Marketing Plan

If I had to define the nature of my work in Senegal in one word it would be “marketing.” If you gave me a few more, I might be tempted to add “Microsoft Publisher.” But marketing could sum up most of what I spend my time talking, thinking, or dreaming about and generally working on project wise.

Liqueurs de Warang

It’s time for another bucket list check mark! I found myself accidently walking into the perfect opportunity to participate in a fun activity simply by being in the right place at the right time. Waking up in Dakar, I was presented with three friends headed to Warang- a destination not too far from Mboro- for the morning. Located just east of a popular tourist town, off the road headed to lesser known sightseeing treasures, is the distillery and tasting room of the Liqueurs de Warang.

Easter Weekend

While Senegal is known for being a Muslim country, about 20% of the population of Mboro is actually Catholic. We have a beautiful church complex (school, chapel, dance hall, clinic, and living area), a handful of booze selling outlets, and even a few nuns on mission in our fair hamlet. The two religious groups get along swimmingly side-by-side: the elected mayor of Mboro is Catholic but most of his cabinet is Muslim, and the Catholic school is home to most of the practicing children (who can afford to go) but quite a few Muslim children attend as well.  I’ve yet to hear of one conflict between the two parties; which is to be expected, but just in case you were wondering…

Thiou Yap

And so another recipe is recorded as Aida, Proprietor of the Resto Porokhane, and I move onto another business topic: Marketing. Today we sat down to learn another of my favorite dishes Thiou Yap (pronounced “chew yap”). This is a wonderful tomato based meat and vegetable dish served over white rice.

Thiebou Yap

Continuing with the recipes that I eat quite frequently and enjoy, I present you with Thiebou Yap (pronounced “cheb boo yah-p”) this is a traditional lunch meal translated to mean rice with meat.

Bissap 101

I've had a few people indicate interest in traditional African recipes, so I’ve started to collect a small database comprised of my most favorite or easily made dishes. Recently, I had a guest whose family back home was looking for the “how-to” on bissap juice.

Palmarin to Mar Lodj

Well, I’ve done it again. A friend of Christine’s came to visit and we just couldn’t resist another great kayaking experience. But this story has so much more to it.

Extreme Rollercoaster

I had a perfect Sunday. I slept in late and read a book in bed under the covers. I got up midmorning and ate breakfast while doing some writing. I greeted my family, but they left me alone to work. Then I walked over to the school to connect to the internet, wrote a friend a letter and had spare time to browse some articles on the web. After some friendly banter with a few kids and a call from Kenny, I went home change and get ready for the day.

Food Diary

Aside from everything mentioned in the last entry, one last important point I’d like to make before we get to the details of this food diary is that my family is not like “normal” Senegalese families. I can’t say this enough; my experience is completely different from just about every other volunteer in this country. I am the exception, not the rule. My family is pretty wealthy and we therefore have the ability to buy more variety. They are health conscious (as my Mom is actually on a diet- and losing weight) and so we are always talking about ways to prepare and eat better food. By contrast, I’ve had conversations with volunteers who’ve never even seen chocolate in their villages, who live in desert places where fresh veggies don’t grow in- nor get delivered to- their town, and who are always eating lunch’s leftovers for dinner (and sometimes breakfast the next day, too). Remember: exception, not rule.

And now, a recap of all the things I ate for a week:

Monday Lunch: Beef Maffee. This is a tomato paste based sauce with peanut butter added for flavor. Veggies cooked whole and then broken into pieces during the meal include potato, sweet potato, cabbage, manioc, carrot, onion and hot pepper. All of this poured over white rice. A soy sauce substitute is sprinkled on top and a wedge of lemon is available to cut the spice.

Monday Dinner: Beef with Veggies. The meat is braised in oil and garlic before the water and veggies are added to the pot and thoroughly cooked (i.e. water has evaporated). Veggies are green bean, onion, and potato quarters. Pieces of bread accompany the dish.

Tuesday Lunch: Beef Curry. Beef is cooked in oil. Small pieces of carrot, onion, tomato, cabbage, and white radish are cooked in the traditional yellow Indian curry sauce… while whole pieces of manioc, potato and hot pepper are also added and then poured over white rice.

Tuesday Dinner: Beef Spaghetti. Yes, we have pasta here… which, after cooked, is covered in copious amounts of oil, onions and a few pieces of beef. Bread is served on the side. Side note: they break the pasta strands into thirds, even though the entire long piece will fit in the pot for boiling, just to make it bite sized.

Wednesday Lunch: Fish and Rice. The dish of Senegal! Pieces of fish are fried in oil, sauce is made from bouillon cube in which cabbage, potato, carrot, bitter tomato, and sweet potato are cooked. After, the cooked veggies are removed and a portion of the sauce is mixed with the cooked rice. The whole thing is pour back over the now red rice and eaten.

Wednesday Dinner: Salad. The outer circle of the bowl is lined with unbroken pieces of lettuce that have been tossed in vinaigrette. The inner circle is filled with boiled potatoes, carrots, onions, and green beans. Fresh cucumber, green pepper, and tomato slices are dispersed around the entire bowl, along with spam, hardboiled egg, and sausage slices. The entire dish is then drizzled with ketchup, herbed mayonnaise, and hot sauce. And of course there is bread.

Thursday Lunch: Beef Yassa. Picture long slices of white onion sautéed in oil and vinegar. Add beef pieces and pour over white rice. Variations sometimes include additional vegetables or green olives, but generally not. It’s a pretty bland and nutrition less meal.

Thursday Dinner: Mouhamza. The tiniest dot pasta balls cooked then mixed with water, powdered milk, and sugar. No bread comes with this one (did you really want it?). My host mom wishes all to know that normally this meal is reserved for Sunday dinner (light meal rotation)… but as she was very busy during this afternoon she had little time to prepare a “proper” meal.

Friday Lunch: Beef Domada. Tomato based sauce mixed with flour, to make it thick and goopy, and bay leaves. Whole cooked potato, carrot, cabbage head, manioc, and sweet potato are divided amongst the participants during the meal. Bite sized beef and white rice round out the dish.

Friday Dinner: Beef and Potatoes with Salad. This dish comes with “Irish style” stewed meat and potatoes in an onion sauce. A salad lines the outer circle and consists of vinaigrette soaked lettuce, tomato, green pepper and mustard and hot sauce sprinkled on top. Bread, as always, is served on the side.

Saturday Lunch: Fish and Fish Balls with Rice. This is a fancier version of the same meal eaten earlier in the week. One large fish is substituted for the pieces used in the last version. Same veggies are cooked in sauce, but egg plant and red beans have been added. Smaller pieces of green beans, white radish, and onions have also been incorporated into the sauce. Another type of fish is mashed, balled, fried and added to the veggies and sauce. The whole sauce is mixed with the rice. A hot pepper has been added for good measure.

Let’s pause for a disclaimer: I have informed the town of Mboro (and quite a few people outside it) that I am allergic to fish. I therefore, have a system worked out with my family where when fish is eaten I will go out, eat leftovers, or prepare my own meal. So on Wednesday I made myself hard boiled eggs and ate a plate of spaghetti. And Saturday I made an egg salad sandwich and a cup of ramen noodles. It’s nutritious (sort of) and a little taste of home.

Saturday Dinner: Green Peas. This is one of my favorite meals. Admittedly it’s because of its protein and fiber content, but also because green peas seem to taste different here. Purchased dried, the peas spend an afternoon being rehydrated in salt water. They’re then boiled until soft. Beef pieces and an onion sauce are created together then added to the peas. Bread is served on the side, of course.

