Wrapping Up

The term "wrapping up" can have many different meanings, for example, hiding Christmas presents within colorful paper (or, as dictated by my college budget last year, within newspaper), bundling up in multiple layers of insulating clothes to protect you from the blistering cold of the North American winter, or, less literally, bringing something to an end.  Currently, I am participating in only one of these "wrapping up activities."  I'll give you a hint, it doesn't have to do with presents or the cold.  Yes, I am talking about the semester coming to an end.  Now, for me, you could say, and I even imagined up until today, that this point is really more of a halfway marker, because I will be in Senegal for 5 more months.  However, as was suddenly brought to my attention a few hours ago, this is the end for all of the semester MSIDers, and therefore the end of my being a part of MSID Fall 2010. 

I actually happen to love wrapping presents

The good-byes today were awkward and unexpected.  We actually did have some presents, but no wrapping or newspaper.  We also have some students who will soon be experiencing the biting cold of jack frost, but, since it is currently 77°F with a slight ocean breeze, we have no layers or insulating materials.  Endings we do have, and as we come from many different universities, it really may be the last time some of us will see each other at least for a very long time, maybe ever.

This will not be a part of my wardrobe this year

Thrown together in a foreign country, the twenty of us make quite the hodge-podge.  Although many lasting friendships, and no deep-seeded rivalries have resulted from this semester, there has certainly been lots of tension at times (Real World: Dakar, anyone?)  We have also had lots of fun, and so it was a sobering day for the group.  I, in particular, was reminded of the All-American, white Christmas holiday season (because let's be serious, in America, Christmas dominates the month of December) that the others are going back to.  I was made aware of just how different their junior years will be from my own.  While this "winter break" is, in ways, a new beginning, it is also the wrapping up of my Fall semester- minus the usual wrapping up of presents and my body from the frigidness of December.

A Typical Drive Home

(Continuation of A Typical Day at Work)
After about 20 minutes of maneuvering around the uneven ditches that are the dirt road, we noticed a wobbling feeling near the back of the car.  Continuing on a little more cautiously, we got to the next town and stopped to have a look.  Sure enough a tire change was in order.

            Luckily we only had to wait about 15 minutes, with the company of a few donkeys, clearly unhappy about our presence interrupting their sleeping in the middle of the road, for a sept-place to drive by.  We waved down the driver, who happened to live in the town in which we were stranded.  He gave us directions to his house and we gave him a wrench (I’m still trying to figure that transaction out), and he was off. 

We bulkily made our way down the narrow dirt roads of the town, which were only about two feet wider than the SUV, stopping every once in a while to ask for directions.  After backtracking a few times and certainly drawing the attention of everyone who was about, we were lead down the street by a neighbor of the sept-place driver.  He helped us open up the trunk of the car in his neighbor’s driveway, where we found, as apparently promised, a spare tire.  After a quick tire change, we wound our way through the maze of slender streets out onto the main road.

http://i1.trekearth.com/photos/83277/drogi_te.jpg

This time, we were actually heading out for good.  The rest of the ride home, the only other slow down we encountered was negotiating the pot-hole ridden roads – and by negotiating I mean choosing between big pot-holes, really big pot-holes, and ditches; smooth road surface just wasn’t an option.  Thanks to my childhood of long car rides enhanced by relentless disturbances (a.k.a. a little brother) and my justifiable exhaustion, the swerving and bouncing of the SUV were no match for my willingness to sleep. 

Groggily forcing myself awake as we meandered down the road to my house, I checked my phone, only to discover that it was just past midnight. We pulled up to my pink house, dark and peaceful and full of sleeping people.  Feeling guilty for awaking her, I reluctantly called sama Yaay to come let me in.  After a few words of apology from Cheikh, the two of us stumbled sleepily inside, where she accepted, just as groggily as I offered, the fruit and juice that I had brought back. 

Then, suddenly awake, she looked at me, and clearly and sternly demanded, “Yow, Reer nga?” (Have you eaten dinner?)

“Déedéet.”

She briskly brought from the kitchen the leftovers from dinner, and quickly set me a plate of cerre u mafi, couscous with a delicious peanut butter and palm oil sauce, topped off with a big piece of meat.  Sitting in my room, sleepily savoring my delicious leftovers, I decided that, regardless of the setbacks and the fatigue, a stomach full of mafi and a nice, mosquito-net protected bed was a much more perfect ending to a very long day.

