Public Service Announcement.

I've done it.

I've started another blog.

I was thinking to myself today, "why limit myself to Senegal? Why not take over the world?"

And so was born another blog. Can you guess what this one is called?

That's right...

if amy ran the world

Check it out.

More Senegal stuff to come...

Thank you and have a great day.

:)

WUMM: on child rearing.

There is an old saying that says "It takes a village to raise a child". I guess I had always thought that was kind of a funny saying, because I had never lived in a village and it seemed to only take my parents to raise me. In my world, a child was raised by Mom and Dad, spoiled by grandparents, unspoiled by siblings, and maybe throw a babysitter in, every now and then, for some variety. I didn't know about the whole "village" thing. After living in an African village, I now know the truth in that statement. It really does take a village to raise a child, at least in that culture.

I have recently been hired by a very nice family in south Minneapolis to be a nanny for the two children. Though I have only just finished my second week, I have already experienced many insights into what it takes to raise a child. And I got to thinking about how different it is to raise a child in America than in Senegal. I don't want to say which one is better, not having children of my own, it is hard for me to say what is the best way to raise a child. I can, however, offer some insight into two very different cultures and how they raise their offspring.

Let me start by telling you about an experience I had the other week. My friend Annemarie needed to go to Babies'R'Us to purchase a gift for her boyfriend's mother who is expecting another child. I offered to give her a ride, and so there I found myself walking in to the local Babies'R'Us. As the automatic doors slid open, I was overwhelmed by the sight in front of me. A warehouse sized building filled to the brim with everything and anything you could imagine someone, somewhere would use for their baby. We started in the clothes and wound our way through racks and racks of baby clothes, of all shapes, sizes, and colors. After finding some cute gender-neutral, all-purpose outfits, we moved on through toys, sheets, furniture, diapers, eating things, and strollers. We passed by aisle and aisle and aisle of products being marketed to parents, things screaming "Buy me! Buy me! You NEED me to raise your child". And then we got to the pacifiers (also affectionately called "nuks"). It was a wall of pacifiers; different brands, sizes, functions, colors...We found one that we liked, and then realized that there were specific ones for 0-6 months or 6-12 months, and so we had to decide if we wanted to get one that would be useful right away, or later down the road. A lot of thought went into which one we should get, probably too much thought. As we were walking through, I kept on seeing things that could be found in the house of the family I nanny for. An electric swing for the baby (put the kid in, press a button and it starts swinging with lights and music and everything), diaper wipes, a diaper wipe warmer, bottles, a bottle warmer, a decked out high chair, bibs, toys toys toys. In fact, the first time I went to the house in which I work, my first impression was "Yep, there are definitely kids living here". Toys scattered here and there, infant car seat by the door, high chair by the table, baby bouncer/walker thing by the tv, these are all things that have been well-established in this household since the oldest was born. My days at work, are filled with STUFF. When I play with the three-year old, there is an unknown amount of play things that can (and do) appear from all corners of the house. So many things to occupy her time. And then for the baby, there are toys and bottles and bibs and things things things. All things that seem so necessary. To raise a child in America, you need a lot of stuff. And a schedule. The baby follows a pretty tight schedule that goes something like this: Eat, play, sleep, repeat. It cycles about every three hours or so. I have been commissioned to do "tummy time" with him, so that he develops his neck muscles nicely, and must put him on a certain side when he goes in his crib so as to even out the "flat spots" on his head. For the toddler, the day is activity after activity, so many things to stimulate her mind and keep her happy. When we leave the house, the baby goes in a stroller or car seat, and I have to have two eyes on both of them at all times. I am the only one there for these children while I am at work. I am being paid to help raise these kids.

