Lunch is served and my mother Tabara tells me again and again to eat until I’m full, eat until it’s all gone. With her henna stained hand she tears pieces of fish, potato, and squash and places them in front of me, her giant bare breasts practically spilling into the bowl as she insists that I eat, eat. Next to me my four year old brother Silly carefully squeezes his rice into a ball before popping it into his mouth. The Wolof language as a verb for this very activity- dank. Silly kepes danking his rice while across from him our father Adama watchs over all as he makes loud lip smacking and sucking sounds, carefully extracting bits of food from between his teeth with the suction. Our neighbor Ndeye is over with her little girl for the day to have my sister Rama braid her hair. By lunch she has about 2/3 tight and beautiful corn rows, the last 1/3 a puffy afro. Her daughter won’t eat because she is too busy staring at me, probably wondering what in the world I must be until Ndeye moves her to her lap and tells her to eat up.

In my family, and in all families in Senegal I would venture to say, there is no such thing as the clean plate club, leftovers, or the enticement of dessert to get the kids to finish their meals. Every last bit is eaten, bones are sucked free of every morsel, cartilege and all, juices are slurped away, and whatever remains is given to the sheep, goats, chickens, or cats that live in the compound.

If I have a guest over for a meal, my moms will usually serve us separately with our own bowl of rice and fish or rice and beans. Whatever we don’t eat the kids polish off after their own meals which means that food is too precious to waste, they’re still hungry, or both. There is no variation in our diet in the village except for special occassions like holidays, baptisms, and funerals. No pizza night, no chicken night, no spaghetti, no steaks or burgers on the grill, no tossed salad or real greens, just the predictable two meals that happen without fail each and every day. Not all families in Senegal eat such a limited cuisine. While thiebujen (rice, fish, and vegetables cooked in an oily tomato sauce) is the standard for lunch everywhere, my host family in Thies served many different meals for dinner.

In my village and the Saint Louis region we are lucky because the ocean and the Senegal River provide plenty of fish, hence plenty of protein. Every day in Saint Louis the pirogues, or local fishing boats, come into market with tons of fish, filling dozens of freezer trucks headed for Dakar and other cities to sell the daily catch.

Many regions, particulary in the Southeast of the country, aren’t nearly as lucky. Most families rely on millet for most of their nutritional needs, with fish a sporadic treat. The volunteers in villages where even a bowl of plain rice can be come and go are tough. They’re skinny too, at least the men. Somewhat surprisingly, most women gain weight thanks to the overload of carbohydrates in the Senegalese diet, while men waste away for lack of protein.

I am nearly the same weight as when I arrived thanks to weekly trips to Saint Louis and the meat and beer it affords. But damn, what I wouldn’t give for a bacon cheesburger, a fresh salad, and pint of Terminal Gravity.

Disparate moments of free time here let my mind wander. I often wonder if I am missing out on advancing my career or accomplishing something substantial by being in Senegal. Then I read from Walden and Henry David Thoreau sets me straight.


"The mass of men lead lives of quite desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind."

"As if you could kill time without injuring eternity."

"When we consider what, to use the words, of the catechism, is the chief end of man, and what are the true necessaries adn means of life, it appears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it to any other. Yet they honestly think there is no choice left. But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields."

"When he has obtained those things which are necessary to life, there is another alternative than to obtain the superfluities; and that is, to adventure on life now, his vacation from humble toil having commenced."

This was a shot from the Embuscade Bar where this scary dude was dancing on stilts



This is Vito, the bassist in my buddy Ryan's band playing on the mainstage at the Jazzfest



Ryan Browning, my closest neighbor who plays his saxaphone in Saint Louis with two groups and moonlights as a Peace Corps volunteer



Ryan and other musicians jamming at a local bar called Marco Jazz at 4AM during jazz fest



Ryan's band African Touch on the mainstage during the jazz fest


Predrinking for the jazz fest with Dan and Nichole

Look let's be clear here, sometimes I feel like I might just lose it in Senegal. I can't cool off and I itch all over, an incessant irritation along my ankles, my wrists, my scalp, everywhere. It is so busy and noisy, smokey, dirty, and smelly. I just can't relax. Even in my village where calm prevails, there is the constant annoyance of everyone asking me for money, candy, or to marry their daughters. I struggle to have real conversations here and often feel like I don't have real friends. My little brothers and sisters don't speak to me and I just don't have much to talk about much less understand with my host father and mothers. When is the last time someone asked me about me or my life? And throughout this mess, I miss my girlfriend terribly. I miss the loving, the laughing, the simple touch of a hand on my back. I am frustrated and a thousand hand shakes just won't alleviate that vacancy. Senegal can be excruciatingly repetitive. The music is always the same, the name calling doesn't change, the sun scorches, and the flies, cockroaches, lizards, geckos and other pests just keep coming. I'm just being pissy, but I guess that's just as much a part of this experience as my triumphs and glimpses of beauty.

A restless scorching night full of dusty moonlight kept me awake until the break of sweaty morning. I rolled out of bed with sand stuck to my body and headed for the boutique to buy my breakfast baguette. By 10AM the sun was almost directly overhead and my shirt was spotted with moisture by the time I made it to the center of my little village. My old neighbor greeted me with a friendly "Good Morning and where is some money for me Mansour?"-- the common refrain I've come to expect. I told her I would got to bank tomorrow. Then I said a quick hello to the Gaye family women as they did laundry. Ndeye Kharit, their daughter said to come in and talk, "Come on waxtan!" We talked about America and she asked me what my house looks like there. A difficult mix of embarrassment and frustration dotted my already sweaty forehead as I said it was big and full of TVs. How can I possibly convince these poor people to stay in Senegal and develop their lives here when going to America means more money in months than is possible here over the course of many years? Ndeye's mom intimated that I marry her daughter so that America and its riches could become a part of her life. I told her to not let her little baby suck on the D battery in its mouth and excused myself between comments about the spiritual and communal deficits America suffers from despite its riches. On to the boutique. I buy my baguette and am asked for 500cfa from the lady I buy beignets and fataya from in the afternoon. I asked her was it to have or to borrow and she says she will pay me back later, "Inshallah- God willing." I hand it over knowing I'll never see it again.