Snapshots

The iron sits atop an old, empty Nescafe can. In its iron belly, embers glow orangey-gold, lending their beauty to the night’s ambiance. A white-collared shirt lays spread out beside it, waiting for her ochre hand to grasp that wooden handle and press out its weary wrinkles.

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A television commercial: for those of you who are Christians, come buy a myriad of toys for the holiday season! You can buy a plastic duck that lays eggs, or a my size (white) doll, or a xylophone, or some (white) Barbie dolls, or an art kit, or some books…with white children on the covers…

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A horse-drawn cart clippety-clops over the hard pavement, accompanied in its orchestration by the clink-clank of abundant coke bottles, laden with a beverage that will soon reach a tiny street-side stall and then the appreciative throats of parched passers-by. With the image of official looking commercial trucks hauling soda-pop in mind, I smile at the seeming simplicity of this animal, pair of wheels, and set of planks. It clinks and clops by, doing its job as well as any industrial machine…

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The leftovers of Tabaski are in a small heap along the side of the road: a pair of horns and a sheep skin tossed away like a pair of tattered sandals. Plug your nose as you go past…

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There they are; a haphazard trio of spindly, plastic pine trees, propped up before a couple smiling men with dazzling, gaudy garlands ringing their necks and wrists. They’re there, wedged in between a couple fruit stalls, grinning at me as I eye their merchandise. Voila one of the few traces of Christmas in this Allah-enraptured locale. I cannot help but chuckle at how out of place they seem.

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I’m peaceably eating my breakfast of bread when my cousin whips out a butchering knife and starts whacking away at the last piece of mouton from the holidays. The laudry-woman’s three-year-old daughter is intimidated by the sight but watches intently.

Les Papillons

The multitudes of white flecks drift down, fluttering in eddies that alight upon the brilliant emerald grass and fuchsia flowers. -- “I’m dreaming…”-- The palm trees are misted with pearls… -- “…of a white…” – and looking into the sky, college students extend their arms passionately, reaching for those infinite flitting figures, like children with expectant tongues stuck out towards the heavens. – “…Christmas.” We may not have lit-up trees and mistletoe, but ours is the finest butterfly snow that Senegal has ever seen.

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Forget the gym! I have sand dunes! And oh, how much joy can be contained in one mountainous heap of sand! I race up them, feeling my feet sink deep into the orangey powder and knowing that for every three steps forward I sink two steps back. Atop my sand castle, I grin, overlooking a vast landscape of golden swells and furrows and, steeply below me, the neat row of squat tents that compose our humble abodes for the coming night. And now for the real adrenaline rush: 1…2…3! And there I go whishhhing and bounding down that slope with a spray of sand at my heels and the late-afternoon glow on my face. Do that three times in a row, transporting cameras up and down on each occasion, and suddenly you know your calf muscles and abs much more intimately than you ever did before! But don’t wear yourself out too much now; you’ll need those ab muscles when you perch yourself upon a camel -- overlooking the desert at sunset. Yum! Life has seldomly been so sweet, and the stars are yet to come.

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My last week in flash format:

Distractableness.
Photo-editing procrastination.
Booking flights craziness.
DESERT!!!
Buckle down baby;
its time to pump out those
final essays – in French.

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My timeline:

Dec 20 – flight to Portugal
- a week traveling down the coast with Allison and her friend Dorothy.
-“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams!”
Dec 28 – hop a flight to Madrid
-New Years in Madrid, surrounded by museums, cathedrals, and culture.
-Dorothy flies home
Early January – visit friends in Alicante and climb with Allison and my old climbing buddy Ricardo!!
-climb with another friend in Cartagena. Wheee!! So much climbing!
-revisit my favorite city: Granada. Ah, Alhambra, how glad I’ll be to wonder at your hispanomuslim architecture once again!
Jan 10 – Allison flies out from Sevilla and I head south.
Mid-Jan – Morocco! Think burber villages, the Casablanca Mosque, Roman ruins, Fez, and the Atlas mountains! Yeah’ya!
Jan 23 – go back up north to catch my flight out of Sevilla, Spain.

And then…home sweet home!

