Senegalese Teranga at its Finest
The Setting: Dakar-Mermoz, and Saint Louis, Senegal; Saturday, May 26-Monday, May 28
Characters: Jess and Chris (a South African and a Canadian I met who work at the hotel where I stayed during my most recent trip to the Gambia); Seynabou, Ndeye Marem, and the other members of the Mbengue Family
The Event: The Annual St. Louis Jazz Festival
The Background: Jess and Chris were going to the festival. I thought about joining them up there, but ultimately decided it would be too difficult to meet them, since they didn't have a cell phone and I didn't know where they were staying. Also, my boss was in town until Friday evening, so I couldn't leave right after work, meaning I'd miss the main concert. Friday evening, I learned that Monday was a Federal holiday, so I wouldn't have to go to work. I spoke with Chris on Friday morning as they passed through Dakar, I told him I was entertaining the idea of meeting them in St. Louis, he said he'd e-mail with their logistics once they arrived.
Saturday afternoon around 3:30pm, I checked my e-mail and found a note from Chris giving me the name of their hotel and saying they hoped I was on my way. They were meeting other friends in front of the Governor's Palace at 8pm. I had originally wanted to go to the Jazz Festival and I wanted to see Jess and Chris again, so I decided, on a limb, to go for it. I ran home, packed my bags, grabbed the 9000cfa ($18) I had stashed in my room, and headed to the garage to catch a 7-place station wagon to St. Louis. Upon arriving at the garage, I discovered there were no cars heading that way. I waited over an hour for a mini-bus to show up and then against my better judgment decided to take the bus to St. Louis. While waiting, two women (enter Seynabou and Ndeye Marem) felt bad for me and decided to take me under their wing.
Once the bus arrived at the station in Dakar, we weren't able to leave immediately because there was a dispute about the number of passengers it would carry. The apprentices wanted Seynabou to pay for 2 seats because she was just that big, and a fourth passenger could not comfortably sit in her row. Ultimately, all the passengers chipped in 200cfa to pay for the final seat so that we could leave.
We left for St. Louis around 6:45pm. It's a four hour drive, but due to terrible traffic conditions we didn't arrive until 11:50pm. Now I had the mission of finding my friends' hotel. All I knew was the name. Seynabou and Ndeye Marem, however, insisted, that I come back to their house, spend the night there, and then try to find my friends the next morning. I relented because I knew my mission was likely to fail and it was foolish to set off on my own at midnight with practically no money. I also learned that the hotel was on the far-off outskirts of town. It just didn't make sense to try and get there.
We went to their house. They heated up dinner and Ndeye Marem's husband made tea. We sat, chatted in Wolof, and watched TV. Then they called Seybabou's son Ablaye back to the house. They told him to take me around to see the festival. So off we went at 1am. We passed by the free concert in the stadium featuring a Senegalese artist just as it was finishing. People poured out of the doors, and filled the street. We continued walking for another 1/2 hour to the island, which is downtown St. Louis. After the concerts are over, all the local bars and clubs host afterparties. Ablaye knows all the bouncers, so we didn't have to pay a cover charge anywhere. He took me to see all the local venues and we ultimately chose a bar with live jazz music. Around 4am, we headed home because I was exhausted.
The conditions were probably not ideal by most American standards. Before I came I would have been uneasy with the squat toilet, bucket shower and uncomfortable bed. But I was pleased to see in myself the ways I've changed. I thought this arrangement was perfect. Not a problem at all. I headed confidently into the bathroom and felt spoiled for having my own room with electricity and a mosquito net.
