Le petit dejeuner, Senegal style

One thing I really miss from home is the food.  The selection, the quality, the diversity, be thankful for everything you have in the States.  In Dakar, french bread fuels the population.  Costing about $.30 per loaf, this squishy, white bread is present at every meal.  For breakfast, children eat about half a baguette.  I've been questioned and mocked many times because I only eat about a quarter of a baguette for breakfast.  At lunch, it's generally served as a side, regardless of the main dish.  For snack, the Senegalese put everything from eggs to dumplings to spaghetti on bread.  Starch stuffed in starch.  At dinner, another half-baguette is eaten to accompany the meal.

Joanna, a celiac, has a lot of trouble here.  Before she switched host families, she was being fed french fries and peas for breakfast.

Two other missing components from my normal breakfast are milk and coffee.  Here, it comes in a can and in the form of powder.  Just add hot water!  Though this may be quite easy, the final product tastes anything like coffee with milk.  I've actually switched to drinking kid's cocoa in the morning because NesCafe was getting a little old for me.  So here is the breakfast process:

1. This is the table where I eat breakfast, all set-up for preparation.  If you notice, nothing needs refrigeration.  It's much easier that way.

2. Powdered milk!  Add hot water and stir.

3. Powdered coffee! (NesCafe, you'll see the name everywhere here)  Again, no grinding, filling, or brewing needed.

4. Add hot water.

5. Here is the final product, with my quarter-baguette filled with jam.  This is what the Senegal eat for breakfast.  Every morning, no exception.  I did buy family a box if cornflakes, but pouring a boiling milk mixture over top makes them turn to mush.  I haven't quite figured out how to do that one yet.

Car Rapides

So for those of you that don't know, public transportation in Dakar makes Detroit look like the shining gem of public transportation.  For those of you that don't know, that also says a lot.  One of these infamous Dakar systems is the Car Rapide.  It can hardly even be called a "system" and certainly not be called a "car."  Nevertheless, this is a Car Rapide below.


These colorful, dangerous-looking vehicles are privately owned and carry about 20 people or more at a time.  (The items hanging off the buses are relics that locals generally put on their buses and taxis.)  However, I feel only the Lonely Planet Senegal can give the description justice: While the [Car Rapide] is really cute to look at, it's not a great way to get around unless random stops, daredevil overtaking maneuvers and crammed seats are your thing.  Car Rapides only operate in Dakar and pretty much cover any journey you can imagine, though not always as directly or quickly as you might hope.

Well said, Lonely Planet.  And since there are no assigned stops, you bang the roof when you want to get off.  But since Car Rapides only cost 100 CFA (~23¢ USD), and I do love crammed seats and daredevil driving (welcome to Dakar), why not?  So yesterday, Zoey and I decided to test out the system.  We waited at the NE corner of Rue Cheihk Anta Diop because that's where they all come.  About three drive up and the boys on the back yell quickly out the destination over and over and if you want to go in that direction, you run up and hop on.  So after about ten minutes, one drives up and the boy shouts "Dakar! Dakar! Dakar!" to go downtown.  So we run up.  And hop on.  And then realize the boy is actually shouting "Oukam! Oukam!" (pronounced Wah-kum) not Dakar.  Stupid Wolof accents.

So it looks like we're going to Oukam.  Oukam is a northern village of the greater Dakar area that is vibrant, dusty, and chock-full-of Wolof (people and language).  Luckily, Jess lives up there, and Zoey supposed to meet her later for lunch, so I call her up.  She tells us to get off at the Bonjour! gas station after about 20 minutes and she'll come get us.  But twenty minutes later, no Bonjour! and we're still bumping along the dirt, pot-holed roads of Oukam.  Soon we're the last people on the bus.  Uh-oh.  The driver pulls over, and the boy on-back starts yelling for us to Marche! Marche!  Well eff, we are stuck dead in the middle of dusty, Wolof-speaking Oukam, nowhere near anywhere a gas station would be.  We call Jess, but she can't really identify the trash piles and fabric markets we're passing.  Finally, Zoey buys a banana, and we ask the man how to get to the Renaissance monument.  We stop for another snack at a pastry shop, then finally meet Jess at the base of the monument about 30 minutes later.

Dakar, I love you.  Sometimes.

The top ten things I hate about Dakar

So inevitably, this post was coming.  It's the second week, I'll miserably sick, and I would just like to take a minute to complain.  The vacation/honeymoon/warm-and-fuzzy feeling of week one is gone, and my illness is making everything about five times worse, so yes, I do feel justified writing this.  To everyone who feels a little uneasy reading the title, fear not.  I am not unhappy here.  I am not homesick.  I am not booking a flight home.  There are just a few things that I wish were a little different...

10. Air quality.  We passed a city bus this afternoon that was (no joke) emitting thick, smoke-like exhaust.  Only a block later, we had to walk along the highway because they had set fire to the daily-accumulated piles of trash on the side walk.  Apparently, that's an acceptable way to get rid of trash in the city.  My malaria pills make me nauseous every morning anyways, so the lovely, thick, foul-smelling Dakar air really makes the 45 minute walk a fun one.

