Tabaski fever

While the rest of the world, and even my own university back in Massachusetts, has been cautiously watching the leveling off of cases of swine flu, a very different kind of fever has gripped all of Senegal. Tabaski is only six days away, and that means that if you haven't purchased your Tabaski ram yet you are beginning to get very nervous and perhaps to feel mildly ill.

Tabaski is known in most of the Muslim world as Eid-Al-Kebir. It marks the end of the pilgrimage to Mecca and is the most important holiday of the year. For those who aren't on the hajj to Mecca, the day's events revolve around sacrificing a sheep (or another animal). This religious slaughter is done in remembrance of Abraham's submission to God, which he demonstrated by willingly sacrificing his eldest son (or his second oldest, if you get the version from the Torah or the Old Testament). Lucky for Abraham, God intervened at the last minute and replaced his son with a ram, so he gets all the credit for having been willing to kill his son without actually having done so.

Fast forward a few thousand years to Senegal where the global financial crisis looms large, and yet it is unthinkable not to try to obtain the biggest, baddest, most handsome sheep you can possibly come by, even if you have to go into debt to do it. Although everyone looks forward to Tabaski (for the poorest of the poor, it is the one day of the year when they are sure to eat meat), one only has to ask, "Have you bought your sheep yet?" to unleash the anxious hand-wringing that accompanies this holiday. "Not yet" confessed one of my colleagues last Friday. "And not only that, I can't even answer my cellphone without it being some relative who needs help bankrolling the holiday. Before they can even ask me how I am I tell them I am still working on getting hold of a sheep, so they will know that I can't help them."

There is no religious obligation to slaughter a ram if it is beyond one's economic means. One year the King of Morocco sacrificed a ram on behalf of the entire country to fulfill the religious duty of those too poor to buy a sheep themselves. And yet. In Senegal keeping up appearances is almost as important as fulfilling one's religious duties. In many neighborhoods small bands of boys wander the streets in the days before Tabaski offering their opinions on the sheep tied up outside people's houses. Pity the man whose Tabaski mouton doesn't measure up to the sidewalk commentary as he will be the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

As of this writing sheep are being bused, taxied, and herded into Senegal's cities and towns in preparation for the big day. The Minister of Livestock Raising (yes, there is a Ministry of Livestock Raising) has assured the public that there will be enough sheep to go around, and that she expects Senegal to be self-sufficient in Tabaski sheep in just a few years. Viva Tabaski fever!

UPDATE: There is a sheep beauty pageant on television right now. I'm not even kidding.

Learning to drive

There are few experiences in life as utterly forgettable as learning to drive. Americans are so dependent on their cars, and adults usually spend so much time driving, that it is nearly impossible to remember the process by which one came to take driving for granted.

I counted myself in this category until just a few weeks ago when we made the purchase of our 2003 Ford Fiesta diesel with "boite standarde", i.e. stick shift. There were lots of good reasons to purchase the car, and many of them were even research-related, so it seemed a good investment in making our life easier here. One slight hitch--I never learned to drive stick.

A is an excellent driver, and he is also a very patient person, so with his reassurances that I would learn in no time we embarked on the car adventure. Before we had even purchased the car I had spotted the perfect spot to practice. One of the Catholic cemeteries here has a nice big lot, long lanes for getting up to 3rd, and some decent turns to boot.

A few days after acquiring the car (the most expensive thing we've ever bought to date and we paid in cash!) we headed to the Catholic cemetery. A, being a firm believer in the capacity of the internet to solve most of life's problems, had found a few tips from the Car Talk guys about practicing with just the clutch to get moving before learning to shift. We spent an hour driving around in circles with me putting the clutch in an out, and I realized this might not be too bad.

By lesson #3 I was zipping around the parking lot, dodging and weaving among taxis going the wrong way, horse carts pulling construction materials, mopeds, and various and sundry pedestrians who are a fact of life in Dakar driving. But was I road ready?

The first test was the long road out to the Pointe des Almadies where I managed to avoid livestock, runners, joggers, taxis, and other obstacles. After my second road lesson I was ready to forge into real Dakar traffic and get us home. This is where the real flashbacks of learning to drive kicked in--sweaty palms, clenching the steering wheel, little ability to focus on anything else besides the car itself (forget other cars, they will just have to watch out for me!), no radio, and don't even think about trying to talk to me unless it is to tell me to shift. It was just like the first time around with Mr. Swinn at the Sear's Driving School in Flint, MI.

