I now understand why blogs are top-heavy. After the vacation period I’ve come to the realization that, just like at home, my life is busy. Who has time to write to an audience that may or may not actually be in existence?

One of the most interesting parts about being in a foreign country is watching oneself acclimate. Ever day I feel as if part of me is merely an observer watching another part of me create an entirely new life. I’ll make a choice to do something and later in the day think to myself, “now why did I do that?” These thoughts are usually out of genuine interest and not out of regret. I feel as if there is some subconscious, third party driving both my mind and my body. For me the hardest part of this trip thus far has been relinquishing control to this mysterious entity and simply going with the flow. At home my life is about control. Right now my life is about submission. In my mind I’m kind of a marionette to all the daily variables and unknowns right now. I’m pulled back and forth, side to side and instead of trying to fight it I just let go. Submission is exhausting enough. I think control would kill me.
Fatigue is another sensation that I’m acutely aware of. For the last couple of weeks I’ve noticed a strange pattern in my emotions on either end of the day. Every morning I’m apprehensive and every night I’m confident. Simply living in a foreign country is exhausting. Every word, every movement, every behavior is carefully calculated. If I were to write the monologue that goes on in my head for the first five minutes of every morning it would go something like this.

“I’m in Africa. I’m in my bed. It’s dark out. It’s Ramadan. I need to go eat. But I’m not hungry. You will be for the next fourteen hours. Go eat. Take your malaria pill. Why are my legs so sore? We have to open the door and start the day now. But how do we open the door? Not too loud because we don’t want to wake anyone that may have slept in up. Not too quiet because we don’t want Rama to think that I’m sneaking around her house. Ok not bad. Sounds like everyone is down stairs. Good god its dark. Ok we have to greet people down stairs. How do you say did you sleep well in Wolof? Jam nga fanaan. Ok that’s what we’ll say. Take one loud step at the bottom of the stairs so they know you’re coming. Smile Griffin don’t forget to smile. My jaw aches form smiling so much. Ok good everything is going well. They’re already eating. Take your shoes off and sit on the matt. Left hand on your knee. Never use your left hand but never hide it. Did I sleep well? No I didn’t sleep well. I share a room with a small city of mosquitoes and the cockroaches under my bed threw a party last night. Don’t say that. No matter what “j’ai bien dormi.” Better yet, “J’ai fait un grod dos dos.” Good people are laughing now. This tea is scalding hot. I thought two negatives made a positive? Stop drinking the tea, you’re sweating too much. Mama says we have to eat quickly, I woke up late. Does the fasting start earlier and earlier every morning or is it just me? People are done. Start eating quickly. It’s only a matter of time before the prayer sounds and the fasting starts. Don’t eat too fast though. Do I want the last piece of bread? Yes but I’m not going to take it. I never do. Never take the last of anything. There goes the prayer. The rooms empty. We can breathe now. We haven’t eaten enough. Today is going to be hard. Let’s head upstairs and go back to bed.”

I go back to bed exhausted and discouraged. Every morning I fear what the day is going to bring. However at the end of every day I feel encouraged. Every day I’m exhausted and proud of myself. Every night I think about my family and my friends and my school and my parents. I wish they could see me right now. I know the twists and turns of the daily emotional rollercoaster yet every day I hold on tighter. I feel like I’m living a movie that I’ve already seen. This is a good one though, so I’ll keep watching.

On a lighter note, here’s a list of things that I miss about home and things that I’ll miss once I’m home.

Things I miss from home:

Refrigeration: I’ve had nothing to drink that has been below room temperature in three weeks. Even the cold of fridges is just enough to keep liquids from boiling over here. Specifically, I could go for a cold beer. One Tecate, a quarter of a lime, a teaspoon of salt.

Washer and dryer: When clothes are hand washed and hand dried I find that they wear me instead of me wearing them. It kind of feels like I’m wearing cardboard armor. This is what I imagine it feels like to be a stick figure.

Pillows and blankets: Not that I would need one but it’d be nice to have a blanket on my bed. I’m not sure if it’s standard practice to sleep uncovered on top of a mattress but it’s taken me some getting used to. Also, I’m not sure what my pillow is stuffed with but I’m too scared to look. My first guess would be sea urchins.

Things that are unique to Senegal:

The sky: It’s huge. Endless. The clouds are fast moving, over-sized and fluffy. Who needs a TV when nature is this beautiful? The light from both the moon and the sun weaves its way in and out of each layer of cloud cover, often making it seem as if the sky is glowing. The size of the sky really makes me feel as if I’m on a planet. Makes me feel as if I’m part of something greater. (Insert underdeveloped, stoner-like philosophical thoughts about how small our world is, how insignificant our lives our, and how I’ve never realized how good graham crackers taste).

The mosque: I’ve read about the big stink people are making about the mosque being built a few blocks beyond ground zero. Has anyone considered how many ground zeros we’re responsible for next to mosques? Contrary to popular belief, Muslims are some of the warmest, most accepting people that I’ve met. They’re generous, open and always seem to be smiling. I think the words devout and extreme are unfairly used interchangeably at home. The call to prayer has become a sort of a bed time song for me. It’s soothing, rhythmic et melodic.

Glaring at other foreigners: White people are called toubabs. According to everyone I ask it’s a term of endearment. However, it’s about as endearing as being called a jackass. It sucks being a toubab. Naturally, at the bottom of the social hierarchy, I seek out people over whom I can assert my superiority. Other toubabs. Whenever I see a white person I give them a look that says, “what the hell do you think you’re doing here huh? You think you have a right to come to their country, to our country. Go back to France you cheese-eating tourist. That’s right, I live here.” I’m not sure what this face looks like in reality but I imagine its terrifying.

I’m in the court yard and my mother is lying next to me. I’m on my back looking up at the sky. My first hundred feet of vision is confined by the cement walls of the house but after the third floor the sky bursts into an endless mass of stars and blackness. At that very moment I develop a new understanding of darkness. We’ve eaten beyond satisfaction and with full bellies, hands still covered in the crumbs of baguettes, a lingering taste of tea and sugar on our lips, we can’t really move. Nor do we really want to. We lay there in silence, comfortable enough with each other to simply be together without the superfluous banter of two unfamiliar people that I’ve become so accustomed to. Our minds are in other places yet we’re there together. Despite a sore body and an exhausted mind which are trying to function on four hours of sleep, I feel rested.

