STRIKE!

well. We've been here a month now. You think that classes would be well underway. Think again sumuy xarit bu ameriken (my american friends).

STRIKE. We started school for a week. Then we had vacation for Tabaski. We return, have class for one day and then what? AG. Assemble General. To do what? Decide to whine like little girls about something everyone has known about for a year now. I get it sumay xarit bu sengales (my senegalese friends), you don't want to pay to get your masters, but you had a year to prepare for this. Why start getting angry now?

Anyway. My section started the strike, and continued it for 5 days, and yesterday the entire University was pulled into it. Now, you ask yourself, isn't it a student movement? The answer: no. No one I have talked to is behind this strike. They want to start classes and not sit on their butts doing NOTHING.

so, I have sucessfully had 6 classes. And it is December. Tomorrow. Successfully doing nothing the entire time I'm here.

My life consists of sleeping, trying to unsuccessfully do homework that really doesn't exist, watching movies, doing laundry, starting research and nothing. :D

I hope your finals go well, while I haven't even started my classes.

I think finals aren't for two more weeks, it's just to make a point.

AND. craziness, there are some who are involved in the strike are calling for violence, so I have no wolof or french (which continues even if there is a strike) because the professors are afraid of violence. Woohoo. Good thing violence is towards the University and not students.

I'll have to update you tomorrow on AG and strike.

bisous.

Okay, so I lied to you. I really hope you can forgive me. I merely updated once. I had all the best intentions to post again, but uploading pictures to my computer was just not happening. BUT, now, this will be an extra long three-in-one post about everything good: Tabaski, goats, and Goree Island. So, sit tight, hold on and get ready for the ride of your life. (I really hope it isn’t, because let’s be honest, that would be pretty pathetic for the ride of your life.)
Let’s start with Tabaski. So, based on the assumption that you read my last post, you know what it is. And if you didn’t read the last post, go back right now and do it. I’ll wait. Are you done? Good. Let’s continue. So. Tabaski. Let’s just say that this holiday is unlike any other. Or just like every other, however you want to say it. But let’s back up to the killing of the rams. Two words: complete disappointment. Now you start to talk about slaughtering something and the women here start to cringe. Therefore, I assumed that it would be gross and I wouldn’t want to eat meat for the next two years. Exciting, right? Sadly enough, all they did was slit its throat and bleed it out into a hole in the ground. Although, I did learn by mere observation that when their throats are slit, the excrete everything that was left in their bladders and intestines. But I guess I would too if someone slit my throat and bled me out. I’m also not going to test that theory. My apologies. The word on the street is that the gross part is when they gut the poor guys, which I didn’t see. But it was pretty gross when my brother brought down a tub of guts and started playing with it. Just saying.
Now, this holiday is like the 4th of July. After cleaning out the ram, we grilled a bunch of ram ribs and ate them, which ram ribs create more smoke than an entire case of burgers! And it made me miss That’s the 4th of July part. Now enter Thanksgiving. I gorged myself seven, yes seven, times. I guess gorge is not the proper term, but I ate that many times. Let’s count them together!
1. Breakfast. Bread with raspberry jam and butter. Malaria pill and a glass of water.
2. Post-slaughter meal. Grilled ram ribs, French fries, pickles, onions and olives. Don’t forget homemade mayo (one egg and probably two cups of oil… nassssssssty!) and mustard.
3. Pre-lunch meal. Grilled ram liver with mustard.
4. Pre lunch snack. Crepes and cake. Really delicious.
5. Lunch. Grilled ram, I think. With lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and mustard. This is where I gorged myself on lettuce and tomatoes, which I now like plain. It’s amazing what Africa does to you!
6. Post-lunch meal. Ram stew over rice with bread and beans.
7. Dinner. Grilled ram with French fries, vegetables and ketchup and mustard. (real treat was the ketchup here!)
8. Whoa. Make that eight times. I went home and had crepes again.
Now, between lunch and post-lunch (or pre-dinner) I changed into my bling boubou. Now, as I said, it was bling, but that didn’t stop me from feeling COMPLETELy ridiculous. I couldn’t walk very well, but I did it anyway. Some man at a boutique (like a convenient store) told me I was looking good. To which I responded that I could not move, so he decided to teach me. And they way I was supposed to walk made me look even more ridiculous! Oh well. :)
To go back which holiday Tabaski is like, I’m throwing in Christmas, because everyone gets together and spends the day hanging out, which made me miss home just a little. Especially since Thanksgiving is this week! And, I also received a present from the two young guys who work at the boutique in front of my house! (So I brought them crepes.)
On a great Tabaski end note, Suzanne, a girl who frequents the house, cleaned and played with the ram testicles. I didn’t ask when we would be eating them. That was not on my agenda.
Moving on to the next topic, goats. They are EVERYWHERE. They are my favorite decoration on campus. And currently, they are all having babies! So instead of goats, there are baby goats! They are incredibly cute. I’d give you some pictures, but I didn’t upload them yet. I know what you’re thinking, but give me a break, I saw them today! Anyway, I’ll post some pictures later.

