Firi

2010-04-13T07:15:00.000-07:00

An Update: Somewhat disjointed, but comprehensive nonetheless...

April 4th: My last entry on "Africa @50" was full of optimism and energy, none of which characterize my sentiments during Senegal's 50th Independence Day celebration last weekend. To fully understand my frustration, you must have a sense of the potential that lay within this historic moment - something I touched on in my last blog post. Instead of using this moment for introspection, the celebration was President Abdoulaye Wade's egotistical display of profane, self-congratulatory back-patting. He, with use of public funds, apparently paid for the travel of several heads of state and dignitaries including a delegation from New York featuring none other than Jesse Jackson and the head of the NAACP, to attend the inauguration of his disgusting statue. The statue, by the way, has been lit with what look like disco lights that use up so much energy that we, in Ouakam, had nightly black-outs averaging about 3-5 hours for two weeks leading up to the inauguration. Needless to say I was disappointed to hear about Jesse Jackson and company. It seems that folks have become so caught up with grand gestures, they have forgotten (or don't care) to do their research to insure that the ends justify the means.

Set Setal, Take 2: On March 28th my little corner of Ouakam (Cite Assemblee) held its second Set Setal since my arrival. After a couple of months of theoretical planning with the Set Setal crew (Papis, Malang, Mustafa, Tamsir & Vicky), and a couple of weeks of rushed preparation (including a couple of days of absolute mayhem), the big day finally arrived. Like the last time, I woke up after too few hours of sleep unsure of how many of the hundreds of neighbors we had solicited would actually show up. The beginning was slow and after the first hour we had only attracted a group of hard-working kids. Eventually, with the sound system set up and music blazing, the adults joined in. The artists we had invited painted beautiful murals on the 3 walls we targeted and prepared. Overall the set setal was wildly successful. A little fun fact: 2STV, a local news station, showed up and my 15-second interview was shown that evening. A photographer friend was there to capture all of the beautiful images of the day and we plan to collaborate to put together an exhibition of the photos in the neighborhood before I leave. I will have images to share after that!

A note on Love: I have gone through a somewhat rough period recently, but have come out stronger than ever. Today I find myself wondering less and less frequently about whether or not my feelings make sense or whether they are 'possible' at such a fast rate. All of these abstract notions, 'sense' and 'possibility' have been stretched to their modest limits over the past couple of weeks and they no longer serve as my points of reference. I feel like if my life were a graph, its curve is on a steady incline into God's realm where human-constructed obstacles fall away allowing for love to thrive at its purest. I realize, for the first time in my life, that love is less of a state of being, and more of an ongoing series of decisions and actions with blissful, wholly self-gratifying results.

The Countdown: It's official. This coming fall I will be starting a joint MBA-Public Policy degree at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh! It has been a long, exhausting, but worthwhile process. I have been awarded both a merit scholarship and a full-tuition Fellowship. So many people have been generous with their time and energy in supporting me through this period - thank you so much, I am deeply grateful. I find it fitting that the admitted MBA student website is called "the Countdown." I imagine that this name captures the bittersweet anticipation felt by many of members of the class of 2012. I, for one, feel very torn. Part of me is already there reveling in the new forms of intellectual stimulation, nesting in a new apartment and city, already making plans to bring peers on an MBA trek to Senegal..etc. Part of me wants to stay here and enjoy the fruit of the many rich relationships I have cultivated over the past two years. But there is no stopping or slowing down in this world. I am excited for the change of pace and I look forward to being able to return to Senegal with more to offer than my many ideas and good intentions.

2010-02-17T10:23:00.000-08:00

AFRICAN INDEPENDENCE @50: In 1960, referred to by some as "The Year of Africa," 17 African states gained their independence, following the lead of Ghana in 1957. Among them, Senegal is now celebrating its 50th year of independence. It is something to be celebrated, but also an appropriate moment to pause, honestly discuss the state of affairs and envision a path forward. This is not only important in terms of the country and continent's economical development, but also its strategic position in the world, its unity, its role in global affairs (i.e. Haiti crisis), etc. There is much to be decided, much to be acted upon. Here I'd like to share my vision of tomorrow's "Africa", in abstract. My toast to Africa and her brilliant future.

I see a land of unlimited potential. One of the most frustrating things to come to terms with is being without electricity in a country where there is almost always sunshine and wind from the Atlantic. I see future urban and rural landscapes powered by energy expertly harvested (by Africans) from the sun and wind. I envision renewable energy training facilities to prepare for and fill the inevitable plethora of green jobs created by a new sustainability policy adhered to by the public and private sectors and subsidized by the government.

A more specific example of how this eco-friendly vision could be manifested in Dakar: Every fall Dakar and its poor suburbs flood, displacing thousands of families, disrupting micro-economies, and causing a public health nightmare. This happens every year and yet the government acts like it has been caught completely off guard each time. I see a government, led by innovative leaders who are willing to listen to the needs of the population, hosting an international forum of eco-friendly design, urban planning, and crisis management to come up with a creative and sustainable solution to this problem (and possibly channeling the rainwater in a more productive way). This, in my mind, is the most ideal type of private-public partnership, one in which partners are on equal terms. Should the World Bank or any other traditional creditor wish to fund it, they would be welcomed under a whole new set of equitable terms (and would be less likely to be reincarnated as dung beetles in future lives :-P).

I envision a return to subsistence agriculture, in the sense that national and intra-continental policies focus on developing African agricultural sectors to meet popular needs rather than exporting European-determined cash crops and importing rice from Thailand, cotton products from the U.S., chocolate from Europe...etc. This would mean building up a manufacturing sector to produce finished products instead of exporting raw goods (only to buy them back in plastic wrapping and at higher prices). Whether through "a more perfect" African Union similar to the EU, with its policies of economic fluidity and protectionism, or through loose trade agreements that favor intra-contenental deals above inter-contenental ones. It's about time Africa acted selfishly.

It is already clear that, ironically, the continent's general lack of communications infrastructure has allowed it to leap frog into the world of wireless tech free from the burden of cables and landlines. I see a future of more mobile banking, wireless public computer terminals,and wireless innovation in the education, public health, good governance (anti-corruption), and local business development sectors. Imagine being able to report, by cell phone, any public servant requesting a bribe with a guarantee of immediate follow up. Public access to information and resources is a pre-requisite for governmental transparency. Here is an example of wireless and mobile technology being used by citizens from Kenya, Ghana, South Africa...etc to respond to situations of social unrest and, more recently, Haiti's earthquake response.

Others have already started building an Africa in which the best and brightest young minds are not shipped overseas to be trained within Euro-centric academic settings. I foresee a rich network of schools like the African Leadership Academy, offering an alternative to secondary education in Europe and the U.S. and promoting leadership, social entrepreneurship, and a do-it-yourself attitude towards problem solving. Beyond the practical skill-set promoted in these new centers of learning, the academic curricula will focus on African histories, languages, arts, scientific discoveries, academics...etc. And for those who cannot afford private education, publicly funded schools that provide both academic and vocational training with an emphasis on homegrown industries including green jobs, tech, manufacturing, and social enterprise.

Lastly, I see an Africa sure of herself and her image abroad. She is not the stereotypical "mama Africa" often cast as overly maternal (always thinking and caring for others, not herself), and a little outdated. She is strong, independent, young and trendy. She does not need to explain herself to others, nor does she need to be revitalized, for she is all that is fresh. I see this in the arts, particularly in the growing fashion scene, design, and social media. I hope to see more of this in the way Africa presents herself to the world proactively rather than being (mis)represented by others. This does not necessarily mean denying any faults and making grandiose gestures beyond her means (i.e. Wade to Haitians), but portraying a more holistic and up-to-date image of Africa's many realities.

I could go on and there will no doubt be more added in future posts. I'm truly excited by this rich potential and eager to get my MBA and jump into the process of realizing this vision that I believe is shared by many. I know these points are somewhat simply stated, but they are meant to just give a taste of what can and, I'm sure, will be. It is also important to note that I've chosen to only focus on what Africa herself should do - I have plenty of other recommendations to external actors who have, in many ways, set the continent back within the last 50 years. But we are not limited to finger-pointing. We are too fabulous and full of future potential for that.

Whether or not you are African, you've traveled to part of Africa, or are deeply familiar with Senegal or any other countries on this mighty continent, you can still envision some aspect of its future. Perhaps a different representation in the U.S.? Maybe stronger diaspora relations? More African-based opportunities for inter-cultural exchange? What is your 50th "African Independence" celebration wish?

2010-02-04T09:03:00.000-08:00

Haïti: The absolute destruction and desolation caused by the recent earthquake in Haiti has really touched me. I think this event has struck a profound chord because of Haiti's history of suffering at the hands Western bullies, the much larger "political and economic earthquake," as one journalist put it in the Huffington Post. When Gilda, a Haitian American friend here in Dakar, sent out an email asking friends to help her organize a Dakar-based response, I eagerly launched myself into what has become a full-blown organization seeking legal recognition as Initiative Senegal-Haiti. Here is a blurb on what we're about:

Initiative Sénégal-Haïti is a group of private initiatives formed spontaneously after the disaster. As "Unity is strength" is the Haitian logo, we are people of all ages, professions and multi-cultural backgrounds based in Dakar who have decided to establish a link between Senegal and Haiti. Initiative Sénégal-Haïti aims to meet the immediate needs of earthquake victims and create longer-term partnerships between the communities of Senegal and Haiti.

So far we've organized a 8.5KM march that attracted over 400 participants and a salsa workshop that raised over $600, the theme of which was Alice Walker's prophetic quote, "Hard times require furious dancing." We are planning a 'Haiti Day' featuring a historical exhibition, film screenings and discussions, a fashion show and sale, and a fundraising concert. We're hoping to, through these cultural activities, share Haiti's rich history, culture and spirit of resilience with the people of Senegal and also mobilize Dakar communities to engage in this very human crisis.

Our very first engagement with the public was a shout-out about our initiative at a regular bi-weekly poetry slam. Side note about poetry slams in Dakar: They are less like NYC's infamously riotous Nuyorican scene and more like bohemian, guitar-strumming, soft-spoken, poetry reciting, open mic nights where the french influence bears heavily, like an overdose of floral perfume. "Je t'aime, je t'adore, sans toi je suis riens...." However, on the night in question we centered the poeticking on Haiti, diaspora relations, and mobilization in Senegal. I was inspired to write the piece below, though I didn't stay long enough to read it (excuse the "french").

Dakar-Haiti 2010
It's twenty-ten/time to build anew/no time to wait/for another round of handouts/that are never free/ with strings attached to hands that control and manipulate from air conditioned board rooms/ far from the forests, villages, people, waters, electrical grids, and young minds they degrade/ Senegal, it's twenty-ten/it's time to think about solar power/and returning the people to power/and taking Wade out of power/and memorializing our generation with actions and not monuments celebrating....what?/La Renaissance Africaine?/ I never knew we were dead/Dakar, I don't know about you, but I feel alive/don't need to be reborn/need jobs, infrastructure, real leadership, leaders who actually give a sh**/not just empty political gestures/ a piece of land for Haiti in Senegal.../why don't we start with some real sh**?/ like sending Haiti some positive energy, some money, some thoughts, some support, solidarity/from one people to another/separated only by history's crimes/tonight we feel your pain/we have our own problems, but we too are part of this world/my friends, it's twenty-ten.

