Adventures Abroad

Reflection on Previous Posts

Posted on December 27, 2011 by ghmoore

Ha ha ha ha ha ha hahahah!!!!!!! This is kind of fun to do!

The wedding wing that my mother gave me: Due to a mishap at the end of the summer I was unable wear it on my left ring finger (I dislocated my finger on a rope swing and the finger was swollen for far too long). It is now on my right hand and has been even though it now fits in its proper place. The other day while I was at a soccer game between the different neighborhoods of Dakar I ended up explaining this ring to a couple of my Senegalese guy friends. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to learn I asked if they ever keep their eyes open for rings on the fingers of girls before they start hitting on them. Of course they both said they do, but in general, because wedding rings are not ‘a thing’ in this country it probably wouldn’t work. I’ve noticed it doesn’t really work. Sorry Mom and Aunt C…Nothing bad has happened mom, no worries, I’m still your sweet innocent baby girl.

But getting hit on is a huge thing here. One of the phrases I know really well now in Wolof is “am na jekker?” Which means, do you have a husband? And I think really that it is just a joke. The Senegalese love to talk so its just one way to carry on a conversation. Still I hate having to lie about my fake husband (who is sometimes American and sometimes Senegalese, once he was even Russian, and once I told the taxi-man who asked the question that he was delivering me to my husbands house). It can get pretty annoying, really really annoying actually. But it never got dangerous.

My name: earlier I said it was Fatima Fall. Well actually I spelled it wrong. My name doesn’t have an ‘i’ in it it is just Fatma. But honestly when every other woman you meet is named Fatima, Fatma, Fatou, Fatoumata, or any derivation of the same name it hardly matters.

In sickness and in health: I watched some of the other students get really sick.

That was really hard. I felt so bad and there was so little I could do. So I counted my blessings every day and I never got really unpleasantly sick at all. I apologize if this is too much information but we study frequently talked about subjects such as illness. Ironically I have the runs now, now that I am back in a first world country. Thanks! At least there is regular toilet paper. Here’s a picture of a regular squat toilet for your pleasure.

Becoming a ‘white Senegalese’: well when I had mile long fake braids dangling from my scalp the annoying street people called me ‘Madame Senegal’. When I wore clothes made out of the traditional waax fabric the same sorts of people would call me Senegalese but it never made me feel very Senegalese. That just made me feel like a Toubab (white person) dressing up.

The Beach: I had an interesting relationship with it. Sometimes it took some convincing to get me out there. I realized that I really don’t like salt water. I also don’t like the vendors who come up to you, sit next to you, and never take no as an answer. But after doing yoga on the beach, walking along it for hours, listening to it at night, skinny dipping in it, I still find it sort of a paradise.

Drumming and Dancing classes: I’m incredibly disappointed that these sorts of classes were such a tiny part of the entire program. I have a djembe now. I bought one that was made by our instructor and I will carry it through every airport from here to Montana but I still don’t feel like I really learned how to play it.

Motorcyles with multiple people: one of the best nights ever! Wedged in between two muscular Senegalese man friends the three of us rode along the cliffy coast of Dakar in the dark yipping and scaring ourselves for no reason. Since then I’ve hopped on the back of my friend’s bike a couple different times. Each time is mildly terrifying but leaves me with a smile.

Fanta Gueye mom of the village: I felt more connected to her after 3 days than I did with my Dakar family (sorry to be blunt) but she was great. Namenala! (I miss you!)

Sabar: The toubab in the picture I posted of the Sabar is one of the reasons I loved dancing in Senegal so much. In my last blog post I briefly said that our academic director hired drummers and dancers to do a little show at our hotel? Well in the middle of the performance while the dancers are kind of taking turns showing their Sabar moves our friend hops up and dances so freely and with such spirit it made me cry. In his own words “I love dancing because it… it just feels like what your body wants to do all the time”.

I don’t give my Dakar host family enough credit: they really are great to me. I miss my yaay’s frozen juice bags. When I went back to visit they were always so so so nice! My yaay made me this great pair of pants and a shirt to match that I promptly wore out to that first saturday of the month party that I also mentioned at one point. The pants were well appreciated while dancing (it sure wasn’t my dance moves that were). I miss the random neighbors who would always drop by and occasionally have hilarious conversations with me. and CONGRATULATIONS to my host brother who is getting married on the 7th of January! He’s getting married to a cousin and everyone is so happy!

Here’s to the Baobab Apartments: We had so many good times in that apartment. Fatima 2 (a Senegalese pseudonym) breaking the couch with her big bum. The lovely stray SIT student who would share our huge bed. Watching Modern Family in a big doggie pile. Entertaining our Senegalese guests on the tiniest balcony ever and still it stands. Here’s to Baobab and the people in it and that last crazy month that we spent together!

Let’s imitate baobab trees!

And now to my next adventures. I will try to continue blogging as I go to Barcelona for several days then to Southern France on trains that may already be completely booked, and a volunteer opportunity that may not have a lot of work for me to do. Yee haw!

Posted in 2011-12, Gaelyn Moore '13, Senegal | Comments Off

This Senegalese Life

Posted on December 27, 2011 by ghmoore

It has always been my dream to be on NPR. I love the radio. I love listening to stories and here Senegalese culture is dominated by oral tradition. People call into radio stations not to complain about politics directly (that is forbidden I think) but really just to hear themselves talk. The Wolof language is rarely written down (making textingin the language especially interesting). And the Senegalese are incredibly talented in the art of conversation and talk for hours. When speaking French they rarely use the word ‘parler’ (to talk) instead they prefer ‘discuter’ (to discuss). For all of these reasons I decided to make an audio documentary of our semester here for my final project. The best part for me was when I had finished the ‘podcast’ and the other SIT students sat down with me for an hour and a half snuggled on a hotel room floor and listened to it together flaws and all.

I did not choose the most ‘academic’ subject to research. My peers astounded me with subjects like traditional medicine, homosexual women in Senegal, skin bleaching, language education, and the response to the African Renaissance Monument (highly controversial, full of propaganda, and bigger than the statue of liberty). My friends actually had to have interviews with real academic people. They wrote 40 page papers (sometimes in French). I on the other hand talked (or rather discussed) with my friends and family for hours and hours about us and our experience in Senegal. Really really hard stuff. But I am really glad that I was able to finish the audio documentary and give it away at the end of our experience.

