Ahhh...Senegal

The following post is a collection of SOME of my journal entries (I can't post ALL my business, ya know?!) I hope you enjoy my recollections, and maybe get inspired to visit yourself!
Tatiana

A street on Goree Island

Wednesday, December 13, 2006
My day starts off after a restless sleep. I'm so excited/nervous/anxious--so many emotions going on inside of me. This is it-I'm really going to Africa. Most people dream of this. I'm actually doing it. Modou came around 10:30 to help me finish packing and wish me well. My roommate wasn't home, but I left my information with her anyway. I have to say--I love traveling alone. It's one of life's great adventures. But Africa? This is a whole other ballgame. I left super-early and got to the airport at 1, even though my flight wasn't until 5:30. I didn't want ANY hold-ups.

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I'm on the plane, and the pilot tells us that the flight will be much shorter than I anticipated-only about 5 1/2 hours. An uneventful flight it was, but I was too focused on my arrival to care.

Thursday, Dec. 14, 2006
I'm here. I'm so nervous, I can't speak one word. We get off the plane onto the runway, and I freak because there is only a bus waiting for us. What is this? Where am I? It turns out the bus was just a shuttle to the airport. The ride was all of three minutes. As soon as I get off the bus, the crowd bum-rushes a counter and starts filling out a slip. I quickly fill it out and wait on-line. Several people were in front of me, and one guy asks me if I'm on line in Wolof. He motions to me. but I freeze in silence. It turns out he was telling me to move ahead of him and his entourage. I really need to get it together, get my wits about me and play it cool. My real fear was that everyone would recognize me instantly as an American, and then I would be doomed! I quickly go through customs, to baggage claim and immediately I'm swarmed by by several gentlemen asking me if I needed help. All I kept saying was "Deedeet" --No, in Wolof--I remebered Modou telling me to NEVER let someone help you with your bags. So anyway, I got my bags. One was completely wet--I'll have to complain to South African Airways about that. I felt like everyone was looking at me--The Toubaub--ready to pounce. I searched for Yassin, Modou's sister, but didn't see her (but then again, I didn't even know what she LOOKED like in person--ha! talk about taking chances!!!) But so many people approached me and they were speaking Wolof. Now mind you, my vocabulary was limited to Yes (Waaw), No (Deedeet), and How Are You (Na Kenga Def)? So all these questions from strangers was truly frightening, even to a bold gal like me. I tried to make out the signs, but somehow, in my fright, even the French words looked foreign to me! So I stood by the airport exit in silence, hoping (praying)for Yassin's quick arrival. This one guy came up to me, and asks if I need to make a phone call, and I politely told him in my best French (Johnny would be so proud!) that a friend of mine would be picking me up shortly. Then the questions got more complex, and I was just dreading him and hoping that this dude would get a hint and LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE before my cover got blown (or maybe it was already?)! But finally he asks me if I'm OK--In English-- and I told him that I was. And then he goes "Well, it's obvious that you're NOT ok. You've been standing at the entrance for 15 minutes (my flight came in early, remember). Anyway, he wouldn't bug off, and insisted that I use his cell phone, which I knew would come at a price. I told him that I didn't have any money (Senegalese money, anyway--Modou told me to wait until I got into the city to change my money, so I did), so I really couldn't give him anything. But anyway, I contacted Yassin, and she came shortly after. Her cousin tipped the guy a 200F piece, and we left.


My ride from the airport at daybreak.
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We reach the house and all I could think about was calling Modou, calling home, and sleeping. I had meant to wait to give my gifts out, but as I was unpacking somethings, the women saw them, so I just gave everything out. They were so delighted, that it made me so happy. Then I passed out for 8 hours. When I woke up it was so deliciously warm, about 85 degrees. It still hadn't sunk in. I'm in AFRICA. I got up, called my mother, and tried to call Maguette (one my many wonderful teachers from New York), and some other close friends. Yassin gave me a breakfast of bread, cheese, and coffee, which was just right. The rest of the day was relaxation, reflection, and more relaxation. The family is in the tailoring business, so I had the pleasure of watching the guys get to work on several handmade pieces. It's funny, but in Senegal, even the woman with the least money wers couture, and I find it fascinating. It is almost a requisite to have a piece of perfectly fitted, made just-for-you clothing! I myself resolve to have a few dresses made while I am there...

Embroidery done with no sketching-pure genious at work!

At dusk the women had a little dance-off in the living room, and I tried to keep up, but I failed miserably!


