Elyse in Haifa: I love the shuk…

As I may have mentioned in an earlier post, food shopping is a very hectic activity in a country with a different language and foreign currency. Until today, going to the supermarket has been something I’ve dreaded.
However, my friends and I decided to go to Hadar, an area with a great shuk, or outdoor market. Everything there was so relaxed, and everyone was extremely helpful. What’s even better is how cheap the food was! At one point, I bought a bunch of carrots and an entire head of cauliflower for only 8 shekels, which is the equivalent of about $2 in American money. I couldn’t believe it! The produce is also extremely fresh there – we saw a fish market where the fish were actually still moving…!
There was also a great variety of foods, and I was able to buy some amazing brown bread and pastries for about 18 shekels, or less than $5. I also bought a persimmon, a pumpkin-shaped fruit that whose growth is based in Asia. It is the size of a small tomato, and has the slightly rough texture of a pumpkin and the flavor of a peach. While it is fairly uncommon to find this fruit in the U.S., they are all over Israeli markets. Overall, it was a great afternoon experiencing new things at the shuk, and I’m happy to have found a more pleasant alternative to the supermarket.

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Postcards from Dakar: A really long and probably boring post about transportation

My very first afternoon with my family, I went out for a walk with my sister Moussouba and came to this conclusion: “OMG, Africans walk soooooo slooooowly.” Compared to the pace at which I usually tear around campus, Moussouba walks like an 80-year old woman. It was maddening at first, but after a few days, you get used to it and start to understand why people here don’t walk as fast. On a practical level, most of the walkways and a significant portion of the streets are not paved. They’re very fine sand that shifts when you walk on it and makes maintaining a brisk pace a lot more difficult. On a cultural level, no Senegalese person is ever anxiously checking their watch to make sure they’re on time to where they’re going. They’ll set out when they’re ready and they’ll get there when they get there.

Lots of people walk in Dakar. The sidewalks are always busy and there are always people jumping over the barriers to cross the highways on foot. There are some places where the city has started to build walkways over the highways, but the construction looks to be abandoned, so there are just staircases to nowhere on the sides of the road. It takes me about 45 minutes to walk to WARC from my house, and I’ve been told that it takes about three or four hours to walk from the southernmost point of the Plateau to Yoff or Ngor, the northernmost suburbs on the Cap Vert peninsula. Walking around the city is great because it’s free and there’s always something to look at, but it has its annoyances too. Dakar is not the cleanest city in the world, so you often find yourself tiptoeing around piles of trash or stopping to get a cigarette butt out from between your foot and your sandal. The combination of the omnipresent sand and the wind that blows from the Sahara during the winter means that the air is very dusty and sand gets blown into your eyes all the time, along with nasty exhaust from dilapidated vehicles (which is really the only kind of vehicle in Dakar). There are also lots of beggars, guys selling phone credit, and guys in general who can all be pretty persistent in harassing passersby.

Another challenge for pedestrians is that drivers in Dakar are, without exception, completely insane. They speed, they tailgate, they drive up on the curbs and sidewalks, they ignore lane markings, they do not yield at any time to any one. There are no working traffic lights in Dakar, and most Senegalese seem to think that seat belts are there for decoration. One of the main roads that I walk on to get to school has three lanes: one heading east, one heading west, and one in the middle for whoever needs it. The majority of taxi windshields are badly cracked, most of the doors don’t close properly, and few have two working headlights. Drivers rarely use their turn signals, and often times they signal one direction and then turn the other way. Sometimes, if you’re walking in a street with no sidewalk, the drivers coming towards you will flick on their signal to tell you which way they want you to go, so that you’ll get out of their way. The idea of an “air cushion,” or buffer zone, between your car and the cars/people/buildings near you would be totally laughable to a Senegalese driver. I’ve seen cops directing traffic before, but never pulling anyone over or writing tickets.

Thankfully, along with this complete disinterest in traffic laws or safety precautions, Senegalese drivers have remarkable spatial perception. They know exactly how big their cars are, and if they’re trying to make it down a street just a few inches wider than they are, they can do it. My first few rides in taxis or my family’s car were terrifying. My very first night with my family, I was driving somewhere with Kiki, Fatima, my mother, and her friend Helene. Mama and Helene said Hail Marys the whole way, which was not encouraging. But the more I travel by wheeled vehicle, the more I like it. I’ve never seen anyone get into an accident, and I’ve stopped worrying that we’re going to hit everything in our path. Now, it’s kind of a thrill ride.

