Home

So I'm back in Seattle, after about 30 hours of traveling and a few days after. I'm still getting used to US time, but I have to admit - I'm really glad to be back here. I thought reverse culture shock would be more of a problem, although I definitely am experiencing it to a certain degree - like, for example, I'm totally frustrated with the American standard of beauty versus beauty in Senegal, which is more about self-expression than holding yourself to an anorexic, unrealistic, and unhealthy ideal. It's really just being able to look at the US with something concrete to compare it to, and I think if anything, it's a good thing. My conception of feminism has changed a lot too, because I've realized that you can't impose western ideas of feminism on Senegal or any other country, really. But I've also noticed that in the US, women are more likely to say that they aren't feminists and to sincerely believe that we've made "enough" strides for equality that we don't need to make anymore. And I'm totally frustrated that some people say things like, "Oh, maybe we just aren't ready for a woman/black/not white Protestant male president."

Newsflash. Benazir Bhutto, Pakistan, anyone?

Seriously. Pakistan beat us to it. Bangladesh. Finland.

I guess that living in another country has made me realize that the US way isn't always the best way, when it comes to women's rights or anything else.

I still love it here, and I still love Christmas, and I still love my family. And I definitely like smooth roads and seatbelts and vegetables and stuff.

But seriously America, we are at such a position to do good in the world. We should fight global warming and genocide because we CAN. We have the resources to do it.

And as for a woman president, if Pakistan can do it, then we can too.

Nothing like traveling abroad to make you develop a love-hate relationship with your own country. I do love America, I just think that we could be doing a lot better. Because going abroad has made me realize that changing the world is SO possible, which makes me feel so optimistic and frustrated at the same time.

It's a journey.

I'll add the rest of my photos in the coming days.

There's no place like home.

Coming Home

Tonight I'm leaving Dakar and heading home after 3 and a half months abroad. I'm really excited to go home and see my family and friends, but I know there are things I'm going to miss about Senegal, like getting an espresso for 40 cents on the street and being able to bargain for the price I want when I go to the markets, which I did, yesterday, in a mad attempt to get all of my post-departure shopping (aka Christmas presents) done. I went to Sandaga, one of the biggest, busiest markets downtown, where I bought the last presents I needed to buy and a ridiculous pair of sparkly green flats that are Chinese, terrible quality, and cost me 4 dollars, but are really pretty...

I also ate dinner at my old boarding house with my old housemates. It was nice to see everyone again, especially the old woman who runs the house, because she's a wonderful person and it was her birthday the day before. The other boarders - a crazy musician, a Canadian student who's doing a journalism internship here, and another guy who I think is visiting from somewhere else in Senegal saw us to the door, and we all shook hands with our left hands (which you're not supposed to do normally, because of what left hands are intended for in many countries), which is what you do when you'll hope you'll see the other person again.

This morning I went to see my host family and was able to catch a few of them at home, my host mom was getting ready to go to a baptism and two of my host brothers were home, as well as their maid, who is really funny and who I really like even though I can't really talk to her because she only speaks Wolof.

We went to the 500 CFA ceebu jen place again for lunch and said good-bye to the woman who runs it, and then had ice cream at a place nearby.

Tomorrow night I'll be back in Seattle, which is exciting and wonderful, but I will miss Senegal. I told my host mom I would come back to visit, inch'allah.

Oops

To get anywhere in Dakar, you have to take a taxi, a car rapide (truck turned minibus decorated with religious symbols and lots of color), an Ndiaga Ndiaye (ancient white Mercedes minibuses that are like car rapides but less interesting), or the bright blue Dakar Demm Dikk city buses. And with the exception of the city buses, each one of these vehicles is driven crazily through the streets of the city as the driver takes weird shortcuts onto sandy side streets or through parking lots, narrowly misses hitting other cars, stops just short of running over a pedestrian (or two, or three, or a whole crowd including babies and goats), and sometimes they drive on the sidewalk, if there is one.

But it was not until tonight that I have ever been in a vehicle where the crazy driving wasn’t controlled. Around 9, after seeing some friends’ art on display at the National Arts Village, a friend and I hailed a cab to head back to the boarding house for dinner (because we didn’t want Baye to be sad if we missed it) and after nearly having our feet run over by the driver, who was so appalled at the 2000 CFA we offered him that he screeched off without saying a word, we crossed two busy lanes of traffic in the dark and hailed a second taxi, the driver of which also overcharged us, but we were in a hurry to get home so we hopped in. Not two minutes later, our driver almost killed a policeman who was directing traffic, and, knowing full well that he was going to be arrested for it, fled the scene, lurching onto a side street (one of the sandy ones) in full police-chase mode, and I realized that we were in a dangerous situation. The car was literally out of control, but lucky for me, the streets in Dakar aren’t always well-maintained, especially the little roads that aren’t frequented by cars, so there was a foot-high rock in the middle of the road that our ever-so-courteous driver smacked right into, flinging us up in our seats but fortunately bringing the taxi to stop, albeit a loud, smoky, crunchy one. As soon as this happened, we got out, and my friend noticed the cab driver duck out and start sprinting away from the car (again with the not wanting to be arrested). We were instantly surrounded by a group of people, asking us what happened—to which I could only say, “He almost broke someone”—while a Senegalese woman patted my back and asked us if we were okay, where we lived, and told us to take a new taxi home.

The car, the front part crushed onto the rock and leaking oil, was surrounded by people, onlookers and a policeman, to which we asked if we had to give a statement or something, but he only looked at us concernedly—“You were in the car?!”—asked us if we were all right, said we could go home, and even helped us get another taxi back to our house.
Oh yeah, and the driver left all of his money in the car when he ran off.

So, in sum:

1. I was in a taxi in which I witnessed a crime and evasion of arrest.
2. Aside from bumping my elbow, I’m okay, and so is the friend I was with.
3. Thank god for that rock in the road, or who knows what this man would have done?
4. Yet another reminder that Senegalese people are nice, especially to toubabs who have just gotten into a car accident and as a result can’t find their French.
5. The driver probably didn’t have the proper documentation to drive a taxi, which would have made his arrest even worse, and which probably caused him to leave his earnings when he fled.
5. Next time I’m in a taxi/car rapide/Ndiaga Ndiaye driven by a crazy driver of the ordinary Senegalese variety, I’ll heave a sigh of relief.

I came to Senegal for an adventure, and I’d say that qualifies. I’m glad to be alive and writing about this in the past tense.