This Time For Africa

As of today, I have lived in Dakar for one month.  In this one month I have seen and done so many things, but I can hardly imagine that the three remaining months will be enough—I have so much to learn about and from this place, these people!

This past week has been such a contentedly full one—I learned how to make Senegalese French toast with Mama Fat Kane and attended a political rally with her in support of female entrepreneurialism; I talked for hours with Papy Jo about obstacles to Senegalese education and saw the medal he was awarded for negotiating and securing a grant from the U.S. to start up Senegal’s first five training institutes for teachers; I journeyed downtown and acquired a VISA from the Gambian embassy and took my first week of African dance lessons (boy am I sore!); and today I lazed on the beach after a morning at a bilingual international church…     

On Friday the power was out for 14 consecutive hours, which is a record since I’ve been here.  So that night, out of (vain) hopes of locating a bit of electricity, my brother Max took me with him to visit a friend in nearby Ouakam.  There we climbed a few stories up to the rooftop of his friend’s house; from there I saw rubble on all sides, and Max explained to me that most who live in the surrounding area are doing so “undeclared,” as they are unable to afford to pay for taxes or safety renovations.  To my left, however, I was perplexed to find an entire field of flashing lights, having just driven half an hour through a power-less city…until, that is, a plane flew in just above my head, and I realized we were mere yards away from the airport!  We stayed up there for hours, waving to the incoming planes and holding on to our chairs whenever another one took off.  Max and his friends told me stories about their times abroad, when vendors in France tried to buy their traditional boubous right off their backs to make into tablecloths and napkins, when Max catered pastries for the French president Sarkozy while putting himself through grad school…I heard sad things as well, of people who had died trying to jump onto the planes just above us out of desperation to get away, about various friends who had made it to Europe and never been able to make themselves return, about Max’s own difficulty coming home after eight years in Paris—“But this is my country, my Senegal.  I got my education, and now it is my time to be here, to stay.”

Then last night, as a group of American students headed to a beach party to celebrate our first month here under the stars, we made poor attempts to learn mbalax dance moves from some new friends, and even do-si-do-ed a bit with some people who thought that all Americans square dance!  Well into the night, the African World Cup song began to play, and the entire gathering sang together, “When you get down Get up Oh oh...When you get down Get up eh eh...Tsamina mina zangalewa Anawa aa…This time for Africa!”  Thinking back to Papy Jo’s work to bring a higher standard of education to this next generation, to Mama Fat Kane’s love for her rice and mango fields and her passion for empowering young women to follow in her footsteps, to Max’s determination to be here for Senegal, his country, I kept thinking, yes, yes, I agree!  Unemployment's sky high, power outages increase by the day, and 2.7 million children remain out of school; and yet, talking to people here, you just feel it, that things are happening, change is coming—this is the time for Africa!

A tout à l’heure,

 Janelle

A Kingdom by the Sea

The song of tropical birds.  Giant waves thundering against rocks dramatic enough to be straight out of The Little Mermaid.  Exotic buildings with seashell ensconced walls.  Multicolored mosquito nets that look more like princess canopies than functional insect-trappers.  We spent a dreamlike weekend at Toubab Dialaw, an artist commune, and none of us ever wanted to leave!

Three weeks into the semester, and I think we were all in need of a break.  The first week with my family, I was somewhat of the American novelty—neighboring host families would come to visit, and I could only imagine the ensuing Wolof conversations: “You’ll never believe what my toubab did this time!”  And then the second week came around, and it was if they all begin to realize at once, “Oh. She really lives here now!”  Making the transition from entertaining visitor to actual daughter and sister has been an interesting process—especially as the family has gone through its own changes, what with Korité over and people heading back to homes in France, Mauritania, and northern Senegal.  Last week, I shared a home with mothering albeit bossy older sisters along with their passel of children; now it’s just me and my parents, my 30 year-old brother Max, and two newly arrived cousins my age from Mauritania, Baba and Ibrahima. 

