WUMM: the origins

This is the first in a series of my village stories, to be written over the next couple of hours, days, weeks, months, whenever I feel like it actually. I realize that I am now almost exactly one month out from my departure from Senegal, but it still beats through my veins. My life in America is constantly interrupted by thoughts of my life in Senegal, wondering what I would be doing if I were still there, what my friends are doing, or what my families are doing. And so I'm going to keep the stories alive, mostly for my own sake, but you are more than welcome to enjoy them as well.

This is my way of not forgetting.

The title of this series is "What's up? many much..."? and it in itself is quite the story. Before I can tell you that, I have to tell you some things about my village host family. So far you know that I lived with a lot of people, and at the time of that post, that's all I knew as well. Throughout the following days and weeks, I learned a bit more about my family.

I can safely say that my host family in Mbam is not your traditional family, not even in a Western sense. For one thing, my mom was never married and never had kids. This is like UNHEARD of in Senegalese society (there it's the traditional grow-up-get-married-pop-out-kids-raise-them-to-take-care-of-you-in-your-old-age life cycle). So someone, especially a woman, who doesn't get married is for sure working against the grain. I never found out exactly why she never got married, but my theory is that she's just way too free-spirited and independent for ANY man to marry. Bineta Basse would not fit well into the Senegalese wife box. That's not to say that she doesn't do all the things married women do...Bineta was, as I mentioned before, the matriarch of my compound. Anything to be done as far as taking care of the household had to be approved by her first. Now, Bineta has like 20+ siblings (her dad had 3 wives, go figure) that are scattered all over the world. One of her brothers (who lives in Dakar) has a wife who lives in Mbam, in my house. Her name is Mamy Sarr, and is 6 months pregnant with her first child, who will be named after me should it be a girl. Yeah. I was a little overwhelmed with that announcement. Mamy is not much older than me, and takes care of most of the cooking for the family, as well as a lot of the household chores. Her husband has a 4-year old son, who's mother lives somewhere else, but he lives in my family. The raising of this child, Staffa (one of my many husbands), is headed by Bineta and Mamy Sarr, but supplemented by everyone else in the compound. Another nephew that lives in my family is Cheikh, whom I mentioned before. He is 22ish and goes to school in Foundiougne, so he lives with his aunt. He also is somewhat in charge of the manly chores, like getting firewood and harvesting the family's peanut fields. Those are all the people that I know for sure how they are related to my host mom.

Other than that, there is Fatmag, an old man who eats and sleeps in my compound, but I otherwise have NO idea how he's related. He's just sort of there. He doesn't really talk much either. But you know, whatever. Then there's Pape, Marie-Noelle, Badara, Jean, Joe, Pauline, Racki, and Assan, who range in age from 12 to 20ish. They are generally from neighboring villages, but go to school in Mbam, so they live with my host mom during the school year. I don't know if they're actually blood related, but what does that really matter in the end. They get a roof over their heads and food to eat, and in exchange, they help with the daily chores. So really, my family is just like a bunch of people that live together, but aren't necessarily related by blood. But that didn't matter. They acted more like a family than lots of real families. They acted more like a family than my Dakar family, who are all blood related. These people live life together, they work together, study together, eat together, celebrate together, suffer through life together. The sense of community is one of the strongest I've seen in my life, and I really miss it.

Anyway, so it was inevitable for me to spend a lot of time with everyone, considering the all-the-time togetherness. During afternoons of hanging out or whatever, we would joke around in all the different languages we know. Now, all these kids in school, are learning English. So this of course meant that I was a good practice subject for them. At some point, I started greeting them in English by saying "What's up?". That of course got many confused facial expressions, until I explained what it meant and that the proper response is "not much". Now I am well aware that this is not the ONLY response, but it is the most common and easiest to explain. From then on we got into the habit of greeting each other with this exchange, although their responses ended up being pronounced "no much" more than anything else. One day, my boys and I were riding the horse and cart to a neighboring village and they wanted me to quiz everyone. So going around the circle, we practiced "what's up, not much" several times. When I got to Cheikh (who knows more English than the others), he responded "many much". To me, the "what's up, not much" exchange is as normal and concrete as "nanga def, mangii fi" to a Senegalese. It had never really occurred to me to respond with anything that would imply things were actually going on in my life, so when Cheikh answered "many much" I was caught off my guard. My initial and uncontrollable response was to laugh and laugh I did. This was met with several inquisitive expressions, because the others didn't know what he had said, and Cheikh didn't understand why I was laughing. All grammar rules aside, to him it was a very logical answer. If you could respond that there wasn't much going on, why couldn't you say lots of much?

