I am just compiling anecdotes

A woman knocked on the front gate and said, "I'm hungry," and I said, "Oh. Who are you here to see?" and she said, "You’re supposed to give me food," and I said, "I'm going to talk to someone who lives here about this," and she said, "No, you just give me food," and I said, "I'm going to ask someone to give me food for you," and then knocked on my grandfather's door and said, "There's a woman at the front door who’s hungry and wants food. Is that normal?" and he said, "It is Friday," and I said, "This is something I’ve never experienced before," and he said, "On Friday, beggars go to the mosque and ask for food. I'm not sure how this woman got here, but give her some change and maybe some sugar," and I said "Oh, that makes sense," even though it didn’t (thinking about it now, nothing in this entire series of exchanges make sense, but at the time I was mainly perplexed by the part about the sugar) and then my grandfather went downstairs to talk to the woman outside the front door and presumably get her to depart (with or without her sugar).

The three-year-old (Khadijatou) was hitting the nine-year-old (Marie Sophie) while the family was watching Saturday morning cartoons. My host mother to Marie Sophie: “Hit her back. Avenge yourself.” I feel like that’s not usually how mothers intervene.

My host grandfather’s brother came to visit yesterday. I openend the door to him. He was wearing a boubous and fez and had a long beard. He looked like an ordinary elderly Senegalese gentleman. Later that afternoon, my grandfather, while laughing, asked if I had been worried I had opened the door to a member of al-Qaeda. Oh, the presumed paranoia of Americans.

It’s odd who can tell I’m American and who thinks I’m French. When my host mother told her sister I was American, the response was, “Yes, I can hear her accent.” But my host grandfather’s brother told me he thought I was French when we first met. Is the Senegalese French accent so different from French French ones that even though everyone hears my accent, they just can’t tell where to place it?

Alice and I were waiting for a bus Friday afternoon when my host family drove by on the way home from picking the kids up from school, waved frantically, pulled over, and let us squeeze into the backseat. Because five people squished into the backseat of a car is no big deal. And why wouldn’t my family drive past a bus stop on a random road in Dakar on the one day Alice and I decided to catch a bus there?

It’s been rumored the students at Université Cheikh Anta Diop will be going on strike this week. I’m so excited to see the fabled columns of smoke rising from burning tires (the embassy has been warning us to steer clear of them). I still have far too romantic a view of strikes. Hopefully actually experiencing a strike will cure me of that.

Apparently there have been riots in my neighborhood over power outages these past few weeks. According to my host father, there have even been burning tires (how fantastic!) on the roads. I haven’t noticed anything. I must be really unobservant.

Sprayed mosquito repellent on my face before going to bed. (I’ve been bitten four times on my face as I’ve slept.) Woke up this morning and hugged Teddy. She now smells like mosquito repellent.

I watched cross-eyed as a mosquito bit me on the nose.

A certain one of my professors who shall remain nameless picked his nose during the entirety of class last week. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t the History of Islam professor, because it’s been three weeks since we’ve had class.

I was having a conversation the other day hanging around WARC about how the first day it rains once I’m back in New Jersey, I’m going to run outside and dance around. Funny what you miss when you’re away from home. And I won’t see rain until I’m back in NJ, because Senegal’s rainy season doesn’t start until summer, and it literally never rains here except during the official rainy months.

My host mother wears vibrant, flowing boubous to work, tailored blazers and slacks when going out on the weekends, and black leggings with long sweaters when lounging around the house. How does she always manage to look beautiful no matter what style clothing she wears?

Things my host sisters have told me they will be naming Mégane: The dog they hope to get in March. The first snowman Khadijatou builds when she travels to a country where there’s snow. Marie Sophie’s first-born girl.

Fun Wolof phrases of the day: Megan ak Jessica, kan moo gën baax? Megan moo gën baax Jessica. Who is nicer: Megan or Jess? Megan is nicer than Jess. In future, dear Wolof professor, writing the names of two of your students on the board and then asking the class to vote on who’s nicer is not a particularly pleasant experience for anyone involved.

Here are some pictures of the sights of Dakar: