What Do You Mean the Electricity Is Out?

For the past week, I’ve been with my host family, and it was a grueling experience. My family lives in Tivaouane (pronounced Ti wa wan), it’s about 30 minutes north of the training compound, and I’m one of the more fortunate trainees who lives near the training center and has electricity… well that is when Dakar decides to not push the red button marked Tivaouane. It always seems to go out around 4am and then comes back in the afternoon.

I was the first one dropped off and I was greeted at the door by my host mother and father. The organized introduction lasted a whole 3 minutes and then I was left with this family who didn’t speak English. Thank God I speak French. I am graced with the traditional African family, consisting of more people than I can count and more names than a Chinese phone book. In my house, there is my father, mother, my sisters of the ages 10, and 8 and le petit Mohamed who is all of a year and a half and poorly behaved. Also, there is a 20 year old boy and an 18 year old girl who was originally introduced to me as my brother and sister respectively, but it turns out they are my cousins and the boy has been living with my host mother and father (his aunt and uncle) since his father passed away years ago. The 20 year old girl is also my cousin and is visiting during summer vacation.

My father is a truck driver for a local company and walks many kilometers to his work which has varying hours. Sometimes he is around for dinner and lunch and I never see him in the morning. My brother, the 20 year old, is waiting to pass the BAC, so he can run off to college. He works a few hours 5 days a week at a garden nearby. My host sisters do much of nothing and just play around all day and get into arguments. Who would have imagined a wheel on a stick would be so amusing? But it beats the hell out of kick-the-can.

Home life and rules are segregated. My host mother makes me breakfast every morning, which is always bread and butter or chocolate and coffee so sweet it could make me a diabetic. Lunch is always prepared by the maid and dinner is prepared by my 20 year old host sister. Doing nothing, or very little is a sign of wealth, so adults are less inclined to do as much around the house as American adults.
The biggest obstacle is the house itself. It’s unfinished. Imagine living in an unfinished basement with drywall up. Houses are made of concrete blocks and cement is used to bind everything together. The floor in the hallway is unfinished concrete. The rooms are usually complete and have poorly laid linoleum on the floors. The toilet and the shower are in the same 4’X4’ room, with the Turkish toilet being raised up 6” and in one corner; the rest of the area being used as the shower. I leave my sandals on. Showers are bucket baths. I fill my bucket up and take it into the bathroom when I shower, which is twice daily and that is considered below average.
The food is pretty consistent. It’s either rice or coucous and has fish with it. Any other meat is rare and is a special treat. Last night my sister was thrilled that my host mother agreed to buy a chicken for dinner. I guess it was ok, since it was the first night of Ramadan. We eat dinner together around a large tray that hosts the meal. As customary, no one talks and everyone eats with the right hand, as the left is used for less dignified purposes. Luckily, the men in my family are granted spoons. Needless to say, I had to just suck it up and deal with the double-dipping. Very often, the mother takes it upon herself to divide pieces of meat and place them in front of various family members. It was nice not having to pick out my fish bones, but I don’t care for someone touching my food. My trick for getting through any meal is to not look up. I look at my spoon, the rice in front of me, or my knee; never anyone else.

Soon after arriving, I asked my host mother to take me to the market so I could buy some local fabric and have pants made. She agreed and she helped me to get a good price on some cloth. I took her to avoid the tubob price, or the “foreigner” price. I’ve been called “tubob” all week by little kids and it get annoying.
Language classes are going well. In one week, we are already formulating sentences in the present and past tense. It’s not easy, as Wolof is structured as Object + Subject + Verb and can be difficult to organize mentally. Luckily, the verb doesn’t conjugate.

On Wednesday, I’ll be returning to the host family for 12 days. I’ll write more about my first week tomorrow, but for the mean time, I hope this suffice.