We flew from Delhi to Dubai. We never left the airport but I saw the palm tree islands, the Burj Khalifa, and the silly blue suits worn by all the duty free employees. The spectacle of it all is so absurd. Smug city.
The flight from Dubai to Dakar took eleven hours, two hours extra because we routed around Libya (a precaution taken by emirates even before the no fly zone was put in place). I had a fever. The seats jut out into your lower spine, a serious design flaw. It blew. Don't fly with fevers. Or with an upset stomach. I saw a movie about Rachel McAdams saving a morning news show, it was mildly entertaining. She's very pretty.
Landing in Dakar was the ultimate relief. Not only did we finally get off the least comfortable flight of my life but we were in Dakar. We were greeted with soft sun, a sea breeze, and the realization that hectic was relative. After Delhi, Dakar was visiting Bopa and Nana in San Marino: a fresh breath in the burbs and the aura of relaxation. The average rainfall in march is zero nanometers. Zero. None. Ever. The likelihood of sunshine is 100 percent. Everyday. There are a mere 1.2 million people here. A very manageable number. I was with that many people in most subway cars in Delhi. Delhi has more people than the entire country of Senegal, a country known for its peanut exports and Akon. Everyone speaks Wolof and French. Time is not money, it's relationships, and greeting everybody you see is a must if you want to feel welcome, so shake some hands and don't expect to get anywhere on time. A smile and a bonjour get you half cred. But a Salaam Maalekun and a Nanga Def followed by ten minutes of Butchered wolof gets you farther.
Everybody is 6 feet tall and ripped. The entire city works out daily, whether its running on the beach, soccer or basketball in the neighborhoods, or wrestling everywhere the general population is sweating. This is a city of athletes. I need to do more push ups. One of my homestay brothers wants to go running with me. Last time he ran he was gone for two hours. I asked to him to show me where he ran on a map, he pointed to other side of the city. I don't think I can run with him, though if I try to keep up with Julia a few times a week I might manage.
My new homestay family has 15 people living in the home and more that just kick it. On the first day I met three cousins, four family friends, and a the family tailor who all happened to be chilling in the house. I'm actually still not totally sure who actually lives in the home. Seven of the fifteen are twenty five year old men. Three of them speak a bit of english and have therefore become my main connections in the house. Paupo speaks the best english, he married the last American that stayed with his family, she lives in Oregon. he's trying to get papers. Cisco is a super smiley dude and although we lack the ability the have an in depth conversation we are very good a laughing at our inability to have an in depth conversation. Facari is the baby of the house at 22, we bond over dancing. My interactions with the rest of the household go like this- everyday in arabic I say "Peace be with you" then they say "peace be with you" and then in french I say "how are you" and they response "I'm fine", and then in wolof I say "how was your day" and they respond "It was good" and then they say something besides, "hello", "what is this?", or "my name is Dylan", and I make an awkward face and in english say "I have no idea what you're saying". Then we both laugh and I go upstairs.
The power to our neighborhood often goes out. Collin (my homestay brother, a goof among goofs) and I call these instances 'required reflection', multiple hour long opportunities to think about our experiences in the dark. At least we can see the stars. I'm looking at you Los Angeles.
Wrestling is a big deal here. You can punch, kick, give mega wedgies, and pinch but you can't use your elbows or teeth (it's a civilized sport after all). If your butt, back, or knees and both hands ever hit the ground then you lose. Collin wrestled a kid half his size on the beach, the kid won in two out of three. Just to reiterate, every male in Dakar is mad ripped. Collin now knows this.
There are lot of mosquitos here. Every morning I wake up with a few new reminders to take my malaria pills.
The Dakar IHP schedule is grueling, the first week we faced 8 to 8 days. At our last Chocolate section a good deal of the group made it clear that we as a group are physically and emotionally incapable of keeping this pace. A typical day goes as so- wake up at seven, breakfast of baguette and coffee (everyday without fail), walk twenty minutes to class, wolof lesson for a half hour, an hour long lecture by a Senegalese professor with a translator, a debrief of something we did the day before, a faculty session, lunch, and then we go on assignment somewhere in the city. Its grueling but it's good. Friday night I was going to go catch some live music and hit the clubs but accidentally fell asleep for eleven hours.
Did go out Saturday though. Most of the dance music was latin american. Although its become clear that Justin Beiber has taken over the world. You can't go anywhere on this planet and not hear 'baby'. They didn't even play Akon, no love for the local.
