dancing, islands, and baobabs

And once again too much has happened since my last post! I will try to write about most of it anyway, and I am sorry in advance for the length problem that it is going to create

A few weekends ago, I went to see Orchestra Baobab at Just 4 U, one of the clubs in the area. Shani assured me that they she had heard them before, and that they were some of the founders of mbalax, one of the most popular genres of music here, and thee music that Youssou Ndour plays. However, Orchestra Baobab, it soon became clear, is a Senegalese salsa band, though she was right in that they were as old as dirt. However, they could still play like nothing else. It was wonderful to be able to dance again; much of the time when I go out dancing in Senegal, guys will be so all over me that it’s not fun anymore, but apparently salsa draws a different crowd. The men I danced with were respectful of my space, and patient with my total lack of salsa skills. Plus salsa music in Wolof was pretty wonderful to hear, especially sasla that was played with this much soul behind it. All in all, the night restored my faith in going out in Senegal.

The week after that, I had another village stay to complete. My second village stay was very different from the first one. While I was overwhelmed by my first village stay, it was actually pretty tame, I was walking distance from one of the other girls in my program, and spent every day with my class, only returning to the village at night. On top of that, we got there by way of a chartered bus with air-conditioning.

The idea of the second rural visit is for the students to have the chance to be more independent, and see another aspect of Senegal all by themselves. Our program director gave us a list of possible rural sites, each with their own specialization, and the idea was for us to choose somewhere off the list based on our interests. Since environmentalism is a very different animal in Senegal, I decided that I wanted to go somewhere related to ecology and the environment, thinking it would bee a good chance to get to know this animal a little better. However, the process of finding a village stay was very Senegalese: the first three or four options I tried couldn’t work, either the people who would host me were busy, or in Dakar that weekend, or maybe just wouldn’t answer their phones at all. Eventually I picked a village off the list that had nothing to do with ecology, but looked interesting and different from where I had been before, and once it was clear that the contact there was the family of one of our Wolof teachers, it became relatively simple to arrange for me to go there the next day. Which is how I ended up going to Ndiondior.

Ndiorndior is a village island in les Iles de Salum, a group of islands in the river delta just north of the Gambia. In order to get there I had to take a sept-place to Mbour, then another one to Djiffer, and a pirogue (a boat a little like a canoe with a motor) to the island itself. I took a taxi to the garage (not the greatest translation of gare, which is also the word for a train station) around 7am, and as soon as my taxi stopped I was swarmed by Senegalese men desperate to know where I wanted to go. Once I admitted that I was looking for a sept-place to Mbour, I ended up following a man through the crowd, filled with other men also desperate to find out where I was headed, men and women selling everything from cups of coffee to oranges to sunglasses, and small boys in ragged clothes begging for money. Eventually my guide led me to a line of battered rusty white hatchbacks, which is what a sept-place is, the name referring to the fact that it can fit seven passengers. After a bumpy and stuffy ride, I got out in Mbour, where everything followed basically the same formula. While sitting in the car waiting for it to fill up, the other passengers would signal to the vendors to come over, and then pass forward their money so that the transaction could be handled by whoever was closest to the open door or window. Talibé would also come up to the open hatch, either singing in Arabic or just jingling their buckets, looking for contributions. The ride between Mbour and Djiffer was quite a bit bumpier than the first, seeing as for large portions of the voyage there didn’t seem to be any road involved; instead we were hurtling over plains of cracked dried mud, and though the driver clearly knew where he was going, there was nothing to tell one stretch of dirt from the one next to it. When I arrived in Djiffer I got completely ripped off for my pirogue to the island, partly because I didn’t have any Senegalese with me, and partly because I had no idea what a good price was.

When I did get there, I called my contact, and his son, Lamine met me at the docks and led me back to the house. The streets were paved with shells, with large piles of them off to the side once in a while. Home turned out to be a large compound with several buildings and no clear boundary, with a tree in the middle housing numerous rowdy birds.

