The second day I went to the UN protected national bird park. It’s considered the third best bird watching spot in the world. It’s about an hour drive from St. Louis so Joanna, Raph, Jean-Pierre and I plus an older French couple split a sept-place (a seven place car) down there. We bargained a price for the whole day - $24 per person. This included the taxi there and back, the park fee, and the boat guided tour through the park. Not bad, I must say. We took a small boat around the park. We saw birds, mainly pelicans, crocodiles, a python, and warthogs. It was fun, but there wasn’t actually that much to see. It was the same four bird types over and over again.
When we got back to St. Louis, Joanna and I decided to explore the city. We went to the coastline to watch the fishermen come in from their work but were informed by a local that it wasn’t fishing season. He offered to take us around. He showed us the rows of huge hollowed out wooden boats that Senegalese fishers use. Some were 10 feet tall and could hold 42 people. He showed us a tied up pelican, which is huge when it is standing next to you, about half my size. Apparently the fishermen use pelicans to fish. They tie a rope around the pelicans throats, take them out to sea, then have the pelicans catch the fish. But the pelican can’t swallow them because of the rope so when they get back to shore, they spit out the fish for the waiting fisherman.
It was evident from our walk that St. Louis people were much nicer than the people in Dakar. Everywhere we went we were received with smiles and greetings. But I shouldn’t have let my guard down. Our guide asked if we would pay for sugar and coffee for his family. Joanna, being a nice person, agreed without asking questions. So we walked to the nearest store, but it was out of sugar. He had the store owner write out the price on a piece of paper for us to just give him the money. My jaw dropped when I saw the price – 4,500 CFA, which is about $9. That’s a lot for coffee and sugar here. We figured out later that he was trying to stock up and buy a liter of coffee and a liter of sugar. I told Joanna I would say something to him if she wanted but she said she would just pay it. However, she only had 4,000 CFA. The guy turned to me to pay the other 500 and I refused to pay it. He got angry and called me rude for not helping my friend pay. Then he told me that the $1 I was withholding from him is not that much. Maybe not in and of itself, but in addition to the $8 he has already taken from us, it is. I got mad and said that a $1 is a lot, that what he pulled was rude, and that coffee and sugar shouldn’t cost that much. Joanna and I walked away and the guy followed to shake our hand and say thanks anyway. That sort of thing happens a lot here. They think that because we’re Americans that $10 is nothing to us and they forget that we’re students living off our parents just like the Senegalese our age.
That night the four of us went to a Moroccan restaurant, my first taste of Moroccan food. And I ate the best lamb of my life. Oh my gosh, was it amazing. Then we went to this club where we played pool, Europeans versus Americans. Raph was the only one who was any good but Joanna and I managed to sabotage the European shots enough that the game lasted surprisingly long. They were only two balls ahead of us! And might I mention, I made all but one of the shots on my team. Then we just relaxed in comfy chairs and discussed the politics of our respective countries and the differences between northern and southern US.
The next day we just walked around St. Louis, visited a “museum” that took us 30 minutes to go through, and then got a sept-place back to Dakar. This time we knew this was the better transportation to take and expected the ride to take 3 hours. And it would have if we hadn’t gotten into Dakar at rush hour. Ohmygosh, worst traffic I have ever seen in my life. We were stuck in it for 2 hours before we got to a place to get into our respective taxis to go home.
The next day, Thursday, we just relaxed and decided what we were going to do for the weekend. Then Friday, we went to N’Gor, an island off the coast of Dakar. Of course, on my way to meet friends there, I took the wrong transportation, spent an hour trying to find my way back before giving up and getting a taxi. N’Gor is known as the surfing beach with strong waves and soft sand. Both were true, but we didn’t see any surfers. Or anything to get excited about. Because of the rocks, there were only two spots to swim and they were populated by tourists. So we swam for a little in the freezing water and then went back to the mainland to get a late lunch. In the evening Joanna, our friend Rebecca, and I went to this modern African dance event. It was awesome! The strength, the pounding drums, the beautiful choreography. Afterwards, we went to a fast food place, got some gelato, hung out with our Senegalese friends, and finalized our plans for the weekend.
Next Up: A pink lake, a village of turtles, and the worst transportation catastrophe of my life.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Epic Spring Break: Part 1
A long time ago, someone named the week they skipped school, flew to the Bahamas, and stayed drunk 24/7 “Spring Break.” The name caught on as more and more students followed suit. Soon, schools could see no alternative other than to institutionalize this “Spring Break.” Now every student was given a free pass to tour Europe or skinny dip in Miami beaches or party until the sun comes up. Study abroad groups adopted this ridiculously awesome idea and encouraged their students to explore their surroundings (translation: take shots on top of the mountain you just climbed). But students in Africa study abroad groups have it a little different. Sure you can do the drinking, the dancing, the stripping, but it all comes with a pretty big price. And before you can do any of that, you have to get through the long travel, nonsensical directions, and hard bargaining before the night time comes.
This is the story of the pains and the pleasures of my Senegalese Spring Break. Part I.
My friend Joanna and I decided to go to Saint-Louis in northern Senegal for a few days. Saint-Louis is a town known for being a hub of the Atlantic Slave Trade. The town has maintained the old French architecture and small town friendliness that Dakar lost long ago. It’s a three part town, the mainland where the people live, the tourist island with the old buildings, and the fisherman island with the fish market and fishermen boats.
Early Monday morning, Joanna and I bargained for a taxi to take us to the gare routiere which we (wrongly) assumed was down-town. We bargained badly and paid too much. But our taxi driver was nice. In fact, he was so nice, he just loved talking to us, so much so that he turned his head back to us to converse. What happens when your eyes aren’t on the roads, kids? That’s right, a car crash. So we rear-ended the car in front of us. We didn’t hit it hard, barely hard enough to scratch the car. But the best part was, the driver of the car in front of us, the one that was hit, gets out of his car and angrily approaches our taxi driver. But when they get a good look at each other, the man calms down, and the taxi driver greets him by name. Yep, our taxi driver hit his friend’s car and his friend decided it wasn’t a big deal. Hands are shook, pleasant greetings exchanged, and off we go to the gare routiere!
We arrive at the gare routiere surrounded by half a dozen modes of transportation and men surrounding the taxi asking us where we want to go. We say our destination and half the men say that’s where they are going. We say we want a sept-place, which is the fastest mode of cross country transport in Senegal. It is a large car that has seven seats for seven people. It is more comfortable and faster than the large njang njaays (think white hijack van) or the mini-cars (think white hijack van), which are the slowest and most painful forms of transportation. However, let’s remember that, at this time, neither Joanna nor I had any concept what any of these forms of transport looked like or where they would be in the gare routeiere. So of course we followed the nice man who offered to take us to the area with cars departing for Saint-Louis. When we rounded the corner and saw the large white van, I had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t a sept-place but I thought, “What the heck, why not take it, since we’re here. How bad can it be?” Yes, I thought this. Yes, I know I’m stupid. Yes, these words bit me in the ass later. So Joanna and I paid the driver for the seat and for our luggage. I loved watching them toss my luggage to the top of the car; I loved following the bag as it missed the top and rolled down the van to thunk on the hard ground; and I loved knowing that I had made the right decision to leave my laptop at home.
