Ever since November 9th, I've pretty much been working on my independent study non-stop. I'm digging up more information than I thought I would be, which is a good thing. I had my first interview yesterday, with designer Dominique Pétot, who was SO cute! He's a little old French guy with non-matching clothes and funky hair, and our exchange of conversation was just kind of funny. Design is such an abstract thing to try and talk about. So if at first we didn't succeed, we try try tried again (in English). The status of my French is mleh. I tend to freeze up if I'm nervous or in a difficult situation. In a comfortable environment, I can speak (fairly) freely, but it's definitely a confidence thing. I've improved a lot in that dimension, but I still need to get better! One other student and I are continuing French classes during the ISP period with my French professor, Fatou, who I think is just great. She's so funny and nice and I respect her a lot. She's young, educated, making a life for herself, and definitely has her own good, strong, opinions. She even answered my cell phone pretending it was hers, to ward off this sketchy artist man who I mistakenly gave my phone number and then proceeded to call me TEN times in one night, and again three times the next morning.
Note to self: do not give out phone number! Even if he is an artist who has ins with people you need to interview. You don't need to interview him, so kindly say no, I don't have a phone, or give it to Fatou when he calls so she can answer it and pretend it's her phone and he'll never call again.
So Fatou, in short, is a pretty rockin' down to earth person. She wears a hijab, and which I've finally really come to realize, is a very personal choice for a Muslim woman. Here, it's such an interesting mix of Senegalese culture and Muslim culture, and I can't imagine one without the other. I can't even really explain its predominance. As an American, it's difficult to imagine a country whose population follows pretty much one sole religion. Granted, the United States is about 50 times as large as Senegal, but still, it's even difficult to imagine it in microcosm.
I like to think of Islam as a clock, whose time runs the whole country. I mean, it makes sense, as the second pillar of Islam is to pray five times a day at fixed times. But try to imagine so much more than that, and all that's involved with just that. Imagine fitting five prayers into your daily schedule. The country really would have to run on the same clock. Imagine waking up at dawn everyday to the call to prayer from the local mosque, heard from just outside your bedroom window; seeing taxi men park their cars outside the mosque and quick! run in for the midday prayer, before going back to work. Or seeing your professors go out to the garden with their mats to pray in the afternoon, or walking through the market, seeing men wash their feet and hands in the street with water poured from little plastic kettles. Or waiting at a boutique for the owner to come back when he's finished praying. Or walking home from school at dusk, the streets empty, mats strewn on the sidewalk, trying to walk as far away from them as possible, so not to disturb the men praying. Or wondering where your family ran off to after dinner, and (duh) remembering that they're probably off praying somewhere. Or that the universal greeting is, "Asalaamalekum!" "Malekum salaam." Or instead of "cross your fingers," there's "inch allah." Or on all the vibrantly colored car rapides, there's some form of "Alxamdulilaa" painted on them. Or that almost all non-tubaab women wear skirts that cover their ankles, but with brilliantly colored graphic prints; that men look nice in their jewel-toned boubous and pointy shoes. Or that little boys in the talibé, beg in the streets with no shoes, hoping that good Muslims will give alms, in honor of zakat, another pillar of Islam. In the US, maybe we don't have class on Eid Ul-Fitr, and maybe a lot of things. But most of us do not understand the Muslim faith, or even try to comprehend other ways of life. Let's face it, Americans are stupid. They don't travel, even if it is just within our stupid country. They don't do languages, and they don't do world news.
Anyways, yeah.
After the interview yesterday, I spent half my day at Gorée, for the Diaspora Festival. We spent a couple hours on the beach; it was afternoon, so the sun was low and it wasn't hot. I actually was chilly! Then we had a nice, relatively cheap dinner on the beach, overlooking the concert area, and enjoyed some good music too. Then we went to a free screening of the film, "Persepolis," an animated story about an Iranian girl during the Islamic revolution. It was funny and sad at the same time, and I loved the animation. I will have to see it again however, either the English version, or with subtitles, but I still loved it.
I'm still living at my homestay, and it's pretty much same old same old. But we have yet another new maid, and they've kind of taken me under their wing, trying to teach me Wolof. However, I think I'm satisfied with the few sentences I can speak though...
18 November 2007
02 November 2007
Welcome back to Dakar?
I feel almost unable to write about my incredible experience in southeastern Senegal because of a certain incident that occurred on my first night back in Dakar. I am determined however, to keep the good going first, and save the bad news for last! (I mean it is what happened chronologically anyway).
So two Mondays ago (the 22nd) we bounced our way from Dakar to Kedougou. And by bounced our way, I mean BOUNCED our way by bus over and around the enormous craters or "nid-de-poules" in the road. "Nid-de-poule" means literally "chicken nest" in French, but I'd say that these nid-de-poules (ie: potholes) were more like ostrich nests. That being said, it made for an interesting journey. As usual, I was the one with the smallest tank. I think I was the only one to voice their need to pee both trips—to Saint-Louis and to Kedougou. Not that everyone else didn’t get off the bus too and go use a bush.
