Back in the land of the free and home of the brave

Hey everybody. So I've been back in America for about a week now and I'm finally starting to get over the culture shock of being back in the US of A. It had been four months since I saw white people I didn't know, grass, rain, or McDonald's and I was reintroduced to all of that as soon as I stepped off the plane. 

From a pop culture perspective, as I told some of my boys, two of the first three songs I heard on the radio back home were "swag surf" and "turn your swag on." I didn't know that one could surf on swag nor that one could turn swag on and off. Obviously, swag has made major developments since my departure. 

I'm enjoying this time to kind of relax and unwind but next week I'll be back on a plane headed to New York. I'll be there until August 1 working for both UNICEF and the World Water Organization, as well as conducting an independent research project on the cultural dynamics of the Catholic Church thanks to a grant I got from Davidson. So, I'll definitely be keeping myself busy, but if you know me you know that's the way I like it.

It's great being back home with family and friends (and pork....mmmmm pork). But Senegal was one of the most powerful, humbling, and enjoyable experiences I have ever had. I consider myself extremely lucky to have had this opportunity and the friends I made and memories I created will certainly remain with me for the rest of my life.

Flying By

The Independent Study Period (ISP) of the program has been enjoyable, but at the same time a lot different than the first 2 ½ months of my time here were. For the first 12 weeks of the program I was essentially taken in as the child of a Senegalese family. They fed me, gave me a place to sleep, did my laundry, included me in family outings, and did everything they could to make me feel comfortable. At the same time however, I was given the limitations of a child. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house after a certain time, I had to eat whatever it was that they chose to prepare, and I was basically just told what and what not to do. By no means however, am I diminishing or trying to complain about the time I had there. I enjoyed my time there a great deal. I love my family and developed a stronger sense of what Senegalese culture is really like. There is no better way to become immersed in a culture than to live with a family. Additionally, I would be at school from pretty much 8:30 am to 5:30 pm everyday. So all in all my life was fairly structured.

It has been a huge transition to go from a life of such structure, to one with relatively no structure at all. I now live with my friends in a house we are renting and classes have finished. I wake up when I want, I cook for myself, I do my own laundry, and I was given a lump sum of money that I have to budget accordingly. 

It’s kind of like summertime has started early. For most this would seem like an ideal situation, and in many ways it is. I have more independence than I could ever hope for. I am able to go out and explore the city whenever and however I want. And I can eat whatever I want.

With so much time though, it does become easy to procrastinate on actually doing my research project (I’m actually procrastinating by writing this post right now). My project, whenever I get around to doing it, has been fun though. As I said before I’m doing the ‘creative alternative’ to the ISP option. I’m attempting to capture the essence of Senegal through photography and spoken word. I’ve become pretty apt in the art of photo-taking and photo-editing, and as always I love writing slam poetry. I’m writing my poetry on several different Senegalese themes (child beggars, polygamy, the village, and on more that is TBD) and doing photography portraits of people who have shaped my experience here over the last 3 months. Below is a sneak peak of some of the photo’s I’ve taken:

This summer, as I’ve already told many of you, I will be interning with the World Water Organization. In agreeing to work for them, they offered me the opportunity to go back to the village I stayed in and creat a report regarding the agricultural and water situation there. They said that I would have the opportunity to present my report to the executive board and possibly get funding for the village to build wells and get more effective irrigation systems. This way, they could become self-sustainable instead of having to buy their food from other areas of the country. While I knew that the trip to the village would mean me sitting on a hot, foul bus for more hours than I would like, I couldn’t pass up the chance to possibly make a real difference in the lives of people I who become such a wonderful part of my own.  Thus, this week I went back to the village, to gather information for the report I’m going to put together. I had my father - who as I mentioned has a degree in agriculture from the University of Dakar (God works in mysterious ways) –bring me to different agricultural estates within the Kersadora and in neighboring villages. I spoke with farmers, cultivators, school leaders, village chiefs, and countless others as I made an effort to obtain every detail possible so as to have the most specific report possible.