Ile de Goree. I have been there before, but Alison asked me to go with her, so I decided I would accompany her. We successfully took the ferry across to the island and disembarked, avoiding paying the 500 cfa tax to walk around the island. We walked everywhere. It’s cool, extremely colonial. I don’t feel like writing, so I’m just going to post and narrate pictures. Sorry. But I did successfully get into a fight with two people. And I met a tour guide. And I interviewed him yesterday and met his family. And I’m going to eat there again on Saturday! I’m glad I made the move to talk to that guy.

And, in another pathetic attempt to get mail from home, I’m feeling incredibly homesick right now. So please, send me something. Thanks.

And sorry, no narration, my computer is about to die.

Tabaski Time. Pt. 1 muttons!

Now. I don't want to hear any complaints about posting. I will be posting several times this week, and this is to make up for and save up for when I do not post. :D

Tabaski.

A wonderful festival. This is the celebration of when Abraham decided to kill his son and God gave him a ram instead. Muslims celebrate this as "Tabaski" The men in the family kill a mutton (ram/ sheep... since rams are sheep) and then they prepare it, get fly dressed up and eat it.

*Note: At Tabaski time, it is against their religion to kill and eat female muttons. If a mutton is not available (which seems incredibly impossible), you may use a chevre(goat) or a camel. Now, here's the thing. The man who explained this said that it is normally because of financial reasons that one cannot use a mutton. I'm not a rocket scientist or anything, but camels are a LOT bigger than muttons. Therefore, would not camels be more expensive than muttons? I'm just asking.
**Note on the Note: Female muttons may be eaten at any other time of the year.

Now. You're asking yourself... where are these pictures of Kate looking great? Now defal ndank followers. (defal ndank will roughly translate to chill out or slow your roll) The fete (party) isn't even until tomorrow and by tomorrow, I mean Wednesday. I'm just blessing your presence with another post simply because I'm just that nice!

So... begin fotos.

Well, begin text, then photos. SO. Today. I decided to go into downtown Dakar. What spirit provoked me to do so, I have no idea. That was NOT a good idea. First. REWIND. Coming back from Saint-Louis to Dakar, which was a 4 hour trip the first time, took 10 hours. NOW. Add to the fact that the windows did not open on the bus, the seats go five across, and they have that funky, itchy car floor type material covering them, I, Yours beloved, got stuck on top of the tire. Yep, that's right. I spent ten hours scruntched (Spelling, please?!) up in a ball, shoving my knees into the horribly itchy carpet seats while the man in front of me was continually grunting because I was giving him an involuntary "back massage" Now... apart from my discomfort, I must say that the ride was beautiful. We left at 2 o'clock... and were coming into Dakar-ish area around sunset. Do you know how cool the sunset with Baobabs in the foreground is?! I bet you would if I could have taken a picture. But I couldn't, so I'm just teasing you for next time I come back at nightfall. My apologies for being mean like that. AND when we got closer into Dakar, on top of and in the trunks of most cars were... you guessed it! (probably not) MUTTONS! Tied up and looking incredibly sad. But they were cute on top of the roof of what would be compared to fifteen passenger vans.