At our homestay we eat half of our dinners communally. You can't use your left hand, it's the dirty hand. I was already chastised once. I struggle with my right, dropping food all over my neighbors. Really though, most Americans wipe etc. with their dominant hands so really most Americans eat with their dirty hands. But the Senegalese let it go. Or maybe they just don't know.
Saw a guy wearing this shirt http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://rlv.zcache.com/9_eleven_9_11_merica_funny_tshirt-p235661672657695366v36r7_75.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.zazzle.com/9_eleven_9_11_merica_funny_tshirt-235661672657695366&usg=__1TyM_M7fcNTHAcOmnuCwhoTDyNE=&h=75&w=75&sz=4&hl=en&start=0&sig2=c0h6LBlvPGZB3W2FqtsXYw&zoom=0&tbnid=ZLhMHB9_Tw951M:&tbnh=71&tbnw=71&ei=dOqITcKANISeOoGk3LwN&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dseven%2Beleven%2B9/11%2Bshirt%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26biw%3D1440%26bih%3D785%26tbs%3Disch:1&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=886&vpy=168&dur=3102&hovh=71&hovw=71&tx=85&ty=55&oei=dOqITcKANISeOoGk3LwN&page=1&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:0. Yikes. Most of the Senegalese don't seem to hate Americans though. I get all positive responses when I tell people I'm from the US. The Senegalese word for hospitality is terenga and it's seriously a way of life here. There are no stangers, just guests, and guests are treated well. But really, that guy wearing the shirt!? Who even makes those, brutal.
We've been eating double for the past week without knowing it. When we didn't eat with the rest of the family, we would be brought a large dish of food. We would struggle to eat most of it and then strategically spread the remains on the plate to look like we ate more then we did. Five minutes later we'd get a knock at our door and another huge plate of food (usually a fish) would be given to us. After three days, one of the non-in-house family members asked us why we don't come home for lunch. It was then we realized that they'd make us lunch everyday (that we wouldn't eat because we'd be in class) and then serve it to us after our dinner. It was those fish that had been left out for seven hours everyday that probably was responsible for the state of my bowels each of the following mornings (shout out to Willie who missed the poop talk). Anyway, we told them to never make us lunch because we'd never be home. We were very happy to have figured it out. Two days later after a delicious beef plate that absolutely stuffed us (beef tastes extra good after a five week India induced beef hiatus) we get a knock at the door. Collin answered and looked back at me in horror. "She did this!" he cried, as he shook his hand at his mouth. We went downstairs and saw that we were expected to join another large communal meal. We ate to the brink of explosion as to not offend our family. We told them again we never want lunch. Success of our suggestion is still to be determined.
This weekend I went to two islands. The first island is uninhabited. We paid a fisherman 5000 cfa each to take us a mile off shore to the island on his terrifyingly wobbly canoe. Besides a few hundred birds and a brief visit by three french ladies who stuck to their side of the island we were alone. If you've never had your island I highly recommend it. We climbed rocks, discovered a new type of fish we named the marlypus in honor of Marly's birthday, had lunch under a baoboab tree, and swam/tanned/BURNED at our own beach. A great day. Note: my malaria medication's only side affect is that it makes my skin extremely sensitive to the sun. I've never been so lobstered in my life. Discovered: there is no such thing as aloe vera in Dakar. I'm not even sure they have a word for sunburn in Wolof. After four days of carrying my backpack, necessary because it's too painful to wear on my back, I hear I have a nice tan coming on.
The second island was Goree Island. An old post of the slave trade. We saw the slave house where slaves were kept until they were put onto ships. Tourists come to take pictures in the gate of no return. I don't know how I feel about that. The island has become a spot for "cultural" art and sandwiches on the beach. There was also a museum with fake bones. An inportant site taken over by tourism entreprenuers. It was kinda weird.
During market day yesterday I was tracing back supply chains for some fly kicks found in Colobane and was led to a Chinese vendor a mile from the market. I asked questions in english to my translator who spoke french to the Senegalese shop worker who spoke mandarin to the Chinese shop owner, and we'd swing back when the Chinese guy named Mohhamad answered. It was not only informative, but hilarious. Especially when we started joking about David's supposed Japaneseness. It was five dudes hanging out, cracking jokes, in three languages. Four if you count Wolof which the Chinese guy knew well enough to sometimes speak to Balde, our translator. Jokes would take a while to get through, but when it hit laughter was synchronized.
No pics this time, can't figure out how to put photos on the West African Research Center's computers. IHP people have been putting photos up on facebook, so if you're interested look out for those. I still need to find the link to Marshall or Liz's flicker. They have the goods.