So that was ISP. Independent Study Project. But the second part of ISP was living in an apartment with some of my favorite people and discovering even more of Dakar and to continue learning about the culture. The thing that I really got drilled into my head during this time was how helpful, welcoming, and absolutely great Senegalese people are. I would like to give you three examples.

#1) I left my little purse in a Taxi. In my purse was my dead cell phone, my camera, a tiny bit of money, and a copy of my passport. In short I got it back. I left it in a Taxi that doesn’t even work in the same town as I live. [This photo was taken in the back of the famed taxi.] I had given my stuff up for good when the next day my phone calls my housemates and a guy who doesn’t really speak French is trying to communicate with me. I couldn’t even get a ‘where are you right now’ out of him. Was he in Dakar? After at least five different phone calls where he was trying to get me to call this other number (which I called and it was definitely a random street person) I finally have the idea of finding someone who can speak Wolof to speak with this guy. I ask the daughter of our landlady a beautiful woman who speaks with the guy and we decipher that he is going to give all my stuff (yes all of it) to the leader of the Taxi drivers from Thies and eventually it will be in a Taxi on its way from Thies to Dakar TODAY! Rose (the daughter of the landlady) gave him her number and she went with me to meet this random taxi driver who had my stuff. Once I had it all, the original taxi man called and told me to look in my purse make sure everything was there, even my equivalent of 5$. It was all there. Alxamdoulilah!

#2) A purse that I had bought in Thies broke. The strap disconnected. I was walking by one of the five tailors on my street and I just stopped in and asked if he would mind fixing it. He did, then and there, no questions asked. I have since given him a lot of other work which I am stoked to give away as presents to you lucky few 😉

#3) I was walking to a lunch at our favorite restaurant when my sandal broke (a sandal that was given to me as a gift). I was limping along the road all the way to the restaurant. Eventually I just had to take the shoe off (that was a dangerous move). When I got to the restaurant the waitress noticed, gave me her shoes to wear for the time being and said I could go to a cordonee to go get my sandal fixed, there was a little one close by. Sounded like a good plan to me. So after lunch I asked her about the cordonee and when I could give her back her shoes. She said she would walk me there and when we arrived the sandal was already fixed! She had taken it there during lunch.

The Senegalese generosity, hospitality, or ‘Teranga’ as it is called was also one of the reasons that I had a bit of a hard time leaving. All of a sudden when I was ‘on my own’ so many people came out of the woodwork to help me out when I needed it. All of a sudden I felt comfortable in Senegal. I had a great network of friends who I knew would take care of me. In my interviews for my audio documentary I learned several things. First of all the Senegalese notice that we Americans do not know how to share like they do. We cook for ourselves, we don’t always offer whatever we are eating or drinking, sometimes we question (well I questioned) when someone asks for something instead of just giving it. Second the one message that they wanted to leave us with was keep in touch, “Jamais oubliez quel qu’on qui fait quelque chose bon pour toi, jamais oubliez.”. Never forget someone who has done something nice for you. I know for me I will never be able to forget. Like this woman who was the host mom of another student. I stayed with her and her family after the program ended for a few days. She invited me to this market that was a fundraiser for a bilingual school. On our walk there she grabbed my hand said ‘I’m scared of falling’ and we walked like that all the way there, through the market, and all the way back. I immediately felt comfortable and welcomed just like I was her family.

Logistics: I am not in Senegal anymore, the SIT program ended on Dec 14th. I stayed in Senegal until the 21st of December whereupon I flew to where I am now. Germany. But first: my last days I will try to document with more photos than words.

I Our program finally took us to ‘Africa’. This is a rhino. All the animals were imported.

<——- This was a listening party of my Podcast

This is Souleye, our academic director, who hired drummers and dancers to play for us at our hotel after our presentations were over. Watching Souleye dance: priceless.

After the program was over a few other students and I spent time on the beautiful coast. We pretended to be French tourists, ate buffets at hotels, played beach volleyball with paying guests, and we sat down and crafted things out of leftover fabric scraps. When I got back to Dakar I slowly had to say good-bye to the rest of the students as they left one by one. I was given the going away present of Mauritanian henna (usually reserved just for marriages) by the Senegalese family I mentioned above. I went to the light house to watch the sunset. Then I moved into another host family’s house and spent my last few days saying good-bye to my Senegalese family and hardest of all the friends I made. We ate ‘NiceCream’, went to our favorite bar Chez Mendy’s, and we jumped on the corniche trampolines for yet another Dakar sunset. When the time came three of my dearest friends hopped into a taxi with me. They carried all my bags and my djembe drum full of clothes into the airport for me. Then I gave them each one last hug, cried a little tear then for each of them and waited continued on to wait in airport lines and think about them.

Now I am in Germany, thinking about Senegal, but also my next few weeks. Tomorrow I fly Ryanair (i have heard scary stories about the airline) to Barcelona. From Spain I am going to a small village in S France to volunteer for a family in exchange for lodging. I will be helping to build a straw bale house which brings me full circle to one of my last days in Montana where I was once again helping a friend ‘mud’ the outside of her straw bale house. Funny world we live in!

Posted in 2011-12, Gaelyn Moore '13, Senegal | Comments Off

All The Things

Posted on November 29, 2011 by scauley

Since I am a solid two months into Michaelmas (that’s a fancy word for “Fall”) term, I figure I should tell you all about the classes I am taking at Trinity. After all, “studying” is supposed to be a pretty substantial part of a study abroad experience, and my past few entries might have suggested that I am just off living the dream in some foreign land. I am, but I have to read things while I do it.

Firstly, I cannot even begin to stress how different Trinity is from Puget Sound. The registration process alone was one of the most archaic and ridiculous processes I have ever gone through. Ever. Loggers, do not take for granted having timetables available to you nearly a year in advance, being able to register online, or relatively universal rules and standards among all departments! For the love of Thor, this university has been up and running since 1592. You would think that they would have ironed out the kinks of their registration system by now.