Fifteen minutes later I’m on the roof by myself. On my way up I passed my sister praying and tripped over a rug, shattering the silence. I am still, and always will be, very much a foreigner. Yet I can’t deny the overwhelming feeling of belonging. On the roof I sit in a straight backed wooden chair and watch. It starts with one body, two houses away, making its way to the mosque. Gradually, many people emerge and make the short walk across the street. In the darkness of the early morning, the white robes of the men and women are eerily reminiscent of ghosts. They walk with an elegance that makes it appear as if they’re floating. I’ve overcome with a feeling of guilt, as if I’m watching something that I shouldn’t be watching, that I’m not ready for. I lower my head such that only my eyes eclipse the plane of the balcony and continue to watch. Eventually the bodies disappear and the darkness returns. A complete silence falls over the neighborhood. For a second I watch the sky, now turning from black to blue, but am interrupted by the call to prayer. Everyone on the mosque begins to pray in unison. The sing song words are guttural yet at this moment beautiful. I have no desire to be inside the mosque with them. I’ve found my place on the roof. Watching, listening, learning.

The subject of Polygamy has for a long time torn me. As a product of the land of the free and the home of the brave where everyone and everyone are labeled equal, I thought it to be a barbaric and dated practice. However, also a product of my ability to resist, to some extent at least, the ideologies of the Western World, I’ve long been interested by the subject. I think about how lucky Okonkwo was in Things Fall Apart, going from one wife and one house to the other, eating a different meal at each. I’ve never known whether or not to envy or pity Okonkwo but after a little over a week with a polygamous family I’ve developed some new ideas.

I think that in many cases, my family being one, polygamy is not only a good thing but also a necessary thing. You have every right to call me a chauvinistic bastard but before you do allow yourself to relinquish a Western understanding of love and gender relations and read the following entry.

Senegal is a very, very young country having acquired their independence in 1960. Thus, the national identity is still in a very malleable state. This reality creates a moral obligation for each new generation to define not only who they are but the country they represent. Before coming to Senegal I was told how French Dakar was. However, I find quite the opposite to be true. Granted the consequences of colonization manifest themselves in many ways (language, cuisine, etc.) but in reality Senegal is not very much like France at all. Nor do they seem to want to be. Wolof is spoken everywhere, most people wear elaborate, colorful, traditional clothing, over 95% of the country is Islamic, etc. If Senegal were a cheeseburger France would be the pickle on the side: simply a dated, sour, often ignored, out of place accent to something that in itself can’t be improved, merely changed.

Polygamy in Senegal has predated the Islamic faith and thus it’s more a matter of culture than it is of religion. I would argue that polygamy is central to Senegal’s identity. Take my family for instance. If Papa Ousmane were not polygamous he would have one house, one set of kids, and one wife. However, because he is polygamous there are three households who contribute to a struggling economy (assuming the rest are like ours), over ten kids from different families being educated in various countries, and more importantly a tradition is being perpetuated. This tradition is the backbone of a culture that is currently being threatened by the American media, which in reality is our culture, amongst other outside influences.

The new generation of kids have adopted many Western practices in effort to assert their own identity. They smoke cigarettes, wear Nike and listen to American music. My fear is that polygamy will be the next invaluable cultural representation that ceases to exist. This road will inevitably lead to cultural homogenization. The ability of polygamy to persevere is central to Senegal’s cultural identity. The good news is that the facts are on their side. First of all there is a disproportionate amount of females compared to males. Also, Senegalese society is gender stratified and although women, like my mother, can pursue stable jobs and societal respect, it’s an uphill battle. Let me be clear in saying that polygamy and the societal disenfranchisement of women are two mutually exclusive entities. I do not think that polygamy requires a perpetuation of inequality between genders. Again, my host mother worked for the government and made a very, very good living doing so. However, nor do I think that the American standard is the only standard against which to measure success. I think a lot of American women would look at the lives of Senegalese women and talk about how oppressed they are and how bad men are etc. What they don’t see though is that women are half of the equation to happiness. No, traditionally Senegalese women don’t make money. But they do take care of the house and cook dinner and raise the kids and provide for their husbands and do just about everything other than making money. This is not a job for the weak, for the oppressed. This is a job for strong willed women who choose to put themselves in polygamous situations.

We think of wives in polygamous families and being entirely dependent on their husbands but I find that the opposite is true. Polygamy inspires, requires even, independence. My mother needs to be able to function five days of the week without a husband. She has to be stable enough with herself, and stable enough in her relationship to my father, to do so. Her situation allows her ample amount of love but also time to herself. I think in many Western relationships we are forced to choose one of the other.

Anyways, I digress. I am for polygamy in Senegal because it makes sense here and has for a long time. The fact that many families, poor and rich alike, still practice polygamy is not only a testament to their faith, tradition and respect for their culture but also the strength and perseverance of a people that have managed to maintain, to hold onto what’s important, in the midst of constant change. What Senegal’s cultural identity will ended up looking like I’m not sure, but I do know that it will be a product strong will, intelligence and choice. Africans are not the weak, submissive people that we’re led to believe they are.

Ramadan started today. The date is determined by the path of the moon and thus we’ve been anxiously awaiting the start for a few days now. I had told my family that I was going to fast with them and they seemed cautiously amused. I had to think a lot about this before I made my decision. There’s a fine line between mocking and respecting tradition and culture. There’s absolutely no way that I, as a non Muslim, Westerner, can experience the same Ramadan that my family does. Ramadan is a month dedicated to appreciating their lived experiences with god, of which I have none. However, I decided to celebrate Ramadan for myself. I think there are things to be learned from every religion and I think a lesson in modesty, restrain and appreciation has been a long time coming for me. My host brother tells me that Ramadan is about being close with god. Muslims pray five times a day and each prayer is different. I’ve observed the prayer many times (it’s simply impossible not to here) and have come to understand a little of it. My family prays on mats that are pointed in the direction of Mecca. What I’ve witnessed isn’t the mass praying that we’re so used to seeing on tv. Every family member has their own special place in the house to prayer and does so alone. During a single prayer one touches one head to the ground seven times, each time receiving something from Allah. What exactly is received isn’t apparent to the prayer but it is believed that whether it be knowledge or strength, each reception helps them to honor God throughout the day.

Ramadan is about strengthening these already devout relationships to god. No only does one not eat but one refrains from doing anything pleasurable. Thus there is no eating or drinking, very little contact between men and women and other daily activities like listening to music and playing sports are abbreviated if not removed totally. Another central idea of Ramadan is the idea of giving. This is especially pertinent to my experience because there are an unbelievable amount of people who are need of aid. Giving in Senegal is very different than giving in America. For example, if a soccer mom makes orange slices and rice crispies for Junior’s AYSO team then she’s going to watch the kids eat them, make sure each and everyone thanks her all while making sure everyone knows that it was her who gave. In Senegal giving has nothing to do with the giver. When you give you are giving in the name of Allah. You’re taking care of one of his creatures. I think it’s interesting that they use the word creatures and not men or women. I would think that in such a gendered society they would distinguish between men and women of god but religion is one place where all is equal. Rich and poor, male and female, living and dead, we’re all creatures of god. That’s what I’m being told.