We broke our trip in Tambacounda, spending a night in fancy air-conditioned “huts.” We continued on our journey that morning, arriving at our Kedougou “campement” maybe four hours later. The skies were black and you could tell that it was going to pour at any second. Our timing was perfect—it started to pour as soon as we, and our baggage, were off the bus and on the way to our air-conditioned huts. I felt really cheesy at first staying in what seemed like Disneyworld versions of African huts, but I grew to like living there! It makes sense, instead of a private room, you have your own private hut! Complete with flushing toilet and shower! Plus our mosquito net was bright yellow and it made me happy.
Anyway, our first afternoon was spent hiking a slightly slick little trail up to a Bedik village. It was so beautiful to see the misty hills (although they call them mountains here) in the distance. Coming to the top, you can see pointy thatched roofs peeking out from behind the trees and tall grasses. You think, “No way, there’s a village up here?” But yes, there is, and the villagers who live way up on the mountain easily make the commute down to the village on the bottom several times a day. Why should I complain about trudging around in the snow for 25 minutes or so to get to class during the Syracuse winter?
I barely could force myself to peer over the edge of the jumbled outcroppings of rock. For some reason, my fear of heights has started to flare up again—I got rid of it for a while, but maybe I’m starting to value my life more or something, because I was definitely afraid of dying! It was beautiful though. The view reminded me of many spots in West Virginia, only here, you see Mali to the west, and Guinea to the south.
Another hike later in the week took us to another similar outcropping of rock, and again I was afraid of heights! I suspect that my nervousness had to do with the number of people in our hiking posse. This hike was to another Bedik village, where there lives a sacred baobab tree—the largest in the region—which 23 of us held hands to reach around. And also, there lives an ancient woman—118 years old! I don’t like imagining being old; it scares me. But here this woman was, shucking corn like the rest of them, looking as healthy as the average healthy 70 year-old. Can you imagine living through two world wars, colonization, and independence, and then shucking corn on a random morning in October of 2007 with a bunch of white people taking your picture? It’s a little strange.
The hike on our second day in Kedougou was to a waterfall called Dindefello. It was quite the trek out there—if you can imagine the roads from Kaolack to Tambacounda (where we bounced to Tamba, not drove) and multiply that by 10, then you’ve got the road to Dindefello. Taking the bus was out of question, so we opted for the Ndiang Ndiaye—I don’t know if that’s how you spell it, but it’s pronounced jah-ghen-jay, and it’s kind of fun to say. Basically it’s the Manila jeepney of Senegal. So it wasn’t a surprise when the Ndiang Ndiaye broke down 5 minutes away from the campement because the driver forgot to put gas in the tank, or when water bottles rolled out of the holes in the floor, or when sparks started flying through those holes in the floor, or that the whole car smelled like a farm. It was at least a 2-hour trip to Dindefello in this vehicle, but when we got there, it was beautiful. We hiked in, and when we met up with the falls our anticipation was put at ease. It was so peaceful, water falling gently from way up high—gentle enough for you to stand underneath and take a skin-exfoliating shower with good water pressure. It was just so fresh! And to feel fresh in Senegal, that’s a rare occurrence.
Inevitably, the Ndiang Ndiaye did break down again—broken axle of the sorts—only 10 minutes outside the falls on our way back. Some of us decided to hop out and start walking back, because who knew how long it would take to get fixed, might as well be doing something productive (like walking). It turned out to be exactly what I needed. I was craving time alone to collect my thoughts, so I trailed behind the first wave of walkers and listened to my iPod, and took in the magnificent scenery. You wouldn’t believe the colors! The burnt umber of African soil against the greenest tall grass you have ever seen paired with the bluest sky! Heavenly, I would say.
My three-day stay in the Diakhanke village of Sameconta were probably the most relaxed three days I’ve spent in Senegal, if not in the past 5 years. It finally struck me that I need to re-learn how to relax. It’s been taking some getting used-to being here in Senegal, not working, just depleting the money in my checking account, not being able to replenish it. Oh how easy life must be for some of the students here on this program to never think about their hard-earned cash leaving their checking account knowing that some magical force was not going to refill it. It really is hard living in a village to not think about money. You’re living amongst people who do so much with so little. Subsistence living—they truly live off the land. They don’t care much about appearances, they don’t try to emulate city life, they farm their food, trap their fish, and they don’t have electricity. I would say that the people I met in the village are some of the most peaceful, warm, and generous-hearted I have ever met. I left inspired to get rid of all my excess—all my things I don’t need—and to keep a vegetable garden. I also left even more grateful of the opportunities I’ve had in life—to attend university, and to chase my dreams. Undeniably, living off the land has its hardships. But when you see families living happily together and working very much as a team, it's hard not to imagine yourself living the same way. I guess it’s just difficult to find a balance between the two ways of living, if choosing the two extremes is not an option. I know that when I go home, I'm just going to develop a new list of things to covet and accumulate more useless crap. It's a funny thing since I'm going to school to become a designer, so that I can design a new generation of useless crap! No, but really, I intend of designing useful (useless?) crap.
