closed. We do manage to find a restaurant with friendly waiters and waitresses pleased to speak Wolof to toubabs (white people), but as the chef did not come in today on account of the holiday, I end up making the omelettes for our group in the kitchen (the waitresses say they don't cook very well). The trip to Gambia overall is wonderful, and we get to see monkeys and crocodiles as well as a really beautiful labirynth-like market which has everything from touristy art to island beach towels to refrigerators. We also met an exmtremely nice, gentle German doctor named Gregor who has practiced all over the world and has great stories, and we ended up having dinner with him twice. our hotel also had a kitchen, so we were able to cook lunch for ourselves. It's always a treat to be able to make and eat a meal together with friends.

Reminds me of rare times when the scuzzy French House kitchen, or nicer ones in Russian house, low rise, etc., were used way back in Wes U. for friendly feasts. :)

After about two months in a country you start to get used to the way things are done, being less perceptive of how different the way of life is, gradually melting into the natural way everything happens--the way everyone greets and talks to each other and the time things take to get done and the way of making tea or a meal and inviting whoever is around to come and join you. Many a time in the baobab center will I be sitting, reading for class, checking up on the news in "Le Soleil" (a Senegal daily with international news on the last page), and inevitably if they start having lunch I will be invited to come and share in the meal with all the teachers, all of us around the big bowl, and I will try to piece together some sort of meaning from the friendly teasing in Wolof and bits of French while they laugh and carry on.

Or the dinner we made up in Ouacam with all the people from our program, and the owner of an apartment next to Ann's (our slightly less-than-offical program mom) allowed us to use his really nice and spacious apartment to cook, eat, and chat, even though they had met that same afternoon. It seems so natural now as to take it for granted, and yet I cannot imagine this happening in the U.S., and it is only then that I remember to be in awe of the giving of this culture, and to be thankful, to take my second impression.

I'm starting my internship soon, and I have to figure out what I'm going to do with a bunch of kids who don't speak a lot of French, just Wolof. I'm still in the process of developing some sort of program to teach theatre, communication, speaking, etc. while using English, French, Wolof, singing, rhythm, and dance, but I have to talk to some more people to really figure out what I can do with these kids in such a short time.

And with regard to everything else:

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perserveres.

Love never fails.

--David

2003-02-27T07:29:00.000-08:00

A Martian in Richmond

Image you're an alien, a Martian for example, and you find yourself at a Richmond Braves game. Without having any previous cultural knowledge on the sense of baseball as the official american pasttime and game, watching the men in funny hats selling sticks of meat on bread shouting "hotdogs, get your hotdogs", gawking at the fancy hand gestures between the side man and the man with the stick, the man with three sticks waiting to play, wondering at the glass boxes for corporate sponsers, the seventh inning stretch, the national anthem, the cheers and sighs and "the wave," and having a vague idea that there were reasons and cultural values behind everything you saw but being only vaguely aware of what those might actually be, that is what it's like to witness a Senegalese wrestling match.

Fans separated by gender, age, and social status, rich Senegalese women parading around in the same space as the wrestlers, half naked men wearing amulets for luck and rubbing sand on their opponents heads, the air filled with the tension of ego and challenge, money being waved around, the complex rhythm of the drums and the constant wolof wailing of the singer, the off-duty wrestlers strutting around to the music showing off their physique, the young apprentices watching attentively, the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat, the definitive call of the umpire, these last few I perhaps imagine as I think about all that is going on here socially, that this IS the national sport here, and that I am understanding, as usual, only the tip of the cultural iceberg.