Of Turkeys and Sheep

He took a mouton out of his trunk. The taxi man. He hoisted a sheep, out of the back of his cab, with the help of another man. An absurd kidnapping scene, to day the least; the mouton, feet bound, finds itself returned to daylight, released into a strange place. It looks around, it blinks, it spits, and it is led within the house to a certain fate. Oh yes, the fate of this sheep and the multitude of sheep that are mulling their way through crowds and holding up herds of cars has been writ for millennia. Their destiny has been foretold ever since Allah spared Abraham’s son, Ishmael, from a bloody, sacrificial end by inserting a goat into the scene to take his place. Thus, we all replay the drama year after year, killing sheep after sheep (after sheep after sheep) and eating them all up with great satisfaction. Oh yes, ‘tis the day before Tabaski and everyone’s preparing. But we Americans have another animal on our minds…

We depart from the kidnapping scene by cab, arriving at another dusty neighborhood wherein we meander in search of our fellow tubabs. And voila! Up some flights of steps we find ourselveswelcomed into a little haven of American joy. It doesn’t take long for the dishes to squish themselves onto the table -mashed potatoes, stuffing, and even cranberry sauce all cuddled there as contentedly as the forty-something pairs of eyes that oogle them in anticipation. Thursday had been a mildly lonely day for the most of us; a slightly empty feeling overtook this group of students as the Thanksgiving sun set on another dinner of ceebu yapp. But Friday’s sun set over a meal so happily shared and thankfully appreciated that the roast chicken we all shared may as well have been a true turkey!

So, stuffed to the brim we all went to bed, knowing that we’d be equally full by mid-day the day after. Oh yes, Tabaski was marching in right after Thanksgiving, and no amount of stomach distention would be able to convince our Senegalese mothers that we’d had enough xar! Most Senegalese woke at dawn to head for the mosques before doing the deed. Shortly thereafter, blood flowed freely and the grills lit up as the men undertook a long and arduous task involving entrails and the like while the women started cooking up that meat just as fast as they could! I’m sad to say that I missed the actual killing of the sheep on that fateful day. By the time I woke up, showered, and made my way over to a friend’s house, because my particular Catholic family doesn’t happen to do mouton slaughtering for Tabaski, all them there sheep had kicked the bucket and I was only able to eye the dismembered animal as it awaited the grill. Oh well. I did eat it, which was delicious, but my vegetarian stomach didn’t much appreciate that afterward. As the Senegalese say, the sheep butted me in the stomach this tabaski! But only a little bit. Touti rekk!

After the food coma, the children took to the streets in their fine new boubous, confidently extending their hands with the expectation that a few coins or treats would find their way into those mocha palms. Megan and I took a walk to help settle the mouton and took to a little Hansel and Gretel adventure, following a trail of blood droplets in what some might consider a morbid way but which we conceived of as a great opportunity to make up a saga about the sheep’s final battles; look! There’s where the three men started the journey with the goat. And that there, that’s indication of the first battle, wherein the sheep took down the first man but couldn’t escape the other two. And there, the sheep managed to overcome the second man! It looks like he bit him hard! And there, a bird tried to come to the rescue but the last man took down the bird instead! And then, voila! The sheep killed the last man and, licking his wounds, made a U-y in the middle of the dirt road... and headed back the way he came? Hmmm. Our little trail has turned itself back around. Did somebody forget their keys or something? Oh well! The goat saga completed, we continue with our little promenade.

I definitely spent the rest of my Tabaski watching Dirty Dancing for the first time, which I absolutely adored, and then chillaxing at another friend’s house playing cards and chatting about teenage relationships! The chilling was the most Senegalese thing I’ve ever done, but the cards and the conversation we’re definitely in the American style!

Well, the weekend of turkeys and sheep came to a close just in time for a week full of homework to kick into gear with final papers rearing their grisly heads on the horizon. But in spite of those beastly papers, I have plans to go to the desert next weekend to see the dunes. I had better be productive for the time being!

Hugs and love,

Jocelyn

French Relations to West Africa

Below is my response to a New York Times article pertaining to French relations to countries in the West African region. Voila the link to the article:

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2009%2F11%2F13%2Fworld%2Fafrica%2F13francophone.html%3F_r%3D1%26ref%3Dglobal-home&h=1281af9a255a6533299950b72c573095

This is quite an interesting article. It is true that there are pervasive anti-french sentiments throughout this region and, within Dakar itself, the sense of outsiders imposing themselves here extends to all westerners. For example, in a conversation with a family friend yesterday, he lamented with annoyance that, "the city seems to be going to the tubabs" in reference to the rich neighborhoods that are "over-run" by foreigners.

The French have maintained significant control over this region thanks to the colonial period when they sowed the seeds of dependence between themselves and the local governments, economies, and infastructures. In other words, rather than investing in the infastructure in a way that would encourage autonomy and sustainability, the French implemented cash crops and export-oriented economic systems that benefit foreigners and harm the locals. In Senegal, this manifests in a massive encouragement and export of peanuts that are refined into oil and re-imported to Senegal at a higher price than they were first exported for. Thus, the local economy is drained outwardly and France reaps the benefits.