One thing I hadn’t fully considered when choosing my rural stay was that this was a Serere village. This means that everybody spoke an entirely different language. This doesn’t mean I couldn’t communicate, most people spoke at least some French or Wolof, but all of the street cred I had earned from knowing the local language was gone; is didn’t matter that I was at a point where my Wolof was actually understandable, I couldn’t speak any Serere, and I was back at square one. The first thing I did on arrival was pull out my notebook and have Lamine give me a Serere lesson, but it never really took. By the time I left I could get through the greetings OK, but after that I was all sheepish grins until someone informed my integrator that no I didn’t speak Serere but I could speak a little Wolof. Plus I could never talk to any of the kids, which was a major blow to my ingratiating strategy.

My days quickly fell into a routine. In the mornings I would get up around nine, take a bucket shower (no running water) and get dressed and eat breakfast. Coumba, whose room I soon figured out I was staying in, would help me with all of these things, since I was pretty much incapable of doing anything alone. After I finished breakfast the two of us would go to thee kitchen, a thatched roof hut, with uneven slats for walls, where I would “help” cook. Though I spent much of that time sitting next to the women and daydreaming, I did more than I’m usually allowed to do, a crushed all the pepper, garlic and onion, cut potatoes, peeled cassava, and fetched water. The kitchen had three little fire pits, each comprised of three legs for the pot to rest on, with a fire of palm fronds nestled between them. I came to know those women pretty well, considering that we could only communicate in Wolof, which was all of our second or third language. Developing a friendship with Coumba in particular was wonderful; she was sweet and funny, and always patient with the toubab who had been placed under her care. It was also the first time that I was in a situation where I really need to use Wolof to communicate, and I was surprised by how well it worked. Our conversations never got particularly deep, but nevertheless, we had conversations—in Wolof. I was proud of myself.

After eating the food we had prepared, I would take a nap, and then in the afternoon, someone would have decided on some excursion for me. One day Lamine took me to the place where they supposedly found the bones of the first people to live on the island, and then to their family’s coconut tree, which a young boy Lamine had enlisted climbed so that I could try a fresh coconut. Another day I went for a walk to an adjascent island connected by a bridge with Coumba and Nafi, another one of my cooking friends who was eight months pregnant, and told me that if the baby is a girl she will name her Mariam, after me. Lamine promised to take me to l’ile de coco, a neighboring uninhabited island, but we had to wait a while, because the first day the tides weren’t right, and then it was Thursday, which was the day that the spirits forbid anyone from visiting the island. He got another friend with a pirogue to take us out, and we paddled as close as we could get, then waded in the rest of thee way through the mangroves. I took an obscene number of sunset pictures while I was on the island, mostly because I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was.

My last day there Nafi decided that she was going to braid my hair. That afternoon I met her by the side of the road, where she worked selling doughnuts, candy, flip-flops and all sorts of other odds and ends. I sat in front of her until the sun went down, responding as best as I could when people talked to me, and catching snatches of conversation when people were remarking on the toubab getting her hair braided. (I don’t speak Serere, but toubab is the same word, and laughter pretty universal.)Nafi kept asking me if it hurt, and even though I felt like she was ripping my hair out, I responded, “only a little” or “it’s all good.” She couldn’t finish my braids before she had to go, so she put my remaining hair in a side-ponytail so we could leave. A very good reminder not to take myself too seriously.

I had to leave at six the morning to catch the pirogue, and quite a bit of the family walked me to the dock. I was pretty sleepy, and had to be prompted to offer my hand for them to shake. We pulled away just as the sun was coming up, so that I could just see my family silhouetted on the dock, waving goodbye.

This past weekend, I went to Toubab Diallo with my program. I didn’t get much prep for the weekend; I thought it was going to be a relaxing couple days of lounging on beaches, but when I got there I found out that we were scheduled for drum lessons, dance lessons and a baobab ropes course and climbing. I did not miss my relaxing weekend at all. Learning some Senegalese dance is something that I have wanted to do since I got here, but I had resigned myself to it never happening. Of course I looked like an idiot for a lot of it, and couldn’t do some of the moves because my little white girl body just doesn’t move that way, but it was a blast. We went with a larger study abroad group who got to Senegal about a month ago. I’ve been a little put off by the swarms of new toubabs around the baobab center, but it was great to get to know them better this weekend. We stayed at Ecole de Sable, a dance school that I later learned is usually reserved for professionals, and doesn’t take in raw beginners like us. I could see some of the instructors getting exasperated, but on the whole I was impressed by how patient they were with our lack of skill. We learned a Sabar dance that mimics the movements of a woman preparing millet; sometimes it was easier to see the connection than others.



On Sunday, we went to AcroBaobab, which has a ropes course ranging from several baobabs. I’ve never done anything like it before, but since I’ve always liked climbing and heights, I wasn’t surprised that I loved it. One of my favorite parts had a pirogue hung between trees, that swayed in the breeze or when I moved, the nose pointing into open air. At the end of the course we zip-lined to the ground from about 40 feet up, and when we sped past the guys who worked there doused us with water—and then let us do it to the next kid who came careening down. After that we climbed the trees, which was a lot like a rock wall, except, you know, in a tree, with footholds nailed in. It was hard to get to the top, and my arms and legs were shaking, but when I scrambled off the pegs and onto the branch at the top, it was the most amazing feeling.

Now I have less than two weeks before my program is over, and less than three before I leave. I’ve been trying to avoid the countdown, even though a couple of the other girls on my program keep giving my countdown updates. I have very mixed feeling about going home soon, there is so much I miss there, but so much I will miss here. What’s that phrase again? Oh yes: one day at a time.

Paris and Morocco

I never meant to let a month go by before I posted again, but somehow it just got away from me. My last week in Dakar was hectic, with a finals atmosphere that actually reminded me quite a bit of K, and after that I was traveling, with little to no internet access. But still. Over a month. Sorry about that.

Finals week was, while insanely eventful from my perspective, none of it was the kind of eventful anyone really wants to be hear about. A few days after classes were over I flew to Paris to meet up with my mom for Christmas. My host family was really sweet when I left; they all walked me to the main road to help me with my bags, bargained for a taxi for me, then all gave me big hugs before I got in and drove away.

Paris was beautiful. My mom and I spent our ten days in an apartment that my aunt, who makes regular jaunts to Paris as a tour guide and French cabaret singer, had set us up with. It was in a fun funky immigrant neighborhood (that my aunt says is getting more gentrified every year) and up three flights of stairs, looking out over the apartment building’s cobblestone courtyard. Every morning before I got up, my mom would go out and get fresh bread, and we would have bread and cheese and café au lait for breakfast. For Christmas we bought two little Cyprus branches and put them in a Bell Jar on the mantelpiece, and then decorated them with paper snowflakes, foil stars and one long tin-foil chain.

We did a lot of the touristy things in Paris, some of which were less interesting than others, but the highlights include…
Going to Notre Dame for Christmas Eve, which was the first time I had ever been, hearing the choir which was spectacular, and watching the slightly Monty Pythonish animated power point on Christmas, narrated by Gabriel.

The Orsay, and the Oragnerie, which had boatloads of beautiful impressionism.

Taking the train to Chartres the day after Christmas, and spending hours in the cathedral staring at the windows (which my dad described as the most beautiful thing he has ever seen made by humans, and while I wouldn’t go that far, I have to admit he has a point). We sat by one of the enormous rose windows and watched the sunset though it, the windows changing drastically every couple of minutes until they finally went dark.

Being at the top of the Arc de Triomphe at sunset, and watching the light change that way, with a blaze of color in the clouds instead of stained glass.

