American Woman: The other day I had a talk with a colleague about the differences in lifestyle between Senegalese and American twenty-somethings, including the different gender dynamics in our respective societies. Here you can be a 28 year old man and still be considered and treated like a teenager in some respects by your parents - living at home, financially dependent, mom takes care of cooking and laundry...etc. If you are a woman you are expected to stay within the protective confines of your parents' home until you are married and can then move to the home of your husband. Of course there are always exceptions to these rules....I sometimes wonder what people make of Duma, Jeanne, and me - financially independent and living without any protective male figures around to chaperon us. Are we given the benefit of the doubt as foreigners from a different way of life, our we secretly admired for our independence, our we observed with indifference, or our we suspected to be running a brothel? Who knows? I just know that I am feeling extremely grateful for and content with my life these days and wouldn't exchange it for anything. There was a time when I yearned to take on another 'more Senegalese' identity for myself because I had this static, romanticized image of what a 'Senegalese identity' is and was still very discontent with always being 'the American' living overseas. But these days, with Obama close to the White House, and a clearer head about the ever-shifting realities of Senegal and the U.S., I am able to fully accept who I am. I don't mind the fact that I will likely never fit seamlessly into this Senegalese society that I love. The best I can do is to keep drinking my coffee, working hard, supporting Obama, and learning from the experiences of living here. I agree with Michelle, this is the first time in my life I have been really proud to be an American.

Pirouettes & Throwbacks: Like many little girls, my childhood dream was to grow up and become a ballerina. I was pretty serious about this goal up until the age of...oh, maybe 13. I used to parade around the house in ballet slippers and touts-touts, was a ballerina for a Halloween for a few years, and took regular classes up until high school. I think what finally broke the dream for me, besides my waning interest in this relatively rigid classical form of dance, was the realization that this discipline seemed to demand me to be something I'm definitely not: a waif. Of course I had all the support of parents and family, but looking at ballet performances made it clear to me at the time that a certain body type is required. I soon grew out of my childhood fantasy, hung my point shoes as decorations, and took up modern and African dance classes where curves are celebrated.

Looking back, I realize that I just didn't really want to be a ballerina or else I wouldn't have given up so easily. It is hard but still possible to dance without the traditional 'ballerina body.' Even so, the impact of those traditional expectations is real. I have a new friend here, Morgan Ross, who is doing research on just that - the impact of the classical ballet body image on dancers of color, specifically in former French and British colonies. She is a Watson Fellow - for those of you who have not yet graduated from undergrad, this fellowship is amazing and you should all apply - and therefore has a year to travel to an unlimited amount of countries to research something she is passionate about. Since dance is a shared passion of ours, I decided to try to help and put her in touch with my former ballet teacher, a no-pain-no-gain stick-touting French woman named Madame Andree Lorenzetti.

Me and Madame Lorenzetti when I happened upon the dance studio in 2006. She looks exactly the same after 10 years and even now after 12 years...

This is how, earlier tonight, Morgan and I found ourselves in Madame Lorenzetti's adult ballet class, neither of us having taken ballet for some years now, dizzying ourselves with clumsy pirouettes and struggling through painful adagios. It's actually incredible how the dance language (a unique collection of French terms) has stuck with me after all these years. What is even more incredible is the fact that Madame Lorenzetti and a few people in the class totally remember me from when I was ten and still wearing my round, red-rimmed glasses....

I think I'm going to keep the classes up...they are definitely a workout and a challenge. Who knows? I might just be a ballerina after all - a much more well-rounded one, in every respect, than I could have imagined.

Celebrating Ndut in Mount Rolland: Last weekend Duma and I were invited by my work colleague, Serigne, to come to his village to celebrate the codification and formal recognition of his local language, Ndut, as the 19th national language of Senegal. Ndut (pronounced nn-dout), is a Sereer language - Sereer is one of the many ethno-linguistics groups in Senegal and my Senegalese name, Maty Ndao, identifies me as a Sereer. Over the past year Serigne has been on a committee working on the codification and formal government recognition of this language in order to apply for funding for literacy programs and other educational and research-based projects. Achieving the status of a national language is an immense accomplishment, worthy of a three day celebration.