Taxis are the most convenient way to travel, but the most expensive. That said, the toubab (white person/foreigner) price for a taxi ride is about 1,000 francs, which is about $2. If you’re going farther, like up to Yoff, you’ll have to pay more, but if your bargaining skills are good, you’ll pay less. There are also the clandos, or clandestine taxis. These are just guys with cars who want to make some money without filling out the paperwork to become an official taxi driver. I’ve never ridden in one, but there’s one girl here who lives near a clando hang-out and takes one to school all the time. I guess you don’t bargain for a clando ride; prices are fixed at 250 francs per person.

There’s also a LOT of public transportation around Dakar, in addition to the taxis. There are the big blue Dakar Dem Dikk buses, the white minibuses, the white and blue minibuses, and the cars rapides. All of those cost between 50-150 francs, I believe. The only ones I’ve actually ridden on are the blue buses, which are by far the least intimidating. The stops are clearly marked, as is the number and destination of the bus, which is helpful. The white and blue minibuses are operated by the city and follow similar routes as the Dem Dikk buses. They were intended to replace the cars rapides, most of which are in disrepair, are operated by the most classic of Senegalese drivers, and are prime targets for pickpockets and thieves. The move would have rendered the city safer, but less interesting, and it failed completely. The cars are definitely still at large. The white minibuses are similar to the cars. I actually can’t figure out how they’re different, except that they’re not as flamboyantly decorated.

The white minibuses and the cars rapides are marked only with the decorations the drivers see fit to add. The minibuses usually just have a tasteful “Alhamidoulilah” (or Thanks be to God) painted across the front. The cars rapides on the other hand, which are bright blue and yellow/orange to begin with, usually have an “Alhamidoulilah” somewhere, the words “Transport en commune,” icons such as eyes, animals, mosques, soccer balls, and other words that might be names of people or places. The place names are certainly not the names of the places that the cars stop. Nearly every single one has “Touba” painted in huge letters over the windshield, which is a town several hours away from Dakar where the Mourides, the largest, wealthiest, and most politically powerful Muslim brotherhood in Senegal, are headquartered.

In fact, nearly everything in Dakar is labeled with the word “Touba.” You see it in the names of businesses, cafes, restaurants, etc. It would be like being in New York City and seeing Chicago Pizzeria next to Chicago Laundromat next to Chicago Café next to Chicago Supermarket next to Chicago Gas Station. It’s a little strange to see, until you realize what Touba is exactly and why everyone here is so obsessed with it. I’m going there on a field trip in March, I think, so look for a post in a few months about what Touba is all about.

Anyway, the cars are pretty much the emblems of Dakar, which makes it sort of unforgivable that I haven’t ridden in one yet. This is because I have no idea how to use them. Usually, two or three guys ride around on the back of the car, standing on the bumper and hanging on to whatever they can get a hold of. When the car stops, the guys jump off the back and shout out where the car is going. If they don’t think that enough people are getting on, they start trying to physically herd people into them. I’ve been walking by as cars have stopped and have had someone take me by the arm and lead me to the back of the van. That’s the closest I’ve come to actually getting in. I would like to get to know how to use the cars properly, because they look like fun and I’d like to experience how “real Senegalese people” travel around the city. I think I need a “real Senegalese person” to help me out with this, though, and the members of my family seem content to take a taxi or the bus, or drive their own car. So we’ll see.

Some other ways I have seen people get around include roller-blades-plus-car-bumper, a mode of transit favored by younger teenage boys, and horse cart. A horse cart in Dakar is usually a rickety and seemingly homemade cart attached to a horse, which often looks similarly rickety. The carts are big enough to hold a decent-sized load, but very rarely do you see them laden with more than a couple of passengers. I was out with Fatima one day and we were very nearly trampled by a couple of kids who had (probably) stolen the family horse cart and taken it out for a joy ride.