After several outings with A as my driving coach I was ready to go on my first solo flight. My research assistant and I had planned to visit a group of young women who are part of our 20-something swingers set, and then head over to her house so that I could meet her aunt, whose network will be part of our 50-something older marrieds/divorced set. I woke up around 5am yesterday, and I was already anxious about the driving ahead. I am still at the point where when the car actually responds and goes from a dead stop into first it seems like a minor miracle. How to make this miracle happen again and again is the challenge, especially given the numerous opportunities to come to a complete standstill in Dakar traffic. (A likes to describe driving in Dakar as "Welcome to the Thunderdome.")

In spite of my jitters, which my research assistant told me to stop talking about because I was making HER nervous, we forged ahead and set off for our first destination. There was little small talk on the way but we arrived at the TIMS girls' apartment without so much as a sputter at a stop sign. I even had to drive down a few sandy lanes to park in front of their apartment building.

The next leg was much more ambitious--a good several kilometers through some of the most congested and torn up roads that the Dakar suburbs have to offer. We arrived at her house with only one major incident--getting stuck in about six inches of sand as we careened down from the main road into her aunt's neighborhood. Something about the sand made it nearly impossible to get enough acceleration to get into first without stalling, so after about four stall outs we invited the now assembled group of boys to push us through the sand. They had a terrific time telling me exactly what to do (more gas! into first now!) and they were even more pleased with the 50 cents we gave them for their services.

The last leg, my trip home sans research assistant, was the most challenging. All went well until I had to slow down on my way into a busy rotary to ask directions, and that lead to a few episodes of stalling before I was underway again. Stalling out is not in itself so terrible, but our ignition key is quite temperamental, so after the car goes off it can take up to 30 seconds of jiggling the key to get it to turn again. Since I don't seem to be able to stall out once without adding a second and a third to complete the set, the process of getting underway again can take a good several minutes. As I pointed out to A, the one advantage of Dakar traffic is that most cars are clunkers and it is entirely common to see cars broken down in the middle of rotaries, highway lanes, busy intersections, etc. I usually get a few honks and waves, but Dakar drivers are accustomed to navigating around all sorts of obstacles without any advance notice.

I had to stop once more to ask for directions (this time without stalling out) and I finally arrived home just before dusk feeling quite pleased with myself. My sense of accomplishment is undoubtedly out of proportion with the actual victory at hand, but I'll take my victories where I can find them. Next major challenge--driving after dark!

How I spent $600 on the Marine ball

Being a Fulbrighter but not quite an "official" American (i.e. an employee of the state department)is a bit like not wanting to be part of any club that would have you as a member. There are all kinds of perks that we can take advantage of, like cashing checks at the Embassy, but in most ways we are very much not of the ex-pat world here. This is just fine, but every once in a while it is intriguing to peer into the bubble to see what life is like on the other side.

The annual Marine Corps birthday ball seemed to present just the occasion for ex-pat voyeurism. It is a big annual event, most of the Embassy crowd shows up, and as my friend in the foreign service argued, "How often do you get to see a birthday cake cut with a sword?" The Embassy doctor also encouraged us to go, saying that if there was one big event to attend, this would be it. When the tickets went on sale we jumped and ponied up $160 for two tickets.

The problem with these kinds of functions is of course, what to wear? I managed to bring a few things suitable for a fancy dress party, but hubby did not bring a suit. Ten years ago you could have a very nice suit made in Dakar for around $100, but it seems that these days the price is more like $500. After crunching the numbers, we decided to order him a suit online and have it delivered to his mom, who would send it to us here. $215 later two suits were on the way to Denver. (We should have told her about this plan earlier. When the suits showed up at her house she thought it was a mistake and she was about to send them back, but we caught up with her just in time.)

We knew the next hurdle would be quite pricey, and so it was. $185 to ship the suits to Dakar via DHL. Regular blog readers know the rest of that story well, others can review the DHL saga from a previous post. Bottom line, our marine ball budget took another hit from local DHL and the Senegalese government.

The event was originally going to be at the Radisson Blu, which aside from being a swanky new hotel, is also in our neighborhood. When we purchased our tickets we chose our entrees, which I have long since forgotten, but they seemed very good at the time. Next thing we know the Embassy newsletter informs us that the venue has been changed, allowing for a "buffet dinner" and a "live band." Buffet dinner means lots of dried out hotel food, three quarters of which you have no interest in. For those who like to swing dance, live band in Dakar means that of the 20-30 songs the band is likely to play, perhaps one or two of them will be amenable to swing dancing. Yet, what to do? At this point we are officially in for over $600 and our enthusiasm for the event is beginning to flag.

There were few choices left except to attend the ball and try to have the time of our lives. We showered, shaved, blow-dried, primped, and got ourselves to the ball a fashionable 30 minutes after the start time. Where were all the people? After walking down a red carpet into the pool area of the former Club Med, we saw that there were only about 15 people there.