As we took our seats in the row behind the driver, the man who showed us to the mini-car followed us into the van and asked us for money. What we had took to be kindness was actually an entrepreneurial move to hoax money from white people. We refused and he was NOT happy, but after a little while, he left us alone. Only to be replaced in the front seat next to the driver by two other young toubabs (white people). They introduced themselves as Raf from London and Jean-Baptiste from Bordeaux, France. Raf had recently quit his job as a sports journalist and was travelling West Africa for a few months. Thanks to his Belgium mother, he was fluent in French. Jean-Baptiste was visiting a friend in Senegal for a week. Both guys had met three hours before when they had arrived at the gare routiere to get a bus to Saint-Louis. They had been waiting for the mini-car to fill up ever since. Oh, Senegal.
Thankfully Joanna and I only had to wait about 30 minutes for the mini-car to take off. And thus began the longest, most uncomfortable ride of my life. What should have taken three hours took five and a half. What should have been comfortable seats were hard stones. What should have been a refreshing breeze blowing in my face was merely wafts of dust. The driver seemed to stop once every 30 minutes to buy juice, or talk to a friend he knew on the route, or give tiny notes to random people. Once, we stopped for ten minutes and just sat there. Nothing happened. No one approached the car, the driver didn’t get out. We just sat. And then we started up again.
Finally, we reached Saint-Louis. Raf, Jean-Baptiste, Joanna, and I split a taxi to the cheapest, cleanest student hostel mentioned in our guidebooks. Fortunately they had room for us and put the four of us in two connected rooms for $12 a night/person. The four of us decided that, first things first, we needed to get lunch. It was already 4:30 pm and none of us had eaten since 8:30 am. We found a small restaurant with Senegalese food and cheap prices. I got a plate of white rice, a plate of chicken, and a bowl of onion sauce called yassa for $4. It was delish. After finishing up, we all walked around Saint-Louis and crossed to the mainland (we were on the tourist island) for a couple of hours. We got lost a dozen times, shook hands with tons of cute kids, and watched the hundreds of goats roaming the streets. Eventually, we made it back to our hostel.
We hung out at the hostel getting to know each other and the other guests. Everyone spoke French so I got to practice my French with actual French-accented people! Then the four of us went to this nice, slightly expensive restaurant. I got chicken – the best chicken I have had in a long time. It was spiced with garlic and something else. We all got beers and split some good wine. After the restaurant the four of us went to a local club where we just hung out for a while drinking beers. We started dancing to mbalax, a hip Senegalese music and dance style. When some American dance music came on, all the Senegalese people cleared the floor and Joanna and I had a stereotypical toubab dilemma: clear the floor with the locals, shaming our country’s music and abandoning our patriotism or be the only two people on the dance floor. We chose the latter and looked like fools. But we had fun. Then some light salsa came on and I got to practice some skills with a couple of men there. Eventually, happy and exhausted, we made our way back to our hostel, ready for sleep and excited for the next day.
So endeth my 1st day of Epic Spring Break. Check later for updates on the rest of the exciting week.
This is the story of the pains and the pleasures of my Senegalese Spring Break. Part I.
My friend Joanna and I decided to go to Saint-Louis in northern Senegal for a few days. Saint-Louis is a town known for being a hub of the Atlantic Slave Trade. The town has maintained the old French architecture and small town friendliness that Dakar lost long ago. It’s a three part town, the mainland where the people live, the tourist island with the old buildings, and the fisherman island with the fish market and fishermen boats.
Early Monday morning, Joanna and I bargained for a taxi to take us to the gare routiere which we (wrongly) assumed was down-town. We bargained badly and paid too much. But our taxi driver was nice. In fact, he was so nice, he just loved talking to us, so much so that he turned his head back to us to converse. What happens when your eyes aren’t on the roads, kids? That’s right, a car crash. So we rear-ended the car in front of us. We didn’t hit it hard, barely hard enough to scratch the car. But the best part was, the driver of the car in front of us, the one that was hit, gets out of his car and angrily approaches our taxi driver. But when they get a good look at each other, the man calms down, and the taxi driver greets him by name. Yep, our taxi driver hit his friend’s car and his friend decided it wasn’t a big deal. Hands are shook, pleasant greetings exchanged, and off we go to the gare routiere!
We arrive at the gare routiere surrounded by half a dozen modes of transportation and men surrounding the taxi asking us where we want to go. We say our destination and half the men say that’s where they are going. We say we want a sept-place, which is the fastest mode of cross country transport in Senegal. It is a large car that has seven seats for seven people. It is more comfortable and faster than the large njang njaays (think white hijack van) or the mini-cars (think white hijack van), which are the slowest and most painful forms of transportation. However, let’s remember that, at this time, neither Joanna nor I had any concept what any of these forms of transport looked like or where they would be in the gare routeiere. So of course we followed the nice man who offered to take us to the area with cars departing for Saint-Louis. When we rounded the corner and saw the large white van, I had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t a sept-place but I thought, “What the heck, why not take it, since we’re here. How bad can it be?” Yes, I thought this. Yes, I know I’m stupid. Yes, these words bit me in the ass later. So Joanna and I paid the driver for the seat and for our luggage. I loved watching them toss my luggage to the top of the car; I loved following the bag as it missed the top and rolled down the van to thunk on the hard ground; and I loved knowing that I had made the right decision to leave my laptop at home.
As we took our seats in the row behind the driver, the man who showed us to the mini-car followed us into the van and asked us for money. What we had took to be kindness was actually an entrepreneurial move to hoax money from white people. We refused and he was NOT happy, but after a little while, he left us alone. Only to be replaced in the front seat next to the driver by two other young toubabs (white people). They introduced themselves as Raf from London and Jean-Baptiste from Bordeaux, France. Raf had recently quit his job as a sports journalist and was travelling West Africa for a few months. Thanks to his Belgium mother, he was fluent in French. Jean-Baptiste was visiting a friend in Senegal for a week. Both guys had met three hours before when they had arrived at the gare routiere to get a bus to Saint-Louis. They had been waiting for the mini-car to fill up ever since. Oh, Senegal.
Thankfully Joanna and I only had to wait about 30 minutes for the mini-car to take off. And thus began the longest, most uncomfortable ride of my life. What should have taken three hours took five and a half. What should have been comfortable seats were hard stones. What should have been a refreshing breeze blowing in my face was merely wafts of dust. The driver seemed to stop once every 30 minutes to buy juice, or talk to a friend he knew on the route, or give tiny notes to random people. Once, we stopped for ten minutes and just sat there. Nothing happened. No one approached the car, the driver didn’t get out. We just sat. And then we started up again.