Besides providing me with a story to tell around future Thanksgiving tables, this experience also happens to be very telling of many of the problems here in Senegal.  Take the roads.  Even the roads in between main cities are littered with pot holes, less frequently than those in this story but they are still a problem.  This is an example of what I’ve concluded must be the result of a lack of infrastructure, or perhaps a lack of an efficient system within the existing infrastructure.

I would also like to highlight the fact that this whole adventure was not even technically necessary.  The selection of enterprises is a stage of the process that the community leaders can do independently; we were simply there to guide the process along.  Not only was it unnecessary for us to be there, but it only took about 20 minutes.  Actually the real reason we went was for M. Diouf to take measurements for another project, but the day before we had gone to Loul Séssène for the same process, and spent about two times as much time in the car as choosing between enterprises.

This leads to another thing I have noticed in my short time here, which is a lack of training.  We had to go to show the presidents of these communities how to go through the enterprise process, because they didn’t already know how to do it.  I’ve also noticed that, in filling out forms related to projects, the people filling them out often don’t know what information we’re asking for.  Only having been here for three weeks, I have only noticed this problem, and haven’t come up with any substantial causes or solutions.

Senegal is in a very interesting stage of development.  It has a functional government, a willing population, and various private and state programs working towards social, technological, and economical advancement.  However, it is stuck in this mélange of old and new.  While waiting for a herd of cattle to cross the road, you can jump out of the car to go by credits for your cell phone, and drop some change into the hand of a polio-handicapped man with no way of obtaining medical help.  In Dakar, 50 year old car rapids share the road with charrettes and 2010 Mercedes Benzes.  Giant skeletons of buildings stand, unfinished, on the outskirts of the capital city of the region due to the abandonment – for political or capital reasons – of ambitious projects.

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GsTD-5cwua4jhDxd3w0Uvg

It is these juxtapositions that strike me on a daily basis, that provoke questions that I can’t find answers to, that illustrate perfectly the state of the country – pushing itself forward and into the world economy since before independence, but struggling with the hindrances of governmental misjudgments and capital inadequacies (due largely, but not uniquely, to the after-effects of colonialism, which are quite numerous - perhaps I will delve into this subject later on), searching for a balance between modern and traditional.  But then again, what do I know, Amuma dara!

A Typical Day at Work

Sitting on the pirogue, looking out over the calm, inviting sea towards the lights of far away island villages, and palm trees and mangroves illuminated by the moonlight dispersed softly through the night fog, I thought to myself what a perfect end to the day this was.  After trekking down to the coast and spending the day on the islands of Saloum at the mouth of the Fatick River, we were all ready for a good, long night’s rest.

 This visite de terrain was to help the president of the Communauté Rural of Dionewar analyze potential partners for the construction of two classrooms (thanks to the climate here, schools can easily be added onto because there is no need for indoor hallways).  The drive down took about an hour and a half to two hours, because of the poor state/lack of roads, a typical, but not discouraging, obstacle to travel in Senegal. 

We spent about 20 minutes analyzing the bidders – each enterprise submits an envelope containing its proposed price for the project and certain criteria to establish credibility, which we look through and take note of, finally choosing the best enterprise.  Omar, a fellow intern, and I spent the rest of the day at the home of the ex-president of the village and visiting a neighboring island with the current president while our supervisor, Semi Diouf, took measurements for a future project.  We wrapped up our visit by buying ditakh, a sweet fruit that looks like a rock and is filled with green fibers and dry pulp, and ditakh juice. 

Our charrette ride back to the other side of the island steered us through shrubs and ditakh trees, from dusk into nighttime, where we moved from charrette to pirogue.  But this perfect pirogue wrap up would become the deceptively smooth start to a crisis-ridden crepuscule.

It all started when I got out of the pirogue.  As I waded my way to shore, with one of the drivers helping me carry my stuff, the bag of ditakh juice broke and my two bottles fell into the water.  “garawoul, garawoul,” (“No worries,” or “Ce n’est pas grave”) I said as I picked them up and continued on my way.  Once we were all four on shore we made our way through hoards of fishermen sorting though the catches of the day to the old Mitsubishi SUV that had bravely brought us here. 