One of the towers of our hotel

After an idyllic weekend of swimming in the Atlantic, taking Batik painting lessons, and following up a spectacle of drumming and dance with a moonlit stroll on the beach, it was a little hard to imagine going back to the dusty, bustling chaos of Dakar.  I had thought Dakar was the ultimate “mélange” of life, but now I am seeing Senegal itself as one of those puzzles from a Highlights magazine (remember those from elementary school?) where you have to find the images that do not belong in the scene.  Except here the incredible thing is that it all does belong.  This remote, serene beachside kingdom of artists and expats; Dakar with its Mercedes and horse-and-buggies alike—they’re both Senegal, and I absolutely love it!

Saturday morning before I left the city, I made some joke to Papy Jo about how I was sure to enjoy Toubab Dialaw as I myself am a toubab (the Wolof word for foreigner).  Immediately Papy Jo shook his head, insisting, “No, my daughter, you are not a toubab!”  Thinking he meant that because I was part of his family, I was pretty touched.  That is, until he continued by explaining that historically only the French are toubabs and I am actually a “Caine,” short for the French word americaine.  So it looks like I have just traded one slur for another—but hey, at least now I can properly correct all the street vendors that hiss, “toubab, toubab, toubab” as I walk by…or maybe not!

Till Next Time,

Janelle—the Caine

The view from our porch at Touabab Dialaw

Milestones: My Very First Sheep Slaughter



 


Some of the kids and I on Korité

I wish I could begin to explain the blur that has been my life these past few days! With each new experience, each new acquaintance, I begin to think now I understand Dakar, now I know what the city is all about…and then it goes and proves me wrong, showing me yet another one of its dizzily unique facets.

My niece Saphi in the courtyard of our home

Wednesday was Korité and by far the most unusual, albeit wonderful, day I have had here so far.  I woke up at 7:30 with my older sisters to make a steamy cauldron full of porridge-like stuff they called monkey bread…and whose leftovers the maid later proceeded to help me bury in the backyard so that people would stop commanding me to eat!  The rest of the morning was spent on the roof cutting up vegetables of all sorts for a sauce to go with the sheep the men were busy preparing.  I had the good fortune (or so my brothers tell me) of arriving on the terrace just in time to see its head severed from its body…and perhaps the worst part of this story is that I was still able to thoroughly enjoy eating our celebratory lunch of mutton and French fries!

Throughout the next few hours a steady stream of visitors arrived—as Papy Jo is one of the oldest and most respected men in the immediate vicinity, everyone came to us, so the day flew by with lots of hand-shaking and salaam-aalekum-ing/greeting. Just as soon as I figured things were about to quiet down for the night, a posse of elegantly dressed Senegalese women stopped by and eventually a whole group of our family left with them for what I imagined to be a short walk.  And hence my surprise when we arrived at the end of the neighborhood, only to have stopped in front of an electronic bumper car arena, the type of attraction I would expect to find in Six Flags, but certainly not in a residential area in Senegal.  It made for a pretty surreal ending of my day, playing bumper cars in Dakar with a whole group of women in prom-like dresses…and at midnight, no less!  Definitely a Korité to remember!



Ile de Gorée


In the days following, I have eaten at an Ethiopian restaurant on a rooftop terrace strongly resembling something out of Aladdin for a friend’s birthday; I went to my first big soccer game,  the qualifying match for the African Cup and watched our team win (go Lions of Teranga, aka Hospitable Lions!); I wandered the beautiful beaches of Ile de Gorée, home to both communities of artists and the infamous Maison des Esclaves (former slave trade holding place); and last night I helped throw a neighborhood-wide birthday party for my now two-year old “niece”!  All in all, it’s been a week!  An overwhelming, exhausting, exhilarating week, and yet the funny thing is that soon this will all be normal, soon this will all be routine…at least that’s what I keep telling myself!  In the meantime though, I am prepared to eat a lot, be stressed out a little, and laugh at myself always!

Yours Truly,

Amy Diallo/ Janelle  
 

Standing on the western-most point of Africa



My New Home

My room, mosquito net and all!

The view from our terrace

My nephew Mamadoux, in front of our rooftop pavilion