Kari maintains the great blog Senegal Daily and maintains Dakar Eats, a wonderful resource for expats living in Senegal. She helped with this article in the magazine for Ethiopia Air. Check it out!
I loved seeing this gentleman at work this past spring at ISD during World Cultural Month and had the opportunity to chat with him, courtesy of a translator. He’s been weaving for 60 years. He is 75 years old. If you look closely at the pictures, you might be able to see that the loom is made from very old materials. I’m amazed it works as well as it does. I would definitely describe it as precariously put together. He needs to use his feet as well as his hands to make the whole thing work. The waft strings extend many feet away from the loom and were held by a large rock and log in place. His shirt was threadbare, strangely ironic. 
He made placemats and table runners. The first picture is of his finished work.
walking my dog on sidewalks
smelling lilac in the air
wearing jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt and NOT SWEATING!!
driving without people passing me on the inside and outside of a two lane road
not having cars randomly park or stop in the middle of the road
very little honking
cheddar cheese!
Yuenling beer
time with family and friends
being surrounded by a language I understand
No one telling me they don’t have the right change–(How is that possible? You are a ‘fill-in-the-blank’ store
Not having to light my stove with a match-still scares me every time
My son loving the basketball hoop in our driveway and ESPN sports
Netflix
Other random things I’ve noticed:
Pollen is making me sneeze for the first time in my life. Must be 9 months with almost no pollen, makes your sinuses adjust
People are TIED to their cell phones in a way that I did not miss at all in Senegal
People text and drive here very frequently? Seriously? What’s the hurry
It’s lovely to be able to look something up on the internet and then make a phone call to that business and ask a question and understand the answer
Store clerks are impatient with my use of cash
I have not missed:
Smelly skunks!
Road kill! deer, raccoon, skunk, rabbit, ugh
Kruger Park, South Africa, Oct. 2012
I was fortunate enough to get to attend the AISA (Association of International Schools in Africa) conference in Johannesburg, South Africa this past October. It was a wonderful professional experience and a welcome respite from Dakar’s heat.
One of the speakers was the author Beverly Naidoo, whose book Journey to Jo’Burg I began using my first year of teaching and used for many years in my classroom. She spoke of growing up white in South Africa during the time of apartheid, her exile from the country and her writing process. I felt so privileged to meet her. Journey to Jo’Burg is the story of two children, trying to make their way from their small village where there was no doctor for their sick sister, to their mother 300 km away in Jo’Burg where she worked as a housekeeper. It was a powerful story when I first read it and now even more so where I see what lengths some families still have to go through to be able to have both the employment and salary necessary to support their families, even at the most basic level.
The conference abutted a long weekend, so I was able to extend my visit to South Africa to include a trip to Kruger Park, about six hours away by car. Some of adventurous colleagues had planned the trip prior to my joining the staff and they were kind enough to allow me to join them. We stayed one night in a camp (like you’d find in a state park in Ohio) inside the park and one night in a lovely guest house right outside the park. While we never saw any wild cats, we saw many other animals. I especially loved the elephants and giraffes, both with babies in tow.
What an amazing experience. I only regretted not having my family with me to get to see the wonders with me.
Kruger Park, South Africa, Oct. 2012
Kruger Park, South Africa, Oct. 2012
Doesn’t even look real
these hills were full of elephants
Guest House outside of Kruger
check out their crazy hair!
rhino ribs, who knew?
First sighting within the park-so beautiful
Yesterday I had the opportunity to go the Vilage des Art de Dakar (Dakar Art Village). Not that far from the area I live in, next to the soccer stadium, there is a small refuge away from the ‘cityness’ of Dakar. Shaded, with different little ‘houses’ with rooms for artists, the village has room for about 90 artists. We saw all different mediums being worked in from works larger than us made from wood and metal to glass painting to photography. Each room was a different artist and their work. Most of the artists lived in the same room as their work space.
The visit was nice timing as this week was Senegalese artist week, part of World Cultural Month. The elementary students had different Senegalese artists come and work with them in the style of the artist’s work. We had glass painting, recycled art, batik, and pottery.
Vilage des Arts de Dakar
outside of gallery
main artist display
main artist display
main artist display
main artist display
shade outdoor work areas
painted glass-hubcap frame
recently art opening in Paris
many artists live in their workspace
papaya plant
I thought I’d write about these bizarre looking plants that showed up in my ‘yard’ earlier this school year and have just kept growing. It was almost if they weren’t there one day and then the next they were knee-high with many stems of large leaves.