Thus far my work (approximately 20 hours per week) helping to build Initiative Senegal-Haiti has been a little stressful due to the internal politics and ageism involved, but on the whole, also very rewarding. Not only is this an insightful learning experience on mobilizing and fundraising in Dakar and building a coalition, but I am grateful to have the opportunity to help in any way I can. I am SO very proud of my mom, who has been picked as a senior representative of USAID to work on a task force assessing the on the ground situation and determining how to best transition from short to long-term support. She is currently on her way to Haiti, where she will be for a few weeks. Good luck Mom!

In the mean time, if any of you have connections to people on the ground in Haiti who can maybe enlighten me and my colleagues on how best to use our funds, please send me contact information. This has been one of our major points of contention - should funds we raise be used for immediate medical responses or long-term rebuilding projects? How do we, from Senegal, insure that our funds are used effectively while also supporting local, homegrown organizations rather than larger, well-endowed actors like UNICEF or the Red Cross. I am a huge advocate for giving to Partners in Health, which is a medium-sized organization with local roots, 25 years of experience in Haiti, and an irrefutable reputation for effective work. But of course, I am open to suggestions, so please send any information you have! Thank you!

2010-01-27T05:56:00.000-08:00

Hello 2010!!!! Happy New Year people! It's incredible how time slips by so stealthily....it seems just yesterday that Mom, Dad and Simone were here celebrating the holidays with me.

It is a rite of passage of sorts to host one's parents for the first time and I feel, if I can say so myself, that I passed this milestone with all the grace a 24-year-old in an artsy apartment with mismatched dishes, the world's tiniest tea kettle, a roommate, two overly-affectionate cats, a medieval coffee brewer, and a hammock, can afford. :-)

It was amusing to see the various dimensions of my Senegal experiences converge. We spent a lot of time with old family friends, the Dieye family (tata Jackie, tonton Momar, Henriette and Ben) and the Kanes (Claire, Soum and Djinda). I had just worked with Claire, who is a very well known fashion designer, on a really cool project, including a fashion show on a boat in the middle of the Senegal river, promoting the development of the old capital, Saint Louis, and the northern region of Senegal. Consequently, I am already somewhat integrated in Claire's world of sophisticated artists and entrepreneurs, a world that seemed to once be the sole territory of my parents.

Besides partying with the country's elite, my parents hit it off well with my neighborhood crew (Oumy, Papis, Malang and Mustafa still ask about you!) and my former host family (Moussou, Yacine and Mamma send their best). One unforgettable moment was having Dad and Mamma (host mom) banter over a dinner of couscous - Mamman singing my praises with such creative platitudes as "Elle est adorable! Comme un bonbon, mwaah!" (with a smack of fingers to the lips) and Dad asking her how much I paid her to say that.

We did a lot of traveling in air-conditioned SUVs, mini vans and beat-up taxis with the grim tales of David Sedaris's Holidays on Ice as entertainment. In Saint Louis we saw the most incredible old houses renovated artistically to be used as residences, guest lodges, and galleries. It was like going on a fantasy HGTV tour. We spent one night in a part of the Sahel desert called Lampoul, where the sand dunes almost looked like snowy hills in the clear moonlight. We slept in Bedouin tents and rode on camels in the morning...not as glamorous an activity as it might sound.

It was also a pleasure having Duma back here again. Her visit was so reflective of who she is as a person - short, but so very sweet. We celebrated her return in a way only really good friends do: we had a Sex and the City mini-marathon, we went on tailoring runs, and I bought and killed a sheep for a 'second Tabaski' celebration with friends (okay, I didn't kill it - my neighbor did).

Okay, so now I have almost covered all of the important highlights from these past few months of blog-negligence. Of course I am, for your sakes, skipping over the hours of pouring over application essays and filling in online forms for grad school. It is worth mentioning, however, that I have been accepted to one school so far (yay!) and am waiting to hear from the others. Will keep you posted on that front.

Now that it seems my free time is infinite without any application work to do, I have, of course, filled it all up again with a new initiative: organizing and fundraising in response to the earthquake in Haiti. But, I will leave that for the next post....

2009-11-30T04:54:00.000-08:00

Operation Tabaski! Over the past month or so Dakar has been absolutely overrun by moutons (sheep) in what is unofficially known as Operation Tabaski. In preparation for the religious holiday, which took place on Saturday, people set up small enterprises to sell sheep to Dakar residents at prices ranging from $60 to $2,000, depending on the breed of course. This veritable mouton industry is in interesting and significant part of the country's informal economy, complete with its own terminology (the most expensive breed of sheep is referred to as the "limousine") and social hierarchy. Out of curiosity and in support of neighborhood friends and entrepreneurs, Papis, Malang and Mustafa, I decided to document their Operation Tabaski mouton-selling activities for what will hopefully become a tool for them to attract future investments via micro-finance. I will post the video, filmed by myself and Papis, as soon as possible.

Now that the holiday has passed, the city has been reclaimed by humans and I can open my windows without encountering the drift of offensive mouton odor. I spent Tabaski at maambooy's house as usual and ate enough mouton over the weekend to last me until next year. Today at work I exchange belated Tabaski greetings with colleagues and students, some of whom are vegetarian and still shared in the festivities, others who are traumatized and intend to become vegetarian the moment they return home.

Here are some photos of Tabaski-wear:

Below are my two roomies, Sonya, a Barnard Senior currently in Dakar, and Mariam Diop, talented fashion designer.
And the winnder for most creative Tabaski outfit design goes to....Yacine Ba for her black bassin onesy with hot pink beaded belt creation. Fabulous.

Winner for most elegant 'Traditional' Tabaski outfit goes to Aminata Ndao for her white and gold boubou.

2009-11-26T06:13:00.000-08:00

Giving Thanks: It is interesting and telling that I wrote my last blog at the end of Ramadan. Since then many exciting and noteworthy things have happened - all too real to try to relay here in this limited virtual forum. The most significant and yet the hardest to capture in words is the spiritual journey I have awakened to find myself on. I say awakened rather than embarked, because this has been a long journey, perhaps it even began during my childhood, but I have only recognized it consciously within the past couple of months. Suddenly everything in my life revolves around spirit. The steps we teach students to communicate inter-culturally are all about realizing that your reality is constructed based on your cultural values and perspective. This constructivism is at the root of how I see God, life, creation/free will, happiness, change.

Perhaps this awakening began during Ramadan, which I tried to make meaningful by reflecting on religion (notably my Christian background and experiences with Islam) and my beliefs, which often do not align with religion. Nowadays I dwell over concepts read and re-read in Conversations with God, I take my time slowly digesting words by Alice Walker, I try to have meaningful soul-provoking conversations, I ask a lot of questions. My boss, who bears witness to this process, casually used the term "existential crisis" over lunch the other day. That made me smile.

Perhaps it is all of these nosy essay questions in applications for graduate programs. I lay bare my ambitions, strengths, weaknesses, regrets and lessons within a sincere response and then, coming to as if from a trance, wonder if the admissions committee really wants to know who I am. It has been one of the many pleasant surprises in life thus far - applying to business school can indeed be an introspective and even spiritual process.

Perhaps it is the constant questioning we encourage among our students. They come here often having already planned out their lives - first peace corps, then NGO work, and along the adventurous route of a career in development they plan to go. They arrive expecting these ambitions to be unquestioningly supported and instead we force them to question and challenge the concepts upon which they have built their dreams. Development from and towards what? Are we a good model of 'developed'? Who chooses these standards? Does happiness mean the same thing for everyone? Is the concept of universalism just a cover for cultural hegemony? This is the juiciest meat of our program and the most rewarding. Is it such a leap to connect it back to constructivism and the realm of the spiritual?

Perhaps it is, as auntie Alice might suggest, the gardening. Since my return to Dakar from the U.S. this summer I have been caring for the family of plants I inherited on the roof of my apartment. With the help of a more experienced gardener who brought new nutrient-rich soil and advised me on the needs of the different plants, I have been nurturing them and watching them grow. It is a small but nonetheless miraculous thing to witness - after misting (spraying water on the leaves of) my favorite plant, a frangipani tree, I can literally see it perking up.

I know your eyebrows may well be creeping up incredulously and now maybe you are smiling or shaking your head thinking "existential crisis." Again, that makes me smile. Because if it is a crisis I am going through, I never want it to end.

On this day, so ironically earmarked for giving thanks each year, I continue on my present path, more awake than I've ever felt. And for that I am thankful.

2009-09-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

Kor bi jeex na! Ramadan is over. Alhamdelilah. This year was my first time fasting during the full month. For those who aren't familiar, this entails waking up to eat before sunrise, going without food or water during the day, and breaking fast after dusk. Of course, lots of praying is involved or, as in my case, meditation and reflection on beliefs and values. The hardest part was the overall fatigue from lack of sleep and fuel. The best part was breaking fast with neighbors, friends, family, and strangers throughout the month. I can count the number of times I ate at home on one hand during Ramadan. Now that it's over and I'm writing this in an empty apartment (except for the cats) after having cooked and eaten alone, I miss the camaraderie of the ndogou (Wolof word for 'cutting' the fast).

Ndogou: coffee, tea and hot chocolate with bread and jam, dates, and sandwich cold cuts

Left: Moussou and Oumy during Oumy's Ramadan bday dinner.

Right: Oumy's bday dinner. Maty, Fatou ak bagasam, Julie (my current roommate), and me.
Far right: Malang, Papis and Ibrahima (aka sai sai bu mag).

On the down side, I totally let my application work and GMAT studying get behind due to my general lack of energy. I realize that this goes somewhat against the rules of Ramadan, which state that fasting must not prevent one from fulfilling one's normal obligations. However, I have also realized that I am really stubborn. I decided to fast and I wanted to do it all the way. Now I just have a lot of catching up to do. I'm okay with that.

This past weekend was Korite (Eid Al Fitr in Arabic), which I spent with the family at Maambooy's house (Grandma's house). Here are some pics of the festivities below.

Women of the family prepare the food during the day.

Yacine Ba, my little sister when I was here in 2006. Same age as Simone.

Moussou and I went with a black and gold theme.

We even got Tinari to dress up for the festivities.

Me and Maambooy, my Senegalese grandma.

2009-08-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

The African Renaissance? It started sometime this past year. Oh, they're building something on the second hill, no not the lighthouse hill, the other one. Who knows, maybe a meteorological research facility? You know with all of this climate change, that would be a good idea. Or maybe a school of the arts - the light up there is probably fantastic. Who knows....

This was what was going through my head when I first noticed the construction site on the hill near Ouakam. How were we to know the extent of the project? What started as a small curiosity, something that maybe evoked some questioning in the periphery of one's mind, has now turned into a 500 meter monstrosity that cannot go unnoticed.

President Wade is building a statue that is supposed to represent la Renaissance Africaine (the African Renaissance). This is also the theme of the FESMAN, which for the third time, has been postponed a year (or two, who knows?). It seems that Senegal is not ready for such a renaissance, if it is even ever going to happen. The statue itself is the image of a man with a woman clinging to him on the left and a baby, arm outstretched pointing to some unclear future, on the right. It absolutely reeks of agenda-pushing, political symbolism and megalomania. In fact, it would be interesting to do a study of hideous political statues around the world and what point in the career of their megalomaniac-creators they represent (specifically, I'm thinking of Suharto's 'Pizza Man' in Jakarta).