In the village, I ate lots of corn (who knew how many creative meals can be made out of corn!), peanuts pulled straight from the ground, fish balls made from fish fresh from the river, lots of fresh veggies—eggplant, okra, onions, and the biggest cucumber I have ever seen! They grow on vines winding atop thatched roofs and are about the size of watermelons! (No joke). My favorite thing that I ate however, was this mystery fruit—I think it's called soen koun (or pomme kernel?):
It was delicious. It's squishy, so you just peel it open and eat the flesh inside and spit out the big black seeds. Tastes kind of like guava juice. I went on a wonderful bike ride with my host brother and Michelle—never have I seen bikes with such bald tires, such bent forks and wheels, and no brakes that have been so well loved and still function. We had to be careful going down hills so that we didn't start going too fast and crash into a pothole, but I just kept thinking about all the bicycles I've seen on this road carrying gallons and gallons of water! If they can make it, I can make it. It was great. We cooled off after the ride by walking across a dam in the river to a little island where they keep some vegetable gardens.
Now I have three names—Sara, Daba Ndaw, Aida Diop, and my family in Sameconta called me Alimatou (or Ali) Kaba. Now that I'm back in Dakar, I'm still more or less Sara or Daba. I didn't want to leave Kedougou—our time there was definitely too short. On our way back, our bus broke down three times: the engine died, then we got a flat tire, and then we had complications with the spare. Our poor driver! He was rockin' though, props to Idy. Can't say that I didn't enjoy our pitstops though. We got to see baboons crossing the road! And we did eventually get back to Dakar. We left Kedougou at 6am and we were back at SIT by 9:30pm. Not so bad.
...And so, now! The bad news...
I was robbed.
Wednesday night I went to an Amadou and Miriam concert at l'Institut Français. Somehow after the concert, I got suckered in to going out dancing with Karim (my friend's host brother) and the gang. We piled into taxis to go to Just 4 You, a boîte where they were going to be having some live reggae music. We got there, and decided to go get munchies at another (cheaper) place. There, we had some grilled meat, and danced some more. It was getting late—past 2am. Michelle and I decided we wanted to leave. She asked if I wanted to walk, I said yes. We all left, and Karim insisted that we take a taxi. We pig-headedly refused and walked fast ahead. We walked past Les Ambassades (bakery, pizzeria, café of the sorts) and the smell of food tantalized us into ordering a pizza. We were in a good mood. We finished our Sicilia pizza and continued on our short (less than 5 minute) walk home. We got to the corner of my street and I asked Michelle if she'd be alright walking home alone from here. She said yeah, I have my knife. I jokingly said that she should walk the rest of the way with the blade out. Little did I know that a couple steps later, not even a minute after we had parted ways, that two men on a moped would stop behind me and grab my bag.
I recognized in slow motion the sound of a moped coming to a stop right next to me, and I grabbed my bag hard, suspiciously. I started screaming and screaming bloody murder as the man on the back of the bike grabbed at my bag, jumped off and yanked harder. I'll never forget his face as he turned to face me and to make sure that I saw that he had pepper spray in his hand. Perhaps he was just checking to see how it worked or that he wasn't aiming it at himself, but he held it up for a second, almost as if to show me, then sprayed me all over the face and chest. It was a fine mist and it made me cough as I inhaled it with my screams. It didn't stop me from continuing to scream. I was still holding onto my bag as he tried to mount his bike again. I fell to the street and he dragged me a little way until I got up, struggled harder, until the strap ripped off and they got away. It almost seemed as if I could catch up and chase them as they sped away. Maybe I tried, stopped for a second, and realized I couldn't, and then ran sobbing to my house, 80 steps away.
The man was tall and of a medium build, wearing black clothes (maybe a sweatshirt) but, definitely wearing a navy blue knit ski cap, stretched over a head full of thin dreads. He was very black and I could clearly see the whites of his eyes. He looked mean (obviously) and now that I think about it, he was actually quite terrifying. I honestly think that I could have died right then and there, having being robbed be the last few moments of my life. It's scary to think how one can lose their life so quickly, and for such a stupid reason. I was lucky.
I honestly was not expecting for this to happen (how does anyone?) and I still can't believe that it has. I lost my:
-blue embroidered purse
-red fake leather wallet from Wal-Mart (surprisingly a wallet I finally like!)
-20 000 CFA + change (about $40)
-VISA check card
-SUID
-International Student ID
-notarized copy of my passport
-insurance / pharmacy cards
-random notes, papers, receipts, and addresses
-really awesome earrings that I bought at the Bedik village that I was going to give as gifts and forgot to take them out of my wallet...