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Postcards from Dakar: Being Catholic

My family, especially the older generation (my mother, my uncle, my mother’s friend), is very Catholic. Mama and Helene go to mass even on the weekdays, and Mama will drag all the kids upstairs to pray with her in the evenings. I’ve walked in on her saying prayers at a little shrine thing in her room (I have to walk through there to get to the bathroom) and there’s Catholic iconography in every room. I don’t know it in English, but I can just about recite a Hail Mary in French because I hear it all the time. Moussouba has one praise song on her cell phone, and sometimes Mama will make her play it over and over and over again for her, and she’ll sing and dance and clap along with the music. She talks about Jesus Christ all the time. In fact, she never seems happier or more animated then when she’s talking about the will of God or the power of Jesus.

I went to mass with her and Fatima once. They told me it was at 11, so I got up early enough to shower, eat, and allow about 30 minutes to get there because I had no idea where the church was. I should have known that that wasn’t necessary. Apparently mass isn’t exempt from the Senegalese understanding of “on time,” and we didn’t even leave until 11:30. We got there halfway through the sermon, which I didn’t really understand. I admit to being a little bit bemused that day and not in a particularly good frame of mind to try and understand what was happening. The priest kept asking questions and bringing children up to give the answers, which were usually single words, like “Jesus,” Everyone,” and “the Holy Spirit.” There was music and singing, but no hymnals. Someone would start playing drums and the choir would start singing, and then the rest of the congregation would join in, which was kind of cool but meant that I couldn’t follow along. I didn’t take Communion because I know that, technically, non-Catholics are not allowed to take Communion at Catholic mass, but I don’t think my family or really anyone there was clued into that rule or would have been too bothered by my breaking it. We were only there for about 30 minutes because we’d arrived so late.

The church itself is kind of distinctive. It looks sort of weird and geometric on the outside, which is kind of a theme in African/Senegalese architecture I think, but the inside is cool. It’s a very simple rectangular layout. It’s wider than it is long, which is different from most churches I’ve been in, and the doors in the back, which are kept open during the service, are so big that the church feels like it only has three walls. The walls to the left and right of the pews have huge windows that I can only really describe as “colored.” It’s not stained glass like you see in American and European churches, but its very vivid and very beautiful. The front wall behind the altar is painted in a very simple, striking African style. That said, I can’t for the life of me remember what is in the painting. There was a big Jesus-on-cross-with-crown-of-thorns on the left, but there were a whole bunch of other people painted in the center and to the right. It was either scenes from the Bible or scenes from African history. The church is named Church of the Martyrs of Uganda, so the history thing is likely. I will definitely pay better attention next time I go.

I slept too late to go to mass with my mother this weekend, but I still managed to get in a strong dose of religion. My uncle came by later in the afternoon. He asked me if I had gone to mass that morning, which ended up leading to a more general discussion of my religious practices. He likes to talk to me and find out what I’m learning and what my opinions are about things and then tell me what all his opinions are. I told him that I’m Anglican, and he immediately came out with the one thing that he knew about the Episcopal Church: we have gay priests. I said yes, we even have a gay bishop, and it’s causing a lot of commotion in the Anglican Communion. He asked me if I supported the gay bishop, and I said yes without really thinking of the can of worms I was opening. He got this very serious look on his face and said, “Oooh, that’s not good. Let’s discuss this.”

And so we did. We discussed for probably ten minutes before his phone started ringing and he said he had to go. But he promised me that he would come back so that we could continue the discussion, and he made good on that promise. He came back that evening and made me talk to him about this for at least another half an hour.

That’s a hard enough debate to have in English, but I did it all in French and not only did I make myself understood, I held my own. I certainly didn’t convince him of anything, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I (and by extension, all American Protestants) am a godless heathen, but he was very interested in what I had to say and very patient with me when I was struggling to find the words. It was hard for me not just because it was in a foreign language but also because I’ve never really had this debate one-on-one before and I wasn’t quite sure of how to articulate my position. The conversation was actually much more sophisticated than I would have thought it would be, considering the fact that I was debating the place of homosexuals in the clergy with an African Catholic. But he’s not an irrational homophobe – he’s a thoughtful, modern Catholic. We talked about literal interpretation of scriptures, whether or not the Bible contradicts itself, and whether or not religion should evolve with society or stay constant. The whole time we were talking I was sort of desperate for him to release me, but I’m glad he kept me at it for so long. It was an interesting experience.