Not only is the statue a looming symbol of the President's enormous ego, it also represents perhaps some millions of dollars worth of public land that were exchanged for the monument's construcation. There are many conspiracy theories behind the monument's financing; some people claim that it is funded by North Korea (oddly enough), others are sure that it is a Free Mason's project. The only thing that is known for sure, announced by the President himself, is that the he inspired the design and therefore will be claiming 35% of the tourism profit, which he projects to be comparable to that reeled in by the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. Of course, he will be donating this to charity, a direct quote (translated) : "The copyright belongs to me and all funds earned as royalties will be earmarked for children and education." Now how is a president of a country, someone who is supposed to be a public servant, going to claim the design of a national monument to be his personal intellectual property?? It's just too much, and yet, for Wade, not enough. To top it off he is having his insidious son and successor-in-the-grooming, Karim Wade, manage the monument and its projected revenue. No comment.

For more details on the statue and the public's response, check out this short article.

La Renaissance Africaine (one head missing in it's current state)

A rendering of the final product featuring the Senegalese First family (Wade's son, Karim, as the Mini-Wade baby...lol.

2009-08-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

SET SETAL: I'm back in Dakar and loving it, in spite of the heat and the power cuts. If I saw you over the summer, then you probably have already heard about the Set Setal that we did in my quartier (neighborhood). Either way, here is the story in full...

Set Setal
Last year my fabulous fellow Barnard alum and roommate at the time, Nomaduma Masilela (the notorious 'Duma' I've referred to in past posts), received a fortuitous grant to research what is called Set Setal in Dakar. Set Setal was a Senegalese youth movement in the late 80s that was born out of a widespread discontent with poor or nonexistent public services (such as garbage collection) and dirty politics, among many other factors. Young people took to the streets, not with sticks or guns or banners, but with brooms. They held what are essentially block parties to clean up entire neighborhoods. Local artists and arts associations emerged from the woodwork and painted elaborate murals featuring everything from the statue of liberty, to Disney characters, to public health guidelines. The movement went beyond the physical realm; it was also about cleansing leadership and cleansing self. One can still see remnants of the movement today on the fading public art throughout the city. Unfortunately, it is less common to see Set Setals organized today, though the poor public services and political corruption have not really changed.

Ouakam
Our Dakar neighborhood is called Ouakam. Supposedly it used to be a Baobab forest with lush gardens rich with all kinds of fruit during the rainy season. My little corner of Ouakam, Cité Assemblée, is nestled between the airport wall (far away from plane traffic to avoid the noise but close enough to the towers to always have the light) and les Mammelles (Dakar's only two hills that resemble breasts jutting out of the coastal landscape). On one hill sits a quaint lighthouse, which is still functioning. On the other, President Wade is building a hideous statue that is supposed to represent 'The African Renaissance' (more on hideous statue in a future blog). Apparently our cité was named after the National Assembly because this plot of land was supposed to be dedicated to housing assembly members. However, according to my expert on Ouakam history, friend and neighbor Papis Diouf, you could not pay some people to live here at that time (late 80s). Ouakam was said to be home to all kinds of evil spirits - I'm not sure if this was because of the Baobab forest (Baobabs are often spirit-inhabited) or just the fact that it was somewhat virgin territory compared to the southern parts of the city 'developed' during colonial times. Now it seems that Ouakam has been declared 'spirit free' because it is the coolest place to live.

ASC Doomu Penc Mi
Association Sportif and Culturel (ASC) is a community youth organization dedicated to hosting social/cultural events, organizing elaborate sports competitions, and encouraging community service. Every neighborhood has at least one. Ours is called Doomu Penc Mi, which literally translates from Wolof to Children of the Assembly. Our local ASC currently has a budget of $20.

The Idea
Rewind to mid-June. We were doing some final end-of-year reporting in the office before closing shop for the summer. Duma was completing her research. ASC, which we didn't know much about at the time, had just done a blood drive after a series of postponed, canceled, and other wise deferred projects. Duma and I had long been toying with the idea of doing something small in the neighborhood - something resembling a Set Setal, but not quite one. We were thinking that we could perhaps buy some paint and do a mural ourselves on the wall adjacent to our apartment. While we were at it we could clean up the trash that had been accumulating there and maybe rearrange the pile of random rocks that lay against the wall into a cute design. It was kind of silly of us. We thought keeping it small and limited to the confines of our doorstep would prevent us from being labeled as presumptuous outsiders who sweep into a neighborhood just for the sake of a project. We underestimated our own ability to become part of the community. I went to talk to Oumy, my downstairs neighbor and sister to my absentee landlord. Oumy is like a cool aunt in this home away from home. I went to make sure that our plans were okay, that we weren't going to be reprimanded for painting a private wall. I left with a much bigger vision - why not clean up something more substantial, paint something bigger? In front of the airport wall there is a canal that has become the neighborhood garbage dump. It smells, it’s unsanitary and is a blight on our public space. If we’re going big, why not that big?

Community Organizers

First we met with M. Pape Ndiaye, a very well respected community organizer in Cité Assemblée. He invited us to attend a neighborhood council meeting and present our idea to the leaders of the community. They were very receptive. Then Oumy sent three very entrepreneurial and dedicated ASC members to help us: Papis, Mustafa and Malang. Just to give you a sense of what I mean by entrepreneurial, every fall these three (ages ranging from 23-32) pool their savings, seek investors and spend about $2,000 travelling to the interior of the country and buying sheep. They buy a herd at a minimal wholesale price, pay for a truck to bring them back to Ouakam, pay for fodder, and set up shop around the corner from my apartment just in time for pre-Tabaski season. One need only spend a few days in Dakar during pre-Tabaski season to know that the mouton industry is quite lucrative. Anyway, Papis, Malang and Mustafa were invaluable additions to the Set Setal posse (as we later termed ourselves). They know pretty much every single person in the neighborhood and used that to take Duma and me door to door with our little Set Setal flyers to raise awareness about the big event. We asked families to come with brooms and to help provide water for those who would work during the day. We went downtown and bought paints and rollers. We visited the two Chefs de Quartier (community representatives) to get their blessings. Pape Ndiaye interfaced with the Ouakam Mayor’s office and got permission to use wheelbarrows, shovels, gloves and brooms that they had in stock. We rented a tent for the older people to sit in the shade and still feel a part of the action. We hired a neighborhood DJ. It became official.

The Big Day

June 28, 2009 - 8:00am: We met Oumy, Mustafa, Papis and Malang on the street and carted the materials over to the site in wheelbarrows from Mustafa’s house, where they had been stored overnight. The guys went to get the tent and set it up. Oumy and I made several attempts to wake up the DJ. We put on our gloves and got to work, a little worried that no one else would show up. An hour or so later the airport wall was bustling with activity. Women showed up and jumped into the canal with us, brooms in hand. The elders sat with the young children under the tent and watched approvingly. The men catapulted heaps of trash from out of the canal into a giant heap to be collected later. Girls walked around with thermoses of ice-cold water to offer folks who were working. Local artists whom we had invited got to work on the wall with the paint we had purchased. I’d say close to one hundred people were out there throughout the day. At around 11am the DJ finally arrived (it took about 20 minutes for some kids to cart his speakers over from down the street). We had planned to work until 2pm, the hottest part of the day, but people stayed beyond that point to see that the job was done. The end product is phenomenal. The canal is absolutely emptied of trash – kids were running through it. We cleaned the other side of the canal and painted a series of colorful murals. The two Chefs de Quartier came to show their support and, near the end of all of the work, the Mayor of Ouakam showed up! It was a good opportunity for community activists to propose long-term goals and show how this day of work was but a short-term ‘band-aid’ on a larger public services problem. Everyone was game. Band-aid or not, it was a beautiful day.

For images of the Set Setal click here.

2009-07-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

Back in NYC! I love living in Senegal, but I must say it does feel good to be home! I arrived on Monday morning and am still pretty jet-lagged so I haven't gotten around to calling and visiting folks yet...but I will! I will be here for a month spending time with family and friends, attending a prep course for the GMAT exam I will take (along with the GRE) before I return, and meeting with grad students, professors and professionals to collect as much information and advice about the grad school as possible. I have a very full month ahead.

When I came into the city in an airport shuttle from JFK, I was overwhelmed by what felt like an onslaught of ruthless advertising: eat this, but don't gain weight, look like this, buy me to loose weight and look like this, wear this, drive this, buy me to make your life shinier, happier, sexier.....believe me, you NEED this.

The other day I was walking back home from a jog in riverside park (glorious! so green and fresh) when I saw a man on a bench dressed up as a twelve year old girl. He was wearing candy striped leggings, a tight top with a Van Gogh print, and a pink scrunchie held back his stringy, gray ponytail. He sat there casually flipping through a newspaper, impervious to my curious gaze. New York City - you gotta love it.

******

On another note, a couple of weeks ago Duma and I went to visit a well known Senegalese artist named Kansi. He and his wife, Musahna Ali (from Philly), are living about 3 hours outside of Dakar in a warehouse turned studio/gallery/living space. They are working with a team of masons and the local community to build a holistic art center using ancient mud brick and sacred arch construction techniques. It is a very ambitious, but necessary project that will not only promote and preserve the traditional arts of the region but will restore a sense of pride and productivity to the local population.

It was really fun to be able to spend time out in the open country side (nothing but baobab trees and shrubs for miles with a few cows thrown into the mix) with Kansi, Musahna and their beautiful kids. Duma and I made our own little mosquito net tent among the tents that the family and their guest friend/architect, Coleman, sleep in. Now looking back, it's incredible to think about how different life is and the world looks from the other side. Air smells different. Stars look farther away. Time has a different rhythm.

Recently one of my students sent me an email describing her transition back to life in America after spending a semester in Senegal. She said she is giving presentations about Senegal to her cousin's 5th grade class as part of her plan to promote cross cultural exploration. She included a list of questions she is frequently asked by adults (relatives, professors, acquaintances) and another list from children (the 5th graders). The questions from adults are proof that there is such thing as a stupid question (e.g. do they eat people?). The questions from the kids are sincere and genuinely curious (e.g. what does the language sound like? what kind of games do they play?).

I found this somewhat comforting. In spite of the ubiquitous ignorance about 'Africa,' there is some hope that in the future Senegal won't seem so far away.

2009-06-16T12:50:00.000-07:00

A June 7th Surprise: Have I mentioned that I am in love with my friend/roomie Duma? Knowing that we won't be together for my July 7th birthday and also knowing the plight of summer birthday party organizing when everyone is traveling, Duma threw me a fabulous surprise party on June 7th, a month before my actual birthday. It was the cutest thing ever. She recruited some friends to help distract me during the day and her and Fatou Sow (mostly Fatou) whipped up a mouth-watering ceeb bu weex (my fave) and white sangria. I came home around 5pm and was greeted with a big 'surprise!' from friends. Thank you all - especially Duma. It was really special.

Mariam, Tinari and Gabe cutting fruit for Sangria

Ceeb bu weex bu neeeexx

gifts from Mariam and Esperance

Duma has aptly named this photo "Ceebcoma"

2009-06-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

A call to Artists and Innovators: A new opportunity has been posted on the FESMAN website. Check it out and submit a project proposal if you are interested. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, check out my earlier post about FESMAN in Dakar December 2009.

