a myriad of photos

The University of Cheikh Anta Diop is worthless

Upon attemping to attend 2 weeks worth of classes at UCAD and failing each time because the professors refuse to show up, I have decided that UCAD is completely and utterly worthless. The campus is littered 3 inches deep in litter, because the concept of putting garbage in garbage cans is utterly foreign to the country of Senegal. Professors don't show up to their classes, even when the students do. The library has about 12 books, none of the remotely modern. The dormatories look like hell from the outside - I've as of yet been too afraid to try to enter. The English, Literature, and Religion departments still haven't posted finalized schedules. For these reasons, and the fact that I am very very frustrated, I have decided that UCAD is for losers.

In other news, I have reached the half-way mark of my study abroad experience, and feel I ought comemorate it with a mention. It's strange that I could have lived in this country for 3 months, and still feel so utterly conspicuous all of the time. Being here makes me utterly conscious of both my gender and my race almost all of the time. It is rare that I am able to walk anywhere without being accosted by a male in some form or other, and I attribute that to the prevailing belief that American woman are sexually promiscuous and monetarily gifted. Ultimately, while I do enjoy myself here for the most part, I continue to feel very much a "toubab."

Amelia vs. the Atlantic Ocean

Today I went to the beach with Julie and Kat, because we didnt have class until 5. It was lovely and cool and the waves were enormous and grey. We sat leisurely, relaxing in the African sun (of course my nose burned despite my generous lathering of SPF 50 sunblock). I listened to the new TV on the Radio cd (thank you Ms Evans) and lounged. And suddenly, I was completely awash in a wave that had broken free from the ocean and pounded down onto us - we who sat far up on the beach. Everything with me was soaked except for my cd player, that I held high over my head as I ran further inland. Several kind Senegalese men hurried over and helped us gather our belongings ... my towel that was making its way into the ocean with the awful wave, a flip flop broke free and went too. A not so kind man yelled at us for being stupid. We laughed for a long time until I realized my cell phone had been ruined. That was a little less funny. So now I will carry a life-long vendetta against the cruel and untamable Atlantic Ocean.

return to dakar

We left Yoff last weekend and returned to Dakar; I quickly fell back into my old routine without much thought. A minor change: there's another study-abroad student living in my house, though she leaves next week. Her name is Rachel, she's from Minnesota and she and I are on quietly friendly terms - not the best of friends but certainly not unfriendly by any means.

It's strange to be back at the Baobab Center, taking Wolof classes daily with History of Islam and culture classes thrown in. I once again have a plethora of free time, and spend most of it reading. I finished "Lolita" in a matter of two days, and am now working on "The Color Purple." Apparently I'm intent on becoming excruciatingly depressed via literature.

The weather still hasn't cooled down, although today at least there's a breeze. I suppose I ought to be thankful to be sweating rather than freezing, but being able to make it through a day without sweating through my shirt would be a dream come true.

Last night, at dinner, I was informed by Victoria (the head of the CIE program here in Dakar) that the reason I've been craving sweet food is because I'm protein deprived. I've also realized I'm dehydrated, but I'm at the point where I'm not even thirsty anymore. I may have to start paying closer attention to my liquid and food intake.

My French continues to improve, though my Wolof is god-awful. Our Wolof teacher's name is "Zator," and he's absolutely charming and hilarious. The only teeth in his mouth are one the bottom, and so he is an exaggerated speaker. He constantly says, "Class, class, ca va class? Ca va?" Once I counted, and he said "Class" over 45 times in half an hour - that's impressive. Unfortunately I don't learn much in his class because he is repetative. Today I colored in the figures to my Wolof book and drew some lovely designs around a pronoun chart.

In other news: the oranges are in season and delicious.

korite (le deuxieme)

The evening of Korite was wild. Julie's 18 year old host sister, Montou, invited us to a Korite party, and we eagerly accepted since we had nothing else to do. It didn't begin until midnight, though, so we wasted the remaining time getting dolled up in our traditional Senegalese digs, right down to the head wraps and then going to Baobab 3000 for liquid refreshments. In a happy coincidence, we ran into Alisa on our walk and recruited her for the evening party as well.

At 12:30 or so, we showed up at the specified street. It was freaking amazing. There was an enormous circle of people, with a large space in the center. At one end of the circle was a group of 10 or 15 drummers frantically playing their drums. One of them was a complete badass and had a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth while his hands moved like something out of "The Matrix."