Fast forward to present-day Dakar. I grab a taxi to go downtown and prices are HIGH. I'm talking 4 bucks. CRAZY. So, a normal trip into town would have been, what, 13.5 minutes at the most. We spent at least half an hour just trying to get down there. So on the way, this i what I see! Enjoy. and I lied, this was the trip home.








Also, I almost forgot about Baayfall Rastaman (Baayfall is a sect of a brotherhood... basically if you see someone who looks like Bob Marley... He's a baayfall. And they don't wear shoes, I guess. And they say "trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrranquil!" which is slightly obnoxious, but you have to love it.) who tried to sell me a mutton while in the taxi. He noticed me noticing his fine muttons and encouraged me to buy one. After I said that it was okay, I didn't need a mutton, he was sad. So I told him "apres" (later, or next time in senegalese speak... aka NEVER) and he was happier. Traffic Jam moved ten feet forward, and five minutes later, I still wanted to look at his gorgeous muttons (He had a pretty shell collar. It's not everyday a mutton has a nice collar), so I turned around. He got excited that I was going to buy, because I think he assumed that this moment was "apres" but I had to turn him down again. Although, if I had to buy any mutton, it would have been his, because they came with pretty collars. And I wouldn't kill him. I'd name him Xaar-bi (aka Harvey) which is the sheep in Wolof. Xaar=sheep bi=the. I must admit that I'm ingenious.

Another note on muttons. They have mutton shows here like we have dog shows in the states. Except here, you don't win as much money, but you do win Adja, my preferred margarine!


Now, you are also privy (Spelling again, please!?) to this lovely video I took while on the way home. It's incredible. Probably up for a Grammy. Or Oscar. Which ever one is better. Maybe MTV music video award? OHHHHHHHHHH baby. This is just a short clip of the amount of muttons in the city right now. MUTTONS GALORRRRRRRRRRRRE!



Let me just say that you should thank the internet here for uploading the video incredibly slow. For that reason, you have received an EXTREMELY long blog post. Well... that failed. Literally, that is what blogspot just told me, soooo I shall post the video to facebook and you may view it there.

Pictures. Halloween. a la senegalais. with some crabs.

This is the bridge we have to cross to get from our side of the continent to Saint-Louis, the island. Now, picture a herd of muttons (sheep) crossing at the same time. It just doesn't work too well.

Cows. On the beach. They walked on our xaal wolof (watermelon) that we buried in the sand. See pictures further down.
Modou, Masse and Joleen burying our xaal. Which was waay too hot to eat after spending an hour baking in the sun.
Hannah, Joleen, the Atlantic Ocean and Xaal Wolof.
Hannah enjoying her xaal wolof. It was delicious! By the way, they call it the wolof melon (black) and there's a toubab melon (white) which I think is cantelope.
Modou and Masse tressing Joleen. They also argued over who would be a better hairdresser. I think Modou won.
Andrew, our only male in the program. He also has two alter-egos... André Gilber and Aziz Ndiaye. Ridiculous. :) also... wild card and Numero 2.
Masse. Our Enormous friend who is hilarious. AKA the gentle giant...
Modou. Skinny, tall, ridiculously dark and super strong (superman style). Also just made the basketball team at the University!
Hannah. The brains. Intelligence. Peach cakes. No counter egos... yet.
Joleen and crab. I'm proud of this picture. I actually kicked the crab while digging in the sand. I screamed. the jefe. Pumpkin buns. Zucchini flower.
'Modou, Andrew and Masse burying the crab I kicked.

Joleen balancing xaal wolof on her head! Like a true senegalese!
The scary part of our halloween. Modou with a knife!
And, as usual... boats! I love them!

Okay, we're late for wolof class.

Send me things. I feel deprived. with stamps... and things like leaves in the cards! Thanks Sharon! :D :D I loved it!

Exercise and Birthday Shenanigans... et plus.