Sunday Lunch: Meat and Rice. As it was my host mom’s birthday we had her favorite meal for lunch. Rice was cooked with curry, hot spices, and bay leaves. Cucumber, carrot, tomato, green pepper, white radish, green beans and onion were sliced into long thin slices and tossed with green peas and vinaigrette. Beef and sausage was pan cooked, while summer sausage and hard boiled eggs were cut into slices. Green olives, pickled Vidalia onions and pickles were littered about the top.

Sunday Dinner: Chakrey. Picture a runny (not so goopy) sweat vanilla yogurt. Add pieces of your favorite tropical fruits (papaya, cantaloupe melon, pineapple) and a few others such as banana and apple. Throw in some dried stuff too; raisons and cherries. Added to it is millet flour made into millimeter sized balls thanks to water and a few drops of orange and vanilla extracts (it was also steamed at some point). This is the only meal that is served in individual serving sized bowls. Seconds are optional, and on this occasion I even had thirds!

Another note about dessert: Sunday being mom’s birthday, we had a phenomenal buffet of dessert. First we had the same yogurt described above minus the millet, plus extra fruit. But most importantly, my host father drove to the gourmet bakery (an hour away) to buy 6 (yes, I said 6) different flavored cakes for my mom. This is the 2^nd year running I’ve seen this and it convinces me that for all dad’s joking he really does love mom! Happy 39^th birthday to Ndiaye Anna Ba. 

Food Basics

I frequently get a lot of questions about Senegalese food, so I decided to create a week long diary of what it is that I actually eat. While I was on vacation in the US, I attempted to refuse to eat rice or onions… because they are in everything I’ve eaten for nearly a year and a half. Aside from that tid-bit it’s time to lay out a detailed description of what I’m consuming (and why I’m always asking for protein in care packages).

There are a few basics that apply to every meal that I figure are “must know.” So this installment I’ll throw out all the generalities (and the next one will have a blow by blow of an entire week of food).

First off, half of ever meal is prepared in the hallway. The kitchen is used for storage of utensils, cookware and the gas tank. Things may be cooked there but they prep work is done in the hallway. Mom pulls up a chair then washes, peels, slices, or mashes food in the most common area of the house. The refrigerator even sits in the hall way. Honestly, there just isn’t enough room in the kitchen anyways… it’s roughly the size of guest bathrooms you’d see in America. Seriously.

When I say there is beef in a meal what I mean is someone got a hunk of who-knows-what-part of cow from the butcher. It was probably killed within the last 48 hours. I hope. They don’t seem to know how to handle fat, so my family cuts through the muscle portion to form small bite sized pieces thus leaving the fat to ribbon through each piece; yummy. In any given meal there are only maybe 15 to 20 pieces of meat and 9 or more of us at the bowl. This is why I ALWAYS ask for protein in care packages.

The “table” is a piece of vinyl that is placed on the floor, either in the hallway (for lunch) or the living room (for dinner). Then the meal is served in a circular platter about 24 inches in diameter with a 1 inch high rim. Everyone is handed a spoon at lunch and a fork at dinner. My youngest brother has a mini fork and spoon. This is not the case in every home. Quite often you will hear of people eating with their hand- without utensils. This is normal, but as my family is well off we only find ourselves in this situation when many more guests are around than we have utensils. The women sit on their legs, butt cheeks on ankles, while the men sit on their left leg the same way with the right foot on the ground and knee to their chests. Guests are given a “bank” which resembles the foot stool we used as kids to brush our teeth in the bathroom sink. It’s not really all that comfortable and just makes you eat with your chest resting on your knees during the meal. Or at least that’s how I feel.

As for etiquette, we have only a few rules. Everyone eats with their right hand, while the left hand holds a piece of bread (at night only). It is not the biggest insult if I forget and chew a piece of bread with my left hand, I’ve seen my family do it, but I generally try to set my fork down, tear a piece off in my right hand, and then eat it. When you are done eating, it is then acceptable to find a drink (or be handed one if you’re a guest). No one speaks, drinks, or moves slowly during a meal. You snooze; you lose- your precious few bits of meat- as any given period of consumption lasts a maximum of ten minutes.

Breakfast in my house is always the same: bread. It’s therefore not worth mentioning 7 individual times. We each get about 6 inches of white baguette. My mother will spread butter on the insides for my brothers. Occasionally we’ll have chocolate, or fruit preserves (if I’ve brought them) on the weekends. During Ramadan we try to eat sandwiches with egg or meat and cheese on them as it is already 7p and we are dying for protein. And there are plenty of volunteers who eat breakfast out… and acquire cooked bean sandwiches or chalkery (yogurt and millet) but those options are a pretty long walk for me and who can stand to wait that long for breakfast?

To drink for breakfast the kids are handed a cup of heated water mixed with sugar and powdered milk (because of its high fat and vitamin content… and good taste?). Adults drink water with Nestcafe (instant coffee) or Café Touba (strong chai spiced coffee). A third option is Quinquilliba, a mild local green leaf boiled in water for tea.

An note should be made about dessert. After lunch, if we have the stock, fruit is served. We’ll eat slices of watermelon, melon, corossol or papaya, or share pieces of orange, apple, banana… generally anything we can find in season. For special occasions, such as birthdays or holidays (both American and Senegalese) we’ll make a cake. Last year on my mom’s birthday my dad drove to Thies and bought her a cake from the bakery. It was really cute. And finally, when bored or throwing a party, my family pulls out the ice cream maker and tries a new recipe involving sweet yogurt or eggs and condensed milk. Generally with fruit flavors added but we attempted a great chocolate version once! Any dessert is successful if my 2.5 year old brother is wearing more of it than he’s eaten (actually that rule goes for most meals, too)!

One of the most important points to keep in mind is that we are currently in “vegetable season.” This goes to say that veggies are abundant and inexpensive (read: affordable in appropriate quantities). The meals represented next, especially at night, are infinitely more nutritious this time of year than, say, the end of the dry season just before the rain hits and plants can grow again. Perhaps I’ll log another meal diary in 6 months for comparison…

And lastly, the timing of meals isn’t what you’d expect either. Lunch is served anywhere from 1:30p to 3:30p. Schools in Mboro don’t even let out for lunch until 1p. If its Friday then lunch can be even later as the most important prier of the week (read: trip to the local mosque) takes place at 2:20p. Dinner is then pushed back to 9:30p at the earliest, but generally around 10:30 or 11p. This is because my brothers get hungry around dusk… so they snack. If we eat too soon after snack time they won’t finish dinner and this greatly annoys my host mother. In addition, 2 nights a week my dad won’t even get home from work until 10:30p so we’re waiting for him to join us before eating. Frequently some of my youngest brothers won’t make it until dinner is actually served before passing out of the night. 

Kayaking the Delta

As part of the African adventure I planned for m sister’s visit, I combined visiting a friend, seeing a new point in Senegal, and doing something I’d never done before… and that’s how kayaking came about. We went to see the beautiful sites of five or so villages known collectively as the destination of Palmarin.

The adventure started when we left Mboro, took a two hour detour to see the mosques of Tivaouane (collecting Christine), and then passed through the Thies and Mbour garages before finally arriving at our destination. Along the route, I’d showed my sister the art of shopping for food via garage as we collected fruit, nuts, bread, and water. In addition, they got to experience the magic that is a seven-place ride with its heat, smells, lack of space, and breast feeding passengers. As an added bonus the car broke down on the road affording us that mini adventure too.