Anyways, Ramadan started very early this morning. I think everyone was a little surprised to see me at the breakfast table at 5 a.m. (you can only eat and drink during sun down). We ate a good breakfast and as the family prayed I read the sports section of the paper. Little did I know people usually go to bed after the first meal of the day. Wanting to conserve energy I took a taxi to school. After a couple hours I became acutely aware of my hunger. My brother says that one can’t understand a child’s hunger in the street until one experiences hunger themselves. This is one idea that I’ll take with me. I have some what of an idea what hunger is now. However, the hardest thing wasn’t not eating but not drinking. I stayed at the WARC for as long as I could and around 4 started to walk home. Going on 11 hours without food or water my mouth had stopped producing saliva and I became conscious of every other bodily function that my subconscious usually controls. It usually takes me 50 minutes to walk home but today it took me an hour and ten. With the unrelenting sun beating down on Senegal, everyone was sluggish but very happy. It was like I was on the same team as the entire city. I’d confront someone, nod my head slowly (aware of every muscle in my neck) and receive and equally lazy nod. These nods said a lot to me. They said, “You’re hurting too right now. We all are. We’re hurting together. But remember this isn’t about us.” In short the lack of food and water fortified and already profound solidarity.

I got home shortly after 5 and napped until 6:30. When I came downstairs my family was preparing a meal for the homeless. Every day during Ramadan those who don’t have the means to eat convene at the mosque and are given food by those in the neighborhood who can afford to do so. My family made milk, coffee, and chocolate and butter sandwiches for about fifty people. The most amazing thing was that they didn’t even stay to take credit for the work they had done. They simply brought what they had worked on all day and left. After giving, we ate. Sundown was around 8 o’clock. During Ramadan the fast is broken with dates which were a delightfully sweet way to satiate my hunger. However, the eating had just started. After the dates we ate bread with butter and chococalte followed by milk. However, this milk wasn’t normal. It was, pardon the pun, heavenly. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten all day but this simple mixture of water, evaporated milk and sugar was one of the best things that I’ve ever had. Strangely enough hot beverages have a way of alleviating the heat of the day.

Right after he had finished our first meal there was a power outage. Although this happens every day people weren’t very happy with Senelect (the electric company) because the first day of Ramadan had been difficult enough. Mama Rama told me that the company controls which neighborhoods do and don’t receive electricity and that they intentionally chose our neighborhood because its relatively calm. She said that had this of happened in the neighborhood she grew up in problems would’ve ensued. Able to make the best out of everything, she dragged two chairs outside for us and we sat and talked. I asked her about growing up, about how hard it was for a woman to attain such a high level of education at the time she did, about how young Senegal is and how much things have changed, until it got dark.

At some point during our conversation the maid brought us fish croquettes that had been stuffed with shrimp and fried. The first bight was followed by a loud crunch and then silence as the crunchy exterior gave way to the interior. The fish still had many small bones which, as I chewed, pricked the top of my mouth. The faintest irony taste of one own blood, the mild flavors and tender textures of the inside of the croquet in perfect contrast with the fatty and crusted outside, and the layer of orange fat left to linger on ones lips comprised one of the best eating experiences that I’ve ever had.

The croquettes were followed by a huge plate of fish, rice and vegetables which was then followed by slices of apples and melons. Tired, full and with an inspiring experience on my mind I thanked everyone for everything and retired for the night.

Milk was a bad choice. Fermented goat milk was a very, very bad choice. Let’s just say I got sick. I don’t mean yack once and go to bed sick. I mean rib cracking vomiting that turned into dry heaving and lasted quite some time. At some point during the nightmare I saw blood in my puke. Scared out of my mind and wanting nothing else but for it to be all over, I went to the doctor. First they took x-rays which was relatively harmless. However, they then told me that they needed to examine my stomach further and would do so by shoving a camera down my throat. No big deal right? I’ve had an upper gi before. This was different though.

The doctor, as many doctors in Senegal are I’m coming to find out, was from Libya. We went into his office and he made me drink a lot of nasty stuff which he said lined my stomach. However, he did not give me an anesthetic. Let me paint a little picture for you. I’m sitting in my underwear in front of one of the women who works at the WARC. The doctor roughly places me on my side, shoves an instrument into my mouth that separates my jaws at an unnatural distance, puts a camera down my throat and proceeds to tell me in broken English, “Swallow, swallow harder boy. Vomit good.” I simply closed my eyes, tried to ignore the fact that I was yacking all over my own face and got through it. The good news is that I’m not seriously ill. I picked up several medications and have since been feeling much better.

Like all weekdays yesterday started with me walking to school. This walk that takes me slightly under an hour is my favorite part of the day. It’s a period of the day during which I have ample time to think but more importantly can become an observer of the progress that I’ve made since I’ve been here. There are and have been a lot of white people in Dakar. However, I seem to turn heads. I think people look at a twenty year old kid in adidas shorts, walking in tune to rap music, complete comfortable with his surroundings and think, “what the hell?” The first day I walked to school everyone stared but now people return my smiles or salaam malekuums. The beggars on the street know not to approach me and evoke far less double takes as I did a week ago. However, I’m convinced some things simply won’t change. For instance, any time a taxi passes me the driver finds it necessary to honk, sometimes two or three times. During a fifty minute walk to school the number of steps I take and honks I hear are about the same. However, now I feel comfortable enough to scowl at the drivers.

After class yesterday we all went to the WARC. Class was especially fun because this week’s subject is polygamy which hits home, literally, since Papa Ousmane has three wives. Anyways, at the beach I swam for the first time which was nice. These aren’t, however, the rock free beaches of Lake Michigan. Unaware that rocks exist naturally in was as well as outside of it, I ran into the water at full speed on to be quickly stopped by a boulder. The water is warm but the ocean is rough and the waves are huge. I’m not planning on venturing too far out anytime soon.

After the beech I bought three mangos initially intending to give two to my family and eat one for myself. However, the taste of the mangos and the salty brine of my lips was too irresistible and I ended up eating all three. When I got home I was already feeling a bit full so I went to lay down. Our neighbor, a nine year old girl who lives in France but spends her summer in Senegal, came into my room and we started talking. She’s one of my favorite people to talk to. I understand everything she says, she’s more than willing to teach me about anything and everything French, and she’s wonderfully innocent. For instance, Mama Rama told her that I was her blood son. Confused by how this could be the case, she came up with an elaborate story about how I was born black but the snow in Chicago turned me white. She said that I’ve come home to Senegal to be with my family and that soon I’ll look just like them. When I asked her if she thought I’d be as dark as her she lifted up the sleeve of my shirt (exposing my farmers tan) and said, “Jusqu’a ici tout va bien (so far so good).”