After the last post, I left the computer room, an air-conditioned bit of heaven, to head back to my room to unpack a bit and organize my room. The campus is not too spread out, so it was a short walk back to Village G, where I reside. Let me paint a picture: To get from the computer room to my dorm room, I walked down the stairs, turned left, walking on sand mixed with shells, which I find to be a pleasant reminder that we are only miles from the beach. Avoiding the thorny branches which unpleasantly stabbed Andrew in the foot previously, maneuvering around the piles of poop from several different types of animals ranging from enormous piles (which what they come from, I’m not sure of yet. I’m working on verifying that) to little dots of goat poop.

Once I make my way to the concrete path towards my dorm, still trying to steer clear of fecal matter, I think that I am safe. Not the case. While I’m minding my own business, enjoying the view of baby goats munching on plastic bags and everything in sight, a soccer ball flies my way, reminding me what time it is: exercise time (6 o’clock-ish). I look up and there are thousands (which might be an exaggeration) of men playing soccer, basketball, running, walking and Lord only knows what else. It was a bizarre moment. I arrived to my dorm room, successfully avoiding being hit in the face by a flying soccer ball (although I was a bit worried), started unpacking a little when the power went out. Pitch black. I head outside, where the whole world, as it seems, has come out of their rooms to socialize and wait for the power to come back.

I noticed this phenomenon one other time when the power was out in Dakar. Normally, no one in my house would go outside, but that night it was so warm that we were forced outside. It was fantastic! I spent almost three hours sitting outside of my house in a plastic chair talking with Pap, the door man who sleeps outside of the house to keep us safe. (Which I question because I have left and/or gone back in without him noticing) Pap is a good practice for Wolof because his French is so bad that I can barely understand him. I miss him since being in Saint-Louis.

Jump to New Topic:

Birthday

I had been warned by the girls from last year that on your birthday, you will get soaked with water (it’s the tradition here). So I was prepared and wore something that would dry quickly and not be seen through (the essential element). But, much to my dismay, no one knew it was my birthday, besides the other toubabs (white people/ gringos/ Americans). Therefore, all I got during the day was a splash and a warning from one girl that I would be splashed later on (which was never fulfilled). So, after classes, I didn’t do much, but we were going to Saint-Louis for dinner. I got ready, which my roommate appreciated, along with a lot of the Senegalese (Andrew commented that us girls looked better than them, and I like to think that he wasn’t lying to me) and we left for la ville.

To get to Saint-Louis, you have to get a taxi, which is generally old and about to fall apart, and if you’re lucky it will smell like feet (like ours did), then the taxi drops you in front of the Marché of Sor (the market on the island before Saint-Louis), you have to walk through the Marché, over the bridge and finally you’re on Saint-Louis. Sounds simple, right? Well, we ran into some French high school students that we had met previously (Noël gave me my first birthday present: a book by Maupassant). All was well until one of them had their portable nicked by some passerby. After a bit of confusion, the four of us (Andrew Joleen and Hannah) continued to the restaurant. We had decided on a Vietnamese place on the river, which was an amazing choice because we were the only people in the restaurant. (The waiter actually changed into work clothing for us) We were generally ridiculous, and even entertained the waiter with our discussion of techniques for using the Turkish toilets, which included some demonstrations by Hannah. After dinner, we were walking back towards a lovely bar and ran into (not literally) a jewelry that I read about in the guide book, so we (more like I) decided to stop and get a birthday present! The owner was great. And I will spend a lot of money there…. Put your orders in now! : ) Seeing as it was late (not at all though), we decided to buy a bottle of wine to share in Joleen’s room since her roommate is gone for the month (not sure why or how she can skip a month of classes, but you know, I just don’t ask.) I changed out of my fly clothes into something a bit more danceable, grabbed my computer and headed to Joleen’s. After great times of filtering water, drinking a bottle of warm white wine, eating a cream puff which was more a chocolate syrup puff , something else delicious and dancing a bit, I decided to go to the bathroom and have a try (again) at these stupid Turkish toilets. I felt more confident thanks to Hannah’s demonstration at dinner, so I was confident. I walked out of the bathroom, ready to do some more ridiculous dancing, turned the corner towards Joleen’s room and WHAM! Out of nowhere (more like out of a bucket) I was covered in water. I screamed loudly (especially since it was one in the morning) and then we took some pictures.