-my new digital camera and it's case: Canon PowerShot 7.1 MP Digital ELPH SD1000
-my aunt's Samsung SGH-X210 cell phone
-keys to my host family's armoire (which they then had to break open for me)
-strawberry lemonade frosting lip gloss
I only feel stupid for being robbed and I feel that the whole thing really is quite ironic. First of all, Karim had insisted that we take a taxi (c'est plus sûr) and then I was the one to ask Michelle if she would be okay walking the rest of the way to her house alone. Plus, it literally happened 80 steps from my house (I counted), and before I even left for the concert I had debated bringing a bag at all. Not to mention that even before I left for Senegal, both Marguerite and my iPods were stolen from our house. How can I not conclude that that this must be some sort of test or punishment, because I've angered someone out there who obviously doesn't like me very much at all, and that I plain just have awful karma?
When I ran back home in hysterics, I told the guard (who was sleeping propped up against the car in front of the door and hadn't heard me screaming) who definitely only understands Wolof. My grandmother, Khady, heard the commotion and was prompt to open the door, and then I tried to explain to her what had happened. She too, understands very little French. She seemed a little annoyed and told me to get inside. I asked her what to do and she seemed indifferent. I asked if she could go get Fatou or Saliew so that I could talk to them, but she said, "Ton sac est parti. Ils sont partis" (your bag is gone, [the robbers] are gone). Ok thanks? She said, "Attend pour demain" (wait for tomorrow). I told her that I needed to call my mom. She said, "Impossible. This phone is not international. Wait for tomorrow." I asked to call Souleye, our AD. It was most important for her to verify that this Souleye was here in Senegal, not in America. Yes, I said, and I told her that I needed to go up to my room to get the phone number. I went upstairs, crying, trying to find my way in the dark. I had woken up the maid, Mamejaro. I went back downstairs and she had already closed the door, and turned off all the lights. I knocked on her door and went inside to use the phone. I sat on the floor beside it and called Souleye to ask what to do. He also instructed me to wait until tomorrow, it's too late, and to come to SIT in the morning to call. The whole time Khady was angrily urging me to get off the phone, because (in case I didn’t hear the first five thousand times) it's late. She kept motioning for me to hand the phone to her, making that noise with her teeth, “Nntssa!” saying "Sara, Sara!"
I went back upstairs in the dark. I had no idea what to do. How can I just wait for tomorrow? I had asked Khady if there was someone I could talk to—if I could just talk to Fatou or Saliew—even her. She said, no, go to bed, practically closing the door on me. I had to talk to someone but I had no phone. I cried some more about the fact that I could not call Steve or my mom to talk to—or anyone near by to come comfort me. I woke Mamejaro up again, asking if she knew how to open my armoire without the key, just to have some company. She didn’t know what to say; maybe she did in Wolof, but certainly not in French. I asked her to wake me up at 7am so that I could go to SIT—I realized that I could not set an alarm, my phone gone, and my watch and clock locked in my armoire. She told me not to cry.
So I looked at myself in the mirror. My whole face and chest were red and burning from where I had been sprayed. I took a cold shower, but it definitely didn’t change how I felt. I heard the phone ring once, then a knock on my door. It was Saliew, he said that someone was calling for me. I was hoping maybe it was Souleye saying that he had changed his mind; he was going to come pick me up right this second and take me to school so I could call my mom. Saliew said that it’s late, and asked what was the matter. I told him what had happened and asked who was on the phone for me. He said, “attend,” and got the phone for me. It was Kendra, asking if I was okay—the first person to ask—I of course was not okay. She asked if she could come—I really wanted her to—but, I was standing in the doorway of Fatou and Saliew’s bedroom, at 3:30 in the morning, with Saliew urging me off the phone. He walked me to my room and told me never to walk, always take a taxi, it’s not safe, and that tomorrow he’d take me to the police to report what had happened.
Sure enough, the next morning, when I asked where Saliew was, he had left to go play sports. So no matter, I went to SIT to call Steve and figure out what to do next. I then went to the police station and reported what had happened, and I was to return the next morning. Later that day, I found out that my classmates had stayed up until 5am trying to decide whether or not to come check on me that night—leave their houses, wake up my family, etc. Michelle had heard my screams less than a minute after we had parted ways—she had been walking along the big road and had just passed two men walking when she heard. The two men stopped and said to her, "Those are the screams of a woman," and kept along their way. She thought, “Nooo... that can't be Sara,” because we had just literally parted ways. She ran over to investigate, scared, and with her pocketknife out. She was thinking that if I was getting raped, they would have gagged me, and the screaming went on for a long time. But by the time that she got there the robbers were already gone and I had already made it to my house. She saw one of my neighbors who was out on his porch, who told her that I had made it home safely (was he watching the whole time and not helped!?), but she was scared and was like, “I don’t know you!” freaked out. She still was unsure if it had been me who was screaming in the first place, so she quickly ran home and then tried calling me. Obviously her calls didn’t go through since my phone was stolen and the robbers had turned it off. She then called my other classmates and told them what had happened tried to see if they could get through to me. They finally found the number to my house and called. That’s when Saliew picked up the phone and they asked him if I had made it home safe and when he came and checked on me in my room. I guess in hindsight it would have been okay to tell Kendra that yes, please come over, but at that time I felt like I was causing such a problem for my family because I was robbed!