Finally, we reached Saint-Louis. Raf, Jean-Baptiste, Joanna, and I split a taxi to the cheapest, cleanest student hostel mentioned in our guidebooks. Fortunately they had room for us and put the four of us in two connected rooms for $12 a night/person. The four of us decided that, first things first, we needed to get lunch. It was already 4:30 pm and none of us had eaten since 8:30 am. We found a small restaurant with Senegalese food and cheap prices. I got a plate of white rice, a plate of chicken, and a bowl of onion sauce called yassa for $4. It was delish. After finishing up, we all walked around Saint-Louis and crossed to the mainland (we were on the tourist island) for a couple of hours. We got lost a dozen times, shook hands with tons of cute kids, and watched the hundreds of goats roaming the streets. Eventually, we made it back to our hostel.
We hung out at the hostel getting to know each other and the other guests. Everyone spoke French so I got to practice my French with actual French-accented people! Then the four of us went to this nice, slightly expensive restaurant. I got chicken – the best chicken I have had in a long time. It was spiced with garlic and something else. We all got beers and split some good wine. After the restaurant the four of us went to a local club where we just hung out for a while drinking beers. We started dancing to mbalax, a hip Senegalese music and dance style. When some American dance music came on, all the Senegalese people cleared the floor and Joanna and I had a stereotypical toubab dilemma: clear the floor with the locals, shaming our country’s music and abandoning our patriotism or be the only two people on the dance floor. We chose the latter and looked like fools. But we had fun. Then some light salsa came on and I got to practice some skills with a couple of men there. Eventually, happy and exhausted, we made our way back to our hostel, ready for sleep and excited for the next day.
So endeth my 1st day of Epic Spring Break. Check later for updates on the rest of the exciting week.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
So Senegal - Slaves, Salsa, and Haiti
Fun stuff I’ve done so far:
Our 3rd weekend here we went to Goree Island, a tiny island off the coast of Dakar. It’s just a trip to downtown Dakar and a fifteen minute ferry ride away. Ir’s known for its position as a holding spot of slaves before they were shipped to other countries around the world. However, if you do research on the island, the history of it explains that far fewer slaves were held here than people think. Its importance is just that it is symbolizes the slave trade.
At Goree, we went to the House of Slaves, the place where the slaves were held, and we went to a Senegalese cultural museum. The museums were our morning and the afternoon was spent exploring the island, discovering the best spots for a view of Dakar and avoiding local vendors. The vendors did have this cool instrument, which was two wooden balls connected by twine. You hold the twine in your hand and flip it with your thumb back and forth to make the two wooden balls hit each other. It creates a cool beat that you can dance to. I learned how to play the simple version, but the vendors could do cool tricks like hitting the wooden balls against their bodies to make different sounds. One guy even played and sang “We’ll be together” by Sean Kingston.
We have also gone to this resort place called Toubab Dialaw, which literally translates to “more white people are coming.” It’s just a beautiful place to relax on the beautiful Senegalese coast line. I ate amazing food, read in the most comfortable hammocks I have ever laid in, and tanned on the beach. We got to take classes in either batiking, African dancing, or African drumming. Batiking is the process of dyeing fabrics to make patterns. I chose the dancing and drumming. The dancing was so much fun and a good workout. You’re expected to give every move your all and throw your body up and then this way and that way. I was nearly falling on the floor after the lesson. The professional dancers were phenomenal – one day I want to dance with as much energy, confidence, and commitment as they do. They basically just threw themselves around the dance floor violently and somehow made it look graceful and beautiful. The drumming was cool too. We just learned simple beats. But I have always wanted to learn to play an African drum.
I also went to a salsa lesson where my entry fee was donated to the Haiti relief effort. Cuban salsa is huge in Senegal. There are tons of salsa clubs and I definitely want to practice the basic skills I know. It’s interesting how connected Senegal seems to Haiti. I didn’t expect that I would hear much about it here. But there are many references to it. There was a walk to raise awareness about Haiti and collect donations. The salsa event raised money for the relief efforts. The president has opened his borders to Haitians that would like to come to Senegal (don’t ask me how he thinks they’re going to get here). Also, the president tried to create a law that would take three days worth of citizens’ pay to donate to the Haiti cause. It didn’t pass in Congress because of the people’s opposition to it. But it is a radical and interesting idea. However, knowing President Wade, it’s doubtful that all of the money would have gone to Haiti.
We also went to this art gallery of professional Senegalese artists who have showed throughout the world. One of them had a huge wall piece using everyday items to artistically connote hardship and dignity that was an homage to Haiti. And this Sunday there is an all day Haiti cultural event to raise awareness: a film about Haiti, a speaker, more salsa, and Haitian food. Next week there is a telethon for Haiti and a concert with the biggest Senegalese musicians.
It took me a while to realize why the Senegalese care so much about Haiti’s plight and why they feel so connected to the Haitian people. Haiti is a country almost made entirely of former slaves. It is likely that many of those slaves came from Senegal as Senegal’s history is rife with violent slave dealings. The president’s offer of refuge in Senegal for Haitians implied that Haitians could return to their natural homeland. It’s interesting, to say the least.
Anyway, here’s an unpdate on all of the exciting things I’ve done since being here!
Our 3rd weekend here we went to Goree Island, a tiny island off the coast of Dakar. It’s just a trip to downtown Dakar and a fifteen minute ferry ride away. Ir’s known for its position as a holding spot of slaves before they were shipped to other countries around the world. However, if you do research on the island, the history of it explains that far fewer slaves were held here than people think. Its importance is just that it is symbolizes the slave trade.
At Goree, we went to the House of Slaves, the place where the slaves were held, and we went to a Senegalese cultural museum. The museums were our morning and the afternoon was spent exploring the island, discovering the best spots for a view of Dakar and avoiding local vendors. The vendors did have this cool instrument, which was two wooden balls connected by twine. You hold the twine in your hand and flip it with your thumb back and forth to make the two wooden balls hit each other. It creates a cool beat that you can dance to. I learned how to play the simple version, but the vendors could do cool tricks like hitting the wooden balls against their bodies to make different sounds. One guy even played and sang “We’ll be together” by Sean Kingston.
We have also gone to this resort place called Toubab Dialaw, which literally translates to “more white people are coming.” It’s just a beautiful place to relax on the beautiful Senegalese coast line. I ate amazing food, read in the most comfortable hammocks I have ever laid in, and tanned on the beach. We got to take classes in either batiking, African dancing, or African drumming. Batiking is the process of dyeing fabrics to make patterns. I chose the dancing and drumming. The dancing was so much fun and a good workout. You’re expected to give every move your all and throw your body up and then this way and that way. I was nearly falling on the floor after the lesson. The professional dancers were phenomenal – one day I want to dance with as much energy, confidence, and commitment as they do. They basically just threw themselves around the dance floor violently and somehow made it look graceful and beautiful. The drumming was cool too. We just learned simple beats. But I have always wanted to learn to play an African drum.