My march madness bracket is doing alright. The Purdue loss hurt, but I'm in second place in the IHP pool. When San Diego State wins the whole thing I'll be collecting bills from everyone.
The flight from Dubai to Dakar took eleven hours, two hours extra because we routed around Libya (a precaution taken by emirates even before the no fly zone was put in place). I had a fever. The seats jut out into your lower spine, a serious design flaw. It blew. Don't fly with fevers. Or with an upset stomach. I saw a movie about Rachel McAdams saving a morning news show, it was mildly entertaining. She's very pretty.
Landing in Dakar was the ultimate relief. Not only did we finally get off the least comfortable flight of my life but we were in Dakar. We were greeted with soft sun, a sea breeze, and the realization that hectic was relative. After Delhi, Dakar was visiting Bopa and Nana in San Marino: a fresh breath in the burbs and the aura of relaxation. The average rainfall in march is zero nanometers. Zero. None. Ever. The likelihood of sunshine is 100 percent. Everyday. There are a mere 1.2 million people here. A very manageable number. I was with that many people in most subway cars in Delhi. Delhi has more people than the entire country of Senegal, a country known for its peanut exports and Akon. Everyone speaks Wolof and French. Time is not money, it's relationships, and greeting everybody you see is a must if you want to feel welcome, so shake some hands and don't expect to get anywhere on time. A smile and a bonjour get you half cred. But a Salaam Maalekun and a Nanga Def followed by ten minutes of Butchered wolof gets you farther.
Everybody is 6 feet tall and ripped. The entire city works out daily, whether its running on the beach, soccer or basketball in the neighborhoods, or wrestling everywhere the general population is sweating. This is a city of athletes. I need to do more push ups. One of my homestay brothers wants to go running with me. Last time he ran he was gone for two hours. I asked to him to show me where he ran on a map, he pointed to other side of the city. I don't think I can run with him, though if I try to keep up with Julia a few times a week I might manage.
My new homestay family has 15 people living in the home and more that just kick it. On the first day I met three cousins, four family friends, and a the family tailor who all happened to be chilling in the house. I'm actually still not totally sure who actually lives in the home. Seven of the fifteen are twenty five year old men. Three of them speak a bit of english and have therefore become my main connections in the house. Paupo speaks the best english, he married the last American that stayed with his family, she lives in Oregon. he's trying to get papers. Cisco is a super smiley dude and although we lack the ability the have an in depth conversation we are very good a laughing at our inability to have an in depth conversation. Facari is the baby of the house at 22, we bond over dancing. My interactions with the rest of the household go like this- everyday in arabic I say "Peace be with you" then they say "peace be with you" and then in french I say "how are you" and they response "I'm fine", and then in wolof I say "how was your day" and they respond "It was good" and then they say something besides, "hello", "what is this?", or "my name is Dylan", and I make an awkward face and in english say "I have no idea what you're saying". Then we both laugh and I go upstairs.
The power to our neighborhood often goes out. Collin (my homestay brother, a goof among goofs) and I call these instances 'required reflection', multiple hour long opportunities to think about our experiences in the dark. At least we can see the stars. I'm looking at you Los Angeles.
Wrestling is a big deal here. You can punch, kick, give mega wedgies, and pinch but you can't use your elbows or teeth (it's a civilized sport after all). If your butt, back, or knees and both hands ever hit the ground then you lose. Collin wrestled a kid half his size on the beach, the kid won in two out of three. Just to reiterate, every male in Dakar is mad ripped. Collin now knows this.
There are lot of mosquitos here. Every morning I wake up with a few new reminders to take my malaria pills.
The Dakar IHP schedule is grueling, the first week we faced 8 to 8 days. At our last Chocolate section a good deal of the group made it clear that we as a group are physically and emotionally incapable of keeping this pace. A typical day goes as so- wake up at seven, breakfast of baguette and coffee (everyday without fail), walk twenty minutes to class, wolof lesson for a half hour, an hour long lecture by a Senegalese professor with a translator, a debrief of something we did the day before, a faculty session, lunch, and then we go on assignment somewhere in the city. Its grueling but it's good. Friday night I was going to go catch some live music and hit the clubs but accidentally fell asleep for eleven hours.
Did go out Saturday though. Most of the dance music was latin american. Although its become clear that Justin Beiber has taken over the world. You can't go anywhere on this planet and not hear 'baby'. They didn't even play Akon, no love for the local.
At our homestay we eat half of our dinners communally. You can't use your left hand, it's the dirty hand. I was already chastised once. I struggle with my right, dropping food all over my neighbors. Really though, most Americans wipe etc. with their dominant hands so really most Americans eat with their dirty hands. But the Senegalese let it go. Or maybe they just don't know.
