Yoff has become somewhat familiar territory. The daily routine is no longer the Senegalese daily routine, but my own. My first week here, every building and every person was a novelty to be pointed out (perhaps even photographed), but I now navigate the sandy alleys with more ease, relatively un-phased by the sheep that cross my path or the kids who cluster at my heel, chorusing, “toubab!” and reaching out their hands for a small shake. I wake up in the mornings and step right into a nice cold shower, no longer biting my fist to silence my yelps. Around 2 pm, I perch on a tiny wooden bench low to the ground and bring it close to the communal bowl from which lunch (and dinner) is served. I attack the cluster of meat and vegetables piled on a bed of rice (or millet) without much thought as to what it is I am ingesting. Vendors at Ile de Goree swarm about me, a browsing toubab, go so far as to grab my elbow and pull me into their stalls to show me their wares and I do not flinch, my face does not burn with this invasion of my personal space, nor do I feel obliged to examine every artifact brandished before me…a wave of my hand, a modest smile and a firm non merci, and I walk on.

I’ve been collecting bits for this blog over the past week, but have been unable to find the time or the computer to express myself. I can’t even begin to recall all the cultural tidbits and micro-adventures I, at some point over the last week, noted as fodder for this blog. Hmm let’s see what I can recall…

Mecca
Upon arriving here, my friend Shannon was a bit confused by her living situation. She seemed to have an abundance of “brothers” and “sisters,” but could not identify the mother and father of the house. She soon learned that her “parents” had made the pilgrimage to Mecca and upon their return, a huge party would take place. In their absence, their house was repainted (possibly refurbished) and the courtyard was laid with shiny new tiles and white shells. The Living Routes gals stopped by on the day of return, and although the festivities were not in full swing, I was intrigued by what I witnessed:

Seated at the center of the courtyard, in all of their finest attire, was a group of dignified older women, the revered matriarchs of some of the families gathered that day for the celebration (I’m assuming). We greeted each other and I found myself gawking at their garb—they were a vision of greens, pinks, yellows, and oranges glistening with embroidery, large rings decorating every finger, bracelets upon bracelets piled on wrists and umbrella-like headdresses. Gathered in a separate corner was a group of women peeling pots of potatoes. We followed a stream of people, primarily women, up the stairs to a sitting room where we had to remove our shoes before entering. There, in the sitting room, we found Shannon’s parents receiving their bedecked visitors. Incense burned and a man with a huge video camera tinkered with extension cords. I left shortly after greeting the parents, very intrigued and very perplexed by this extravagant celebration.

Apparently, as one may glean, going to Mecca is a BIG deal. And possibly bigger yet, is the ensuing celebration of one’s pilgrimage. Weddings are known to be quite expensive here. Oftentimes, men will wait many years to get married so they can save up enough money for the wedding. And weddings are equated with the Mecca homecoming celebrations (I’m sure they have a name….must investigate this). I was told that the bill for such celebrations can cost upwards of 1,000,000 CFA. Though that seems like an awful lot…perhaps that’s the cost for the whole Mecca journey. In any event, such celebrations proved a delectable bit I could not help but share.

Chirac
Le President de la Republique (France, that is) visited last week. Jacques Chirac’s two-day stay in Senegal generated a good week’s worth of news. His picture graced the front of every paper I encountered for a good four days or so. Massive banners featuring stately pictures of Chirac and Abdoulaye Wade, Senegal’s President, were put up along the highway from Dakar to Yoff. Apparently, Chirac and Wade took a spin down the highway, crowds of people gathering to catch a glimpse of Wade and Chirac, the President of their colonial master, so to speak. I missed this parade of sorts, but encountered crowds of kids waving Popsicle stick Senegalese flags and donning shirts picturing Chirac and Wade. My home stay mom asked if I had seen The President (not the President of France, but The President) and told me glowingly that she had. After watching an hour straight of Chirac on TV, I realized that I could not think of any visitor to the US who would be received similarly. I don’t know why I was so weirded out by this reception, perhaps I found that it furthered this oft-encountered notion that a Westerner can step in and make everything better, perhaps I am incapable of understanding the France-Senegal ties….I don’t know.