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8 Months Later, Final Credits.

I never wrote a sign-off to this blog and my trip. I meant to. Toyed with a lot of ideas, and rejected a lot more. Told myself it should be off the cuff, and convinced myself to mull things over a bit long. Time slipped away, other adventures came calling, and slowly I slipped back into American Society.

One of my mantras this year has been to stand up and live before sitting down to write, but the line between the two is getting blurry. Is it better to dash off the stuff of dreams, or capture the reality of days?

Or both?

Like a dream, my Study in Senegal is a bit hard to explain linearly, or even verbally. My best attempt is already on the web, and I humbly ask you to check it out if you haven't already. But even that poem falls a bit short. The beauty is in the shadings -- the out of focus details that built up around the real events to make them special in retrospect. I've come to terms with the fact that I will never completely recreate my trip for someone else. And I will never  be able to articulate how I've changed, even to myself. Especially to myself.

Maybe, in ten years, I will be able to see and differentiate the stages of my life, layered like wax fabrics in bright, colorful strips. I'll be able to tell you the difference in the cloths, and the dyeing process, and the designs, and let you know exactly how this trip made me the man I am today, Nicholas Geisler.

Probably not though. And that's cool.

I've got a lot of  messages from Senegal that I wanted to share with anyone who would listen: We need to focus more on families. The idea of growth for growth's sake is a toxic concept that drives power into the hands of people with money and make working the sole and depressing, raison d'etre. Everyone should experience being a minority. Music, art, and dance are more crucial to happiness and stability (even on a political scale) than just about anything else. Love, in it's hundred forms, is easy; but is not to be taken lightly. Every one of us is much more alike, as human beings, than different.

I should have picked one of those ideas for the wrap-up post. Woulda made a nice, tight, ending.

But I've heard all of those ideas before. Ya'll probably have too. This time though, I learned all of it for myself.

I didn't just see it, or hear it, or apply it. I got a chance to live it. To come upon these realizations in my daily life. And this process of learning, more than any knowledge, is what has blown me away.

We can learn things from anything. Anyone. Whether under the shade of a Baobab sipping attayaa with my Wolof-speaking host father or holed up in a basement in Ithaca, so much more of life is about accepting what just happened then planning for what comes next. I learned the Djembe by watching a man hit a beat and trying to repeat it. I learned about how to love someone the same way. I'm okay knowing that I still have to practice.

Go figure, the "footage" of Senegal I came back with rarely matched the expectations that entered. There is not "teaser trailer" that will ever accurately prepare you for Africa (god knows it is not in that new Adam Sandler movie). Looking for something is the most sure way to find nothing, or at least nothing that you expected. And that's the best part! Nowhere will be like the guidebook, or the Travel Center spot. No trip won't have some blood, sweat and tears (and maybe a little street-food inspired sickness), and no trip is going to be perfect.

So go anyway.

Just go somewhere. Anywhere. Go there open-minded and a little worried and maybe a little bit malleable, and see what happens. You might not change that much, and you might not feel a thing. But that can be just as powerful a feeling -- knowing that, as expansive as the globe can be, we still have something universal holding us together. People are people. Everywhere. Plus some other vague platitudes about togetherness. But hey, cliches get their status from somewhere.

And that might have been the most liberating experience of all -- sometimes there is no need to be original. Sometimes sharing a moment, not matter how many people have shared it before, is just as beautiful as trying to invent your own. 

I shared too many beautiful moments to call them my own, and I have a lot of my readers to thank as much as the people I explored with. I left as just another kid who wanted to visit Africa. I came back another kid who had. But what happened in between was one of the most perfect and convoluted dreams I've ever had.

This is probably the most vague and self-serving conclusion I've ever written. But you know what? It's mine.

So, if nothing else, I hope one person reads this and thinks, to themselves, "I can do better." Some other cocky person who thinks they can write something worth reading, something relate-able. And if they do, I'd love to read it.

But I defy anyone who says they had a better trip than me. I'd tell you all about it, but maybe it's best if you just wrote your own.

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It sounds like rap in Senegal is very similar to the foundation of hip hop in the US. Hip hop did start here as a political tool, only in the US there was in influx on money which corporatized it and a great deal of it lost its message. It seems to me that you are attributing most of the succes of Senegalese hip hop as a political tool to the lack of money, do you agree with that assessment and/or do you think there is another large aspect of Senegalese culture that helps preserve the message?CB

It's tough to answer, because there is isn't any money really involved in rap, and there won't be for the foreseeable future. There is just no market to buy music -- it's too easy to download online and people don't have the cash to spare. Plus, copywrite laws aren't really a thing, so even if you record, there is a good chance someone will just take it for live shows and you will be none the wiser. 