We left Dakar in Serigne's car on Friday afternoon; Serigne and his wife Khaita , Duma, Omar (Serigne's nephew), Maam Khady Madelaine (Serigne's regal mother), and I all fit snugly in the car. After passing through Dakar's congested and polluted suburbs, the lush green countryside was literally a breath of fresh air. We arrived in Mount Rolland, a central hub for 18 surrounding villages, in the early evening. From there we carefully maneuvered Serigne's poor mud-stained car through a maze of corn fields (at one point a group of young men playing soccer had to give us a push), to Ndiaye Bopp, Serigne's homestead. After meeting and greeting Serigne's family, we sat under the stars (a short distance from a tree filled with screeching bats) in a circle of plastic chairs listening to the mixture of French, Wolof, Ndut and chiming in with our limited vocabularies where we could.

At one point Duma got up to get something from our room and returned to her chair. Not realizing the unstable position of the plastic seat on uneven sand, she sat down rather heavily and sent the chair reeling backwards to the horror of our hosts. (Sorry Duma, I had to mention it) Of course I couldn't help but laugh as I checked to see if she was okay. She was fine and laughing as well. I have to hand it to her - there really is no better way to break the ice!

The next day we attended a workshop with Serigne. As part of this three-day celebration, various workshops were organized surrounding different aspects of the Ndut language. This one, attended by a range of invested professionals from the area and us, was the 10-year plan for the future of the language and its use. We were given a handout in order to follow the discussion, which had commenced the previous evening. Interestingly enough and luckily for us, the handout and the discussion were all in French - the language of 'formal matters' in Senegal. Again we sat outside in a circle and listened to the somewhat philosophical debate about which 'actors' should be ultimately responsible for the realization of Ndut educational programs, research on the linguistic group...etc: local collectives with incentives and political mandates or technical organizations on the ground with the skills to actually carry these actions out. Although the discussion was somewhat circular, it was heartwarming to witness this ground-up development in action after being so often disappointed by the common top-down attempts.

Though the conversation was interesting, Duma and I decided to leave and walk from Mount Rolland on the winding paths back to Ndiaye Bopp. It was a nice hour-long trekk. We greeted every person we encountered on the way with our 4 phrases in Ndut:
Wul te - good morning (oy ye -afternoon, yel ne - night)
Oww - response to greeting
Yil te - how are you (i think)
Yil te thies - response (still unsure of literal meaning)

<-- The official celebration shirt: Mi Bap Ndut, May Wone Ndut (I was breastfed Ndut, I will speak Ndut)

The spelling above is probably all wrong - but hopefully some day you will be able to look up the correct version on an online reference site. Anyway, some folks were delighted by our attempts; others stared blankly either because they didn't speak Ndut or, the more likely explanation, we had rendered the pronunciation unrecognizable.

Once back at Ndiaye Bopp we did a lot of lounging around. I realize that the main difference between life in Dakar and life on this farm isn't the farm animals, outhouse and outdoor bucket bath, or even the scary bats - it's really the fact that there is not much to do to pass the time but chores and chatting. The kids, of course, like kids all over the world, find things to keep themselves busy. Our main hosts, Juma and Jam (Serigne's sister and sister-in-law -again, not sure about spelling) were constantly cooking, cleaning, drying crops, feeding chickens and children, and when everything else was done they would sit outside on the plastic chairs and chat. Duma kept saying that the whole feel of the place reminded her of her grandma's farm in Poland. I like to think of the plastic chairs as the Mont Rolland version of the rocking chair or swing on the all-American front porch. I guess no matter what country you're in, country life is country life.

Saturday night, dressed in our taille basses once again, we piled into Serigne's car and headed back to town center for the cultural showcase. When we arrived we were escorted to our seats by a member of the hired security task force (uniformed in black t-shirts boasting 'Security' and camouflage cowboy hats). The outdoor arena was set up how I would imagine (from countless period pieces) a feudal lancing festival in the European Middle Ages would be. There was a ring, around which "the masses" were seated. The master of ceremony was in front of the gathered crowds at the top of the ring, where he was joined by a series of singers, griots, and a band. Then behind him, a covered bleacher was set up to seat all those who were involved in the fight for Ndut to begin with, including us, as Serigne's guests. We sat on the last bench of the 6 level bleachers, while Serigne and other important dignitaries sat in plush velvet armchairs at the front (well deserved, but unfair nevertheless). We knew from the moment we arrived that the ring in the middle of the arena meant we would be treated to a traditional wrestling match. Of course nothing here happens right away, so after a few hours of song and energetic dance, and then another hour of introducing the different wrestlers (who all danced around the ring in their respective unique and entertaining outfits), the fighting began. Now I am not a fan of boxing, Olympic wrestling or WWF craziness - but watching a guy who calls himself Rambo in tiny speedos with a pink head band get taken down by another guy in an uncomfortable looking loin cloth, all live, surrounded by a completely entranced audience, is curiously captivating. We finally left around midnight because we were all worn out - but I hear the party continued till 4 am.