It was great to see my village family again. The love I’m shown when I am there is unbelievable and it was difficult to leave them once again. But I know I’ll be back again someday, hopefully soon.

I only have two weeks left here and it’s probably going to fly by. I’ll miss this place, but I am also excited to go home and be with my family and friends, whom I have come to appreciate that much more since being here. I’m also starting to make a list of all the thing I need to devour as soon as I get off the plane: 3 Double Cheesburgers and a 2 Large Fries from McDonalds, Chili’s Baby Back Ribs, pork fried rice from the greasy Chinese place down the street from my house, a monster ham and cheese sandwich with iceburg lettuce, honey baked ham, and miracle whipe, a 5 piece meal from Popeye’s…alright alright I gotta stop because I’m making myself salivate on my laptop.

Hopefully I’ll have a few more post in me before I leave but you never know.

Be beneen yoon.

I Love My A PHI!!!

There were a lot of good things that happened this week. But the only one I feel like writing about right now is how on Saturday I had the esteemed pleasure to watch the probate of new line of Alpha Phi Alpha’s Tao Omicron chapter at Davidson College. Thanks to the wonders of technology, and the kindness of my friend Emily (who I’m going to buy a steak for when I get back to school) I was able to watch the probate via Skype video from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Emily brought her computer to the show, and got there early to make sure that she (and I for that matter) had prime seating. 

I’ll admit that when Emily and I came up with this idea, I didn’t know if the Senegalese and Davidson wireless – both of which have tendencies to not work when you most need them – would allow me to really get a good look of the show. I wasn’t pleasantly surprised however, when the quality of the video was near perfect. I could see everything just as if I was there.

The probate was scheduled to start at 10:06, but like most probates, it didn’t start until around 10:45. The time difference from the East Coast to Senegal is 4 hours. Not horrible considering where I am, but I felt kind of shady walking to the University’s library at 2 in morning. I knew that the library closed at 11 p.m., so the day before I told the guard there of my plans and bribed him with a kilo of clementines. With the sweet scent of citrusy fruit in his hands, he was more than happy to bend the rules for me.

Since I was online about an hour before the show started, I was “there” before most other people got there. So when people began assembling outside of the Union for the show, and saw this girl in the front row sitting with a Macbook on her lap an hour before the show, they naturally went over to see what was up. Much to their surprise, they saw my face covering the entire screen. People went crazy. This ended up being a common theme for the next hour. People would come up and I would hear (“Emily, what are you doing with your laptop out here – OMG it’s Clint!” I loved it, and was great to get to see so many people whose faces I haven’t seen in a while. When I heard the screaming and chanting ensue at around 10:45 p.m. (2:45 a.m. Dakar time) I knew it was time to sit back and watch the show.

The Phive Pillars of Phrozen Elevation, as the line is known, handled their business just like I knew they would. It was the best show our chapter has ever had. As much as I love being here and Dakar, this was the one time this semester that I really wanted to be back at school. Shout outs to the Neos and welcome to the Pham: Damion Samuels, Justin Hua, PK Kyei, Eddison Wilkinson, and Jordan Starck.

A PHI A ‘til the day I die!!!

School is Out

School is over. I’m not even kidding, there are no more classes. Last week we began what’s called the ISP period. It’s a staple of SIT programs around the world, and what sets them apart from other study abroad programs. For the next 4 weeks we’ll be conducting in-depth research on a subject matter of our choice. It’s cool because they really allow us to pick whatever topic we want to study, and support us in finding people who will be able to assist us in achieving the best possible final product. I chose to study the dynamics of slam poetry here in Senegal and what role it plays from an artistic, social, and cultural perspective. I’ll also be using a combination of my own spoken word and photography to try and capture the essence of different Senegalese themes, and I’ll have a presentation for the group when we reconvene in a month. I’m really excited about it. Most people who know me know how much I love slam poetry, and photography is something I’ve really gotten into a lot since being here. So I’m looking forward to using both of those to try and convey what my experience here has been like.

Speaking of spoken word, last week I went to a slam for the first time here at one of the many culture centers that can be found within Dakar. I actually wasn’t even aware that there was a slam poetry culture here until my Senegalese brother (who had watched some of my performances on my computer) showed me a flyer for a competition that was being held that weekend.

