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.