But I do think that there are other cultural factors involved, because there is a small "commercial rap" scene developing (interestingly enough, they liberally steal American sample, Meek Mills being surprisingly popular to grab from, actually), that raps a lot about the club scene and women. The goal is to make money, to tap the commercial market, but to do so by going outside of Senegal's borders. The money, for them, is in international concerts and festivals, and getting radio/club play abroad.

There is a reason why they are going outside the borders that is beyond the money, though -- Senegalese people don't want to hear that kind of shit in their music. They want stories, they want meaning. This is a nation of Griots, or traditional storytellers, and everything from dance to graffiti to hip-hop has something in it beyond entertainment (actually, I take that back, the TV here is pretty shallow, repeating US soap plots and scenarios, but TV is a the media of the masses here, so it makes sense, most people watch sports anyway). Why though, is tough to answer. Afterall, American Hip-Hop is about stories, and the stories, though often about riches, are hugely popular in rich and poor neighborhoods alike. 

But the nature of the story is quintessentially American -- it's okay that I have this much money now, and you don't, because I worked for it, and you can do. The idea of the American Dream, which has more than found it's place in American Hip-Hop, isn't quite applicable. Though I've only heard hints of it, to me this is why the East v West coast beef (remember, Senegal gets a lot of our pop culture pretty late, so 90's stuff is still relevant) is not even a question. It is ALWAYS Tupac over Biggie here. Granted, Notorious is much more nuanced than people here realize, but on the surface he embodies more of the rags-to-riches, material success culture of American rap than his LA contemporary. Almost equally impressive is Eminem's pedigree here.

So that's kinda the idea. Honestly, I think all signs point to rap moving into a more corporatized style, as the youth that grow up here are getting more into the "new school" approach, and Hip-Hop music videos are getting more airtime with more and more American themes. We'll see, though. After all, Y'en a Maare, the giant hip-hop political movement, was just in 2012, and is still going strong. I guess it comes down to cultural pressures over economic. Hate to be pessimistic  but we know where that usually ends up.

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G Hip-Hop

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They Still Love H.E.R.

Today, through a turn of events of circumstances too bizarre for me to even begin explaining (and a bit private for other members of the program), I was given the chance to meet Fou Malade, one of Senegal’s most important working rappers and founder of the incredibly influential movement Y’en a Marre. Naturally, I was ecstatic – for those of you that don’t know, my capstone project here is going to be a trilingual poem/rap having something to do with language and cultural appropriation (the details are hazy still, but that’s just cause I want to keep it a surprise). I started my research with poets, but it quickly became clear that the rap route was going to be more fruitful.

                For those of you that have been following me for a while, you’ll remember that literature has been on the decline for some time here in Dakar. But as literature has fallen, Hip-Hop has risen to take its place. In the late 80’s and 90’s hip-hop took off in the US and made its way quickly eastward, and Senegal was not immune to the craze. The early music was tied closely to its American roots, but it didn’t take long for the music to reach the suburbs of Dakar and really explode. Positive Black Soul was the first group to really make it big, thanks to some help from French rapper MC Solaar, and their example paved the way for a new youth culture in the outskirts of Dakar.

                Since PBS, Senegalese rap has been contained mostly to West Africa, though that’s not necessarily because of poor quality of output. Rather, it’s because Senegal has so re-appropriated rap to fit the local culture that it has become its own living language of Dakar (there is also a solid scene in St. Louis, and Zinganshore, but I can’t really speak of those yet). Wolof, French, English, Serrer, Pulaar, Mandinka – any language you could imagine is fair game to be spun into a verse.

                That doesn’t mean that they just mix up words hap-hazardly. Rather, there seems to be a bit of an unspoken code as to why and when each language is used. French is the catchall, the way to make the message the biggest and broadest, and speaks to everyone from kids in the streets to diplomats and politicians (more on that later). English is the party mix, a cultural nod to American rap roots that is saved mostly for hooks and breaks. Wolof is for the youth, and is the most powerful way to be heard and felt about issues that are strongly Senegalese. But it is also, like the other odd languages I’ve mentioned, the most personal, functioning like an uncontainable burst of the mother tongue to speak from the heart.

