Tag Archives: Senegal

Crossing: Finding Home

Boy riding train across the Öresund Bridge, Øresundsbroen, Denmark (Nicolas Azel)

There I stood at the crossroads of dust and dustier. I stared at the sign once more, “Garage.” Here we would find a car to take us into town, where we could find a bus back to Saint-Louis. I stood helplessly next to my Mauritanian companion Beccro, giving him desperate looks as a stampede of cows came towards us. By now, the idea of a stampede ending this nightmare of a journey seemed strangely appealing. I looked up at the sky for answers but the sun was only a reminder of my current state of frustration as it blistered my face like a cast iron grill. I went and sat under the only tree nearby, but the shade did little to calm my anger.

I had been living in Senegal for a few months when Beccro invited me to his home in Mauritania. The trip had proven to be full of culture clash and confusion. I had made my best efforts to integrate, but being 20 years old with no marriage prospects, I remained a puzzlement. Yesterday he had pulled me aside to explain that his mother was sick and that he had to return with her to Senegal for treatment. Our plans to travel on to Mali were put on hold.

Our travels began early in the morning. I was under the impression it was a simple car ride across the border, but I soon learned that this would not be the case. After hours of stumbling around in the market wasting time, I was quickly herded onto the back of a truck filled with bags of grain and water. Beccro was sitting across from me but had disappeared once again, this time into the market to find his mother. So there I sat, alone on the back of a stranger’s truck, all the while horrified it would pull away with only me on the back…and it almost did. Luckily, mother was found and we continued on our way.

After the deliveries were made, we were left at the side of a river. I was not told where we were, only to get into the pirogue to cross the river. We arrived at a village, where the cattle easily outnumbered the people, and were told our best prospect was a bus that passed by the edge of town. There I sat, confused, scared and angry. Beccro and his mother discussed plans in their native Pulaar while I sat reminiscing about my own home, in my own language.

I ached to be home, to be in Saint-Louis, Senegal, wandering through the back-alley markets looking for vegetables to make dinner, or perhaps a few yards of fabric, all the while the festive Toubab resonating in my ears. I thought about the girls I taught who giggled at the way I spoke, the street marriage proposals, Wolof language class, bottled water showers, all those mundane activities that had stolen into my life. Saint-Louis was the place I had taken to calling home. Everything that had initially irritated me had become the pieces that defined a typical day. Through my sweat, sunburn and sheer exhaustion, I smiled and told myself if I had made it this far, I could make it home.

The sun had started to set when the bus came by taking us to the next town. Here we took a horse cart to a bus going in  our direction. I happily boarded and took a seat. As the bus pulled away, I realized Beccro had stayed behind to help his mother. This little tidbit had gotten lost in our broken communication. I was alone for the last leg of the journey.

Just before midnight I arrived in a town, but it was not Saint-Louis. As I was getting off the bus I felt a rip in the side of my dress. My zipper had broken. A man helped me find another bus going toward Saint-Louis, and, after informing him I was married, he left me to fend for myself.

Alone.

I sat and waited as I choked back tears of helplessness. I saw a girl sitting across from me and I asked, in the best French I could muster, where we were and where the bus was going. I explained I was alone, and she looked me straight in the eye and said, “In Senegal, no one is alone.” She gave me a safety pin for my dress. My dignity restored, she took my hand and guided me to a different bus. This simple act of kindness touched my heart. This girl restored my faith; she is my symbol of goodness. Her kindness is unmatched by anything I have ever experienced.

Finally, around 2:30 in the morning, I arrived back at the university. There I stood, at the door of happiness, at my home—home in Saint-Louis, Senegal.

—Laura Martin

From Aleph 8

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Lesson: Jaay ma Suukër ak Warga*

*(Sell me sugar and tea, please.)

Deirdre Wholly (far left) and Christa Levesque (far right) pose with their Senegalese roommates, Bineta Ndione and Mariama Bodian, during a spring break visit to Dakar, Senegal.

I anxiously walk to Pathé’s room, prepared with warga (tea leaves) and suukër (sugar) in hand. He greets me with the common salutation “Yaa ngi si jàmm?” Do you have peace? I reply, “Jàmm rek, alhomdulilah!” Peace only, thank God! Two months ago these words had no meaning for me, but now they envelop me in peace and happiness. I feel at home.

It is my first time making attaya all by myself. Making tea is about being social. My friends and I talk as I try to concentrate on the art of attaya.

Pour water into the kettle and plug in the hot plate. Wait for water to boil. Add half a packet of warga and wait for the water to boil again. 