Here’s a lovely encyclopedia like illustration from Wikipedia in case you aren’t sure what a papaya is or looks like. I will say it was not part of my daily fruit intake in Ohio, although my mother-in-law l
iked to put them in fruit salad in the summer, which I would then try not to get in my serving.
papaya stem
This plant has just kept growing. I have one out front and four in the back yard. They have the most bizarre looking stem with brown-ish speckles and slash-like brown ‘scars’ along the stem. Each stem has one very large leaf on it. I could try to impress you and pull out all my fourth grade plant knowledge and classify the leaf, the plant, etc. but even I, who is looking at the plant as I write, is not interested in that.
While I was opening the windows this morning I noticed that one of the p
apayas out back has a flower on the stem and the beginning of a round-fruit. That specific one has gotten so tall it extends past the top of the window. I’m not sure my little backyard can support having four large papaya plants, but I can see how it will provide some
nice shade.
Peering out my other windows, I notice that one of the
plants has tens of little flowers on the stem. I wonder how long it takes for a papaya fruit to grow and if there is any special care the plant needs. It’s been left to its own devices with some watering every now and then from my day guard and seems to be growing like gangbusters.
I will admit I was a little disappointed it was a papaya ‘tree’ growing in my yard when I first found out what it was. I really had hoped for a lime tree, an orange tree, or banana so I could ENJOY eating fruit from my own tree. Some of my colleagues have those in their yards and I loved the idea of having something I could eat with enjoyment.
Other random things I’ve found out about my papaya plant:
Madrid Plaza Mayor
Madrid, Spain
4 hour 10 minute direct flight
leaves late at night-arrives early in the morning
2 hours time difference
Segovia, Spain by high speed train
27 minutes by train
Subway to train station
apartment rental 5 steps away from Plaza Mayor
Cafe Latte and Toast for us, Hot Chocolate and Churros for the kids
delicious tapas
lovely time as a family
pictures to follow
“Guys, I think I might need to go home. I’m feeling really sick,” I said to the kids Thursday as we walked from the parking lot towards the school entrance. A wave of exhaustion and nausea had washed over me in the few steps I had taken since parking the car.
“I’m going to walk in and let Wendy know I’m going home sick,” I told them. The night before I had fallen asleep right after school, not feeling well. I had not wanted to get up for dinner. I thought our fun, lovely, beach get-away the previous weekend must have wiped me out more than I thought it had. I had woken with a slight headache, but didn’t think anything of it-probably just needed my morning coffee, showered, and got the kids ready for school.
Once inside the school’s gates, I checked in with my office mate. Turns out she also had a fever the night before–we compared notes and decided we both must have caught a virus. I congratulated her on being tougher than me and I drove myself home, crawling into bed as soon as I got there. Five minutes later my alarm went off, letting me know it was time to go pick up the kids from school. Dragged myself to the car, drove to school and back. I went right back to bed. Slept through the evening and night, thinking I’d be fine when I woke Saturday once the virus had run its course.
The alarm went off Saturday morning, letting me know it was time to get Simon ready for his soccer tournament. Showered, got him ready, and headed to the school. “Whew,” I thought, “I’m glad that virus is gone.” I found a bench, made small talk with a colleague, and got comfortable with my Kindle. 15 minutes later-WHAM. I knew right then that if I didn’t go home right that second, I was going to have a problem. I was freezing and had my head hurt so bad it hurt to have my eyes open. I shivered my way to the car and back home. By the time I got myself there and back into bed, I knew I was pretty sick. Feeling like a little kid, I called a friend crying. I asked her to come over and help me call the doctor to come to the house.
One of the many challenges of living abroad is that Senegal is a country whose primary language is French. I have some French, but it mainly deals with getting around and everyday things such as food and transportation. There is a service here my insurance covers called SOS Medicine that will come to your home BUT I have no language for describing my illness to someone on the phone, much less the ability to explain where I live in a country and city where there are no road signs!
My friend is from Canada and speak French, thank God! She and her husband came right over to help me. (Thank you Ingrid and Scott). Having their familiar faces here made me feel a little better and we waited for SOS Medicine to arrive (It took about 90 minutes for them to get here).
Our of the doctor’s backpack came all the equipment to take my temperature, blood pressure, heart, and the short finger-prick malaria test they give anyone with a fever. We waited for the test to do its thing and made small talk with the doctor. She’d seen two patients in my area with malaria earlier in the day. Volia-the test was negative for malaria.