On a recent trip to a fishing village on the fringe of Dakar called Yoff, two of my friends (Sabrina and Chelsea) and I happened upon a Senegales block dance party known locally as a "Sabar." I have always loved wathcing people dance, be it at a discoteque in downtown Madrid, or here in rural Senegal. And here the movements are franctic, beautiful, joyful, rhythmic, excited, charged, daring, vibrant, and broad. Various women will choose to subject themselves to possible embarassment for a few seconds and let go of all inhibitions and dance in the middle a tight multi layered circle of maybe 200 people. As my friends and I watched amazedly, I eventually got the feeling that we were intruding, so I stepped back and leaned against the wall for a bit to ease the tension. Then one of the young men turned from the group and started challenging me to simple dance moves. I half heartedly obliged, but stopped at first when they got sexual. He kept challenging me to more complex and more explicit moves, until finally I took off my backpack, handed it to Sabrina, and matched him move for move. Needless to say, the Senegalese were getting a HUGE kick out of an American willing to dance and play along with them, and before I knew it the host of the party took me by the wrist and she led me into the circle and cleared a seat for me as a participant in this party. No sooner had I sat down, though, than they were encouraging me to get up and do what I did outside the circle in front of everyone, so after taking a deep breathe, I got up and stomped my little tuchus away, twirling and gesticulating to the beat of the djembe. After I sat down and lost that only-child attention I so often warrant, I happily became merely another person at this festival, in a large circle of a large family, watching beautiful young women in gorgeous outfits dance and get embarassed and challenge boys to dance better than they. I have had a few chances to dance in my travels here, and it is always an experience of deep connection and joy, and I cannot help but be aware that precious few cultures would so readily include a foreignor to participate in the celebration of life the way the Senegalese often do.

I have also had the privilege of witnessing some fascinating conversations. Now I know some may guffaw at this idea, but those doubting Thomases have never been to Senegal. Take, for example, a group of elderly Senegalese getting together: they express their taranga (hospitality) by first repeating the only persons last name a number of times, then repeating a cacophany of the various traditional greatings, each person adding their reply and everyone talking at the same time, not as an argument, but rather as a symphony of sound greetings, each person asking about the others family, the other's health, and every person they might know in common, the other responding with an affirmative "jamm rekk" (peace only) even if that person they are talking about really has one foot in the grave. After moving onto the real topics of conversation, whenever there is a lull, before the next topic shift they go through the greetings all over again, asking about each other's family again, etc., right in the middle of the conversation. The great thing is that it never seems to get too boring or too interesting, but is just as natural as breathing when two people are together in a formal situation.

Not much more to tell you about that, except, that if in in doubt just remember this helpful saying:
"Ligeeyu Ndey añ nu doom," which means,
"The work of the mother is the son's lunch"

2003-02-13T08:31:00.000-08:00

It's beginning to look a lot like Tabaski

Yesterday was the Muslim festival called "Tabaski" in Senegal, called something in Arab in the arab speaking muslim countries, where over one million sheep were slaughtered (about one or two per family) in remembrance of when Abraham went up to the mountain to sacrifice his son, but God stopped him at the last second and told him to sacrifice a sheep instead. Their story is the same as ours, except that in the Muslim version he's about to sacrifice Ishmael, not Isaac, but Isaac was probably too Jewish to be a good ancester of Islam. It was a good time to reflect on this great man's faith, a trusting in God much stronger than exists today, and because of that trust in the Lord, Abraham indeed became the father of many nations (and three religions) as was promised to him. Had he not been tested to the utmost, he would not have had the impact he did on so many people today.

Let me tell you though, if you haven't seen four sheep being slaughtered one after the other, skinned, gutted, and meticulously undone and grilled, and seen the Highlander in French all on the same day, then you haven't really lived.

Today Sarah and I are going to try to make bowling pins out of empty water bottles, weigh them with some of the sand that's everywhere, and go out into the street and knock them down with a make shift soccer ball. I bet we can get some kids to play, as there are always kids out playing soccer in the street or fields of sand on weekend or holiday afternoons. Senegalese definitely know how to relax, and the pace of life here may be the reason everyone looks ten to fifteen years younger than the average American or European. Or it may because of the close knit extended family and community ensuring that one member gets overlooked, that everyone is well supported emotionally and financially, no matter what their age may be.

There are no nursing homes in Senegal.

But in any event, the pace is slower, which is evident in the tea making process, a common occurance in the afternoon or evening, in which extremely potent and sweet tea is poured from one glass to another for up to two hours with the express purpose of, now get this, making froth. We're so impatient, we toubabs.

a bientot,
Daouda

2003-02-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

An American in Dakar, The musical

It was a dark, cold day in Dakar, which here means overcast and about 60 F. What can I tell you about Senegal besides making you envy the weather, you wonder? Well, there are two wives in my family.