Support your project Fesman 2009 is launching a call for projects on a worldwide scale for artists from the black community illustrating one or another of the following themes:

The United States of Africa, the African Renaissance
The dialogue between the Diaspora and the African continent
These projects presented on the website will be submitted to a vote by the public. Each vote will represent a value unit of 5,000 CFA (about $10) which can be converted into any international currency. The same individual may vote as many times as he wishes. You, in collaboration with at least two artists, would like to submit a project. Please register to receive an information packet.

The projects will be on-line starting in September 2009. The vote will be accessible on the same dates.

2009-06-02T14:55:00.000-07:00

An Update: The semester is over! We went on our final program trip at the beginning of the month (to the river delta region of Sine Saloum on the beautiful island of Mar Lodj). Then came exams, the re-entry session to prep students for counter-culture shock and advise them on how to leverage their study abroad experience in networking and interviews, and the farewell dinner. Now Serigne and I are just working on submitting grades and end of year reports before enjoying a nice long break.

In the mean time, I've met with an old acquaintance from my work with AWOMI in 2006, Coumba Toure, who is now the West Africa representative of Ashoka. For those who don't know, Ashoka is an international organization that supports social entrepreneurs through a fellowship program. It is Echoing Green's peer, but different in that it doesn't focus on start-ups and is more established internationally with regional offices and programs. Coumba came to speak to our students about gender issues and public health in Senegal (one of her many areas of expertise as activist, Ashoka rep, and childrens' book author). She mentioned that she is brainstorming around the best way to establish a new 'Youth Venture' program in the region that will fit well within the West African context and a) spread the word about social entrepreneurship; b) encourage young people to use social entrepreneurship as a way to fix local problems big and small; and c) provide support for them to do this. I jumped on board to help with brainstorming, research and yes - a little fundraising. Last week was Ashoka's regional fellow-selection period so one of their founding board members was in town. I was fortunate enough to have dinner with him, Coumba and an Ashoka intern, Simon, during which he entertained us with stories of narrowly escaping Suharto's secret police in Indonesia in the 60's due to his dissertation research on the entrenched corruption of the forestry industry and other equally exciting adventures. I'm looking forward to possibly working more with Coumba and the team to develop a network of young social entrepreneurs in the region. It's nice to know that now that I've been introduced to the world of social entrepreneurship, its lingo, its network, I can still continue to learn and contribute in various capacities anywhere in the world - thanks EG!

Another interesting update is that a couple of weeks ago I was invited to speak at the 25th anniversary of my old elementary school, the International School of Dakar (ISD). I'm sure it's pretty hard for most international schools to keep up with their alumni who are constantly in flux - so they were really excited to hear that I was in town. I must admit that I got really nervous about speaking - I'd been asked to speak once in the afternoon to the student and faculty/staff assembly and again in the evening to board members, parents and invited dignitaries. Mind you, in the evening I was to share the stage with the U.S. Ambassador and many of the parents are ambassadors themselves. But in the end all went well and I was thanked and complimented by students, teachers and parents, which was nice. It was amazing to see how much has changed and also to reunite with several of my former teachers who are still there. Overall it was a nice experience that allowed me to reminisce but also appreciate just how much I've grown since my own years at ISD.

Well I'm afraid I have to end this update because I have to run to a performance. This week is the Kaay Fecc international dance festival (kaay fecc means "Come Dance!" in Wolof). The cousin of a friend is performing in an hour and I promised to go watch. Last night's performance ranged from the incredible to the incomprehensible. Who knows what conceptual art delights tonight holds in store....

2009-05-06T08:40:00.000-07:00

How to make Ceebu Jenn: So a few weeks ago Duma and Fatsow (Fatou Sow, Duma's Senegalese sis) organized a little cooking lesson and lunch at our apartment. Duma was determined to impress friends and family by preparing the popular Senegalese dish, Ceebu Jenn (Wolof for rice and fish; pronounced chee-bou-jenn). This dish is notorious for taking hours to stew and is world renowned for being absolutely delicious. So we invited friends, family, and neighbors to join us for our first home-cooked ceebu jenn at 2pm. Duma, Fatsow and Jini, who was visiting at the time, got up early to go to a local market to buy all of the ingredients, which came to a total of 12,000cfa (about $24 - which we used to feed about 20 people). They returned at noon with bags of spices, vegetables, fish and rice. Five hours later (yes, at 5pm) we served our very hungry guests some excellent ceebu jenn, which we had painstakingly made with Fatsow's help and guidance. We are still determined to make this dish by ourselves and in less than five hours.

Here are some pictures I took of the process, a basic version of which is outlined below:

Step 1: Clean all the ingredients (vegetables and fish) and start cutting. Gut the fish and cut them in half. Cut vegetables in halves and quarts (relatively large pieces for communal bowl presentation).

Step 2: Boil the veggies starting with starchier, harder to boil types (potatoes, cassava, turnips, carrots, cabbage) and ending with eggplant and piment (chili pepper). After boiling veggies for about 30 minutes, strain them and place them aside in a covered bowl.

Step 3: Meanwhile, use a mortar and pestle to pound some parsley, black pepper, dried piment, and garlic into a juicy paste. Then cut slits into the mid-sections of the fish and stuff this green paste in there. This spicy goodness is called farci (stuffing).

Step 4: Use the mortar and pestle again to pound onion, green pepper, garlic and spices (piment, salt, pepper, maggi and jumbo - MSG-rich bullion cubes) into a juicy sauce. This will be added to the stew pot later on.

Step 5: Cook the stuffed fish in half a liter of vegetable oil in a deep stew pot. Once the fish is cooked remove it and set it aside. Add water and a large can of tomato paste to the pot and bring to a simmer. Stir in sauce from mortar (Step 4) with additional spices to taste (more salt, piment, jumbo/maggi and ground dried peppers).

Step 6: Overall the stew should simmer for about an hour. About 20 minutes in add the boiled vegetables and cooked fish back to the pot to let them soak up the sauce flavors. Stir regularly and add spices to taste.

Step 7: Ceebu jenn is usually accompanied by two sauces: tamarind and fish balls. We only did the tamarind sauce. To make this, first wash the tamarind carefully and place in its own bowl. Add some broth from the stew to the raw tamarind. Stir and add in about 1-2 cups of sugar, a couple of tablespoons of cider vinegar, and some ground spices.

Step 8: While doing all of this, you want to start cleaning and cooking the rice, which can take a while. First spread the dry rice grains out and sift through them to chuck any bad grains. Then add water and let them soak for a bit. Once the rice is cleaned, put it in large metal colander over a pot of boiling water so that the rice is steamed. If there is space between the colander and the pot, cover it with a wet piece of cloth to prevent the hot air from escaping, as shown in the photo to the right.

Step 9: By now the stew should have simmered for about 40 minutes. Using a spatula take out the fish, veggies, and the thick part of the sauce and put them aside. Once the rice is almost fully cooked, dunk it in the stew pot to cook in the remaining broth. Stir regularly and add spices to taste.

Step 10: Once the rice is fully cooked, spread it out on communal serving platters and place veggies and fish on the center of platters. Sprinkle the platters with stew sauce and present tamarind sauce on the side. Voila!

*Note: This is a very basic and probably slightly inaccurate recipe (inaccurate because I don't know all the names of the local ingredients and a lot of the procedure - timing, amounts - just comes with practice). Also to keep in mind, the process usually takes less time because the huge stew pot is placed on a butane burner which cooks everything a lot faster.

The end result turned out fabulously. I am in complete awe of women who do this every single day!

2009-04-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

Easter Sunday/"Miss Celie I feels like dancin'!" I rarely celebrate Easter. When I was younger I participated in all of the mandatory egg-painting and hunting, church-going, and chocolate-eating (even though Mom has always had a complex about bunnies due to the psych ward escapee who used to dress in a bunny suit and flash the children on her school playground). During college in the US I remember being in complete shock at the first sight of someone with an ash cross on their forehead for Ash Wednesday and Easter came and went as a much-appreciated long weekend for more last minute paper-writing before the end of the semester. This year however, Duma and I got the urge to celebrate Easter religiously. Despite my uncertain relationship with Christianity as an institution, I think being in Senegal has made me appreciate the value of ritualized celebration. Since, in most cases, sitting in a church pew doesn't make me feel closer to God, I feel it is insincere of me to go just for the sake of celebrating Easter (aka when it is convenient for me). But if I can stand by and watch eight moutons be slaughtered for Tabaski, someone else's tradition, how wrong can it be to go to a ceremony for the sake of its familiarity?

We barely woke up and made it on the ferry to Goree island in time for the service. But Tinari, Katy (visiting from NYC), Duma and I were all there in our Sunday best, sitting behind the nuns on a wooden pew which was no doubt installed in 1830 when the church was built on the historical island, at 10am sharp. We followed the nuns as they cued the congregation on when to stand, sit, kneel, cross oneself, and sing. The choir was a wonderful mix of choral Wolof with drums and guitar. Having been raised Methodist myself, I was a bit overwhelmed at first by the level of ritual and the ornateness of the church; the lit candles, the holy water, the burning incense, the gold plaster and graphic crucifixion scenes all over the place seemed a bit overkill. Why not just sit outside under the tree to admire God's presence? This line of reflection always brings me back to the scene in The Color Purple when Miss Celie and Shug are walking in a field and talking about trees and God: 'I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in field somewhere and don't notice it.' But I guess it doesn't hurt to stimulate the senses every once in a while, whether with incense and music or a series of standing and kneeling (very similar to Muslim-styled prayer and yoga). As if on cue, someone got the spirit half way through a hymn and was systematically carried out by nuns and choir members who worked (never once missing a note in the music) with the efficiency of NYC club bouncers to bring harmony back to the sanctuary of God.

After the service we milled around on the church steps, as people do, and then met up with a friend of Tinari's, Fedou, who was born and raised on Goree. I slipped out of my heels and into some sandals before we walked up to the highest point to give Katy the panoramic view of the island and Dakar's skyline. While on this hill we stopped and sat with one of Goree's hidden treasures: Baye Soulaye. Baye Sooley (Father Sooley) is a bearded older man who 'sells' coffee and nuts to any passerby interested in a place to sit and good conversation. Our two hour session with him consisted of Wolof word etymology, philosophical debate and the signing of his impressive guest book full of different languages and memories.

After our second round of church with Baye Sooley, Fedou invited us to his home (across the cobble-stoned path from the House of Slaves) for lunch. It was such a Senegalese moment - leave the wise old man after a two hour conversation over cafe that he would be insulted if we paid for only to head into the crowded living room of a family we've never met (except for Tinari) for a delicious communal lunch. It just so happens that a friend we had met the day before (also via Tinari), stylist Mariam Diop, was there for lunch too. The food was DELICIOUS. It was a Senegalese paella of sorts: spiced yellow rice with pieces of chicken, shrimp, oysters, and squid thrown in the mix, covered in a tangy sauce of fresh sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. MMMMM!