By my recollection, we went three villages into the collection of Palmarin before disembarking at the intersection of two dirt roads. Before getting there we’d crossed the delta and the seemingly infinite span of salt flats, choosing to actually drive on the salt flats because, as the name implies, it was significantly less pot-holed and bumpy than the actual road itself. The resilient pools of water made it easy to imagine the flooding that would have occurred during the rainy season making travel to and from the area a nightmare, if not completely impossible only a few months beforehand.

In the village of my friend, we passed time at a local restaurant sipping on cold cokes, tasting mint ice cream, meeting my friend’s host family, searching out more drinks, and gossiping in the shade until more volunteers joined our party. In total we became a team of seven ready for kayaking, camping, and a great time. So we started hiking, in the later afternoon sun, down an endless dirt road toward water, our guides, and the boats. And this lasted for about an hour, or maybe two miles, until we arrived at a shallow bank of water. There were two guides for the adventure who would navigate the waterways of the delta, set up camp, prepare dinner, and act as a bevy of knowledge about the area.

We pared off for the boating part of the excursion, although not all that smartly, with Christine and I in our own kayak, my sister and her boyfriend in another, the boys in a third, and the remaining volunteer to pilot a solo kayak. Disaster struck Christine and I almost immediately after pushing off from land. The water was only 5 inches deep, but we managed to get ourselves completely turned around and floating backwards with the current in mere minutes. The rest of our party long gone, we piloted from one bush of mangroves to the next attempting some on-the-job acquisition of the skill. Where I had started in the front of the boat (the strong rowing position), we eventually found our groove with me in the back (the navigator position).

Just before sunset we pulled into camp. Although it felt as though we were on a secluded island, we were told that walking farther into the bush one could find their way to another village and eventually the main road. But from where we were standing, we’d landed on one of the only banks with a clearing in the mangroves. A few tall trees, a flat surface for tents and brush already trimmed back a bit. The space of land was slightly elevated which augmented our view of the delta.

Our guides handed us peanuts and blankets so we sat down to enjoy the sunset with a celebratory cocktail; a good time ensued. For dinner we started with an appetizer of clams served with an onion sauce and pieces of fresh veggies. Dinner was grilled shish kabobs of lotte, a type of white fish, with more veggies. It was outstanding. The guides had even brought a cooler of cold sodas and beers to share. By the time dinner was done we were ready to call it quits and climbed into our already set up tents with air mattresses and sheets and blankets; very hospitable.

The next morning we woke at dawn to the sounds of hyenas in the distance. A French breakfast consists of bread with butter or jam and coffee, which is what we ate picnic style once more plus some juice and fruit. A little bit later we’d packed up camp, loaded the kayaks, and set off once more to navigate the delta.

After the debacle that was our experience the night before we begged the guys to split up their kayak to save Christine and I the hassle of forging once more through the unfamiliar experience. They refused. Perhaps they thought it was funny. We disagreed but had no choice to brave it again. And it was going quite well, even though we were now going upstream, until it occurred to the guys that our kayak was ahead of theirs; typical male egos. So they picked up the pace, and just as we were going around a close quarters type of corner in tandem with my sister’s kayak the guys slid their kayak between our two, slamming into ours midway down the length of her effectively pushing us into the mangroves. It was all over for our confidence after that. We couldn’t get ourselves out of one bush without landing again in another. Sigh. The guys thought this to be hilarious, so at the first chance we got we splashed them with as much water as our paddles would throw. It seemed justified at the time.

Before making it back to the main road, we took a detour to a small island covered in shells that were protected grounds after being looted for the shells that could be used to build roads out of the delta to Dakar. There we learned more fun facts and found our way to a giant baobab tree. The guy was so big that 8 of us could climb inside of it. Literally. And we did. And after the hilarity of that, we had a nice cup of coffee inside before climbing back out. Then back to the kayaks. And then we made it back to the main road, thus completing our entire experience. Well done, well maybe except the actual kayaking part.

Drink

It seems that most of the maladies I’ve tackled here in Africa have been contracted by something liquid. The problem is the contaminated water. We have filters, bleach droppers, and even pre-filtered bottled water… but as it usually does in life, shit happens. There are times when I run out of water in my carrying bottle long before I know I’ll make it back to a vendor or my treated stash. It’s at these times that I think to myself “diarrhea is way easier to treat than dehydration.” I know what you’re thinking, diarrhea leads to dehydration… but that’s only if I still haven’t made it back to water by then. And when I get dehydrated I stop functioning like a rational human being, which makes getting anywhere in this blistering sand box a whole hell of a lot worse. And my final argument is the ability to stop at any house on the way home and beg the use their hole in the ground toilet… but once I’ve made the commitment to not drink untreated water, there’s no stopping by any old house begging for water.

So, once getting myself into a waterless predicament, then choosing the lesser of the two evils and chancing the contaminated water, there is nothing to do but cross my fingers and pray to not spend quality time with my toilet. But, you know, shit happens.

Plus side is that a good number of maladies have also been cured by some of my new favorite liquids. Stomach cramp, constipation, or urinary tract infection: bissap juice. Irritated stomach or amoebas of some kind: ginger juice. Dizziness, high blood pressure, dehydration: treated water (generally in mass quantities) mixed with oral rehydration salts. Laziness, tiredness, or lack of motivation: café Touba. Sweet tooth or lack of appetite: Senegalese tea. Depleted stash of water flavoring packets: Foster’s Clark fruit drink mix packets. Stress, irritability, or general need to relax: beer.

I know a few of these might be foreign words that you’ve spent a good 3 minutes deciding how to pronounce, so I figure we should go into more detail.

A glass of icy bissap juice is actually sundried hibiscus flowers that have been soaked in water. That water was then drained, mixed with sugar (and extracts of any kind or lemon juice), and then chilled. Fancier versions include soaking mint in with the flower petals. It is similar in color and taste to cranberry juice, and I can personally attest to its third likeness to the fruit with respect to urinary tract infections. If brewed in hot water, it tastes more like a berry tea and does seem to help with anything variety of stomach cramping knots. However, beware not to drink more than a few glasses of bissap because in large quantities it acts as both a diuretic and caffeine. No one wants to be awake all night running to the bathroom every half hour. Trust me; I’ve made that mistake already.

For a spin, mix it with orangina (soda water with a dose of orange flavor) for a kiddy cocktail, with gin for a man’s drink, or rum and sprite for something a bit fancier. If you find yourself in Dakar where rum is strangely in short supply substitute whiskey and continue about your evening. It won’t taste all that great, but then again what were you expecting?

Bissap can be found in syrup form (a thriving enterprise among women’s groups), purchased on the streets made with local water and sold at reduced prices, occasionally by the glass for exorbitant prices in restaurants, or in the grocery stores by the carton.

Café Touba can best be described as strong hot Starbucks coffee mixed with chai spices. Because the Senegalese love their sugar so much there is an excessive amount in there. Like any coffee, caffeine is the key ingredient, but this mixture will have you off your ass before you can finish the espresso shot serving size portion.

Senegalese tea is similar to the Café Touba in that it too will be served with copious amounts of sugar in a shot sized serving. It is brewed with Chinese green tea for round one, even more sugar in round two and with mint by round three. Don’t drink on an empty stomach because you will get sick. It is typically served after lunch as a digestive while more sugar conscious individuals are partaking of siesta.  

