Turns Out I'm a "Water Spirit"

When I think of a typical beach party, the consumption of fish heads is not typically part of that mental image. It felt and tasted very real the other day, however. I had been invited by a Chadian friend of mine to go to a beach party with people he works with and students from Gabon. I really enjoyed being away from "toubabs" (foreigners) for the day, catching the flavor of a real young adult party in Senegal.  Only the guys played beach volleyball, and I nearly joined but for the crowd of people sitting around watching. I decided it would be a double spectacle-- a woman and a toubab. I settled with watching, swimming, and eating grilled fish and bread with my friend. He noticed that I wasn't touching the head of the fish, however, and asked me why I wasn't eating it. My response: I've never eaten it before! I didn't really know how to say that eating fish head is a nasty business that I wouldn't even know how to commence. So he walked me through it anyways. Since I ate a fish eyeball within my first two weeks in country, I told him I didn't need to eat the eyes again. An experience, for sure. I cannot say that I would choose fish head as an everyday sort of snack. The party ended with my friend's group dancing on stage. They insisted that I join them up there-- so I did. The dance was definitely choreographed. Good thing they didn't tell me that ahead of time!

I've discovered a food item that I am pretty passionate about, however: thiakry (pronounced, "chalk-rie"). Rolled and steamed millet flour in a yogurt-like substance. SO good. You can buy it at stands-- just tell them how much you want to pay, and they scoop the "soow" (yogurt) out of huge buckets and into plastic bags that have millet in them. This quickly became a favorite after class snack for me. You can buy it in little sealed cups and bags in stores, but I prefer to buy it off the street. I like my food better that way. Tastes more real for half the price.


18 avril:
Today I was called "une esprite de l'eau" (water spirit) by one of my friends from Chad. Apparently if I went to his village, they would all be afraid of me because of my blonde hair and blue eyes, characteristic of water spirits. They are jealous, and once they choose a man, that man has no choice but to only be with the water spirit. I guess if my plans of getting a doctorate fail, I could always go to Chad as a water spirit! Quelle chance!

As I was walking through the market in my neighborhood on my way home from the study center, I met a fabric vendor who wanted to sell me some that caught my eye---15,000 CFA (approximately $30) for 5 meters. My response: "Déedeet" (no). We then chatted in French and Wolof for a good 10 minutes, beginning with how many years of education I have left (leaving me with no money to spare for fabric), progressing to talk of husbands (when he asked me if I have a husband-- I told him: "Am naa juroomi jekker," meaning I have 5), and drawing to an end when he told me of his undying love for me. My response: if you love me, you will give me the fabric for 4,000 CFA (all that I "technically" had) instead of the 5,000 CFA he was finally asking. I walked away telling him "ba beneen Insh'Alla" (next time, God willing) and feeling like I should look for fabric elsewhere next time. I've gotten a good number of laughs when I tell these guys here in Wolof that I have 5 husbands. They never understand when I tell them I don't want one yet, so this is almost easier. You have got to just embrace it with a sense of humor sometimes or you go a little crazy. A typical conversation with a Senegalese man:
First question: How are you?
Second question: Are you having a good time?
Third question: Do you have a husband?
Next statements: I love you. Be my wife. (I only have 2 already.)

20 avril:
We walked into the church close to midnight and I was immediately struck by how many people were present. I have never been good at estimating numbers of crowds, but this had to have been about 70 people of various ages and African nationalities, sitting bowed over on wooden benches praying to the Lord. This was a night of prayer at the French church I have been attending-- it started at 10pm Friday night and was supposed to go until 6am the following morning. The two coffee breaks filled with fellowship and friend-making broke up the hours of prayer and worship that followed. It was incredible to add my voice to the many others belting out songs in French to the God of the Universe and whispered prayers to the Almighty. I didn't know the songs, but could pick up most of the choruses (there was no powerpoint for lyrics). Rich words. We prayed for our nation, for the government, for the future generation in Senegal and in the church, for church ministries, for the persecuted Church. For other countries that are war-stricken, and for believers who are in chains. What a blessing that we could gather like that without fear of singing a note too loud and being arrested for our faith. It made me think of the call we have as believers to live lives worthy of the calling we have received. To have a faith as precious as the faith of those who have gone before us, who have given all they had to pursue the Kingdom of God.