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Postcards from Dakar: Going Out

I haven’t really gone out much on the weekends. The first weekend I was here, I went to a party at Moussouba’s boyfriend’s house with Moussouba, Kiki, and Fatima. I think she said they were all his friends from church choir (turns out, Catholic people here just know more Catholic people). There was lots of food and music, so I danced some and listened to people talk around me without understanding hardly anything. They played this game in which someone produced a scarf, threw it around you and used it to haul you out of your chair, tied it around your hips, pushed you into the middle of the room, and forced you to do a dance that prominently featured your butt. Resistance was futile. It was actually pretty fun and funny, and now every time Abibou comes over, he says hello to me from one of his friends.

The next weekend, I went to a music club called Just 4 U with Ryaunte and Andrew, a kid in my neighborhood who’s here on the MSID program, and a bunch of the other MSID kids. It’s a pretty classy place (a Fanta there was 2 000 francs; at WARC, they’re 200) and it attracts big names in the Senegalese and international music scene. I liked the guy who was playing, even though he was singing in Wolof and I couldn’t understand anything, and I had a good time, but man, I am totally lame. This leave at 11 p.m., come home at 4 a.m. thing is going to take some getting used to.

Two weekends ago was the failed Super Bowl endeavor, but this weekend Moussouba took me out again. Abibou’s choir was doing a concert followed by a soirée at their church in Yoff, so we went to that. I let Moussouba do my makeup, and she decided that the raccoon look was going to be good for me. I was slightly hugely horrified when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw how much eyeliner she had put on me, but she, Fatima, and Anita looked satisfied. They said I looked really pretty, “Ils sautent!” (Your eyes really pop!), so I didn’t say anything. I figured I wasn’t going to see anyone I knew there and it was going to be dark anyway, so there wasn’t much harm in going out like that.

We left about an hour after the concert started and our taxi got a flat tire. Moussouba and I staying in the car while the driver changed the tire. I wanted to burst out laughing and explain to Moussouba that in the US, no one would wait for their taxi driver to change a flat when they were already late; they would get out and get another taxi. But I didn’t.

The concert was pretty much just 20 kids who really love Jesus singing and dancing about how much they really love Jesus. It was about 11 p.m. when we got there, and I admit that the combination of the time, the Wolof lyrics, and mediocre singing was putting me to sleep. I was really happy for the concert to be over. The party afterwords was fun. There was a DJ and dancing, which kept me awake. The DJ played a huge block of fast dance music and then a similarly huge block of slow music. The slow music is fine, because Senegalese guys will ask strangers to dance and they all dance really well, but every single guy there must have thought that I’m a moron. They all tried to talk to me, and even though they spoke right into my ear, the fact that it was French, I couldn’t see their faces, and there was loud music playing meant that I never understood what they were saying to me, even after the second or third repetition. I was also a little self-conscious about my dancing. In the US, the point of slow dancing, at least in high school, is pressing up against someone for 3 minutes and 47 seconds. In Senegal, you’re actually supposed to bring a little bit of rhythm and movement. I have no idea if I was doing well or not. One guy asked me where I learned to dance like this, which seemed like a compliment, but another one dropped me as soon as the song changed, which didn’t.

It was closing in on 3 a.m. when Moussouba got hungry and tired, so we left and walked to Abibou’s house. She had a snack (leftover meat and bread from dinner) and we hung out for a little while watching music videos on TV before catching a taxi home.

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Postcards from Dakar: A bunch of little things

As far as I know, the strike at UCAD continued for the rest of the week, but they’re back on now. I didn’t hear too much about it, but I found out about some of the university’s problems. Apparently, it’s technically open to anyone who passes their Bac (a huge exam at the end of high school), but the administration does not admit many students. This is not because they’re looking for a lot of solid extracurriculars and leadership experience, but because there simply isn’t enough physical space for them. Apparently, some classes are so overcrowded that students sit on the floors or try to listen in from the hallways. It’s a catch-22; students, both current and prospective, want the administration to deal with the overcrowding and to admit more people.

They sell Magnum bars here. For 1200 francs (the price of a whole meal plus beverage at WARC) you can get yourself a slice of packaged European ice cream heaven on a stick.