“A woman sat on me today!” My friends in the room look at me strangely and I explain my funny story. I was in a car rapide, a common mode of transportation that can sometimes transport thirty people at a time. I was sitting on a bench that usually fits six people, but has a maximum capacity of five when the people are a bit larger. We squished as much as possible and only got about a 6-inch space in between me and a woman sitting next to me. A woman about twice my size got onto the car rapide and thought that she could fit herself in this little spot. I looked up at her, she looked down at me and proceeded to sit right on my lap!! I burst out laughing and then said “Bonjour!” and the whole car rapide burst out in laughter. We had a little conversation in Wolof, eventually a spot opened up so the woman could have her own seat, and then I got off and we went our merry ways.

Add in sugar. About 18 cubes. Pour tea into glasses and pour back into kettlemixing all the ingredients. Let boil.

As the laughter dies down from my story, the subject changes to cultural differences between the United States and Senegal. Here in Senegal, the emphasis is placed on the social. Pathé explains that if a friend comes to visit you, you talk with him or her even if you have a lot of homework. You would never turn someone away because you are in the middle of an assignment. This person chose to spend time with you; how could you turn him or her away? My thoughts turn to HWS and how I am always busy, how I could never take three hours out of my afternoon to make tea. I sigh and wish our two cultures were not so different.

After tea has boiled for fifteen to twenty minutes, pour one glass almost to the top. Attaya can continue to boil as the glass of tea cools. When cool enough, start making mousse by forcibly pouring tea from one glass to another. It takes a lot of practice to make good mousse.

As I sit making the mousse, my friend Demba asks me why I am not married. I wonder why the conversation always turns to marriage. It just seems to be one of those “hot topics” here at Université Gaston Berger. I ask my own questions. What is your opinion on polygamy? After all, polygamy is perfectly legal in Senegal. “I am not opposed to it, but I could never do it,” Demba replies. If you did have more than one wife, would you have them stay in one house or would they have separate houses? “Same house,” he answers quickly. “So the children could all play with each other.” Clearly he has thought about his options. Do you think it is unfair that women can only have one husband but men can have four wives? “No. If a woman had more than one husband, how would you know the father of the child?” Huh. That’s the first time someone has given me a sensible answer to that question.

When the mousse is finished, serve the attaya. Share with friends and neighbors.

They ask me about my teaching in town. I tell them about how I am teaching at an all-girls high school, Ameth Fall. I do not really enjoy teaching English; I have found that I do not have much passion for the language. However, my girls are hilarious. One conversation I had with a class was particularly funny—it was on the topic of marriage. We were talking about traditional marriage ceremonies in Senegal—I learned a lot and they practiced speaking in English. Then we talked about the roles of husbands and wives. The girls thought that roles for a wife included cooking, cleaning, and taking care of children. Roles for a husband included working, sleeping, eating too much, watching tv, and doing nothing! I like teaching in an all-girls school!

Start the second glass—add the rest of the warga and twelve cubes of suukër. Bring to a boil. 

As I start my second cup, I develop this aching feeling that I may never see these friends again. It scares me and I start to tear up. It’s different than with my college friends, who are only a few hours drive away… The Atlantic Ocean divides me and Senegal. Pathé notices my change in mood and starts explaining how Senegalese people do not usually leave their homeland. Families live in the same villages, in the same houses, for years and years. I think about my first days in Senegal with Professor Joseph. We were walking through the busy streets of Dakar, near where he used to live, when he saw the same man who used to clean his car. The man was in the same neighborhood decades later and recognized my professor! I did not appreciate what this meant at the time, but this exchange gives me hope. People never leave Senegal. All I have to do is physically come back and keep the phone numbers of my friends and I will see them again. Insh’Allah, God willing.

Make mousse again. Serve attaya and share with friends and neighbors. 

I talk about the things I will miss about Senegal. The warmth of the people. Taranga—the hospitality the Senegalese show. The cows, donkeys, goats and horses roaming around campus. The call to prayer five times each day. The music. The endless expanse of stars in the night sky. Philosophical discussions with my best friends as we share tea.

I start cleaning up, dumping the used warga in the trash and rinsing the glasses.

I miss the warm smiles that wished me goodbye. I will think of them every time I make attaya in the future. Ba baneen yoon, Insh’Allah. 

—Christa Levesque

From Aleph 9

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Moments: Jaay ma Suukër ak Warga

MOMENT n. a very brief period of exact point in time; a particular stage in something’s development

In The Aleph’s vernacular, Moments are stories that focus on a discrete episode of study abroad or cultural immersion. While these stories don’t aim to communicate the whole experience (that’s not possible even in much longer pieces) they do suggest the essence of experience.

Pirogues belonging to the fishermen of Saint-Louis, Senegal line the shores of the Langue de Barbarie (Christa Levesque)

I anxiously walk into Pathé’s room, prepared with warga (tea leaves) and suukër (sugar) in hand. He greets me with the common salutation “Yaa ngi si jàmm?” Do you have peace? I reply, “Jàmm rek, alhomdulilah!” Peace only, thank God! Two months ago these words had no meaning for me, but now they envelop me in peace and happiness. I feel at home.