I wasn't sure if I would be able to stay the whole night, and going into it, I was kind of thinking I would leave about halfway through so I could get sleep before our tree-planting project (cooperating with a neighborhood environment group) the next day at 10am. Within the first hour, however, I knew I was staying the whole night. And God gave such joy in His presence! I never fell asleep, though a couple times I was praying and realized I didn't know what it was that I was whispering to the Lord. They had breakfast bread for us at 6am, yet another joyous occasion before my friend and I walked the 20ish minutes to our study center to crash in the stairwell for an hour and a half (before the tree-planting). God provides strength. Alxamdulilaa.

Days You Just Can't Plan

Lunch with a man who randomly accosted us in the street? Six hours' worth of ataaya (strong sweet traditional tea) at his house afterward and a political discussion? Dinner with his family followed by a Senegalese dance party in his room? Oh and then go with him to the outdoor concert celebrating Senegal's independence that didn't start until about 11pm? Sounds like a day. It was definitely one of those days that you just cannot plan no matter how much you might hope for the unexpected. A group of 6 of us from my program had jumped on a "sept-place" (Peugeot with 7 spots for passengers) that morning bound north for St. Louis. At first we weren't sure if we were gonna make it to our destination as our driver sped out of the "gare" barely avoiding 3 collisions in the first minute of travel. Turns out he knew how to cut traffic lines by driving in all the wrong lanes or creating his own, so we did not get too stuck in traffic trying to leave Dakar.

Our group with Malik, his sister, and the English teacher

The man we met in the street, Malik, was definitely looking for some help in getting his jewelry business going but never asked us for money and his family was very welcoming. He called over a Senegalese English teacher to join in the conversation, and we taught each other tongue-twisters and played question games in Wolof and English quizzing each other. Placed beignet bets on the first women's lutting match shown on TV (lutte= Senegalese traditional wrestling). The fresh air of the concert was welcomed after all the tea-sitting, but with that fresh air came a couple frozen limbs. Turns out St. Louis is FREEZING at night with the coastal winds. Even so, we got to watch a few artists lip sync to prerecorded songs while shaking their dreadlocks all over the stage before we got too cold and retired at midnight to the hotel's huts in which we were spending the night.

Pirogues for fishing and transport

The following day was filled with wandering around the island of St. Louis on a self-guided tour-- pretty historical and definitely European architecture. Fueled by street food and "café touba" (kinda like a spice coffee) we saw a lot of the island, surprised by the plethora of unobserved children running around playing, begging, sitting. They had this week off for break, though it really made us think about how young Senegal's population is as a whole. The English practice sentences on the chalkboards of the vacated school we explored were very different from the type you would see in the States. One of the sentences was "Not once did he allow his wives to join the women associations." (Remember that polygamy is perfectly acceptable here.) After running into our friend Malik again, randomly, we decided to go to the rugby tournament we had heard about. This was one of those times when we sat down and thought to ourselves, "what are we doing here again?" The pitch was swarming with young boys, some racing around on broken-off palm fronds (looked like they were playing Quittage), some playing soccer, some being "organized" into rugby teams by a couple of adult men. The stands being empty except for us lasted about 2 minutes, at which point they were flooded with little boys shaking our hands and asking us for "cadeaux" (gifts). The rugby never really happened while we were there, though we saw some form of toss-the-ball-and-tackle-eachother.

Along the road near our first overnight spot

Our plans to spend the next night out of St. Louis at a remote campement called Zebrabar included buying cans of beans and corn, baguettes, and chocolate spread-- we heard that dinner at the campement was $12 a plate, an amount we certainly hadn't factored into our budget. To get there, we stuffed our supplies, bags, 10-liter jugs of water and the 8 of us into a normal 4-passanger car with the promise that we would meet up with the driver's brothers partway and switch into two cars for the rest of the journey. You knew our first chariot was a good one since we had struck up this bargain in a repair-lot where most of the cars had no wheels or had the hoods up getting fixed. We had a natural sun-roof, created by the rust of time for no extra charge and the natural air conditioning of only a couple windows. I was pretty excited when the doors actually stayed shut as we drove! Zebrabar reminded me of Jurassic Park, complete with safari vans painted with zebra stripes and a nice bar and restaurant with lookout tour. Right on an inlet, we had chosen this place for its kayaks-- free to overnight guests. We slept in a tent with 6 double beds packed inside, perfect for what we were looking for.