My siblings are slightly shocked at the fact that I have no idea how to cook and have started to include me in making meals. Usually this means that they invite me to stand in the kitchen while they do all the work, but a few nights ago, I helped Kiki make mayonnaise in the food processor, and over the weekend I sliced carrots and some other white tuber thing that went into our lunch. My uncle said that before I leave I’m going to have to cook a meal for everyone all by myself. Moussouba tells me I have to be able to cook ceebujen for my family when I go home. It occurs to me now that my culinary ignorance might be something to mention when I am proposed to next. No Senegalese man wants a wife who can’t cook.

Moussouba made me an outfit. It’s a very tight knee-length skirt with a billowy white top that she embellished with beads and rhinestones. The colors are pretty and it fits me like a glove but I must say, it’s not really my style. I wore it to Mass last weekend but I don’t know how much wear it’s going to get. That skirt is awfully restrictive of movement. I asked Moussouba the other day how she knew what size I was without measuring me, and she just said, “Oh, we’re the same size.”

My oldest brother, Daniel, has a pet parrot named Sam. I’ve been told that this bird is more than 20 years old, which I actually believe. He certainly looks old. I suspect that he has mad cow disease, or a Yeerk, or some other brain illness. He’s always scratching his head like there’s something in there that he wants to get out. He can’t fly, but his cage doesn’t latch properly, so he gets out and walks around the back of the house all the time. No one seems to have any affection for him except for Danny. Anita in particular likes to mention that he is useless and we should just cook and eat him.

Around 5 or 6 p.m., the beignet ladies join the ranks of the street vendors. Beignets are basically just balls of fried dough. They can be plain and sprinkled with sugar or stuffed with meat or fish. They’re cheap, delicious, and are the perfect snack to keep you going between lunch at 1 and dinner at 9. Ryaunte and I got some as we were walking home from WARC the other day.

Dad, they have pomelo flavored Fanta here. I haven’t sampled one yet, but maybe I’ll bring one back for you.

In case anyone was hoping for an update on Les Deux Visages d’Ana, here you go: Vicente has discovered that his older brother, Ignatio, who their father is grooming to take over the family company, has been cooking the books. Vicente decided that he had to tell someone about this, but that it would be a good idea to go out on the family yacht so that he could be by himself to think about this. Ignatio realized that Vicente had discovered his duplicity, so he hopped on the other family yacht in order to go after him and keep him from spilling the beans. Ignatio boarded ship and had a heated argument with Vicente. When it became clear that Vicente was not going to keep his mouth shut, Ignatio punched him out and then dumped his unconscious body overboard. He then sped back to shore, where the family soon realized that Vicente was missing. The search and rescue was not going well, but the last nail in Vicente’s coffin was the suicide note that Ignatio planted on his laptop. Everyone now thinks that Vicente killed himself, and Ignatio’s plot seems to be undetected. What will happen next??

One of the girls here, Marecca, has gotten malaria already. She caught it early and only had to take medicine for a few days, so she’s doing fine now, but still. That sucks. It’s really only topped by her roommate, Hanna, who managed to get shingles about a week in.

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Elyse in Haifa: Nazareth and Tzipori

Today I witnessed something which I have never before, and may never again see in my life.
As one of the many trips offered by the International School at Haifa University, I went to visit the biblically historical towns of Nazareth and Tzipori today. These towns are located less than an hour from Haifa, and contain some of the oldest religious sites in the country. We started the morning with a very early wake-up, and a tour of the archeological digs that are taking place throughout Tzipori. We saw original tiling and mosiacs from the Roman temples, and learned about their agriculture and lifestyle. We then left for Nazareth, the city which is rumored to be the home of Mary, the virgin mother of Jesus.
Our first stop in Nazareth was at what seemed to be the center of town, which is approximately 85% Muslim and 25% Christian. We were allowed to walk around and find lunch, which is right around the time when I witnessed my first viewing of the Muslim call to prayer.
I had learned about this ceremony, which occurs 5 times each day, at the Kababir Mosque in Haifa, which we visited earlier this week. However, it was thrilling to see it in action. A voice was broadcasted throughout the city, and we could see men of all ages walking to the center of town, where a Mosque stood. After a while of speaking and rallying together, the men proceeded to remove their shoes and take out their mats to begin their prayers – in the center of the town! It was so amazing to watch these 60 or so men kneel down and kiss the ground as they began to publically pray, and it reminded me of how sacred the land is to so many different people, and how much I can witness by simply standing in the center of town in the middle of the afternoon.
It is now a little after 4 and I am in the middle of my first load of laundry done at school, which will hopefully be a successful one. I’m not sure what the plans are for Shabbat yet, but my friends and I found an amazing breakfast place last weekend which we are hoping to visit again, but the rest is up in the air…