I've been learning a lot about polygamy here, and there are many different perspectives on it. It's hard to analyze a culture from the outside because you end up passing so many judgements on it, some justified, others not as justified. Women here are bred to completely and utterly obey their husbands, that in doing this they will automatically guarantee success for their children, and that if they do not obey their children will not get good jobs, pass their exams, etc. And then their is the social structure, which will probably always fascinate me. Our teacher told us a story of a young couple who got married from two different castes, one called neeno (those in professions with specialization) and the other from the caste of Geer (those in other professions). These two got married against the wishes of both of their families. This is something that is effectively just not done....there are VERY clear places for everyone in the society and you don't go outside of them. One famous Senegalese musician continues to get flack from his family (who did everything in their power to prevent him from singing when he was younger) because he was geer. THe story goes that in this couple the boy was in an accident and needed blood transfusion. It so happened that the boy was O positive, a very rare kind of blood, and that his wife was also this blood type. Both families, however, preferred that the boy die then than for the blood of a neeno to be mixed with that of a geer.

I went to teach English to some adults the other day, and the teacher who was a woman allowed me to just speak to the class for a good while, talking about Bush and how he's destorying the world, about war, and about culture. Afterwards she took me out to dinner (another example of a senegalese person going out of their way for someone else) and we talked about being a woman teacher, which is seen as a profession and therefore not the place of a woman. There are those who call her a man and shun her, and it was evident to me as I tried to quiet down the men and get responses out of the women that I was, well, not in Virginia anymore.

We're writing a musical, by the way. An American in Dakar. Most of the songs will be about toubabs (white people) trying to speak Wolof and use toilet paper, that sort of thing. It's very hush hush though.

Sometimes, though, it is very hard to be here. I have seen things and heard about things that no one should have to go through. In downtown Dakar there are quite a few women who I know must be from Sierra Leone, because they are missing limbs from the rebel attacks there. They have come here to beg, as have all the others, because there is literally no opportunity in the rural area to make a living. If Senegal is a developing country, I have yet to see much development. Unless of course, you mean all the nice shops downtown, all the restaurants, the bookstores, the supermarkets, no, wait, those are all owned by the French expatriates here. And also, there are cultural practices including female circumcision which certain non governmental organizations are working very hard to erradicate, as it causes innumerable physical and psychological damage to young girls.

Learn More

I will not however, leave you with that, but rather, I wil tell you a story that happened to me, 100 percent true.

The other night I went to Thiossane, the night club owned by international superstar Youssou N'dour, who is very humble, chill, stylish, mature, and charming. It was 8 girls from my group, a few of Ann's male Senegalese friends that have taught me to dance before, and we spent a few hours challenging each other in the group of men, in an atmosphere charged with both testosterone, ego, and friendship. The style of dancing is very different, involving little hip movement and lots of frantic stomping. So, in any event, on the last song they were pushing people, one by one, on Youssou's stage to dance with his band. I accidentally made eye contact with the Senegalese guys that I knew, who were all nodding to the stage at me, indicating that I should go up there. My mild protests were futile, and soon I had many people pushing me toward the stage and eventually on it. And there was the other lead singer, microphone in hand, looking at the skinny white guy on stage and challenging me to dance. So what else could I do? I did a furiuos chicken like dance with my arms flailing all around vaguely to the music, working off the energy of the drummers and really getting into it, and when I tried to slow down, he made me keep going and dance some more. Once I finally got my way off stage, I felt very much relieved, and I was told that it would not easily be forgotten. Some Senegalese even asked me where I learned to dance like that. But overall, I must say that it was definitely fun and definitely beautiful, and just prooved to me the value of not taking yourself too seriously. We do, after all, take ourselves too seriously, most of the time.

Sois bien,
Daouda Ndaye

2003-02-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

We got the muus

It is as impossible to define a culture as it is to define a person, as they are both infinite. As I scratch the surface of this brave new world, I realize and learn only that I realize and learn very little. The iceberg, it seems, runs deep. Take for example, muus, but more on that later.

I saw the most beautiful dancing I've ever seen in the world, and it was only a rehearsal. An amazing explosion of energy, life, passion, humor, theatre, gender roles, and frantically controlled movements whirled in the sand as a renouned Senegalese dance group practiced for an upcoming performance with grea laid back musicians who were shouting things in various languages. Ann had to hold me back from dancing right into the performance area, which she was glad to do, although she did not stop me from walking the other way right into a Senegalese wrestling practice (this is very hard core).

Sarah wants a cameo in this entry. I suppose this will have to do. She is a goober.