Sunrise view from the tower at Zebrabar

Saturday (the next morning), we got up early and climbed up the tower to watch the sunrise over the land and water. I was determined to get my kayaking in, and ended up going with my friend Ethan. Turns out that one of the kayaks was good for the water we were kayaking in, and one of them was not. By the time we were past the dock I knew I was in for a treat with my kayak, and between that and the homemade paddle I was using, I didn't stand a chance against getting soaked. Honestly, I don't know much about kayaks, but what I can say is that this one barreled instead of glided. On the way back I kept getting pushed around by the currents of the water, even against the direction of the wind. I still don't really know how this happened, but I would be paddling for all I was worth on one side and still be turning the wrong direction. There reached a few points when I was so tired of putting all I had into rowing that I would release the kayak to the will of the water (and promptly get turned around backwards). It was a pretty good image of how I have felt at a few points during this semester. But you get stronger for paddling against the currents. You can't simply make them go away, but life isn't about just making challenging situations disappear. God equips you in each case to continue moving forward even when you get turned around and feel like you are going nowhere. Amen to God knowing what He is about in our lives!

Oh and Zebrabar also had a slackline-- definitely not a feature I was expecting out of a campement in Senegal (even one run by a Swiss couple). So I was able to kayak, slackline, hike out to main roads, and journey across the country by "sept-place" all in the same day. I didn't mind it. ;)

The Life of a Street-Side Sap Seller

My little friends

Rural Visit. One of the main reasons I wanted to study abroad in Senegal. One week of living in a rural village, the purpose of which was to experience and learn about life without electricity, running water, and internet. To taste the life of those who rely on the rains, who have cultural traditions that dictate responsibilities around the village, and who have possibly never seen a white person before. And let's just say that I did scare some children, especially babies. [Poor Moustafah is probably still hiding behind his mother's skirt at the memory of that white face looking back at him.] It was not much of a culture shock for me, I must admit, growing up as one of the first foreigners villagers had seen (in southern Ethiopia). I had forgotten how it felt to have kids sidle up next to you just to touch your skin then dash away, how it felt to walk around and have everyone call out after you. I was glad I chose to introduce myself by my Senegalese name: Mariama Kabou. I would have been sick of my real name by the second day if I had used it instead! Everywhere I went, "Mariama! Mariama! Toubab!" (Toubab= white person/foreigner) It seemed like everyone knew my name, as in small towns word of a stranger travels fast-- especially if that stranger is white. I stopped wearing my watch on the second day, as I discovered it attracted too much attention. A sign of wealth. As did my cheap Old Navy flip flops-- top quality. My anklet was also an area of curiousity. My maman asked me which marabout had made it for me (as a protection against evil) and found it hard to believe that I just made it for fun.

Maman and Assi (the 3 of us shared the room)

The cultural value of Teranga (hospitality) was huge in my town, and a combo of that and the money my host was being paid created a week filled with sitting and eating. I went with a Senegalese-run organization for the empowerment of women called APROFES and was placed in a small town called D'Inguiraye with one of the Chief's wives. She is the president of that town's APROFES group and is an incredibly strong woman, well respected in the community. We lived in a compound shared by about 8 or 9 other women and their children, and slept in a one room place (furnished with a bed and a small table). She gave me her bed and slept on a mattress on the floor at nights, a girl she is taking care of temporarily taking another corner of the room on a mat. We shared our room with a whole pack of mice I saw running along the rafters and heard at night scurrying around my bed. Because we lived with the chief and it was a town instead of a truly rural village, my household had electricity (and that fan got us through many a hot night). Cooking was done outside, and the bathroom consisted of an area out back walled off by compact dirt blocks and some tin. Showers at night were spectacular, possibly the most scenic real showers I have ever taken! Bucket shower, of course. There is nothing quite like washing away the dirt and sweat of the day with well water while star gazing right next to a long-drop. All you need in one location. With the refreshing wind, the clean skin, and the light cast by the moon and stars, I came to the realization that I want an outdoor shower of my own someday.  My town was Wolof-speaking, almost exclusively so. This meant that any time I found someone who knew some French it was like stumbling upon an oasis in the desert! All of a sudden I could communicate with words and be understood! I knew enough Wolof to make it around, but I wished I knew so much more. I couldn't hold conversations with my family there, and did not always know what they wanted me to do or not do. It was a challenge that was good for me, and it definitely showed me the importance of what I am learning in my Wolof class. I was glad I knew enough to be able to say, "begguma jekker" (I don't want a husband), as this seemed to come up a lot (like usual here). I decided I need a shirt that says that to save people the trouble of asking me to marry them on the street.