She also has been teaching me French words and helping me a bit with my grammas (would this count as child labor?) so I reciprocated her help by buying us sow yesterday. Sow is goats milk mixed with sugar and fermented. Imagine an ammoniated, sugary cottage cheese. This was not a good decision. Although it tasted delicious, while I was playing basketball my stomach started to hurt. Trying to burp but unable to, I kept playing.

The basketball court again proved to be one of my favorite places yesterday. It seems that every day one new guy (I can say that now) approaches me and talks to me. Yesterday was particularly interesting. A guy came up to me and asked me what I was doing in Senegal. He seemed utterly confused why anyone would come to Senegal as a choice. He told me that in his mind white people were nice, rich and clean juxtaposed to black people who were dirty, poor and mean. He gave the different ways that Americans and Senegalese use the bathroom as an example. I explained to him that there were many exceptions and if there was any type of a pattern that it wasn’t a matter of skin but a matter of environment. He agreed with me and we decided together that skin doesn’t count as much as head and heart. I’m not saying this to be sappy but simply because it bothered me a little bit. This man really thought that all white people were great, that we all came to help Africa and that we didn’t have any problems.

I’ve talked to Babacar a lot about this because it’s a popular misconception that results in a lot of Senegalese abandoning their homes to go to other countries. Having lived in France and understanding the reality of the situation, Babar is the best person to talk to. “L’argent ne fait pas le bonheur (money doesn’t make happiness).” I’ve never been more aware of the truth behind this. Many of the kids that play basketball are poor. There is only one hoop that a foot too tall, there are kids that play with no shoes, kids that take the soles out of their shoes because their feet are too big. However, if you were to sit on the sidelines and watch every day like I do you would think that these are some of the happiest people in the world. I’m convinced that they are. For three hours every day a group of twenty guys, brothers at heart, all play ball together. The court is too small so they play two on two. The solidarity among the players manifests itself on the court. Players don’t call their own fouls, instead the fifteen people that are watching all serve as refs. The relationships are very paternalistic and the men never let their egos get in the way of listening to a friend, even if that friend is younger.

Another interesting thing is that nearly every game ends with the score of 10-12. They play to 12 but if a team is getting beat badly the other team allows them to score to make it close. This way at the end of every game all sides are relatively happy. The court itself is something very neat. We’re right next to the airport so several planes an hour tear by us, shaking the ground on their way. They’re so close you can literally see the faces of the pilots. To try to describe the scene would be criminal because it's simply indescribable.

I just ate one of the more delicious things that I’ve ever eaten. I got home from writing a paper a friend’s house and my mom told me that we were going to eat dessert and then lunch. This lady’s head is in the right place. I mean that’s how it should be done right? Sweet and then savory? She brought me a rather unappetizing looking bowl full of brown gooey stuff. In Senegal smelling your food is seen as a sign of disrespect so eating something unfamiliar is a bit like play Russian roulette. I have yet to lose when it comes to food here. The sauce was made of crushed peanuts and some type of milk product and had the consistency of a runny pudding. There were thinly sliced mango and apples in it but what really made the dish was the millet. I’ve heard a lot about millet but I’ve never eaten it. I always thought it was for birds. They looked like lentils but were a bit more firm and neutral in flavor. Basically just a vehicle for this deliciously rich peanut sauce. Forgetting that lunch was next I ate two bowls. This very minute I’m sitting in my room regretting the second bowl. Both the millet and the peanut sauce are high in protein and I feel as if I’m about to explode. Not only do I know that I’m going to have to eat a delicious lunch in a matter of minutes but I’m going to have to eat a delicious lunch in excess. They’re going to have to get the neighborhood kids to carry me upstairs and put me to bed. This has been, and will be, the biggest problem of my day. I keep waiting for the happiness to baseline, to eventually decline. Every morning I wake up a bit more skeptical of my happiness just to be proved wrong by the happenings of every day. Again I know that there are going to be hard days, hard months even, but this is such a great way to start what I hope will be a very good ten months in Senegal.

Today wasn’t good or bad. It was just kind of hard. It started last night before dinner. I was sitting in the living room and heard yelling upstairs. It continued with increasing intensity for about twenty minutes. My host brother went upstairs and tried to mediate it but there was clearly a problem between my host sister and mom. Since it was in Wolof I have no idea what they were arguing about. I sat on the couch and the daughter came down, sat next to me, buried her face in her arms, and started to gently sob. Crying isn’t acceptable in Senegal, especially for a woman. Women are strong here. After a loss a Senegalese wrestler will sob but women simply don’t cry. I found myself unsure of what to do. To pat her on the back would be to involve myself. To leave would be disrespectful. So I sat. I sat in silence, without movement, for about fifteen minutes. I was surprised when the cook brought dinner into the room and my host brother suggested that we eat. The two of us sat on the floor and ate, my sister now silent on the couch next to us, my mom upstairs too upset to eat. My brother made it clear that it would be a good idea not to let the meal go to waste since it was only two of us eating a meal cooked for four. I had no problem with that.

Meals here are very heavy. They love mayonnaise. They love thousand island dressing. My mother has cases of thousand island dressing sent from her sister in America. We eat it on salad, meat, rice, fish, just about everything. Last night we drenched our already heavy meal of fried eggs, vegetables and paste with it. I’m ashamed to say I had no problem eating for two.

I never asked what happened as I don’t think its important. I don’t know if I did the right thing but I felt as if I did what I needed to do. There exists a certain tension between Rama and myself. She’s nineteen years old and is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I suspect that the argument had something to do with boys trying to talk to her. I try to diminish the tensions as much as possible. They have enough problems with boys coming to the house trying to court her. The last thing that they need is for the American to do the same. This means that I never gave my host family the clothes that I brought for her. I didn’t want it to be taken the wrong way. I’m not trying to stroke my ego here I’m simply saying that any man in his right mind would think this woman is beautiful and I want to let my family know as firmly yet surreptitiously as I can that they will have no problem with me.

That was quite a tangent…Anyways I slept in until nine this morning which was great. My room is very comfortable and I’m very lucky to have all that I have (a fan, a shower and toilet, a window, my own bed, ample closet space). One of the girls from our program had told me that her brother’s basketball team was a man short and asked me if I wanted to play. Sports have been the ultimate equalizer during my time in Senegal so I told her that I would play. The match wasn’t until 7 so a bunch of us met up early and went to the market Sandaga, the biggest market in Senegal.