Now, the SUV, being a little old, doesn’t really start on its own, so you have to have everyone but the driver push it, preferably downhill, until the driver (Cheikh Ach) can rev up the engine and jam it into gear, which is usually not a problem.  So the men and a few fishermen gathered at the back of the SUV and started pushing down the little hill we had strategically parked on.  Unfortunately, once the car started picking up speed, it bounced and thudded to a halt.  Everyone went to the front, pushed it back up, and tried again.  No luck.  After a few more futile attempts, we decided to move the car from the ditch, where it was surrounded by piles of fish and hoards of fishermen, up the hill where we could take a look under the hood.

As we were pushing it up the hill, one of the onlooking fishermen tapped my arm, asking, “Mademoiselle, Am nga jëkker?” (“Miss, do you have a husband?”)

“Waaw,” I responded with a smirk. (“Yes,” – I don’t normally use this response, but I judged it the most diplomatic this time)

“Fan?! Fan?!” (“Where?! Where?!”)

“Fii, ci Senegal.” (“Here, in Senegal”)

“Déedéet, déedéet, amuloo dara dé!” he exclaimed, laughing. (“No, no, you don’t have anything!”)

Chuckling to myself as I approached the top of the hill, I heard others inquiring about my marital status, and his ecstatic response, always the same, “Déedéet, amul dara dé, amul dara!” (“No, she doesn’t have anything, she doesn’t have anything!”)

Once at the top of the hill, we continued without luck to push the SUV back and forth, interrupted by the occasional concerned bystander insisting on checking out the engine.  After about 25 minutes, Cheikh and Omar went with someone to find the local mechanic, and Semi and I walked to find a boutique with some cold water. 

Here in Senegal, there are these little boutiques everywhere, open at all hours.  If there is any sort of inhabitation of an area, there is guaranteed to be at least two boutiques.  The boutiques are decorated with photos of lutteurs, marabouts, and Barack Obama and are often painted Coca Cola red, TiGO blue, or Orange orange, always with signs and the corresponding logo plastered all over the place.  These boutiques are stacked floor to ceiling – including things hanging from the ceiling and walls – with pretty much anything you could ever need.  Bread, powdered milk, evaporated milk, tissues, cigarettes, playing cards, phone 

credits, candy, candy bars, cookies, nutella, eggs, spices, sugar, scrunchies, combs, flip flops, notebooks, pens, plastic bags, yogurt, coffee, Kafe Touba, water, Coca Cola, Sprite, Fanta, fruit juices, matches, chewing gum, laundry/dish washing detergent, soap, perfume, anti-mosquito spray, anti-mosquito incense, and 50kg sacs of onions are a few of the items that you are guaranteed to find at a boutique.

We went to a particular boutique, owned by a friend of Semi’s (who is from Dionewar).  Strolling down the road lined with shops, the aroma of this little coastal fishing town dramatically improved as we left behind us the overwhelming smell of fish, seawater, and sweat, to discover a delicious scent reminiscent of sweet, fried, state fair foods.  We passed by a few other boutiques, a barber shop filled with customers and music, women selling peanuts and people sitting chatting with them, groups of men making ataaya, people praying, and a bar/restaurant filled with patrons (likely the source of that tantalizing fair food fragrance).

This dark little town was lit up by the reflection of the moon and the starts on the water and the fish scales, the cell phones constantly texting or playing Akon and Youssou Ndour, the T.V.s in each boutique, the music leaking from the store fronts into the dirt street, the gas tank fires heating the peanuts for sale, and the constant hum of fish sorting, discussion, laughter, and activity.

            Despite all this seaside town charm, there was no getting around the fact that in addition to having left the island a few hours later than planned, we were stuck with a broken car and a long, bumpy ride ahead of us.  After another 45 minutes or so of waiting for the mechanic to arrive, we spotted him sauntering towards the car.  After about 15 minutes of repair time, we all got behind the old Mitsubishi and once again started pushing.  Only three tries this time and she rattled to a start.  After many thanks, we were finally problem free and homeward bound.

            Wrong again… (to be continued)

Senegal v. America

After posting the last post, I realized that I didn't really include any type of conclusion, so here is a post that can act as that conclusion.  It is sort of along the same lines as the previous one.

Since being in Fatick, I haven’t had a lot of time to keep up with Senegalese news, but I know from my experiences in Dakar that Senegalese news tends to be filled with more interesting and pertinent stories than American news.  These points include new laws, political meetings and decisions, elections, and local goings on that impact the viewing audience.  This exists in America, too, of course, but American news is often littered with stories like the aforementioned, that are of little or no importance.