After realizing that it did indeed make logical sense, once again all grammar aside, we explained to the others what it meant, and enjoyed the rest of the ride. From there on out, all of my boys would greet me by saying "what's up Amy?" instead of the normal sereer "nafiyo?". It became our little tradition. With Cheikh, it opened the door to practice english on a daily basis. While sitting around waiting for dinner, we would go through the following script: "What's up?" "Many much." "Like what?" and then tell each other about our days in english. It ended up being a really good bonding experience, being able to share language and get to know each other at the same time. I think that a lot of times, we have a tendency to just go through the motions of greeting each other without actually intending to find out how someone's day actually was. Why else do we always answer "fine" to "how are you?" and "not much" to "what's up? and "maangi fi" to "nanga def?". In America and Senegal alike, we have a tendency to just ask out of a need to be polite or keep up a tradition, not out of a sheer care for the person to whom we are speaking. Why should we always say "not much", when there really is "many much"?

I miss my boys terribly, and can't wait for the day when I can go back to see them, ask "what's up" and find out the "many much" that's been going on in their lives.

hello america

So it's been a couple of crazy days.

Three days ago, I was in Africa, in short sleeves, enjoying the sunshine. Now, I'm in Wisconsin, wearing long underwear, two pairs of socks (one pair that goes up to my knees), jeans, a t shirt, a thick longsleeved shirt, and a humongous sweatshirt, hibernating under a down comforter and quilt. Why does America have to be soooooo cold?!

Anyway, I am home safe and sound. The trip went smoothly, despite the fever that decided to plague my body starting 12 hours before departure. Also despite the fact I kept on trying to speak french to the stewardesses/stewards and airport employees. I would automatically start a sentence in french and the cut myself off to switch to english. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to all of my fellow MSIDers, but we all left each other on good terms, excited to see our families again. I arrived at Chicago O'hare, precisely 22 hours after leaving my house in Dakar, and was welcomed by my parents. After driving back to Madison, I had been traveling for over 24 hours. The days since then have been spent thinking about unpacking, sort of unpacking, hibernating, eating well missed food, more hibernating, talking to many friends and family members, more hibernating, and lots of movie watching. I did go outside today, for the first time since arriving at my house, and the good news is I survived! It was some where in the negative degrees, and I had so many layers of clothes on, I could hardly move my arms.

And, my parents have been quite entertained by my presence as well. This is due to the fact that their days are now filled with exclamations from me like the following:

"Lane lines?! What are those? And there are so many traffic lights!"
"Hey dad, smell this Raisin Bran Crunch, doesn't it smell absolutely delicious?"
"It's sooooooooo cold here!"
"Have you seen the size of this spoon? Spoons in Senegal are like three times as big as this, this is so SMALL."

culture shock...what can i say?

Oh yes, the purpose of this post, besides to tell of my somewhat safe arrival, is to announce the presence of my pictures on Picasa. It might not be ALL of them yet. Picasa uploads minorly slower than I would like. But if you've waited this long, you can wait a little longer.

Since I have neither the time nor energy nor the brain power to describe every single picture, here are some general guiding tips:

-If there's a white person (that's not me), it is most likely another MSIDer
-If it is a Senegalese person, it is most likely my family member or the family member of another MSIDer
-There may be disturbing images (garbage, dead animals, you know, that sort of stuff)
-They are divided into albums, based on location.
-I think that's all, but pictures that require explanation will indeed have a caption

Alright, now that you know everything that you need to know, find the link to the left of where you are looking right now that says "my pictures". BEN NIAR NIET ACHAA! (translation: one two three go!)

national kill a sheep or two day

Before launching into fantastic Mbam stories, there is one minor detail of my trip from Mbam that I left out. And that would be the word sheep. For those of you who are saavy of Islamic holidays, you are well aware of Eid, or as we call it in Senegal, Tabaski. This holiday comes around annually, exactly two months after the end of Ramadan. It's a day of pardoning and forgiveness and so on, and is based on a story of Abraham. Back in the day, God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, like Old Testament sacrifice animal fashion (the son was either Isaac or Ishmael, it's up for debate depending on if you believe the Bible or the Koran). Abraham was like "Um...ok..." and promptly took his child up a mountain and prepared to do the unfortunate deed. Waiting for the opportune moment, of Abraham raising his knife to strike, God spoke up and said "Hold on, wait a minute, just kidding, take this ram and sacrifice it instead." And so was the happy ending, the son got to live, Abraham got blessed, and God had a faithful servant. To this day, Muslims sacrifice animals in honor of that event and to show their devotion to Allah. As it was explained to me by a Muslim friend, if Abraham had actually sacrificed his eldest son, then all Muslims would have to sacrifice their eldest sons on that day. That not being the case, here in Senegal, they sacrifice sheep. Rams, to be exact. According to Islamic tradition, if you can afford it, each father or head of household must kill a ram on Tabaski.

That means there are A LOT of sheep around this time of year.