The next day, I woke up with the intention of going to find my friends. I had breakfast, showered, then went to the bank. Money in pocket, I felt much more secure about my existence in St. Louis, as I could pay for taxis, purchase food and water, and pay for a room at the hotel. But before I left, the family insisted that I stay for lunch. Who was I to turn down a meal of ceebujenn. Plus, I had no idea how to meet my friends. Would they still be at the hotel at noon? So I stayed and sat in the courtyard with the family. We chatted, danced, played soccer and basketball. It was lovely. I was adopted by yet another family in Senegal. After lunch, we drank tea and lounged some more. At this point, I'd given up completely on trying to find my friends. I went to the market with one of my little sisters to get the ingredients for dinner. Back at the house, my little brother was in the process of killing two chickens. I forced myself to watch. Much to my dismay, he thought it would be fun to play with the beheaded-head as the body twitched and jerked for a few minutes until the blood and muscles settled. I figure if I'm going to eat the animal, I have to be able to watch it die. I had mentioned earlier in the day that I like chicken. My brother told me that since I like chicken and he likes chicken, we were going to have chicken for dinner. This was as close as I've come to having an animal prepared in my honor. Then my sister, brother, Ablaye, and I headed onto the island again to see the fair and festival during the day.
We saw an African-dress fashion show and walked through the market jam-packed with vendors and people. It was crazy! We stopped for a bit to sit outside an art shop where Ablaye new the owner. As we sat, I suddenly saw Jess and Chris pass by the nearby intersection. I finally met up with them! We chatted for a few minutes and made plans to meet later that night.
My siblings and I headed back to the house for dinner. It was delicious chicken and couscous. After tea and TV, my siblings and I went to the free Vivian Ndour concert. She's a famous Senegalese singer. This was the free concert as opposed to the expensive jazz concert on the island. The concert was great. I was one of the few tubaabs in the entire stadium. This is remarkable because at the afterparties, I'm convinced English is the dominant language because every peace corps volunteer from West Africa seems to be at the Jazz Fest. It was funny for me to understand the conversations around me. It was a bit of a preview for my return to the US.
Anyway, I received a call from Jess and Chris. We tried to figure out where to meet one another, and ultimately came to the conclusion that it was just going to be too difficult to coordinate. That was disappointing, but that's life. Seeing them clearly wasn't in my cards.
Ablaye and I headed to the island, and went to a local bar for a beer. It was seedy, smoky and quite different from the other establishments on the island aimed at the tourists. Then we returned to the live jazz bar and eventually returned home at 5am.
The next morning, I left around 11 after waking up and having breakfast. I got back to Dakar without a problem. Santa Yallah.
But I think this weekend is a perfect anecdote of my time in Senegal and my experience travelling in the region. I had a plan, though I'll admit it wasn't a very good one, but then I was willing to let it change. And I think my experience was all the richer for it. I was able to experience the local way of life. I can hear jazz concerts whenever I want in the US and with e-mail I can keep in contact with my friends. And though I'd come all the way up to St. Louis to see Jess and Chris and then had less than 5 minutes with them, the experience staying with the Mbengue family was much more valuable. They taught me a lesson. Senegalese Teranga (hospitality) never fails to amaze me. How incredible it was that they just took me into their home like that. They didn't want money or gifts (though I insisted on leaving something with them), they just wanted to help me out. And it was nice for me to find that I was able to give back as well just by being open and friendly with them. Seynabou told me one day I had to come back and stay for 15 days. And often, I'd look around the room, and find them all sitting and looking at me with a smile on their face and this look of wonder in their eyes. Who is this tubaab that just came waltzing into their house and life? But we all had a good time together and learned from one another. When I called on Monday night to tell them I'd arrived safely, all the members of the family wanted to say hello. I have their address and intend to keep in touch.
This weekend confirmed my faith in the goodness of humanity and kindness of the human heart. This world would be a better place if we all had more trust in one another, let down our guards, and opened ourselves to new people and new experiences. That is how I try to live my life. What a fortunate coincidence to have met the women at the garage.
Cultures Collide, Again
And so another fundamental difference between my culture and that of the Senegalese becomes more and more obvious as my time tally grows ever larger. This time it is about money and giving.
Yesterday, I had not one, but two conversations in which my Senegalese friends emphasized the communal aspect of life in Africa. (It is them that say it’s an African phenomenon, not me making generalizations.) I’m not sure where to begin. And it’s hard to know where to begin when having this discussion with the Senegalese. This is not going to be an eloquent blog entry because I cannot figure out my own thoughts.