On Sunday we had a late breakfast of coffee, bread with delicious home-grown beans, bread with chocolate, and more bread. Then we headed out once more for the closing ceremony at Mount Rolland. It was long and hot, but very entertaining. Again we sat in the bleachers of honor where I was able to take great photos of the dancing below. After a few closing speeches were made, we headed to lunch with the other VIPs, and eventually set off for home. It took us a full 4 hours to get back to Dakar on what should have been a 2 hour drive. Poor Serigne survived the bumper-to-bumper traffic, Duma slept soundly, drooling on my lap, while I finished reading Eat, Pray, Love (highly recommended). All in all it was a very memorable weekend!

KORITE: The appointed commission of lunar cycle experts confirmed the crescent stage of the moon and declared last Tuesday the end of Ramadan. The official Arabic name of this holiday is Eid ul-Fitr (pronounced Eed-ul-feetree), but in Senegal it is called Korite (pronounced Core-ree-tay). On the eve of Korite, after alerting the students by phone-tree that they would not have classes on Wednesday and Thursday, I went to bed filled with pre-holiday anticipation. Those of you who know me well know that I am a staunch traditionalist when it comes to celebrating holidays (namely Thanksgiving and Christmas). This is possibly due to the traditional focus on food during the festivities; Korite is no different.

On Wednesday we took advantage of the day off to sleep in and catch up on our political news (aka watch Katie Couric's Sarah Palin interview on youtube). After sufficiently expressing our disgust, we put on our taille basses, sculpted our fulaars (head wraps), and scurried out into the midday heat, excited for the feasting ahead. I say scurried, because in a tight-fitting taille basse skirt and heels, scurry is all one can really do. Little did we know that everyone else waits to let the heat pass during the day before dressing up at five in the evening to visit neighbors, family and friends. I'm sure we were a sight: three (possibly Cap Verdienne?) girls teetering along in the heat in our own attempt at boubou bling, looking a little like peacocks caught wandering in a desert. Side note: the abilities to brave extreme heat and laugh at oneself are both key to survival in Senegal.


We made a couple of stops to pick up boxes of pastries and drinks to offer our hosts and then made our way to our various meal invitations. First stop was my former host auntie, Tata Awa, mother of my host sister (or cousin), Yacine. Yacine, now 18 years old, lives with her mother and two younger sisters in their posh apartment with an unobstructed view of Yoff beach and the ocean. Moussou, my 'sister,' who I endearingly call 'sama xol' (my heart, in wolof), was the one who had invited us. She set out a mat for us on the breezy balcony and busily chatted with us and cooked in intervals. First we were served some delicious laax, an oatmeal-like millet served with raisins and a sweet yogurt sauce infused with rose and cardamom. Laax is a special treat, served only on holidays, baptisms and wedding ceremonies.

Me and my Senegalese sisters: Yacine and Moussou

While we digested the laax, we talked, took a series of ridiculous photos and sprawled out on the mats enjoying the ocean breeze. It was one of the most relaxing holiday moments I've had in a while.

Before leaving we were served yet another dish for lunch: a fresh salad and an entree of grilled chicken and grilled goat spiced with garlic and piment (hot red pepper), served with a mouthwatering spicy onion sauce and mustard. This meal knocked us out for another hour and we only managed to escape the void of our own lethargy when we heard talk of dessert. "No, we can't possibly" we insisted, "we still have dinner to go to." It was close to 5pm when we finally left.

The next stop was to visit Duma's former host family in our old neighborhood of Mermoz. There we impressed everyone with our slow recitation of Wolof Korite greetings:

Duma: Baal ma ag (forgive me - for all the year's transgressions)
Courtney: Baal naa la (I forgive you)
Duma: Yallah nanu Yallah bole baal (May God forgive the both of us)

We ended the night having yet another sumptuous meal at the home of our landlord/neighbor, Oumou Ndiaye (she and her family live in the house below us along with one of my students). There we had another fresh salad, coconut chicken, and fried potatoes. Before leaving she handed us a big pot of beef stew and a bag of cere (a local couscous that you can literally feel expanding in your belly) to take home with us.

Tired and overfed we made the treck upstairs to our apartment and, assuring each other that we would get up after napping for a few hours to go out dancing in our traditional outfits (a common activity among young adults on Korite), we each slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*For more details and pics see Duma's blog