what almost happened. but didn't.

it was a day. i fell asleep around three am. woke up a few hours later. accidentally slept in.
rushed into clothes, brushed teeth, and out of the dark house (the electricity had decided to disappear). my dear el and i had decided to walk to work together and have a nice chat about her upcoming plans and the dinner we would be making to celebrate christmas and the arrival of her love. we were so close to work, when something strange happened.

someone had shaken el's bag and shoulders. i assumed it was a friend of hers and suspiciously eyed his eeire gesture. but el, too, seemed a bit put off and in the moments that followed this youngish man went to steal her wallet from her bag. she pulled away and then he attempted to run.
me being in some minds foolish and in some minds courageous...in my mind protective and instinctual...turned towards this guy and grabbed him by his shoulders almost throwing him to the ground until i realized that he hadn't managed to actually steal anything and that el needed my arms to hold her and let her know that everything was ok.

she was prepared for such an attempt and had her wallet chained to her bag.thankfully.

but nonetheless was completely shaken up about it. and rightfully so.

people down the way saw the spectacle and came rushing to make sure everything was alright.
i explained that this failure of a thief had tried to steal my friend's wallet. and that we were ok, but it was very unsettling. they agreed and tried to have us search him down by looking at his tracks in the sand...we just waited there for a second for el to catch her breath and calm down...then continued on our way to work.

the uncomfortable thought remained that in this sea of faces and having not had a good look at this fellow, we could pass him in the streets...and he would always know us by our distinctive looks and we would never know him by his chameleon shades.

not the best way to begin the day...but a much needed lesson in terms of awareness. perhaps.

au daara

Our rendezvous with the daara was scheduled at 10, but like most things here, we were unable to be there on time. Waiting in the office to hear the car horn honk to tell us it was time to go, I made lists and went over questions I thought to ask, preparing for the unknown and and assumed expectations. My idea of what would happen entailed a romantic vision of me as a new journalist getting to the quick and dirty of this daara world, exposing and questioning, making people uncomfortable but unable to escape without giving some sort of opinion! Yet, upon arriving I was stunned. 

We drove down some small alleyways, towards a cinder-block building that was still, essentially, being constructed. Through a metal gate into a courtyard area I noticed clothes drying on wires and typical bits  of rubbage that unfortunately characterizes the third world...mis-matched pairs of shoes, torn pieces of cloth, bones, broken bottles, shards of plastic, rubble, I could go on for days. The wall had holes in it that were stuffed with strangely colored clothes, one of which seemed like women's panties, but that sort of gender distinction is often lost amidst such poverty. Taking a few steps forward through dirtdust into the open-air common area, we encountered the students, separated into two groups (older kids in back at the desks, younger ones sitting on the floor in front), curiously eyeing our presence. 

After initial Senegalese greetings, the class recommenced and we were left to watch the progression of the lesson. French grammar and phonetics, reading, writing, math. All these little talibe children eager to attempt to answer questions, eager to be called to the front. All of them acting like young boys who, if evaluated only by their manners, would be untraceable to any specific culture. They were picking their noses, touching their neighbors, laughing, drawing on each other...all those charming things that 8 year old boys do. Every now and again the teacher would become upset at their hijinks and threaten them with a whip. Only once did he use it, which was hard for me to watch. My co-worker said that for the rest of the class he shouldn't do that and he consented. I figured it was because of me. 

My questions about the daara were answered by my co-worker. She said that the marabout was visiting in the village and left the 24 talibe children in the hands of the 20 year old Amadou. There were five rooms in the daara: one reserved for the marabout, one for storage and their sheep, one as a kind of catch-all kitchen/bathroom, and the last two were their sleeping quarters. On the walls of their bedroom hung their little bags of belongings, on the floors the thin sheets where they rested their heads. I took pictures of all this, of them, of their situation. 

Two of the boys were absent from class. One was sleeping, tossing and turning, really really ill looking and feeling. Another was pretending to study the Koran in the bedroom, but looked just as miserable and seemed equally as ill. We ended up skipping our lunch to take them to the hospital. The first boy was being carried to the taxi. He could barely stand and kept falling over, his skin burning to touch, unable to even drink anything. The other just weak and depressed. Upon reaching the clinic they were taken back and given malaria tests...the terribly ill boy had positive results. I am unsure about the other little one. 