I ate really well. Too well. Multiple women of the compound cooked for us, and one night I had the equivalent of three dinners served to me! My last night there, my "maman" decided to cook us up some red meat- a real specialty. This deviated greatly from the typical staple of "ceere" (sort of a ground up millet? I honestly still don't know exactly what it is), and she was pretty excited to prepare it for me. As its cooking was nearing a close, she gave me some to sample. Fat and gristle are welcomed in this society's palate, but I was able to eat my way through what she had handed me. What remained, I realized after eating away the interesting textured meat, was a goat tooth. She had cooked up part of a sheep skull for me. I chose to eat dinner that night outside under starlight, better lighting than a light bulb if you want to enjoy a meal that has potential to trigger the gag reflex. This may sound unappetizing, but really, the food was delicious and I ate way more than I needed!

My maman: Fatou Ndeye

My maman ran a boutique and a random spices and veggie stand during the morning. I would often sit with her at the stand and help her bag tree sap and peanut paste while practicing my Wolof numbers and munching on some kind of root they eat with their rice. It was an excellent people-watching location, on both ends. I watched all the happenings around me, and many of those around me watched my every move. There was the man who was not right in the head who wandered in nothing but briefs and a dirty black vest, hair pointed to every corner of the earth. There was the ladies with the bread stand who started out under the mango tree, only to move over next to us when the sun rose higher in the sky shifting the location of the shade. There were the children who would walk past me staring over their shoulders, wait about 10 seconds, then walk back the other way for a second look at the toubab. There were always minivans coming in with passengers packed inside and belongings (and goats) strapped on top. I sufficiently enjoyed my time as a road-side seller.

Our "back door": the cookfire is to the left of the tree

The final day in D'Inguiraye broke the normal schedule of wake up, eat bread, go to the boutique/stand,  return for a nap with maman in the heat of the day, eat lunch, nap and read some more, socialize, go back to the boutique, socialize, eat dinner, star gaze, go to sleep. We had a town newcomer: the peanut roaster. Placed in a small, horribly ventilated room and fueled by a gas canister, we soon found the roaster to roast more than just the peanuts. We took turns entering the black smoke-engulfed room to turn the crank that rotated the peanuts. You could really only do a couple minutes in there before it was necessary to switch people. I made them let me do it with them-- I wanted to truly experience their life (though they seemed certain in just about everything that I would hurt myself or get blisters or get too hot). But they had told me "sit" too many times, and I refused to just watch this one. When I blew my nose after, all that came out was pitch black, similar to my skin color after the roasting was done!

I felt a sort of spiritual wall during my time there.  I am pretty sure that I was the only Christian in the village, and I got used to my maman getting down on her prayer mat each day to pray towards Mecca. It was interesting, though, that every time I was about to or did pull out my Bible to read I would promptly get interrupted. I tested it sometimes, and would head over to my bag to pull out my Bible, only to have someone show up right then to stare at me, try to talk to me, play with me, or bring me somewhere. I kid you not, about 9 times out of 10 this would happen. And so when I did read, there was almost always someone there watching me or having a conversation around me making it difficult to focus on the French text I was reading. But God is faithful and I pray that I was somehow a light to my family there regardless of my inability to talk about my faith with them for lack of vocabulary. I can't help but think, though, about how many villages are like that in the world, complete people groups  without a single believer in the One True God. And we are happy just sending a dollar here or there to help the spread of the Gospel? We are happy pursuing comfortable lifestyles and job security, knowing that at least we have a church? "Oh those poor people in Africa, starving physically and spiritually who have never heard of Peace in God. That's just too bad! Someone should help them, surely. But not me. I'm called to that which I know." But isn't that the whole point of trusting God? I hope and pray we don't miss the reason for our existence on earth. La vie est courte: for us and for those who have never heard Jesus's name. I'm praying that I will follow God wherever He leads. I want Him to teach me to go to the broken places, knowing that it will be hard but that in that difficulty God will be there. And that sweet communion with God is worth any sweat and tears shed along the way.