Going into the show I really didn’t know what to expect.  The slam itself was held in the courtyard of the cultural center surrounded by all type of greenery and lots of sunlight. Definitely a different feel than the dimly-lit café, spoken word scene found in New York. Unlike back home, here the competitors in the slam are determined a week before the actual event takes place. There were ten competitors, but there was an open mic portion between each one. I was surprised by the mélange of languages that were used in the poems, and enjoyed how it added a new dynamic to my experience there. There were poems in Wolof, French, Arabic, English, and everywhere in between. Even though I couldn’t always understand what people were saying, I move still be moved by their pieces. It’s hard to explain but I guess that one of the beauties of spoken word.

As the show was winding down, the host asked for someone to come up and spit a poem between the second to last and last competitors. I had no intention of going up on stage at all, but my brother took my hand out of my pocket and raised it into the air, signaling to the host that I wanted to go on. Before I knew what was going on, I was on stage, standing in front of about a hundred people looking up at me anxiously. I decided that I might as well go for it, and recited one of my poems. This was the first time that I’ve felt nervous when performing any of my poems. I guess it’s usually because I know that I’ll be performing beforehand, but this time I was literally on stage before I could even realize what was going on. After I was done though, I was given a standing ovation, and the director of some publishing company in Dakar gave me his card and asked me to call him. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

As I mentioned in my last post, I moved out of my homestay last week. I now live in a house with my friends Avery, Aurora, Lizzy, Clare, and Sally. It’s a three bedroom, two bathroom, with a kitchen, and nice courtyard. Plus, it came fully furnished and all of our utilities are covered in the down payment. It’s only 10 minutes from my homestay family and is centrally located so we’re not too far from anything in the city. It’s different having to cook for myself but I enjoy it. I make a lot of pasta, rice, and grilled chicken because they’re all pretty simple.

On Saturday night, we all went to a hip-hop concert that was being held in one of the parks near our house. The place was packed, and even though I couldn’t understand the guys rapping in Wolof, the beat was dope and we had a good time.

Easter in Senegal was a cool experience as well. I went to a Senegalese mass with my friend Megan from the program. The mass was scheduled to start at 9:30, didn't actually start until 10:30, and lasted until 1:30. So despite the fact that I was sitting there for over four hours, I had a good time. The sermon was in both Wolof and French, there was drumming, dancing, singing, and seemingly every woman in the place catching the holy ghost in the middle of the aisle.

The entire ISP period is setup in a pretty relaxed way. I actually feel like summer has started already. I’m living in a house with friends, going to the beach, and studying spoken word and photography in another culture. Doesn’t get much better than that.

On another note, I got an internship offer to work with the World Water Organization in New York this summer. It’s an organization that works with the UN and other NGO’s to promote water sustainability in impoverish regions of the world. I think it’d be a really cool opportunity so if I don’t here back from anything else in the next week or so I’ll probably accept the position. If anybody has got a place to stay or extra room in New York City this summer let me know. I’m on the look out.

It’s crazy that I’ll be back home in a month, and even crazier that I’ll be a senior in college. Ba benen yoon.

Kersadaro, Touba, and Saint Louis

On the morning of Thursday March 26, I groggily awoke to the all too familiar sound of Muslim prayer songs and screaming goats. The departure time for our second excursion was scheduled for 8 a.m., but as has proven true throughout my time here, the Senegalese are not the most timely of people. Thus, we didn’t end up pulling away from the SIT building until around 9:30 a.m. Nevertheless, I was excited for our journey and even more excited to learn that we wouldn’t be on the bus for 22 straight hours like we were on our last trip.

The first stop on our trip was “Le Lac Rose” (The Pink Lake). The name is pretty self-explanatory. It was a lake with pink water. I had seen postcards of this phenomenon, but didn’t actually believe that the lake itself was really pink. I thought that it would just be some sort of tourist gimmick that had been photoshopped on the postcard to look pinker than it really was.  When we got off the bus however, I was as surprised as anyone to see that the lake actually was pink. I’m not really sure what the exact scientific makeup of the lake is that gives it its pink color, but I do know that it had something to do with the massive amount of salt that can be found within it. I tried to take some pictures to capture how it looked, but was unable to take one that could fully depict its…well pinkness.