9. Cold showers at bedtime.  Not only is the water un-heated, it comes out of a hose that I have to hold between my knees when shampooing my hair.  There's usually a bucket of laundry in the tub too, so I have to do my best not to get shampoo in there.  But best of all is a cold shower during a power outage, when the half-open ceiling of the bathroom let in drafts that put out my candle.

8. Power outages, since we're on the subject.  Over half the time, my house is without power.  Apparently, there is not enough to power the city, so the government regulates the cuts in areas and times they feel are acceptable.  Too bad I don't live in a wealthy or commercial neighborhood.  When I have early classes, I assume that my clothes match and that the mascara is actually hitting my lashes.  And of course, eating dinner next to a battery-operated light is the hi-light of my night.

7. Noise.  Whether it's Call-to-Prayer, stray animal fights, and the garbage cart's horn, Dakar is noisy.  At any given time, it's impossible to experience silence.  The Senegalese also take pride in making as much noise as possible.  Children.  Maids.  Adults.  From laundry, to cooking, to singing, to driving, if the activity has a potential of being noisy, it will be noisy as possible.

5. Powdered milk and coffee.  I miss real milk.  I miss real coffee.  Forget all the other foods that are completely absent from Africa, adding hot water to milk and to coffee just isn't right.  I'll also take this moment to comment on the lack of fruit and vegetables from my diet.  Since it's the dry season, most families cannot afford fruit and veggies for the whole family.  We eat french bread, meat, and rice.  Yum.

4. Dirt and sand.  No matter where I walk or how much I scrub my feet, it's impossible to ever get them really clean.  Thank god I don't have a family that can afford carpet because then they'd make me take my shoes off.  That would be embarrassing, given that I have white lines weaving around my feet from where the sandal straps were.  Not only does it make my skin gross, the sand really hurts my lungs.

3. Bargaining for everything.  Taxi rides, pieces of fabric, packs of instant coffee.  If it's for sale, you have to bargain.  You also pay more for being a Toubab (white person).  However, there are a few exceptions.  Fruit stands are generally prix fixe, which I found only after a hard and unsuccessful bargain with the fruit boy.  Western-style grocery stores as well.  You pay more, but there is a price sticker on the product or shelf.

2. A particular member of my host family.  But out of respect, I will not name him/her.

1. Being a Toubab.  Not only it is difficult to walk alone down the street without being approached by a doting Senegalese man or walk through a market without being offered everything from baby's baptismal clothes to rainbow tupperware, I can and never will blend in here just because of my skin color.  Taxis honk, children shout, and old men stare.  Female + white + Dakar = a slight drawback.

My host family

So naturally in life, there are pro's and con's to everything.  The same happens in host family situations abroad.  But overall, I am slowly becoming more and more acclimated to their lifestyle and more and more becoming a member of their family.  Let's get started:

My host mother, Mémé, is an 84-year-old woman from the Cote d'Ivoire.  She spends most of her time in her room, yelling at the other people in the house to fetch her things.  She usually comes out for dinner, which she makes me eat by myself (or with her and her great-granddaughter) at the Western-style dining room table.  The arthritis in her neck is so bad that she can't turn it, so she has to urn her whole body when she speaks to you.  It kinda reminds me of the time my brother broke his collarbone and had to wear that neckbrace for the summer.  This is Mémé.

Though Mémé sometimes wears me down, I love the rest of my family.  There is Néné, a widow in her forties who is somehow related to Mémé.  She too is from the Cote d'Ivoire, and she is very nice to me.  She puts up with my inability to speak French and gives me a fair amount of freedom.  I usually go behind Mémé's back to ask Néné certain things, but Mémé usually finds out and changes it.  (Dinner story to come later).  This is Néné.

Then there is Angelica, and she is my favorite Senegalese so far.  She is fifteen, and stays at home to work as a maid/servant for Mémé.  I am also teaching her to read, something she has never learned before.  She also doesn't know for sure when her birthday is, but she thinks its the 25th of January.  I asked if we were having a party, but she says no one has enough money for a cake.  I thought it was unfair that Fari get two cakes for her birthday this weekend but Angelica can't even have one.  I just need to buy baking powder from the boutique and I will make her one.  This is Angelica above on her bed.

Mariétou is 11 and is a student at the school down the block.  She is very hyper, but I do love hanging out with her.  She is the only one who actually tries to speak slowly to me but she also gets frustrated when I don't understand.  She loves my American chewing gum and Snickers bars.  She said she wants to be a doctor one day if she can go to the university.  Above is Marietou, posing in her favorite outfit with her purse and scarf.

Ngi is the maid.  I don't even know how to spell let alone pronounce her name, but Ngi is the best I can do.  She only speaks Wolof.  Well, she can say bonjour and ca va, but that's the extent of her French.  I practice my Wolof with her, and she responds in these complicated sentences, to which I always just say "Yes."  She too likes Snickers bars.  This is Ngi in the doorway of the kitchen.