Foster’s Clark is the only thing getting me through the monotony of daily water consumption. Before you start making noise about my finicky pallet, I suggest you try filtered beached water for breakfast lunch and dinner for any duration of time. Right. So Foster’s Clark makes all sorts of great flavors like orange, apple, guava, passion fruit, peach, mango, and even Coca Cola. Mix ‘em with a large bottle of water and enjoy for about 30 min until your next bottle (because that’s how fast we go through water in the hot season).

And last but not least, Senegal produces a total of four beers on its soil. Flag and Gazelle were the only two around when I landed. A Flag tastes like a wheat version of Budweiser while Gazelle is like a Miller Lite that only gets better when you add a lime wedge Corona style. I was immediately drawn to Gazelle for its great quantity for the money ratio and taste. Later in my service two more beers were introduced: 33 and Pelforth. 33 is somewhere between Flag and Gazelle in taste and bottle size, where as the Pelforth is an amber ale. There are some imports that are available in bigger cities for more money, but who can be bothered? Hmm, yeah I stuck with my old faithful. 

Food Porn

The idea of food porn is not my creation. In fact, I actually can’t attribute it to anyone in particular. But it is, however, a much thought about and highly integrated part of a Peace Corps Volunteer’s life. The word porn is used in this sense to mean an unfulfilled desire captured in video, picture, verbal exchanges, and publication- cyber or printed. And of course it has to involve food: making, buying, preparing, ordering, eating, or just simply staring at a coveted food item. The practice of engaging in one of the aforementioned verbs related to food is considered “food porn.”

For the average PCV, food porn is a daily vice like nicotine or booze to an alcoholic. Perhaps, it’s the mere exercise of sitting in one’s room smelling the preparation of lunch and day dreaming about what the day would be like if your favorite meal were in store- instead of the rice and fish you’re going to get. Some volunteers will watch cooking shows like Iron Chef, Hell’s Kitchen, or anything found on the Food Network to get their fix. Others explore all the different substitutes possible in their favorite recipes given what’s available in Senegal. For example, I have made a fabulous batch of chocolate chip cookies substituting honey from the Casamance region for brown sugar. Don’t judge me or I won’t share any of the millet banana cake. And still others spend time looking up pictures or articles about food online. Websites like thisiswhyyourfat.com and one’s giving food critic reviews are nothing to dismiss.

There is a volunteer produced cookbook with tricks of the trade: building your own stove or baking with a gas tank and the more successful in-country substitutes for unavailable ingredients. But whenever possible we prefer to spend money at import stores buying western ingredients to cook at home or in our regional houses. Volunteers often have their favorite foods shipped to them by loved ones. Peanut butter, spices, dried or freeze-dried items, and even meals for created for mountain climbing enthusiasts. Again, don’t knock some of those pasta dishes until you’ve tried them.

Volunteers frequently attempt to make American meals to share with their host families. The success rate is dismal but the efforts continue. To my knowledge one of the truly “amazing” things my predecessor made for my family was a pot of extremely spicy chili (though it’s unclear if the success was due to the level of spice or that the spice clouded the taste of the foreign meal). For holidays I attempt to make my family some of my favorite desserts. And they eat it politely but I can always tell they don’t understand the concept of apple cobbler or why anyone would want to make such a chocolate moist cake (read: brownies).

And when none of this is sufficiently satisfying, we PCVs travel over multiple days to reach the splendor that is Dakar often creating a weekend agenda centered solely on food. The attraction is of course the bevy of western restaurants and menu items. Cuisines of Chinese, Thai, Japanese, Korean, Lebanese, Ethiopian, French, Italian, Mexican and even an American diner food and a KFC knock off are residents of Dakar.

But none of this will ever compare to the day we actually go back to the Western worlds from which we came and our food porn was born. With my pending vacation in the great land of convenience (aka the USA), I can’t help but imagine my first meal back home. Not just casually thinking of my favorite foods, and narrowing them down to most important, I take it one step further to food porn because I picture myself preparing and then sitting down to the master piece of a meal. I can smell the kitchen and grill smells, lick the bowls used in preparation, see the familiar colors of my favorite items, and I salivate. In fact, since I’m thinking about it now, I might as well share.

My dream starts with some fresh pieces of veggies (like carrots, cucumber, and broccoli) dipped in the hidden valley ranch packets that are mixed with sour cream to make dip. It should be noted that I mix 1.5 packages to prescribed amount of sour cream for increased flavor. This is washed down with my favorite white wine Relax, a type of Riesling. For dinner we eat a McCormick seasoned steak grilled medium-well and served with horseradish sauce (made from a base of wasabi mayo and horseradish). On the side is a salad with the following toppings: dried cherries, feta cheese, onions, tomatoes, cucumber, and croutons. The dressing is, of course, jalapeño ranch from Pepperidge Farm. For dessert there’s a giant bowl of cold berries (really any fruit ending in berry will do) and barely thawed cool whip. Oh, and let’s not forget the large warm chocolate chip cookie. I don’t like a lot of chocolate chips in my cookie, just one or two, because I’m really in it for the dough- of which I’ve already a few spoonfuls when raw.

No, not all of those items go together, but I suppose it wouldn’t be food porn if they did. Or if I hadn’t described it all in what I’m sure was boring detail to you (which was pretty agonizing for me). I do think it’s telling that most of the items were based from fresh healthy foods… that were accompanied by dairy based products. It says that I don’t get either of those food “groups” in sufficient quantity here. You should be concerned if my 1st supper had included rice, pasta, bread, or any other form of carbohydrate. But anyway, I figure you get what I mean by food porn by now. And yes, Dad, the above was a not-so-subtle hint. Thanks.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving being my absolute favorite holiday, and since I’d stayed with my family in Mboro the year before, I saw fit to travel this year. So I went to Dakar for the best gig in country to be celebrated in the form of an upscale dinner party. Every year the Ambassador to the United States opens her home to the lonely likes of the Peace Corps Volunteers residing in Senegal. It’s a potluck whose arrangements is organized only a few days before when a person calls, texts, or emails their desired food contribution to the PC headquarters office. I personally went through 3 rounds before settling on something not requested by others and not similarly represented. As my sister was visiting I also made arrangements for her to join the festivities as well.

The day of my sister, her boyfriend, Christine, and myself woke up in another town, organized our possessions and set out to find a ride to Dakar. Looking for a car out of Popenguine had us walking all sorts of scenic routes, until we stopped a passing car to ask directions back to town or a garage. He turned out to be a French priest at the mission in town and offered to give us a ride to the next town’s garage. After we got in, it was discovered that he’d been living in Senegal for 3 years and was currently travelling to Dakar on business… he offered to take us the distance and would not accept money or gifts. He drove us within 3 blocks of our destination in Dakar in a record time nearly half of what is considered normal travel.

On the road we discovered that my cell phone provider was offering 'buy one get one free' in cell phone credit. This felt like finding treasure as any other promotional day I've been privy to has only offered a 50% upgrade. 100% was only a myth... until now. Our phones work off of prepaid credit that is purchased in card form from any aspiring entrepreneur. They are more common than lemonade stands in a US subdivision during summer. Though this seems like a sidebar to the festivities, it could've been equated to a Christmas miracle and was therefore highly appreciated.

For breakfast we ate lunch items at the diner in downtown Dakar. Chances to sit in AC, drink lemonade, and eat pizza and fries would put anyone in an American mood. Followed by checking into the hotel, taking hot showers, and getting dolled up for the evening- all of which improved the experience. I haven’t looked that pretty since I got ready for New Years Eve 2010. Depressing and pathetic, but true… and also a cost savings. While Christine, sister, and I did our makeup and exchanged accessories, sister's boyfriend spent some quality time watching Senegalese music videos and learning the art of traditional dance. Both he and sister can do a remarkable impersonation of a appropriate leg shaking and lifting with accompanying blank faced stare.

