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…