Then Joleen and I (after stripping off some layers of wet clothing…) went to go buy her some cigarettes and bag water. I felt very exposed because I was wearing just a cardigan and pants, because my other clothes were soaked. We walked to the boutique near our village, and I thought we would buy and return. NOT THE CASE. We stopped to look at the stars, which are breath-taking and you can see the Milky Way! It’s incredible to say the least. Then we were approached by the Vieux Badji who wanted to light his cigarette. We hung out with the Vieux Badji (his name) and his friends Dave, Dave, and Mohammed. After walking over to the group Great Dave (as he calls himself) decided to steal my water bottle (more like I gave it to him) and he poured water on my head and then hugged me. We chatted until three in the morning and then headed home, due to the fact that I was wet and cold, yet completely content with my birthday. I think I am most happy that Joleen needed nicotine, because it was a chance to make some Senegalese friends (who are going to teach us to dance! Haha) and I got water dumped on me by the Great Dave and B-Boy (who supposedly doesn’t have a real name… chipatu [the sound you make when you suck air in through your teeth and cheeks, which means disapproval]) It was a great birthday and I still feel like an old woman. I hope all your presents are already in the mail and that I will get them soon! Enshallah (God willing) Je blague (I kid)

Je les aime… naman naa la (I miss you!) and you would say ma laa raw (I miss you more)

Kate

Universite Gaston-Berger..... ONIONS

hello my faithful followers...

I feel as if I should update you on my life, but, sadly, there is not much for me to update you on. So, here it goes.

We arrived today in Saint-Louis, or rather in Sanar, a suburb of Saint-Louis. Sanar is where the university located. It was strange to drive through town and see all of the flooding that I have heard about on the news. The rain has been pouring down for the past week (which is not good, because it is harvest time and all of the crops should be coming in, not moulding) which is flooding the streets and the houses.

On a complete tangent... onions. Whilst talking with my beloved brother, Justin, I was reminded that I wanted to dedicate a post to onions, to which the Senegalese devote their entire plates of food to. Let me illustrate. Today, at lunch, we were brought our plates. I was astonished that there were no onions on my plate, just a 1/4 of a chicken, a huge plate of rice (spotted with carrots, onion buds (but not chopped, which is what the problem is), olive pieces and pickles, boiled carrots and potatoes. I was thrilled that there was no onion soup/ slosh/ grossness. But alas, the rasta man disappeared and reappeared with three large bowls. FULL OF ONIONS.
Now, I love onions as much as the next person (discounting Senegalese people, because that's not a love, it's an obsession, an un healthy one, at that, if you ask me) , but when you boil onions in oil, water and spices to make onion soup.... I'm just not all about it.

Off tangent. I should probably go back to my dorm room now so I can meet my roommate. she's supposed to be amazing, but I'll update about her / life(mine, not hers) later on this week.

ps. I'm afraid of my mattress.

pps. Please forgive any and all grammatical/orthographic mistakes in this post. Damaa sonn. I'm tired.


Love from the other side of the pond...

kate

The Art of Going Out

This post, two days of memories in the making, has trumped my other post-idea: the smells of walking to school. (which is incredibly fascinating, actually...)

The idea for this post started two nights ago, around 9 pm. It was Friday night, and my body was literally aching to dance some salsa. So, I resort to my trusty Lonely Planet which tells me that there is a great little bar that has an amazing salsa scene. The Lonely Planet also divulges that leaving the house before midnight is simply ludicrous. Therefore, I set my alarm on my portable, take a shower and fall asleep for a couple hours.

Two hours later, around eleven forty five, I am rudely awakened by my alarm. I quickly get out of bed, throw on some clothes and depart. While walking to the club, which turned out to be more of a hole-in-the-wall dingy kind of place, I was extremely self-conscious while wearing one of my favorite dresses that I go dancing in all the time. Even though I was wearing leggings, it still felt like I was inappropriately dressed. I made it to Chez Antiou and was befuddled as to where it actually was. Turns out, it was a box inside someone's house (chez means at the home of), so the name was literal.