In the early afternoon, we bought supplies at the nicest store in town for our contribution to the buffet and took them over to the regional house. There we showed sister how each local volunteer has a locker but the bunk beds are up for first-come-first-serve grabs to the people who arrive there. Unfortunately preparations for dinner side dishes and desserts worked much the same way… and by the time we got there barely any of the cooking utensils were available for use or storage. After some shifting of side dishes and bargaining for stove top space we managed to boil our pasta and cut our sausage, cucumber, olives, and onions. The dressing was to be tossed in just before dinner was served (although that was somehow lost in translation with the kitchen staff at the ambassador’s residence). And just as we were finishing it was time to grab the barely used heels from my locker and head out to our party.

We took a taxi and actually got there by telling him the neighborhood and whose house we were going to. This surprises me because I couldn’t tell you the location of any other ambassador’s house in any other country. But then, I’m not strong in geography. Upon arrival, the security guard checked our names off a list, in a VIP club sort of way, before we walked through the gates. The Ambassador herself met us at the front door with greetings and a member of the kitchen staff (there to receive our dish, which she would later transfer to a new plate and sans dressing), and after offering our thanks for the invitation we signed the guest book and headed to the patio for some drinks.

The back yard of the estate (yes that is the appropriate word for the place) was the perfect place for a twilight cocktail hour. A bar and two bartenders served red and white imported wines, beer, and local juices while my fellow volunteers and members of the PC staff mingled around the pool. Sister spent a fair amount of time chatting up and getting to know my friends who were beautifully dressed in a way that made me miss holidays, formal functions, and generally being clean and well groomed.

Just as the sun set, we headed inside to the grand living room where eight round tables we covered in beautiful white linens with matching white chair covers and place settings. It was like a fancy wedding, and combined with the lighting (which for the first time in a long time wasn’t florescent), made me consider whether or not I have a problem with season effected disorder or just bad lighting. The wait staff (I’m talking men in dress shirts and vests, seriously) brought wine periodically. For dinner we ate all the usual fixings, each made from at least 3 different “recipes from home,” and I tasted them all. Well except the green mashed potatoes… and that’s just good common sense. I ate so much that I got a second plate, but I couldn’t finish it.

We stuffed ourselves like this for quite a while before they brought out coffee and cleared the buffet table (the promise of optional take home bags whispered through the air). Then it was on to dessert, where the table was once again covered with brownies, apple pie, corn bread (another lost in translation item), carrot cake, and other items I couldn’t manage room for. Luckily the others at my table all wanted mere bites so we shared one of everything.

As the sleepy drug of turkey took hold of the room, I found the already cleaned pasta pan and secured for it safe passage back to the regional house with other friends. Then I collected my sister and her boyfriend and Christine and got them back to the hotel room, where we called our families (possibly only due to the 100% promotional phone credit miracle) and laid down in a poor attempt to let our stomachs digest. This didn’t last long, as we’d promised to drag ourselves up and out to the nearest bar for beers with friends. We made it through one sad beer before calling Turkey Day a success and going to bed. And that’s how an ex-pat does an American holiday in style, Peace Corps life style be damned.

Tabaski

The biggest holiday of the Senegalese year has come again. It’s two lunar months after Korite (or about two calendar months plus ten days) and is known here as Tabaski. I’m sure it has a more Arabic name in other Muslim countries, and is celebrate a day or two earlier than we do, though I don’t know anything about it. This day is a fusion of my two of my favorite American holidays Christmas and Thanksgiving, and I’m certain that last year I was too caught up in the “everything is so different” aspect to see the resemblances. Happily, not much escaped me this year. I’m going to make a bold statement; this Tabaski was the best Senegalese holiday I’ve passed in all my time here.

The seemingly most important aspect of the day is sheep. Two days before the event I found myself in Dakar, which had a viable shot at being renamed Field of Sheep. Every single spare corner of land that wasn’t resident to a building or a trash pile was covered in sheep and their vendors (and even some of the piles, unfortunately). That’s a lot of sheep; which is to be expected given that every household takes it upon themselves to kill a sheep for their family. How many houses is that? A better question is where do all the sheep come from? I can’t answer either. I can tell you that the single most important purchase of the holiday is the ram, which can cost anywhere from $100 to $400 per. Now’s the time I remind you that the poverty line is drawn at making less than $1 a day… you do the math.

Also reminiscent of Thanksgiving is the enormous amounts of cooking to be accomplished. The night before my family and I sat down to peel a large sack of potatoes, (luckily I’d had a peeler shipped in which made me quite effective) and another of onions. The morning of I was put in charge of the French fries. I lucked out again as my mom (lover of all cooking appliances, utensils, and short cuts) had a fry cutting shooter gizmo which made the job a million times easier. After that I pitched in with the onions. For hours we sat cutting onions in our hands with a paring knife. These women don’t use cutting boards or large knifes to do their work, but they can accomplish the same volume with their hands as a I could with a cutting board for any given period of time. I on the other hand, having zero practice with this method, fumbled often. I’m proud to say, however, that I’m cut free!

Our Catholic neighbors were kind enough to lend us their daughters. Any girl in her teens was sent to our house and given a knife. In the later hours of the morning, when the onions were finally done, I started in turning the potatoes into French fries. Once again my mom pulled out the appliances and her deep fryer… which is good because as clumsy as I feel around the kitchen these days, I don’t know if I could’ve handled the open gas flame and the flying oil at the same time. So for hours I sat refilling the basket, closing the lit, double checking the color, emptying the basket, fighting off the hungry kids, and repeating. When the older Catholic women arrived, they helped my mom prepare onion sauce and our meat.

Let’s go back. What have the 7 men of my house been doing all day, you ask? Well by 9 am they are dressed in their brand new fancy boubous (which looks like an elderly gentlemen’s silk pajama suit) and at about 9:30a they have a special prier service at the mosque. After returning, they change back out of their nice cloths and get down to business. In less than 2 hours my team of brothers and uncles had killed, gutted, and cleaned not 1, but 2 sheep for our family’s festivities. Impressive speed, no? A neighbor had joined us for five minutes with his very sharp knife for the actual killing, and later another random man came by to collect the skins. I didn’t join them for the actual killing, but I did chuckle a bit when my 2 year old brother came running in the house saying “Mommy, the sheep is bleeding.”

Lunch (aka the most important meal of any Senegalese day- let alone this one) consisted of huge piles of meat, such as liver, ribs, or tenderloin, in a bed of onion sauce surrounded by fries, ate with our fingers and hunks of baguette. I have developed quite the affection for the mustard here, which looks deceptively like boring kind found at home but tastes like wasabi mayo that’s been died the same yellow color. Its heaven and I’m considering buying my family mass quantities of it so as to ensure we never run out. About the third or fourth time I asked my mom for another dollop she warned me not to over eat the mustard and make myself sick. Something I did last year, although it’s been contributed to the vinegar used in onion sauce recipes in other households.

After lunch I showered and put on my best Senegalese outfit. Unfortunately my nice shoes are holed up in Dakar and my flip flops nearly killed my mom with embarrassment. None the less, I grabbed my Catholic neighbor, a female friend of my generation (something I have very few of here), and headed to the booze boutique for a beer. After she wasn’t able to finish the whole bottle, and we donated it to the next client to walk in the door, we walked around our neighborhood greeting her friends. I struck up a conversation about how there are in fact only 50 states in the US (as opposed to the 52 that are taught) and 7 continents (5 of which are recognized here).