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Dinner was beautiful and almost perfect. Kine prepared roasted chicken and onions on a bed of lettuce with fried potatoes and yogurt sauce. It was so delicious. Yassin kept pushing me to eat mmore, and I almost burst at my seems from the delicious food. I thought that was the end until Yassin brought me a mouth-watering bowl of fresh watermelon. I had a few juice-dripping bites--and then I got nauseous. I walked quickly and discreetly to the bathroom, found the nearest shopping bag on the way, and threw it all up. It wasn't the dinner that did it, I swear. I think-no, i KNOW it was the watermelon. Because I am used to the taste and spice of Senegalese food, I'm sure it was the melon that did me in. It's a shame because I really do love watermelon. But for some reason, for the past 2 or so years, I realized--I just can't eat watermelon. Everytime I eat it, I get sick and throw up. It just hit me tonite. *Sigh*
Oh well, tommorow is another day--and we're going downtown!!!

View from the rooftop of Modou's house in Senegal

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Saturday, December, 16, 2006
I thought today would be a pretty uneventful day--meaning a day of rest and reflection for me. The day started off slowly--taking a shower, dressing, eating breakfast. After a short nap, I tell Kine ( Modou's other sister), that I'd like to take a walk, and the walk turns into a mini field-trip to the market! I had no idea. We went to a market called Ville Artisinale, a little enclave of woodcarvers and instrument-makers. There are many of the villages scattered around Senegal, and I was lucky enough to be staying near one. What a treat! I saw so many things, I vow to come back before I leave and shop! But before leaving, I purchased a small djimbe drum and two freshly-carved mancalas. Earlier, Yacine and Kine helped me find a fantastic Sabar and Mbalax mix CD and Video DVD. I can't wait to practice. When we got home, I was exhausted. I took a nap and woke up, maybe two hours later. I figured I'd call my mother, so I went to go call and what happened next was-let's say, an adventure. The lights went out in the ENTIRE village as well as the neighboring villages. We were left to scrounge around with our CELL PHONES and ONE CANDLE in the house. Isn't that funny? A city so advanced in technology, where everyone uses the internet and has cell phones, yet still crippled by a lack of advanced electric technology. Well, Yacine was not about to have a lack of lights ruin her night. She had things to do! So we ventured out into the black night, the dirt roads teeming with people going about business as usual. No sense of urgency, no rush to get home. We ventured to la Cite des Enseigneurs to visit one of Yacine's friends, a tailor named Fitmi, on a rickety Car Rapide . What a ride! We finally get the city and jump off the back of the bus onto a dirt road, brightened only by the storefronts with light, and the cheap firecrackers being lit by raucous children in the street. We walk off the main road onto a dark street lit with lights, the Sabar drums, and the sounds of the continuous tattering of the tailors' sewing machine. Everywhere I looked, all over the city, I noticed, tailors were working furiously. A national holiday called Tabaski was coming up, and all the girls were getting their outfits made.

The weather is perfect--not too hot, not too cold, maybe 75 or so. I look up into the sky and see the stars shining. The vision is crystal-clear. After visiting Fitmi, we take another walk to pick up some bread from a nearby bakery before hailing a cab. But wait! We aren't going home yet. We take a walk down a wide dirt road, dark as night. The only light is the emergency light of a car that has broken down. Amazingly, the owner of the car, and two other makeshift mechanics are still working on it's engine in the pitch black night! We stop at a candle-lit shop and Yacine greets a friend of her mother's. Finally we walk back up the dirt road to the main street, and take a taxi home.

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Sunday, December 17, 2006
Yacine had promised me that she would take me to the beach. But with everything that was going on in their daily lives, I thought she had surely forgotten. But at around 5 o'clock she took me out-I wasn't sure if we were going back to Fitmi's, or going to visit a friend of her father's (Note: Even though I'm not a fluent French speaker, I could still understand where and what we were doing at any given time--but Yacine was very spontaneous, which lead to surprise visits all the time!). So we boarded a car rapide and rode off past the Cite Enseigneurs. I could smell the familiar scent of the ocean. I knew the smell well from the years of living on Long Island by the sea in Babylon. We got off the bus and walked past a series of rugged housing developments. they looked like mansions in the making-I could tell because of the size and the doors and their elaborate shapes. We walked further and further until we reached the beautiful wide ocean--The Atlantic. This particular beach was called Malibou. The water was such a fascinating shade of crystal-clear turquoise. And the sand-so clean, and so warm. Pure, unadulterated sand. I frolicked in the water a bit, and Yassin taped me.


Deedeet. Get it? DEEDEET.