Let me explain how it works, at least for visiting students in the English department. Regular Trinity students have relatively little choice in what they take; they are locked into their course from their first year on, and take what they are told to take. None of this ~liberal arts~ or core requirement mumbo-jumbo. Regardless, you have no idea when modules are offered here. None. Well, if you’re lucky enough to be in one of the Sophister (that’s a fancy word for “Upper Division”) courses, you’ll know what time slot it falls into, usually a two-hour block one day a week. But for the Freshman options, the ones that they want you to take so not to fill the precious places in the smaller, more advanced modules, you don’t get to know the time. You just get a name and description of it, and whether it is evaluated via paper or exam. Or both. The week before modules start is called Fresher’s Week, which is basically Trinity’s version of Orientation, only their icebreakers involve parties, alcohol, and other such merriment. (I was the cool kid who spent all of it researching and writing in the library, thanks to the final paper of the Semester Start-Up Program being due at the end of the week. Get off my lawn.) Then you find out the timetable. And make sure that the ones you want don’t conflict. And register for them. By writing them down. On paper. With a pen. Which you take to the person who controls all of the visiting students who then gives it to the head of the department to approve before you come back to pick it up and bring it to the international office where they keep that physical copy in a file somewhere in the abyss. TRINITY, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG.

The awesome library (which they modeled the Jedi Archives after) makes up for it, though…

And before I continue, I should provide a brief lesson in Trinity terminology:

Module = Class I may go to class, but I am taking a module.
Course = Major “What course are you doing?” is the same as “What’s your major?”
Lecturer = Professor Even though they hold doctoral degrees, you do not call the person teaching your module a professor. Most departments have only one professor, who is usually the head of the department. Everyone else is a lecturer and referred to as “Doctor.”

Anyway, everything went better than expected and I am enrolled in absolutely fascinating modules. I’m unbelievably interested in my two year-long Sophister courses in particular, one of which is ENTIRELY ON JAMES JOYCE. We spend each week looking at one episode of Ulysses, with bits of Portrait and the Wake bookending the year. Aslkjkfghdf, I can’t even! The other is called Old Norse, which involves learning that language in order to read and translate the poetry and prose of medieval Iceland and Norway. More importantly, I should be able to understand some Sigur Rós lyrics by the time I finish it. In addition to those two, I am taking a module on banned fiction in Ireland, one on the early English language, and a weekly Irish class just for fun. (Saying that Irish is difficult would not even begin to describe it. I can’t even pronounce most of the words. The letters “mh” and “bh” make a “v” sound for crying out loud. What is this.)

Next semester I will be taking a class entitled Narrative and Identity in Modern Scottish Writing, which is pretty self-explanatory. I’m just excited to finally read some Scottish literature since there is a worrying lack of it in my home library. David Tennant would be so ashamed of me. I’ll also be honing my Old English skills in a course about the Anglo-Saxon identity, which I am extremely excited about because the Anglo-Saxons are just the coolest people, next to the Romans. And the Vikings.

Although school obviously keeps me very, very busy, I have found other ways to consume my time as well. Upon starting at Trinity I joined about six different societies (the term “club” is reserved solely for athletic groups) including but not limited to The Literary Society, The Classical Society, The Science Fiction Society, Trinity Gamers, the International Student Society, and Cumann Gaelach, the Irish language society whose emails I am unable to read. I regularly go to the meetups of a /r/IrelandGames board game group, which involves sitting in a pub or coffee shop once or twice a week and playing Settlers of Catan or Risk or whatever else strikes our fancy. (See below.) I also attend a “Dead (and Living) Poets Society” and compete in the LitSoc’s literary pub quizzes. Last time we won a bottle of wine for the most creative team name. What were we called? The Grapes of Rathmines. It’s funny because we live in Rathmines. Lol.

If that wasn’t enough, this blog actually got me a job here, oddly enough; the right people saw it and I am now working as a copy writer for two Irish websites, Gruupy.com and RateMyArea.com. They are group coupon websites like Groupon or LivingSocial, and I am the one writing quirky deal descriptions for the different items they offer each day. I also write reviews of establishments around Dublin (think Yelp) for the more literal side of RateMyArea as well, which is fun because it means I get paid to explore the nooks and crannies of the city and figure out who has the best espresso—The Bald Barista is winning so far, in case you are curious. Anyway, I must say that I’m rather thrilled to be putting my English degree to real world use! If anything, I’ve learned a lot about electronic gadgets and various beauty treatments, which I am sure will come in handy someday.

What my life boils down to is that when I am not in class, I am in the office. And when you factor in meetings and societies and travel and socialising in addition to a 9:00-17:00 working day, it means that I’m just always busy and always tired. I guess this means I’m an adult or something, and I wouldn’t change it for all the cats on the Internet. I can’t envision my life being any more perfect than it is right now.

Now you know why I haven’t been writing regularly. I must warn you that the final few weeks of term are approaching, but I will do my best to talk about my trips to Belfast, Edinburgh, Powerscourt and Glendalough, Cork, and Copenhagen; my attempts (plural) at a real life American Thanksgiving; and the apocalyptic flooding of Rathmines. Until next time…

Posted in Shelby Cauley '12, Dublin | Leave a comment

Thanksgiving in Senegal…Tabaski!

Posted on November 17, 2011 by bzavala

Last Monday was Tabaski, one of the biggest Muslim holidays! Throughout this program we were told that this would be a huge ceremony that the whole country looks forward to every year. People have new clothes made by the tailor, hair is rebraided, sheeps are bought, drinks are made in vats and everyone who has family in villages go back to the village for a week to celebrate. Whenever I asked anyone about Tabaski, the conversation always started out with “Well, first you kill the mouton…”. Let me clarify, the mouton is a sheep, however the sheep here do not look like the fluffy sheep that we are used to.They actually look like a cross between a sheep and a goat. The week before my family prepared for Tabaski by making traditional drinks. My host mom made Bissap, which is a juice made out of hibiscus flowers and lots of sugar! She also made dita, which is made from the dita fruit and is bright green in color. That drink is not as sugary and is one of the most refreshing drinks I have ever tasted. The day of Tabaski rolled around, and I got up early in order to watch the festivities unfold. My brother, his sons and all the male relatives dressed up in their new Tabaski boubous for going to morning prayers. At 9 am all the men marched out the door with their prayer rugs in hand to walk to the mosque.