As if the drumming itself weren't impressive enough, there was dancing as well. Oh man, was there dancing. Women would jump out from the crowd and run up the circle until they were practically in with the drummers and then they'd go crazy. They kicked up to their chins, swung their arms like windmills, jumped and stomped - all the while holding their tops up and their hair somehow unmussed. It was insane. We were some of the only toubabs there, and I had the irrational fear that some mean kid would shove me into the circle, where I would lift my foot to kick and then die of embarrassment. Luckily, nothing of the sort happened and we watched the drumming and dancing for at least an hour.

But apparently the kick-ass dance fest. in the street wasn't the party, and bossy Montou decided she wanted to go into the party itself. We followed, figuring she hadn't led us astray yet. So we paid the 1000 CFA and walked into what should have been the party. It wasn't. There was a grand dance floor and the music was thumping, and there wasn't a soul dancing. Everyone was lined up in chairs along the walls. We grabbed chairs for ourselves, and then just sat for at least 45 minutes, waiting for the place to fill up. It slowly did, and people reluctantly began to dance, but neither Julie, Alisa or I had the guts to try to replicate the intricate foot work and arm movements the women were doing. Instead, we continued to sit and just watch. That was perfectly acceptable to me, except that I began to get really, really tired. Without much convincing, the others agreed to go.

Before going home, though, we stopped at a patisserie and each of us got a donut. They were way too sweet and heavy, especially at 4 am, but we ate them anyway and laughed about feeling sick. By the time I got home I was positive I would simply collapse outside of my doorway, but luckily I made it into my room before passing out.

The final verdict? Korite is awesome as long as you find a street dance party to attend.

Korite

The final day of Ramadan was on Sunday, and Monday was Korite. Everyone I asked about it spoke as if it were an enormous all day party filled with socializing, food and dancing. In effect, the best Muslim party ever.

I woke up, showered, and was handed a white boubou (traditional Senegalese dress) by my host mother as soon as I emerged from the bathroom. I donned the skirt, the top and did my best to cover my hair with the white strip of cloth meant to be a veil, though it was made of cotton and so wasn't very pliable. Marie (my host sister), Emily (the other American student I've been living with in Yoff) and I then set out for the mosque. I'm pretty positive that every single person living in Yoff was walking in the street with us, and nearly everyone was dressed in white. Those who weren't wearing white were at least dressed up in light blue tunics or something of the sort.

We made our way against the tide of people going to the University of Ramadan, and ended up at the mosque on the beach. Outside of the entrance, where we kicked off our sandals, were stationed several crippled men and children begging for money. I had nothing to give, though, and walked by muttering "babanen" apologetically (babanen = next time, in Wolof). We stepped onto the sand in the mosque's lot and I was utterly overwhelmed. Lines of men and women, all facing Mecca, were formed, and again, nearly everyone was wearing white except for a few rebels. We took our places in a line of women and sat down in the sand. And waited. And waited. And then waited some more. My head veil refused to remain on my head and slipped down my neck infuriatingly often. Sweat trickled down my back, legs and chest. The sun was blinding, especially coupled with the mass of white cloth and the sand. I was miserable and simultaneously in awe of the beauty of the scene.

Some signal was given and the entire congregation of people stood at once. Emily and I quickly followed in suit, and then mimicked all of the prayer motions of the hundreds of people. As I knelt with my forhead against the sand, I half wished I belonged to a religion that could move so many people. The other half of me was still too hot to care. The prayer took no more than 5 minutes, and soon we were back on the street.

The rest of the day I spent alone. There was no party and no socializing. I listened to music, and played exactly one trillion games of solitaire before I decided I was going to have to kill myself from boredom. Luckily Julie came along and saved me and we retreated to her house ...

I'll write about our evening excitement later.

lamba

I (along with 4 other American students and 1 ex-pat) decided to take African dance lessons at the Cultural Center of Yoff. So, 2 days ago, Friday, we had our first lesson and learned how to dance la lamba. Our teacher is a tall man with a fluid, balletic (is that even a word?) body, awful teeth, and a wardrobe of traditional African clothes plus t-shirts that say things like "I love NY" (he's a bit of an enigma). The dance itself is counted out in beats of 4, and our teacher sang the drum instead of playing it - he makes a very convincing drum beat. The dance is simple and has four variations, each variant marked by the change of the drum beat. There's a lot of arm swinging, flat-footed stomping, clapping and head tossing and it's all very satisfying after sitting in lecture all day. After our lesson, we formed a circle, held hands and hummed traditional chants with our teacher. Even though I felt a little self-conscious and ridiculous at first, I'm definately glad I decided to go. I have since decided that being self-conscious here really isn't worth the effort since I'm a spectacle no matter what, so from now on I'm going to dance la lamba and sing all I want.