 A big reason that these exist in America and not here is because here, that extra space is filled with international news stories rather than junk.  In “the good old U. S. of A.,” we are embarrassingly ignorant of the world outside our borders.  It takes a significant amount of effort, further than following the news and reading the paper, to be adequately informed of the outside world.  This is true for even students, like me, who are actively engaged in the international community. 

However, people here know about America.  They learn about America in school, they hear about America on T.V., they even watch American T.V. shows and listen to American music.  To explain the contrasting situation in the States, I give you my blog title, “That’s in Africa, Right?”  This was the chosen title, because more times than not, it was the response I got when I told people that I was going to study in Senegal.  I, myself, didn’t even know very much, if anything, about Senegal until my freshman year of college, when Petra Tschakert suggested that I look into studying here.

Now, I will point out the problems of both countries in terms of their interpretation of each other.  For the Senegalese, America is paradise.  I say this because this sentiment has been explained to me many times, especially since being in Fatick.  My host brother wants to go to America just to see what it is really like, because he knows that the popular idea of it cannot be true.  When I talk to Senegalese about America’s problems, they are shocked. 

America is marketed as a land of opportunity, whereas in reality it is a place of expenses, of political disputes, of educational problems.  Right now, America is very much in a crisis – economically, politically, and socially.  We are suffering the consequences of the many mistakes of the previous presidential administration, and the time that reversing these consequences is taking is provoking unhappiness among the opposition to the current president.  America has long been home to many social problems, including, but not limited to, racism, lack of teachers, unemployment, drugs, and violence.  What I have learned from being in Senegal is that America is largely known as being free of these problems. 

For Americans, Senegal is largely unknown.  Some may make a lucky guess that it is in Africa – a continent which even political figures may refer to as a country.  Since Americans tend to think of Africa as one single entity, rather than a continent made up of 53 individual countries, I will address the American idea of Africa, rather than of Senegal.  Africa evokes, in the minds of Americans, images of safaris, lions, giraffes, rhinoceroses, The Lion King, Blood Diamond, child soldiers, drug trafficking, political corruption, civil war, starvation, disease, and, more recently, the World Cup.  (I realize that I have just made a generalization, just keep reading)

Granted, thanks to recent criticism of these broad and imprecise generalizations, people, especially generation Y, are beginning to realize that these stereotypes are largely inaccurate, and they have become a way to mock popular ignorance.  However, even though people may recognize that these stereotypes do not accurately describe individual African countries, they continue to be ignorant of the realities of African countries.  In terms of Europe, Americans at least have different stereotypes for each country (although I have to admit that even I am pretty ignorant when it comes to Eastern Europe).

In all, both America and Senegal suffer from their interpretations of each other.  In terms of the international community, I think that, because despite efforts to ameliorate this situation, misinterpretations will always exist, this is something that happens often around the world, and it is something that will continue to impede the progression of international relations.  I will close by citing a well-known Oscar Wilde quote, which I think pretty much sums up my feelings on all of these mislead interpretations, “When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me.”

Why I Am Not Exceptionally Homesick

I just skimmed over google news, and almost every headline frustrated me in its pettiness.  I don't pay a whole lot of attention to the news here, and when I do, I'm not always sure I'm understanding it all since it's in French, but I think I can confidently say that American news is filled with more than twice as much junk as Senegalese news, something I am not looking forward to returning to.  Good thing I'm here for six  more months!
To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, here are some of my "favorite" headlines:

• Oil Spill Still A Drain On BP Earnings

  Forbes 

Is this really news?  I, for one, wasn't surprised to learn that the biggest oil spill in the history of the petroleum industry (source) is still affecting the company responsible for it.

• More High-Calorie Drinks Available In Schools

  OzarksFirst.com 

Ok, concerned parents, stop complaining about the availability of unhealthful food products and do something about it.  What I mean to say is, when you stop buying soda for your kids (or giving them extra money when they go to school), they will stop drinking it.  Please keep the complaints limited to PTA meetings.  Also, did anyone stop to ask if this increase may have good benefits?  For example, the beverage companies whose machines are spewing liquid death to helpless public school children actually have contracts with the schools, meaning that a percentage of the revenue from the drinks funds school programs, including school sports and P.E. and health classes (Check out the Pepsi Refresh Project and some of it's impacts)

• A Fight Sent Demi Lovato to Rehab

  People Magazine 
  and

  
  

  Charlie Sheen Reveals Broken Marriage, Seeks Custody in Divorce Documents

  ABC News 

It's not that I think the personal life of a middle aged movie star or the psychological issues of a teenage disney star are unimportant - I will even concede that young Demi probably influenced my childhood via her role on the beloved children's show Barney & Friends - I just don't think that they are front page google news worthy.  Save these stories for the E!
network.