By dark I was beginning to feel the ache in my body from hours of peeling and frying, so I headed back home. My mom asked me to help here make a fruit salad for dessert... so there I sat cutting melon, banana, pineapple, and more. Meanwhile, I watched my dad and mom continue to clean the piles of sheep meat littering the house in buckets. They reduced the hunk sizes and packaged them into serving size bags to be stored in the large freeze we borrow across the street. By the time the salad was done, it was after 10pm and I was exhausted. My mom, now having such a great working knowledge of my oddities, handed me my usual serving size of salad and allowed me to skip dinner all together (which I’m told wasn’t served until 1:30am). I fell into bed completely exhausted.

For those of you mildly concerned about recent incidents with my uncle, turns out that the second purpose of Tabaski is forgiveness. There are a series of fun Wolof phrases designed for asking all of your acquaintances for pardon for past disagreements and offenses, as well as anything you might have done unknowingly and or unintentionally. I forced myself to take a deep breath and pull off a typical Wolof scenario which ended in the forgiveness of my uncle and the restoration of our (tolerable) relationship.

Soup For Thought

The buffet of incidents leading me to swear to always be an amazingly grateful house guest is never ending. Most recently, while my whole family is recovering from a cold given to us by a certain family member, my mom and the maid started a pot of soup for dinner. We rarely eat it because of the heat, but with the changing weather, cooler nights, and never ending cold and flu season, we had good reason to whip up a batch.

Generally, food is prepared in the house by the maid, my mom, or collaboration between the two. This last one goes mostly for the night time meal. My mom will ask the maid to pre-clean and cut veggies leaving them in the fridge for her to later use for dinner long after she’s gone home for the day. On soup night, this was the case. The maid prepped the veggies and meat, and left them in two separate bowls in the fridge. The boys were told to start the broth with bullion and the bowl in the fridge. Hours later a bowl of soup is brought in to my room by a brother, followed by another with a hunk of bread, and my mom.

“We forgot the meat,” she says. The maid had cut it, but somehow that bowl never made it into the soup. Internally I’m jumping for joy. The meat here isn’t frequently appetizing to me, and the fatty soups worthy bits are no exception. Shamefully, I act like a little kid and hide the bits I don’t eat by flushing them down the toilet or putting my bowl at the bottom of the stack in the kitchen so it can’t be traced back to me. So, yeah, I’m ecstatic there was a mistake in communication on this one. There’s a bowl full of broth and veggies with my name on it, and I dig in.

Insert my famed uncle. It’s a miracle he’s able to get up off our couch and walk his bowl to the kitchen as he usually just hands if off to one of the kids. But the reasoning is soon clear. He uses the opportunity to walk through the house making jokes with everyone about the meatless soup. “Soda, how is your water?” What are you talking about? “Anna is stupid and forgot the meat. We are just eating water for dinner. It’s horrible.” It’s not horrible. It tastes great. “You are stupid, too.”

At this point I am boiling over in rage. It’s enough to make me reconsider watching so many vampire related TV shows because there is just no stopping the fury from exploding from my mouth in a combination of 3 languages. The only person who is stupid is you. Anna is an amazing cook and you never appreciate it. You never say thank you. You take and take but you never once give back.

He laughs. My fire starts to flame blue. “It’s unbelievable that I have to remind you to say thank you. You don’t live here. This isn’t your house and therefore everything given to you is a gift. How could you be so unbelievably rude as to insult a free meal? You need to apologize to Anna right away for what you’ve said.” And about now you need to visualize me physically bullying my uncle into the living where my mom is sitting- as the last person to eat left all alone by the people she’s served who have already finished. My uncle covers the small bits of shame poking through his thick skull with a sheepish laughter and says he’s sorry. For what? Because there’s no meat in the soup. “The soup still tastes good,” my mom says. Yes, I believe that to be true, but he doesn’t. I’m sorry.

I go back to my room in order to lower my blood pressure. My uncle goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water to drink. He’s been embarrassed by my shaming him so he’s still making jokes and laughing. I would normally leave it be, but he just happened to grab my water bottle to drink from. Oh hell no. Put that back, I say, it’s not yours. He’s thinking I’m referencing that all things in the house aren’t his, and his ego has taken enough bruising for the night, so he ignores me. I follow him into the kitchen, blood pumping a million miles an hour again, and take the bottle from his hands. See? It’s got my name on it. It’s my bottle. “You’ve never put your bottle in the fridge.” It’s been there for over a year, so don’t bother with that lie.

He can’t take it anymore. Calling someone a liar, or out directly on a lie, is a major insult around here. He deals with his anger by laughing. This is the Wolof way; making mean spirited jokes. I put my water bottle back and he makes a move to grab another one. I’m way beyond flying off the handle (is it bad to admit that?) and I start screaming that he can no longer just take what he wants to while he’s disrespecting the house that I live it. Get out. Now. You’re done here. Go. Now. I pick up his shoes and throw them out the door. I’m actually hitting him. My family is an uncomfortable state of awe watching my utter unraveling in its process. My dad who is the most non-Wolof (read non-gossipy and non-confrontational) people I’ve ever met, has come out of his room to see what the fuss is about. He is so uncomfortable he giggles. Everyone else has stopped laughing uncomfortably and is staring at the floor. My brother comes up and tries to hug me. I shake him off. He pulls me back. Another brother hands my uncle a water bottle and a cup. “It’s done,” he says.

Yes. It is done. They might let you get away with it, but we’re done. Do not speak to me again until you find the meaning of respect. It takes me almost an hour to calm down and stop shaking. This is partly because I can hear my family recapping the incident in whispers and jokes. And as I reflect on my own actions or reactions, a few thoughts come to mind. I read an article about a new book by Tim Gunn, a man of the fashion industry, in which he talks about taking the high road. The value of shutting up and letting people be responsible for figuring out their own mistakes. Boy, am I the anti-thesis of that right now. Must do better in future.

But also I think about where all this sudden anger has come from. Friends have commented that people back home have noticed a change in their aggressiveness, and though I haven’t gotten the same comments I can’t help but believe it’s only because no one has noticed yet. I’m going through the same experiences as my fellow volunteers, so it’s incredibly likely that I’m also becoming more assertive with my anger. I’m more Wolof actually, because the culture here is to make a big deal out of something as quickly as possible. The quickest tongue and loudest mouth wins an argument, because peace, the always desired outcome is sought out quickly. Make a big enough scene and everyone else backs down. Not making a scene at all, trying to use respectful indoor voices and rational will get you nowhere. No one will do what you ask or take you seriously in any way shape or form. That’s what I’ve been learning for the last year anyway. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t I learn it well. Or if I’ll be speaking to my uncle again any time soon.

Sick of Sickness

On the night of the incident in question, my uncle came over a few hours before dinner to do his usual job of annoying everyone whilst waiting for dinner. I usually sit in my room for this, working or watching a movie. At some point I got up to stretch my legs only to find him lying on the couch watching TV alone. No one else seemed to be around the house, which is common for the cool evening hours, but did make his presence a bit weird. As soon as he saw me, he pulled a look on his face like he was in pain. He started moaning. I ignored him. He moaned some more. I left. A little while later I went into the room for something. He moans again; really attention hungry “look at me” kind of stuff. I do nothing. “I’m sick, Soda.” Yeah. “I’m really sick.” I ignore him. “You should help me.” You should go home and go to bed. You shouldn’t be walking across town to visit people who aren’t here. Go to bed. “But I’m sick. I can’t walk home like this.” I left again.