It is tradition that everyone prays in the morning, however only the men left in my family to do this. The women all stayed home and got the grills fired up for the mouton to follow. Once the men returned, it was time to sacrifice the moutons! First, a little background on these moutons, most people have at least one, but at our house we had five moutons, one for my brother, my mother, my father, my aunt and the visiting brother-in-law. These moutons had been moved from the stalls outside (you buy moutons in street lots, sort of like Christmas trees) to our terrace . On the day of, after the prayers, we all, including the children, trooped up the stairs to the terrace. The men and boys would hold down the mouton while my brother would say the prayers and cut the throat.

(Note: I am not adding photos of the actual killing of the goats, if you want to see these, just email me!) For me, it was a bit gruesome to watch, but soon I realized the necessity of the act. I have grown up eating meat that came in a package from the supermarket. I was so completely removed from the process that I never connected a live animal to what I was eating. Here there is a yearly reminder that something has to die in order for us to eat meat. Despite the amount of blood and twitching and uncomfortableness I felt at watching five moutons get slaughtered, afterwards I felt much better about being a carnivore. After I seeing the sacrifice I felt that now I could truly eat meat without feeling guilty. As soon as all of the moutons were slaughtered, they began the meat preparation process. The first part we ate was grilled liver….it was delicious!

We set the table with several different types of sauce, and people ate as they could in between meat preparation. Fries were cooking all day, and all the grills of the house had been brought down to be used to grill meat. The family shared the meat with extended family and neighbors and so people came and went in the house throughout the day.

Similar to Thanksgiving, people eat all day, wear nicer clothes and give thanks for the day. My brother invited two of his new co-workers over, who ended up being from Holland and spoke English. My brother invited us over to a neighbor’s house to have a drink (Note: this was very interesting as Muslims are not supposed to drink alcohol, so right away I knew that we were not going to a Muslim house).

We ended up spending most of the day at a family friends house, who happens to be Christian. It wasn’t exactly the way I thought I would spend Tabaski, but we had a great time chatting, drinking and eating! My host family even brought over a huge plate of mouton and fries, yumm!

By the end of the day I was exhausted and stuffed to the brim with delicious grilled mouton. I returned home in the evening to find that my entire family had left, and the house was still. I went to sleep very early, thinking that Tabaski was not quite what I expected, but still an excellent holiday of eating, just like Thanksgiving!

Thumbs up for Tabaski!

Posted in Becca Zavala '12, Senegal | Comments Off

Back in the Saddle Again

Posted on November 15, 2011 by ghmoore

I left you in the beautiful village of Ethwar. Since then I’ve been back in the sea surrounded, stinky, crowded, vibrant Dakar to finish classes and move away from my home-stay family.

Dakar is big, about 1, 030594 people and there is always something to do. Being me, one of the most fun things I did recently was eat at an Ethiopian restaurant (which I am stoked to go back to tonight). The food was delicious, we drank mojitoes, and the menu was half in English. In Dakar we also spend a good amount of time dancing. Maybe about as much time dancing as eating (that’s a nice proportion). Every Friday in a government sponsored artist commune there is a big reggae concert where we found ourselves dancing the night away with dreadlocked artists. Every first Saturday of the month there is a ‘Toubab party’ at a club on a cliff overlooking the ocean where, once again, our feet kept moving until 4am. Sometimes the music just finds you while you are watching your television and all of a sudden your siblings get up

and start dancing with the dancers on TV. So naturally you imitate them too. So even though I was sad to part the lush green hills of Southeast Senegal, Dakar has its major benefits.

Classes have also finished up around here. The last day of class consisted of our language professors teaching us how to make cëbujën (the national rice and fish dish of Senegal). We made more food than I had ever seen before in one place. But really we are only finishing classes so that we have time in our last month (yikes!) to conduct research and do a final project. The variety of topics is inspiring: recycled art, spiritual medicine, car rapides (local colorful buses), women who sleep with women in Senegal (it is strictly forbidden by law), and the controversial African Renaissance Monument (bigger than the statue of liberty) just to name a few. Then there is me. I’m making a podcast, This American Life style, documenting our stories while we have been studying and living in Senegal. NPR here I come you had best get prepared.

As it is ISP (Independent Study Project) month we had the option to move out of our host families. For me this was an easy decision. Not only did I want to live on my own and cook, but I never quite felt like me while I stayed with my family. I felt like my family underestimated me and my intelligence because my French is not that great and my Wolof is taking forever to improve. But we did pass some great times before I left. Namely I became an expert in fake hair and Tabaski.

Tabaski is a huge Muslim holiday where a mouton gets sacrificed, everyone barbeques all day, dresses up and visits friends at night. For this holiday women especially go crazy. Although nobody has a lot of money women spend at least 10,000 FCFA on a new traditional outfit, and probably about that much on their hair. I spent one memorable evening after school attaching beads to the end of a little girl’s braids that my sister had done. Before Tabaski there were at least five strange women hanging around my house waiting for one or my other sister’s to do their hair. I soon learned that no-one here has real hair. Nor do I. I got braided extensions, they’re growing on me. But at the same time I’m really excited for the day when my head doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. That day is tomorrow.

The day of Tabaski passed like this. I woke up early to clean the house, chop vegetables, pound spices, general aide around the house. I watched my older brother drag away our mouton and when next I saw it its head had been mostly severed. Since it was a religious ceremony I kind of thought I would get to watch but regardless the butchering was quite exciting. Hacking away at the legs, spine, hide, with a knife and axe. After we got a bit of rib and maybe leg my sister and I made grilled ribs and shish-ka-bobs. The shish-ka-bobs were great. The grilled liver… questionable. I did not eat anything else that was prepared. There was one piece of meat that my mother wrapped with the small intestine. It looked delectable (eugh). All the meat was ‘processed’ often wrapped in intestine and put in bags to give to other people. We ate a huge lunch. Then the rest of the time was spent cleaning up the house, and cleaning up ourselves. My sisters disappeared to our neighbor’s house which had become a salon. Shaving eyebrows, new eyelashes, painting nails, entirely new nails… you name it. Then I changed into my orange boubou that my mom had made for me. My sisters later told me that it wasn’t time yet and only the grande dames were wearing theirs at this hour. And that was pretty much my Tabaski.