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Postcards from Dakar: Excursion to Thiès

My mother is warming up to me a little more, or at least, I’ve spent a little more time with her. The family saw fit to include me in some drama two weekends ago now, which I guess is a good sign? They asked me on Friday if I wanted to come with them to Thiès, which I knew was a town somewhere outside the city. I didn’t know why we were going, exactly, but I was excited that my mother wanted to include me in something she was doing, so I said yes. I figured we were going to a market or visiting someone or something. My Lonely Planet says there’s not much in Thiès aside from a really cool tapestry factory, and I thought that maybe I could take a look in there while everyone else was haggling over rice or whatever. I was a little less excited when they said we were leaving at 7 a.m., but I was still ready to go. The party was going to include me, Kiki, my mother, her friend Helene, and her brother (so, my uncle), whose name I’m not really sure of. Every time I hear anyone say it, I think they’re saying Desiree, which can’t be right. It’s a bit of a Rural Juror situation.

We left the next morning (at like 9, not 7, thanks for making me wake up at 6 for no reason, guys) in the family car. It took us about two hours to get to Thiès, first because it is a little ways away, and second because of the traffic jams. It was a nice-ish ride though. The landscape isn’t much to look at because there hasn’t been any rain here for months (it’s the dry season), so all the grass is brown and dry and none of the baobab trees have leaves. Senegal has adopted the baobab as a symbol because they’re so long lived and useful, but I have to say, they’re totally ugly. They’re kind of cool to see on the sides of the highway, because you know that the only water nearby is stored in those trees, but man, they are weird-looking. But aside from the baobabs, I got to see a tiny bit of Rufisque, which is an old colonial city. There’s not much there any more, but even just driving through, you could see how it could have been bustling and pretty once.

There’s also a really great cement factory, if you’re into that kind of thing.

We finally got to Thiès and pulled up to a very nicely kept complex that felt like a monastery. Turns out, it was a school that Kiki had been going to for a while but apparently failed out of. We were going there to pick up his stuff. I stood around while my mother and my uncle talked to the priests for a while, and then we got back in to the car, at which time the two of them, the uncle in particular, started berating Kiki for doing badly in school, squandering his opportunities, and letting the family down. This continued until we got to another school, where Kiki and my mother went to talk to someone, and my uncle spent a lot of time explaining to me why Kiki was such a disappointment. It was brutally awkward for me, but they invited me to come with them and they at least knew why we were going, so I guess it was alright with them that I was there.

The ride back was just as long, if not longer, because the traffic jams were worse. Vendors take advantage of the stopped cars and the fact that everyone has to have their windows open (because no one has working AC in their car) to try and sell things to people. I guess it works; my uncle bought an air freshener.

When we got back into Dakar, my uncle pulled the car over to a restaurant and insisted on buying me a Coke and a hamburger while everyone else sat in the car. That was also awkward, but they didn’t seem to mind. And omg, it was delicious. The Senegalese put a fried egg and French fries on their hamburgers, which made this the densest burger I’ve ever eaten, but the sheer fact of beef, ketchup, and non-baguette bread in my mouth was glorious.

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Postcards from Dakar: Love and Marriage…

I had my first marriage proposal last weekend. Fatima and Moussouba took me downtown with them so that Fatima could buy new pants and shoes. “Downtown,” the streets are lined with tiny shops selling fabric, clothes, shoes, house wares, and electronics, and the sidewalks are crowded with people selling the same things off of racks, carts, tables, or blankets on the ground. There are also guys who walk around with their arms and necks draped with belts and jewelry, who try to get you to buy things using the direct approach of shoving things in your face. It’s very noisy and very crowded.

Anyway, Fatima found a guy with a rack of decent looking jeans, and about three nanoseconds after we paused to take a closer look, the guy and his friends produced stools for us to sit on so that we could gaze at his wares in comfort. While he gave Fatima a detailed tour of his selection, the guy in charge of the next rack over started talking to me.