Relieved I only had a virus, my friends went home, agreeing to pick up Simon for me, and I went back to bed. Sleeping was the only thing that made the headache ease a little. Freezing, shivering, burning up, all the fun of a bad fever. I slept, and slept and slept. No sympathy from my teenager, lots of worry from the ten-year old. I didn’t get out of bed the rest of the weekend. I had no desire to eat anything, but did manage to get enough water in me to get a regimen of Advil and Tylenol into me. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so sock.
Monday after the kids went to school, I sent a delirious e-mail to the school nurse and asked her to come over. I knew I was really sick, even though I had the negative malaria test. God bless Nurse Wendy and Wendy, my office mate, that took one look at my e-mail, that they later told me made no sense, and drove over. They were in my bedroom right away. Nurse Wendy took a look at me, took my fever and said she was pretty sure I did have malaria. She called SOS Medicine back but without a French speaker with us, was unable to make clear the problem. Despite the fact that I wasn’t sure I could get out of bed, she loaded me in my car and drove me to a lab/medical office to have another malaria test.
We arrived at the medical office, right off the Corniche and at the bottom of a steep hill. It overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, which at the time, really bothered me as a cold breeze was blowing off of it. I was ushered into what felt like another era. I’ve been calling it 1950’s Cuba-although I don’t know why I settled on that description as I certainly have never been to the 1950’s or Cuba. We waited and waited for a doctor as they wanted me to see one before they’d do a blood test. The doctor was of Arabic background and was a cardiologist of all things. He spoke French and English in addition to his primary language. We were ushered into his 1950’s office. The equipment looked like it was from the set of a 1940-50’s movie.
In a heavy accent, the doctor asked some questions.
“You need to stop eating so much ‘gateaux’ (cake),” he , as he announced as he escorted me around the corner from his desk to the examining table. “You need to lose some kilos,” he proceeded to tell me.
Thanks doctor. That’s REALLY helpful as I haven’t been able to eat since Thursday and I certainly haven’t had any damn cake since arriving in this country. Thanks for the commentary on my weight when I feel like shit and want to lay down on the floor. Fortunately my illness kept my tongue in check, and I didn’t tell him where he could shove a gateaux.
He made me take my clothes off so he could weigh me, again told me to lose kilos, looked in my throat, and listened to my heart. Then he explained that I had the “grippe” (whatever the hell that is) and wrote a prescription for 3 stupid medicines that I didn’t need- including one for Benadryl. I knew none of them were what I really needed.
Nurse Wendy navigated the paperwork. By this time I could not even sit upright in the waiting room chair. They called me for my blood work and put me on a 1950’s Cuba metal patient table and a young woman tried to take my blood 8 times while I shook like a leaf from the fever. After the 8th time when I managed to yell “Ow!” she went to get another person to take the blood. Thank god for the Sister Theresa looking nun- nurse who was able to do it on her first try. Wendy poured me back in the car, went to finish paying and doing the paperwork and drove me home. I crawled back into bed and went back to sleep. I could not believe anything could make my head hurt so bad.
Several hours later Wendy called to let me know that the new blood work did confirm that I had malaria and that she was going back to the doctor’s office to get the prescription for the medicine.
Three doses, one a day for three days of anti-malarials. More sleep than you think one person would be able sleep.
While I slept a week away, a few lovely colleagues and my housekeeper took care of my children and got them to and from school. I couldn’t get out of bed. I had the worst headache I’d ever had in my life.
There were a few low moments in among the sleeping. Wednesday, the second day of anti-malarials saw the fever abating, but not the headache. I told some nice colleagues that stopped by that, “I hated f***ing Africa” and “If I was in the states, I’m pretty sure I’d be in the hospital.”
Thursday, Nurse Wendy was back to say I needed to have another blood test. I told her there was no way I could get out of bed to go back to the lab. She and another French-speaking colleague managed to get ahold of a lab that comes to your home. The test was necessary to make sure that the malaria was on its way out and that my blood count was on its way back towards normal. Sleeping and headache was still the name of the game. Nurse Wendy came back with the Codeine equivalent of Alka-Seltzer. She delivered it to me along with effervescent codeine. I didn’t know such a thing existed, but it was my friend, as it was the first thing to be able to put a dent in the headache. It knocked the headache out, but also put me back to sleep.
Friday-still terrible headache. Still couldn’t eat. Finally managed half a banana my housekeeper went and got for me. Went back to sleep.
Saturday-friend Andrea arrived to help take care of my kids. That afternoon I started to feel human and left the bedroom and house for the first time in more than a week.
December 2012
Damn mosquitoes! I hate those bloody insects!