I new that we had made a mistake as soon as I stepped out of the cab. Immediately we were swarmed by street hawkers. With my back to the cab and literally hundreds of people making their way towards us I had half a mind to get right back in the cab and go home. However, I put my backpack on my chest, shoved my hands into my pockets and began to try to navigate the way through the crowd. I have two strategies when it comes to markets: walk quickly and confidently as if you know where you’re going or avoid eye contact and stay quiet. With a group of people, I wasn’t able to do either. The first problem came when I girl stopped to buy sunglasses. She quickly bargained herself a good price and as she was trying to pay a man who was attempting to be our guide told her for the tenth time how much it cost. She curtly said she knew and to leave us alone. This was the wrong move. Irritated, the man began to get a bit confrontational. Being the only man in the group (remember this is an extremely gendered society) I told the man that she was sorry but we didn’t have money and we just wanted to walk in peace. This too was the wrong move.

He started following us, telling us that the Senegalese do not eat white people. That all Americans thought about was money That when you come to a market people talk to you. If you don’t want to be talked to then you should stay in the United States. He told me if I wanted to be mean he could show me that he was meaner than me. When he started yelling that we were racist I simply asked him what he wanted in an effort to pacify the situation. I was flustered and outright scared. He said that he wanted to show us his work, that it was in an apartment across the street. I told him that we would be more than happy to look at his work but that we had to stay on the street. Thus he brought us to a stand that sold fabrics. His entire family was there and I started to talk with his unlce who was praying when we arrived. He told us that the Senegalese were not violent, that they loved everyone. I had a hard time accepting this. However, I continued to talk with his uncle as the girl looked at fabric. They ended up buying some fabric and we ended up talking to the man for a while. A lot of people walked away saying he was nice. I walked away confused. Was this guy nice? He gave us a good price and got us a taxi but why had he followed us. Was he trying to make a living? Did he not understand how flustered we were? The situation bothered me. However I know now that I won’t return to the market without my host brother or mother. The word no doesn’t exist in Senegal for a toubab (white person).

After that little incident we headed to the beach. Its becoming our default. Next to the Raddison (a very fancy hotel on the sea) is a shopping mall. As the girl headed to the clothing stores, I hit the casino (a French grocery store). This store was cool enough to make any Whole Foods goer shit their pants. There were prawns the size of my head, ridiculous amounts of cheeses and meats, and giant (I mean giant) tubs of nutella. I bought some to take home to my family knowing that it will show up on my breakfast plate in the morning. The experience of casino juxtaposed with Sandaga gave me a good sense of the Senegalese extremes. Most of the people in the Casino were white or arab. Just by looking at them you could tell that they were rich. The only Africans that I saw were those working behind the registers. I wish I felt more comfortable at the market. I wish the sterile smell and feel of the casino didn’t make me comfortable. I hope this changes. I hope that I can find my own place in Senegal, some where between Sandaga and Casino.

On a more pleasant note I learned how to make attaye (Senegalese tea) today. Before we went to the market I had gone to a friends house to pick her up. I arrived in the middle of lunch and was asked to eat with the family. The Senegalese love to share and they don’t accept no for an answer. We ate meatballs made with fish (fishballs?) rice and onion sauce. After lunch the girl fell asleep (the heat of the day combined with a filling meal most usually results in a nap) and so I accompanied the family in the kitchen. Attaye is made by creating a froth in each two ounce glass by pouring the tea while raising and lowering the glasses respectively. This creats a white foam that stays in the bottom of each glass. After all the glasses are properly foamed the tea is poured. Admiring his skills the man asked me if I want to try. I hastily accepted and quickly learned how difficult making attaye is. The hard part is not pouring the liquid into a glass from a long distant but rather doing is quickly. If one were to (as I did) leave their thumb on the glass for too long, they would end up with a burn (as I also did). With the first pour I burned myself. I preceeded to pour, clench my teeth with a forced smile, and burn myself the sixty of so times it took to prepare the froth for each glass. However, the satisfaction of making fairly good attaye eclipsed the pain of my thumb. It was very, very cool.

I also got to play basketball today. I thought the guys that I played with near my house were good but this was a different level of play. I was the shortest person on the court by an easy five inches. I felt like Daffy Duck in Space Jam. It was a three on three tournament and when I entered our team was already up. With a great amount of effort I think I held my own. They told me to come back tomorrow. We’ll see if my body is ready. The experience was cool though. The entire thing was video taped by two cameras. There were probably around a hundred people there. The court was made of mismatched and uneven bricks which gave the ball an unpredictable bounce and the hoops were only about fifty feet away from each other which increased the pace and intensity of the game. I would like to think that one day, somewhere on utube, there will be a video of me getting one of the many shots I attempted blocked by a seven foot Senegalese man.

Yesterday was a holy day as is every Friday and so everyone dressed up and went to the mosque. I sat on the terrace and watched everything unfold. Its really neat. I guess if one has the means one is supposed to give to those in need three times a day and more on Friday. This creates an unparalleled national and religious solidarity. Many migrant, homeless families from Guinea-Bissau, Burkina Faso, Guinea, Mauritania, etc. and children came around the mosque to receive alms. At 2:30 all the rich people in the neighborhood opened their doors and started to hand out food and little toys for the kids. Many BMW’s and large SUV pulled up and the drivers threw large amount of coins out the window. It was like a giant piñata had exploded. It was feeding frenzy that gave me the chills. Keep in mind this happens every Friday. I think we pay a heavy price for capitalism in the United States where its every man for himself. Here the rich have a moral responsibility to help the poor. I’m ashamed to say this but it was these acts of generosity that have been the most foreign part of my trip thus far.

After a lunch of tcheub jum (the national fish and rice plate of Senegal) I met up with some friends and brought them to my house. I went out and bought juice and cookies beforehand and we all sat on the terrace, my host mother and brother too, and talked until the sunset. There wasn’t one unhappy person on that roof.

Now for the funny stories… There is a constant flow of people in and out of our house (again anyone in our neighborhood is welcome in any house at any time) and the other day a little boy came in. He asked my mother who I was to which she curtly responded “that’s my son.” Confused, he asked if I was the brother of Babakar. She said yes. He looked me up and down, scratched his head and left. Mama Rama has quickly made me feel very at home. She treats me as one of her own and I think she really likes me. I know I really like her. Moving on…I had fallen asleep before dinner the other night and I heard a knock on my door. It was dark and when I opened it I saw nothing. Immediately after closing the door I heard another knock. I opened and again no one. Freaked out, I closed it a bit more slowly and again heard another knoch. This time the darkness was illuminated by a set of bright white teeth. Bababakar was nearly crying he was laughing so hard. He had been there the entire time but do to my unadjusted eyes and his dark skin I didn’t see him until he smiled. It was awfully embarrassing and know whenever it gets dark he makes fun of me and asks me if I know where he is. Ooops.