When I was in my village, I lived with a four year old, a one year old, and a 6 month old. Well, I technically only lived with the four year old, but the others were over enough for it to feel like I lived with them. None of them had toys, strollers, high chairs, nothing. Diapers were all cloth, and no diaper wipes. No special baby food either. Babies are breastfed, and once they have any semblance of teeth, they are introduced to rice, and start eating what everyone else does. No cribs, they just slept in regular beds, in the middle of the bed, but regular beds nonetheless. They ate when they were hungry, and slept when they were tired. There were no swings or walkers, so if mom couldn't hold baby, someone (anyone) else would do it. These babies were passed from person to person, whoever was there and capable. If mom had to go to the market or whatever, she would either strap baby to her back (with nothing more that a piece of cloth), or give the baby to someone at home to watch. Children old enough to be disciplined, are disciplined by everyone. Children old enough to walk, walk where they want, but there's like an unspoken rule that everyone keeps an eye out for them. There's no such thing as a sippy cup, or pacifier. If the baby cries, it's either hungry, tired, or wet, and you deal with it. You never have to call a babysitter, you just go to your neighbor's house and leave the kid there. The four year old at my house, Staffa, didn't have any parents around, and so he was being raised by EVERYONE. Provided, my host mom was basically in charge of him, and would dictate when bathtime was and so on, everyone had a hand in it. You don't have to worry about letting your kids go out and play, because chances are that wherever they go, there will be some adult there to make sure they don't get into too much trouble. There is such a sense of community and support that parents are never alone. They don't have to hire nannies, or schedule their kids' lives with playdates and stuff. Kids don't have toys and stuff, so they find stimulation elsewhere, and it's proof to me that you don't NEED that much stuff to raise your child properly. Senegalese people grow up just fine, without all that stuff. When I go out with my kids here, I have a diaper bag, a car seat, a snack for the toddler, a bottle for the baby, a toy for the toddler, a toy for the baby, and am basically prepared for all situations. In Senegal, when you go out with your kid, you have them strapped to your back. And that's it.

Now I understand that these are two very different cultures. As much as I would love to, I won't be able to raise my kids as simply as they do in Senegal. I probably won't be able to walk my kid through the backyard to my neighbor's house and just leave him there until I get back. I probably won't be able to get by without car seats, and strollers, and high chairs. But somehow, I think I'll survive without bottle warmers and electric swings. I guess there are two very different classes of thought...In America, we read as many parenting books as we can because we don't want to screw up. In Senegal, you ask your mom, or neighbor. In America, we think that a child is their parent's responsibility and don't want to intervene with discipline or anything because we want to respect that. In Senegal, you know that the child is their parent's responsibility, but you aren't afraid of doing what you think is right for the child. In America, we are so centered around material things, that we think our children need all of those things to keep them busy. In Senegal, you can't afford to buy your kid toys, but it doesn't matter, because no one has that stuff.

Child reering is just one more thing that is done so differently in so many different cultures. An American would think that it's crazy to attach your newborn baby to your back and walk around like that. A Senegalese would think it's crazy that you need this complicated contraption called a stroller in order to take your newborn somewhere. To each his own...

WUMM: american politics in senegal

My phone rang at 7 o'clock this morning. Hearing the seemingly distant tune of Fraggle Rock, I was able to open my eyes enough to look at the screen and realize that it was not my alarm, but my dear sister. I looked at my watch in disbelief, and opened the phone to hear "HAPPY FIRST DAY OF JOB AND INAUGURATION DAY!". Shuffling out of bed so as not to disturb my roommate with this wake up call, I was overwhelmed by the vibe of excitement coming through my little phone. I was thus questioned about why the heck I wasn't awake yet and in front of a television. Obama is becoming president today, why would I be sleeping?! So one cup of coffee later (with more in the pot), I find myself sitting in front of the television, listening to our friends on ABC analyze every single minute of the day today. A historic day it is, today. And thanks to my sister, I get to tell my kids and grandkids about how I watched every single minute of coverage on January 20, 2009, the day President Obama got sworn in.

My father is in Washington D.C. right now, lost somewhere in a crowd of people on the National Mall. As I watch the images on the screen, they show millions of people crowded into a relatively small area. Some of these people will be up to a mile and a half away from where the ceremony takes place, and yet they're going to be THERE. That's what I've been telling my dad for weeks now. It doesn't matter if you aren't in a seat, it matters that you're there. This is history, this is an opportunity that will never come again. To be present at the inauguration of the first non-white president of the United States.

