#2 A Typical Monday

4:30am. Wake up to the call of prayer. The mosque is a stone’s throw from my window, so my room is filled with the buzzing voice through old loudspeakers as I grumble and roll over a few times before it stops and I promptly fall back asleep.

6:30 Begin the music of the sheep and goats.

7:00 Whoevers turn it is to wake up crying, starts about now (at an alarmingly high pitch for such small boys.) This finally gets me out of bed. Don’t bother with an alarm clock anymore.

7:05 I pull out my bench and set it at the little table set up with our breakfast usuals by Aisstou. Around this time, the brother that wasn’t crying is running back inside with the baguettes that he bought from the shop in front of our house. I spread on my cheese, and with a slight sigh, I sip on my Nescafé (that is starting to grow on me) though I know I only drink it out of habit. The goats wake me up more effectively than this liquid that pretends to be coffee.

You might not think so, but I’m usually in a really good mood at this point. It’s all the little things- from my giddiness at using sugar cubes to watching the cats fight (literally) right in our courtyard. Even when Yves puts his tiny foot on my knee to tie his shoes, I can’t help but love being a big sister…for the moment.

Since I shower at night, my hair is a wild mess in the morning, usually making a statement by stubbornly pointing up and over in one direction. I’ve solved this problem by learning how to French braid my hair (I finally did it Aunt Monique!) which disguises the fact that my hair is trying to escape my head.

8:00-9:00 I'm out the door and start my hour walk south to school. I enjoy watching Dakar wake up; vendors putting fruit on display, people sweeping in front of their houses, taxis honking like it's their only job, people waiting for buses to go to work, parents holding their children's hand as they walk to school, the soccer game that's already started in the sand lot, the next team jogging to warm up for the next game...

9:02 With sweat marks where my backpack straps were (despite the chilly morning) I sit down with the other students outside in the small courtyard area while others order Nescafé (there's a small sort of restraunt at WARC) since we all know it'll probably be another 10 minutes before class starts anyway. We trade weekend stories and discuss the latest "cultural moments" we've encountered recently, which usually have to do with the girls getting proposals, some new body part of an animal being ingested (usually by accident or unknowingly) or just some new, perhaps strange-to-us behavior that we love to analyze.

9:15-12:00 Today is African Literature. We're reading Le Monde S'Effondre (Things Fall Apart) and even though it's been a bit of a struggle for me, there's a lively debate in class today. I listen and observe, but I'm already thinking about the break, when I'll go to my favorite fruit vendor (with the ocean in view just behind it- so hard to go back to class after that) and buy my usual 2 bananas and 6 mandarin, always costing 500 cfa (about a dollar). One banana and three mandarins for my between breakfast and lunch snack, and the same for between lunch and dinner. Today he tried to charge me a little more for no reason, and when I corrected him he shrugged and gave me a free grapefruit for tes études (your studies) and after I paid my normal price, I chatted with a guy on a bench for a while before heading back. I don't really understand what just happened but you get by a lot easier here when you stop trying to understand all the random things that go on here.

12:01 Freedom! Now I have the whole rest of the day!

I'm starving at this point so for lunch I go to UCAD (another university about 15 minutes away where I'm taking a translation class). There are two women who make and sell delicious omelet sandwiches for only 350 cfa, and I usually add the 3 beignets (dougnuts) or fatiah (deep fried dough with this fishy moosh in it- sounds strange but it's delightful) for another 100, and I have an incredible lunch for less than a dollar. I always bring my own water, so on any given day I only spend $2 on food, and that's after I buy my few packets of peanuts on the way home.

However, depending on when you get there, it can be a pretty intense process to get your lunch. Usually there are 6 or so students all cramped together trying to order while the doorway and stairs to the left is a constant stream of people going in and out. The women never stop peeling potatoes and frying them up, the omelets are practically cooked as soon as they hit the pan, and the whole time your mouth is watering because it smells like heaven in a baguette.

Meanwhile, the girl behind me fingers my braids with a smile and tells me my hair is joli (pretty) and is it natural?

I finally get my sandwich and fatiah, and this time it's wrapped in an article about a neurological French scientist or something. I sit down on the ledge just on the other side of the area where the food is made and try not to inhale my sandwich as I take a look at my free reading material that also shelters my sandwich.

Just around the time I've given up on Dr. Too-many-scientific-terms, a student from UCAD has sat down next to me to ask me the same round of questions; Who are you? Do you study here? Where are you from? Can I have your number? Will you teach me English? Do you like Senegal...etc.

I really enjoy these conversations, as I think they are what help improve my French the most. The questions about numbers and similar are more or less just something Senegalese guys do and not at all meant in the same way as guys in America would mean it. As soon as I explain no and why, they're already asking another question and (usually) no offense is taken.

13:00-18:00 With a content tummy, I walk back to WARC to read, use the internet and more or less hang out with everyone until we leave. Sometimes I'll go for a walk along La Corniche, the road that follows the coast, or leave with Sarah and Meera to hang out at their house for a while, since they have a little shop in front where we hang out all the time. Sometimes I'll stop at Manou's house (my host-cousin and one of my best friends on this trip) to just talk for a bit and then he'll walk me to Sarah and Meera's, where we'll also stop to chat for a while.

That's one of my favorite parts about Senegal; everyone spends so much time talking with their friends, family, vendors, etc. and there is rarely a rush. I struggled with this for some time since I would start to feel anxious after a while, feeling like I should be doing more "productive" things since I'm used to a much faster-paced lifestyle, but what I've realized is that what makes me happiest is when I just let that feeling go and enjoy the company I'm with, ask about their family, discuss and debate ideas, etc. because it's probably the most productive thing you can do.

It's strange to consider the idea that I used to measure productivity by the amount of homework or reading I got done, by how many tasks or errands I finished, by how many hours I worked or volunteered. That's not to say these things aren't productive, I still feel great when I accomplish and do things like that, but I'm never as happy as I am when I simply spend time talking with people and learning about them. I'm trying to listen more than talk on this trip, though I still do my fair share of talking.

I don't think my stress level has ever been so low.

21:30 And now, as I end my day typing this all next to Yves (who is apparently nursing his teddy bear?) and answering Louis-Albert’s endless questions (Tu fais quoi? – What are you doing?) I know that I’m probably going to be in bed again before 10, as I’m exhausted just like every other day.

And now Louis-Albert has stolen the teddy bear and the poor thing’s head is stuck under his shirt; C’est moi qui est la maman! (I’m the mommy!) And so begins another round of screaming.

The teddy bear has just been flung across the room!

Live from Dakar,
Katie