On another note....In defense of Salsa Dancing: Last night I danced the night away with friends to a live Orchestre Baobab performance. ("Ramadan's a-comin - got to get your fun in while you can" seems to be a popular sentiment right now). I'm not sure how familiar people are with Orchestre Baobab, but many of their classics have very latin-sounding rhythms (which, of course, are just cyclng back to their African roots). So the main way to dance the night away to Orchestre Baobab is to salsa with a partner. Now although dancing face to face with a partner does make one vulnerable to sweaty, hairy-chested, old French men approaching you out of nowhere, it also has many social and artistic advantages. To name a few: 1) Conversation: Conversation actually precedes physical contact in this alternate universe of dancing! Men actually approach women, offer a hand, and ask. From there the possibilities for further verbal exchange are limitless: "I'm Christian from Berkley. I work for a women's microfinance NGO.... I'm Courtney .... I have 53 students who arrived last week....etc." 2) Dance Steps: You can either know what you're doing ahead of time or learn as you go, following the lead of your partner (who you can see!). 3) Twirls and other fun surprises: If you are lucky to have a good partner who knows how to dance you will be twirled, dipped, and whipped around like it's nothing. Your partner can make you look good. Plus there is always room for little garnishes of hand movements, dramatic facial expressions and head tosses.

This, silly as it may seem to readers over 40, is my defense of a breed of social dancing that seems to be dying. Young people: Keep hope alive! Take a salsa class and download some Orchestre Baobab.

C'est tout.

Oh, and I totally have my parents to thank for teaching me what dancing with someone should be. Mom and Dad, thanks for that (and everything else too, of course).

Journal Entry/Musings on Religion: This week marks the beginning of Ramadan, that holiest of months in Islam, which just happens to coincide with one of the hottest months in Dakar. Islam is so alive and visible here; it will be interesting to be in a city of believers while they collectively practice this challenging ritual. In Dakar Islam has a soothing and rhythmic presence, like the predictable yet subtle change in seasons in New York. Prayer calls boom from mosque speakers reminding the faithful to stop what they are doing, wash up, pull out their mats, and kneel in devout meditations. On Fridays especially, the main mosque in Mermoz overflows with men in their brightly colored robes bowing heads to mats in a wave that covers sidewalks and storefronts. I admire this sense of oneness that is palpable even to me, the spiritual but unreligious onlooker. There is also something that gets to me in the urgency of the call, the rush to the mosque, the ability to keep appointments with God several times a day, every single day regardless of plans, location, and convenience. I recently spoke to Felicia about religion in another long-winded discussion. Something she said stuck with me; something like this "Going to church for me is like a spiritual alarm clock. It is an appointment I keep to meditate and devote time completely to my spiritual health. God doesn't need me to keep this appointment, but I surely do." I think this may be true for many churchgoers and for people who heed the mosque's call to prayer. On the one hand I appreciate (from the outside) Islam's relatively flexible stance on location (wherever you can fit your prayer mat), but on the other hand it seems overly structured and rigid to "set the alarm" for five specific times throughout the day. Shouldn't the goal of all spiritual beings be to never need an "alarm," to be constantly "awake" so to speak? These are the sorts of questions I think about here up on the terrace on the eve of Ramadan. Luckily I chose to sit under the thatched roof with my laptop because it just rained (we've had a ridiculous amount of rain lately....climate change...but that's for another post). This is the first time in a long while that I've seen (or noticed) a rainbow. It's here now spread across the sky like a giant post-it reminding me that not all things beautiful need understanding. I guess we can all use alarm clocks and reminders once in a while.....

Spain or Death - August 18th (posted late due to lack of electricity - C'est la vie): It's a quarter to eleven on this side of the earth. I've just finished a meal of stewed lentils (a la Jeanne) and mango-tomato adjeke (cassava-based couscous, a la my own concoction with the help of Marcus Samuelson - thanks CB!). I'm out on the terrace with a glass of white wine during a pause in one of my long, enlightening discussions with our resident scholar, Felicia Anonyuo. Last night we talked about womanism, race, immigration, Alice Walker (I got just a tad defensive), and how the West views Africa. Tonight we've been talking about her dig through the archives here in Dakar where she found a book, "Une conquête morale," (A Moral Conquest) written in 1917 by French colonial scholar, Georges Hardy. She is going absolutely nuts over this text because it is just what she needs to show the intention behind the psychological colonization she is arguing is at the root of the tragic 'Spain or Death' mentality of many young Africans. The mainstream explanation for suicidal immigration attempts is wholly economic. Felicia's argument is that if one of the principals of economic theory is that we are rational actors who make rational decisions in our own best interest, then why in the world would someone risk death for the chance to join a peripheral work force in a foreign country? The missing piece, the factor the media has failed to recall, is the history of colonial brainwashing through which Africans were unconsciously made to believe that Europe is paradise. I can't wait to hear about what Felicia ultimately finds (after Dakar she spend 4 months in Nigeria too). Now here I am writing about how much I love Senegal (I secretly hope to someday discover that I am from here originally), and yet so many young Senegalese are desperate to escape from what they see as a hopeless situation. The disparity between me and them and their loss of faith in the growth and potential in everything their own is really sad... Sorry to end on such a downer, but it's important to note that even though I do love Senegal and am a natural optimist, every place has it's problems ranging from the mundane (daily power cuts) to the overwhelming.

Dear Family and Friends/ The meaning of Firi: So today during my daily two-hour Wolof class, my teacher, Fatou, asked me to describe some of the differences between Senegal and other places I've lived. Why, she asked, do you have such a unique connection to this country? In so many jumbled Wolof sentences I tried to explain the sense I have here of being completely at ease. That's when she brought up this perfect term, Firi, which literally means to unbraid one's hair. Imagine! It's pretty incredible how such an unpretentious, little word manages to capture so much meaning and articulate my affinity for Senegal. I want to share this sentiment with you - so welcome to this interactive space. Please do not hesitate to make yourself at home here. Post! Reply! Comment! Enjoy! Jamm ak xamxam (Peace and Wisdom), Courtney

Journal Entry/ August 11th, 2008/ Home: This is the first time in my life that I have ventured out to make a unique home for myself (with some permanence) without my family. I say with 'some permanence' because I know and believe that change/creation is the only constant, and my life in particular has always been a cycle of shifting from home to home. I've realized over the years that I have many homes (as obvious as it sounds) - one for each aspect of my multi-dimensional being. After five years in frantic New York, where the cold can bite through skin and slowly gnaw at one's ability to see beyond the snowy path and months ahead, my body, mind and spirit yearned to return to Senegal. Here, through a persistent layer of dust and sweat, I feel a much larger weight lifted. Je me sens à l’aise .