After some coffee to jerk us out of our food comas, we headed across the 'street' to the House of Slaves for a tour. It was a first for Tinari and Katy. But even though Duma and I had been before its a pretty sobering experience every time, to say the least. Each time I visit I feel like some new piece of history jumps out at me: the fact that the French traders lived on top of the inhumane dungeons, the poor ventilation, the punishment cells, the door of no return. This time what stuck was a sentence on a display panel about resistance and escape during the middle passage. Under the relatively well-known Amistad story, one line: on November 29, 1777 fourteen women threw themselves into the ocean together from the boat Soleil.

The day ended on an energetic note with a game of pick-up basketball on the neighborhood court. I couldn't resist and jumped in - bare feet, Sunday dress, and all. I think of it as a continuation of my childhood days when I would run around our Dakar neighborhood, Simone and Zoe in tow, and climb mango trees in my white laced socks and patent leather shoes.

There should be a word for days like this - ones that are heavy with learning and memory, but still surprisingly buoyant.

2009-04-08T03:24:00.000-07:00

A little Alice.... So today I got to thinking about the fact that my dear friend Fatma is about to give birth to a baby girl. I am already an auntie to Nasozi's son, Rafayando Kalungi, and Leilani's daughter, Xenayana - both as beautiful as their mothers. For me this is not only a sign of the inevitable fact that my friends and I are growing up, it is also a a reflection of the strength and inherent optimism that it takes to bring a life into this world. In this state of mind, I came across a piece of Alice wisdom I hadn't read in a while and thought it fitting to post in honor of all the womanists in my life. To you my loves!

From the preface of In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: Womanist Prose. Alice Walker's definitions of womanist:

1. From womanish. (Opp. of "girlish," i.e. frivolous, irresponsible, not serious.) A black feminist or feminist of color. From the black folk expression of mothers to female children, "you acting womanish," i.e., like a woman. Usually referring to outrageous, audacious, courageous or willful behavior. Wanting to know more and in greater depth than is considered "good" for one. Interested in grown up doings. Acting grown up. Being grown up. Interchangeable with another black folk expression: "You trying to be grown." Responsible. In charge. Serious.

2. Also: A woman who loves other women, sexually and/or nonsexually. Appreciates and prefers women's culture, women's emotional flexibility (values tears as natural counterbalance of laughter), and women's strength. Sometimes loves individual men, sexually and/or nonsexually. Committed to survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female. Not a separatist, except periodically, for health. Traditionally a universalist, as in: "Mama, why are we brown, pink, and yellow, and our cousins are white, beige and black?" Ans. "Well, you know the colored race is just like a flower garden, with every color flower represented." Traditionally capable, as in: "Mama, I'm walking to Canada and I'm taking you and a bunch of other slaves with me." Reply: "It wouldn't be the first time."

3. Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless.

4. Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender.

2009-03-18T04:42:00.000-07:00

Taxi Cab Confessions…. So yesterday I took a cab home. I was exhausted after a full day of work, a short workout at the gym and an hour of haggling with my two tailors. (I know my life is really hard, right?). After being rejected by two cabs – you have to waxale or bargain before getting in and if you ask for a price the driver finds ridiculous he will just drive off without a word – I finally found someone willing to accept my price (the equivalent of $2). Bargaining here is a ritualistic game of sorts. The driver will size you up based on appearance, accent, and company and test the waters by asking for something crazy. Then there is the back and forth and, finally, the moment of compromise. Most of the time there is much joking and teasing involved, which continues during the ride. Last night, as in most cases when I ride in a taxi by myself or with girlfriends, the second question the driver asked after ‘where are you going?’ was ‘are you married?’ As usual, my immediate response was a fervent ‘Yes.’ Most of the time taxi drivers don’t doubt this response, as I’ve learned to say it confidently without a note of humor or mischief in my voice. I even throw in the fact that my husband’s name is Azziz Ndao and that I’m going to meet him right now, for good measure. They seem genuinely pleased to know that I am ‘married’ to a Senegalese and many pleasant conversations on music, politics, etc.. follow. However last night the response I got to my ‘am naa jeker ba paree’ or ‘I already have a husband,’ was ‘yow, amuloo dara!’ or ‘you, you don’t have anything!’ (Though the Wolof version and the way it was hurled at me sounded a lot more accusatory). If this conversation had taken place in the US, I would have probably been really offended, but I’ve learned to take everything here with lots of sugar – a.k.a. a robust sense of humor. I laughed and tried to change the subject by commenting on how chilly the night air was. He shook his head disapprovingly and told me that this was further proof that I didn’t have a husband. Ha! - I thought - two can play this word game. ‘I’m cold now, but he is waiting for me at home where it is nice and warm.’ He sucked his teeth – clearly unconvinced. I was so determined to prove that I was someone’s wife that by the time I arrived home I had promised to introduce the driver to my make-believe husband. Of course it was easy to get out of this because the man didn’t believe me anyway…

This is a common dialogue in cabs here. But even back in the US, I’m used to having lively or interesting conversations with drivers in the bootleg Harlem cabs, usually driven by men from Senegal or Cote D’Ivoire. Plus, my Grandpa drives a cab in DC – so I’ve always been interested in learning about the backgrounds and stories of the drivers I meet. I’ve heard of cab drivers here being really rude and even threatening towards foreigners (especially other Africans, unfortunately). But maybe I’ve just been lucky, because I’ve never felt unsafe in these situations; the tone of conversations are always full of humor. I remember in another cab ride, Duma and I had fun convincing the young driver that we lived in a polygamous household and that we were, in fact, co-wives. This tickled him beyond expectations and he invited us to his house for lunch in the neighboring city of Thies. We ‘accepted’ the invitation with the sole clause that if we should come, our shared husband would come too.

Taxi rides are interesting in so many ways. For example, this morning on the way to work with Jeanne (another day of sleeping in and missing the bus), we were in a cab that had what looked like a real bird’s nest hanging over the dashboard from the rearview mirror. I’ve seen all manner of trinkets obstructing the view of drivers (baby shoes, framed pictures of religious leaders, fake birds…etc), but I must say that this was a first. But I guess everyone has their rituals and beliefs, right? I mean, whenever Jeanne and I see the herd of horned white cows that occasionally passes leisurely through our neighborhood in the mornings we believe that nothing can go wrong that day.

Okay, it would be dishonest of me to say that I have never felt unsafe in a taxi here. But those cases have all been because of the dilapidated state of the car itself, not the behavior of the driver. Most of Senegal’s taxis and public minibuses (called cars rapides) are probably around 30 years old. Not only does this mean that they are just really, really funky, it also means that bits and pieces are always breaking down or in need of repair. It is not uncommon for a taxi driver to have to reach back – very matter-of-factly – across the right backseat passenger to open the skeleton of a door using some resourceful rope-catch contraption, since the handle that was once there retired years ago. I’ve been in cabs that, when turning a corner at full speed, had a side door fly open – only cementing me fear of leaning on car doors. I spent the rest of the ride sitting in the middle of the backseat with my right arm outstretched, holding the door close. I am always the rushed person, late for one thing or another, who has to wait by the side of the highway while a taxi driver changes his flat tire, all the while assuring me ‘cinq minutes rekk’ or ‘only five minutes!’ The fact that many of the more dilapidated taxis have mini fire extinguishers mounted within the driver’s reach is not comforting at all.

The other day our friend, Gabe, told a funny taxi story. He said he was in a cab that, like many, had a large, spidery and very disconcerting crack in its windshield. What was great though was that the crack seemed to be held together by a collage of stickers featuring President Obama’s head. What better metaphor for our current economic situation, right? A 30-year-old, broke down, Senegalese taxi going at full speed, with a cracked windshield – all being held together by the precarious positioning of Obama!

A strange phenomenon occurs when bargaining. You suddenly forget that what you are bickering over is the equivalent of $1, which to me is something completely different than its value in the budget of the average Senegalese taxi driver. Sometimes I feel judgment and pressure from American friends (yes, Duma – I’ve seen the disapproving looks) when I seem to give in too easily in the bargaining ‘game.’ Granted, we are all on different budgets and have different priorities – but in the end we are all still much better off than the vast majority of the local population. I was shocked to discover the other day that the price to fill up a regular car with gas here is the equivalent of $100! No wonder drivers just up and drive away, without so much as a head shake, when you offer a price they think is too low!

***Wow – that was a real patchwork of taxi thoughts and stories that had been floating through my mind for a while. Hope it’s interesting! This entry (sorry it’s so long!) is dedicated to my Grandpa Cromer – rich with wisdom, humor and love.

2009-03-15T07:48:00.000-07:00

Chocolate Cupcakes and other culinary conquests.... Have I mentioned that I love my roommates? Not only does Duma's research turn our humble abode into a happenin' place filled with artists of all stripes, but Jeanne happens to be a master baker. Alxemdilallah! (translated as Hallelujah in Arabic). Of course I pitch in with the occasional candle-lit dinner or beach house hook-up (thanks tata Jackie and tonton Momar!), but most of the time I just sit back and reap the many benefits of living in the coolest apartment in all of Ouakam.

Jeanne's decadent cupcakes; candle-lit dinner of pizza bread and salad a la CK et Duma;
a rich bowl of cupcake with raspberry, chocolate and coffee ice cream
(i know- we went overboard...)

Since my students were traveling all over the country and in Mali and Guinea for their spring break this week, me and the girls decided to spend a couple of days at the beach house of close family friends in Toubab Diallow (about 2 hrs outside of Dakar). The house is located at the very end of a long and windy village road lined with fancy beach homes on either side. It's nestled between a small lake dotted with sand bars where birds from the neighboring nature preserve stop and chatter and, on the other side, an impressive white beach and the Atlantic. The beach was completely clean and deserted.

Beautiful view from beach house veranda

We spent the two days and nights tanning, reading, cooking, eating and, of course, laughing. The majority of time was spent on the verandas of the house because the one time we attempted to lay out on the beach the wind actually whipped us with sand so bad that we were stinging - it is how I imagine a painful exfoliant at a Russian spa would feel. We also made one attempt to counterbalance all of the eating by jogging on the beach and doing a few yoga stretches. Oh, how we were proud.

These ladies mean business.

The meals we were able to whip up at the beach house using the minimal kitchen supplies and salt and pepper as our only spices made me think of and appreciate the simplicity of our diets here. Yes, we do treat ourselves to a few 'luxury' items at the supermarket - good wheat bread, cold cuts, dark chocolate and spiced Gouda - but overall we eat lots of fresh vegetables, canned beans and peanuts for protein, and basic carbs (couscous, rice, bread, pasta). Very few preservatives, pre-packaged foods, or artificial flavoring. A few weeks ago, at one of several candle-lit dinners, our friend Tinari asked if we think we eat healthier here or in the US. He was surprised when we both said Senegal without hesitating. True, there are no health food stores here and most local dishes are dripping with palm oil and are spiced with bouillon cubes packed with MSG (but maaan, are they good!). On the other hand, when I bite into a hamburger at a fast food joint here, I know that the meat came from somewhere close to Dakar and was raised naturally without freaky hormone injections. When we we buy things in the supermarket, mostly local or middle-eastern products, we don't have to worry about the ever presence of corn syrup or trans fats. Plus, it's actually fun being a foodie in a place where everything isn't available and at your fingertips.

Anyway, here's to good food and good people to share it with!