Tabaski fell on a Tuesday this year, right after my return to Dakar. In fact, my bus ride from Mbam to Dakar was not just enjoyed by me and the other Senegalese people, but by about ten sheep that rode on the top. Yep, I spent the day seeing sheep being shoved up and dropped off of the bus. I also had to wait until the sheep were taken care of before acquiring my suitcase at the end of the trip. Not only this, but along the road, I saw many sheep being transported on top of taxis, in the back seats of taxis, in the trunks of taxis, in the backs of pick up trucks, on top of Car Rapides, and so on. Like I said. A LOT of sheep. Sheep could be spotted in front of houses and on balconies up and down my street. Medians of large roads became homes of hundreds upon hundreds of sheep, stretching for blocks and blocks. It was like the city had turned into a sheep farm.

Now, my family is catholic, right? So I was spared the honor of seeing a sheep get it's throat slit (after seeing two cows, four ducks, and several chickens get slaughtered, I wasn't extremely inclined to jump on the opportunity to see a sheep as well). But that didn't mean I was spared seeing a lot of sheep body parts that day. I guess, as tradition would have it, Tabaski is all about sharing too. All day, there was a steady stream of raw meat through my front door. As sheep got cut up around the neighborhood, bags of their flesh were being passed around and shared from neighbor to neighbor. So much so, that our chest freezer started out essentially empty and by the evening hours, was filled to the brim with bags of sheep meat. My fourteen year old host brother got his hands on a sheep leg and spent the afternoon running around pestering me and my sisters with it. (the leg then spent the next day or so on the dining room table)

In the end, Tabaski sheep is quite delicious. I should know, because we spent the rest of the week eating it daily.

ba beneen yoon, inchallah

Dearest readers, I must make a confession.

I have been back in Dakar, with daily internet access for about 6 days now, and yet, there have been no posts from me. For that I am most deeply sorry. My week has been a whirlwind of activity, most prominently including a 20 page internship report that had to be written and turned in before my departure. The good news is that I have finished, and it's not too shabby if I do say so myself. So let me bring you up to speed on what's been going on in my life for the last six days or so.

Last Saturday (december 6), I left my village life in Mbam. It may possibly have been one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. I can tell you right now, sparing the details for future posts, that those six weeks were by far my favorite part of the semester. It was with much heartache that I left my family and friends there, to head back to Dakar. They put me on a bus, heading straight for Dakar, at 6 a.m. I was, of course, the only Toubab, in this 1980s Greyhound quality bus. Having not slept a wink the previous night, and my heart overflowing with emotions, I fought back the tears so as not to draw even more attention to myself besides my white skin. The bus promptly headed for Foundiougne, where we waited for the next hour and a half for the ferry to depart and drop us off on the other side. The trip that ensued was long and arduous. Here in Senegal, cross country buses function very similarly to city buses. By the time we left Foundiougne, it was so packed that there were a significant number of people left standing. The next 7 hours were punctured with stops in every single village along the way, to drop people off or pick people up. I tried to stay inconspicuously in my corner, hood of my sweatshirt pulled over my head, and headphones in my ears. I was in no mood to see the looks of curiosity and amusement of seeing a Toubab on the bus, let alone be drawn into conversation with anyone. We finally pulled into the final stop in Dakar, the place where I would be descending. In the end, it took me maybe fifteen minutes to actually get out of my seat. This was because of all of the eager return passengers trying to obtain the best seats. Gridlock ensued, and I had to fight my way over seats and Senegalese until I finally breathed fresh air. Well, maybe not fresh air, I was in Dakar, not the country, but fresher air than I had been breathing for the previous 8 hours. My host mom in Mbam had clued me in to how much I should be paying for a taxi to get back to my house (taxi drivers are notorious for trying to rip off Toubabs), and after several failed attempts, I was more than frustrated. Here I was stranded in Dakar with a huge suitcase, trying and failing to find a way home. What a welcome back party, "Welcome back to Dakar, here's a huge crowd of screaming Senegalese people numbering the population of your village and we'll even throw in some crabby taxi drivers for your entertainmentThis was because of all of the eager return passengers trying to obtain the best seats. Gridlock ensued, and I had to fight my way over seats and Senegalese until I finally breathed fresh air. Well, maybe not fresh air, I was in Dakar, not the country, but fresher air than I had been breathing for the previous 8 hours. My host mom in Mbam had clued me in to how much I should be paying for a taxi to get back to my house (taxi drivers are notorious for trying to rip off Toubabs), and after several failed attempts, I was more than frustrated. Here I was stranded in Dakar with a huge suitcase, trying and failing to find a way home. What a welcome back party, "Welcome back to Dakar, here's a huge crowd of screaming Senegalese people numbering the population of your village for you to get lost in and we'll even throw in some crabby taxi drivers for your entertainment!" Goodness gracious me, after no sleep, no breakfast, a long bus ride, and no way home, I was not a very good person to be around. Finally, this random guy came up to me and asked if I needed a taxi. I must have looked pretty helpless, because the next thing I know, he's telling me that he's going to find me a taxi. Now, after living in Dakar for any amount of time, one learns to be extremely cautious of random men you meet on the street. At this point, he was trying to do something nice for me, not just creep me out, so I let him do his thing to find me a taxi. While he was flagging down taxis and explaining to me that it was hard to find one for a decent price because I was white, these thoughts were going through my head: "Is this guy a creeper? Or is he, like, genuinely nice? Is he going to try to kidnap me? I am soooo tired...Why didn't I eat breakfast? Man, I really have to pee, I hope he finds one soon. And I really hope he's not a creeper. What am I doing? Why didn't I say no? Aye aye aye, I might die today. But that means I won't be tired anymore...." Those of you who know me well, know that I don't function very well on little to no sleep, and I have the unfortunate tendency of doing things without thinking. So here I was, sitting in the back of the taxi this random Senegalese man found for me, him sitting in the front seat chattering away with the taxi driver in Wolof. I hadn't exactly realized that he would be riding along, but then he explained that he lived in a neighborhood right next to mine, so it just made sense to share the taxi. At this point I was hoping and praying that they didn't drop me off first. Thank the Lord, we pulled up in front of his house, he hopped out, and asked if I knew how to direct the taxi to my own house. Sighing with immense relief, I said yes, and we were off. This nameless good samaritan, who ended up not being a creeper, just a guy helping a girl out, paid for the ride. I couldn't have been more shocked or thankful.