I also went to a salsa lesson where my entry fee was donated to the Haiti relief effort. Cuban salsa is huge in Senegal. There are tons of salsa clubs and I definitely want to practice the basic skills I know. It’s interesting how connected Senegal seems to Haiti. I didn’t expect that I would hear much about it here. But there are many references to it. There was a walk to raise awareness about Haiti and collect donations. The salsa event raised money for the relief efforts. The president has opened his borders to Haitians that would like to come to Senegal (don’t ask me how he thinks they’re going to get here). Also, the president tried to create a law that would take three days worth of citizens’ pay to donate to the Haiti cause. It didn’t pass in Congress because of the people’s opposition to it. But it is a radical and interesting idea. However, knowing President Wade, it’s doubtful that all of the money would have gone to Haiti.
We also went to this art gallery of professional Senegalese artists who have showed throughout the world. One of them had a huge wall piece using everyday items to artistically connote hardship and dignity that was an homage to Haiti. And this Sunday there is an all day Haiti cultural event to raise awareness: a film about Haiti, a speaker, more salsa, and Haitian food. Next week there is a telethon for Haiti and a concert with the biggest Senegalese musicians.
It took me a while to realize why the Senegalese care so much about Haiti’s plight and why they feel so connected to the Haitian people. Haiti is a country almost made entirely of former slaves. It is likely that many of those slaves came from Senegal as Senegal’s history is rife with violent slave dealings. The president’s offer of refuge in Senegal for Haitians implied that Haitians could return to their natural homeland. It’s interesting, to say the least.
Anyway, here’s an unpdate on all of the exciting things I’ve done since being here!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Damay dekk Senegal.
Title: I live in Senegal.
Salut, mes amis! Now that I am getting acclimated to Senegal, I guess it’s time to tell you something about my life here. I am living in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, with a host family. Dakar is huge (about 3 million people), expensive (42nd most expensive city in the world for Westerners to live in – more expensive than NYC!), coastal (the beach is a 10 minute walk from my house), Islamic (90% percent of the country is Muslim), modernized (especially downtown), cultured (considered the cultural, cosmopolitan center of West Africa), and politically troubled, though it is still hailed as one of the best successes for democracy in Africa.
My family is really great. I have a Papa, a Maman, a married older sister, 3 brothers, a sister-in-law, a little sister, and a sister I have yet to meet who is married and lives in Dakar. All but the last sister live in our huge house. My family is upper middle class, one of the wealthier homestay families. The house is two stories with a terrace as a third floor. There are 7 rooms, one of which is mine. I have electricity and running water, amenities my family does not waste but nor are they conservative with them. I even have wi-fi at my house. Skype me!
The family is nice but a little hard to get to know. They have been hosting every semester for years so I think that the novelty has worn off. For the first couple of weeks I spent a lot of time in my room with the door open, willing to talk to them but not seeking them out. Culture shock and language barriers will do that to you. But I am happy to say that I now seek out relationships with them. But it is still hard to find them in the house.
They all are fluent in Wolof, the traditional language of Dakar, and French. They all also read Arabic, as they are Muslim. Both the language and religion contributed to my culture shock. My first night in my house, I was sitting in the living room. My mother came in and told me to move over on the couch. She laid a rug in front of where my feet had been and knelt on it. I stared, trying to figure out what she was doing. It wasn’t until she looked up and caught me staring that I realized – she was praying, one of five times for the day. I had never seen this in person. It’s a shock to the system to see someone pray right in front of you, mumbling Arabic and standing and kneeling intermittently. In my Christian experience, people don’t pray out loud, ignoring the presence of someone else in the room. And people will pray in the streets here! And of course there have to be the few times I loudly and unknowingly call out for a family member who is in the process of praying. They don’t seem to mind interrupting their prayers, they do it for other family members too, but I still feel awkward about it. During my darker culture shock days, the Islamic influence bothered me. While I have always been a supporter of the Islamic faith, the snide comments about Muslims made by many Americans, I am ashamed to admit, must have seeped into my conscience. For when I was not in the mood to accept cultural differences, Islam in Senegal became an easy scapegoat. It wasn’t anything specific and I wasn’t referencing Islamic fundamentalism, as that is not really an issue here, but it was something I didn’t understand that I decided to make assumptions about. But I am back to being my normal self and seeing Islam through the eyes I see all other religions – as a faith with truths and faults, beautiful people and corrupted people, and a spirituality that cannot be logically explained or analyzed.
As for the language barriers, my mother speaks French with a very different accent than what I am use to, an accent that many older Senegalese speak with. It has an odd cadence to it, which will squish together words that shouldn’t normally be sped through. It’s difficult to understand and while I am slowly adapting to it, it’s still frustrating. My brother, who is closest to my age at 18, mumbles his French and my little sister whispers hers. All in all, it makes for frustrating exchanges, especially coupled with my horrible comprehension skills. After my mother will rush or my brother will mumble or my sister will whisper, I ask them to repeat what they said and am told that I understand nothing in French. As this is incredibly impolite and discouraging in America, I instinctively get defensive and upset. But the people here are direct and don’t mean it to hurt my feelings. I have turned it into a joke and will laugh at the situation with them. Then, with my brother who is learning English, I will demonstrate why I am having problems with the way he speaks French by mimicking his mumbling in English. I also like to slip in that all of my classes are in French and that I understand almost everything my professors say, so I can’t be the only problem.
Yes, all of my classes are in French. Our first week in Senegal, orientation week, we had to take a French test to place into a French level. I was nervous because I wanted to take one particular class that’s only taught in French, but I would not be able to if I did not test into a high enough French class, a task I had my doubts about accomplishing. I was pleasantly surprised when I tested into Advanced French, the level I needed to take all of my classes in French. But inherent within that success is another problem: All of my classes will be in French! For someone whose comprehension skills are her worst area of French, this was a huge challenge. I have to admit, the first few days were hard. I understood more than I expected but less than I should have. After three weeks of classes, I have vastly improved in understanding my professors, but I still don’t think I am where I should be. I definitely do not understand everything they say. But in most of my classes it doesn’t cause a problem because the professors write everything important on the board. Or I just Wikipedia what we covered in class
I am taking Advanced French I, Wolof, History of Islam in Senegal, Crisis Management and International Law in Africa, a Seminar on Living and Learning in Dakar – my only English class, and Society and Culture in Senegal. The French class is mainly review. Wolof is hard, but I am slowly learning it. It’s interesting to learn another language in a language you are not fluent in; it’s less difficult than I expected. When I first saw the list of possible courses we could take I immediately wrote off History of Islam. Why would I want to take a course only specific to Senegal? However, after being here for a couple of days, I recognized the influence of Islam in Senegal and realized I would miss out on part of the culture without this knowledge. My Crisis Management class was the class I was most excited about. It has been my biggest disappointment. However, I decided to stick out the bad teaching for the little knowledge I would receive and the final paper. For our final we have to write a 15 page paper in French on a conflict in Africa. You should have heard the gasps in the classroom when our prof told us this news. 15 pages! In French! The most I have ever written in French is 3 pages. After my blood pressure lowered and the shock wore off, I realized 1) how much this would push my French; 2) how good this would be for me for learning about a conflict; and 3) how good this will look on a resume. Now I’m actually excited to do this. I can’t even imagine the victorious feeling I will have when I turn that paper in. And it’s a paper my Dad can’t nitpick over for once! That’s a victory right there. The seminar class was optional but it’s just a class where we talk about bridging cultures and living in a culture outside of your own. We get to talk about our feelings and do fun assignments. In Society and Culture we have guest lecturers come in and talk about different aspects of Senegalese society. Last week we had a Muslim religious leader and a Catholic priest come talk to us about interreligious dialogue in Senegal. While it is not perfect, the two religions get along well together here. There is peace between Muslims and Christians and many people celebrate the holidays of both religions, including my family. It’s funny to hear a Muslim say he celebrates Christmas, Easter, and Yom Kippur and that his Christian neighbors fast for Ramadan. You almost never hear of something like that.