I was comforted by how worried my classmates had been, and what they had done to make sure I was okay. Apparently Anna had called the school while I was at SIT in the morning to verify that in fact I was okay. Souleye answered and was like, “Oh yeah, she’s fine!” It’s just kind of funny how incidents like these are handled in different cultures. It’s a horrible feeling not being able to talk to anyone when something like this happens. I can only imagine how I’d feel if something worse had happened.
When I returned home that evening, I had a good talk with Fatou. She had been really worried about me and we talked more about what had happened. She suspects that it was just neighborhood kids who just spotted an opportunity, because “real” robbers would have done much worse—I was lucky not to be hurt (aside from my irritated skin and a scraped elbow). She said that there had never been a robbery on our street, and ranted about how the world is changing… My homestay cousin, Marem told me that one of her male classmates had been stabbed to death during a robbery last year. I’m definitely going to be over-cautious from now on. If anything, my classmates can also learn from my experience. Many of them walk home alone at night because they’re too cheap to take a taxi or because they only have to walk about 90 ft. But after this, I think that behavior is going to change right away.
I had just gotten comfortable having lived in the city for two months. Then this happened, as some sort of reminder to not feel too safe, to not let your guard down. And I normally think of myself as a pretty cautious person. My mother’s voice always rings loud and clear in my head—“be aware of your surroundings.” Despite what she thinks, I keep my bag close at hand, and act as the nagging mother to some of my classmates who walk around with money (among other things) falling out of their purse…
This happened too, after I had declared to myself to learn to relax more, frown less, smile more, be more lighthearted and laid back, stop worrying! It was funny because the day it happened I had been walking around Point E when a man started yelling at me, “Tsst! Tsst! Allo! Ey! Don’t you remember me?” I kept on walking, ignoring the person, because it’s the oldest trick in the book, right? “What you don’t remember me? POW!” But the guy stepped in front of me, and sure enough, it was someone I knew. I must have seemed like a total bitch, ignoring him like that. I immediately felt so guilty and dumbfounded, and not able to speak. I thought to myself, “I need to stop doing that, and have more faith in people.”
Well isn’t this a slap in the face? Eh, oh well. Shit happens.
So two Mondays ago (the 22nd) we bounced our way from Dakar to Kedougou. And by bounced our way, I mean BOUNCED our way by bus over and around the enormous craters or "nid-de-poules" in the road. "Nid-de-poule" means literally "chicken nest" in French, but I'd say that these nid-de-poules (ie: potholes) were more like ostrich nests. That being said, it made for an interesting journey. As usual, I was the one with the smallest tank. I think I was the only one to voice their need to pee both trips—to Saint-Louis and to Kedougou. Not that everyone else didn’t get off the bus too and go use a bush.
We broke our trip in Tambacounda, spending a night in fancy air-conditioned “huts.” We continued on our journey that morning, arriving at our Kedougou “campement” maybe four hours later. The skies were black and you could tell that it was going to pour at any second. Our timing was perfect—it started to pour as soon as we, and our baggage, were off the bus and on the way to our air-conditioned huts. I felt really cheesy at first staying in what seemed like Disneyworld versions of African huts, but I grew to like living there! It makes sense, instead of a private room, you have your own private hut! Complete with flushing toilet and shower! Plus our mosquito net was bright yellow and it made me happy.
Anyway, our first afternoon was spent hiking a slightly slick little trail up to a Bedik village. It was so beautiful to see the misty hills (although they call them mountains here) in the distance. Coming to the top, you can see pointy thatched roofs peeking out from behind the trees and tall grasses. You think, “No way, there’s a village up here?” But yes, there is, and the villagers who live way up on the mountain easily make the commute down to the village on the bottom several times a day. Why should I complain about trudging around in the snow for 25 minutes or so to get to class during the Syracuse winter?
I barely could force myself to peer over the edge of the jumbled outcroppings of rock. For some reason, my fear of heights has started to flare up again—I got rid of it for a while, but maybe I’m starting to value my life more or something, because I was definitely afraid of dying! It was beautiful though. The view reminded me of many spots in West Virginia, only here, you see Mali to the west, and Guinea to the south.
Another hike later in the week took us to another similar outcropping of rock, and again I was afraid of heights! I suspect that my nervousness had to do with the number of people in our hiking posse. This hike was to another Bedik village, where there lives a sacred baobab tree—the largest in the region—which 23 of us held hands to reach around. And also, there lives an ancient woman—118 years old! I don’t like imagining being old; it scares me. But here this woman was, shucking corn like the rest of them, looking as healthy as the average healthy 70 year-old. Can you imagine living through two world wars, colonization, and independence, and then shucking corn on a random morning in October of 2007 with a bunch of white people taking your picture? It’s a little strange.