Maybe this is just me, but the treatment of babies here is something I will probably not get used to soon. It's fine that the breast feeding is fairly open I suppose (the upper part of a woman's body is not sexualized here) but the shaking of the baby when he cries just seems counter productive to me. Perhaps I am uncultured.

In an all day orientation at the baobab center we went over the key values in Senegalese society, which was fascinating for me. First of all there's the teranga (hospitality) which is immediately obvious as I am welcome in pretty much any Senegalese home even uninvited. It's as easy to make native friends here as it was hard in Spain. This guy came up to me near the baobab center, Matar, who was studying at a teacher's college and was doing educational research. I ended up meeting up with him later and we went to the university, hung out with his friends, had some tea (VERY strong and VERY sweet), and talked about politics all afternoon. I learned that Bush is destorying his country's relationship with every other country, and that his war is one of "Christianity" against the imposing "Islam". The students said this because of his naming the revenge after Sept. 11 a "crusade." They also knew that in an interview he didn't know the leader of Afghanstan's name, and they knew more about his cabinet and the U.S. than I or any other young American would. This is because the students here have an extremely difficult time getting a decent education, so that the ones who actually make it through are intelligent, diligent, passionate, curious, and conscious. This is also because no one in the U.S. knows what's going on the world, which is dangerous because that's why the president can just decide to bomb other countries and promise a quick end to the war, and the people will back him up. How would they know otherwise?

There are so many kids here. I started playing soccer with some kids in the street and they ended up pretending to attack me and carry me about 50 feet. It was kidna scary actually, but a good way to make friends I suppose.

Another important value in the society is "muus" (pronounced, you guessed it, "moose") which roughly translates to shrewdness or slyness. It is a highly valued here, and is used to keep from being taken advantage of and to get out of difficult situations. President Wade apparently has a lot of muus. This value has been evident to me when people say things like "Tu ne mange pas" when I've obviously been eating, and "tu aimes ma soeur" when his sister is sitting right there. People put you in uncomfortalbe situations to test your muus. Needless to say, those without muus are, uh, muusless.

See on the flip side. Much love from the other coast of the Atlantic. :)

2003-01-26T09:50:00.000-08:00

Laaylaa! kii toubab degg na Ouolof! (My Gosh! That white guy speaks Wolof!)

My host father left today to go on his mecca, and because of that there were even more people than usual. There was a prayer, and then he walked on three leaves and there was some water throwing as well. He’ll be gone for three weeks, and my host mother Aida cried a little bit (Djibrij, my 12 year old host brother, thought this was funny). And my host family, like most people here, is very generous, gracious, and warm. The sweet mixture of Wolof and French bounces around the living room while the television blares, as I struggle to grasp the words (A lot of it’s Wolof). Last night two guys who worked at the telecenter walked me all the way to my friend Sarah’s house in through our neighborhood into the next neighborhood, and when I tried to give them a little something for their trouble they refused. So I hung out with Sarah’s host sister and my friend Sunju’s host parents last night, drinking baobab juice and chatting away. They made me sing La Vie En Rose, too. Then Sunju’s host brother Marseille walked me all the way home. He is extremely open and upbeat, and told me that even people from other African countries find the Senegalese very friendly. They are very proud of this “Teranga,” or hospitality. He reads a lot, and he says he wants to be President. Our arms around each other’s shoulders, we enjoyed the cool night air and each other’s company. It’s nice to be in a tactile place, a place where everyone eats out of the same big dish, where they can’t do enough for you and want you to feel welcome, and where the food is beyond amazing. I don’t think I’m going to eat out here…I wouldn’t want to miss a meal at home.

Amadou, who is three, is teaching me Wolof, which mainly involves me repeating things he says over and over. He likes to dance around, crawl under things, run around with no pants or underwear, and pretend to attack me with drop kicks. My other brothers, though somewhat more mature, are equally open, and are always hanging out in my room and talking to me. There are lots of kids in my house, and it’s mighty fine.

My Wolof name is Douwda Njaye. Douwda is Wolof for David, and they gave me the family name as my last name, because I’m now part of the family.