Here, you share EVERYTHING—from your cigarette to your lunch bowl of ceebujenn (fish and rice) to your salary and savings. (I have partaken in peoples’ meals on the street more times than I can count since coming to Senegal. They are insulted if you refuse to join them around the communal bowl.) Here, though, most people don’t really have savings. According to my friends, this is because you can’t earn enough to open a bank account and you cannot just stash some away in your house. If a family member comes asking for money, you can’t lie and say you don’t have any when there is some hiding beneath your mattress. There is a sense of obligation here to give what you can, even if it is not much, at least you’ve made an effort to help.
Apparently, it is common for distant family members and friends to approach one another for help with a bill or to buy a sack of rice to feed the family. I don’t believe this exists in the States. Though I can’t say for sure. It has been over 8 months since I’ve been in that culture. But I try to explain to my friends that this phenomenon doesn’t occur, that people don’t freely and openly ask for money. I think there is a certain shame that accompanies this act in the States that doesn’t exist here. I am, by no means, trying to say that asking for money is a shameful act; it’s just that money is just such a taboo topic in the US. Please correct me if I’m wrong.
When speaking with the Senegalese, I find that I often speak in superlatives or broad generalizations. They tell me that in Africa you share everything you have. If you “have” you “give.” My friends tell me that even if all you have is 100cfa ($.20) and someone asks you to help them out, you’ll give them your 100cfa without even thinking about it. I simply reply that that mentality does not exist in the US. People don’t ask one another for money in my culture. In the US, if you have you often give by contributing to organizations that work for a cause you want to support.
But then I begin to realize that my experience—my family, my circle of friends, and my neighborhood--doesn’t exactly represent the reality of the average American. Maybe the same pattern of behavior exists in the US as in Senegal, but I have been blessed to live a life that is financially comfortable. And then I start thinking some more. I remember that there are the usual characters that come around the neighborhood asking for money. My family almost always tries to help in whatever way we can. But there always seems to be a sort of unease that arises when this one man comes to our door. Does this mean these interactions are viewed as socially unacceptable? Do they occur more frequently and comfortably in other neighborhoods? I don’t know.
I told my Senegalese friends that it is exhausting being a tubaab sometimes. People are always asking for money. Vendors at the market and cab drivers consistently offer us inflated prices. Beggars demand “cadeaus” (presents), 100cfa, or the clothes you are wearing. After a bit, it certainly begins to feel as though we are seen as a walking dollar sign. But I’m beginning to realize that maybe we’re too sensitive. I think what we tubaabs don’t realize is that the people who ask us for money ask the next Senegalese person for money as well. Maybe we’re too sensitive to this because we have the money and we don’t give it. And maybe this all has its roots in the fact that we are different here; we stick out on the street like a sore thumb. So these requests for money, that are a regular part of one’s daily interactions with people here but that are not at all standard for us Americans, are misinterpreted by us as being a result of our skin color and nationality. And since people don’t freely and openly ask for money in the US, that is why we feel so uncomfortable when it happens here, especially because I think most Americans are aware of the financial advantage they have coming from the US.
But there is also this other component. It’s not that I don’t want to give, but I know I personally cannot share everything I have while I’m here because I will have expenses, such as textbooks, when I return to the States. My friends often say to me, what’s the point in saving? You may be dead tomorrow. 5000cfa will be of no use to you tomorrow if you are dead. And though they make a good point, I seem to ride on the fact that I will likely, Incha Allah, be alive tomorrow and still kicking even 20, and hopefully 60 years from now. I will need to have money saved to carry me through my life activities. Is the Senegalese mentality inhibiting their own development? One cannot accumulate capital without savings and investment.
It was funny, and completely awkward and bizarre, when I told them that I opened my first bank account when I was in kindergarten. My bankcard still has my photo from when I was five. So I’ve grown up with this appreciation for savings; as soon as I earn money, it goes directly to the bank. My friends here, on the other hand, are inclined to spend their money as they receive it.