2009-03-02T14:21:00.000-08:00

Le Président oublie/ Oublie le Président! Okay I know it's been a while since the last post, but instead of giving you a laundry list of what I've been up to, I thought I should jump right into what's up and on my mind at the moment. I'm actually coming full circle back to my last post on the FESMAN because the official launch of the nine-month pre-festival events was a free hip hop concert that Duma dragged me to last night. Among the notable performers was our fabulous rapper friend, Moona, the lauryn-esque Njaaya and DJ Awadi (the title of this post is one of his lines, translated as: the President forgets/ forget the President). Our friend Tinari plays drums for both of them - which is why I found myself standing outside in the cold (everything is relative) at 1am on a Monday morning (Duma, you still have to name your first child after me - here's hoping it's a girl). Anyway, I'm glad I did because it was refreshing to hear the bold political commentary in the lyrics and reflected in the audience. I already know how hip hop has influenced politics here, but it's been cast as somewhat of a dead dynamic.

Senegal's local elections are coming up on March 22nd and my neighborhood's walls are graffiti'd with the names of candidates and slurs against their rivals. It is both fascinating and a bit depressing to consider the difference between the U.S. electoral process (local or presidential) and what goes on here. I have not heard one debate, not seen one poster listing goals, not even seen any superficial marketing ploys associating candidates with acts of charity or social programs....Granted I don't have a TV here - something tells me I am not missing any kind of political forum. I have heard mixed reviews about the upcoming local elections. Some people are excited by the fact that, for the first time, the candidates are comprised of some professionals (many from the private sector) instead of the same old career politicians. However, I've also heard that pretty much everyone, including the so-called 'opposition,' has some affiliation with either the current regime or the former regime and is therefore not really fresh blood. Of course the most controversial aspect of the elections is the fact that the president, Abdoulaye Wade's, son, Karim, is running for Mayor of Dakar. Many see this as sign that he is being groomed to 'succeed' his father. This begs the question: what is the real difference, if one exists at all, between monarchy and political dynasties (Kennedy's, Bush's...)? Is one more acceptable than the other?

We had a guest speaker come and talk about democracy in Senegal for one of our courses today. His appraisal of Senegal as a transitional democracy a step above arbitrary rule and a step below actual rule of law was dead on, in my opinion. A student asked about the residual affects of colonial rule and the lecturer made a great point in response. He said that without a sense of national pride a country cannot develop independently. And it is clear that Senegal lacks this sense of pride and autonomy. He said, ministers who send their pregnant wives to France or the U.S. so that their children can be born French or American are doing exactly the same thing that young people boarding pirogues to cross the ocean to Spain are attempting to do. Both demonstrate a total lack of faith in the future of their country. Why, then, are we so shocked when these kids risk their lives to leave Senegal? When Wade retires he will likely move to France with his French wife, just as Senghor and Diouf did before him. If even the political elite don't have a stake in the country's future, then who does? Oh yeah, China!

Ok, ok...enough politicking. On a more begge note (begge, Wolof for fun, happy, everything good in life), I went to a Seun Kuti concert on Friday and got a pic with Fela's son!

More begge to come....

2009-01-12T02:05:00.000-08:00

If you’ve ever wanted to come to Senegal, December 2009 is IT: Listen up everyone and listen well! In December 2009 Senegal is going to make history again by hosting the third edition of the World Festival of Black Arts (FESMAN III). The first edition of the festival was in Dakar in 1966 and featured world renowned artists. Here is a look into the history provided on the website:

FESMAN ’66 was in essence a thunderbolt: the Festival was the visible, tangible product of the years spent by Black peoples to win back their dignity. It delighted the audiences and critics who were sufficiently open to understand its importance. And this great event took place in an African land that had only recently been returned to African rule, in a creative explosion that brought together a range of disciplines and different generations.

Whether or not they were in favour at the time of the concept of Negritude in theory, the artists and intellectuals taking part in the Festival nevertheless kept their artistic promises. Where else, if not at the FESMAN, could one have then found both the American Negro Dance Company with Arthur Mitchell and Alvin Ailey, the great Bahia capoerists such as Mestre Pastrinha alongside the Senegalese National Ballet Ensemble? Where else could audiences have listened to the two great stars Duke Ellington and Marion Williams, along with Julie Akofa Akoussah and Bella Bellow, both unknowns at the time, and a Samba queen such as Clementina de Jesus? Under what other circumstances could the international literary jury members Aimé Césaire and Langston Hughes have awarded prizes to the writers in their thirties Tchicaya U’Tamsi (for Epitome) and Wole Soyinka (for The Road) and to the author of a first book published the previous year, entitled No Easy Walk to Freedom, by a certain Nelson Mandela?

FESMAN II, hosted in Lagos, Nigeria in 1977 was also a worldwide hit and a step forward in the creation and fortification of our most cherished black art institutions:

The programmes were once again exceptional. In the field of music in particular, the FESTAC caused a sensation, with not only a retrospectively impressive line-up (Stevie Wonder, Myriam Makeba, Gilberto Gil, King Sunny Ade, Gil Scott-Heron, Tabu Ley Rochereau, Sun Ra, mPongo Love, Carmen McRae, Pépé Felly, Caetano Veloso, Donald Byrd, Hoballadii Waaberi, Isaac Hayes, Les Amazones de Guinée, Randy Weston, Mighty Sparrow and Sidiki Diabaté to name just a few), but also an unprecedented impact from the South to the North of the planet, owing to the development of radio, records and cassettes…

The other disciplines were not to be overshadowed, particularly in the IN, which notably saw the confrontation of the first fruits of cultural development initiatives undertaken by African States during the first FESMAN (schools and centres for choreographic and theatre creation and the visual arts) as well as by independent companies and movements in the United States, Brazil and the Caribbean, which were also often facing difficulties in their respective countries to achieve recognition of their specific requirements and commitments (for example the Americans Angela Jackson and Barbara Ann Teer, the founder of the National Black Theater of Harlem, the Brazilian Abdias do Nascimento, etc.).

To read the full history of FESMAN click here. Watch excerpts from the famous William Greaves documentary on FESMAN ’66 and the Peter Gaunt documentary on FESMAN ’77.

FESMAN III will be held from December 1^st to December 21^st, 2009 in various venues throughout Dakar and the rest of the country. Although the full program has yet to be unveiled on the website, it has announced that several notable figures and artists do plan to attend: Manu Dibango, Césaria Evora, Danny Glover, Salif Keita, Tracy Reese, Youssou N’Dour, Sidney Poitier, Gilberto Gil...to name a few.

So I invite you all to come to Dakar anytime, but especially in December! The sooner you buy your tickets and confirm with me the better.

And if you’re not impressed by my invitation, here’s one from Mr. Abdoulaye Wade, President of Senegal:

I chose a theme of great relevance: “the African Renaissance.” Indeed, Motherland Africa has the duty to contribute to the emergence of a universal civilization, in which all cultures are represented in order to share and to grow. I am certain my Senegal, along with the Teranga (hospitality) of its citizens, will help in this regard. This meeting will be decisive. It will be a display of brilliance of Black World fertile creativity. It will also be a moral rebirth and a mobilization of all forces towards Africa’s development…

I call all Africans, all the sons and daughters of the Diaspora, all my fellow citizens, all the partners that are ready to walk by our side, all States, all international organizations, foundations, firms, etc. for a shining success for this Festival, and for the rise of a new Africa.

His Excellency Maître Abdoulaye Wade
President of the Republic of Senegal
FESMAN 2009 Honorary Committee President

2009-01-07T11:21:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! May 2009 be full of Peace and Love. I have a lot of catching up to do, so here are some snippets of what I've been up to since I last wrote:

11/30/08: On the road to Saint Louis....
In the bus on the way to Saint Louis I continued plowing through Alice Walker's The Temple of My Familiar while listening to Oumou Sangare. We came to a pit stop - not the bus - but Alice, Oumou and me. I looked up out of the window and caught a glimpse of orange light leaping through leaves and branches on the patchy landscape. I had a sudden vision of some lighter version of myself jumping from the bus and running into the Sahara field to sit on the earth facing the setting sun. Of course I didn't actually do this, but in my mind part of me was there. It felt so real, the hard dirt and chill breeze. That sensation of feeling completely content to be connected with the earth made me feel sad for my other states of disconnection. I saw my happy, lighter self looking down at an estranged, burdened self walking through the concrete jungle of New York City. In my mind one tells the other to keep trudging along. It's okay, enchanted places still do exist in the world.

Reflections on the road back home....
Everything about the six hour bus ride home worsened my mood. I was already 'in a funk,' as my mom would say. Students looked at my tattered book cover and asked me what I was reading. Most had never heard of Alice Walker. This disturbed me. Once again I realized that I was on the 'singing bus' and had to suffer through bad pop and commercial hip hop sung by a bunch of college girls. The cries of glee in response to TI and R.Kelly singles made the fact that no one had heard of Alice Walker, who was the first African American woman to win the Pulitzer, even more disturbing.

Earlier in the day we had done a brief walking tour of historical sites on the island of Saint Louis. The first stop was a square, surrounded by busy traffic, in which a full size statue of a French colonialist named Faidherbe resides. Our resident expert on the slave trade and colonial history gave us a good sense of the context for the imposing presence of the statue: a history of conquest, both physical and metaphysical, and a list of so-called 'contributions' the man had made to Senegal (for which the country thanked him on a plaque beneath his booted feet). When our historian asked if we had questions I wanted to blurt out mine: Why is this despicable thing still standing? Serigne beat me to the punch by saying that, as a Senegalese, he finds it extremely offensive. A confused look from the crowd: but hadn't Faidherbe done much to help the country develop, taught useful skills? Does one need to conquer to teach? Skills for what? To what end? Is what was give even slightly comparable to what was taken away? These are the questions many are not comfortable asking themselves. One thing the historian said really did stick with me: the slave trade was not just the transfer of muscle, it was the transfer of skills. Agriculture, textiles, blacksmithing, cattle-raising - all of these skills laid the foundation for the world's largest economy to prosper.

Hours later, looking out the bus window at the billboards of hair products and those ancient Marlboro ads that have long been banned in the U.S., all of these tangential musings seemed to merge into one stream.

Click here to see some pictures of my trip to Saint Louis, which is, in spite of my somber thoughts, a beautiful place.

The Eighth Mouton...
I spent Tabaski with my former host family at the house of the family matriarch, Maambooy (Grandma). Not having sufficiently learned my lesson about the timing and procedure of Senegalese holidays during Korite, I showed up at 10am absurdly overdressed for what was to be a day full of work and lounging. So I replaced my new taille basse with a house-dress borrowed from Moussou and insisted on cutting onions and potatoes with the rest of the women,even though without a cutting board the onions took me twice as long and my french fries looked slightly deformed. When the men returned from the mosque they quickly changed out of their glistening basin robes and prepared to kill the moutons (sheep), a symbolic sacrifice honoring Ibrahim's willingness to obey God and sacrifice his son, Ishmael. The men dug a pit in a corner of the large courtyard where all of the moutons were tethered to tree trunks and posts, skittish at the sight of the assortment of knives on a nearby table. One by one each mouton was brought to the pit, slaughtered and drained of its blood. Every move of the knife was made with purpose and precision so that the animals suffered as little as possible. There were eight moutons in all, and that poor eighth animal, not knowing he would come last, suffered through witnessing the death of each of his friends. I must say though, the moutons, once grilled or stewed, were delicious. I was surprised at how easy it was to eat what I had just been pitying hours earlier. In many ways the killing and consumption of sheep for Tabaski is a much more humane practice than the way we raise and slaughter turkeys in the U.S. Most Americans have probably never even see a live turkey - we act like they are delivered to us by from the heavens. Wouldn't it be great if every family in the States had to buy or catch and then slaughter and pluck their own thanksgiving turkey? Recipe for disaster or step towards a more humane society?

