Sorry it took so long, but here is the conclusion to the interview with the Cambridge Chronicle reporter:

17. Does your family still live in Cambridge? What do they do? Plans to
visit at all?

My mom has lived in the same house in Cambridge for the past twenty-five or so years. She is the COO at the Marketing Science Institute at 1000 Mass Ave (the Cambridge College building). My parents are divorced and though my dad used to go back and forth between an apartment in Boston and his farm in Jefferson, NH, he now permanently resides in Jefferson. He still comes to Cambridge quite a bit as he is a Senior Fellow at Harvard’s Berkman Center for Internet, Law, and Society (or something along those lines). I’m not quite sure what he does. But he does have plans to visit, actually. He will be arriving in less than a week! I’m very excited and his arrival has accounted for, to some degree, my tardiness in getting this back to you. One of his friends from the Berkman Center comes to Senegal fairly frequently and he, his wife, and my Dad will all be here for a week, in part, to attend a music festival hosted by Senegal’s national hero, the musician Yossou N’Dour. I’m quite excited!

My Fam.

My family is truly wonderful. Just thinking about them makes me smile.
Within my first week, I had already developed this crazy homing instinct. When I come home and greet my parents and brothers and sisters and sit down on my bed, I am truly home.

My mom, N’Deye Samb, embodies warmth and truly sparkles when she flashes her big smile, which she does frequently. She clearly runs the house and is also active in the community, working four days a week at a World Bank sponsored infant health program. My father, Macoumba N’Doye, is not quite as ebullient as his wife, more of the strong but silent types. He is equally kind, however. Every morning he asks how I slept (it’s just part of the morning greeting ritual) and one morning mentioned that I had been coughing and had a bit of a sore throat. I said it casually, but for the next few days he asked about my cough and throat even after I assured him that I was fine. Marie (19) is the oldest and she is exceedingly mature, clearly very smart and has a lot of her mother in her. Then there is Afassme (15) and Moustaffa (9) who are both adorable. When I first arrived, I’ll admit that I thought Moustaffa or “Taffa” was about five years old. As a general rule, I add five years to my age estimation for most of the people I meet. I have just found my way to Taffa’s heart by giving him my set of 50 Crayola colored pencils and a large stack of crisp white paper. Though he remains his silent self, every so often he dashes into my room and presents me with a new picture: a soccer team, his school, a smattering of animals….

Most middle class households, such as mine, have a maid. Typically a young girl from one of the poor rural villages. Fama, “the maid,” is lanky and strikingly beautiful despite her shy nature. I think she’s only fifteen but she has to be about seven feet tall! She speaks no French, at least not to me, so we rarely converse.

But it should be noted that in Senegal, “family” is a very loose term by our standards. Heritage is matrilineal, at least in my village. And when I meet people and tell them where I am living, I am often told, “Oh, I am your cousin” or aunt, uncle, etc. And large as some families are (men can take up to four wives), each family has a strong sense of unity and monthly meetings are often held to discuss issues of importance to the whole family.

My family is also quite devout in their Muslim faith. They are part of the Layene brotherhood, one of about four in Yoff. My father’s prayers have become part of the constant cacophony, but I love listening to my mother sing as she sits in front of the TV and rubs her prayer beads or does the laundry.



19. What are some thoughts/observations/descriptions so far about Senegal?

My time in Senegal has been punctuated by moments of pure bliss and profound frustration. My idealism took a huge hit as the reality of my situation, my role here, penetrated my thick skull. My proclivity for existential fits seems to have increased as I’ve realized the fallacy of being a socially conscientious on the global spectrum—this whole notion that educated Americans/westerners can travel into third world countries and be a panacea of sorts. The cultural differences are just so vast. And I appreciate that. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Never before have I experienced such warmth and hospitality. Never before have I (to my knowledge) walked amongst spirits on the sidewalk or witnessed truly animistic rituals. So frustrating as it may be that my expectations, shaped by my western upbringing, are rarely met, I would never want Senegal to adopt the Western pace of life. I wish my friends and family from back home could experience this—a culture built upon openness and sharing.

Senegal is a vibrant country. Destitute, perhaps. Corruption and exploitation may abound, but in my limited experience, the air is not heavy with oppression (just pollution). The music and dance traditions (which vary by region) are so rich. The people are, on the whole, amazingly beautiful. The women in particular—most walk with their heads held high, their dark skin smoother than I ever imagined skin could be. They tramp through filth in delicate shoes, their bodies swathed in boubous (traditional outfits) of myriad colors and intricate embroidery, a gold necklace resting falling between collar bones…. they are truly magnificent.

I have so very many observations! But, alas, I am finding that offering the slightest glimpse requires exercising my writing skills beyond their normal range. And ironically, perhaps the most significant intangible thing I will take away with me, will be a better understanding of from where and whence I came, my national identity: my Americanness.

20. Do you like the food, the smells, the people, the landscape? What is the
hardest thing to get used to?

Those three were undoubtedly the most difficult to get used to. I still haven’t totally warmed up to the food. Atkins would roll over in his grave if he saw what I was eating. On average, I’d say that I consume 1.5 baguettes a day. My first few mornings I was touched to be served breakfast in my room, but horrified to find that it repeatedly consisted of a baguette half wrapped in newspaper, and some weird un-refrigerated butter along with some strong tea, kinkelba, served from one of the family’s two mugs. Not wanting to offend my family, I nibbled at the bread but would not touch the butter. I even went so far as to wash the knife to make it look as though I had eaten the butter. Now I love the stuff. The bread. The butter. The newspaper (hey, at least something is shielding my bread from Allah knows what). I now crave what I used to know as “empty calories.” The more sugar the better. I’m fully expecting to come home with a mouthful of cavities. But though my tastes may have made some accommodations, I still crave vegetables. And oil-free food. So very much.

The smells were overwhelming at first—exhaust exhaust exhaust, burning garbage, sweat, yeast from all of the little bakeries, fish, garbage, sewage…. everything. And all in what I initially felt like the hottest and heaviest air my fair skin had ever come into contact with. But nasal fatigue has set in and I hardly smell any of it these days.

Senegal is flat and desert-like. The Southeast corner aside. Technically, it is a desert, or sahel—more of a semi-desert, but the desert is encroaching. I love the mountains, verdant greenery. I ruled California out in my college search because it lacked true green, a field of tall grass in June kind of green. So this endless sandscape, beautiful as it can be punctuated by great big baobab trees, takes some getting used to. And it is getting hotter by the day. We are in the dry season however, which, luckily, lacks the oppressive heat and humidity of summer/the rainy season.

Time is also very ummm loose here, to say the least. Everything is quite lax. And for a northeastern used to a certain pace of life, an almost holy reverence for the clock and its movements….the adjustment can be a bit hard. Though I am relaxing, so I suppose that’s good.

And lastly, what I mentioned earlier: I miss my anonymity. I miss being just one among many.