As you can tell by the title, I was planning to give an in-depth description my house and my life at home, as I did for my family in Dakar. But life is too short, and French Harry Potter Book Six is too long, for that tediousness. If you’re really wondering, my house is a big white concrete square with a main concrete-walled TV area and rooms (including mine) opening out onto this main area. (You can get some idea of the layout and ambiance from the photos I’ve been putting up on my site.) And here are some quick descriptions of each member of the house, just so you get a brief list of cast and characters along with my stunningly detailed portrayal of the interior design I’ve been living with:
- Pa Diop – Father figure; thoughtful, analytical, and stoic.
- Ma Sow – Loud, usually joking with her kids. Has no problems asking for my possessions, but still very nice.
- Ma Diop (14), Cheikh Tidiane (12), Boudy (10) – Pa Diop and Ma Sow’s three oldest kids. (The rest of the kids, other than Adama, are cousins from Pa Diop’s side of the family, here because Mekhe has a better education system than the village the family comes from, in the north of the country.) All future journalists if they keep up their level of questioning, and generally the loudest kids in the house.
- Demba (19) – Smartest kid in the house, with an interest in English. Clicks his tongue to signal affirmation, probably because he tries not to open his mouth more than necessary.
- Talla (19) – Very nice. Plays soccer. Makes tea every night. Doesn’t talk much, either.
- Amadou (16) – Runs the house, opening the door whenever someone comes. Quietly sits reflecting on the steps on the way upstairs while everyone else watches TV. Only one who doesn’t really follow the strict religious observance.
- Amina (18?) – Generally leads the girls in their housework. Very funny, having mastered many others’ mannerisms and using them to good effect.
- Awa (15) – Amadou’s sister. Absolutely never talks. Only got to the house this year.
- Yaya (14) – Cheikh Tidiane’s best friend. Very similar.
- Adama (5) – Pa Diop and Ma Sow’s fourth kid. Climbs all over me all day. Just starting to learn French; tells me to “legahd” when he means to command me to “regarde,” or look at him.
So I’ll finish up this last post from Mekhe with a quick update of some past, current, and future events, along with some random anecdotes and thoughts. First, as previewed, Tabaski happened on Sunday. Our two sheep are now in paradise, according to Boudy, having been butchered next to the shower after the rest of the boys and men in the house went to Mosque. My job most of the day was to cut onions for the meat sauce, out of which came a few open wounds and a newfound deftness with my hands. As soon as the sheep were chopped and sliced, the family inhabited the tiny strip of open area next to the kitchen for hours while meat was grilled and eaten and grilled and eaten. Then we went inside to have some more meat for the late lunch at 5:30. Then a break from the meat, but not from eating, with some sweet yogurt and millet. At this point, everyone put their boubous back on, taking tours of the neighborhood in small groups. I went on a walk with Demba, enduring a nice round of proselytism from people whose most compelling argument for me converting to Islam was “being Muslim is better.” I even got a “your president is Muslim” argument, to which I responded with a round of English swearing. (I probably wouldn’t be joining those sheep in paradise, in their mind, after saying the same in French. So I figured English was a good outlet.) I’ve really enjoyed the learning experience that’s come out of being in a different religious environment, but it’s obviously often been tough. Eventually Demba and I arrived home, well in time for a late dinner identical to lunch. The end.
My life at work is slowly, slowly coming to a close. I’ve finished all my interviews and now stare at my computer screen all day, like a good brain-dead white collar worker, writing my report about my findings that I’m to turn in to my supervisor and to Waly. I’ve written 15 of the 20 pages I’m going for, and will likely finish the editing process sometime during my last week in Dakar (next week), which will be spent with one last class session for every one of my courses and plenty of down time. In between now and that last week, though, I’ve got a nice weekend of travel ahead of me, which will feel as improvised as the mechanics holding together the cars I’ll be taking. Starting Friday morning in Mekhe with my seemingly hundreds of pounds of luggage, I’ll stand on the side of the main road until a big ugly bus is barreling down at me. I’ll hail down the bus, which will be privately owned but open to the public, stopping the journey of the dozens of people inside so that I can engage in a yelling bout over the price for my journey to Dakar and then help them put my bags on the top of the bus, and we’ll head of with me comfortably settled on a wood bench. Every time a person gets off the bus on the way, I’ll look out the window to make sure they’re not taking my bags. I’ll get to Dakar after a couple hours, taking a taxi to my old host family’s house to drop off my stuff, and then I’ll immediately turn around to take a 7-place taxi a couple hours south to Kaolack. If Kaolack were a sheep, it would not be going to my paradise; its grunge and bustle make it the only place in Senegal I haven’t really liked. But I’ll spend the night there in anticipation of a university friend’s brother’s wedding the next morning. Then I’ll head another hour or so south for the wedding party, only to turn around the next morning to go back up to Dakar. Then the fun really starts, or ends, or something. (I’ve forgotten a crucial aspect of all this, which is that now that I’ve been here for so long I know that all of this will only happen if God wills it. Every time I tell someone a future plan of mine, they’ll be sure to calmly interject “insha’allah” at the end of my narrative, as if they’re adding an element of profundity to the conversation that was sorely lacking before I acknowledged that we’d better hope that part of God’s grand plan allows my trip to occur, without the bus driver hitting any sheep on the road whom God has fast-tracked to paradise.)
Anyway, revenons à nos moutons. After all this, the program ends on Friday the 11th, leaving me to welcome my mom (the actual one), and later my dad and brother, to Senegal before heading down to South Africa until the 29th, when I’ll head home.
I’ve had a great time here in Mekhe, getting into a daily routine in which one day melts into the next, but I’ll be happy to get back to somewhere more animated than a small town. My Wolof has improved to the point of very short conversation ability, mostly from my daily chats with the lady whose coffee table I stop by every day after work more so to try my Wolof than to drink her Cafe Touba. But the reactions evoked when trying to speak Wolof didn’t make me inclined to waiver from French given the opportunity to stick with it; most people just laugh, wondering why I’m trying to speak a language they see as mostly utilitarian, since they aren’t actually Wolof. I love getting ridiculed as much as the next person, but in these cases the easy solution has generally been to switch to French. It’s been nice to get exposure to a new form of language, and I’ve gotten pretty decent at expressing what I need to people who speak no French, so I’ll call it even.
Now to finish this paper. I’ll wrap everything up here next week. (Insha’allah.)