Well, there are the basics of my life here. The past few weeks have been hard, especially with my untimely nostalgia for Uganda and Rwanda, but I am slowly getting use to life here and embracing my time in Senegal.
Salut, mes amis! Now that I am getting acclimated to Senegal, I guess it’s time to tell you something about my life here. I am living in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, with a host family. Dakar is huge (about 3 million people), expensive (42nd most expensive city in the world for Westerners to live in – more expensive than NYC!), coastal (the beach is a 10 minute walk from my house), Islamic (90% percent of the country is Muslim), modernized (especially downtown), cultured (considered the cultural, cosmopolitan center of West Africa), and politically troubled, though it is still hailed as one of the best successes for democracy in Africa.
My family is really great. I have a Papa, a Maman, a married older sister, 3 brothers, a sister-in-law, a little sister, and a sister I have yet to meet who is married and lives in Dakar. All but the last sister live in our huge house. My family is upper middle class, one of the wealthier homestay families. The house is two stories with a terrace as a third floor. There are 7 rooms, one of which is mine. I have electricity and running water, amenities my family does not waste but nor are they conservative with them. I even have wi-fi at my house. Skype me!
The family is nice but a little hard to get to know. They have been hosting every semester for years so I think that the novelty has worn off. For the first couple of weeks I spent a lot of time in my room with the door open, willing to talk to them but not seeking them out. Culture shock and language barriers will do that to you. But I am happy to say that I now seek out relationships with them. But it is still hard to find them in the house.
They all are fluent in Wolof, the traditional language of Dakar, and French. They all also read Arabic, as they are Muslim. Both the language and religion contributed to my culture shock. My first night in my house, I was sitting in the living room. My mother came in and told me to move over on the couch. She laid a rug in front of where my feet had been and knelt on it. I stared, trying to figure out what she was doing. It wasn’t until she looked up and caught me staring that I realized – she was praying, one of five times for the day. I had never seen this in person. It’s a shock to the system to see someone pray right in front of you, mumbling Arabic and standing and kneeling intermittently. In my Christian experience, people don’t pray out loud, ignoring the presence of someone else in the room. And people will pray in the streets here! And of course there have to be the few times I loudly and unknowingly call out for a family member who is in the process of praying. They don’t seem to mind interrupting their prayers, they do it for other family members too, but I still feel awkward about it. During my darker culture shock days, the Islamic influence bothered me. While I have always been a supporter of the Islamic faith, the snide comments about Muslims made by many Americans, I am ashamed to admit, must have seeped into my conscience. For when I was not in the mood to accept cultural differences, Islam in Senegal became an easy scapegoat. It wasn’t anything specific and I wasn’t referencing Islamic fundamentalism, as that is not really an issue here, but it was something I didn’t understand that I decided to make assumptions about. But I am back to being my normal self and seeing Islam through the eyes I see all other religions – as a faith with truths and faults, beautiful people and corrupted people, and a spirituality that cannot be logically explained or analyzed.
As for the language barriers, my mother speaks French with a very different accent than what I am use to, an accent that many older Senegalese speak with. It has an odd cadence to it, which will squish together words that shouldn’t normally be sped through. It’s difficult to understand and while I am slowly adapting to it, it’s still frustrating. My brother, who is closest to my age at 18, mumbles his French and my little sister whispers hers. All in all, it makes for frustrating exchanges, especially coupled with my horrible comprehension skills. After my mother will rush or my brother will mumble or my sister will whisper, I ask them to repeat what they said and am told that I understand nothing in French. As this is incredibly impolite and discouraging in America, I instinctively get defensive and upset. But the people here are direct and don’t mean it to hurt my feelings. I have turned it into a joke and will laugh at the situation with them. Then, with my brother who is learning English, I will demonstrate why I am having problems with the way he speaks French by mimicking his mumbling in English. I also like to slip in that all of my classes are in French and that I understand almost everything my professors say, so I can’t be the only problem.
Yes, all of my classes are in French. Our first week in Senegal, orientation week, we had to take a French test to place into a French level. I was nervous because I wanted to take one particular class that’s only taught in French, but I would not be able to if I did not test into a high enough French class, a task I had my doubts about accomplishing. I was pleasantly surprised when I tested into Advanced French, the level I needed to take all of my classes in French. But inherent within that success is another problem: All of my classes will be in French! For someone whose comprehension skills are her worst area of French, this was a huge challenge. I have to admit, the first few days were hard. I understood more than I expected but less than I should have. After three weeks of classes, I have vastly improved in understanding my professors, but I still don’t think I am where I should be. I definitely do not understand everything they say. But in most of my classes it doesn’t cause a problem because the professors write everything important on the board. Or I just Wikipedia what we covered in class
I am taking Advanced French I, Wolof, History of Islam in Senegal, Crisis Management and International Law in Africa, a Seminar on Living and Learning in Dakar – my only English class, and Society and Culture in Senegal. The French class is mainly review. Wolof is hard, but I am slowly learning it. It’s interesting to learn another language in a language you are not fluent in; it’s less difficult than I expected. When I first saw the list of possible courses we could take I immediately wrote off History of Islam. Why would I want to take a course only specific to Senegal? However, after being here for a couple of days, I recognized the influence of Islam in Senegal and realized I would miss out on part of the culture without this knowledge. My Crisis Management class was the class I was most excited about. It has been my biggest disappointment. However, I decided to stick out the bad teaching for the little knowledge I would receive and the final paper. For our final we have to write a 15 page paper in French on a conflict in Africa. You should have heard the gasps in the classroom when our prof told us this news. 15 pages! In French! The most I have ever written in French is 3 pages. After my blood pressure lowered and the shock wore off, I realized 1) how much this would push my French; 2) how good this would be for me for learning about a conflict; and 3) how good this will look on a resume. Now I’m actually excited to do this. I can’t even imagine the victorious feeling I will have when I turn that paper in. And it’s a paper my Dad can’t nitpick over for once! That’s a victory right there. The seminar class was optional but it’s just a class where we talk about bridging cultures and living in a culture outside of your own. We get to talk about our feelings and do fun assignments. In Society and Culture we have guest lecturers come in and talk about different aspects of Senegalese society. Last week we had a Muslim religious leader and a Catholic priest come talk to us about interreligious dialogue in Senegal. While it is not perfect, the two religions get along well together here. There is peace between Muslims and Christians and many people celebrate the holidays of both religions, including my family. It’s funny to hear a Muslim say he celebrates Christmas, Easter, and Yom Kippur and that his Christian neighbors fast for Ramadan. You almost never hear of something like that.