I walk in, alone, because while I was on my way to the place, the other girl I was going with texted me to tell me she wasn't going to make it. The door creaks open to reveal a dimly lit bar, disco ball and lights at no cost. I head to the bar where it is empty. I order a Coke. After several minutes, some Congolese man approaches me (probably more to do with the fact that he felt bad that I was alone, sitting near his friends than him wanting to talk to me). He tries to speak to me in a fantastically broken English which results in some strange sentences, then resorts to French.

In my head, I had set 2 o'clock as the time where I would start home. Now, in Senegal (as you will see later in the post) that is when things start to get hot. But, being responsible and all, I decided that I should go to class in the morning with more than a couple hours of sleep. (Since most of you probably know how horrible I am to deal with on little sleep!) I let this gentleman know that I will be leaving, and try to pay my bill. The coke costs about $1.25, approximately. I pull out a ten- dollar bill (please note that there is no ten dollar bill, but a 5000 cfa bill, I just thought American terms would be more relevant (: ) The bartendress who has been flirting shamelessly with every male in the joint, informs me that there isn't weccit (change). Therefore I wait. The Congolese man decides that his friend will pay for me and he will walk me part of the way home (which is completely normal here. It's called teranga which probably would be translated to hospitality. They're extremely proud of it. So much so that they named their soccer team "The lions of teranga" which strikes fear in the hearts of all of their opponents.). I try to refuse, but due to the lack of change, I end up accepting and leave.

Now, half way home, there is a little shack that I have seen several times, but never looked at twice. He tells me that they often play salsa there, and thttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8880851411971221974hat everyone dances. Enticed, I agree to go in for a few minutes. No one is dancing, unless you count the males sitting in their chairs watching their crotches/ stomachs (completely ridiculous). After a few songs, some other kind of music comes on and the dance floor is packed by people dancing seemingly merengue (which I believe here is pachanga). It was a great watch, but I never participated, due to the spineless man who brought me to the place that wouldn't dance. We left. "You have class tomorrow and you can't fail your exam" Therefore I went home. I arrived home at 2:45-3 ish (relatively early) and stayed up documenting my night. (Which included an "I spy Dennis Rodman" moment) I went to bed. Overall enjoyment on a scale of 1- 10, I would give it a 4.5. It was interesting, but not too great.

Last night, Youssou N'Dour concert. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PPsExdN2C8) One of his songs from his new CD.

Great idea, he's a legend here. Most popular singer in Senegal. Also not smart enough to schedule a concert before 2 AM! (Which means that it will start later) We meet around midnight to go out. I do the same thing as the night before. I sleep first, go out second. I get dressed and Hannah and Joleen come to the house. We meet up with some others and head to the same bar (second one) I was at last night. After killing an hour and a half, we proceed to head towards the concert hall place. We hail two cabs, costing us a total of 4 USD. At the concert, there are numerous amounts of toubabs (whites/foreigners). We wait for a while after arriving and finally his band starts to play. I think my favorite part was that the bass player led the band. After a few songs, Youssou himself comes out, looking adorable in a purple striped shirt and geek glasses. We spent the next two hours dancing and enjoying ourselves, yet cursing the fact that we don't speak enough Wolof to understand him. Also, Youssou has a dancer who looks like he is on crack. He was amazing, but still, something a little strange and crazy about him. The concert ended around 4 ish, and we started towards the house. We walked a ways so we didn't get ripped off by the taxis outside the concert place. I arrived home around 4:45.

Here's the thing. I went home after the concert. But do the Senegalese? No. They party like freaking rock stars and go out dancing afterward. Drenched in sweat (my fingers were pruning... that's how drenched I was), but still looking fabulous, these people head out for round two, staying out til the sun comes up. Honestly, it's an art form. I am completely impressed by these people who sleep all day stay up all night. It will be a goal I will work towards, little by little. One night, I will stay out until the sun comes up and I will love it... but for me, at least, I will have to continue to sleep first and go out after.

My apologies if this post is incoherent, as I slept little last night and the night before.

Je les aime...

Kate

Ps. I will go eat now, and then pass out in the heat. :) Sundays are my favorite.

Pps. I bought thirty (yes... 3-0) yards of fabric yesterday. And It was super cheap and I'm going to make dresses tomorrow! :)