I had the unique experience of being in Senegal for election day 2008. In fact I was in my village, in the boondocks of Western Africa, when Barack Obama was elected as the 44th president of America. Many people ask me "Did you vote?" and the answer is "Yes of course!!". Being a young person, this was my first chance to vote in a presidential election and I was not about to miss it. Before leaving, I was responsible enough to sign up for my absentee ballot, and as October came I waited impatiently for it to arrive. I was not alone in this, the other MSIDers were just as impatient as I was. By the time we were supposed to vote (two weeks before the rest of the country), less than a third of our ballots had arrived. And so we took a group field trip to the American Embassy in downtown Dakar to cast our votes. Out of the 17 of us, there were 16 outspoken liberals and one just as outspoken conservative (let's just say we were pretty Obama-tastic). We were an overwhelming presence at the Embassy that day, excited college students voting in a historic election. We even got in trouble for trying to take a group picture in front of the Embassy to commemorate the event. Even though none of our votes got counted, because there was no need for a recount, we were all amazingly proud to be able to be a part of that election.

Everyone that I met in Senegal were Obama fanatics. Though, most of them had no idea what Obama stands for or what he wants to do as president. Most of them support him because he's black and not republican. So many people that I talked to just saw McCain as being another Bush, and none of them wanted that. I did encounter a few people who knew almost as much about American politics as I did. One of the most amazing conversations I had was with the man who runs the cyber cafe that I frequented. The night before leaving for my village (about a week to election day), I paid one last visit to the cyber cafe to find it packed full. As I waited for a computer to open up, I had a wonderful conversation with the man in charge. We started talking about America and he asked if I was going to vote. We then launched into a pretty intense conversation about Obama, McCain, Bush, the election process, and everything. He could even cite the 2000 recount in Florida, and I was just blown over. Here was a man, living a life so far from what America is and knows, and he knew more about what was going on than a lot of Americans. The other person who had an amazing insight, and I had the amazing privalege to be with on election day, is my village host mom, Bineta.

November 4th came one week after my arrival to Mbam. That night for dinner, Bineta served me fresh vegetables (something I hadn't had in SO long!). She had arranged them beautifully on a silver plate, and presented the plate to me saying "In honor of Obama's anticipated win...". It was so amazing, I almost cried at the thoughfulness and excitement. That night, we hunkered down in the living room to watch the French news coverage of the election. We turned it on somewhere around 10 p.m., which would have been 4 p.m. CST, and sat there watching until 5 in the morning. Even though there was almost no doubt the entire time that Obama would win, I was still on the edge of my seat nervous. My Senegalese family members tried to keep telling me that there was nothing to worry about, that he would win, but I kept telling them that anything can happen. But he did indeed win, and I stayed awake long enough for the official announcement.

The following day was certainly a day of celebration. I ran around the compound yelling "Obama won Obama won!!" and everyone, though not nearly as excited as me, was definitely pleased. I bought cookies and soda for everyone and we had a little celebration that night. My host mom was so great, and it was amazing to be with her on that day. She was overwhelmed with joy. She was also disappointed that America could have 43 presidents, and ALL of them were white. She said she couldn't believe that it took us 43 presidents to finally elect a man of color. In spite of this feeling, she was almost speechless for joy. She said that this is a sign of change in the world, that Obama becoming president is going to mean so many good things for a lot of people. Martin Luther King Jr is one of her heroes, and one of the only English phrases she knows is "I have a dream..." It was an honor for me to spend this election day with her, and to hear her insight of the whole deal.

So as I sit here in my pajamas, in my apartment in St Paul, where it is very cold outside, I will continue watching Charlie Gibson and Barbara Walters as they give a minute by minute breakdown of everything. But I am thinking about Bineta Basse in Mbam, Senegal, and thinking about her smile when she heard that Barack Obama would be the next president of the United States. I will never forget that face.

When I left Senegal, many of my Senegalese friends and family asked if I would say hello to Obama when I got back. So hello to our new president from all of your fans in Senegal...

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...