The next stop on our trip was a four-day stay in the village of Kersadaro. I have to admit that after my last village stay, I had mentally prepared myself to once again be put into the most rural of conditions. But to my surprise, Kersadaro was significantly more developed than my first village, Semecouta. It is important to keep in mind however, that ‘developed’ is a relative term. There was still no running water, livestock roamed freely (and freely left their remnants on the ground), and most children didn’t have shoes on their feet. There were however, mattresses for beds, a more sophisticated education system, and even electricity in some places.

As we were for our last village stay, the group was split off into different compounds within the village. My family was the Seck’s, and my name during my stay in the village would be Mbake Seck (mmmhh-bok-ay). Upon our arrival I was immediately and enthusiastically swept away by my mother N’dye, with my younger brothers and sister nipping at my heels.

Thanks to the kindness a family friend who works for Delta Airlines and flies through Dakar each month, I was able to receive some packages from my mom (in the States) without having to go through the often unreliable Senegalese mail system. Along with peanut butter, beef jerky, and jolly ranchers (none of which I had seen for months) my mom had packed some toys in the bags for the kids.  They were absolutely ecstatic when I pulled the small gift out of my bag, and each kid in my village family kept their respective gift close to their side the entire time I was there.

My father, Aziz Seck, was definitely a fascinating person to talk to. He was only around in the mornings and evenings, but talking to him was always a treat. He speaks four languages, and even has PhD in agriculture from the University of Dakar. Yet, he passed up on more lucrative opportunities to return to the village of his birth and teach the people of his community how to more effectively cultivate their land. The fruits of his work can definitely be seen in the vast array of gardens that envelop the land. He also teaches his craft to the Peace Corps volunteers who come to Kersadaro for their three-month training session before being sent out to the respective villages across Senegal. I definitely came to admire Aziz for his commitment to helping his home, and he is one of the more inspirational people I have met during my time here. He embodies the proverb “If you give a man a fish you feed him for a day, but if you teach him how to fish you feed him for a lifetime.”

My mother, as with most women in the village, did not speak French, only Wolof. And seeing as how my proficiency in the Wolof language is equivalent to that of a 4 year old, verbal communication was difficult. Still however, I developed an extremely close bond with my aunts, sisters, and mother, despite the fact that we were seemingly playing a four-day long game of charades.

The only thing about my relationship with the women that made me feel uncomfortable, was the fact that I was treated like a king. You’re probably thinking, “What kind of problem is that?!” but as much as I appreciated their extreme kindness and hospitality, being treated as a superior simply because I was a man wasn’t something that I enjoyed.

Adjusting to the not-so-subtle gender inequality exhibited here in Senegal has been tough to get used to, especially considering how I’ve been surrounded by strong female figures like my mom my entire life. In the village, I didn’t want to be told to sit down in the shade and eat food all day (the perfect day for most Senegalese men). I wanted to help wash clothes, I wanted to help feed the livestock, and I wanted to help cook the meals. But I wasn’t allowed to. It was a bit discouraging. If I wanted to be treated like a king, I would have just sat on the couch in New Orleans and bossed my little brother around. At one point, I even made my way over to the area where the women were cooking, picked up an onion, and started peeling. My mother looked up at me bewildered and slapped the onion out of my hand. She then shuffled me back to my chair, yelled something to my little sister in Wolof, and within minutes, I was sitting underneath a mango tree with my sister peeling an orange for me. My role was clear.

I ended up spending most of my time playing with the kids in our compound. We’d play soccer, draw things in the sand, wrestle, and chase chickens. The kids’ favorite thing to do though, was definitely chasing around the bubbles that I brought with me. They don’t have bubbles here in Senegal, so every time I blew some the kids would run around screaming and laughing. I probably had just as much fun as they did.