The hike on our second day in Kedougou was to a waterfall called Dindefello. It was quite the trek out there—if you can imagine the roads from Kaolack to Tambacounda (where we bounced to Tamba, not drove) and multiply that by 10, then you’ve got the road to Dindefello. Taking the bus was out of question, so we opted for the Ndiang Ndiaye—I don’t know if that’s how you spell it, but it’s pronounced jah-ghen-jay, and it’s kind of fun to say. Basically it’s the Manila jeepney of Senegal. So it wasn’t a surprise when the Ndiang Ndiaye broke down 5 minutes away from the campement because the driver forgot to put gas in the tank, or when water bottles rolled out of the holes in the floor, or when sparks started flying through those holes in the floor, or that the whole car smelled like a farm. It was at least a 2-hour trip to Dindefello in this vehicle, but when we got there, it was beautiful. We hiked in, and when we met up with the falls our anticipation was put at ease. It was so peaceful, water falling gently from way up high—gentle enough for you to stand underneath and take a skin-exfoliating shower with good water pressure. It was just so fresh! And to feel fresh in Senegal, that’s a rare occurrence.
Inevitably, the Ndiang Ndiaye did break down again—broken axle of the sorts—only 10 minutes outside the falls on our way back. Some of us decided to hop out and start walking back, because who knew how long it would take to get fixed, might as well be doing something productive (like walking). It turned out to be exactly what I needed. I was craving time alone to collect my thoughts, so I trailed behind the first wave of walkers and listened to my iPod, and took in the magnificent scenery. You wouldn’t believe the colors! The burnt umber of African soil against the greenest tall grass you have ever seen paired with the bluest sky! Heavenly, I would say.
My three-day stay in the Diakhanke village of Sameconta were probably the most relaxed three days I’ve spent in Senegal, if not in the past 5 years. It finally struck me that I need to re-learn how to relax. It’s been taking some getting used-to being here in Senegal, not working, just depleting the money in my checking account, not being able to replenish it. Oh how easy life must be for some of the students here on this program to never think about their hard-earned cash leaving their checking account knowing that some magical force was not going to refill it. It really is hard living in a village to not think about money. You’re living amongst people who do so much with so little. Subsistence living—they truly live off the land. They don’t care much about appearances, they don’t try to emulate city life, they farm their food, trap their fish, and they don’t have electricity. I would say that the people I met in the village are some of the most peaceful, warm, and generous-hearted I have ever met. I left inspired to get rid of all my excess—all my things I don’t need—and to keep a vegetable garden. I also left even more grateful of the opportunities I’ve had in life—to attend university, and to chase my dreams. Undeniably, living off the land has its hardships. But when you see families living happily together and working very much as a team, it's hard not to imagine yourself living the same way. I guess it’s just difficult to find a balance between the two ways of living, if choosing the two extremes is not an option. I know that when I go home, I'm just going to develop a new list of things to covet and accumulate more useless crap. It's a funny thing since I'm going to school to become a designer, so that I can design a new generation of useless crap! No, but really, I intend of designing useful (useless?) crap.
In the village, I ate lots of corn (who knew how many creative meals can be made out of corn!), peanuts pulled straight from the ground, fish balls made from fish fresh from the river, lots of fresh veggies—eggplant, okra, onions, and the biggest cucumber I have ever seen! They grow on vines winding atop thatched roofs and are about the size of watermelons! (No joke). My favorite thing that I ate however, was this mystery fruit—I think it's called soen koun (or pomme kernel?):
It was delicious. It's squishy, so you just peel it open and eat the flesh inside and spit out the big black seeds. Tastes kind of like guava juice. I went on a wonderful bike ride with my host brother and Michelle—never have I seen bikes with such bald tires, such bent forks and wheels, and no brakes that have been so well loved and still function. We had to be careful going down hills so that we didn't start going too fast and crash into a pothole, but I just kept thinking about all the bicycles I've seen on this road carrying gallons and gallons of water! If they can make it, I can make it. It was great. We cooled off after the ride by walking across a dam in the river to a little island where they keep some vegetable gardens.
Now I have three names—Sara, Daba Ndaw, Aida Diop, and my family in Sameconta called me Alimatou (or Ali) Kaba. Now that I'm back in Dakar, I'm still more or less Sara or Daba. I didn't want to leave Kedougou—our time there was definitely too short. On our way back, our bus broke down three times: the engine died, then we got a flat tire, and then we had complications with the spare. Our poor driver! He was rockin' though, props to Idy. Can't say that I didn't enjoy our pitstops though. We got to see baboons crossing the road! And we did eventually get back to Dakar. We left Kedougou at 6am and we were back at SIT by 9:30pm. Not so bad.
...And so, now! The bad news...
I was robbed.