One of the coolest parts about being here is waking up every morning. Half asleep, I’ll stay in my bed unaware that I’m not at home until I hear the unfamiliar cry of a goat or the call to prayer from the mosque across from my street. The first thing that I do every morning is walk up to the terrace. Still unable to comprehend where I am, how excited I am about being here, I sit in the baking heat of the sun looking over our neighborhood. There are certain qualities of life that exists everywhere yet here they have such a different and vibrant twist on them. I guess the best way to describe where I am to describe the physical differences, starting from the ground up.

The roads are composed of a mixture of sand and clay with a orange, red hue. Despite the fact that it’s the rainy season it’s only rained once since I’ve arrived. The lack of rain creates a red could, most apparent when the street lights turn on at night, that engulfs the city. It also makes staying clean very difficult. In Senegal they have a very interesting idea about cleanliness. My mother explained to me that there are certain things that people can and can’t control. You can’t necessarily control how nice of a house you live in or how well you eat but you can always control how clean you keep your body. Thus it’s a sign of dignity and respect to stay very clean. This means taking at least three showers a day. Sweating more than the average Senegalese person, I take about four a day and wash my feet around six times a day. Its especially important to keep feet and hands clean. When we eat we sit barefoot around a large serving dish and eat with our hands. Our program tells us horror stories about kids who didn’t shower frequently enough and were asked to find different families. Another things is that despite the stench of certain roads, everyone here smells amazing. Owning and wearing perfume or cologne constantly is a must.

Something else that quickly caught my eye is the architecture and the way houses are viewed. I read the sports section of the paper every day and I quickly remarked that there were no real estate advertisements. People don’t sell or buy homes here. If you want a home you have one constructed and thus a sense of attachment and permanence is created that we don’t have back home. Homes, like my own, start simply. The basic first floor has a living room, and two bedrooms, a courtyard and a kitchen. If one wishes to expand one’s home, which they all do as it seems every come is in a state of construction, one simply builds up. Thus most of the houses are skinny but have four or five floors. We have three and are in the process of constructing two more bedrooms and a bathroom. There are no roofs in Senegal, only terraces, as roofs would prevent later renovation. From each persons room protrudes several large television antennas. The room is also used for hanging laundry, water storage and just hanging out. The terraces are also very close to each other. I remember rolling my eyes when I was little when Alladian would jump from roof to roof but I see now that its fully plausible. Another thing worth mentioning is that all neighborhoods are centered around a mosque. Thus a mosque serves as the center point of any directions.

Power outages have become another part of daily life. I actually really enjoy when the power goes out. The Senegalese have a much more relaxed sense of time that allows for a lot of sitting around and talking. When the power goes out we all meet in the living room, sit around candles and talk about everything and anything. During the first power outage I had an embarrassing experience that involved a bucket and skinned knees so know every time the power goes out everyone shouts “ducement (carefully) Griffin!” Most of the time we talk about Senegalese politics. The president here is named Abdoulaye Wade. He’s very old and despite what we here on the news not very liked. The elections are coming up in 2012 and everyone is scared that his son, a government official, is going to be “elected.” If this were to happen my family thinks that Senegal would have a lot of problems that could potentially stem into a violent coup d’etat. What becomes apparent during this discussion is my family’s disdain for France. My brother Babakar’s twelve years in Metz made him very bitter.

I always talk to my mother about traveling because she’s been all over. She told me a very funny story about arriving in Hong Kong and thinking she was dead because everyone was moving so quickly. I’ve asked four people now on separate occasions where they would live if they could live anywhere to which they all responded Senegal. Interestingly enough, when I ask if they had to live in a country outside of Senegal where they would live they all say Saudi Arabi. The Islamic influence is very present here and when I asked my brother why they would chose Saudi Arabi he said its because they all want to live near the prophet. My entire family has made the journey to Mecca and the walls of our house are covered in photos of Mecca and the Prophet. Although I don’t understand it nearly as much as I’d like to, I admire fully their dedication. The entire family wakes up a five a.m. to pray and prays in total five times a day. This is going to church on Sunday morning just to come home and sin on Sunday night, this is the real deal. Complete dedication.

I can’t believe how busy I am. Today I woke up early to work on a presentation on Senegalese wrestling. Wrestling (la lutte) is Senegal’s most popular sport primarily because this cerain form doesn’t exist outside of Senegal and thus they take a lot of pride in it. The presentation went well and after the first couple of hours of class we went to the University Diop to interview students on the subject of begging. More difficult than the interviews themselves was asking a random student if I could interview them. I find that people here are much nicer and more likely to help than in the United States. For example if one were to ask for directions, something that I’ve done nearly every day, in my experience its more common for a person to physically walk with you to the location than give you directions. This same generosity was easily observable this morning as student took time out of their days to discuss a touchy subject with someone who has no idea what they’re talking about.

After class I went home and helped my mom wash our goat. Oh yea, we have a goat. He’s four months old and has his own bedroom (strangely enough its bigger than mine). He was pretty dirty so we took him to the terrace and mama Rama washed him as I grabbed his horns and tried to calm him down. Every time my mom would begin to wash his testicles the goat would double over in pain. Finally I apathetically asked her if they really needed to be clean. She responded by saying that since there is so much meat in the testicles they must be clean. I guess I have goat nuts to look forward to at the end of Ramadan.

Later on in the day I met up with some friends and we all headed to a beach. This certain beach was on the road of all the embassies and up and down the beach were unbelievable extravagant mansions, each protected by men toting huge machine guns. We sat on the rocks, trying to put our experience into perspective but that’s a very difficult thing to do. Its hard for me to get my mind around what I’m doing and where I am. These past few days have been some of the most exciting (and tiring) days of my life. Whenever I’m home I want to travel and this is why. I feel alive, I feel like I’m doing something, I feel excited to wake up and live my life. I’m sure this wave of initial excitement will peter out after a while but right now I’m going to enjoy it to its fullest.

Senegal is very, very hot. I went to sleep sweating and woke up nearly swimming. I was, however, well rested and I guess that’s all that matters. We ate another typical breakfast and did a bunch of sight seeing. It was nice but not my thing. Every time I snap a photo I’m confronted with my moral qualms about taking pictures. Perhaps anthrolpology has mad me too sensitive but I can’t help seeing the taking of a picture as a modern extension of colonialism: non-warranted, unreciprocated taking of white people from black people. Most of the time I leave my camera in my bag but I was able to snap a few photos that I’ll load. After being introduced to the West African research center and eating lunch we all piled into the can and one by one were dropped off at or hosts family’s houses. I’ve read that it’s a sign of respect to dress nicely when going to someone’s house for the first time so I put on long back pants and a polo shirt and it was already 90 degrees outside. Upon entering my host family’s home I found out that I sweat profously when I’m nervous, a reality that I’ve never noticed living in Chicago. My host mother geeted me in Wolof and after finding out that I spoke none spoke to me in French. Maman Ramatoulaye (Rama for short) is a very nice woman and lives with her husband Papa Ousmane, her son Babakara, her neice Rama and her house keepere Awa. They were all very nice and made me feel quite at home.

