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...