ramblin'

After living a month in Senegal, I've stumbled across myself in that strange way that happens every now and then, when I feel as though I'm waking up and stretching from limb to limb on a bed in a room that I've been sleeping in for some time, renting out long enough that everything is familiar when I go down the stairs, even though I can't remember having done this before.

I'm serenaded by Voodoo's lanky, wiry little chios morning and night, with chants of "hayya ala-l-falah, hayya ala-l-falah" (Hasten to real success. Come to prayer.) in the background, crackling through the mosque speakers at every prayer time. At the sound of the call to prayer, people gather on the slab of concrete outside of my front door to pull their prayer mats from a nearby tree, unroll them and lay them out toward mecca. The habits I've grown accustomed to and the faces I see every day make me feel like this is what I've known forever, but I'm also finding myself more at home in the challenges.

Trying to soak up the languages around me, realizing that I have to study and work at it, has kept me alert and mentally active in my interactions with Senegalese. I realize that I had this idea that somewhere inside of me, half-way hidden away, I carried a pocket of language that was soaking everything up and would one day just be saturated and I could ring out everything I've ever wanted to say in flawless French or Wolof. This is certainly not the way things are, but in this case, at least, the struggle presents its own reward and I'm enjoying it more and more as time goes on, especially as I'm simultaneously engrossed in the role of linguistics in different communities and in the history of Senegal.

I've realized more and more as I pass through time that being able to snuggle into foreign places and manifest in being out of my element is how I build my home, and that the same peregrine nature that keeps me exploring is also what makes me feel so grounded in places. I often see places and people in very similar ways. I feel like I have this home in my head with which I am perfectly contented, and I love all of the rooms in it that I know, but there are always rooms that I've passed by and never opened up. Then each time I do open a door, I recognize something in it and it is a part of the complete picture that was just idle until I illuminated it. I guess like a paint-by-numbers picture. This is why, though I don't miss Minneapolis, I certainly am excited to revel in life there when I get back.

To ToubaKouta and back again

I love mornings in Senegal. Admittedly, I love mornings everywhere, but each day I wake up in Dakar to a breeze blowing over me through my window. When I look out, I get a view of an entire neighborhood of flat rooftops, covered in cracked white paint, overflowing with orange flowers and back-lit by the sunrise.
I jump into a refreshingly cold shower and go downstairs to a cup of tea before beginning my walk to school. I usually choose the route of the Corniche, the road that borders the coast of the ocean, to get to school (who wouldn't??).
So last Friday I set out for my stroll a couple hours earlier than usual to leave for ToubaKouta, and got to see the pre-sunrise view of the ocean. This was followed by many hours in the van, fully supplied with fruit and croissants. I knew I was in for a spoiled weekend-which it was. But the best parts were not necessarily the pool or the free toilet paper or even the adorable individual stone huts, connected by paths of seashells, that formed our little oasis.

The first village we visited was the site of a boarding school, where we were able to talk with the community (through Waly's translations between French and Wolof) about the place of education in the community. This particular community had very positive views of formal education, which is probably the reason we visited that village in particular, as I found out later that formal education is not, for the most part, seen in a positive light in rural communities of Senegal. Perhaps it's the addition of the fact that I'm reading Anna Karenina (and falling in love with it) at the moment, but I find it very easy to sympathize with the idea that work on the land and time at Koranic school is more important than a formal education, even if, deep down, I remain convinced of the positive impact of formal education-and really the need for it, when long-term needs are looked at.


The library at the boarding school

We visited a few villages with health centers, all of which varied greatly, and one community with a group of women who worked in a micro-financed farming co-operative.

The village on the way to the mangroves

Aside from the villages, I was able to spend a day riding a boat through mangroves. Boat time, as always, was terrific fun, and the mangroves and birds were incredible. They would have made for the most beautiful pictures yet. But this is where I think Life is trying to send me a message; my camera died just before getting on the boat. The same thing happened in Cambodia as I got to my favorite wat, where enormous trees were crawling over and through the man-made architecture. Maybe these are just the types of things I need to take in in the moment. I'm reminded of a girl I once met at a music festival, who was commissioned to take photos there, who (ironically) reminded me not to take photos when I should be enjoying myself.
Still, of course, it would be a shame to have no record at all of these things, and luckily I do have some.





I am really, truly determined to find a way to go fishing while in Senegal.