• Who saved the day in Yemen bomb plot? Once again, a Muslim.

  Christian Science Monitor 

This headline frustrates me because of its apparent necessity.  I am inclined to demand, "is it really shocking enough to Americans that a muslim would do something good to make it the headline?"  And, sadly, the response is apparently "yes."  The existence of this headline severely dampens my habitually optimistic conceptions of America and its people.

A New Take on "Women in Development"

            The subject of development often focuses on women. Popular topics include the role of women in society, politics, and the economy and the empowerment of women.  Despite the prominence of the subject of women in discussions on development, I've never truly noticed its importance until our trip to Keur Alioue Guèye, a small, rural village in the south of Fatick region, during our field trip to Toubacouta. It was here where I really saw that, because of their involvement in and unique understanding of everyday life, women must be recognized as key players in development.

It was the discussion on education that made me realize this importance. Someone in our group asked a question about the state of education for the people and their children.  Although it was the school teacher, who had been more or less leading the discussion, to whom the question was initially addressed, everyone immediately gave the floor to women. There was one woman in particular who spoke. So from the start, we could see the acknowledgement of the community that it is the women who are the most knowledgeable when it comes to the lives of the children.

She explained, with the strong support of the rest of the community, that everyone wants to send their children to school.  She also point out that, unfortunately, due to the village's location, it is almost impossible even to attend elementary school, particularly for girls. In addition, she stated that children can go to primary school in Toubacouta a nearby, larger village, but it is more difficult to go to high school, because it is Sokone. To clarify the significance of its locations, Keur Alioue Gueye is about 20 minutes from Toubacouta, and 50 from Sokone by car. Therefore children must walk or bike a very considerable distance every day for something that is, for much of the world, an automatic part of life, education.

She explained how the education of the children, or lack thereof, affects the village as a whole.  For Keur Alioue Guèye to become functionally integrated into the national economy and society, it is the children who will have to figure out how to improve the village's participation, so they must have at least a high school, and preferably a college level education.  Many of these observations were things that only women could know, thanks to their role as mothers and heads of the family. It was this explanation that revealed to me that when talking about the role of women in development, the purpose should be to ensure that, because the woman's role and point of view is so unique and important, it is not diminished or forgotten.

Feccal!

Dancing is a big part of Senegalese culture.  This I learned a few weekends ago, on our trip to Toubacouta.  After driving the familiar trail of potholes and cow-crossing delays, we arrived at the familiar village of Sokone (this is where we spent the vacances citoyennes).  Welcomed, once again, by the mayor and his family (the mayor is the older brother of Professor Sène, the director of the WARC), we were led into the luxurious living/dining room that we suspect is used only by guests.  After a delicious and filling meal of, what else, ceb u jën, we were reminded of the séance de danse scheduled for after lunch. Laying on the floor, desperately trying to speed up my digestion in preparation for public humiliation I was relieved to discover that, due to our tight schedule, we would have to skip the dancing.  Little did we know that our luck would quickly run out.

After eating a delicious meal of steak and potatoes (our hotel was owned by some rich French guy and his wife - who looked like Bill Nighy and had the highest voice I may have ever heard in my life), we were lead to the pool and divided into groups for what would become So You Think You Can Dance: Senegal!  Luckily, in our company of 26 Americans, three Senegalese, and our 5 staff members (Waly, Adji, Korka, Honorine, and Professor Sène), we were only privately humiliated.  However, after sufficiently embarrassing ourselves, we demanded that the 5 staffers enter the competition, regaining a smidgeon of dignity.

Photo credit: Lauren Ries

Of course that dignity was quickly stolen again the very next day.  We started with a dance in Sokone.  One by one (or two if we were lucky), we were pulled into the colorful center of the circle, led by the women of the family enthusiastically flaunting their practiced and passionate dance skills.  Although we paled in comparison (no racial pun intended), we were encouraged and welcomed just as much as the previously secret star danser, Idy, one of our 4 Senegalese companions.