I’ve found I’ve become the type of person who no longer has the patience for indirect pleas for attention. Indirect is a huge part of Wolof culture, so I’m looking at a long battle of tolerance down the road. But that in itself shouldn’t be too hard. It’s the desperate attention seeking measures that get under my skin. Maybe more so because I know this culture to be one where if you’re sick people leave you alone. Initially, being a new comer, when I got sick I wasn’t left alone; I was forced to eat. But as time went on, and my family got used to my unchanging aura of weird, I started to learn that sickness makes them uncomfortable to confront. I’m talking about mild sickness. It’s the type of thing were simple medications are generally too expensive so they’re forgone. No pain meds for a headache and no Sudafed for a cold sort of stuff. People are expected to suck it up. When I’m sick my family knows that I need to make my own tea and skip a few meals in favor of soup. If my door is closed I’m sleeping and they should knock lightly for meals and I’ll get up if I'm awake or have energy. They leave me alone to recover like they would anyone else in the family. Everyone except my uncle that is?

Something I discovered by trial and error is that when I'm sick everything needs to come to a halt in order to get better. My first few months here I was continuously sick. Whether a stomach issue, or a cold, or a skin problem I’d take the appropriate meds and continue on with my life. But I just wasn’t ever 100%. We come from a culture of having only a handful of sick days for the whole year so they surely shouldn’t be wasted lest some emergency happen where taking those days is unavoidable. But that's not life in Senegal. Somehow there are too many factors and recovery takes that much longer. And if you don't get better, you could actually get so much worse. The only way to deal with illness- and most Senegalese agree with me- is to stop everything in favor of doing absolutely nothing until healed. No matter how many days it takes, I have to remember that I’m no good to these people if I can’t keep myself healthy. And no matter how much I ponder over finishing just a thing or two on the to-do list to keep myself from slipping behind in work… everything must be put on hold. Unless you're my uncle??

So given these bits of knowledge and culture, could you see why I’m so frustrated with a person that walks across town even though he shouldn’t to demand attention from people who don’t actually give it out? Why? Why would someone do that?

The answer is chicken. My uncle is under the impression that because he is a member of the family anything he desires in our house should be his. Awesome. Though this is not the first time I find myself frustrated with this arrogant cultural norm, I am overly agitated with the aforementioned “death bed” of an illness (remember all that moaning?) that accompanies him. This man is known to show up at our house demanding to know what’s for dinner. He’ll stay if it’s good, or complain and leave if he deems it unworthy. Now, I know my mom is one of the best cooks I’ve found in the country, but he’s just a little too ridiculous about it. A 30 something single bachelor that still lives with his mom (admittedly all normal for the area) who wanders the neighborhoods each night in search of the best dish… come on! At least bring a table gift from time to time. Act like a grateful house guest, right?

Well on this particular day, I find out, upon the return of the rest of my family members, that my Dad’s sister from a few towns over is coming to pay a visit. This will be my first time to meet her in the year I’ve been here as family only visits every few years- if they don’t actually live in Mboro that is. In honor of long distance visits my family busts out the bird; they made an excellent meal of chicken, fries, and salad. And although it shouldn’t surprise me that my uncle is selfish enough to potentially spread illness to every last member of my family, it does still anger me greatly.

But as I’m used to this, I brushed it off and took an extra vitamin C tablet. And then we sat down to eat. We are a family of not having to obsessively wash our hands before meals because when we do eat, we use a fork or spoon. On the occasion that there are too many people to pass out spoons for all, then we break out a fancy portable hand washing station but we mostly don’t need that. One of my brothers is in charge of passing out spoons. Only on this day, my uncle took on the role, or stack if you will, and just as he went to hand me the first one he sneezed all over them all. And this right here is what drove me to rage.

How can a sneeze be such a horrid offense, you say? Until you’ve been sick as many times as I have, and in a place where it’s hard to tell if you have a fever because you’re always that hot, I think you just won’t get it. Some days it doesn’t seem to matter how many vitamins I take, how many times I wash my hands, or how many small snot nosed kids I avoid… there is just no escaping the next cold or flu.

So here I am with an attention seeking uncle, who just happens to be sick and spreading it to everyone without remorse, who is also pulling his usual “I’m here for the best meal in town” sans worthy contribution. And I suppose this incident wouldn’t have been different from any other time that I meet my breaking point with a surrendering sigh, except for all the non-redeeming qualities coming together at one moment in time. Suffice it to say, I let him have it in an overly Wolof way. What can I say; I’m sick of being sick. I’m also a little sick of self centered people.

Mall Rats

There’s a brand new mall in Dakar. Where organized shopping did not exist once upon a time, it does now. I can’t help but smile when I walk in, and thinking about the old days of window shopping. It’s a marvel not to be harassed in the market; to just relax and take my time. And when I get a bit down about my current surroundings, and start longing for things found only at home, I plan my next trip to Sea Plaza Shopping Center.

The center is located on the coast; most literally it was carved into the side of it, just a few hundred meters down from the beautiful Radisson Blue hotel that boasts one of the best nights stays available in town. To access the center, your car must first pass through the guard post. I’ve personally never taken a car into the center as a taxi will drive you only to the curb near the guard post, so I really couldn’t tell you what kind of credentials need to be presented or if you’re just paying for parking. Parking is a part of the carved structure and doesn’t appear to accommodate the vast potential the interior amenities do. Perhaps the designers assume that most people will take a taxi like I do.

Once inside you’ll find two floors of boutiques lining the walls and an escalator connecting the two in the center. On the bottom floor you’ll find an information booth. It seems a bit odd considering my personal awareness of the Wolof culture… in which information is regarded with enormous value and thus deemed inappropriate for sharing under most circumstances. Hopefully all you really need is a map to find the store of your choice. At present, and about 40% capacity filled, there are a buffet of what appear to be designer European stores (though I wouldn’t know, I’m just assuming based on the price tags), a few electronics stores that remind you of the home theater section of Best Buy with their couches and “come and test” signs, a beauty salon providing the usual hair, nail, and massage amenities, a scented candle store (some things really don’t change, huh?), and even a beauty products boutique with Clinique items in the window.

I’ve spend time at the bowling alley that has all the lights, vinyl, bowling shoes and sounds to trick your mind into thinking you’re back in the States. There’s a restaurant with typical food and seriously over priced drinks, pool tables in the only smoking section in the place, and an arcade where all the games are in English. I almost didn’t even realize that last one until someone pointed it out to me after being there more than a half hour.

Like any normal mall there’s a food court at one end with a variety of dining options. If you choose Mexican, expect the food to appear more organic than Taco Bell, except for that melted single of Craft American across the top of your burrito. If it’s a fruit smoothie you crave, it’s hard to believe (or pay for) but this too can be found in the food court. Its seating area isn't entirely too expansive that the staff at eat food booth can’t deliver your tray to you. Indoor or outdoor seating will give you amazing views of the coast, but the formal restaurant in the far corner will give you all the sports you can handle with their numerous plasma screen TVs.