The Nigerian Bureaucrat who almost stole Christmas...
Our quest started months ago.when Duma and I first bought our tickets to Nigeria for the holidays. It all seemed so simple then: we would get a letter of invitation from mom, and armed with our tickets, passports and photos, we would go to the Nigerian consulate and obtain visas. We were on our best and most demure behavior from the beginning, even though we were treated with contempt by a miserable Nigerian bureaucrat who informed us, in a long-winded snarl, that we would need residence permits to obtain Nigerian visas. So we made our way to the police station designated for foreigners to get residence permits. There we learned that such permits required an authorization from one's 'chef de quartiere,' a neighborhood representative. I won't bore you with the details...but needless to say, what ensued was a veritable Dr. Seuss riddle of document chasing. In the end we had spent lots of money for a pile of documents that are obsolete.

When we finally submitted our applications and passports to the miserable Nigerian bureaucrat, he didn't even ask for all of the documents we had collected. We returned two days later, as instructed, and were greeted with even more contempt. What visas? What passports? What money? Get out of my face! Granted, I was in the man's face at that point and my once demure composition had apparently disappeared with our passports and our money. I glared at him and thought I could see his little heart shrinking beneath the official ID he wore on his chest and was so clearly abusing. That's when I knew that he wanted a bribe. Desperate, I called my mom as a last resort. Sounds like you are going to have to cry, she said in a matter-of-fact tone. There was a silence as Duma and I tried to register what Mom had said. Cry? Yes, that seems to work in Nigeria - I've seen it done before. It was the most bizarre recommendation, but worth a try.

We went back. We were again very polite and composed (Duma was, I couldn't even speak to that miserable man). But when he slammed the glass door in Duma's face we knew it was do or die. When he came back into the lobby we cornered him. Why won't you let me go to Nigeriaaaa!, Duma wailed as tears came gushing down her face. I knew then that we were on. I just want to spend Christmas with my familyyyy!, I sobbed. The man began to slowly back away in panic. He was still shouting back, but we could see the fight dying in his eyes and his little heart starting to grow. Finally he reached into his back pocket, yes his back pocket, and pulled out our passports, which had been already stamped with visas.

And that, my friends, is how we were able to spend the holidays with my family in Abuja. The 2008 Oscars for most dramatic performance go to Nomaduma Masilela and Courtney Keene. Thank you, thank you.

2008-12-03T03:32:00.000-08:00

More to be thankful for.... How could I forget to mention the two little hyperactive additions to the Jeanne-Duma-CK household? Limas and Barack were found outside the door of the school I work about two months ago. After having saved them from the rough Mermoz hoodcat lifestyle (I swear the cats in that neighborhood walk around with gang scars across their faces...), they have been fattening up and playing in the giant lush obstacle course that is our terrace. I am really a dog person, but something about these two is just too cute - even though they try to nibble at my toes, they scare the bejeezies out of me in the dark, and they are soooo needy! Here they are in mid yawn after after a nap in a flower pot:

Limas & Barack

2008-12-03T01:57:00.000-08:00

Giving Thanks: If you know me well, you know I am a holiday person. Not the kind that goes crazy with Christmas tree earrings and home-baked cookies topped with colored sprinkles...No. I just really like the warmth around holiday-time, the good food, the traditions, and the meanings (no matter how deeply buried under commercialism and ugly histories) behind them. To me, despite the sketchy origins of our all-American holiday, Thanksgiving is a time to slow down, spend time with people you care about, and reflect on the many blessings life has reaped. (and yes, their is the eating of the good food).

This Thanksgiving I had two dinners: one home-made with friends new and old and another one, more hectic, for the students. On Wednesday Duma and I, with the help of our host and family friend Shenita, whipped up a fabulous dinner (if I may say so myself). We had roasted chicken and gravy, homemade stuffing (mom's recipe), mom's famous cheese rolls a la CK, mashed sweet potatoes, creamed corn, sauteed veggies, salad and cranberry sauce. To top it off, Jeanne made some delicious apple crumble pie and pumpkin pie for dessert. It was wonderful. We had our buddies Tinari, Calvin and Gabe over and Shenita invited some of her friends.

Gathering to give thanks and capture the moment before we dove into our TG feast.

The next night we had over 200 guests at a dinner for my students, students from our host institution, faculty and staff. It was pretty stressful for me because I had to MC and literally pick numbers out of a bag to call on tables one by one for an hour so that people would not stampede to the buffet line.

Students enrolled in our Gender and Development course work with an organization called CIPFEM, created by past students in our program. They facilitate after school activities and tutoring sessions for girls aged 5-12 and otherwise help them develop as well-rounded students and confident leaders. In order to add some meaning to the dinner and share an American holiday with the CIPFEM girls, I suggested our students invite them. I was shocked at first by the grumblings I heard, "I don't want to have to worry about them during Thanksgiving....this is our holiday....it's going to be too much work...." Fortunately only a minority felt this way and the girls attended the dinner. I think they really enjoyed it and it was a reminder to everyone that these holidays actually can and do mean something more than a race to the buffet line.

Me, Khaita (Serigne's wife), my colleague Serigne, and Duma at our program's TG dinner

Personally, I am thankful for many things...but most of all I am grateful for family, friends, the opportunities that have brought me here, and for all of the lessons I have yet to learn. I am also grateful for the ability to find these lessons in any and every thing: the Alice Walker book I'm reading, the CIPFEM girls, my students, random discussions with friends and roommates, giant Baobab trees and beautiful sunsets....

Helped are those who find something in Creation to admire each and every hour. Their days will overflow with beauty and the darkest dungeon will offer gifts.

Helped are those who receive only to give; always in their house will be the circular energy of generosity; and in their hearts a beginning of a new age on Earth: when no keys will be needed to unlock the heart and no locks will be needed on the doors.

- Excerpt from The Gospel According to Shug, The Temple of My Familiar by Alice Walker

2008-11-17T03:45:00.000-08:00

Girl, get that thang off your head!: On Saturday night I went to the Goree Diaspora festival with a mix of Senegalese and American friends. The ambiance was great, but lots of the big stars never showed up. So we had a few drinks and snacks and sat talking about everything from tension between men and women in the African American community to the common bias against Baayfall (a Rastafarian-like sect of Islam practiced here in Senegal). One of the more amusing discussions was brought up by our new American friends, Gabe and Calvin, two Howard grads who recently moved here to teach. They had been super excited about meeting beautiful Senegalese women, and understandably so. Senegalese women are stunning. However, one thing they had not counted on is the insidious presence of BWS - Bad Weave Syndrome. Weave is very common here, expecially bad weave (and when I say bad, I mean 'Girl, someone lied to you!' baaaad). Our conversation included a lot of joking on the topic (we're thinking of launching a campaign to fight BWS, including an on-the-ground Weave-snatching force...lol), but this is actually a pretty serious subject. I spoke to my friend, Morgann, about it before she left and we decided that BWS is the result of media promoting permed/synthetic/Caucasion hair combined with a lack of funds to buy quality products. It is actually very disheartening to see beautiful Senegalese women with multicolored, tracks-all-out, no-shame, bad weave hiding their natural hair, which is often so oversaturated with 'defrissage' (straightening) chemicals that nothing else can be done with it. I noticed a similar trend in Ghana with perms, but it is less extreme. And we all know the politics of black hair in the U.S....Calvin said it plainly, "If people in Africa are not comfortable with just being black where can we go to be ourselves?"

Afro-Woman:
Fighting Bad Weave Syndrome
one postive black image and weave-snatchin' at a time...

2008-11-14T02:53:00.000-08:00

Celebrations: About a month ago one of my younger cousins within my former Senegalese host family got married. I attended lunch before the actually ceremony and was able to reunite with my extended Senegalese family and join in the wedding-day boubou bling. Everyone was happy to see me back (though not very surprised). We had platter upon platter of steaming rice with spiced meat while the young bride-to-be basked in our attention and praises and graciously accepted photo requests.

Picture: Me and Yacine

The next week Moussou invited me to join in celebrating the (second?) birthday of a little cousin, Papis. He and his sister, Awa, are visiting from the U.S., where their parents live. The party was basically a group of adults sitting around and watching the kids at play. I was the designated photographer and caught several very cute shots of the birthday boy and his posse.But here are some nice ones of me with my former host mom, who everyone calls mamma, and Moussou, my Senegalese sister, looking fly in the outfit I gifted her.

Overall, I must admit that ever since Ramadan I have been doing a lot of partying. Not the kind that involves getting super dressed up and paying at the door, but cool and casual partying that involves making new friends, discussing things in different languages and celebrating culture, life, and successes. A month or two ago Duma, Jeanne and I hosted a birthday party for one of Jeanne's friends that possibly made Ouakam history. The birthday girl, Fleur, hired a DJ who came with his mega speakers and turned our serene terrace into a club. People were up there dancing until 4am.

The next weekend, Duma, Morgann and I accompanied some new friends to a Brazilian birthday party, complete with drumming, Capoeira, and Feijoada (black beans- although here they were actually red). I felt like I was back in NYC, Brooklyn in particular...chilling with Fatma, Salim, Sozi, Kevin and the whole manjinga/ capoeira-obsessed crew. The next week Duma and I chilled with a new friend (who we met at the Brazilian soiree) at the house of one of our neighbors. We had noticed these really cool bright yellow posters everywhere advertising the new album release of a musician called Naby. Ironically enough, Naby and his wife and baby are our neighbors. We all hung out and got the royal treatment at the club where he hosted his release party (which we attended last weekend).

A couple of weeks ago we attended an Indian Diwali (festival of lights) celebration, also in our blossoming little neighborhood. We were instructed to come wearing 'something Indian.' Vague as that is, we managed and were greeted at the candle-lined door by Jeanne (she went early to help out), who dabbed our foreheads with rice grains colored by an red-orange dye. We entered during a ritual prayer in front of candles and then were invited to receive a blessing and a wish-bracelet. After eating some delicious home-cooked Indian food (Dev, our host, promised to give us lessons), the party really got started and everyone danced to bollywood mixes. We didn't stay too late, it being a Tuesday night and all...

Last week we party-hopped throughout election night...This weekend there is the Goree Diaspora Festival to attend. This is not to brag, but just to give you all a glimpse of the melange of events and many things to celebrate in Dakar. It's the kind of town where even the opening of a new salon is celebrated with a soiree, literally.

The next celebration on the agenda is Thanksgiving. I am working with the student activities coordinator at Suffolk University, our host institution here, to organize a Thanksgiving dinner for the students and faculty complete with turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes.

So much to celebrate, so much to be thankful for!

