Halfway!

Two months ago today, I got on a plane in the United States and got off in Dakar, Senegal ready for an adventure. Little did I know that every day in between would be its own little adventure. Today marks the official half-way point of the semester. And, while it has taken a little while for me to really adjust to this life, I can confidently say now that I am addicted to Senegal!

I am addicted to being a Toubab but not a tourist... (As strange as that may sound.)
I know that just by the color of my skin I am going to pay more for taxis and fabric, and that I am going to be stopped by random people who want to practice their English. I can't help that. But when that does happen, I am ready to show them that I am not just here to sight-see. This is my home, however temporary. Being a Toubab but not a tourist means responding in French when people try to "take it easy on you" by starting a conversation in English. It means counting the 180 steps of the African Renaissance Statue in Wolof just because we can. It means putting in the effort to make the next two months meaningful not only for me, but for the people around me.

I am addicted to life as Oumy Paye.
When I was riding in a taxi with my host sister last night, and I figured out that she didn't actually know my American name, I realized that Oumy has become like an alter-ego! No, Aby, you will not find me on Facebook by searching Oumy Paye... :p In her defense, I never knew how difficult it really is for people here to say (and spell, evidently) the name Becca. I have heard and seen everything from Bacca to Beckham, yes, the soccer player.

I am addicted to living with a host family.
As much as I love the friends I have made here, nothing can replace the personal growth that comes from living with a host family. Being a member of my large family means crowded mealtimes, waiting for the one bathroom to be free, hearing entire conversations being yelled from across the house, and not much privacy. But I wouldn't trade any of that because being a member of this family also means learning about the Muslim religion from two different generations, and experiencing first-hand the Senegalese tradition of Teranga (generosity).  It means two-hour long tri-lingual conversations with my brother while making Ataaya and teasing my sister about her English grammar. It also means being able to see my host mom's face light up when I tell her we are going to make S'mores again tonight.

It is hard to believe that just two months ago, I arrived (quite awkwardly) at my home-stay, greeted them by saying the Wolof phrase backwards, and was genuinely terrified that I would never find my place in the family. Today, looking towards the second half of my semester, I am hoping only that time would just slow down because there is way too much to learn and experience before I leave.

Jamm Rekk

60 Toubabs + 2 rather large white buses

Air conditioning

Pulling up along side a run-down Kuranic school housing (who-knows how many) children. 

It’s a weird picture. 

Yesterday during our class on Senegalese Society and Culture, we took field trip to a local Daara, a school where children are sent to learn the Koran in exchange for spending hours in the streets begging for money as "Talibé". One of the first days of our orientation here in Senegal, we were taught what to say to politely refuse to give money : Baalma, ba beneen yoon, which means : Sorry, next time. After all, each of us has encountered people begging in the United States. Much of the time, we have been able to justify walking past these people by thinking, "they wouldn’t use the money responsibly anyways." But can we really use that kind of logic with these children?

As we were listening to the Marabout (leader of the Kuranic school) describe the goals of the school and the spritual growth that comes from this kind of life, he used an analogy that made most of us in the room cringe. When confronted with the harsh reality of children being sent to beg in the street, he compared the children to pieces of gold- they must be put through the fire to be molded into what you want them to be. 

Who is responsible to put out the fire for these children?? 

A couple weeks ago, as I was walking to school, I found four kittens on the side of the road struggling to keep warm with no mother to be found. As my friends and I sat there contemplating all the ways we could keep these kittens alive, even considering buying milk from a nearby boutique, my friend Annie immediately brought us back to reality. She pointed out the 4 talibé children watching us from a few feet away, the children who we had completely ignored just a few minutes earlier. 

Why were we so willing to spend money and time on these kittens, who would most likely not survive the night, yet were so quick to refuse the open hands of these children ? 