Well, there are the basics of my life here. The past few weeks have been hard, especially with my untimely nostalgia for Uganda and Rwanda, but I am slowly getting use to life here and embracing my time in Senegal.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Culture Shock Uggghhhh
Well, I'm back for another semester! New country, new region of Africa, new languages, new perspectives.
I have been in Senegal for three weeks. I haven't blogged much because I have spent these past three weeks trying to get to know Senegal before I let my first reactions color my accounts. I didn't react to Senegal negatively, per se, when I arrived. I just became so overwhelmed with all the different sights and sounds that appeared nothing like anything else I had witnessed before, that I shut down a little. I even had the stereotypical study abroad moment of "what have I gotten myself into." Twice: my first day in Senegal and my first day in my only French and Wolof speaking family.
While I don't feel at ease in my surroundings yet, Senegal is slowly steeping into my subconscious without my mind blocking the sensation overload. I have definitely had a harder time assimilating into this culture more than I did in Uganda and Rwanda. But I am open to liking Senegal and feel that, once I shake the remnants of last semester and once I get to know my way around Dakar, I will flourish here.
So that's where I am currently at: confused, out of place, and in general culture shock. But my experience will be a result of what I put into it - and I am ready to put in the energy for a great semester!
I have been in Senegal for three weeks. I haven't blogged much because I have spent these past three weeks trying to get to know Senegal before I let my first reactions color my accounts. I didn't react to Senegal negatively, per se, when I arrived. I just became so overwhelmed with all the different sights and sounds that appeared nothing like anything else I had witnessed before, that I shut down a little. I even had the stereotypical study abroad moment of "what have I gotten myself into." Twice: my first day in Senegal and my first day in my only French and Wolof speaking family.
While I don't feel at ease in my surroundings yet, Senegal is slowly steeping into my subconscious without my mind blocking the sensation overload. I have definitely had a harder time assimilating into this culture more than I did in Uganda and Rwanda. But I am open to liking Senegal and feel that, once I shake the remnants of last semester and once I get to know my way around Dakar, I will flourish here.
So that's where I am currently at: confused, out of place, and in general culture shock. But my experience will be a result of what I put into it - and I am ready to put in the energy for a great semester!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Remember
As I prepare to leave Uganda to return to the States, I thought I would look back on this semester and record some of the more memorable times.
5 Not-so-Happy
5. Apallon's speech: My assistant director Apallon gave us a lecture on the politics of memory and memorializing the genocide. He designed many of the major genocide memorials in Rwanda, including Gisozi and Murambi (both below). Everyday for three weeks before the lecture we had seen him, hung out with him, joked with him. Before his lecture, he gave us his testimony. We knew he had lost some family in the genocide, but we never knew to what extent. He saw the death of his father, the death of his mother by the hands of his good childhood friend, the death of his brother, sister-in-law, and their unborn baby, as well as the death of his brother’s killer. It was surreal to see this normally strong, laughing man shaking and emotional.
4. Gisozi: Gisozi is the main national genocide memorial and museum center in Rwanda. It is the memorial that honors and houses the dead of Kigali during the genocide. It also serves as an informative museum. It reminds me of the Holocaust museum in DC except more graphic and intentionally more emotional. It has one section that takes visitors through the history of the Rwanda genocide, a section that informs visitors about other noteworhty genocides and ethnic cleansings of the 20th century, and a section on the children who died in the genocide. It is moving, horrible, informative, and beautiful.
3. My Rwandan family's story: My Rwandan family was deeply affected by the genocide as were most families in Rwanda. While I do not want to tell my family's personal story in a side note in a blog, I will tell anyone who asks in person. My family has asked me to share their story. They were attacked, lost members of their family, and finished 1994 as refugees. I will remember my relationship with them, the strength of my family, and their story of how hate leads to unnecessary pain.
2. Child Soldier: The lawyer who heads the Amnesty Department for former child soldiers gave us a lecture. He brought with him a former child soldier to tell her story as an example for why child soldiers deserve amnesty. As she began to tell her story, she started stumbling over her words and crying. The lawyer urged her to continue beyond her quiet tremors. He allowed her to take a break. When she began again, she started to talk about how a 16 year-old boy was killed in front of her eyes. When she got to the part about how her friend couldn't keep up with the group she trailed off before she could say that her friend was murdered. She is trying to keep herself in check, but she's sobbing silently and can't get any more words out. And what does the laywer who is paid to defend her do? He yells at her to continue. And when she can't, no matter how much he berates her, he turns to us and says, "You see what she is? This is called traumatization. She is traumatized." Most disgusting thing I have ever, ever seen. Finally our director stands up and tells the lawyer to move on. That she was forced to tell a story that retraumatized her in front of a bunch of white people while her lawyer yelled at her for crying, it still makes me nauseous.
1. Murambi: Murambi is a memorial site where 50,000 people were killed within three days of the genocide. The families of the deceased have decided to preserve some of the bodies and display them for visitors as a visually shocking "Never again" statement. It was a technical school on top of a hill where the Tutsis were told by their mayor to seek refuge. When you visit the memorial, you walk through classroom after classroom where hundreds of bodies are on display. They are frozen in the positions that they died. You can see sawed off limbs, evidence of sadistic torture before the final end, mothers and children killed together, mouths silently screaming for mercy, and smashed babies. It is utterly, devastatingly, violently hell on earth. A hell I will never, ever, in all of my nightmares and in all of my days, forget.
Because this semester was not all doom and gloom, I want to finish my final blog and my semester with my happy memories.
5 Happy
5. The scenery: The most beautiful places I have ever seen. I have been so fortunate to travel to these places, see landscapes other people only dream about, and have the familiarity to take advantage of it. I try to appreciate it for everything it is, but I don’t think I will fully recognize how lucky I am until I return to the States. Here’s to hoping Senegal is as beautiful!
4. The discovery of what I want to do: Because of what I have seen and done here, this program affirmed my future aspirations. I have officially decided to pursue a career in peace and conflict studies. While I do not have a job picked out because that’s too limiting, it is nice to have a grad degree picked out and possible internships to consider.