The flight from Paris to Casablanca was insane, mostly of my stop over in Dakar. I had planned the two trips separately, and so had two different plane tickets, but since I had brought a bulky rolling bag to Paris which wouldn’t work too well in Morocco, I didn’t just stay in the airport for the five hours between flights but instead got a cab to Shani’s house, said hi to her family, tried to repack my Morocco bag since it was too heavy (and stayed too heavy, I am a terrible packer) helped Shani get her stuff ready, and then left my big Paris bag there to take another cab back to the airport. It was a little exhausting.

We got to Casablanca around 7 in the morning on New Year’s Eve, but had to wait around until our friend Leah’s flight came in from Egypt around noon. In the meantime, Shani and sat down at a café, pulled out the pocket guidebook from ’97 my mom got me for Christmas, and realized we knew absolutely nothing about Morocco. Going based on the advice we had gotten from various people (including the random girl I met in the airport on the way to Paris, we were obviously very discriminating) we decided to do a loop around the north of the country, from Casablanca to Marrakesh, to Meknes, to Fes, and back to Casa for our flight out. In a week. And even though I thought it was probably crazy, that’s what we actually ended up doing.

Shani and I had been set on going out in some fashion for New Year’s, but by the time the evening rolled around, jet lag and sleep deprivation (is on just part of the other?) were having their say. Shani finally dragged Leah and I out of bed to a quiet if slightly sketchy café, where we toasted the new year with tea and hot chocolate, while the Moroccans around us completely ignored the beginning of a new decade. We judged midnight by my watch because it was a few minutes faster, then paid the bill, walked through the rain to our hostel, and fell into bed around 12:25. Despite the anti-climax, a very good new year.

The next day we took the train to Marrakesh. I have to say; Morocco’s idea of cheap, comfortable, reliable trains that can take you from any major city to any other in the country struck me as a great idea. Better than Amtrak by a long shot, and a drastic change from getting around in car rapids. One of the big attractions is Djema el Fna, which is a big square in the center of down, where you can find henna artists, food stalls, drummers, dancers, and snake charmers, all dependant on the time of day. We stayed in hotel overlooking the square, which meant, among other things, that it was easy to get our dinner from hopping from one food stall to another. In one night we went to five food stalls and had for dinner: snails, tajilla (a sort of sheep stew), a pigeon pie called pastilla, roasted pepper, spiced spinach, Moroccan soup, sheep brains, bread soaked in sheep fat, rum cake, and ginseng tea. Now might be a good time to mention that despite the sheep brains, I loved the food in Morocco.

Our first day in Marrakesh, we had several palaces we wanted to visit, so we left the hostel, walked purposefully through the square, and got completely lost. We ended up in front of a primary school asking directions, while the kids teased the confused white people wandered around, while their mothers tried to give us directions while laughing at us, which didn’t work very well since they didn’t speak French or Egyptian Arabic, which was about all we had going for us. Eventually a young guy who spoke French figured out what we were looking for (we were drawing quite a crowd by then) and pointed us in the right direction. We found a beautiful garden in front of a guarded walled area, which we assumed was one of the palaces, but when we tried to approach the guards would shake their heads and their fingers at us, and shooed us away. Eventually the guards who would talk to us sent us along a street lined with lights, until we got to the other side where those guards sent us right back to the other side. We did eventually find what we were looking for, and the tomb, the ruins and the palace that we were looking for were worth it, though we had to wait until after the lunch break to get in. The ruins had huge storks living in mountains of twigs at the top of its dilapidated retaining wall. They would strut around moving branches, and fly in 10 feet over our heads. The tombs and the palace were both the perfect example of intricate Moroccan architecture, with stylized Arabic writing praising Allah along the edges of the walls, simple colorful geometric mosaics that become intricate by the sheer scope of it, and the wood and stone detailing ornately and carefully carved.

