This week we celebrated Thanksgiving at the Peace Corps Training Center. Living everyday in another culture has given special meaning and enthusiasm to unique American traditions like Thanksgiving, and our group of trainees made an incredible feast that nourished the soul as much as it did our appetites.

Fifteen roast chickens, squash, mashed potatoes, creamed greens, biscuits, deviled eggs, quiche, cookies, chocolate, apple pie, iced tea, and bissap juice made for an amazing meal that really felt like home. After eight weeks of eating thiebujen and other Senegalese cuisine, it was a nurturing treat to eat food that our tongues and tummies recognized and welcomed. And for once we actually did the cooking, taking over the training center kitchen blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival as people chopped, stirred, basted, and baked into the late afternoon.

We sat outside family style and were joined by our language and tech trainers. This was a very big deal as the weekends are sacred to our Senegalese friends, for the most part the only time they have during our training to spend time with their families in Dakar and Thies. That they left their loved ones to spend the evening with us was a true sign of friendship and appreciation.

As we manged and manged and manged, one of our elder volunteers Chuck Ledlam got up to share a history of Thanksgiving with our Senegalese trainers. Chuck worked 30 years on Capitol Hill and is smart, tough, seasoned, but a fantastic bullshitter. In his typical rhetoric we have all come to both fancy and at times ridicule, he filled the crowd with visions of goodwill and “thanksgiving,” describing an idyllic meal between persecuted English pilgrims and their kind Native American hosts that made me think of my elementary school social studies class. With puffy orange doilies and a chance to go the mall to start Christmas shopping, we actually could have been transported to American holiday mania. Maybe it’s just naive idealism, or maybe I’m just young, but I always have to give credit to how well US consumer culture, public education, and humanity’s affinity for historic revisionism warp the truth as to how our country came into being, from the arrival at Plymouth to the “election” of George W. Bush in 2000.

Luckily the real meaning and good intentions behind Chuck’s speech were not lost on my cynicism. The spirit of being with those that you care about was the message that we knew he wanted to share and what happened next made that more than clear.

Adam, the volunteer that initiated our Thanksgiving feast, got up to thank everyone for their hard work and great food and suggested that we all go around and say something that we were thankful for. Personally I prefer spontaneous sincerity to forced expression, and having just come off the heels of Chuck’s dreamy and largely exaggerated account of the history of this holiday, I was not terribly excited to get up and share with the group.

But the folks at the other end of the horse-shoe of our dinner table started and thanked all of us for being new and excellent friends, for having great families that supported their decision to come to Senegal, for the chance to be here to do such an amazing job and learn along the way. Many of them started tearing up as they said what they were thankful for, and damn it if the rest of us, our Senegalese trainers included, didn’t start doing the same. By the time his turn came around Mr. Cynical here had glassy eyes and a giant lump in his throat. I got up and through a crack in my voice gave thanks for loved ones back home, for new friends here, and especially for our Senegalese trainers who I was sitting with and who have made my time here so amazing. I really meant it when I said that they are truly some of the best people I have ever met. I did not expect to be taken by the moment so strongly, nor did many of the folks at the table. Our trainers were in tears and I felt bad for rolling my eyes at the idea of sharing my thanks with everyone.

For me our Thanksgiving reinforced the fact that we have come so far in such a short time in Senegal. Our bond as volunteers and as friends with our Senegalese trainers is so strong after such a short time. Our language skills have progressed, our technical know-how isn’t bad, and our outlook for the future is positive, if a bit more realistic. We are getting more accustomed to Senegalese culture, but we are still and will always be Americans no matter how much thieboujen we eat.

On the right is a shot of a pirogue crossing between mainland Dakar and Ngor Island (on the left side of the picture), a beautiful getaway just a few minutes from downtown. On the left is an interesting piece of art on the island.

This guy was great-- he said that unlike most Senegalese that he didn't like being with people all the time and escapes to Ngor Island to play his jembe.

Welcome to the madhouse. Dakar is a bulging ball of human ingenuity, filth, competition, dust, traffic, and continuous movement, maybe what New York or London might have felt like 100 years ago. Typical Senegalese warmth and the seedy side of teranga meet in the capital as con-men and opportunists follow you, yell at you, and try with undying intensity to get a piece of the xaalis they know is in your pocket. Walking through the Salle de Vents market and Place D’Independence I preferred to look at these guys as my friends instead of fiends and I have never felt more popular. The sheer number of t-shirts, backpacks, magazines, fabric, furniture, jewelry, food and junk that they sell across every meter of the city makes me wonder just how much of it is actually sold.