2008-11-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

Nov. 5th = OBAMA DAY: Early this morning I caught myself in a crowded bar reminiscent of NYU haunts in the lower east side, tearfully singing the American national anthem with a diverse group of friends, Dakar residents, and unknown compatriots. This was definitely a first for me; but today is a day of many firsts. The United States has just elected Barack Obama to be its next president. This is the first time I have felt truly proud of my country, its decision, and its spirit of idealism. We all listened attentively as McCain graciously admitted defeat and as Barack, eloquent as ever, spoke of our collective accomplishment and the real challenges ahead. The man is truly brilliant. I admit that when I saw Virginia go blue and saw the CNN projection of Barack's victory on screen, I broke down into sobs. Around me friends and strangers cheered, screamed, cried, jumped up and down, and generally fell into an overwhelming fit of collective joy. It was truly a euphoric moment - one that will be forever ingrained in my memory. We eventually headed home at 6am and collapsed, as if exhausted by the two year campaign trail ourselves.

Before the bar we fawned over this cutout of Barack at the U.S. Ambassador's Residence.

Waking up later today knowing that the results weren't just a dream, that Barack is in fact President Obama, was and remains incredible. Since it is Obama Day - we took the day off, donned our Obama gear, and went downtown for a celebration lunch. Our waiter must have noticed our pins and incessant Obama chatter - in an act of Senegalese generosity, he gave us his invaluable (and very hard to find here) Obama 08 poster. I was really touched, and already still reeling from the night's events....I am still weepy! Everywhere we stepped, people gave us thumbs ups and their congratulations. What a day! What a blissfully joyful day!

Restaurant waiter, Mamadou, who gave us his poster

On a more serious note, for the more cynical among you: please don't take my current bliss to mean I follow Obama blindly, even though I do love him. I do not expect him to change the world or even our political system. I expect him to do his best leading the country, resolving domestic and foreign relations problems. I believe that his best is potentially the best we have ever seen in any president because of his character, upbringing, experience, and ability to inspire across so many lines. In the end, if we want a revolution to happen, that's up to us, not Obama. If anything, his campaign has taught us that much. So, to the cynical, open your hearts and minds just a little bit more...i know it can be risky, but that's how change actually happens step by step. It's no small thing that the babies born within the coming months and years will grow up with a black president as a norm in life, a given. And the emotional support of and attachment to Obama of older generations within the black community is not something that should be mocked or treated callously (as I've seen on facebook). This is a time to honor those who have made this step, however relative, possible. Thank you grandparents, parents. aunties. uncles and peers!

'It's Black Obama!' - A major Senegalese newspaper celebrates Barack and the history made today.

One more thing - If you know me, you know how much I love Alice Walker. Here are her words of wisdom to our next president (thanks syd!).

2008-10-25T05:38:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-10-21T17:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-07T03:42:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-03T02:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-29T12:23:00.000-07:00

A Foodie's perspective of Dakar or An Ode to International Foodiness:

Inspired by the prodding of a 'secret fan of the blog' who recently asked to know what I eat for breakfast, I've decided to dedicate an entry to the variety of tastes available within the city. Traditionally Senegalese eat a lot of rice, fish and vegetables stewed in a spicy tomato and palm-oil based sauce. This national dish is called ceebu jenn and is quite literally finger-lickin' good. Ceebu jenn is best eaten in a round platter shared by all with hands (though this can get really messy). You can find it in NYC and other parts of the U.S., but nothing compares to home-made ceeb in Senegal. My other local favorites are poulet yassa (chicken with an onion sauce with mustard and green olives), maafe yaap (a heavy peanut stew with beef), and ceebu weer with bissap sauce. On days when I'd like to opt for a lunch that will not make me pass out the moment I return to my desk, I opt for one of Astou's famous sandwiches. Astou is a lady who owns a little 'buvette' or sandwich shop on campus and is famous for eclectic sandwiches featuring chicken, beef, or omelets with onion sauce, ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, and french fries all in a crispy baguette. And yes, this is the light lunch option. Now you know why I spend so much of my time at the gym. These sandwiches are really the stuff of dreams. There is also a variety of options on the drink front. My two favorite local flavors are ginger juice and Fanta Cocktail. Ginger juice is a refreshing and dangerously spicy concoction made from raw ginger that will clear your system and make you cry within seconds. Whenever I drink it people never fail to comment on its aphrodisiac powers that apparently ''make men strong in the night." Fanta Cocktail, on the other hand, is a sweet derivation of the the more familiar Fanta Orange made with a mixture of fruit flavors and actually pulp floating within the nostalgic glass bottles. For desert there is laax or thiakry, both featuring a type of millet grain mixed with sweet yogurt (sometimes with honey, rose water, or sweet cream). And to startle you back to consciousness from the comforts of your Senegalese food coma, your host will always offer you a few small espresso shots of attaya, a very powerful local tea. I won't get into the role attaya plays in terms of social interactions right now, but suffice it to say that it is an important social lubricant. In Dakar French patisseries and small Lebanese diners abound. You can always count on getting your fries in your hamburger or shwarma rather than on the side and a piece of fresh baguette smeared with hazelnut spread can be bought on any neighborhood corner for the equivalent of 30 cents. It's good being a foodie here for the most part. Two common complaints are the lack of fresh vegetables and the emphasis on heavy artery-clogging oils within the traditional Senegalese diet.
In la Maison de Jeanne-Court-Duma, we have made a routine of collaborating in the kitchen to produce elaborate salads and entrees with different cultural/geographical themes. One night there was an Indian feast of makeshift aloo gobi (using cabbage instead of cauliflower), paneer, daal and garlic pita bread instead of naan. Yesterday we had a layered salad (corn, peas, cabbage, olives, tomatoes, parsley with a mustard vinaigrette) with spiced kafta meatballs, tomato-cucumber yogurt taziki sauce and warm pita bread. Tonight Duma introduced us to the wonders of Polish cuisine (our own version of sauerkraut: sausage with cabbage marinated in white wine and a mix of herbs). These feasts are all eaten on the terrace and are usually accompanied with wine and followed by chocolate over childhood stories, daily updates, and deep discussions. We are perfectly at home, having left one city of foodies only to discover the possibilities and quirks of another. And yes, I realize that I've gone through this whole long blog about food and drink without really answering the initial question, which I know was not meant to be answered so literally, about what I eat for breakfast here in this foreign city. The answer is that, on days when I'm not rushing to catch the bus, I have fresh bread with coffee or cereal with soy milk - much like in NYC.

P.S. I am determined to master yassa, maafe and ceebu jenn by the time I leave here. But in the mean time, if you happen to have any interesting new recipes involving rice, couscous, cabbage or fresh fish, please post away!

2008-09-28T17:28:00.000-07:00

Countdown to Korite: Korite, the celebration of the end of Ramadan in Senegal, is around the corner. Duma and I have been on a mini-mission to prepare our wardrobes so that we won't stand out within the inevitbale waves of festive 'boubou bling.' First stop was a trip to the fabric market, Marche HLM. This was on Friday and we had just missed an intense thunderstorm in the morning, so the whole market was muddy and crowded with other last minute shoppers. We waded through the mud, carefully holding our purses against our bodies out of reach of pickpockets (crime rises around the holidays) and trying to avoid completely submerging our shoes and feet into ravines of mud and dirty water. Finally we made it to a booth with a good selection of wax fabirc, the traditional printed material we'd been looking for (much if which is actually imported from Indonesia via Holland). After perusing all the different patterns we each settled on two fabrics and negotiated a pretty fair deal with the vendor: 4,000cfa ($8) per 6 meters (required for making one full taille base outfit). Once we secured the fabric we made a bee-line out of the hectic marketplace, jumped into a cab and headed for a tailor near our apartment. We had to visit a couple of tailors before finding one willing to take on yet another two orders to be finished before Korite (which is either Wednesday or Thursday, depending on the moon cycle). Fortunately we were able to find a tailor closeby who sat patiently as we poured over photos of taille base models, sketched our own quirky ideas, and finally settled on mixtures of traditional and original designs. We will see how they turn out. Third stop was to Duma's former hostfamily's home today to get henna (Foodan) done on our hands. Again, all in the spirit of Korite.

We waited for the foodan artists for two hours, during which we sat in the living room and alternately read and laughed aloud from a David Sedaris book and responded to the interrogations of Duma's senegalese brother, Doudou, who is not convinced we have given Islam fair enough consideration. When the foodan artists finally arrived we had our hands drawn on and sat drying them for another hour wondering where Sunday had gone so fast. That is how time goes by here...when you are watching, it ambles slowly by, but the moment you turn your head, it disappears. Hopefully our weekend of Korite prep will not have been in vain. I know we are not at the point of being able to compete with true boubou bling, but at least we hope to not look like American students caught off guard by the glam of Senegalese fashionistas. I'll let you know how we do...

2008-09-16T17:24:00.000-07:00

<-- Me, Jeanne and Felicia on the terrace

Last week we bid farewell to Felicia who is off to Nigeria for the next leg of her research. I already miss her Jolof rice and dinner-time fieldwork stories. Now Duma has arrived with her fresh-from-new york treats and I am very happy with the realization of the Jeanne-Courtney-Duma trio. We figure we will probably be known to locals in our area as "those racially-ambiguous girls in Ouakam." (Here, if you are not Senegalese, white, or black with dark skin, you are inevitably categorized as metisse (mixed) or cap verdian.)

2008-09-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

Music and Politics: Senegal is often lauded as one of (if not the most) stable democracy in West Africa. In 2000 when former opposition leader and current president, Abdoulaye Wade, won against the leader of the 'socialist' party who had been in power for 20 years, it truly was a free and fair shift of power. What many people don't know is the important role artists, especially hiphop artists had in that transition. Hiphop in Senegal is still very political. The other day when I was talking to students in the program about the interesting comparison between the now extremely commercial phase of hiphop in the U.S. and the still politically relevant content of hiphop in Dakar, I felt like I was met with a room of blank stares. Hiphop as a social resource? Huh? Anyway, the apparent lack of basic knowledge about the evolution of hiphop in the U.S. just confirmed my point. In Senegal on the other hand, those labeled as 'hiphop artists,' whether in the realm of rap, graffiti, breakdance, or even traditional senegalese wrestling are known for their social commentary (interestingly enough, a famous wrestler here who named himself Tyson and is known for draping himself in the American flag has played a major role in expressing the political rebellion of Senegal's hiphop generation). When Wade ran in 2000 he had the full support of this outreach machine. When he ran again this past summer it was another story. Now, after mismanaging the country's limited funds and trampling civil liberties (sound familiar?), Wade has become the last politician on earth these artist want to mobilize popular support for (well, maybe not the last). Just a few days ago El Malick Seck, a local newspaper editor, was sentenced to three years in prison for running an article allieging that Wade and his son were involved in money laundering from Cote D'Ivoire. With the media being practically shut down by Wade and his pack, it is quite possible that hiphop is the only channel left to voice the disenchantment of the people.

Luckily we Americans don't have to worry about the depressing effects of a coopted media - we're democratic and free!! (note the sarcasm)

If you have time on your hands and happen to find this topic interesting, check out this series of short documentaries about politics and hiphop in Dakar around election times. The series, Democracy in Dakar, was produced by a former student from our program and features, Serigne Ndiaye, my colleague here in Dakar.

2008-08-31T13:07:00.000-07:00

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).

2008-08-31T12:38:00.000-07:00

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.....

2008-08-18T15:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-13T18:01:00.003-07:00

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

2008-08-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

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 .