After procuring their medicine we had them taken back to the daara, while we went in search of food. We bought bananas, sugar, limes, and a peanut sauce dish called mafe. Dropping off all these supplies and giving instructions to the head boy we left. . . I wanted to cry. I wanted to hold them. I wanted to give them everything. These children pushed into beggary by parents who were under the impression that this would be a way to provide a better life for their kids. These young boys who spent their time on the streets with little care bestowed upon their small frames. I began to realize that if we had not gone to the daara that day, that young boy would have died. No one was there with enough money to take him to the hospital, no one would have considered that the thing to do. 

That is life here coupled so indifferently with death. As if neither had any weight on the other, as if neither were worth the trouble of preventing or experiencing. Who cares to live when it is under such a neglectful eye, who cares about dying when living doesn't offer anything better than an existence so close to death that they are one in the same. 

I swallow my discomfort. I breath in deep my tears. I will go home and hold myself trying to prevent the sobs that surface from knowing I can only do so much...from knowing that their are so many many many more that will not be given the chance. I will comfort myself in Darwinism and feel guilty for my privilege. I will give alms to anyone that I cross tomorrow in a pitiful attempt to try and alleviate in some way the disparity that exists between my culture and the one in which I find myself, knowing that really it doesn't much help...anyone but me. 

sleepyface.

yes. it was only one day this week where i was able to manage not to reset the alarm and make it on time to work. that was wednesday...and i didn't have a choice...i was going to dakar.


today was like all the rest. slowly melted into ten minutes past the hour when i should be more than half way to the office. i took breakfast at lena's little stand and sipped my coffee in a causal jaunt through the maze of stairs and salutations that one must navigate before getting up to work. And inspite of being assigned a report translation and village portrait and meeting my other supervisor and all those other things...all I can really remember solidly is the most amazing blue-bird with hot-pink cheeks flying by me reminding me that i am so so free. 

confused tea.

i wandered off alone. first time. what used to be rare form has become my true being. and i suddenly found myself laughing and smiling and saying hello to each and every person i encountered. when what they were saying stopped making sense, my mouth would bust forth with a giggle and my shoulders would give a shrug...as if to say "yes it is true i have no idea what you are saying, but i like you and what you may or may not be saying, nonetheless." 


eventually i came across a group of faces and greeted them proper. one lady looked at me and said something that sounded hostile. i stopped without reason to understand further. the others repeated what she said in french. she asked if i drank tea. culturally this an invitation, but to me at this moment it is only a question of habit. of course i replied yes, i do in fact drink tea. and the lady looked at me when they finished translating my response, got up, yelled something in wolof, and pointed to the chair. not knowing what was going on, i just sat down. and for the next few hours i drank tea made conversation learned names and made a promise to return that saturday for lunch. 


when the big day rolled around i was nervously tossing and turning. there are so many things one must do to demonstrate appreciation to your hosts. i needed to wear my finest clothes, bring a gift of sorts, arrive slightly late...remember my wolof greetings, remember where their house was exactly, etc...


on my way i purchased some tea and sugar, perfect gifts around these parts. when i arrived i knocked and knocked on the door hoping that one this was their house and twp that they were serious about the invitation whilst beginning to second guess my understanding of what was actually said during the conversation. suddenly david opened the door and led me to the others, all of whom i greeted properly and were delighted with my charming gift. 


soon like royalty they ushered me into the sitting room where the placed the fan to blow directly at me and only me. a few chosen others were allowed to enter the room and have conversation while sofia, my new best friend, began to make lunch. they were so delighted and surprised that i showed up and they kept telling me so. they asked questions about my being unmarried and if i was considering taking up a senegalese husband. i deflected these questions but i knew they were not entirely gone and i would have to revisit them again. and again. and soon. 


i was given many photos to look at and express approval over and heard many stories of their family. when the food came it was obvious that much care had gone in to the preparation and that it was a very special meal. most of us ate with spoons but two of the  sisters ate with their hands. all the choices bits were passed my direction and i found myself eating more and more as i felt bad for refusing the most prized morsels. when this was just not a possibility anymore i stepped up and away from the bowl expressing  how the delicious food had filled me full. they offered me orange soda which i drank and water which i also drank and then more tea which i could not refuse.  