On the final night before we left the village, all of us students were brought from our various compounds in front of the school for a dancing/drumming/going away party. It was the first time most of us had seen each other in days and we were all sporting traditional Senegalese garbs.  It was quite the colorful, and for some even comical, sight. We all took turns moving to the middle of the circle, showing off our best dance moves for all to see. It was a good time.

The next morning we got on the bus headed for our next stop, the city of Saint Louis. But before that, we made a stop in Touba, a city that holds one of the largest mosque in all of Africa. Upon entering the mosque, we all had to take off our shoes, and the girls had to wear veils. The mosque was beautifully and intricately built, down to even the smallest detail. It shows no sign of withering either, because it’s pretty much in a constant state of updating and renovation.

After a full day of driving, we finally arrived at our destination, Saint Louis. It’s a city in the northwestern most part of the country and includes two small islands right off the coast. We stepped off of the bus, and were somewhat surprised to see an absolutely beautiful hotel looking back at us. Making it even better was the fact that us four guys, who usually get screwed into sharing a small room with only two beds, were handed the keys to the apartment suite behind the main building of the hotel. We stepped into the suite, and saw three rooms, four beds, a kitchen, a TV, a terrace, and a bathroom (with a flushing toilet and hot water from the shower!). After having just hours earlier been in a village, it was kind of overwhelming to be thrown into all of this luxury…but at the same time none of us were complaining.

That night we had a group dinner on the dock (the hotel is on the water) with white tablecloth, red wine, stuffed chicken, and Kenny G playing in the background. When I signed up to come to Senegal I hadn’t really envisioned this part, but I’ll definitely take it.

The rest of our week was filled with trips to the beach, visits to the market, visits from various speakers, more stuffed chicken, and more beach. The one bump in the road was a run in I had with a 48-hour stomach virus. I think I threw up everything I’ve eaten in the last twenty years. It was rough, but not even that was enough to dampen my mood. As soon as those 48 hours were over I was right back at the beach.

We just got to Dakar and are about to start our last week of classes before our independent study period starts. This is essentially the final month of the program in which we don’t have class and just conduct an independent research project of our choice. On Friday, I’ll be moving out of my homestay and into a house with 5 of my friends from the program. I’ll miss my family but I’m also excited to live with friends and be able to have more freedom to come and go as I please. I’ll only be 10 minutes away from them though, so I plan on visiting frequently, especially during dinnertime.

Sorry this post was so long. That’s the gist of my last two weeks. Til’ next time…

I am not my Hair

So the blogging once a week plan hasn’t worked out as well as I would have liked it to, with the internet being so slow blogging is tough to get around to. I’ll try and remember everything that has happened since my last blog though.

First off, and the thing that will probably make a lot of people back home happy, I cut my hair. I was trying to keep it going as long as I could but I just didn’t have it in me anymore. I had braids for about 2 weeks after leaving the village and when I took them out a few days ago, let’s just say that I found some not so pleasant things in there. So, I decided it was time for the naps to go. My brother and cousin took me down the street to the place where they get their haircut every week, happy to see that I had given up my pursuit of the Maxwell afro. Watching the coiffure (barber) cut off the locks was a bittersweet moment for me. Bitter because I don’t see myself growing my hair out again and deep down I’ll miss it a little bit, but sweet because the haircut only cost 500 CFA…$1. Paying $1 for a haircut, a really good one, was one of those moments when I think that I should just stick around Dakar for a good while longer.

In regards to class, I enjoyed this week more than any other so far. In the mornings we had our language classes, as usual. Wolof is getting harder and is really difficult to learn because it’s not really a written language as much as it is an oral one. Thus, outside of our professors, not many people know exactly how to write the words, which makes asking for help with homework from my family pretty tough. For any given word, I can 5 different ways that people think it should be spelled.

In the afternoon though, for our arts and culture seminar we spit up into four groups and chose between bronzing, ceramics, glass painting, and a kind of African tye dye (I forget the name). I chose ceramics, which is essentially pottery. For me the opportunity to play with clay for two hours every afternoon was too good of an opportunity to pass up. It brought me back into my Play-doh days. We also got to use the wheel, which was dope but also a lot tougher than it looks. You really have to put a lot of muscle into it and it’s difficult to keep the clay centered. Nonetheless, I ended up making a few pretty cool bowl-looking-things and a couple of lop-sided vases to bring home.