Next, we went to Keur Alioue Guèye, a small village about 45 minutes to the south of Sokone.  After a very interesting meeting with the people of the village (Q & A type format, enhanced by the humorous interjections of the woman in front of us - translated to me by Idy), we were, naturally, invited - or forced - to dance.  This time a tight circle was formed, the center of which became a sort of battle ground for two or three dancers at a time.  This time only the women danced.  Later on, I asked Idy why he hadn't taken part this time and he responded, frankly, that he doesn't know this kind of dance.  Needless to say I let him know that this was a pretty lame excuse considering my situation. 

That night, we left the western comforts of our air-conditioned hotel rooms and over-chlorinated pool to attend - I'll give you one guess - why yes, in fact it was another séance de danse.  This time, however, we were observers.  This dance was performed by a group of professional dancers.  They performed a dance whose purpose is to prove who the strongest man is.  There were drums, stilts, unearthly singing, scary costumes that sent the children running from the inside of the circle, choreographed dances, battles - dancer v. dancer and dancer v. drummer - and fire.  It was quite a show.  I even got hit on by a 10 year old.  Of course, as we gathered our things and started toward the bus, we were pulled back to finish the night by dancing with the performers.  This time we had an audience made up by a solid 80% of Toubacouta (probably about 100 - 200 people).  Again, I questioned Idy's absence on the dance floor, and again was dissatisfied by his frank response that he doesn't know this dance. 

*Just to clarify the irony here, I'd like to point out that I barely know the Macarena, much less the various regional dances of the Senegalese countryside. 

Other, less embarrassing dancing throughout the weekend included the dancing that took place during the lutte we attended and the dancing and singing that we resorted to due to our incompetence in Wolof on the boat on the way to plant mangroves (unfortunately there are no pictures of this dancing and singing).  Lutte is a form of wrestling uniaue to Senegal, and is easily the country's most popular sport.  We attended a lutte at a nearby village one night, and in between matches boys and men would take the floor for a few short minutes before the next lutte started.  

            What struck me this weekend was not so much the lifestyle out of Dakar or the problems faced by the people, but the comportment of Idy and the other Students in the villages that were not their own.  Here, they too were strangers; they too were not at ease, despite their much superior knowledge and understanding of Senegalese customs.  The role of dance in Senegalese society is both paradoxical and completely logical.  Although it can be used to welcome strangers, as it was for us, it is more than anything a tool of identification.  Dance is one way that the people of a certain place define themselves as being unique to that place, unique to that style of dance.

La Solidarité

NOTE: This entry has been updated, the new section is written in purple.  There are some minor changes throughout, but the purple part is the important one.

29 days of solidarity, of giving, of faith, of sacrifice, of fatigue, of thirst, of hunger, 29 days of Ramadan.  The month of Ramadan is the month during which the Muslim world fasts each day, from about 6:00 AM until 7:30 PM.  The fast is a display of solidarity.  The elimination of food and water during the day allows those who are blessed enough to have these comforts to know the hunger of others. The fast includes extraordinary giving tendencies and extends past the basics of food and water, into the realms of everyday pleasures like playing sports, listening to music, watching movies, and even enjoying the company of the opposite sex.  The degree to which these are restricted depends on the person who is fasting.  Some people abstain from going to the beach for fear of seeing provocative bathing suits, while others dive into the water, openly accepting the risk of a few drops entering the mouth, breaking the fast.

          For 29 days, we awakened at 5:00 AM, groggily ate, in a sleepy silence, a breakfast of bread and chocolate spread, tea or coffee, and maybe a hardboiled egg, and slept for a few short hours before starting the day.  As the walk to and from school became more and more exhausting each day, it also became gradually longer, and taking a cab became more frequent than usual.  The air conditioned classroom of the WARC became a more welcomed work place and the hours of dusk became the most anticipated time of day.  Most days were easy enough - to silence a growling stomach one must simply remember that there would be food in it in a few short hours, much more comforting than hunger without a known meal time - but there were a few poignantly difficult days, which consisted of hours of lying down and sleeping as much as possible. 