I would like to say that things picked up and a great time was had by all, but a more candid account would acknowledge that most of the ex-pats were standoffish, the turn-out was less than robust, and the band, while good, was a little too much Bob Marley and the Wailers meets slow Motown. Not ideal for swing dancing.

Nonetheless, we made full use of the open bar, made several trips to the buffet line, and managed to put a few other couples to shame on the dance floor. Live and learn as they say. Live and learn.

November work plan

In addition to being a huge fan of the 45 minute unit, I like to start every month off with a good to do list to keep me clear on the month's priorities. When I am feeling particularly keen on planning I also determine how many units I intend to allocate to each task in the monthly work plan. Since I am on sabbatical, after all, I don't currently feel the need to be quite so concise in the planning. Nonetheless, I do have the checklist and the month calendar up on the bulletin board above my desk.

So here it is, the month's offerings:

1. Matlaboul Fawzaini Article—resubmit by Nov. 15th
Work on revisions
Send my revisions to C
Last phone conference with C?


2. Senegal Community Dialogues-submit to African Journal of AIDS research by Dec 1
Finish revisions
Share draft with R, C, G, and A for comments
Circulate and edit draft of manuscript to partners and participants


3. Fulbright Research
Do Dial’s notes—new research questions?
Read Séduire
Meet with C
Read articles on transactional sex
Introduction to F Dial
Reconnect with Karlene
Start calling F’s contacts
Contact F Sow
Finalize interview instruments with R
R: Does initial rounds of interview with 20 somethings (married and unmarried)
R: Notes and key phrases from interviews with M and A
Meet group TIMS
Interview R’s aunt and several friends
Interview A
AWA: Set up meeting with Mme N and Dr. T
(If MSM meeting happens, get introduction to D and then follow-up by interviewing those who did the prostitution study and those who are currently working with the clandestine sex workers).
Connect with J—look up the participatory methodology she mentioned


4. MSM project
Meeting with G
Draft of strategic action plan (8 units)
Help organize next committee meeting


5. PEVF Yeumbeul
Attend training on Nov. 4th and 5th
Interview: O and F
Have conversation about pre and post test questions?
Work on interview questions for past participants and past educatrices
Meet with A (or whole team?): Coordinate a data collection strategy and calendar for interviewing past participants and former educatrices

Den mother

One of the nice things about having come here oh so long ago (17 years!) as a study abroad student is that I now have quite a lot of Senegal experience under my belt. On the down side, there are things that are funny, unusual, baffling, amazing, and even repulsive that I fail to notice anymore. Good thing hubby is along so that I can remember that sense of wonder about getting to know a new place. (Oh my God, is that man really peeing in the median!? Are people really climbing over barriers to stroll across this superhighway!? Is that boy really giving his ram a bath at the beach?!)

The current crop of college students, some of whom are K girls as I once was, are also a great source of entertainment and access into that initial experience of American friction with a new and totally different cultural setting. So far we have hosted two brunches and a few dinners for the college kids. These meals have been an occasion for them to vent, for me to offer advice (no, it really isn't okay for the kids in the house to be entering your room and rifling through your things), and to provide them with more in-depth cultural translation than they are getting from their program directors.

Unfortunately there are many cultural dilemmas that have no resolution. A huge part of living in a different culture is just learning to ignore or accept things that you really don't understand or like. On the other hand, Americans are often overly concerned with being nice and friendly, and therefore end up tolerating lots of unwanted attention that Senegalese (particularly Senegalese women) would never put up with.

For the younger "sister" who isn't giving you respect--make her do your laundry. In Senegal you have full right to boss around anyone younger than you in the family, so you can put her in her place by starting to impose the sibling hierarchy on her.

For the five-year old terror who harasses you when no one is looking--threaten physical violence until he becomes afraid of you, and don't be afraid to rat him out to the family disciplinarian if he keeps it up.

For the male "friend" who keeps trying to put the moves on you--sorry, there really is NO concept of platonic friendship here, so you either have to become his girlfriend or call things off.

There are other problems that are much more difficult to resolve. That crappy lecturer from the university who they hired to teach your Islam class? Sorry, guess you just have to put up with that. Your host mother and sister spend all day watching the TV and aren't interested in anything else? That is par for the course, so join in, read a book, or find other excuses not to spend all your time in front of the boob tube.

It is difficult to realize how much internalized knowledge you have until you are faced with questions and queries that allow you to reflect on things that have long since become intuitive. It took a decade or more to acquire all of this cultural expertise, and most of it I learned the hard way, just as they are. Thanks to all the college kids for seeking my counsel and for making me realize that while some frustrations with Senegal will never be resolved, I know a damn lot about this place.