Unfortunately, a young boy, maybe 18 or 19, followed us. I wasn't sure if the boy knew Yassin, but he spoke with her as if he did. He was so annoying, and clearly didn't understand that we we wanted to just chill out by ourselves on the beach. Once he told me his name (which I quickly and purposely forgot) he insisted on asking me if I had a boyfriend, and if I was married, etc. I told him straight off the bat that I wasn't interested, that I had a man, and I'd like to be left alone. So he asks "Why?" and I'm like, "I just gave you 3 reasons why. Now please leave me alone." (Sorry, I had to kick in the rude New York attitude, even if it WAS in another language.) Anyway, all I kept telling him was no, but I guess he was trying to play dumb because he just stayed with us and questioned us all the way back to the main road. So my first trip to the beach was nearly ruined by this dude who didn't understand me when I said "deedeet".
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Wednesday, Dec. 20, 2006
The Day That Wouldn't End


Today, Yacine, Pape, and I went to Goree Island. I was so excited, yet scared at the prospect of visiting a slave island. When we boarded the ship, all I could think of was the crystal-clear water and the fantastically clear and sunny sky. What a blessed day!

Once we got off the island, I was so enchanted by the beauty of the buildings, the art, the flora- no doubt kept intact by the state's historical division ( I immediately thought of Montmartre with all it's quaint houses and cobblestone streets kept perfectly intact to maintain the feel of the old French fairytales). the streets of the small village were filled to the brim with artists and paintings and other artisinal objects. I couldn't help but regard the African objects as tourist gifts. the way everything was so neatly arranged, and I couldn't help but think that the prices would reflect the consumer they were after-mainly French and American tourists. Even the restaurant dishes were insanely expensive-25mil, 30 mil, nowhere NEAR what I was used to paying in the city.














Luckily Yacine was wise enough to have us stop by a shop in the city to pick up some sandwiches for the trip. I was relieved to have this backup.

It looks so simple, but its cheap and SO Delicious. About 1mil F . It's a hamburger with fries. The fries are actually underneath the bun, and the burger is covered with a fried egg. Very filling! And of course, a Vimpto to wash it down...

The actual slave house was at once terrifying and unemotional. The museum displays, the amount of people in this part of the enclave with video recorders (myself included), almost detracted from the seriousness of the place. But when I stole away to the quiet places, the room for the children, and the room for the little girls--I was haunted. Dimly lit stone walls lined deep hallways with few slivers of window openings. And finally, the Passage of no return- a door opening directly onto the Atlantic-was a place where dead and punished slaves were thrown to the sharks.

On the second floor of the house, I allowed myself to stand on the balcony and reflect on the sights and my emotions. As I looked down, I could see the opening of the Passage. How ironic, I thought, that the rocks and the water that lay before me so pristine and crystal-clear were once covered with the blood and flesh of my ancestors.
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The ride home from Goree was endless. We boarded the boat at around 6pm and then, after disembarquing, took a TATA from there to Guidewaye. The entire trip lasted about three hours and we got home well after 9. I was exhausted, but Yacine had other plans. Modou had asked her to take me to meet her grandfather. So we went to another nearby city--Pekine--and visited the grandfather along with a host of aunts, uncles, and cousins. After we left that house, we went to visit Ousmane, one of Modou's brothers, who is also a tailor. We hung out there for a while before finally going back home. When we got back to the house, it was maybe a quarter past 12 and several female relatives and friends greeted us in the living room. They intended to have a dance-off. I intended to go to bed. "Dama sounou, Dama bouga nelo" I said in my most polite voice. But "tired", and "sleep" were not on the agenda that night. So I danced a bit before taking a shower and falling asleep amongst the chattering voices.
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Friday Dec 22, 2006
A Day of Shopping

On the way to the city. Anyone who complains about the LIE has obviously never been on a highway in Dakar!

These are just some pix that I snapped on our way to Sandaga, the biggest Market. I went to several other markets ( I was trying to find my friend Jacqui a nice pair of earrings).

For when the rides got a little long--a refreshment of fresh coconut juice.

Sheep were everywhere. Many were household pets--but most would be slaughtered for the Muslim holiday Tabaski.

Pure. Shopping. Ecstacy. A shopaholic's dream come true!

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Yacine made me here version of Tiebou Dieun. (CHEH-boo ChEN) I wanted to film the whole process, but Yacine wasn't having it. I kept asking why not, but she didn't look glamorous enough for the shot!

And the finished product. This is the Tiebou Dieun, the national dish of Senegal. It is a dish of flavored rice with fish and vegetables like squash, yam, carrots, and onions in the center. So succulent and delicious. Words can't describe it!

Senegal is such a wonderful world of sights, flavors, colors, and most of all sound. Everywhere I went, people were dancing, and even the news was prefaced with a series of dance videos. People dance, and they love their music. It is a part of life, and I witnessed it! For a country where poverty abounds, it's rich culture makes up for any lack of money. Senegalese people are stylish, witty, funny, and full of life. I will definately be visiting again soon...
Peace.