Wednesday night I went to an Amadou and Miriam concert at l'Institut Français. Somehow after the concert, I got suckered in to going out dancing with Karim (my friend's host brother) and the gang. We piled into taxis to go to Just 4 You, a boîte where they were going to be having some live reggae music. We got there, and decided to go get munchies at another (cheaper) place. There, we had some grilled meat, and danced some more. It was getting late—past 2am. Michelle and I decided we wanted to leave. She asked if I wanted to walk, I said yes. We all left, and Karim insisted that we take a taxi. We pig-headedly refused and walked fast ahead. We walked past Les Ambassades (bakery, pizzeria, café of the sorts) and the smell of food tantalized us into ordering a pizza. We were in a good mood. We finished our Sicilia pizza and continued on our short (less than 5 minute) walk home. We got to the corner of my street and I asked Michelle if she'd be alright walking home alone from here. She said yeah, I have my knife. I jokingly said that she should walk the rest of the way with the blade out. Little did I know that a couple steps later, not even a minute after we had parted ways, that two men on a moped would stop behind me and grab my bag.
I recognized in slow motion the sound of a moped coming to a stop right next to me, and I grabbed my bag hard, suspiciously. I started screaming and screaming bloody murder as the man on the back of the bike grabbed at my bag, jumped off and yanked harder. I'll never forget his face as he turned to face me and to make sure that I saw that he had pepper spray in his hand. Perhaps he was just checking to see how it worked or that he wasn't aiming it at himself, but he held it up for a second, almost as if to show me, then sprayed me all over the face and chest. It was a fine mist and it made me cough as I inhaled it with my screams. It didn't stop me from continuing to scream. I was still holding onto my bag as he tried to mount his bike again. I fell to the street and he dragged me a little way until I got up, struggled harder, until the strap ripped off and they got away. It almost seemed as if I could catch up and chase them as they sped away. Maybe I tried, stopped for a second, and realized I couldn't, and then ran sobbing to my house, 80 steps away.
The man was tall and of a medium build, wearing black clothes (maybe a sweatshirt) but, definitely wearing a navy blue knit ski cap, stretched over a head full of thin dreads. He was very black and I could clearly see the whites of his eyes. He looked mean (obviously) and now that I think about it, he was actually quite terrifying. I honestly think that I could have died right then and there, having being robbed be the last few moments of my life. It's scary to think how one can lose their life so quickly, and for such a stupid reason. I was lucky.
I honestly was not expecting for this to happen (how does anyone?) and I still can't believe that it has. I lost my:
-blue embroidered purse
-red fake leather wallet from Wal-Mart (surprisingly a wallet I finally like!)
-20 000 CFA + change (about $40)
-VISA check card
-SUID
-International Student ID
-notarized copy of my passport
-insurance / pharmacy cards
-random notes, papers, receipts, and addresses
-really awesome earrings that I bought at the Bedik village that I was going to give as gifts and forgot to take them out of my wallet...
-my new digital camera and it's case: Canon PowerShot 7.1 MP Digital ELPH SD1000
-my aunt's Samsung SGH-X210 cell phone
-keys to my host family's armoire (which they then had to break open for me)
-strawberry lemonade frosting lip gloss
I only feel stupid for being robbed and I feel that the whole thing really is quite ironic. First of all, Karim had insisted that we take a taxi (c'est plus sûr) and then I was the one to ask Michelle if she would be okay walking the rest of the way to her house alone. Plus, it literally happened 80 steps from my house (I counted), and before I even left for the concert I had debated bringing a bag at all. Not to mention that even before I left for Senegal, both Marguerite and my iPods were stolen from our house. How can I not conclude that that this must be some sort of test or punishment, because I've angered someone out there who obviously doesn't like me very much at all, and that I plain just have awful karma?
When I ran back home in hysterics, I told the guard (who was sleeping propped up against the car in front of the door and hadn't heard me screaming) who definitely only understands Wolof. My grandmother, Khady, heard the commotion and was prompt to open the door, and then I tried to explain to her what had happened. She too, understands very little French. She seemed a little annoyed and told me to get inside. I asked her what to do and she seemed indifferent. I asked if she could go get Fatou or Saliew so that I could talk to them, but she said, "Ton sac est parti. Ils sont partis" (your bag is gone, [the robbers] are gone). Ok thanks? She said, "Attend pour demain" (wait for tomorrow). I told her that I needed to call my mom. She said, "Impossible. This phone is not international. Wait for tomorrow." I asked to call Souleye, our AD. It was most important for her to verify that this Souleye was here in Senegal, not in America. Yes, I said, and I told her that I needed to go up to my room to get the phone number. I went upstairs, crying, trying to find my way in the dark. I had woken up the maid, Mamejaro. I went back downstairs and she had already closed the door, and turned off all the lights. I knocked on her door and went inside to use the phone. I sat on the floor beside it and called Souleye to ask what to do. He also instructed me to wait until tomorrow, it's too late, and to come to SIT in the morning to call. The whole time Khady was angrily urging me to get off the phone, because (in case I didn’t hear the first five thousand times) it's late. She kept motioning for me to hand the phone to her, making that noise with her teeth, “Nntssa!” saying "Sara, Sara!"