The interchange with vendors, cab drivers, or clando drivers (people who use their “clandestine” vehicles as cabs) is an exercise in patience and debate. The price starts high, in fact unusually high since you’re a toubab, and is listed with indifference. This is followed by their steadily increasing expression of desire for your sale but disdain for your offer to pay half or at best three quarters of what they ask. Walking away from the stall or car after a couple minutes of discussion is a classic move that will usually make the guy finally give in or give up.

When a cab driver told me that gas prices were killing him (gas here is just over $4 a gallon) and that my offer of say 1200 CFA for a ride was a joke, I responded in kind saying, “Don’t worry, I can speak to my friend George Bush about the price of gas. I can help you, no problem.” His laughter at this comment gets me a fare of 1700 CFA for a ride that he quoted me at 3000 CFA.


Dakar, not unlike Senegal as a whole from what I have experienced, exists as a series of paradoxes in terms of wealth and poverty, beauty and grit, and hilarity and fear. Here though, it is incredibly palpable. Crumbling concrete is buffeted by fancy banks while the remnants of colonial grandiosity mingle with modern supermarkets and a Senegalese bourgeoisie. And while the meat vendors, fishermen, peanut ladies, and tailors are like any others I have encountered in the country, the middle class have an air unto themselves, a definite European-American refined glitz that is markedly different from “traditional” Senegalese.

At a nightclub called “Just for You” I almost felt uncomfortable under the pink and lime green light with palm trees and attentive waiters. The amount of French versus Wolof that I heard was incredible and it wasn’t the typical African accent but stylized native French. I hesitated ordering a beer because I could feel my tongue wanting to roll the “r” in “biere” like most Senegalese. But the fact that this middle class exists is perhaps encouraging on a certain level. It certainly reflects the growing wealth and economy that the country will hopefully see spread beyond the borders of Dakar.

Still, it doesn’t take long to be brought back to reality by the stench of grey-green sewage running along the side of the street overflowing onto the pavement here and there. Horses, goats, and chickens still graze in the median and my cab driver jumps the curb onto the sidewalk to avoid one of the ever-present traffic jams that block our way.

On a trip to Ngor Beach with my friends Nick and Dan, our cab stalled after we stopped to show a policeman the vehicle registration. What do we do after it doesn’t start on the 10th turn? The boys get out and push with a guy walking past, the cab driver pops the clutch, and I capture the moment with a laugh.

Dakar reminds me that economic development comes with its costs- pollution, sprawl, traffic, and loss of community. These are all apparent in the city and my Senegalese friends from Thies say they prefer the tranquil life to the city life. The difference between people from the city and people from the country is apparent in any culture, the surreal thing here is that while the wealth and development hit you head on, so does the fact that it happens in a uniquely Senegalese way. People honk and moan in morning traffice, but still eat their thiebugen (fish and rice) for lunch around communal bowls, go to prayer together, and laugh with one another on the street as anywhere else in the country. I look forward to more...

The other night I ate dinner with our agriculture tech trainer Youssoupha and his family in the Parsel neighborhood of Thies. Youssoupha is a fixture in this town and at the Peace Corps training center. He is like the rebar that holds together crumbling cement, a true supporter of his family, friends, and neighbors. Youssoupha is a big man, probably 6’5” maybe an inch or two more. He is dark as night and is an imposing yet amazingly gentle man.

His house is a mini-castle, three levels with six bedrooms to house his four children, his brother and their children, his sister, and from what I could tell, at least one semi-permanent guest. On the roof of his house he showed me the water catchment system he designed himself to use for watering his gardens and trees, and to store in a reservoir he designed to augment the low water pressure in his house. He even designed the house itself and is in the process of adding a second living room and master bedroom.

Youssoupha is fluent in Pulaar du Nord, Wolof, French, Spanish, and English. He is a trained agricultural engineer and a proud Muslim. He often tells me what a great volunteer I will be, and says that even though I am not in the agriculture program, that I can be his student and his friend.

On the roof under the haze of a half moon, Youssoupha explained to me the dynamic of his home. He told me that he has an obligation to take care of everyone around him, and that doing anything otherwise would be socially unacceptable, shameful in fact. We compared the Senegalese family model to its American counterpart and the recurrent theme of material wealth versus wealth in family and friends was driven into my mind with his deep, soft voice.

