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…
No comments:
Post a Comment