My issue with this article, in spite of its accuracy concerning the French-West African relations at present, is its presentation of the US as a good example, refraining from maintaining relations with certain corrupt governments. However, the US is just as complicit within these abusive systems that create West African dependence on "western powers" thanks to our close ties to the IMF and World Bank. These two organisations are closely tied to the US goverment and they have conscientiously sapped local west-african economies through their Structural Adjustment Policies of the last 40 years. In short, these policies require the realocation of resources from infrastructure and education to debt repayement, which goes straight into the pockets of rich nations in an endless spiral due to the unfair terms of this debt. So, villifying the French without implicating the US within the abuses of this region is misleading.

Although the locals are not altogether fond of the remnants of the French colonial system, their imaginations are captured by the wealth associated with France and particularly the US. So, they want to partake of this richness and be your friend, because you represent money and opportunity, but they carry chagrin simultaneously. Many Senegalese still refuse to send their children to french-speaking schools. But this is a predictable legacy of colonialism.

As for the political situation, Senegal doesn't fit into the same mold as the other countries of the region because, in 2000, the French-backed former-president was ousted peacefully in favor of Abdoulaye Wade. So, their was a semblance of independence and democracy around the turn of the century, but since then it has become clear that Wade is infringing on the democratic nature of the constitution by extending his term limits. Likewise, he is maintaining close bonds with European powers, although I'm not informed enough to know whether this extends to the French.

Well, let me know if you have any questions about what I've written or about the situation in general!

~Jocelyn

Smacking Peanuts

Smack! The stick comes down hard and so gratifyingly! Smack! The hot sun melts the fatigue from hours of lazing about right out of my pores. Again, smack! And that stick hits that pile of dried peanut plants once more! I get into a rhythm with the men beside me, and someone lets out an “eeey!” signifying the start of a song. “Faster!” they cry, challenging me to keep pace with their well-toned arms. Smack!...Smack!...Smack! Smack! Smack! And those peanut plants finally start loosening up, breaking into pieces. I’m jolting those peanuts right off of their roots, chopping up these hay-colored stocks with the sheer “thwat!” of my hooked stick. Swatting that stick down is like a particularly good twirl on the dance floor, or the second-to-last move on a long and gratifying climb that really got your heart pumping! Never mind that Victoria and I are the best entertainment these men have ever seen; two white tubabs farming! And not just farming, but out in the fields doing men’s work! But the joy was not meant to last; I looked down at my hands during a slight reprieve and was shocked to perceive some very unhappy skin trying to abandon my right hand. “Eh! See here, skin!” I exclaim. “We’re only fifteen-minutes into this thrilling experience, and here you are jumping boat! None of that now!” But what was done was done, so I stuck out my blistered hands to show the men, explaining that my muscles were in no way tired –that it was my soft hands that were the problem. We can’t have them thinking that tubab women are wimps, or anything! I mean, Victoria had already made her escape under the pretext of seeking her camera, so I had to represent!

Well, the glorious peanut smacking having come to a tragic close, we moved on to new work: peanut sifting! Covered in bandaids, I took the calabash bowl in hand and learned from the local women how to hold it high over my head, shaking it just enough so that its contents would tumble out slowly, allowing the wind to carry away the lighter stalks as the peanuts and dirt clods fell straight down. The next step was to pick out all of those dirt clods from the piles of peanuts and resift by hand the stalks that didn’t separate out. I watched as, day by day and calabash by calabash, that mountainous pile of pre-chopped peanut plants dwindled and reformed into heaps of peanuts and horse food side-by-side.

“Wait! Jocelyn, what were you doing out on a peanut field playing around with a stick and picking up dirt clods? We thought you were in the middles of a bustling metropolis with taxis everywhere and pollution galore!” And so I was, before my program sent us all out to experience a different, somewhat more rural side of life in Senegal. I found myself in a sept place trundling two hours down the road to…well, this little place! The sign read “Louly Ngogom” and my resident host dad, Doudou, assured me that six thousand inhabitants make up this sprawling village. We were there for the week, shacked up with Chris, a very fun Peace Corps volunteer, amidst a host family composed of Doudou, his two wives, their various kids, an aunt, some cousins, and several other kids who somehow managed to find themselves in the mix. They were a rowdy bunch, those kids, but they were also wonderfully uninhibited and curious when it came to us. They would ask us questions in Serer and we’d try out a few words in that language before resorting to our rudimentary Wolof and, in extreme cases, throwing out a French phrase haphazardly.

