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.