I just finished my second day at my host family’s house and everything is going great. All the roads around the house are red clay which, contrasted with the deep greens of palm, mango and hibiscus trees, provides a vibrant backdrop for the neighborhood. The house is unlike anything that I’ve ever seen. All the walls and floors are stone which keeps the house relatively cool. There are very few windows and doors as everything is built to allow a constant flow of air throughout the house. My room is on the second floor and when and had just been painted upon my arrival which I found out by getting paint all over my clothes and somehow my face. As if I didn’t already didn’t stand out enough, I looked like what I imagine a leper may look like my first day in my new neighborhood. My room is very nice and I even have my own bathroom. I’ve heard many people complain about the lack of cold showers in Senegal but I can’t imagine why someone would want to take anything other than a shower here. With little exception the heat is nearly unbearable. Thus the best part of the house is the terrace on top of the house. It’s an entire floor of nothing but cement floor and an amazing view over the city. From the terrace I can see both the sea and the new monument that President Wade just had constructed (by north Koreans which none of the Senegalese are happy about). Also, my house is very close to the airport and thus three or four huge planes fly over our roof every day, so close that the chips of cement rattle and it feels as if the entire house is going to collapse.

My host mom (Mama Ramatoulaye) is really great as is my host father (Papa Ousmane) sister (also rama) the house keeper (Awa) and my host brother (Babakar). One thing that is going to take some getting used to is how gendered daily activities are. No matter how much I insist, I am not allowed to do housework of any kind other than making my own bed. My laundry is done for me daily, I never touch a dish, never sweep, mop or set the table despite the fact that these are all daily activities. My host mom explained it to me by saying that they hire a maid to do the chores and if I were to do them she wouldn’t have a job. It makes sense but its different. However, the fact that not doing chores has thus far been the hardest part of my stay in Senegal gives you some idea of how well things have been going.

This morning I walked to school in about forty-five minutes. I got a bit lost so I expect to make it tomorrow in about thirty. I walk along a highway and its surprisingly pleasant. The streets are very lively in the morning and combined with my newly acquired love of the smell of gasoline, makes for a great walk. However, its clear that my presence is well noted and not always appreciated. The same way a white suburban family locks they’re car doors when they see a minority in the city, little kids run screaming to their mothers when they see me. I receive a lot of scowls but for the most part people simply ignore me which is a huge insult in Wolof culture where salutations are a must. Keeping in mind the history of the country and the color of my skin, I bow my head and as discretely and humbly as I can try to go unnoticed.

The west African research center (where I have my classes) is very cool and our first class went well. Today we talked about the enormous amount of children that beg on the street. These children, often coming fro underprivileged families, are placed in Koranic schools where they study the Koran for three hours every day. The rest of the time is spent begging for money which they return to the head of the school in exchange of limited housing and food. This is an age old practice but has evolved significantly in the last fifty years. It used to be that children in the country would take one hour a day to go from farm to farm and ask for food which they would then give to their schools and later eat. However, in the 1970’s there was a terrible drought throughout West Africa and as the agricultural produce became more and more sparse people started moving to Dakar. Known as an Islamic city where people give to the poor constantly, people form Burkina Faso, Guinea, Guinea-Bissau and Mali came to Dakar. Asking for fruit evolved into begging for money and one hour a day turned into ten hours a day. Our teacher said that many of the Koranic schools are incredibly corrupt and form exploitative relationships with young enfants. Each child is required to donate a set amount (usually 3500 CAF of 78 American cents) a day. However, unable to do so, many of the children are forced into debt and end up staying at the schools for much longer than intended. I have yet to decide if this makes ignoring a malnourished, four year old, barefoot kid in torn clothes in the eyes easier or not. Regardless its an awful reality that I’m faced with literally hundreds of times a day.

On a different note, the terrace of my house overlooks a basketball court and today I threw on shorts for the first time since I arrived (its not proper for men to wear shorts unless they’re playing sports) and went and played. Unlike in France, the Senegalese can play basketball. With airplanes flying over us we played for about an hour an a half. I kept up well and earned some respect. I was also able to practice my Wolof a bit which everyone enjoys. Basketball will, without a doubt, be a daily activity. After showering I ate dinner. Meals are something worth talking about. I eat breakfast around 7 a.m. lunch around 4 p.m. and dinner around 11 p.m. The nine hours between breakfast and lunch are a bit hard so my mission for tomorrow is to buy some snacks. Tonight we ate friend fish, bread and a salad, once again served on one big plate. We all sit barefoot on the matt and eat. Eating is done is silence as it is bad luck to eat and talk (the Senegalese and especially my family are incredibly superstitious). I noticed that Papa Ousmane wasn’t at dinner and when I asked where he was a got a bit of a surprise. It turns out that Papa Ousmane has three wives so he only spends two nights a week at our house. I can’t imagine the money, time and dedication it would take to own three houses, love three women, and send countless numbers of kids abroad as Papa Ousmane has. Until tomorrow…

Yesterday was a very, very long day. We arrived at the hotel around 5 a.m. and were given three hours to rest. Despite the fatigue, we excitement of being in a new country was enough to keep me up. I ate a breakfast (parts of a baguette, a croissant, tea and orange juice) and ended up taking a walk with a few members of the group to the beach. Senegal is unlike anything that I’ve ever seen before. People, things, ideas, and faiths truly coexist here. They say America is a melting pot but I’d like of it more as a salad: a mixture of mutually exclusive entities that fail to blend. Senegal, however, is truly a melting pot. Islam and Christianity, French and Wolof, the traditional and the modern blend to form something truly unique. Palatial homes can be and are found next to and surrounded by slums. A catholic church and a mosque are often found on the same block. Sitting at a red light (of which they are very few) in a Mercedes ten seat van a horse drawn garbage truck will pull up next to us. Another thing that becomes readily apparent is the amount of development that is taking place, more on that later. Anyways, it took us nearly an hour but we found our way to the beach which was an embarrassingly only about a twenty minute walk. The beaches were full of fisherman and we were lucky enough to arrive just when the boats were getting in. Excited to see what a catch looked like, I quickly took off an offer my a Senegalese man and his twenty some friends to help them pull their net in. These guys are big, I am not. We must have pulled for twenty minutes, my hands red with tension, sweat dripping from my forehead. This was truly hard work. Imagining the size of the fish that must’ve been in the net, I glanced back to see the progress we had made. No joke after twenty minutes of pulling we might have pulled three feet of line in. Discourages I asked a man where the net was and he pointed to a boat that was nearly half a mile out at sea. I quickly accepted defeat and left the professionals to the job. The beaches are beautiful in a very strange way. Unlike the pristine beaches we’re so used to, the Yoff beach was covered in trash, rotting fish and boats. Its easy to undersand why this sight would turn many people off but for some reason it made sense to me. As a fish head and a bundle of fishing line washed up near my feet I thought to myself, “That’s right. THIS is a beach. Beaches aren’t all pina coladas and Bermuda shorts.” In Senegal they’re opportunity. From what I understand many people make they’re livings fishing and its easy to see why. All along the beach people were pulling in fish of all different sizes (from macerals to Marlins), mussels, shrimps, lobsters, etc. Perhaps the most remarkable thing that I saw was a group of boys on the beach who were grilling sea urchins. The box of what must’ve been more than a hundred urchins was enough to make any foodies knees weak. Once chared on a makeshift grill they would throw them against the ground until all the spikes were rounded, crack them open and eat the roe like candy. Five for 500 central African dollars. What one would pay forty dollars for in a sushi restaurant was being sold for a dollar.