The other thing, I try to explain to them, is that I’ve been working since I was old enough to baby-sit. Since I was 16, I worked at my synagogue and held summer jobs. I earn my own money for my clothes and entertainment; I contribute to my university education, and I was even able to save enough to purchase a used car. My friends here don’t work. They get money, I presume, from their parents or older siblings, or are paid for by their friends. The inherent advantage for me, though, lies in the fact that there are jobs in my country. Here, how is a son going to work when his own father doesn’t even have a job? My inclination toward working and saving—is this actually a privilege?
My final thought, and then I think I’ll conclude because this has been yet another marathon entry, relates to the family value in Senegal. My friends always scoff at me a bit when I tell them I work and then put my money into my own account, and that after school I will likely not move back home. They question me for not giving my earnings to my parents. I could at least give them something at the end of each month; they propose a sack of rice. It is hard to explain that my parents are much more financially stable than me and that contributing to help buy the groceries would not make that big of a difference. I try to explain that it makes my parents proud to see me earning my own money and becoming independent. In fact, it is more helpful for them that I buy my textbooks and clothes, rather than give them the money I earn. At least, that’s the impression I have. (Mom and Dad, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.) So maybe my friends are right. Maybe I ought to treat my parents to a nice bottle of wine every month or flowers or a fruit basket. After all, my parents are the ones that got me to where I am today. Every boy's dream, here, is to one day have enough money to buy a nice house for he, his mom, and his own family. So I don't know, maybe I don’t show my parents as much respect as I should. That is definitely one lesson I’ve taken from Senegal. (Though material goods are not necessarily my preferred form of respect.) But my questions is: is my experience unique to that of someone in the upper-middle class? Or do most American young adults share my mentality and contribute similarly to their families?
Oh it’s hard to know. It is frustrating being a symbol of wealth and power because of the color of my skin. It’s tiring to constantly feel exploited when negotiating prices. It’s difficult to often be told, “Danga naiye” (you’re stingy; you don’t spend your money). It’s hard to describe my culture to the Senegalese. It’s hard to justify the frustration that arises from requests for money. Senegal has taught me a lot. I am constantly reminded how lucky and fortunate I am to be in the financial situation in which I find myself. But more importantly, it is vital to share and to help a fellow human out. Yes, you must do it within reason, but you should always make an effort. And you should give willingly and happily and without expecting anything in return. I hope that our two societies can find a happy medium—that the Senegalese will never lose this aspect of community and group survival, but will also learn to save and invest in their own future, and that Americans will learn to take better care of one another and will share as a way to demonstrate thanks and respect.
The Bush, the UNDP, and Another Reason I Love Senegal
Hello there.
I can't believe it's already been a month and a half since I last posted. Excuse me. Please. Life here seems to take you under its wing and fly away.
My academic program came to a close at the end of April. I celebrated by spending 5 days back in the village before coming back to Dakar to begin my internship with the UNDP.
It was excellent to be back in the bush. There is something about the life there that grabs me. Life is simple. Life is tranquil. You have time for your friends and family. The community is strong. Going back there is a bit like the "Cheers" theme song: "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And they're always glad you came." It was good to reconnect with my family and friends. I planned my visit to coincide with their annual cultural festival. So mornings were spent lounging around the housing compound, and evenings and nights were spent watching traditional wrestling matches.
Men beat the drums, spectators danced, wrestlers performed their ritual gri-gris (routines, potions, and practices prescribed by their Marabout, spiritual guide, to ensure their success in the match) along the perimeter, and men wrestled in the center of the ring.
Everyone wore their finest boubous. It is not uncommon for a woman to save all year to have a new, elaborate, colorful, beautiful outfit for each of the four days of celebration. I wore two of my own traditional outfits and they were quite the hit. Though they didn't even compare to the elaborate clothing of the villagers. The music was contagious. You couldn't help but bounce your body and clap your hands to the intense beat of the drums. One man in his 70s danced for 30 minutes before the wrestling began. Women would rush up and give him money. The entire event was very animated. Dafa xumb, we would say in Wolof.