the conversation commenced again and morphed itself into ousamane's free flow rap demonstrations and then again into group dancing. other guests came and went. another round of exhaustion set in along with a power outage forcing us all to collapse onto the couches or cool floor tiles. hours, hours, hours had passed and my lunch date was soon evolving into dinner invitations. i had used up every word and grammar construction that had ever crossed my path in these two foreign languages and my head began to hurt from so much thinking. 




i thought it was time to head home. after much resistance, they said to stop by anytime and hopefully that it would be in 45 minutes for dinner...or the next day...but that it was not necessary to call or make a date. it felt freeing to have such lax etiquette concerning relationships and i made good on my word, i stopped by unannounced and passed another set of hours. they made good on their's, the welcomed me like they had been expecting me for days. which, to find out later, was not so far from the truth. 

finding.s

a pack of wild greyhounds

dance without beats

tri-level shovel pulley

spiderscorpionsmash

insects

litter

scorpions!scare

charcoal in food?

swallowed bone

night breeze~

islamic prayers

heatdreams

multiple wives

truth is truth and not truth

breasts

clickyes

fishpuree

senegalesename

numb.

walking to the sen marche i see a woman sleeping in the street without a shirt covering her face with her arm that is missing a hand. it doesn't even phase me.

the long drive.

begins early and with a circle that takes us from the beginning and back and then onto the true route.

the city is not yet awake but working towards day.

so much anticipation. i watch out the windows and am impressed by the beauty. invisible tears stream down my eyes. 

in me builds a sense of numbness but over extraordinary sensation.

to see such death and life dancing together along the roadside like old lovers who have never lost the new love smell. seated neatly in the pain of destruction and hopeful rebuilt.

the road is long and often unkempt. sleeping stretches marked in time by the length of proper paved and pot holes. silences fill most of the unused space. 

small town later we eat and watch how the night’s previous rain has overtaken the streets and created a confusion in the cars. people moving and yet entirely motionless.

to be free of that chaos…and on to the next version. 

a smile upon arrival. two new little friends. braided hair and precious fotos.

a lone horse. and missed sunset.

villages spot the region coming out of the flat where you can see for miles through forever forest. there are huts and numerous bovine.

I stayed in my own hut with a very large bed and other luxuries of western living.

we tread on the road off the road up and down in and out next to and upon the dirt, an adventurous route, to a less than adventurous meeting.

people scatter the sides in the shade of trees that will hold no leaves come november waiting for rides or passerbys who may take interest in their wares.

sky is endless blue and clouds give the illusion of mountains, as if to casually remind me that somehow i’m not far from home.

cool african breeze. rare.  almost more appreciated than water.

everyone in variations of slick shine. soft circle of conversation debate decision. important things regarding the declaration.

the other day,  rooms were changed from large and spacious to small and cramped solely to take advantage of better cooling mechanisms, and thankfully so.

refuge today, now found in a strange abandoned hexagon.

words fly. sudden lift of bodies out of chairs and through the doors.

time to make the trek back to the other town. some of us ride in the back of the truck.

a side stop that lasts for hours after the brief afterlunchtime lunch meal. 

i wait outside and watch an electric orange bird build a nest, watch the moon rise, watch the village go from dead to alive, watch numerous people stroll past, watch my head fall with heavy. we’ve lost two of our party to the length of the errand. i learn about famous senegalese singers and tell of differences between countries. 

my names are tossed about erratically sometimes the one i was given at birth, sometimes the one they’ve adopted to me. both to which i respond.

he asks me to help. i do. he tells me to eat so I become as big as a large building. i laugh. they ask me to tell a little story.  i try.

the moon is out full force with slight cloud cover.

we all enjoy the mixed tongues. Dou dou dou and nyum nyum. 

the polaar word for bravo, choum…and in double time, burn.

thirty mosquito bites later with numb feet and other swollen extremities.

playful exhaustion and well needed sleep.

my first mission.

so many lovely ways to end the day. and begin the next.

the lovely push home. taxi cab rain drops.
out in the mud. stuck in the path. hop out the car and get the thing going.
all of us hands on back. this is the way to make friends.

after drinks and dinner. french and other tongues.
separate ways.

proprietors, new friends.
beach dates.

flood. and other overwhelms.

dreams of dancing.