After Marrakesh we went on to Meknes and Fes. We didn’t stay in Meknes very long, since were anxious to get to Fes, and we were staying across the street from the Imperial Door, the ornate and opulent entrance into the old Imperial City. (I wonder how many more ways I’ll be able to find to say big and fancy?) We did wrangle our way into a meal at a very fancy restaurant we never could have afforded without the “student price.” (People in Morocco have obviously heard the “I’m just a poor student!” argument many times before.) We not only got a lot of fancy sides with our Tajine (which is the most common Moroccan dish, meat and vegetables cooked forever in a clay vessel) but we got a view of the city at sunset from their rooftop terrace.

Fes, which is lauded as one of Morocco’s most beautiful cities, lived up to its name. The city rests in a bowl shaped valley, climbing up the hills on wither side, so that every time you turn a corner there is another spectacular view. We did a lot of our souvenir shopping in Fes, since it was close to the end of our trip (I say we, I had already blown most of my money on the plane ticket) and it was difficult to switch from Senegalese to Moroccan bargaining. In Senegal the best way to get a good price is to be very friendly, use as much Wolof as possible, maybe even flirt a little, and if the price isn’t going down pretend to walk away. Moroccan bargaining seemed so angry. Vendors would act insulted and huffy after you gave your opening bid, yell that the reason you had seen the same thing at a lower price was because this was quality, not the crap the other guys had, and most of the time when we tried to walk away, they would just let us go. We had come in thinking it would be no problem since were so used to haggling in Senegal, but I think we probably got ripped off a couple times, just because we were so unprepared for how different it would be.

Our last full day in Morocco we went hiking in the cedar forests in the mountains south of Fes. The whole time we were in Morocco, I was set on going to the Sahara and spending a night camped out there. Eventually I had to let it go; it was expensive and time consuming, and we didn’t have the equipment. But I still wanted to do something fun and outdoorsy. Leah and I found a travel agency who could do a day trip into the cedar forests and surrounding towns for something we all could afford, so we sprang for it. Unfortunately, I forgot one of the basic laws of physics: the higher you go, the colder it gets. None of us except Leah had really been prepared for how cold and rainy Morocco would be, and didn’t have the right clothes. The cedar forests were beautiful, and magical, like something out of Narnia or Lord of the Rings—and also very cold and very wet. One of the main attractions of the forests is the barbary apes who live there, but unfortunately for us they seem to be smarter than to be traipsing around on the cold and rainy days, and had found somewhere else to be. We did see one ape before even reaching the forests; our driver pulled off the road to some small huts, where berber vendors were selling jewelry and fossils we had been told may or may not have been real. While we were looking at geodes when a little furry monkey with his front paw bandaged, about knee high ambled into the shop. (Side note: I do know that ape and monkey or not synonymous, and he was in fact a barbary ape, but the word ape has all the wrong connotations for the cuddly looking fuzz-ball I’m trying to decribe.) The vendor told us that his paw had been hurt when a car ran over it. Since it was clear he had no problem with people, I knelt down next to him, and he hopped up onto my lap. His fur was damp from the rain. He almost absent-mindedly grabbed for the zipper of my coat, and looking around with eyes so big that he seemed forever slightly perplexed and apprehensive. Shani knelt down too, and the vendor shooed him over to her knee, then after he decided we had had enough monkey time, we shooed him back into the rain and tried to get us interested in his wares again. As we were leaving, I saw our friend’s silhouette against the sky, hopping from the roof of one hut to another.

Our last day in Casablanca was a bit of a letdown after that. We were there because the city had the cheapest airfares, but as a tourist destination the city doesn’t actually have much to offer. We walked to the city’s Grand Mosque, which while is supposed to be the world’s second largest mosque after Mecca but didn’t look nearly as big as the Mosque in Touba. On the way there we passed Rick’s café, which Shani had been set on going to until she learned that the place had only been opened in 2004, and that all of the movie Casablanca was in fact filmed in Hollywood. She said that it looked nothing like the café in the movie.

And now I’m back in Dakar. This week has been pretty uneventful, both because my internship hasn’t started yet and because I’ve been sick ever since our last day in Morocco. As some of the other girls keep reminding me, I only have 7 weeks left here. I am determined to make them phenomenal.