And then came the reunion with my Dakar family. Upon walking into the house, luggage in tow, I was met by a joyful mother who hugged and kissed me and welcomed me home. One thing you have to understand about the Senegalese people, is that they love to state the obvious. I don't know if it's because I'm a Toubab, or what, but everyone loves to make assertions about things that I am doing when I am doing them. For example, the string of reunions that followed my mother's were filled with the following statements: "So you just got back?" or "Oh, you're back now." (other examples include the daily "you're going to school", "you're coming home from school", "you're reading", and so on. My automatic response is the generic affirmation "yep, I am going to school", "yep, I'm coming home from school", "yep, I am indeed reading"...) Besides being slightly dampered by my *ahem* slightly under the weather mood, the homecoming was pretty ordinary. I ate lunch with my parents, telling them all about what I did in Mbam (though they only really asked what I ate there and not what I did...), and promptly went to bed. The rest of the day was an emotional roller coaster for me (not to mention the entire week...).
I had never imagined that I would become so attached to my village or my family there. I was coming to the realization that I was leaving these people for an indefinite amount of time. The entire day Saturday was spent fighting back the tears, and feeling homesick for Mbam. In being reunited with my Dakar family, I realized that I had been more of a part of my family in Mbam, whereas here, though loved to an extent, I am more like a tenant. I sleep there, I eat there, but the attachment isn't as deep. All I wanted was to be in Mbam, helping my host aunt cook, or waving to people from my horse and cart, or watching "Au coeur du pêché" with my family. After my very much needed siesta, I couldn't stand being in the house anymore. I didn't want to be around my family and show them that I liked my village better. So I went out with a friend to get ice cream (quite the treat), and we spent hours catching up and telling each other stories from each of our villages. She was going through the same emotional stress as I was, and so we were well equiped to comfort each other. It's hard to describe, but I was definitely going through reverse culture shock, village to city style. Paved roads, cars, crowds of people, stalkers, showers, talibés, all of it was so unknown to me, after not having it all for 6 weeks. It was an overwhelming experience. At that point, I was just ready to be home in America, in my own bed, with my own dog.

All week, I've honestly had the feelings that I either want to be in Mbam or in America. Dakar is not a very nice place, all the time. I enjoyed it at the beginning, but now I realize that it's a really hard place to live as a Toubab. People harrass you, the streets are nasty dirty, there's lots of noise, and I don't know, it's just not that great anymore. But I will be home soon enough. In 36 hours time, I will be sitting in the Dakar International Airport, waiting for the departure of my flight. In 48 hours time, I will be on American soil once more. It's a surreal feeling right now, almost as surreal as when I first left for Africa. It's hard to believe that my three and a half months are up and that I'll be coming home again.

Don't worry, that doesn't mean the end of the blog...I have a lot of catching up to do. Some of my best stories and experiences happened in my village, but unfortunately you did not get to hear of them because of my lack of internet access. And so, I would like to announce a series of blogs that will be released over the next couple of weeks. The tite of the series is "What's up? Many much...", and will include many of the stories from Mbam (possibly some from Dakar) that you have missed over the last 6 or so weeks. And upon my arrival to the States, you can keep your eyes open for my pictures to be posted as well...