I went back upstairs in the dark. I had no idea what to do. How can I just wait for tomorrow? I had asked Khady if there was someone I could talk to—if I could just talk to Fatou or Saliew—even her. She said, no, go to bed, practically closing the door on me. I had to talk to someone but I had no phone. I cried some more about the fact that I could not call Steve or my mom to talk to—or anyone near by to come comfort me. I woke Mamejaro up again, asking if she knew how to open my armoire without the key, just to have some company. She didn’t know what to say; maybe she did in Wolof, but certainly not in French. I asked her to wake me up at 7am so that I could go to SIT—I realized that I could not set an alarm, my phone gone, and my watch and clock locked in my armoire. She told me not to cry.
So I looked at myself in the mirror. My whole face and chest were red and burning from where I had been sprayed. I took a cold shower, but it definitely didn’t change how I felt. I heard the phone ring once, then a knock on my door. It was Saliew, he said that someone was calling for me. I was hoping maybe it was Souleye saying that he had changed his mind; he was going to come pick me up right this second and take me to school so I could call my mom. Saliew said that it’s late, and asked what was the matter. I told him what had happened and asked who was on the phone for me. He said, “attend,” and got the phone for me. It was Kendra, asking if I was okay—the first person to ask—I of course was not okay. She asked if she could come—I really wanted her to—but, I was standing in the doorway of Fatou and Saliew’s bedroom, at 3:30 in the morning, with Saliew urging me off the phone. He walked me to my room and told me never to walk, always take a taxi, it’s not safe, and that tomorrow he’d take me to the police to report what had happened.
Sure enough, the next morning, when I asked where Saliew was, he had left to go play sports. So no matter, I went to SIT to call Steve and figure out what to do next. I then went to the police station and reported what had happened, and I was to return the next morning. Later that day, I found out that my classmates had stayed up until 5am trying to decide whether or not to come check on me that night—leave their houses, wake up my family, etc. Michelle had heard my screams less than a minute after we had parted ways—she had been walking along the big road and had just passed two men walking when she heard. The two men stopped and said to her, "Those are the screams of a woman," and kept along their way. She thought, “Nooo... that can't be Sara,” because we had just literally parted ways. She ran over to investigate, scared, and with her pocketknife out. She was thinking that if I was getting raped, they would have gagged me, and the screaming went on for a long time. But by the time that she got there the robbers were already gone and I had already made it to my house. She saw one of my neighbors who was out on his porch, who told her that I had made it home safely (was he watching the whole time and not helped!?), but she was scared and was like, “I don’t know you!” freaked out. She still was unsure if it had been me who was screaming in the first place, so she quickly ran home and then tried calling me. Obviously her calls didn’t go through since my phone was stolen and the robbers had turned it off. She then called my other classmates and told them what had happened tried to see if they could get through to me. They finally found the number to my house and called. That’s when Saliew picked up the phone and they asked him if I had made it home safe and when he came and checked on me in my room. I guess in hindsight it would have been okay to tell Kendra that yes, please come over, but at that time I felt like I was causing such a problem for my family because I was robbed!
I was comforted by how worried my classmates had been, and what they had done to make sure I was okay. Apparently Anna had called the school while I was at SIT in the morning to verify that in fact I was okay. Souleye answered and was like, “Oh yeah, she’s fine!” It’s just kind of funny how incidents like these are handled in different cultures. It’s a horrible feeling not being able to talk to anyone when something like this happens. I can only imagine how I’d feel if something worse had happened.
When I returned home that evening, I had a good talk with Fatou. She had been really worried about me and we talked more about what had happened. She suspects that it was just neighborhood kids who just spotted an opportunity, because “real” robbers would have done much worse—I was lucky not to be hurt (aside from my irritated skin and a scraped elbow). She said that there had never been a robbery on our street, and ranted about how the world is changing… My homestay cousin, Marem told me that one of her male classmates had been stabbed to death during a robbery last year. I’m definitely going to be over-cautious from now on. If anything, my classmates can also learn from my experience. Many of them walk home alone at night because they’re too cheap to take a taxi or because they only have to walk about 90 ft. But after this, I think that behavior is going to change right away.
I had just gotten comfortable having lived in the city for two months. Then this happened, as some sort of reminder to not feel too safe, to not let your guard down. And I normally think of myself as a pretty cautious person. My mother’s voice always rings loud and clear in my head—“be aware of your surroundings.” Despite what she thinks, I keep my bag close at hand, and act as the nagging mother to some of my classmates who walk around with money (among other things) falling out of their purse…
This happened too, after I had declared to myself to learn to relax more, frown less, smile more, be more lighthearted and laid back, stop worrying! It was funny because the day it happened I had been walking around Point E when a man started yelling at me, “Tsst! Tsst! Allo! Ey! Don’t you remember me?” I kept on walking, ignoring the person, because it’s the oldest trick in the book, right? “What you don’t remember me? POW!” But the guy stepped in front of me, and sure enough, it was someone I knew. I must have seemed like a total bitch, ignoring him like that. I immediately felt so guilty and dumbfounded, and not able to speak. I thought to myself, “I need to stop doing that, and have more faith in people.”
Well isn’t this a slap in the face? Eh, oh well. Shit happens.
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