Generally, we would arrive at 4 or 5pm to get good seats. The wrestling would begin around 7pm and last until 10 or 11. On the last night, the final match ended at midnight. Then we would all return home, eat dinner, and get ready for the night time activity. Friday night they had a traditional Serere music troupe (guitar, drums, and singers) plus professional dancers. Saturday night was a dance. Needless to say, I didn't come back to Dakar as well rested as I usually do after time in the bush.
Since returning to Dakar, I've begun my internship with the United Nations Development Program -- Global Environment Facility at their Regional Coordinating Unit office located in Dakar. This is easily summed up by saying I work at the UNDP-GEF-RCU Dakar. Welcome, Hannah, to the world of acronyms and beaurocracy. It's fabulous being in this building every day. There is just this energy of good work and I'm excited about the connections I'm making. I am here to help the Climate Change Technical Advisor for West and Central Africa (who's actually located in Paris-- e-mail, teleconfrencing and Skype it is for communication) learn how the UNDP can enter the voluntary carbon market. I've learned about a couple very cool projects that we may be able to pilot in Mbam, the village in which I lived. It will be incredible if this actually works. I will have a personal connection to the project beneficiaries. More on this later as the project develops.
In the meantime, one by one, my American friends are slowly leaving Dakar. Two weeks ago my friends who did the academic year program with me returned home. Now, my roommate and our mutual friend leave on Wednesday, and I'll be the only one left. It's crazy to have been here when they arrived and now watch them go. And I'm still here. This is part of the real test I think, living in Senegal without my immediate American support group. We'll see. I know this last month is going to fly by. And that makes me sad.
Life is good here. My understanding of the culture is growing ever deeper and I'm indentifying places in which I will always clash with the Senegalese. For example, an attempt to make casual conversation with someone via simple questions (like, what did you do last night?) is viewed as nosey. For any of you that know me, this is a big problem for me. All I ever do is ask people questions. It's how I learn and interact with people.
My integration in my family seems to be complete. I find I am often fighting with my older brothers, arguing and getting completely frustrated with them. Sound familiar to any of you with older siblings? Not to mention the teasing I endure on a daily basis (vegetarians, Jews, and women that don't cook don't really exist here).
Well I need to get back to work. My lunch break ended 10 minutes ago. But lunch is a perfect example of why I love Senegal. I left my office and walked around the corner to eat lunch in a corrugate metal stand with one table around which all the customers sit. I greeted the owner, Bassirou, who also knows my name. He prepared my usual $1 sandwhich on a 1/3 of a baguette, with meat, onion sauce, fries, a hard-boiled egg, and mayo, no mustard or hot pepper. I shot the bull with the other customers eating there, most of whom I've talked with on other lunch occasions.
On my way out, a woman in the stand next door encouraged me to come buy vegetables. I told her I wasn't cooking today, and responded to her question that, 'No I don't have a husband. I'm a student here.' She offered to find me a husband and pointed to the man standing next to her. I laughed and continued down the road. I walked a block and a half to a stand in a neighborhood. He sells cafe touba (a delicious spiced coffee). However he was eating lunch at the boutique across the road. They all called me over and insisted that I eat with them. There was no saying no. So they offered me a little bench and a spoon, and I sat around the big bowl and ate some ceeb-u-jenn, their national dish of fish and oily rice. They were not happy when I said I was full, but finally I convinced them. They told me to sit and wait across the street and they would come sell me coffee when they were done eating. This was not a problem at all, but one of their friends prepared my coffee so I didn't have to wait. I paid my 20cents and off I went. I returned to the office, chatted briefly with the guards about the heat and cafe touba and returned to my personal office with a door, big window and air conditioning on the fifth floor of this building.
And that is my regular lunch routine. This doesn't happen at home, I don't think. A hearty cheap lunch around one communal table. Or people who are offended when you don't come and partake in their meal that they eat on the street.
Back to work I go. Take care!!