Oh except then I went to the real favorite musician of Senegal’s concert. Youssou N’Dour on Tabaski night was ridiculous. Although it was in a club, everyone was wearing their Tabaski best. The men in their grande bou-bous danced like they had wings. Everyone danced better than us Toubabs but it didn’t even matter because the concert itself was so beautiful. Even at 4am I summoned up all the energy I had to once again dance the night away.

Youssou N’Dour Salagne-Salagne

And now, I am writing this blog post from one of the two balconies in my new apartment. There are palm-like trees out front, a plugged sink, and four wonderful roommates inside. So far only a broken couch and a leaking faucet have made us worry. The morning after our apartment-warming gathering our crazy proprietor said don’t worry about it, you are young!

So here is to the last month (WHAAT?) in Senegal!

Posted in 2011-12, Gaelyn Moore '13, Senegal | Comments Off

Chasing Hippos: Living with the Peul Fouta

Posted on November 9, 2011 by bzavala

My most recent African adventure was a week long trip to the Kedougou area. After a two day journey in a bus, we made it to our destination of Kedougou. Kedougou is the region in the lower right corner of Senegal, bordered by Guniea.Each of us students were hosted by a family in a small village of an ethnic minority. I was in a village of the Peul Fouta. Peul is the ethnic minority group, and Fouta refers to the location of the village and their origins in the Fouta region of Senegal.

The village was only 2 or 3 kilometers from Kedougou, which meant that the villagers had more access to supplies from the city (when I say city, I mean town, but by Seneglese standards it is a city). I was staying with the village chief’s first wife’s family compound along with Kathleen (a fellow American), while Kayla (another American) was in the family but in another compound across the road. Once we left the hotel, Kayla, Kathleen and I rode a four-wheeler to our village, where we were going to stay for the next three days. My brother Kindi and I spent the afternoon and the evening together, as Kathleen would not be joining us until the next day. He showed me around the compound, introduced me to various members of the family and settled down to some ataya and a nice chat. We had to move indoors because it suddenly started to rain. Over the course of the rest of that first day I discovered his background and story, which was very intriguing. He is twenty six years old, and for several years he was in the army, stationed in Casamance to suppress the rebels. It sounds like he was involved in a lot of direct combat (he told me specifically that there were days where he thought that he would die in combat), however I have heard that the rebellion is not as strong as it once was. He is very interested in learning English as he wants to move to the US some day. He has notes that he saved from previous SIT students, and studies them in order to prepare for when he goes. I asked him if he ever wants to go to France and his response was that they are too racist. Interestingly enough I was reading “Docker Noir” at the time, and he had also read that book. I believe his point of view could be biast based on what he has read, which was probably written by Senegalese authors, and what he has seen of French tourists. His idea is that he wants to go to the U.S, get any sort of job he can, even join the army, and make money for his family. He is absolutely convinced that if he goes to the U.S. he will learn English in two months, have a job and a place to live and have a better life. Throughout the trip I had a hard time explaning to him that it was not all that easy to just go to the U.S. and be successful like that. In fact, it was a struggle for me the entire time to convince him that life in the U.S. was not as easy as the movies make it seem. Later on, just before dinner, he wanted me to get out my notebook and start to learn some Peul. The lesson was very short and simple and after that he did not push Peul on me, as he knew I was only there for three days and therefore wouldn’t be able to speak it that well. Afterwards we just relaxed, he made some more ataya and we continued to chat about this and that until I decided to go to sleep.

The first full day was very relaxing, although I discovered that everyone wakes up much earlier in a village then in a city. I was woken up by the sounds of animals and by 7:30 the noise was almost too much for me to sleep anymore. For breakfast we ate this porridge style food that was hot rice and lait caille with a “little” bit of sugar (a Senegalese little, which means a lot by American standards). This was about the most delicious and filling breakfast I had had yet in Senegal, and I was very satisfied. Kathleen showed up as we were making Ataya and I was happy to see that she was feeling better. Kindi explained the family situation to her as he made tea, and after the whole process (which does take quite a while) we went over to visit Kayla. Almost as soon as I sat down with her, all of the young girls that lived in her compound came up and began to braid my hair. The girl that was in charge of Kayala, Khayka, was an eleven year old fireball. She was the ring leader of everyone around her, and she told us what to do and how to do it. As we were leaving Kayla’s compound, with our village girls in tow, we were stopped by one of our many brothers. He tried to explain to us that his son had a gash in the roof of his mouth, and they couldn’t afford to send him to the hospital, and wanted to know if we had anything for it. All of us were shocked that this was something that he felt comfortable asking us and that he genuinely believed we could help. This encounter shock me a little bit. I felt that I should be able to help them, as I felt awful for just being an observer when I know that something can be done to help this boy. However, once I walked away I realized that my role here is as an obersver, I am here to learn and give them the gift of the value of an education. As tough as it is to simply observe, that was our task.

The rest of the day passed fairly slowly, as Kathleen and I discovered, village life moves very slowly. The only real markers in the day were the meal times, interjected with ataya preparation. The women prepared all of the meals, did the laundry and cleaned the compound. The young girls would also help out with the meals and or any other random chores, although most of them were free to run as they pleased. The boys would run around, play games or soccer, or watch the men make tea and talk. There was a school in the middle of the village, however it was not in session because the school year starts after Tabaski for them. The men, if they did not work (which all the men except one worked in my compound) would sit around and make tea, visit other men in the village and have long conversations with each other. I did enjoy watching these conversations, and occasionally I participated in them if the visiting male spoke French enough to include me. It was very pleasant to be invited in their conversation, especially since it was generally something that was semi controversial. I did notice that during these conversations there was a general trend that if the eldest man stated his opinion, he would never be formally contradicted and he would also have the final word on the conversation. The roles of the different genders were very obvious to me in the village because the men never entered into the female sphere and their lives intersected as very specific moments (meal times) and rarely at other times.