Towards the end of our discussion with the Mirabout, he said something else that was just as thought-provoking, yet in a very different way. He said, « Do you know why you are not outside begging ? It is because someone has already begged for you. » 

I think its going to take a lot of time for me to fully understand what that means for me personally, but from now on, I will look at those children in a very different light. And while I cannot possibly give money to every child who asks, I have a new perspective on who they are and where they are coming from. 

When we were leaving the school and were passing the children who were waiting patiently outside to be able to return to their studies of the Koran, I found even more incentive to change the way I see these children. Many of the children we passed said good-bye the only way we could both understand: by wishing us "Peace Only" in Wolof. 

Jamm rekk.

S'mores with the Paye Family!

While sugar overloads are definitely nothing new to this Senegalese society, the idea of roasting marshmallows over a small fire pit and making some sort of sandwich concoction is pretty foreign. Thanks to my wonderful "waa ker ci Amerik" (American family) who mailed me all the ingredients, I spent the past week preparing my Senegalese family for the exciting and delicious experience of making S'mores for the first time. I'm pretty sure, though, that my host father was still unconvinced that it was possible to make s'mores without adding some sort of meat. Hopefully he believes me now...

After dinner last night, my host brother and I began the preparation. I found him on the roof, hovering over a tiny coal incense burner and I couldn't help but laugh. I guess it would be a little difficult to find a forest within walking distance of Dakar...But despite the tiny flame, we were able to make it work!

As it turns out, Senegalese are excellent marshmallow roasters! While I preferred to let my marshmallow burn quickly and serve the S'mores out, my brother was extremely patient and meticulous with his, very much like the typical Senegalese attitude I have come to expect. It is hard to picture our American culture surviving the two-hour process of making Ataaya, but when you do it, you soon realize that the process itself is the experience...though the tea really is tasty! Just like that, it didn't take long to understand why my brother was such an expert at it. I quickly relinquished my marshmallow-roasting expertise to him and made trip after trip downstairs delivering the treats to each member of my family. As I handed each of them their S'more, I was met with a slight look of suspicion... a dessert...AND a sandwich? How could this possibly be good?? But, just as my apprehenshion of Senegalese food has turned into a love for it, it only took them one bite. "Neex na!" (It's delicious!) After a second round of S'mores for everyone, they were officially hooked!

Having spent two months of learning about Senegalese meal preparation and rituals, it was so nice to be able to share this small piece of home with my host family. They are already planning the next S'more night :)

When you just feel like coasting...

I'm beginning to understand that no matter where you go, studying abroad is exhausting. And anyone who knows anything about the school system here, or even the general Senegalese nonchalant view on deadlines or timelines knows that it is not necessarily the "studying" that is tiring.

It is waking up each morning and knowing right then that I have to decide, once again, how much effort I am going to put into this day. I began this journey knowing that I was choosing a path that involved much more of a culture shock and a rockier transition than many other study abroad options. Even so, after a month and a half here, I am still realizing that there are several opportunities within each day when I must make the decision whether I am going to coast or commit.

It would be easy to coast through the next two and a half months. I could spend the majority of my time with my friends, sharing only meals and quick conversations in French with my host family. I could be the American that all of my neighbors expect me to be, and pass them by as I walk to school.

But where is the fun in that?

One of the highlights of my day is my mile-long walk to and from school. As I approach people in the street, and just as they are ready to dismiss me as a "tourist", I watch their faces as I stop, shake hands, and greet them in Wolof. Although much of the time, I feel they are disappointed when they soon realize that my knowledge of the language is limited to polite salutations, I absolutely love knowing that to this person at least, I am not just another "Toubab".

I don't want to allow myself to coast through this semester. I want to learn how to make Ceeb u Jen, master the technique of pouring Ataaya, and be able to communicate with my family in Wolof. I want to commit to spending this semester not caring whether I spill half the pot of tea or sound ridiculous trying to form Wolof sentences, because at the end of the semester, I am going to take away so much more than just a few African souvenirs.