It is my first time making attaya all by myself. Making tea is about being social. My friends and I talk as I try to concentrate on the art of attaya.

Pour water into the kettle and plug in the hot plate. Wait for water to boil. Add half a packet of warga and wait for the water to boil again.

“A woman sat on me today!” My friends in the room look at me strangely and I willingly explain my funny story.  I was in a car rapide, a common mode of transportation that can sometimes transport thirty people at one time. I was sitting on a bench that usually fits six people, but has a maximum capacity of five when the people are a bit larger. We squished as much as possible and only got about a 6-inch space in between me and a woman sitting next to me. A woman about twice my size got onto the car rapide and thought that she could fit herself in this little spot. I looked up at her, she looked down at me and proceeded to sit right on my lap!! I burst out laughing and then said “Bonjour!” and the whole car rapide burst out in laughter. We had a little conversation in Wolof, eventually a spot opened up so the woman could have her own seat, and then I got off and we went our merry ways.

Add in sugar. About 18 cubes. Pour tea into glasses and pour back into kettlemixing all the ingredients. Let boil.

As the laughter dies down from my story of the woman sitting on me, the subject changes to cultural differences between the United States and Senegal. Here in Senegal, the emphasis is placed on the social. Pathé explains that if a friend comes to visit you, you talk with him or her even if you have a lot of homework. You would never turn someone away because you are in the middle of an assignment. This person chose to spend time with you; how could you turn him or her away? My thoughts turn to HWS and how I am always busy, how I could never take three hours out of my afternoon to make tea. I sigh and wish our two cultures were not so different.

After tea has boiled for fifteen to twenty minutes, pour one glass almost to the top. Attaya can continue to boil as the glass of tea cools. When cool enough, start making mousse by forcibly pouring tea from one glass to another. It takes a lot of practice to make good mousse.

As I sit making the mousse, my friend Demba asks me why I am not married. I wonder why the conversation always turns to marriage. It just seems to be one of those “hot topics” here at Université Gaston Berger. I ask my own questions. What is your opinion on polygamy? After all, polygamy is perfectly legal in Senegal. “I am not opposed to it, but I could never do it,” Demba replies. If you did have more than one wife, would you have them stay in one house or would they have separate houses? “Same house,” he answers quickly. “So the children could all play with each other.” Clearly he has thought about his options. Do you think it is unfair that women can only have one husband but men can have four wives? “No. If a woman had more than one husband, how would you know the father of the child?” Huh. That’s the first time someone has given me a sensible answer to that question.

When the mousse is finished, serve the attaya. Share with friends and neighbors.

They ask me about my teaching in town. I tell them about how I am teaching at an all-girls high school, Ameth Fall. I do not really enjoy teaching English; I have found that I do not have much passion for the language. However, my girls are hilarious. One conversation I had with a class was particularly funny—it was on the topic of marriage. We were talking about traditional marriage ceremonies in Senegal—I learned a lot and they practiced speaking in English. Then we talked about the roles of husbands and wives. The girls thought that roles for a wife included cooking, cleaning, and taking care of children. Roles for a husband included working, sleeping, eating too much, watching tv, and doing nothing! I like teaching in an all-girls school!

Deirdre Wholly (far left) and Christa Levesque (far right) pose with their Senegalese roommates, Bineta Ndione and Mariama Bodian, during a spring break visit to Dakar, Senegal.

Start the second glass—add the rest of the warga and twelve cubes of suukër. Bring to a boil.

As I start my second cup, I develop this aching feeling that I might never see these friends again. It scares me and I start to tear up. It’s not like my friends at HWS where I only have to drive six hours to see them… The Atlantic Ocean divides me and Senegal. Pathé notices my change in mood and starts explaining how Senegalese people do not usually leave their homeland. Families live in the same villages, in the same houses, for years and years. I think about my first days in Senegal with Professor Joseph. We were walking through the busy streets of Dakar, near where he used to live, when he saw the same man who used to clean his car each week. The man was in the same neighborhood decades later and recognized my professor! I did not appreciate what this meant at the time, but this exchange gives me hope. People never leave Senegal. All I have to do is physically come back and keep the phone numbers of my friends and I will see them again. Insh’Allah, God willing.

Make mousse again. Serve attaya and share with friends and neighbors.

I talk about the things I will miss about Senegal. The warmth of the people. Taranga—the hospitality the Senegalese show.  The cows, donkeys, goats and horses roaming around campus. The call to prayer five times each day. Senegalese music. The endless expanse of stars in the night sky. Philosophical discussions with my best friends as we share tea.

I start cleaning up my materials, dumping the used warga in the trash and rinsing the glasses.

I miss the warm smiles that wished me goodbye. I will think of them every time I make attaya in the future. Ba baneen yoon, Insh’Allah.

—Christa Levesque

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Filed under Aleph9, ChristaLevesque, Moments, Senegal