One of our adventures of the village stay was a trip down to see the Gambia river, which is right on the edge of the village. The first time we went it was just Kathleen, myself and our brother Bala. He showed us where the hippos normally live (we did not see any unfortunately), and the dangers of the hippos. I didn’t know this before, but the baby hippos live on land once they are born and the mother hippos will bring them food. The month that that normally takes place is December so Bala told us that during that month it was very dangerous to go to the river. The second trip to the river we went with Kayla, Kindi and Khayka, but again we did not see any hippos. This time it was more of a photo shoot as we took many photos by a big tree where they collect honey. Eventually we had to stop walking along the river because we were getting close to where anacondas live. The trip to the river really brought it home to me that in a village you literally live off of the land. The food grows right there, it is harvested by the villagers and then prepared by them for meals. Although the family didn’t have very much money, there was never any shortage of food. To me it demonstrated the reality of how you do not need money to be happy and satisfied. Family was so very important to everyone there, and not once did I see someone do something completely alone. The support of the family kept everyone in good spirits, no matter what. To me it was quite a realization to see this in action as for me it was one of the things that I will take with me from this experience.

Towards the end of our stay, Kayla, Kathleen and I decided to give them a gift of American culture. Khayka and the other village girls were incredibly interested in learning American dances, but they only wanted to learn dances that went with songs. All of their dances, such as the Youssa, always went with a specific song. We would all stand in a circle and clap and sing the song. Each person in the circle would get a chance to do the dance that Khayka had decided we were doing. After a while we braved the circle and taught them “Teach me How to Dougie”, “Stanky Leg”, “ Hokey Pokey” and finally “ The Macarana”. All of the children and the women who were watching laughed at us silly Americans. However, I think they really loved the effort that we put in, and in the end we all had a blast! It was such a great cultural exchange between the villagers and the Americans. For us it was a great way to find common ground and show them that despite our cultural backgrounds we can still make connections.

From this experience I took away more then I can say in words. I learned a completely different way of life and a different way to look at the world. Their village was not as poor as others that people visited, but I still feel like I saw glimpses of how hard village life is in comparison to city life. I have so much respect and admiration for the villagers who I lived with, especially the women. The women worked tirelessly everyday to keep their family healthy and happy, and they certainly received no credit. I never felt uncomfortable with my family and their way of life, but the only thing that made me slightly upset was how little credit the women got. Overall, I am so thankful that I got this experience, I only wish it could’ve lasted longer.

Posted in Becca Zavala '12, Senegal | Comments Off

Ecotopia=Village?

Posted on October 31, 2011 by ghmoore

A return to the mountains, the forests, and the chillier nights. This all happened in my excursion to Kedougou a town close to the Guinea border. Kedougou seemed to be the Portland of the United States for bicycles. Everyone has a bicycle and a rack to transport people, mattresses, laundry, goats, you name it they carry it on their bicycle. Not to mention much of the Kedougou market is dedicated to things like bike pumps, bike tires, and bling for bicycle spokes, bicycle seats, handlebars etc.

In other ways I also feel like the Kedougou area was a bit like the good ole PNW. First of there are mountains! So they are not the glacial carved beauties of my homeland but they can still get the heart a pumpin’. They are lush and green and form part of the border between Guinea and Senegal (see picture to the left). We hiked to the top of two mountains (each of which housed a small village) and hiked to one glorious waterfall. I LOVE FRESH WATER! No salt, cool temperature, no trash catching your leg, it was glorious.

I got to live in the most beautiful village in the world for three days. My village was on top of this mountain. The photo to the left is the sunset view just a little scramble above the huts I lived in. I was lucky to live with this small Bedick (ethnicity) Christian Animist village during the rainy season because in the dry season they have to carry water all the way up to their village at least once a day. I stayed on top of the mountain for three days but walked 30 minutes across the plateau to the fields every day.

At the time I was in the village I was also reading a book called Ecotopia in which the Western states of the U.S. secede and create a self-sustainable land, no cars, no waste, and a love for the land. Sometimes I wondered if Ethwar (the village) would qualify as an ecotopia or just poverty. The fields of the village consisted of everything that the Bedick people ate. They sold none of it. Rice fields, corn fields, peanut plants, hibiscus used for juice and flavor not for beauty, papaya, lime, mango, pull-apart fruit, sugar cane, tomatoes, okra. As a result one day I had rice pudding with sugar for breakfast, rice and a green okra sauce for lunch, and rice with a peanut sauce for dinner. Occasionally there was warthog thrown in with the peanut sauce and as long as I didn’t get a bite of hide it was just fine. I began to realize that this is why my village father carried a gun everywhere he went, just in case he saw something that he could shoot for lunch. Houses were made of mud with straw roofs. Other huts were made with woven bamboo and sticks. They threw nothing away in fact they were happy to take my empty plastic Kirene water bottles to put things in. Even corn husks were used sometimes as scrubbies for dishes and at other times corn-husk dolls. Clothes were worn so many times that you could no longer see the infinite number of patches underneath the dirt. Although we may think that gross my environmental self wants to think of preserving of water. Goodness knows that it takes a lot more effort to wash clothes here than it does anywhere else.

Most of my time in the village was devoted to sitting on a matt and watching kids play. I tried to carry water on my head to no avail. Side note: the women here are exceptionally strong and have amazing posture and to think that for half of the year THEY CARRY WATER ON THEIR HEADS UP A MOUNTAIN! I sorted some rice grains good from bad, took some leaves off of their stems, pounded some corn with a big mortar and pestle. But for most of it I watched my twin brothers play with a really dull knife, jump off rocks, and torment their littlest brother. I watched my other brother chop a log in half with something that can barely be called an axe. I thought of my family in Montana gathering and splitting firewood at this time of year too. But goodness knows my village family did not use their wood for heat, no it was for a cooking fire over which the largest vats of rice I have ever seen were cooked. See all those pots on my village mom’s head? At one point, every one of them was filled with cooked rice.

But I write this from my home-stay back in Dakar where the electricity has been amazing lately (I think it might have something to do with President Wade wanting to get re-elected contrary to the rest of the population of Senegal). My home-stay with a mother who comments favorably on the size of my friends’ bums, sisters who have persuaded me to let them give me hair extensions tomorrow, a cousin who speaks very very slow French with me, and a brother who just introduced me to Peter Gabriel. A home-stay that I am a bit sad to say I will be leaving in a week. But not before the big party of Tabaski where every family kills at least one goat and barbecues for the rest of the day. At least that is what I understand. We shall see soon enough!

Posted in 2011-12, Gaelyn Moore '13, Senegal | Leave a comment

The Trip

Posted on October 28, 2011 by cj

Classes were finished, finals were approaching, spring was springing. So, naturally, I took off with my boys in a green and purple camper van for 12 days.