In spite of the language barrier, we all got along just fine, teaching them hopscotch and sharing in the uber-sugary ataya tea that Wally brewed after lunch each day. I wish I could have brought Wally back to Dakar with us because he had a great energy and kind, open eyes; I wonder what my host family would have said if I unloaded a 14-year-old from the cab saying, “Hey host mom! Welcome home your new host son, Wally! He’s here to keep me company!” You know, with eleven people living in the house, what’s one more?!

I spent those days living at a slower pace, with nowhere to be at any given time and with a watch that seemed rather decorative and hardly utile. I breathed slowly, witnessing suns setting over rosy millet fields and stout but stately baobab trees, reveling in moons rising over communal bowls of peanuts being shelled by chattering kin. How I adored sitting about the peanut bowls with spoon in hand, listening to the crinkling, popping sound of the shells coming open and thinking of how that sound, combined with the smoky smell of the charcoal cookers, gave the impression of sitting about a late night campfire. All that was missing were the smores!

At the close of this leisurely but peanut-packed week, I found my way back to this city with the odd sentiment that I was returning home, but now quite. Even if the people embrace me by pulling me into their folds by giving my own Wolof name, Ramatulaye or Rama for short, I’m always aware of the strangeness of my culture in this place. But I settle in, little by little. And the new English girl living in our house reminds me of how far I’ve come. There’s nothing like warning the new girl about toilet-flushing to make you feel like you’re in the know!

Peace and love,

Jocelyn

PS If you ever wonder what exchange students in Dakar spend 80% of their time talking about, its food. Smores, homemade-meals in the US, ceebu jen versus maffe in Dakar, that amazing peanut rice in Kedougou, peanutbutter, thanksgiving turkey, café touba, candy bars, mangoes, fruit, and cookies…I’ve had multiple conversations about all of these items, and I’m not the only one!

What is this “community” of which you speak?!

We talk about individualistic societies and communitarian societies, but what does it mean to be in a communitarian society on a day-to-day basis? Well, in Senegal the communal nature of society manifests itself in myriad ways: It can be found in the lengthy greetings that are addressed to every acquaintance encountered on the street, the “salaamaalekum”s and the “how’s your morning, work, affaires, family, mother, cousin, aunt, and husband…?”s. Recognizing everyone around you is critical and saying “I don’t know you” is a paramount insult indicating that you feel you owe that person nothing, which makes no sense since everyone is interdependent and can’t help but owe everything to their community.

Emphasis on community is in the little things; the way that everyone seems to remember everyone else’s names with ease regardless of how occasionally they may interact with them. In the fact that we eat around a single bowl, unified by our close proximity and equal sharing. In the way that this sharing extends into every nook and cranny of life where any food at hand is first offered to anyone close at hand before being tasted and even a lollypop can make the rounds

But then there are the big things, like how households include the entire extended family and the relationships between everyone is critical. Even the language reflects this; in Wolof, for example, they distinguish between your father’s sister (bajjan), your mother’s sister (tataa), and your uncle’s wife (yumpaañ), all of which we refer to as simply, “aunt.” It does not suffice to overlook the details of how one person relates to another. You are not merely an individual with your own credits under your belt but rather a thread in a greater tapestry, intertwined most closely with your kin and ancestors but reaching out to and depending on the entire society to sustain you and imbue you with identity.

Why would you live alone when you could share in the joys of life with your parents, children, in-laws, and cousins all together? Why would you pass by a smiling face with only a brief wave and a “hi” when you could pause to speak with them, thereby recognizing their import role within the community and, by extension, their entire family, network of friends, and ancestry? Why would you hoard a candybar all to yourself when you could share one bite with every person in the room and truly relish the single morsel saved for yourself beside the appreciative smiles of the community you have knit around you?

~Jocelyn

PS This glowing depiction does, of course, overlook those instances where personal interests win-out over the golden standard of sharing, but the general custom is present none-the-less. Granted, communal cultures bring with them their own host of problems, just the same as individualistic cultures such as our own. The giving and sharing nature of Senegalese culture combined with the required alms-giving in Islam can lead to people falling into dependence on others easily, passively expecting to receive rather than working to pull their own weight within society. So, every society has its own problems, regardless of whether it is individualistic or communal, but the key is to understanding the merits and weaknesses of both so as to idealize or vilify neither.

Photos! Louly Ngogom, peanut smacking, and baobabs.

The women loved seeing the pictures and videos we took of them. :-) Chris is the resident Peace Corps volunteer and Victoria is the other student from my program who lived in Louly Ngogom with me. (PS I did her hair. :-D)

The emblem of Senegal: baobab trees.

Me eating freshly roasted peanuts out in the fields. Can you tell that they were charcoal-black?! Yum! This is the way they were meant to be!

Sifting peanuts, with a little help from the wind.

The men out smacking peanuts.