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!

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Me and my Senegalese sisters: Yacine and Moussou

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

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

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

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

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

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

*For more details and pics see Duma's blog