3. That nothing is unbearable: Living in these two war torn countries, hearing stories of terror and horror, you accept that humanity is capable of great evil. There is no denying it. But beyond the fear, beyond the pain, beyond the loss, lies another adage: Humanity is capable of great strength. This strength might show itself through the story of a hero who steps in front of fire to save a fellow human being. But more commonly, it surfaces in the story of the survivor. The survivor who survived something no one should survive. And while it’s awful to hear these stories, it’s painful, and disgusting, after so many stories you start to recognize the power of humanity to live. Through the physical and psychocosial ailments, the body and the spirit heal. Maybe not as good as before, but enough to go on living, to make a new life beyond the conflict. As odd as it sounds, it’s comforting to know we can bear the unbearable. Life does go on.
2. The strength of Rwanda and my Rwandan family: There’s nothing like being in Rwanda and seeing what it’s become. Sure there are problems and there is leftover animosity, but what that country has done, what it’s people have done, is mind-blowing, it’s unfathomable. It is all due to the character of the people and to its leaders. While the mistakes should not be overlooked, the virtues are not praised enough. Victims living next to perpetrators, forgiveness, strength, heart, surviving, life. My family was the perfect example. My mother is such a strong, gracious, beautiful soul. She cared for her family when times were impossible, she searched the world for her children, healed when there was little reason to live, and believes in unity, peace, and forgiveness in spite of everything. Living with that character taught me about what it means to live for God and for your family and for life itself.
1. I will never forget the amazing people I met this semester. They are: Waleed, Metia, Yasmin, Dean, Peace, Godfrey, my Rwandan mommy, David, Nadine, Confiance, Enzo, Doudou, Thammika, Tomomi, Kai, Taylor, and Danielle. All my love.
And so I conclude my amazing, life-altering semester.
Cheers to Egypt, Uganda, and Rwanda!!!
5 Not-so-Happy
5. Apallon's speech: My assistant director Apallon gave us a lecture on the politics of memory and memorializing the genocide. He designed many of the major genocide memorials in Rwanda, including Gisozi and Murambi (both below). Everyday for three weeks before the lecture we had seen him, hung out with him, joked with him. Before his lecture, he gave us his testimony. We knew he had lost some family in the genocide, but we never knew to what extent. He saw the death of his father, the death of his mother by the hands of his good childhood friend, the death of his brother, sister-in-law, and their unborn baby, as well as the death of his brother’s killer. It was surreal to see this normally strong, laughing man shaking and emotional.
4. Gisozi: Gisozi is the main national genocide memorial and museum center in Rwanda. It is the memorial that honors and houses the dead of Kigali during the genocide. It also serves as an informative museum. It reminds me of the Holocaust museum in DC except more graphic and intentionally more emotional. It has one section that takes visitors through the history of the Rwanda genocide, a section that informs visitors about other noteworhty genocides and ethnic cleansings of the 20th century, and a section on the children who died in the genocide. It is moving, horrible, informative, and beautiful.
3. My Rwandan family's story: My Rwandan family was deeply affected by the genocide as were most families in Rwanda. While I do not want to tell my family's personal story in a side note in a blog, I will tell anyone who asks in person. My family has asked me to share their story. They were attacked, lost members of their family, and finished 1994 as refugees. I will remember my relationship with them, the strength of my family, and their story of how hate leads to unnecessary pain.
2. Child Soldier: The lawyer who heads the Amnesty Department for former child soldiers gave us a lecture. He brought with him a former child soldier to tell her story as an example for why child soldiers deserve amnesty. As she began to tell her story, she started stumbling over her words and crying. The lawyer urged her to continue beyond her quiet tremors. He allowed her to take a break. When she began again, she started to talk about how a 16 year-old boy was killed in front of her eyes. When she got to the part about how her friend couldn't keep up with the group she trailed off before she could say that her friend was murdered. She is trying to keep herself in check, but she's sobbing silently and can't get any more words out. And what does the laywer who is paid to defend her do? He yells at her to continue. And when she can't, no matter how much he berates her, he turns to us and says, "You see what she is? This is called traumatization. She is traumatized." Most disgusting thing I have ever, ever seen. Finally our director stands up and tells the lawyer to move on. That she was forced to tell a story that retraumatized her in front of a bunch of white people while her lawyer yelled at her for crying, it still makes me nauseous.
1. Murambi: Murambi is a memorial site where 50,000 people were killed within three days of the genocide. The families of the deceased have decided to preserve some of the bodies and display them for visitors as a visually shocking "Never again" statement. It was a technical school on top of a hill where the Tutsis were told by their mayor to seek refuge. When you visit the memorial, you walk through classroom after classroom where hundreds of bodies are on display. They are frozen in the positions that they died. You can see sawed off limbs, evidence of sadistic torture before the final end, mothers and children killed together, mouths silently screaming for mercy, and smashed babies. It is utterly, devastatingly, violently hell on earth. A hell I will never, ever, in all of my nightmares and in all of my days, forget.
Because this semester was not all doom and gloom, I want to finish my final blog and my semester with my happy memories.
5 Happy
5. The scenery: The most beautiful places I have ever seen. I have been so fortunate to travel to these places, see landscapes other people only dream about, and have the familiarity to take advantage of it. I try to appreciate it for everything it is, but I don’t think I will fully recognize how lucky I am until I return to the States. Here’s to hoping Senegal is as beautiful!
4. The discovery of what I want to do: Because of what I have seen and done here, this program affirmed my future aspirations. I have officially decided to pursue a career in peace and conflict studies. While I do not have a job picked out because that’s too limiting, it is nice to have a grad degree picked out and possible internships to consider.
3. That nothing is unbearable: Living in these two war torn countries, hearing stories of terror and horror, you accept that humanity is capable of great evil. There is no denying it. But beyond the fear, beyond the pain, beyond the loss, lies another adage: Humanity is capable of great strength. This strength might show itself through the story of a hero who steps in front of fire to save a fellow human being. But more commonly, it surfaces in the story of the survivor. The survivor who survived something no one should survive. And while it’s awful to hear these stories, it’s painful, and disgusting, after so many stories you start to recognize the power of humanity to live. Through the physical and psychocosial ailments, the body and the spirit heal. Maybe not as good as before, but enough to go on living, to make a new life beyond the conflict. As odd as it sounds, it’s comforting to know we can bear the unbearable. Life does go on.
2. The strength of Rwanda and my Rwandan family: There’s nothing like being in Rwanda and seeing what it’s become. Sure there are problems and there is leftover animosity, but what that country has done, what it’s people have done, is mind-blowing, it’s unfathomable. It is all due to the character of the people and to its leaders. While the mistakes should not be overlooked, the virtues are not praised enough. Victims living next to perpetrators, forgiveness, strength, heart, surviving, life. My family was the perfect example. My mother is such a strong, gracious, beautiful soul. She cared for her family when times were impossible, she searched the world for her children, healed when there was little reason to live, and believes in unity, peace, and forgiveness in spite of everything. Living with that character taught me about what it means to live for God and for your family and for life itself.