Grabbing my hand in his own to lead me around the roof and point out the different trees and garden plots he had planted, Youssoupha listed off the guests in his house. He said that he has had a friend of his sister living in the house for over four months, eating at every meal without paying a single penny to help out. He said that everyday neighbors come to him for small favors like asking for sugar, or enough money to take a taxi to see a relative in another town. He said that he simply has to give, there is no other choice and that even when he cannot afford to give, he gives at least 500 or 1000 cfa.

Around the dinner platter tonight, I sat with eight of these people as we all ate beef, peas, and potatoes with our hands. My shoulders touched the person to my left and Youssoupha to my right. People would tear off pieces of beef and put them in front of me until they had all finished and insist that I keep eating. Before coming over, I bought three bottles of soda for 1800 cfa, just over three dollars. Youssoupha said that it was too much, unnecessary, and certainly not expected. I couldn’t imagine doing otherwise I told him, and after seeing the reality of his roost, I really couldn’t.

We had attaya after dinner along with millet and sweet yogurt. I spoke with Youssoupha’s son and brother about the drawbacks of going to the US to find work rather than staying in Senegal and trying to make ends meat. They knew that money is what made our country work but I don’t know if they realized just how different the way our families and communities operate. I acted out the personal space bubble, and typical salutations back home, not the prolonged and intimate Senegalese embrace and discussion. I told them that I thought they would be better off to find a way to make money in Senegal and be able to stay with their family and friends than to work hard and be alienated in the US. But that’s easy for me to say with my relative wealth compared to theirs.

I am continually amazed at the dignity that these people have in how they treat one another, in how they treat me. Youssoupha told me that I was part of his family now, that I should come back to visit soon and unannounced, and even insisted that I stay the night. I told him earlier that I was impressed with who he was and all that he had done for everyone around him and he asked how I could be impressed by a poor African man. In more ways than I can count and in greater words than I can produce.

I think one of the things I miss the most about the US is the privilege of privacy. In Oregon I loved to seek out solitude on Mount Hood or deep in the forest with only the sound of the nature around me to calm the noise in my mind. Here, it is nearly impossible to be alone, and the very notion of not being with other people is looked at as uniquely toubab.

I have found this to be exhausting on the one hand because being social every moment of the day takes quite a bit of energy, but I have also found it unnerving when for instance, all I want to do is take a shit in peace, but one of my sisters or my mom are out in the backyard, literally just outside the bathroom door. There’s no leisure time on the pot to read the paper. As a matter of fact there’s no pot, just the hole you squat over. If I spend time alone in my room with the door shut, someone is knocking every few minutes to see what I am doing or see if I’ll join the conversation, play the guitar, watch the TV, or just be with them. And even when I do find some space, there is a torrent of activity just on the other side of my door.

Sometimes I wonder how people have sex in this country without it being a spectacle. Maybe you just do it and know that everyone will know what’s going on, including your three kids just on the other side of your door. And doors, while they do exist to separate one room from another, are rarely if ever used here. Instead drapes, curtains, or a doorway of hanging beads separate one space from the next.

Even doing things in the presence of others by but by yourself like reading a book is a foreign concept here. In fact I have never seen a Senegalese person sitting on their porch getting into a good novel or writing in their journal. What you do see are people with other people talking, joking, drinking tea, or simply sitting with one another silently. Senegal boasts a uniquely social culture and doing things alone is anti-social, maybe even anti-African.

In addition to getting comfortable with being around family and friends all day, you have to learn to share your personal space. The two-foot radius of the American personal space bubble is simply laughable here. In a taxi or on an Aluhumdulilay bus you are as close up and personal with your fellow passengers as is physically possible. Sometimes you’ll even get a little kid to put on your lap for part of your journey. Remember the soap commercial with a crowd tightly packed into an elevator? “Hope everyone has used Dial!” Yeah…. On the other hand, sitting between two large women with cushiony jaayfonde (the sacrosanct Senegalese ass) can actually be a reassuring measure of safety in vehicles that haven’t had working seat belts for the last 25 years.

Fortunately the Senegalese love touch. Friends hold hands when walking down the street, men, women, young and old. Here at the Peace Corps training center, the trainers lean on one another, sit on laps, put a hand the back of the person in front of them, and shake hands a minimum of 30 times a day. As you greet a good friend, you don’t just shake their hand, but you hold onto it for a while, ask if they are in peace, ask after their family and their health, ask about their work, and of course praise God.

Doing this so often I sometimes lose sight of just how deep the things I am actually saying actually are. Can you imagine saying some of this stuff to a friend at the office in the morning?