I’ve haven’t played soccer everyday the last couple of weeks as I was doing before, but I have managed to get some good games in. It was tough transitioning from the gravelly and dusty fields of the village back to the slower and sandier world of beach soccer. Most of the time I go play with my friend Avery from the program, but other times I just grab the ball and go try and find a game on my own. Here on the beaches on Senegal, if you have a ball, you can find a game. As soon as I show up to any beach with a ball in my hand, I’m approached by a group of Senegalese guys, makeshift goals are made, and a game begins within minutes. As I’ve told several people already, while I obviously love playing competitive division 1 soccer, it is in many ways refreshing to just get out there and play with people who play merely for the joy of the game. Playing the game I love, with nothing more than a ball and a beautiful beach half-way around the world, reminds me of why I began playing this game in the first place.

Last Saturday I went with my cousin to this break-dance competition/concert in the park near my house. It was unreal. I’m talking hundreds and hundreds of people watching some of the most ridiculous dance moves I’ve ever seen. It’s another one of those things that you would never see in the States.

In terms of night life, I’m huge on the music scene here. There are lots of clubs and bars you can go to, but I’m more a fan of the concerts and jazz spots. You can just chill, grab a drink, and listen to some really good music with your friends. There’s an unlimited collection of talented musicians here and it’s hard to find someone you won’t like. 

If you follow global and international affairs, you know that the country of Madagascar, an island on the southeastern coast of Africa, has recently been the hotbed for a lot of political unrest. The army just overthrew the President is what was seemingly a coup d’état. Because of it, we have received four new students to our program here in Senegal, who were initially studying abroad in Madagascar. They’re real nice kids, but definitely put us to shame in terms having a tough time adjusting to a different country. Because of they’re experience, they bring a new meaning to the notion of “roughing it in Africa.”

Senegal hasn’t exactly been a utopian land of peace either, however. Tomorrow there are the local elections for a variety of hotly contested seats and things have been getting pretty heated here between the various political coalitions. It’s impossible for one to walk for more than five minutes without hearing the beating of drums, the honking of horns, or seeing a parade of people walking down the street chanting with picket signs. Unfortunately, some of this political passion sometimes turns violent. A few days ago, several buses were set on fire on the other side of town, and fighting broke out between a members of two major political parties (note that there are over 60 political parties here, so there are a lot of different agendas). Since the incident, the police have since employed a midnight curfew. At SIT we have been briefed on the do’s and don’ts of this election period so we all know when and when not to be out. We are all safe, so there’s no need to worry.

On a lighter note, I really miss barbeque. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without eating a hamburger, ribs, or a hot dog. It’s killing me. I love the food here but nothing compares to some freshly grilled bbq.

Well, I wasn’t able to get to everything, but I’m about to hit up the fish market with my brother and probably go lounge on the beach for the afternoon.

I miss everybody and hope that all is well. Time has been flying since I’ve been here and I’ll be back before you know it. 

My stay in the village of Semecouta

During the week where all my friends back at Davidson were either taking cruises, relaxing at home, or going crazy on the beach, I was having a different type of spring break experience. Last week, SIT took us across the country to Kedagou, Senegal, where we would be doing our village homestays. The 21 students were split into 6 different groups and shipped off to our respective villages for what promised to be an experience unlike any other. My village was called Semcouta.

My experience in the village of Semecouta is a difficult one to articulate in a way that will do it justice, but I will try my best to do so. It is a village that lies in the remote outskirts of Kedagou, a region in the southeastern most part of Senegal. To get there, one must take a series of winding, dusty roads approximately 10 km from the city center. Yet while the settlement seemingly lies just a few miles down the road, the worlds that exist in the city and the village could not be more dissimilar.

Here yellow taxi cabs are replaced by cattle, homes made of brick are replaced by those made of mud, and street lights are replaced by the multitudes of small fires that burn within the various compounds each night.