            The hunger and thirst in themselves were a unique experience.  Although I wasn't actually starving, it made the reality that some people do deal with a constant feeling of emptiness in their stomachs much more realistic and understandable.  As for solidarity, I can't say that I have experienced it more than during these 29 days.  Solidarity is, according to the third edition of the American Heritage Dictionary, "A union of interests, purposes, or sympathies among members of a group."  This was evident in my family's appreciation and encouragement and in the reactions of others to the fact that I was fasting.  My fasting with my family and friends surprised and was appreciated by all who discovered it.  It irrefutably created a union of interests, purposes, and sympathies among me and the Muslim community.  Once someone who was fasting learned that I, too, was fasting, there was immediately a sense of appreciation and of common purpose.

            For 29 days, we broke fast around 7:30 PM, breaking with a date or two and then a small piece of bread with butter and a cup of tea or coffee.  Although this was the relief from the long day of hunger and thirst, it may have been the hardest, because to retain an appetite for dinner, the breaking must be restricted to a small amount of bread and water.  Dinner, usually about an hour or two after breaking fast, was always delicious and followed by various snacks and desserts, teas and juices.

            With the nightly meals came newfound bursts of energy, accompanied by a general mood of happiness and community, which were exemplified during the nightly power outages, when everyone congregated outside to talk, dance, and joke around - a somewhat ironic result of the power outages, which tend to cause strikes and demonstrations on a somewhat regular basis.  These nightly jamborees would serve as a preview to the celebration marking the end of Ramadan, La Korité.

On Est Ensemble

Ok so I found that for my week in Sokone, I couldn't write a good entry, so this is more like a photo album.  We spent our third week in Senegal in Sokone, a village just north of the Gambia, on vacances citoyennes with about 50-60 students from the university.  After a 5-7 hour bus ride through the Senegalese country side - literally through the country side, because at times the bus driver opted to navigate through the fields rather than around the pot-holes scattered throughout the road - we arrived at our home for the next two weeks, a building/compound thing.  There was a canopy-covered patio between the building and the front gate, and a tall cement wall surrounded the grounds, probably about an acre, complete with two grazing bulls, destined to the glory of our future dinner plates.  The building was made up of one big, central room, a bathroom with two stalls, and four smaller rooms.  The rooms were very bare, with the exception of the piles of 3-4 inch thick old foam mattresses that would be our beds.  The girls took the big room, and the boys divided themselves into the smaller rooms. 

The bus ride there.  This is Seydou,
 I think this picture says it all.

The reason we were there was for vacances citoyennes, or to help the local community.  We ran a medical clinic (about 1/4 of the 50-60 students with us weremed/pharmacy students), reforested local farms/forests, and educated people in alphabetization and information technologies.  I did the med clinic one day and reforestation the rest of the week.

Tying up mosquito nets

 Funny story.  So we had to use mosquito nets.  This picture is clearly one of us hanging up the nets sans string, nails, posts, and anything else that you could think of as necessary material.  But the really funny part actually happened both before and after this.  So we got our mosquito nets, and before we started hanging them, Alex and I decided to have some fun.  and reenacted Madonna music videos and scenes from Lord of the Rings, using the mosquito nets as props.  Unfortunately and unbeknownst to us, the mosquito nets were treated with bug-killing chemicals.  Needless to say, we both woke up after a few short and restless hours of sleep to burning sensations all over my face and Alex's arms and neck.  We suffered the consequences of the chemical burns for about the next 48 hours (explaining my red eyes in some of the pictures). In this picture, left to right: Waly, Adama (maybe?), Bity, Fatou, Korka.

This one's better 

(except that my eyes are blatantly 

battling the chemicals 

from the mosquito nets)

Some of the kids who lived down the street and visited often, also some of our first friends.  Left to Right: Basidi, friend (don't know his name), Me, Adama.  You can't tell from this picture but Basidi loved me.

BLOOD.  Or BLOOT, pronounced buh-lutt.  This card game is how i made a lot of friends.  The guys would play literally all day and into the night once we got back from our work in the morning.  The first day I thought I recognized it, so I ended up spending hours watching, asking, learning how to play, and meeting people.  After 

a day of learning and hours of playing with the help of onlookers, I finally had my first winning streak in the middle of the day on Tuesday.  

Getting my hair braided.
 This is Mamy, who is actually my cousin (I think),
 but most of it was actually braided by Fatou.

One night we went to a dance, a combination of traditional and more modern styles, organized for us by the village.

On est ensemble.  

Left to Right: Alex, Christian, Me, Assane.  

We were fast friends with Christian and Assane, as well as the other card players.