BRUNCHplans.

halftime.

it was a fresh pour. i found myself walking towards the thunder.

auspicious.

all the mosques pronouncing from megaphones. stereosurround. the whole city is saturated.succulence. FaDiNg in AND out. 

the soundtrack of life. at 13:30. 

a first week of work, finshed...or rather slowly prepared to begin a second and third and other subsequents.

i regard the ground and the way the rain has impacted its surface.

fuzzy. softsandturned to fur. footprints only change the illusion.

i weave in and out of my native tongue and my host language(s).

not with ease, but with beautiful stutter. 

Oui, c'est true that j'ai dit SalaamMalekum to you.

awkward. although this new creole is more appropriate than any of the three. 

soon, to Podor. la Fouta. on mission. to do what we do. 

this is where my interests find themselves.

moving forward. daytime exhaustion. friday evening nap. 

rainrainrain. and barelypack.

sevendays.

life under the net is starting to feel normal. the world around me in various states of decay and damp.
all my papers are in limbo...the moment between having just been drenched with water and almost dry.
curling at the edges. soft. but at the heart flat.


a week has passed since my arrival. and i reflect on that.
the differences in life are startling. invigorating. enlivening.


having a beer in a downtown Thies eatery i go to pay...gustave is there and we have ourselves a chat about my existence here in this city. he gives me his number and email to keep in touch, if i'd like. in my brisque american confusion i hastily tell the lady at the counter that i would like to pay for my meal and drink...
and immediately i say oh! goodevening! she laughs at my faux pas. and we share a little conversation while the machine acts up,  i help her try and fix it, but to no avail. she adds together the cost on a calculator and i give her the sum. after a goodbye to gustave i join my friends in hailing a cab back to the house. it is all a bargaining game here.


soon some days later we finally go into town to buy supplies. food mostly, but for me i have my heart set out on finding my favorite treat. peanut butter...here they are called arachides and not cacahuetes...i have become more aware of greeting people. (it is about acknowledging the other persons existence which exceeds the importance of whatever needs to be done...and everyone deserves such respect) i see a woman near me and we exchange eyes, i say Salaamaalekum to her and she replies Maalekum salaam. i then proceed to say nanga def? and she replies maangi fi rek..and then says something i haven't yet learned proper. i tell her i do not understand and she says what is your name?...Nanga tudd? and i say sadie. i repeat the phrase back to her and she replies Jeame. we chat about where i live, which i could not explain as i had only been there a few days and about our jobs. she works at the bon marche and i tell her i will see her often because i liked the place. we talk about peanut butter and the difference in terms...and i learn how to say it in wolof...we exchange goodbyes and i finish my purchases. the beggars surround me while i wait outside for my friends...finally on the way home, the day feels successful. 


i begin to enjoy the life i have begun out here. all its oddities and delicious cultural crumbs really tickle me. i'm beginning to make plans...for my time here, for my return home, for my life...things just feel like they are gaining perspective and for the first time i feel the present and am content with that. 

upandaway.

i stumble awake. knowing full well that i am not ready to move from sleep. but the electricity has given way, meaning the fan has stopped blowing, meaning that under the net has become like a little greenhouse. there are so many people here at the moment and half of them are on their way to leave. to go back to where they came from, tambacounda, dakar or the gambia, or even  home to the states! 


it has been raining all day making us all hide inside. although right now it has stopped...for how long...who's to say.
i hear roosters crow. and movements outside. birds chirp. and we are silent in the house. doing our things. 
life is rather amazing.


to think that for the next six months until i leave that these ladies will be my closests. that we will be sharing these spaces. and to think that when we leave, tears will possibly most likely streak our faces. 


i look down and see my foot, covered in some mud. wearing away under the sand and other elements of life. 


for the past while i have been "in training" covering crash course Wolof and cultural aspects to ease our transition into
our new world. on top of that we have been learning much about the organization itself...