The people of Semecouta are undoubtedly some of the kindest and most hospitable I’ve ever come across. Their silvery Senegalese accents are distinctly different than their counterparts in Dakar. Surely similar to the way that accents in the United States typically become more pronounced as one moves from the city center and out to the rural countryside. Additionally, the citizens of Semecouta are members of the Dejanke (pronounced Ja-hon-kay) tribe, a ethnic group that immigrated to Senegal from Mali hundreds of years ago yet have maintained their cultural by seemingly removing themselves from Westernized culture.

My host family was the Cissokho family. Upon my arrival I was greeted by my host-father, Lamine Cissokho. A tall, thin man, his distinct wrinkles and weathered skin probably make him look older than he actually is. He showed me to the hut in which I’d be saying and introduced me to my new family. He and his family live in a compound of about 12 huts with the families of Monsieur Cissohko’s older and younger brothers. All together, I believe that about 35 people live the compound. I was immediately welcomed into the family and shown the unwavering “teranga” (hospitality) that Senegal has come to be known for.

Over the course of my stay in the village I did a multitude of things. Some of them were with Elena and Whitney, the other SIT students who stayed in the same village (although in different compounds). We spoke with the headmaster of local primary school about the education system in the village and the obstacles that the school is faced with due a lack of

 monetary resources. Although nearly half of the Senegalese government’s budget supposedly goes towards education, the primary school in Semecouta has 317 students and only 5 classrooms, three students share one desk, most parent cannot afford to buy their children notebooks, and the during the dry season temperatures in the classroom can exceed 110 degrees. The list goes on and on. The discussions were certainly sobering.

Again, as it continually has throughout my trip here, soccer has proven to be an extremely useful cultural icebreaker. Each evening I would walk over to the dirt field down the road, and play in what ended up being extremely competitive games with the older boys and young men in the village. Afterwards, I would walk with them back to their compounds where we would discuss how life in Semecouta is relative to that of Dakar and even the United States. We would exchange stories ranging from hilarious to somber on the political, social, and economic dynamics of our respective countries. It was in these conversations that I learned more than I ever could within the confines of a classroom.

I’ve always understood poverty. I’ve always been aware of its social, psychological, and emotional implications. But never before have I lived it. Never before have I been immersed in the very conditions that make me so despondent when I see them on television and the internet back in the States. And never have I developed intimate and personal relationships with those who have lived under the umbrella of poverty for their entire lives. But I have done all of that now. These people know they are poor. They know that whether or not their children are able to eat at night depends on factors that are often beyond their control. Things such as the weather, the river, and if the animals they rely on to eat and sell breed effectively with one another.

            Things that I deem necessities back home are seen as luxuries here. Things such as closed toed shoes, more than more pair of pants, pillows and sheets, etc. Even things such as medical care and dental care do not exist here. If someone needs medical treatment, they have to borrow one of the 3 cars in the village and drive to Kedogou. Even this, however, becomes a rare occurrence, seeing as how if someone goes to see a doctor they probably won’t have the money to pay for it. Most of the time, people decide against going. Imagine breaking your foot and trying to fix it with tree branches and mud because you know that the potential medical expenses will take away from the amount of food you will have for your family to eat. These are the realities of life here.

But I’ve also learned what I believe is an even more important lesson. Now if you know me, you know I’ve never been one to equate wealth with making one directly happy. However, I will admit that, whether it was my own ignorance and naivety or the way that the media has portrayed it to me over the course of my life, I have typically associated poverty with some sort of unhappiness and misery. But this is not the case. These people are poor yes, but that does not mean they are miserable. They live with an easy-going happiness and sense of community that is far too infrequent in the United States. They know that they don’t have much, but they do not wallow in self-pity. They are happy for what they have and even happier that they have each other.

If living in Dakar was getting out of my comfort zone, than living in Semecouta was like being on another planet. But even as I say that, I realize that the people of Semecouta and I are far more alike than not. I can say that without question, it was the most humbling experience of my life, and I am a better person because of it.