(Above picture taken by Connor of course)

14 October
The Tea Party! Drinking is sure to commence by 8am for most university students. I had had ridiculously little sleep that week, so my morning was not as impressive as most of the kids surrounding me (6 before 6, 7 before 7, 8 before 8, wine before nine..etc ((don’t worry mama I was a classy lady)). Ilam was bumpin’ by 6:30am and I was in my LDOC costume by 8am. I attended one of my classes, and it was the most depressing thing ever, so I quickly rejoined 90% of the student population at the beer garden-style concert. Let me tell you, Kiwis know how to do costumes. There were some brilliant pieces of work out there.

15 October: Lift Off
Again, little sleep was had. We woke up early, packed up our things, went and got the van, and went grocery shopping. We were on the road by 3:30 and ended up parked on the side of a little country road outside of Nelson for the night. We knew our trip was going to be great (how could it not with our list of destinations) but little did we know, this trip would end up being one of the best two weeks we had ever experienced.

16 October: Abel Tasman
This small national park is located at the very top of the south island. This first day we took a water taxi up the bay and did a 5 hour hike back to the town, stopping at various beaches.

That night was one of the few times we caved and paid for a camping spot, although it was nice to have a toilet and a kitchen. Also that evening; All Blacks over Australia, putting them straight to the final versus France the next Sunday.

17 October: Abel Tasman
We remained at Abel and did some sea kayaking. It was really fun and really beautiful, but my weak womanly stature made 4 hours of paddling really difficult. Luckily, I was sharing a kayak with a fine crewman.

Just as it started to rain we headed south to the Te Waikoropupu Springs, which is known for it’s clarity and the crazy amount of water gushing out of the ground (14,000 litres per second).

Video: The gang goes to the spring

We then made another stop at a natural limestone labyrinth, which was a huge, random rocky maze near the main road. People bring little toys and weird things and put them along the walls or in trees, which made the labyrinth whimsical but creepy and surreal at the same time, and even we got a little turned around on our way out.

18 October: Pancake Rocks and Parking Lots
The highlight of this day would be the Pancake Rocks, which are along the west coast in Punakaiki.

We made our way to the glaciers (Fox and Franz Joseph) and camped in an Indian restaurant’s parking lot because we’re classy like that. But before that we were able to hike up to Fox Glacier:

19 October: Sky Dive Franz
It was beautiful! Glaciers, mountains, ocean, fields in the late afternoon. Glorious. Basically,
-15,000 ft
-1 minute free fall
-sick

We then drove to Lake Wanaka, getting in around 1am. Unfortunately we were woken up 5 hours later to a park official telling us to gtfo before we get a 200$ ticket. So we went and parked somewhere else.

Here’s the lake:

We went on the most beautiful hike which was probably my favorite part of the entire trip. It was only 1.5 hours to the top, but once we were there we had an amazing 360 view.

We laid at the top for almost an hour enjoying the sunshine and realizing that this trip was just getting better and better. Sometimes New Zealand made us feel like the only people in the world, in a really good way.

20-23 October: Queenstown
A ski town-esque tourist trap on Lake Wakatipu, full of bungee jumping, restaurants, fine shopping, beautiful views, bar crawls. It was nice to be in the same place for 4 nights and it kept us busy.

Making pancakes in random neighborhoods with killer views:

Bungee jump site:

On Sunday we did a pretty challenging day hike, but the summit was incredible:

Oh yeah…New Zealand won the world cup.

24 October: Fiordland at Milford Sound
Absolutely amazing. My pictures do not do this place justice. It was rainy, misty, and cold, but the Fiordland was one of the coolest places I’ve ever been to. If you didn’t know, a fiord is a long, steep inlet formed by glaciers. So they’re basically huge rock formations jetting out of the water. If I had to make a movie reference it would definitely be to Avatar; the rain forest climate and intimidating geology was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. We went on a two hour cruise and even though it was rainy and windy I loved every minute of it. There are countless waterfalls flowing off of all the fiords, and since it’s so windy there were a ton of waterfalls that were just blowing up into the sky. Magical. Amazing. I can see why this is one of the most talked about places in New Zealand. Again, my pictures don’t do it justice, they might as well be crayon sketches that fail in comparison to my glowing memory of the sound.
Video: Waterfall

Mirror Lakes:

25 October: Mt. Cook
At last our amazing luck ran out, and Mt. Cook was rainy and cold, so for the night we just chilled and listened to the thunderstorm that shook our van until early in the morning. The next day the boys went on a hike but I stayed in the little town because I felt real sick and wanted a break from the tramping life. So I did really important things like drink coffee and go on facebook.

26 October: Lake Tekapo

Some bergs before the lake:

Right in the middle of the south island, Lake Tekapo was gorgeous. It was bittersweet as it was our last stop, but we all had to accept that the van life couldn’t last forever. The last night we just camped out on the side of a hill and watched darkness fall as clouds melted over the mountains towards the lake.

The lake:

In conclusion, this was the best 12 days of my life. Not that each day contributed to the top 12 days I’ve ever experienced, but as a whole, I am so thankful I was able to travel around with two of my favorite people. The road trip gods blessed us with good weather, high spirits, and great luck. We drove around 3,000 km and almost ever house, store, downtown, and random building on the side of the road was flying an All Blacks flag. It was a good time to travel around and see NZ at her proudest. My heart aches when I think about leaving.

Posted in Caitlin Jost '13, New Zealand | Leave a comment

The Tale of Tuam

Posted on October 17, 2011 by scauley

I must preface this entry by explaining how and why I found myself in Tuam in the first place. I wish I had an exciting story, but I don’t. My study abroad program really wants to make sure that their students get a proper taste of Irish life during their time overseas. This is usually a good thing, resulting in GAA matches and knowledge and castles. Other times it means a sample of real life in the rural West, that fabled “homestay weekend.” I was less than enthused. The prospect of escaping to a foreign land and finding myself either ensnared in house rules or drowning in the drool of someone else’s squirming children seemed rather unappealing. I like living on my own. I’ve been doing it for a while. I just want to buy my own groceries and forget what day the garbage is collected and be a real life adult, okay?! “No,” sayeth the Arcadia gods. “Not this weekend. This weekend you’re going to Tuam.”