I less pleasant experience is the smell of the city, possibly the smell of the third world. Burning rubber, weeks of trash pile-up and the strong smell of fish emitted from the ocean combine to make a odor that will turn even the strongest of stomachs. However, this is one of the few negative things that I’ve experienced. After our walk we were picked up by our coordinators and taken to the house of the head coordinator. We ate fish and rice on the roof followed by attaye, a meal that lasted nearly four hours. Because of sanitary purposes the Senegalese never eat with their left hand. Nor do they use silverwear. Everyone sits barefoot around a large bowl and the head of the house divides the food accordingly. One then makes balls of rice, meat and vegetables with their hands and in one felt motions swoops the food into their mouths. Like anything that involves talent those who do it well make it look easy. I assure you it is not. By the end of the meal I had more food on my lap that I had managed to get into my mouth. Thankfully I’m that clumsy toubab (white person) that everyone can laugh at. The meal was followed by attaye which is a Senegalese tea that is prepared meticulously and over a long period of time. A pot of tea is boiled and then and then a single two ounce cup is filled with tea. This cup is used to create a froth that supposedly separates Senegalese tea from all other teas. The froth is created by pulling the tea (pouring it quickly over while raising the glass so that by the time all the tea has left the first cup the two cups are nearly three feet away from eachother. Again I can’t even fathom the amount of precision this requites. And time; to make one cup of froth can take as many as sixty of seventy exchanges between the two glasses. Since the glasses are so small everyone is served two, the second intensely more sugary and strong that the first. However, attaye was not the best thing that I drank as I was introduced to bissap juice and boaba juice. Bissap juice is cultivated from the flow of the hibiscus tree and is as deep in color as a red wine. It’s sour, sweet and possibly the most refreshing thing that I’ve drank. Boaba juice looks like a frapachino but tastes much better. Its rich, creamy an almost tastes of caramel. It’s thick and in itself could feed a person. One thing worth mentioning is that the Senegalese do NOT drink anything with their meals. Juice and water before and attaye after. I’m not sure why but when I find out I’ll inform you. After our meal we headed back to the hotel for some much needed sleep.

The walls are painted pineapple yellow and are encompassed by an elaborate molding. A chandelier hangs from the twenty-some foot ceilings and creates a glare off the porcelain-tiled floors that adds to the surrealism of the moment. The refrigerator has a key. A fly keeps landing on my knee. The toilet is broken…found that one out the hard way. I’m finishing my day in an air-conditioned, contemporary, yet distinctly African hotel room.

After a short flight to Washington D.C. I met up with some members of my group. Everyone seems extremely nice and after a game of Uno we were all quite comfortable with each other. We boarded the plane and, as I expected, after a couple of hours into the flight everyone was asleep. With nothing to do my mind started to wander and I made one of the more startling realizations I had ever made: I had forgotten my yellow card. This card is official documentation of my vaccinations, many of which are obligatory when entering Senegal. I frantically informed a stewardess of my situation seeking some maternal words of comfort. She laughed and told me that they’d send me home. I would not be allowed into the country without my yellow card. Aggravated and equally panicked I asked another attendant what my options were. She told me that she would inform the captain and he would talk to me after the plane landed. However, the anxiety that the situation created did not negate the feelings of excitement once we broke the cloud cover upon decent.

From the window the plane I saw and endless coast dotted with tall buildings, warmed my the soft glow of the rising sun. For a moment I was able to forget about the imminent disappointed I was expecting when I would find out I would have to return to America. However, that never ended up happening. The pilot told me that they never checked yellow cards and that I was ok. Six hours of panicking wasted. Oh well. As I descended the stairs of the plane I became instantly aware of how thick the air was. It felt like I was swimming. We got through customs fairly easily but then were met by a circus of beggars all who wanted to carry our bags for us. Having two fifty pound bags and two backpacks I was to say the least struggling. I guess it was a pretty funny sight because more than a few people got a chuckle out of it. A man asked me if I needed help and right after assuring him that I was find and not struggling at all one of my bags slipped off the other one and took me down with them. Faster than white on rice (or as Anthony Bourdian would say “faster than Angelina Joliee on an Oreo”) I had five grown men carrying my bags. Still holding one strap of each bag I told them that I didn’t have any money but they didn’t care. With every man veering off in a different direction I was forced to make a decision and foolishly chose to keep hold of the heavy bag. By the time we got to the van I was drenched in sweat. We all loaded the bags ontop of a seven passenger van and took a short ride to the hotel from where I write you guys right now. I’ve seen very little of Senegal. It was dark and a lack of street lighting made it difficult to make anything out. I go to breakfast in an hour and have a full day planned after than. I think I’m going to try to catch some sleep

In an effort to restrain from the pre-departure, ego-stroking introspection that seems to be omnipresent in travel blogs these days I’ll keep this entry brief. Suffice it to say that I’m scared out of my mind. I’ve been anticipating the fear to hit me all week but only now, the night before I leave, am I confronted with the reality of the commitment that I’ve made. Ten months in Senegal will be one of the most trying, and hopefully fruitful, experiences of my life. Although equally excited to spend time on a continent very few people know much about, in a country that people know less about, my strongest feelings right now are those of fear and anxiety. I’ve been told these feeling are normal, probably even good…I guess we’ll see.

I’ve packed two suitcases that I’ve told my parents weigh under fifty pounds. Hopefully the unforgiving scales at the airport will agree. I leave Chicago at 11:05 tomorrow and arrive in Washington D.C. around two hours later. In D.C. I’ll meet up with five other kids from around the country who are doing the exact same thing I’m doing. So much for being special. We leave D.C. around four and only hours later arrive in Dakar. I was, as many of you may be, astounded by the abbreviated length of the flight. Senegal is the Western most country in Africa and Dakar is the Western most city in Dakar. Basically it’s like flying to France only farther South and not as far East.