In case I’ve never told you about the most upscale grocery store chain in all of Senegal, now would be the perfect time since their newest branch resides in this mall. It is curiously named Casino although absolutely no gambling is to be had, whether your mind jumps to negotiating prices or worries about future food contracted illness of the bowels. The store boasts large aisles full of merchandise organized like you’d find at any grocer back home, amazing amounts of florescent lighting found in no other shopping venue in town, and air conditioning as cold as you can stand it. There’s a deli/ butcher counter, a bakery, an occasionally open sushi stand (I know, I almost don’t believe it myself) and a wine and liquor section. Imported products like corn flakes, chocolates, and beauty products can be found here, for a price slightly higher than you’d be charged back home.

It’s no secret that I’ve lost weight whilst I’ve been on this continent, but with it goes my ability to fit comfortably in every article of clothing I’ve brought here. It’s pretty easy to find pants or shirts in the chaos that is the market, or to have something new made up by a trusted tailor. What is difficult is underwear shopping because of the lack of privacy afforded while doing it. I had a family members send me a few items based on a mildly educated guess of my current size, but there’s no way of knowing for sure without walking into a store and its dressing room to perform some simple trial and error experiments. In this new mall, I got lucky. Not only are there multiple lingerie stores, but they have non-lacy everyday sections, a fitting room, and attendants that speak English. Admittedly, that last fun fact isn’t a necessary one to the operation, but certainly made the whole thing a bit more relaxing.

The pride and glory of the structure, in my singular opinion I’m sure, will be the movie theater to come. As someone who would count movie-going among her top favorite activities, I can say that going without the experience of the stadium seating, reclining folding chairs, annoying crying children, and overly priced and buttered popcorn… I cannot wait for this place to open. Unfortunately, information sharing what it is, I can’t tell when that will be. We’re on African time, so it might not even be in the next year. I also can’t tell you what kind of movies will be shown; American, European, or other, or which language they’ll be in or have subtitles in. I can tell you about my certainty that the cost of going will be similar to that found in the US (as evidenced in the bowling/ pool/ arcade experience). And of course that I’ll be one of the first people in line to see whatever show when the time comes.

And now I'm already mentally planning my next trip to Dakar. Oh the simple things.

Korite

The end of Ramada, and all its weight-loss inducing fasting, is marked by a day of feasting called Korite. Every gets a new formal outfit, but they’re worn at different times of the day depending on gender. Men get up early, put on their new cloths, and go to the mosque for a final “breaking the fast” prier. It’s not the 530a stuff we’re used to, but somewhere between 8 and 10a and one might go so far as to say it’s a special service.

Women are back at the compound still in pajamas or normal cloths preparing a special breakfast of lahk or chalkery- which is millet with spiced yogurt porridge over it. The yogurt substance is either hot or cold with bits of fruit depending on which your family prefers. After the men return they generally change out of their new outfits and everyone is served their own individual bowl of breakfast. This is a big deal because we generally eat all meals out of one communal bowl.

After breakfast, I had to pester my brothers to keep their new cloths on for just a few minutes more, while begging my mom to put her’s on (if only temporarily as she hadn’t showered). After making a big enough commotion about it, they all did as I asked and I was able to successfully capture a picture of my family in their best dresses just inside the front gate to our house. I too had a new Senegalese outfit made, of very light fabric and semi western style… but alas there are no pictures of me with the family as everyone ran away from the camera to change as quickly as possible. But I swear I was there!

Next is the preparation for lunch, also known as the most important meal of the typical African day. This factor is compounded on holidays. My family bought many many chickens (and had the foresight to kill, clean, and precook them the night before) to go with Moroccan couscous and onion sauce. My mom handled the preparation of couscous while I was in charge of cutting up all the onions. One very large bowl’s worth. As it became time to eat, children appeared in our living room. Friends of my brothers, I assume but I didn’t recognize them from everyday normal activities. In addition, about a half a dozen extra servicing platters were brought out. Couscous, a chicken, and onion sauce was placed into each one, followed by a cover and a small napkin or towel. Then one of my brother was called forth to take the serving to a designated Catholic neighbor or close family friend.

Then we sat down to eat: the older kids and guest kids at one bowl, my parents, youngest siblings, and myself at another. I ate so much I had to ask for extra onion sauce at one point. It was damn good, and I’m fairly certain that if someone had handed me a beer after that I would have quit Peace Corps under the guise that things couldn’t possibly get better. But alas, no beer and I remain.

After cleaning up, it was my Mom’s turn to get dressed up. Sporting her new garb, she and her friends walked around town together asking forgiveness from family members, friends, and neighbors. Forgiveness for sins committed in the past year is asked with a series of phrases exchanged upon entry into one’s home; phrases only used on this particular holiday. My Dad had been doing much of the same all morning, but continued his rounds in the afternoon with accompanying friends as well.

In the evening we ate left over chicken spread over onion sauce, French fries, and lettuce. Afterwards we had sweet yogurt with fruit pieces chilled almost until frozen. I like to joke with my family that my youngest brother has a knack for wearing his favorite dishes on his face in a sort of toddler testament to the chef, but in truth it’s just his inability to successfully utilize a spoon- no matter how small.

Fruit

I finished the secret stash of dried cherries I’d been sent in a birthday package today. I'm surprised they made it this long, about a month. I so miss American fruits. We have strawberry flavoring here, but not the real thing. I have Mefloquine induced dreams about a refrigerator full of fruit waiting for me back home over the Christmas holiday. Raspberries, or really anything ending in ‘berry,’ top the list. We've got melons (water, cantelope-ish- football shaped version, etc) and citrus (lemon/lime, orange, grapefruits) and I've seen bananas... but that's about it.

Oh, wait... how could I forget the MANGOES?? I could probably kill myself with the amount of mangoes we have here. Seriously, a kilo (2.2lbs) costs only about $1. I don't eat them all that often because I don't want to get sick and never eat them again (overdose!) but they are helpful for reminding me to floss. Not to mention, there is no graceful way of eating a mango... as I only have a Swiss Army knife to cut them.

And then there are all the new fruits. We have this one called Ditahk which is like a ball of roots with some green bits mixed in, and a shell on the outside. To eat it you peel the shell and suck on the roots to extract the green stuff. It's super healthy for you, a lot like those health food drinks they sell in the organic section of Toms or FJ's; lots of antioxidants, vitamins, and other good stuff.

There's also Tamarind which is a root based item (that I assume is somewhere in the ginger family- but sweeter) that it typically extracted and made into a juice that's a deceptive diarrhea-colored brown but more like a pear in taste.

Ginger is here too... considered a fruit in Africa. Go figure.

There's also Baobab from the like-named giant trees that Africa is so famous for. These are the trees with enormous trunks you see in pictures. Anyway, the fruit is bland, grainy, and dries out your mouth... but good in juices.

And there's something I forgot the name of that resembles a cranberry in size, shape, color... and almost taste. But it’s somehow not a cranberry. Or it’s all been lost in translation. But as this fruit is rare, and in season for about a month only (in winter) I'll have to figure it out later.

Last but not least is my new favorite: Corossol. This stuff is unbelievably good. Like a guava in flavor it resembles an over-grown green strawberry on the outside. You don't eat the skin, you wait until its squishy like a bad avocado and then cut it into chunks and eat the white parts (without seeds obviously). It’s stringy like a mango but tasted better than guava. So good.

There are other tropical fun fruits there like guava itself, papaya, coconut... but they aren't very common. There's a season thing I haven't quite figured out and I'm guessing their imported from somewhere with better climates as they are typically more expensive than the everyday budget. Grapes, pears, dried or semi-dried dates and apples fall into the imported and therefore rare and expensive category, too. But hey you have to indulge from time to time, right?