We went through the usual introductory questions (what’s your name, where do you live, where are you from, did you vote for Obama, how long have you been here, how long are you staying, do you like ceebujen) and then started talking about my love life. Once you say that you’re not married, it’s all over. Telling the guys here that you already have a boyfriend is completely useless. They either say that they would only date girls who already have boyfriends, because that means that they’re nice, likable girls, or that having a boyfriend far away doesn’t matter or doesn’t count.

I tried to say that I have a lot of things to do before I get married, like finish university and work for a while, but this guy said that I could still do those things if I was married. I tried to say that he would have to talk to my father about this, and he promptly asked for Dad’s phone number. I tried to say that I didn’t want to get married at all, and he pretty much told me not to be ridiculous, of course I wanted to get married, all girls do. Then he started pestering me for my phone number, which is where it starts to get less fun and flattering and more annoying.

Thankfully, I was saved from having to make up six excuses for why he couldn’t have my phone number because Fatima had concluded her business and we were ready to go. Ciao, pants guy, it’s been fun. I hope you complete your quest for a green card one day.

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Sara Mitra’s Bon Voyage: Passer Un Bon Weekend

Paris is a city for art lovers. I feel lucky to say that visiting world famous museums is my new pastime.

Over the weekend, I visited the Centre Pompidou an architectural anomaly known for its high-tech design of plastic tubes and colorful piping on the outside of the building. The Pompidou houses contemporary art galleries, theatre, cinema, and vast views of Paris—from the top floor I could see every important Parisian monument including Sacré Coeur, Notre-Dame, l’Hotel de Ville, and of course La Tour Eiffel. Each of these sparkled as I looked at my panoramic view of the city of lights.

The exhibits I saw were both intriguing and odd. The modern art movement was seen at its best with blank canvases and plastic blow up chairs. I appreciated the pieces that were intricately made designs from unlikely materials like bottle caps and coins. However, I was not amused by the video art that depicted an anonymous Muslim man’s chanting prayers. I do not understand how this could be labeled as someone else’s art? Here was a man just living his life. I wonder if this man knows that his singing is broadcast in Paris every day for thousands of people?

I have a strong interest in Arab and Muslim culture. As an Iranian-American, I am naturally drawn to learn more about my heritage. This led me to the Insitut du Monde Arabe, a museum devoted to the Middle East with various ancient artifacts including metalwork, ceramics, textiles, calligraphy, and carpets. Some of my favorites were the turquoise ceramic bowls from Iran and the carpets—whose woven patterns reminded me of the many carpets that decorate my home in Natick.

On a totally different note, my program took us out to the Cirque d’hiver Bouglione. I have never been to an American circus, but somehow I knew I was witnessing a French version. There were domestic cats jumping from pedestals and roller blading tricks straight from the 90’s. I did get to see tigers jumping through fiery hoops and men with clownish make-up. Overall, it was very entertaining. Je suis passée un bon weekend!

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Postcards from Dakar: Classes

I’m learning Wolof. It’s hard. It makes my head spin. I have class on Thursday afternoons, and I leave feeling exhausted, as if I’ve been running laps for 3 hours instead of just taking notes. It wasn’t like this when I was learning French, though admittedly, I didn’t have marathon 3-hour classes in seventh grade.

The whole program is taking Wolof, but we’ve been split into two different groups. The teacher for my group is named Sidy Gueye, and he is probably the skinniest man I have ever seen. He always wears long, voluminous African robes instead of European clothing, which sort of makes him look like the pole sticking out of the center of a circus tent. He’s very animated and very funny, which is hugely important. It means that even though our class is draining, it’s not boring. He likes to go around the room and have us repeat phrases and words so he can make sure our pronunciation is right. The Wolof word for “yes” is “waaw,” and Sidy says it every time someone says something right. This cracks me up, because “waaw” is pronounced the same as the English “wow,” and that sound combined with his overexcited mannerisms makes it seem like he is bowled over by our brilliance every single time.

I’ve never before had a class that’s been taught in three languages. Sidy’s not very consistent as to which language he translates into from Wolof. He was trying to tell us what the Wolof word “fan” meant, and I spent several minutes trying to figure out if I’d ever heard the French word “wère” before I realized that he was going for the English “where.”

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