1. I will never forget the amazing people I met this semester. They are: Waleed, Metia, Yasmin, Dean, Peace, Godfrey, my Rwandan mommy, David, Nadine, Confiance, Enzo, Doudou, Thammika, Tomomi, Kai, Taylor, and Danielle. All my love.
And so I conclude my amazing, life-altering semester.
Cheers to Egypt, Uganda, and Rwanda!!!
Friday, December 4, 2009
Dumb Things Nancy has Done or Said in Africa: Part Two
5. Money at Night: Simple mistake. I bargained 500 for a moto, which is about a dollar, reached into my wallet and pulled out of a 500 bill. Or what I thought, in the dark of night, looked like a 500 franc bill. What I actually pulled out was a 5,000 franc bill, which roughly equals $10. That’s right. I paid $10 for a ten minute ride on a motorcycle.
4. Laughing at Gisozi: We’d already been to so many memorials and we’re only human. We went to the national genocide museum, which also happens to be the memorial site for all of the people who died in Kigali during the genocide. My friend was having a mental freakout about something ridiculous that had happened on the bus ride over and we were making fun of her. We were laughing. People were mourning about 20 yards away from us. We were stupid and we stopped the second we realized. But I still feel bad about it.
3. Yelling and a Kid: This kid came up to us selling peanuts. My friend and I bought some, even though we knew they were slightly overpriced. But the kid was polite, spoke great English, and didn’t bother us too much. As we walked away, a neighborhood woman greeted him cheerfully. Twenty seconds later, the kid came running back to us saying, “I am sorry. I forgot to tell you I am hungry. I need money. Please help me.” I don’t know what happened to me. It was the combination of the number of times kids have done this to me before, the knowledge that this woman had told him to do this even though he is clearly not wanting, and the culture of begging that adults are instilling in these kids – I just blew up. I gave a frustrated, aggressive, explosive shriek. “What are they teaching these kids!?!” I didn’t yell at the kid per se, but I yelled in his vicinity. He backed away from me, apologizing profusely. He gave me the look you would give an unstable person having an episode. I calmed down and apologized right away. But I still feel like shit when I think about it.
2. Public discussion of the genocide: I was in a public internet café when my friend leaned over and softly read me an email about a prominent post-genocide figure. I responded by telling her what this figure had said in an interview I had read. Basically, I loudly and publicly declared that this famous person denied that it was a genocide of the Tutsis and insinuated it was actually a genocide of Hutus. The problem is not that I talked about this person. The problem is that 1) I used the ethnic terms, which no one really discusses anymore; and 2) that I even said the phrases “not a Tutsi genocide,” “genocide against Hutus.” The people in the internet café had complete right to hate me and try to kick me out. That I even dared to talk about their lives in such an easy way, in public no less. No one seemed horribly upset but I could tell people definitely noticed. I was a fool and so unaware of my surroundings.
1. April Birthdays: The genocide began in April. The majority of the people died in April and at the beginning of May. All of the major massacres happened in April and any family member I know of who died, died in April. So my brother Confiance and I are visiting my brother-in-law Darius. My brother is asking questions to get to know me. He asks me when my birthday is and I tell him April 8. Darius tells me his birthday is in April too. April 12th. Confiance’s birthday is also in April, April 24. I love people with April birthdays. And me being me, I forgot that I was in Rwanda and said the dumbest, worst thing I have ever said. “April is the best month, isn’t it!” Right after the words came out of my mouth I realized what I said. I actually buried my head in my hands. Darius was sweet about it. He ruefully replied, “Well, not in Rwanda.” He knew I knew I had made a mistake so it wasn’t too bad. I apologized and he just nodded his head half amused, half sad, and changed the topic. But considering he had probably lost family in April, I felt awful. Just so, so awful.
So there is the compilation of my dumbest moments in Africa so far. I was brutally honest and I hope you don’t judge me too much. I made some small mistakes and some huge mistakes. But I always knew right after that I had made a mistake. And I have learned from them.
4. Laughing at Gisozi: We’d already been to so many memorials and we’re only human. We went to the national genocide museum, which also happens to be the memorial site for all of the people who died in Kigali during the genocide. My friend was having a mental freakout about something ridiculous that had happened on the bus ride over and we were making fun of her. We were laughing. People were mourning about 20 yards away from us. We were stupid and we stopped the second we realized. But I still feel bad about it.
3. Yelling and a Kid: This kid came up to us selling peanuts. My friend and I bought some, even though we knew they were slightly overpriced. But the kid was polite, spoke great English, and didn’t bother us too much. As we walked away, a neighborhood woman greeted him cheerfully. Twenty seconds later, the kid came running back to us saying, “I am sorry. I forgot to tell you I am hungry. I need money. Please help me.” I don’t know what happened to me. It was the combination of the number of times kids have done this to me before, the knowledge that this woman had told him to do this even though he is clearly not wanting, and the culture of begging that adults are instilling in these kids – I just blew up. I gave a frustrated, aggressive, explosive shriek. “What are they teaching these kids!?!” I didn’t yell at the kid per se, but I yelled in his vicinity. He backed away from me, apologizing profusely. He gave me the look you would give an unstable person having an episode. I calmed down and apologized right away. But I still feel like shit when I think about it.
2. Public discussion of the genocide: I was in a public internet café when my friend leaned over and softly read me an email about a prominent post-genocide figure. I responded by telling her what this figure had said in an interview I had read. Basically, I loudly and publicly declared that this famous person denied that it was a genocide of the Tutsis and insinuated it was actually a genocide of Hutus. The problem is not that I talked about this person. The problem is that 1) I used the ethnic terms, which no one really discusses anymore; and 2) that I even said the phrases “not a Tutsi genocide,” “genocide against Hutus.” The people in the internet café had complete right to hate me and try to kick me out. That I even dared to talk about their lives in such an easy way, in public no less. No one seemed horribly upset but I could tell people definitely noticed. I was a fool and so unaware of my surroundings.
1. April Birthdays: The genocide began in April. The majority of the people died in April and at the beginning of May. All of the major massacres happened in April and any family member I know of who died, died in April. So my brother Confiance and I are visiting my brother-in-law Darius. My brother is asking questions to get to know me. He asks me when my birthday is and I tell him April 8. Darius tells me his birthday is in April too. April 12th. Confiance’s birthday is also in April, April 24. I love people with April birthdays. And me being me, I forgot that I was in Rwanda and said the dumbest, worst thing I have ever said. “April is the best month, isn’t it!” Right after the words came out of my mouth I realized what I said. I actually buried my head in my hands. Darius was sweet about it. He ruefully replied, “Well, not in Rwanda.” He knew I knew I had made a mistake so it wasn’t too bad. I apologized and he just nodded his head half amused, half sad, and changed the topic. But considering he had probably lost family in April, I felt awful. Just so, so awful.
So there is the compilation of my dumbest moments in Africa so far. I was brutally honest and I hope you don’t judge me too much. I made some small mistakes and some huge mistakes. But I always knew right after that I had made a mistake. And I have learned from them.
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