Les Premiers Jours

Off the airplane into the Senegalese night, through customs (after convincing the officials that we really are students who don't know our local addresses), and out the airport door.  A dark hand is shoved in front of my face, and I meet Waly Faye, a program coordinator and my teacher for the next three weeks.  Next comes a smaller, gentler hand that belongs to Korna, another coordinator.  We seven exhausted, pale students and our two alert Senegalese leaders make our way to the van, amidst a small swarm of self proclaimed tour guides and taxi drivers, more than willing à donner à nous un coup de main, to lend us a hand.  Still surrounded, we load our bags onto the top of the van, pile in, and pull away from the airport towards an unknown destination.  We pull off of a main highway directly onto a dirt road, lined with bare cinder blocks and finished buildings, one next to another.  Piling into the small reception area, we fill out some paper work, receive room keys from the hotel and folders from Waly, Korna and a thin, tall, young woman. 

Upon entering our rooms, Kianna and I realize that we will have no luck sleeping.  Luckily our neighbor, Alex, the only other Penn Stater, felt the same.  On the balcony we realize the drastic changes that have taken place in the last hour: we entered Senegal, a foreign country (not to mention continent); we made our way through relentless street vendors (for lack of a better word), arrived at our home for the next 30 some hours, and are now standing on a balcony overlooking a dirt road and a peach-colored house with indescribably architecture, including a clay spiral staircase from one balcony level to another, watching people make their way to work.  

From here, we meet Alex's new roommate, Kenzie (late because she's already been in Dakar for a month), get breakfast, and explore the streets of the Yoff quartier in search of the beach.  On our way we pass by street stands offering fruit, magazines, or phone cards, horse drawn buggies (meaning wooden pick-up truck style fixtures with big wooden wheels), stray cats, and lots of people.  As we make our way down the beach, we pause to watch soccer players, examine washed up fish bodies, watch fishermen empty their brightly painted boats with American flag stickered Yamaha motors of red, blue, orange, and silver fish of all shapes and sizes and women vendors take their shares, and, much to the amusement of the fishermen, help pull in one of the boats.  (comparable to the most intense game of tug-of-war ever, as one of us (Griffin, maybe?) pointed out, we spent about 10-15 minutes working on that rope, and the boat moved probably a few yards at best - when we left one of those pulling tried to convince us that it would only take 9 more minutes - yeah, right) 

On our way back we stop to ask for directions about 4 times, after to trying to learn the word for "sea urchins," which we saw being grilled and eaten by some boys on the beach, by describing them in French - try describing that to someone in your native language and then imagine that you have to take away about half the adjectives.  Shower, sunscreen, and back out again.  This time with Waly, Korna, and Adji, the thin, tall, young woman, who are all shocked that we even ventured outside the hotel, we venture to a house with high stone walls surrounding a wooden door.  We find our way to the roof balcony with a mosaic tiled floor and white, clay walls.  This is where we stay for the next five to seven hours, learning about the program, how to act in our home-stays, how to eat properly with our hands (yes, from experience - yum!) and drink the traditional Ataya tea, and taking frequent breaks to nap and/or move around. 

During these breaks we get a chance to look around and talk to each other and the coordinators.  Everyone's feelings at this point are still pretty ambiguous.  We are in a place that is unlike any we have ever seen before.  We are clearly toubabs, foreigners, and feel like tourists (a feeling that I particularly dislike), because we are new here.  We are physically in limbo, staying at a hotel for about 24 hours before we meet our families and new homes.  We are hot.  We are jet lagged.  We are excited.  We are nervous.  We are anxious, curious, wanting, ready.  All of our ideas, experiences, and values are stressed with this massive intake of new information.  We crave to understand this society, to be a part of its community, but we know that we are stuck here in limbo for a while. 

Around 6:00pm we leave the house, and make our way through the back roads (dirt roads, that it), passing groups of 5 to 10 year olds yelling "toubab!" and running over to touch us, eventually walking though a fish market that opens up onto the beach.  We make our way towards the water and the boats.  After a while, we walk passed an organized beach soccer game and back into the side roads, emerging onto a small beach, rocks lining the water.  We return to the house for dinner, an American meal of French fries, beans, and barbeque chicken, served in the Senegalese fashion, on a big bowl that everyone sits around and shares.  By the end of dinner, everyone looks and feels like zombies and welcomes the return to the hotel.  Sleep is a must for the night before we meet our Senegalese families.

Inspired by Tom, the basics:

Listening to:  The World Cup theme song sung by my new little brother and sister and a goat baaing in my living room.

Reading: Les Justes, Albert Camus

Looking up: "Sea Urchin" in French and Wolof greetings

Rule Breaking: Fazing myself into the tap water and avoiding bug spray