Saw a guy wearing this shirt http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://rlv.zcache.com/9_eleven_9_11_merica_funny_tshirt-p235661672657695366v36r7_75.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.zazzle.com/9_eleven_9_11_merica_funny_tshirt-235661672657695366&usg=__1TyM_M7fcNTHAcOmnuCwhoTDyNE=&h=75&w=75&sz=4&hl=en&start=0&sig2=c0h6LBlvPGZB3W2FqtsXYw&zoom=0&tbnid=ZLhMHB9_Tw951M:&tbnh=71&tbnw=71&ei=dOqITcKANISeOoGk3LwN&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dseven%2Beleven%2B9/11%2Bshirt%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26biw%3D1440%26bih%3D785%26tbs%3Disch:1&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=886&vpy=168&dur=3102&hovh=71&hovw=71&tx=85&ty=55&oei=dOqITcKANISeOoGk3LwN&page=1&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:0. Yikes. Most of the Senegalese don't seem to hate Americans though. I get all positive responses when I tell people I'm from the US. The Senegalese word for hospitality is terenga and it's seriously a way of life here. There are no stangers, just guests, and guests are treated well. But really, that guy wearing the shirt!? Who even makes those, brutal.
We've been eating double for the past week without knowing it. When we didn't eat with the rest of the family, we would be brought a large dish of food. We would struggle to eat most of it and then strategically spread the remains on the plate to look like we ate more then we did. Five minutes later we'd get a knock at our door and another huge plate of food (usually a fish) would be given to us. After three days, one of the non-in-house family members asked us why we don't come home for lunch. It was then we realized that they'd make us lunch everyday (that we wouldn't eat because we'd be in class) and then serve it to us after our dinner. It was those fish that had been left out for seven hours everyday that probably was responsible for the state of my bowels each of the following mornings (shout out to Willie who missed the poop talk). Anyway, we told them to never make us lunch because we'd never be home. We were very happy to have figured it out. Two days later after a delicious beef plate that absolutely stuffed us (beef tastes extra good after a five week India induced beef hiatus) we get a knock at the door. Collin answered and looked back at me in horror. "She did this!" he cried, as he shook his hand at his mouth. We went downstairs and saw that we were expected to join another large communal meal. We ate to the brink of explosion as to not offend our family. We told them again we never want lunch. Success of our suggestion is still to be determined.
This weekend I went to two islands. The first island is uninhabited. We paid a fisherman 5000 cfa each to take us a mile off shore to the island on his terrifyingly wobbly canoe. Besides a few hundred birds and a brief visit by three french ladies who stuck to their side of the island we were alone. If you've never had your island I highly recommend it. We climbed rocks, discovered a new type of fish we named the marlypus in honor of Marly's birthday, had lunch under a baoboab tree, and swam/tanned/BURNED at our own beach. A great day. Note: my malaria medication's only side affect is that it makes my skin extremely sensitive to the sun. I've never been so lobstered in my life. Discovered: there is no such thing as aloe vera in Dakar. I'm not even sure they have a word for sunburn in Wolof. After four days of carrying my backpack, necessary because it's too painful to wear on my back, I hear I have a nice tan coming on.
The second island was Goree Island. An old post of the slave trade. We saw the slave house where slaves were kept until they were put onto ships. Tourists come to take pictures in the gate of no return. I don't know how I feel about that. The island has become a spot for "cultural" art and sandwiches on the beach. There was also a museum with fake bones. An inportant site taken over by tourism entreprenuers. It was kinda weird.
During market day yesterday I was tracing back supply chains for some fly kicks found in Colobane and was led to a Chinese vendor a mile from the market. I asked questions in english to my translator who spoke french to the Senegalese shop worker who spoke mandarin to the Chinese shop owner, and we'd swing back when the Chinese guy named Mohhamad answered. It was not only informative, but hilarious. Especially when we started joking about David's supposed Japaneseness. It was five dudes hanging out, cracking jokes, in three languages. Four if you count Wolof which the Chinese guy knew well enough to sometimes speak to Balde, our translator. Jokes would take a while to get through, but when it hit laughter was synchronized.
No pics this time, can't figure out how to put photos on the West African Research Center's computers. IHP people have been putting photos up on facebook, so if you're interested look out for those. I still need to find the link to Marshall or Liz's flicker. They have the goods.
My march madness bracket is doing alright. The Purdue loss hurt, but I'm in second place in the IHP pool. When San Diego State wins the whole thing I'll be collecting bills from everyone.