“Good morning John. Did you spend your night in peace?”
“Yes Mark, thanks to God I did. And you, did you sleep well last night?
“Thanks to God yes I did. And how is your family?”
“They are fine thank you. They are healthy and will remain so God willing.”
“Okay John, I am going to get going. Spend the rest of your day in peace.”
“Peace to you too Smith.”
“Johnson.”
“Smith.”
“Johnson.”

Salutation, family well-being, God, and family name are integral values here and they are reflected in even the most basic everyday interactions. People will see you on the street and call out your family name. “Parker! Parker,” or in my case, “Thiam! Thiam!” It is really something that everyone seems to remember everyone else’s name so easily, especially when the name is something like Papa Ibrahima DIOUF. But I am doing my best to be present with my Senegalese friends, to hold onto someone’s hand for that extra moment, and to say their name again and again knowing that while I may not have memorized theirs, they will surely remember and call out mine the next time we meet.

A man cooling off in the midday heat at Popenguine, on the coast.

Here I am in my new bou bou with the Thiam family on the evening of Korite.

My mom Alice making Bissap juice for Korite.

My brother Dou-Dou in his Korite outfit that our mom Alice made for him. She would smack him later for playing soccer without changing into play clothes.

My sister Ndeye preparing lunch.

Last night was the first in a month that you couldn’t see the waning moon, so today was officially Korite, the Muslim holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. The day is spent visiting as many neighbors and friends as possible to wish them well and to ask their forgiveness for any harm you might have caused them during the past year. There was a palpable sense of relief among everyone because people can finally return to normal routines and eat on a regular schedule after fasting from sunrise to sunset for an entire month. My neighbors were very happy and greeted each other in the street with smiles and extra long salutations, even for the Senegalese.

Everyone from little kids to grandparents wears brand new outfits and I didn’t want to be left out, so Monday night I went to see Jahsee, the local tailor my mom recommended to me and had a nice boubou made for Korite. Jahsee is well known in our cartier for being an excellent craftsmen and for having an identical twin who was seated at the sewing machine across from him when I stopped by. The shop was cluttered with beautifully patterned material that shimmered beneath the one fluorescent light overhead.

After picking out what I wanted, I did my best to waxtan, or negotiate the price in my broken Wolof and French. I told Jahsee that I wasn’t really a toubab, but a white Senegalese, which made him and everyone else at the shop crack up but he stuck to a price of 8000 cfa. I told him that I was a Peace Corps volunteer and that unlike other foreigners here I didn’t have a lot of money. I told him that I was the organizer of our group and that if he gave me a good deal I would bring other PCVs to his shop to have clothing made. As I bantered I tried not to be distracted by the picture of Osama Bin Laden hanging over Jahsee’s head, which is not a rare sight in many shops and restaurants in Senegal. While I wondered to myself how Bin Laden fits into what is obviously a very tolerant and peaceful Muslim society, Jahsee lowered the price to 6000cfa, or just under $12. The infidel just saved four bucks. What do think about that Osama?

Once decked out in my new outfit on the morning of Korite, my dad Mamadou took me to the juma or big mosque where everyone—all the men that is-- pray together on Fridays and on holidays. I asked him if he thought it was okay for me to go along, not wanting to offend anyone. He laughed at me, coughing between his giggles.

“The local imam you are going to see, this is a man who will go on and on about God says you must do this, God commands you must do that, but last year our community discovered this same man, this holy man, drinking beer and sleeping with a woman that wasn’t his wife! You tell me if you think it is wrong for you to go and bear witness at the mosque today.”

With that, Mamadou, my little brother Dou-Dou, and I were on our way to the mosque with our prayer mat that I normally use in my room as a place to sit at the computer. A couple hundred men and boys were gathered outside the entrance to the mosque, seated on prayer mats and rugs in the shade of several beautiful neem trees, many with prayer beads in their hands. A younger man was speaking to the crowd, a small microphone attached to his boubou. The crackling, often piercing sound of his voice over the loudspeaker in mosque’s central tower added an interesting element to a speech that sounded more like a lecture than a sermon.

We found a spot, removed our sandals and sat quietly on our mat. I sensed scores of eyes looking my way now and then, getting a glimpse of the one toubab in the crowd, probably the only non-Muslim among them. I saw Jahsee a few rows behind us. The poor guy was struggling to stay awake after probably staying up all night to finish everyone’s new clothes for the day.