the village visit was a definite highlight. to see and meet so many amazing faces. shaking the chief's hand meeting other village elders taking little photos of the children. so magical. so inspiring. a remark on the absolute beauty  of humans. 


after which we came to rest at the volunteer house, which by senegalese standards is a palace and also my new home.
there are two guards on constant duty. keeping us safe. 
there are three terraces staggered on the second and third floors. 
there is a little garden in the back around the patio.
there are so many rooms to sleep in. so many spaces to be in.
it is maybe a palace by american standards even.


all my former ideas on life here in senegal, africa too perhaps, have been shaken out.
certain things are true...especially concerning the time and distance...or lack there of.
but other things...not so much. 
one can find beer and wine here and they are very very cheap. 
clothing is not as rigid as you would believe. 
there are just too many things. 


life here is relaxing. lovely. strange. 
one learns what they need. and the difference between that and what they want.
your priorities change. and you find yourself relishing in your discoveries. 


to learn about yourself and what makes life life.
to learn about others and what makes life life.
to learn about life and what makes you you.
to learn about life and what makes them them.
to learn about the combinations and how to enjoy them proper.


so much. so much.
watch me grow.

is this really only day two?

today. i woke up under mosquito nets like normal.

ate some bread. and went with some other girls to ile de goree.

we bargained for a cab and it took us FOREVER to get there. 

but we arrived. paid tourist price for the chaloupe across the water. the vessel's name was beer.

we made "friends" with a lady who sold jewelry. walked around the ile until we felt some light drops. 

watching the sky go from light to instant dark and all the fishermen and their boats swarm into harbor.

suddenly trapped under pouring rain we found refuge under some tents with a handful of others.

in two minutes of downfall there was almost three inches of water. wow.

when things lightened up and the ground began to dry we proceeded on with our walk.

intimidated by goats we found another way to the castle.

made some other friends and ate lunch with them.

the food tasted like spaghetti-os. not bad but i wouldn't order it again.

on our way to catch the ferry our former "friend" coerced us to look at her goods and "convinced" us to buy something...

on the ferry some rad dudes were beating some rad beats and belting some rad vocals. 

their instruments and ability to play while the boat rocked rocked on and over...was impressive...

back on the dakar shore our other friends proceeded to help us obtain a good price for a taxi.

and then pawned us off with a Wolof stranger who was going our direction...and proceded to try and finish the job of taxigetting.

about an hour later and some rough traffic we finally caught a cab...and then spent another long while getting home.

so much traffic, everyone was in a hurry and get home before sundown so they could finally eat.

took my first shower...and have never felt so alive.

Day one.

It is true. I have arrived. Early in the morning. The man sharing my row mentioned to me upon finding out that I was going to Dakar/Thies that I would feel at home. He was not far off. Disembarking and going through the motions of customs bag xray smallglassroom meetinggreeting walking through muddyrainstreets shakinghands riding to chambredepassage at 6am when everyone is asleep finally falling asleep myself...it is real. AND like I said before, I have arrived.

My moments here begin in the rainy season. Everything was soaked with prior moisture. I awoke to humid heat and bright sun(shine). I rolled around wiping the dreams from my eyes. Life has suddenly become surreal versions of linguistic customs and other obscure oddities. My new roommates, some of which are staying, others which are going, invited me to join them for brunch...I dress in a lesslong skirt and a light white-t-shirt...slap on sandals and prance downstairs...the sun is so intense and bounces off the rubble. The piles of rocks and tile that are strategically placed so as to improve the drivability of the roads during the rain often are nuisances when the rain is gone. My first taxi ride...the two veteran girls bargain get a decent price and we hope in only to hope out two seconds later when the driver changes his mind...new cab and we are on our way...brunch yum, honey pancakes freshpressed apple juice. Then N'ice cream...obama flavor delicious. And I was under the impression you couldn't get good icedtreats here...The lighthouse next where we sat on the cliff face soaking in sun listening to the waves looking out over the city. It was a long walk but so worth it! Right next to here is the symbol of African Renaissance...the largest sculpture in the world. Yes, the largest...and at the same time slightly ridiculous, but totally amazing. Back home in time to skirt the rain...sitting on the rooftop with the girls listening to the loudspeakers shout islamic prayers. Buying some bread and yogurt...then time for sleep...