 

Farima (Fari) is the great-granddaughter of Mémé.  She is always at the house since her mom and dad work until 10 at night.  She is super cute, but highly irritating and spoiled by Mémé.  She also is obsessed with Toubabs (white people).  As a result, she follows me around, crawls in bed with me while I'm taking naps, and pinches my skin because she likes to see it turn red.  For the first two days of my homestay, she referred to me in the masculine form since apparently I had the haircut of the boy.  She got spanked a few times for that.  This is Fari sitting on Marietou and Angelica's bed.

El Ladgi is the final member of my host family.  He is 23 and an unemployed college grad.  He comes home mainly for meals and to sleep, and spends the rest of the day with friends or at the neighbors drinking.  Mémé is devout Muslim so no alcohol is allowed in the house.  Ladgi is really nice when I do talk to him.  He doesn't seem to like me too too much, but I think that may just take time.  He did walk me to school two days when I did not yet know the way.  Because of his frequent absence from the house, I do not have a picture of him.

Orientation and a very very very hot pepper

Ok, so this post should've been done on Wed, the 12th of January.  So please, pretend like it was...

We went to this hotel and slept until noon.  Then we went to this very nice house in Yoff and sat on the roof for orientation.  After sitting around for about 2 hours, we got traditional skirts (pants for men) and finally lunch.  It was Thiéboudienne (pronounced kinda like "Che-bu-jen"), the national dish of Senegal.  Not only did we have to eat it on a mat and using only our right hand, the first bite I took was something inedible, probably a nut shell or something.

It was all fun and games until I decided to be brave and try one of the little orange peppers in the tiny bowl.  I though, hey, I'm in Senegal.  Why not?  Wrong.  Pain like there was a full-power blowtorch in my mouth.  I had the shakes for about an hour and couldn't eat anything.  When we stood up, I was pretty sure I had burned a hole in my stomach.  We went to the beach.  This is Zoey and me below.  I look like I'm having fun, but my stomach was hating me at that point.

We had dinner at the same house and went back to the hotel for sleep.

Arrival!

Due to my fatigue, busyness, and perhaps also procrastination, I have gone over a week in Senegal with posting to this blog.  As a result, I'm just going to type up a few things from my journal in about 4 different posts and pretend like I did them on-time.  So here goes...

We arrived in the Dakar airport at 6 am.  Not only was that equivalent to 1 am American time, I have slept no more than 45 minutes altogether on the plane.  At the airport, Megan and I took our bags off the carousel.  Out of nowhere, two men picked them up and put them on a cart, and considering we had no money, we were pretty sure this wasn't going somewhere good.  Best confront them, we supposed.  Except when I tried to tell them we had no money and did not even need help, the French sorta came out as "I do not need money."  He says "ecoutez" and starts saying how his friend will take care of everything.  They waved their "official badges" like they actually worked there.  After finally getting my words straight, they realized we had NO money and backed off.

Outside the airport, we were hounded.  It was impossible to tell who worked for our program and who wanted to get some extra money at that point.  On my way out, I saw an older white woman being completely surrounded by some Senegalese men.  Yes, I felt really bad.  No, I couldn't do anything.

Dakar-bound and a word of advice on visas

Alas, my final day in America.  This last week has mostly involved packing, stuffing my face (thanks to my step-mom for the "Bon Voyage"-decorated apple pie), and oh yeah, dealing with the most incompetent of embassies (see below).  But before I begin my friendly rant/advice, I would just like to reflect on how wonderful but fast my break has been.  For some reason, I thought I would actually study French in the past three weeks.  For some reason, I thought I would completely reorganize my room and the things that have compiled over my last 4 years in this house.  And for some reason, I was going to start waking up at 5 am to get ready for the time change.

Wrong.  On all three accounts.  But regardless, I leave tomorrow.  I am packed.  I have two passports and a visa (miraculously!).  I am really ready?  I suppose we'll find out in a few days.

In regards to getting visa... I have compiled a check-list of things to do to properly obtain a visa without having to carry two passports, unnecessarily pay $275, wait in downtown Detroit for half a day (and pay for parking), and spend the last week at home wondering if you're even going to get to go abroad:

1. FedEx overnight and certified mail, or better yet, hand-deliver your visa application AND return envelope to the embassy. 
2. Fluently speak the language that the embassy workers do so you can have a logical conversation.
3. Trust nothing the embassy worker says.
4. Put your program director and abroad adviser on speed-dial.
5. Trust nothing the embassy worker says.
6. Photocopy every document you send and every receipt from the post office.
7. Honestly, just hand-deliver your app and pick it up in DC.

Otherwise, you may spend your last week at home in a similar fashion to myself.  However, I would like to start my travels off on the most positive note as possible, thus sparing you the details of my "visa adventure."  But in the event I ever feel the need for an I-Hate-Senegal post, those bitter details may just be included.