There are two public universities in all of Senegal, one small one in Saint Louis to the north (where the jazz festival is every spring), and one in Dakar, which has around 300,000 students. Walk into the library, and you notice the pride they take in having such an advanced center of learning, you notice the chairs, which are all full of students, you notice the shelves, which are not full of books, you notice the complete silence in the library from the diligence. The learning environment is atrocious, and there are strikes constantly, either by the students or the teachers. Our guide told me that they lost 20 teachers from the math department alone in the past five years. To go to the public university is around 10 dollars in a registration fee. Everything else is provided. Every year you have to pass a test to go on to the next year, and if you don’t pass as an undergrad you get one more try and that’s it. Every time they try to raise the registration fee even a dollar there are riots. The people are not rich, and they want the chance to get a decent education. One fifth of the students are in the English department (there are 30 departments, so it’s popular), and a scarce few of those who study abroad end up coming back. The goal is to get out of the country, to America.

2003-01-22T08:52:00.000-08:00

First Impressions

Before I left home, the one thing people told me over and over was "be careful." They'd get that concerned, deep, cast-away, forlorn look in their eyes, place their hands on my shoulders, and if they were Spanish tell me to watch out for the uncivilized people (this from a cuture that gores bulls for sport in front of spectators, but that, as Adam often says, is neither here nor there). Dakar is a major city, there is some crime as there is in New York, or Madrid, and you have to be generally aware of your surroundings and use common sense, but beyond that, there is no extra danger here. What is it that causes fear of a place like Dakar, or even the continent of Africa in general? Because it's poor? Because the culture's different? Because there are Muslims? Because I stand out here like a (defers analogy), well, like I do every where else really. These aren't reasons. Sure I am constantly followed by children asking for money, vendors asking for sales, learning to bargain for the first time, but I'm not unsafe. Sure I have to peal my fruit, wear sunscreen, drink bottled water, and jump out of the way of the crazy traffic, but I'm not in danger. So, the one thing I never asked when people said to be careful was, "Of what?" As for me, I am being careful to stay open, being careful to keep my sense of humor, being careful to see everything the best way, as a way to learn.

And it's amazing here. The people involved in our program are extremely helpful, warm, optimistic, honest, open, understanding, and generous with their time and energy. Watching all the girls who are our guides sit around sharing one cup of yogurt and passing it around, I feel blessed to be able to start learning about another culture again. We took a car rapide ride back from the downtown Dakar today (which strikes me as odd, seeing how they are neither "cars" nor "rapide") which is an experience in itself. The mini buses are colorfully painted, privately owned, and prefer honking to breaking. The driver gets to choose his own route, so you have to ask to get where you want to go (or to do anything in this, an oral culture), there are no fixed routes, no fixed prices. A boy in the back collects the money (the "aprenti"--apprentice), while some of his friends hang on to the back of the vehicle coaxing people to get in (they're actually called Cokseers in French and Wolof) and for this they get a nice ride and some of the earnings. Because the driver must make a certain amount of money every day (less he has to pay, more he keeps the profit) they don't waste time getting people on and off. They're very disorganized and a lot of fun, and if the bus system fails (as it sometimes does) they are a necesary problem to get people where they want to go.

Dakar is very alive, vibrant, and beautiful, if you don't mind the smell in some places. Colorful clothes and people everywhere, millions of little shops and stores, wonderful cultural centers, and a few nice cafes. It's hard not to notice that when entering a place like a bank or a book store, the percent of non-Senegalese people dramatically increases. It's hard not to notice the people with polio on the street, some without wheelchairs (it's not easy to be handicapped in Dakar--there are very few ramps, elevators, etc.) It's hard not to notice all the children asking for money, or all the street vendors who will continue talking to you for several blocks, even though you speak very minimally to them. Most are just trying to make an honest living, though, and even if I get a little bit ripped off because I'm not the greatest bargainer, I don't really mind. Some are trying to get you to come into their store, some are trying to pretend they don't have change, some are 10 times more helpful than any employee in any Western department store, but all just want to put food on the table. The market is an experience, definitely, adn I'm looking forward to going back.

There is a hospitality here, created by the closeness, by the community. In the big cities, that community tends to be broken and vendors do not have to be as hospitable, but I was told that in their neighborhoods their actions are much different. And in general, the Senegalese take great pride in their Taranga, or hospitality. The people involved in our program display a great deal of communication and wisdom.

The ten other girls in my program are all very nice.

Tomorrow I move in with my family, and I have my second Wolof lesson.

Ba beneen, à tout à l'heure, until later,
David