My first night in the West went a bit differently than I expected. I pictured myself rolling into the quintessential Irish village, with wee Irish children and glossy Irish setters chasing after the wheels of my carriage, as the entire population don identical chunky cable-knit sweaters and wave from atop their respective herds of sheep. The children and dogs jump upon me as I disembark, yelping and slobbering in such equal measure that I know not from whence the slime on my hands came. With a sack of potatoes in one hand, a pint of Guinness in the other, I walk into revelry of fiddles and penny whistles. Cacophony. The children marvel at my exotic tongue, shrieking with delight as I say word after word after word in a bizarre American lilt. The adults jabber to one another in brogues I cannot understand, minding curious liquids and unknown meats spitting angrily into open flames. Tempting. A young dairy farmer far too dark and mysterious and single for his own good notices me among the rabble. We lock eyes. I take a sip of my pint without the head leaving behind a foamy moustache, thank God. He rolls his woolen sleeves down, revealing elbow patches well-worn from hours spent at a desk reading classical literature by candlelight. Ink on the hem. A writer, perhaps. No, a poet. I drop my copy of Ulysses, casually held in most social situations just in case I need to woo via dropping now that handkerchiefs are out of fashion. A climactic thud. Quiet. Slight breeze ruffling the pages. But his forearms stay warm. Suddenly, dusk! ZOOM IN ON HIS FACE. MY FACE. BACK TO HIS FACE, ONLY CLOSER THIS TIME. Pan out. Silence. We are silhouettes against the setting sun. Radiating chivalry, he saunters over to retrieve the book, brushing dirt off of the cover while making some joke involving dust jackets that I laugh at regardless of how humourous it actually is. A pause. He proposes. Yes I said yes I will yes. He gets the reference. Panorama. He leads me back to his farm atop the cow of my choosing, feral children and dogs nipping at my heels once again, where I obtain free cheese and a marriage visa and a happily ever after.

None of that actually happened. On the last Friday of September—I know, I know. This is long overdue—I arrived in the thriving metropolis of Tuam (pronounced “tomb”) in Co. Galway, a Podunk little town with a surprising number of Irish families who let foreign students live in their houses. The three-hour journey west was lovely and scenic, with the occasional crumbling castle along the motorway sending squeals of delight rippling through the recycled air of the coach. Despite the general mirth, I could not ignore the visions of Nilbog flitting through my mind. (It’s Maut spelled backwards!) And the fact that my family was the last one to arrive, leaving me waiting expectantly in the middle of a deserted car park with no penny whistles or sheep in sight, served only to enhance them. I figured that this was the part of the story where they would kill me and hide me in a bog. Or if the gods were feeling kind, I would simply be forgotten and instead spend the weekend gallivanting around Galway. Gaillimhvanting, if you will.

Well, they eventually picked me up and I’m writing this now so obviously nothing bad happened. My flatmate, Ellen, and I made our way to a quaint country cottage about 5 kilometers outside of the town. We were warned about Irish people being a bit quiet at first, but weren’t really concerned. I can handle quiet people. They are fun. I just keep talking at them until they learn that I am not going to stop being loud until they say things back at me. Eventually I extract every last drop of conversation from their introverted little souls and feel quite content with myself. Friend acquired. I did not realise, however, how different a beast the Irish reserve is. Being plopped into the lives of random strangers for a weekend is always a rather awkward situation, but one does not truly know awkward until one eats dinner in silence before spending the rest of the night watching television. Apparently The X Factor is a big thing over here. Like, it is what everyone talks about. All of the time. I do not own a television, let alone watch it, but if I did, shows like The X Factor would not be my first choice of programme. But as luck would have it, tonight was a very special night: the premier of The American X Factor. And we were going to watch it. Contain your jealousy.

Ellen and I did not want to be rude—curse that Minnesota within the both of us—so we sat there and endured the horrors of Eastenders and Coronation Street, two English soap operas (Yep.) that no words can describe, before the three hour premier of The American X Factor. Could we leave? Could we sleep? Is this what life in the west of Ireland is like, filled with nothing but the doldrums of reality television?!

These questions remain unanswered.

The next day we ventured into town, which was actually a much more interesting place than the view through our coach window let on. We were able to see pretty much every thing on every street in two hours, with some of the highlights being the ruins of a13^th-century church just sitting in the middle of everything; a quaint bookshop that didn’t sell anything by Joyce despite having his name on the window outside; the cathedral, where we took great joy in trespassing on the archbishop’s private grounds; and a wee mill. This mill is apparently the only preserved corn mill in the West of Ireland. I would know more facts if I had gone to the museum that all of the signs pointed toward. But there was no museum. All I wanted was a museum. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK.

On our final day we took a long walk around the “neighbourhood,” which really does not feel like the right word at all. Most of their neighbours are cattle and sheep, who were quite friendly, greeting us with vapid stares and the occasional bleat. And O, the rolling green hills! I felt like Jane Eyre. Or whoever else traipses around lush countryside in their spare time. Here is a picture, since words cannot describe how beautiful Ireland is:

Once the initial awkwardness subsided, the rest of the weekend quickly filled with good conversation and plenty of cultural quirks. Jumping into the life of a native family was an extremely positive experience overall, and I would recommend it to anyone studying or living in a foreign country. And if the inevitable warmth, kindness, and generosity of a local family isn’t convincing enough, then at least go for the food. I must say that I ate some of the most delicious meals I have ever consumed over the course of those few days. Saturday’s dinner was bacon*. JUST. HOME COOKED. BACON. With potatoes and cabbage and some mystery sauce that made the bacon EVEN MORE DELICIOUS, if that’s even possible. And the next morning? A full Irish breakfast, God’s gift to mankind. Which also included bacon. I should have taken pictures. If there is one thing homestay taught me, is it to never underestimate the power of a home cooked Irish meal. Or televised singing competitions.

*The Irish are quite fond of bacon and produce it in many different forms. This thrills me, and I have made it my quest to try them all. I shall divulge my findings in a later entry about food.

Reflection on Previous Posts

This Senegalese Life

All The Things

Thanksgiving in Senegal…Tabaski!

Back in the Saddle Again

Chasing Hippos: Living with the Peul Fouta

Ecotopia=Village?

The Trip

The Tale of Tuam

Last week of classes!

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