The mosque photographer came our way and got a couple shots of me sitting with Mamadou and my neighbors. Getting your photo taken or appearing on television at public events seems to be a common occurrence in Senegal according to other Peace Corps volunteers, just by virtue of being a toubab. I tried to compare the feel of my surroundings with going to church in the US, and the first thing I noticed was that not unlike home, the kids were restless and squirmed until being quietly scolded by their dads or brothers.

After about twenty minutes, the imam arrived, a stout older man with 1/4 inch thick glasses, and a white flowing boubou with yellow embroidery on his chest. He was accompanied by two assistants that draped a vale over the back of his head as he addressed the crowd, and held it there in the wind. The imam directed the crowd to prayer, and I took a deep breath. Mamadou had prepared me for this moment and said to simply follow his gestures. I asked him if it would be strange for me to take part in the prayer, especially since I couldn’t say the verses themselves, but he reassured me that simply mumbling and moving my lips like him would be fine.

We all rose with our arms relaxed at our sides. The prayer began and I followed the crowd as they raised their arms from the elbow until their palms were facing forward, level with their head. We repeated this a few times, and then kneeled, seated on our calves. Next we rocked forward until our foreheads were against the ground.

For the few seconds that I stared at the dirt an inch from my face I wondered what my family and friends would think of me taking part in this Muslim prayer. I wondered what Jesus would think, or even Buddha, and in the periphery of my vision, I saw the white of Mamadou’s right eye, and realized that it didn’t matter; that I was a student of life and that my curiosity wouldn’t be the subject of shame or sin in any religion or group I would ever be a part of. The prayer concluded and we sat for a while longer to listen more.

Suddenly the deep voice of the imam was interrupted by the strangest song. It took me a second to recognize it, but sure enough, the electronic notes of Old MacDonald Had a Farm were ringing on the cell phone of the man in front of me. I thought this must have been a big faux pas for him, but to my surprise the guy actually answered the call right there in the middle of the crowd and for his thirty second conversation I was positive that I couldn’t have been the only person in the crowd who felt caught between two very distant, yet simultaneous realities. Traces of the modern world and what I imagine to be the ancient world seem to keep colliding in front of me.

After visiting the mosque, we went home to eat lunch. My mom Alice and my sister Ndeye had prepared a chicken feast- roast chicken with cous-cous, carrots, raisins, olives, and onions, with the magic maggi spice, otherwise known as MSG. I bought a big bottle of Coke and Fanta for desert and we toasted the day.

I danced with my mom and sisters to American hip hop—50 Cent, Acorn, and Puff Daddy before going out again with Mamadou to visit our neighbors the Diops to ask their forgiveness and drink attaya, the super strong, super sweet, just all around super tea famous in Senegal.

We took our place on the couch at the Diop’s house and took the first of our three glasses of attaya. The first glass is the strongest, a powerfully minty and exceedingly sweet brew with a distinct foam on the top. You slurp the tea so as not to burn yourself and then pass the glass back for the next cup. Mr. Diop pours the attaya from one glass to the next and back again, mixing the tea from a height to create the foam.

By glass number three I think my ability to understand the Wolof Mamadou and the Diops were speaking had improved. In fact, the subject of the conversation had turned to American politics and George Bush’s poll numbers, which according to my hosts had fallen into the low 40s. Mamadou and the Diops said that even Americans were beginning to see the casualties in Iraq as unacceptable would go on to talk about the irony of Mr. Bush’s choice of African Americans like Colin Powell and Condoleeza Rice for high profile cabinet positions in his administration while his no-response blunder to hurricane Katrina left poor black Americans to die.

“This is something you would expect to hear in Africa Matar, not in the most advanced country in the world,” steamed Mr. Diop. My sugar high was surpassed when he went on to tell me that in Cuba, they were able to evacuate over 60,000 people in buses from danger zones as the hurricane approached. Fidel Castro the dictator had succeeded where Bush failed. A cool slice of watermelon from Madame Diop brought me back to the ground and soon Mamadou and I were on our way back home.

Korite has brought me a day closer to learning not how different Senegal is from the US, but how people are people no matter where you go. Add technology, and the world has become a smaller place no matter how you pray, what type of tea you drink, or where you call home.

This the beach at Popenguine, the town where I went with other trainees to decompress for a weekend of fun in the sun. The hill in the backgroud has old bunkers from WWII on it that were controlled by the Vichy government in France during the German occupation. The women you see were the most tenacious merchants I have met yet in Senegal. I snapped this photo after yapping back and forth with them for nearly an hour. They finally decided to give up on me and called me a "Kacoor" or trickster.