I had access to heath care as an expat living in a country where, according to a 2007 Human Development Report, there are 6 doctors per 100,000 people. The disparity of my expat illness has not been lost on me. Since then, my night guard Severyn’s brother has died of malaria. Sobbing, he had to ask me for money to help pay for the funeral. His brother lived in rural Senegal and by the time they got him to the doctor, it was too late. No one in his extended family owns a car. The country has 17 cars per 1000 people. In the capital city, we still share the road with horse carts. In the more rural areas, horse or donkey carts are the MAIN transportation besides walking. Hitchhiking is just a norm outside of the city. If someone has a car, and it’s not packed full, they will pull over and give someone a ride. That’s their normal. Buses or Car Rapides often have people hanging out the back, occasionally on top.
When my mother and cousin were here visiting, they remarked on how calm I appeared while driving in the chaos of Dakar. I didn’t tell them that it had really helped me to pretend that I was in a driving video game for the first couple of months here. In those games, the objective is to not let anyone run into you and to not run into anything that would prevent you from finishing the race. Kind of a combination of reverse Frogger and Mario Kart.
Reverse Frogger because instead of being the frog crossing the road, you are the car (or log) trying not to hit the Senegalese version of the frog (dog, person, goat, cow, mother with three young children, man on a motorcycle, etc.) so you can get to your destination.
Mario Kart because you never know when something is going to come in at you to try to knock you off course-Car Rapide, Tata, taxi, motorcycle, wheelchairs, etc.). Changing lanes and merging/creating lanes do not follow the same logic that you have in the states. You must be constantly ready for the unexpected. A car might be stopped in your lane with no hazard lights or other warning. A bus might be broken down, blocking parts of both lanes. Horse and cart. Man pushing all hand cart. All kinds of things might be in the road. If there is a road or gas station within a block or two of a roundabout, it’s not unusual for bad drivers to decide to go the wrong way on the divided highway instead of going all the way down to the next roundabout. Watch out!
I really relied on my children to help me navigate the first several months we were here. My job was to not be hit or hit anything and their job was to look for landmarks that would let us know we were going the right way. There are still places I’ve never actually ‘seen’ because I was so busy with my not-getting-hit job. Without road signs of any kind, you have to navigate by landmarks, yet there is so much construction going on, sometimes landmarks change overnight. Thank goodness both my kids are good at their navigating job!
Crazy things that have happened while driving:
I’ve been rear-ended at an intersection of 5 ‘roads’-no one stops when that happens unless cars won’t keep running
I’ve hit a taxi driver in the head with my side mirror-I didn’t even realize I’d done it until Guy told me. There were too many lanes of cars/motorcycles trying to fit on a two lane road with pedestrians and he stuck his head out too far. I felt bad, but it was inevitable.
We’ve seen roller bladers hitching a ride on the bumper of a taxi
We’ve seen a man in a wheelchair hitching a ride on the bumper of a taxi
Motorcycles might have an entire family on them. Or a man carrying a mattress. Or a giant box of something.
Carrying cargo is not always logical. We’ve seen boats in makeshift trucks where the boat was almost twice as big as the truck.
Boxes of bananas and bags of bread might be carried by bike.
The Police:
You see a fair amount of police and gendarmes along side roads and intersections. You often see soldiers with guns out along the roads as well. Most times they are just ‘watching’ and not too actively involved in things. Perhaps they might help direct some traffic at a busy intersection.
Last week I was stopped, for a legitimate reason–I had just decided the ‘right’ way of driving a certain intersection was more likely to cause me to be hit, than my ‘wrong’ way u-turn I’d been doing for months. The lounging police officer got off his motorcycle and got in the middle of the road to wave me over. I had to show him my license and get out of the car. My bad very French was enough for me to understand that he did not approve of my u-turn and that if I didn’t offer him some money, he was going to write me a ticket. 2000 cfa ($4USD) was all I had in my wallet, having just gone to the grocery store. He was very disappointed, but took the 2000 cfa in disgust and waved me on my way.
Now I had decided upon arriving that I was not going to fight the occasional bribe I might have to pay. I was very worried about getting stopped when I first started driving. The first time I got waved over, I was scared stiff. The officer looked at my license and insurance paperwork and when I tried to explain I spoke only a little French, started talking to me in English and couldn’t have been nicer. Same experience the next two times I was stopped.
A colleague who decided they were not going to play the bribe game, refused, and ended up having to spend more than half the day downtown in the police station and ended up with a fine 10 times bigger than the bribe.
Another colleague just waves enthusiastically at any officer who tries to wave her over and zooms off, pretending she thinks they are just being friendly.
ABroad in Senegal 