                Because rap here is about more than money, women, and cars (gross oversimplification of American Hip-Hop, but the only rap that really makes it out here is radio popular stuff, though somewhat tellingly, Tupac is huge), it’s about a new youth identity. There is not a whole lot of money in music thanks to non-existent copy write laws and the ease of illegal downloads, so rap has to have another purpose. According to Fou Malade, if you walk on stage and rap about fat stacks, you’re going to get stones thrown at you. Rap here is about giving the suburbs a voice, about giving power to the powerless. It’s about developing a new language from the cultural rubble globalization and colonization left in its wake.

                Cue G Hip-Hop, the brand new center for Urban Culture Fou Malade opened in his home neighborhood in Guidiwade. The walls were freshly painted with street art from abstract colors to huge a portrait of Nelson Mandela, and the open courtyard was populated by lounging young men trying to stay out of the midday sun. Rosie and I, along with our guide Amin (the same one from the first hotel we stayed at, for those of you keeping track!), got there a bit early and hung around talking to the people that came through. We each bought a CD and checked out the local paintings until, almost out of nowhere, Fou Malade walked in.

                As a side note, meeting a celebrity from another culture is a pretty strange experience. On one hand, I know that I should be nervous – after all this is one of the top rappers in the country. But on the other, I didn’t know why he was famous, other than the basic facts. I’d heard a song or two, read a few articles, and heard his name dropped once or twice. One of the cool things about Senegal is that, being such a small country with such incredible cultural output, it’s really not that hard to meet anyone around here if you have a couple of connections to explore. It wasn’t until I was actually face to face with the man that I realized exactly who I was meeting.

                Luckily for me, talking to him came naturally as anyone else I had met. He is a small guy, but he has a fiery temperament – not angry, but passionate about his work and mission. And his intelligence shown through in the first few minutes, speaking fluidly and articulately in both French and English whenever the need suited him.

G Hip-Hop is somewhat a culmination of many of his artistic goals. On one hand, it’s a performance space, and place for rappers to have discuss and come together. It’s also an art showcase, with paintings and graffiti spilling out from the courtyard into the streets surrounding it. It’s a learning space, with writing, art, and recording spaces and workshops every week for neighborhood children, with over 200 already registered in the first few weeks. There is really only one thing that it’s not – a political space.

That surprised me, coming from the leader of Y’en a Marre the political action group he founded in 2012 to fight against then-President Wade’s unconstitutional bid for a 3 term (they, like us, only allow 2, a rule Wade ironically put in the Constitution himself). The group exploded, particularly in the suburbs, where it was sustained by the sort of Hip-Hop activism that would make Lupe Fiasco green with envy. But this center is beyond politics – he made a very big point of refusing any political money so as not to be beholden to the government. He runs the center on gifts and volunteerism, and that’s very intentional. Because the goal of the center is not really to produce music. It’s the byproduct.

The goal is just to build. Too often, Fou Malade laments, we view Hip-Hop as critical and deconstructive, and there is clearly a need for that. But that kind of attitude only leads to more division if it’s not tempered by the joy of creation. G Hip-Hop is a monument to Malade’s home town, a shining example for the youth of what someone can build if they believe in themselves. Multiple times, he referred to his music as Hip-Hop Litterature. It is beyond a type of music now; it’s an art form, and an important one at that. 

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My first yassa poulet

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Our first meal in the new digs -- more on the real estate search later!

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Diamonds on the Soles of Our Shoes

Bit of a longer form essay on my Village Stay -- Enjoy!

The road to Kedougou is a long one, and sitting on the bus as we passed the brush and the baobabs for 13 hours gave me plenty of time for reflection – not just about the trip as a whole, but about how I have changed since embarking on my semester here. Though it has been said before, and it will be said again, no one travels to another country without a set of well-ingrained preconceptions about their destination. Perhaps this is no truer than when traveling to Africa. Of course, these cultural biases are often incorrect, or at least paint a wildly incomplete picture of the country, and this has predictably been the case about my time in Dakar.

Yet Kedougou presented a completely different conundrum: on the surface, it actually does match many of the clichés and ideas a Toubab might bring with him to Africa. The sandy, prickly brush extends off into hundred degree heat as far as the eye can see, the houses are huts, and little gray monkeys scatter from underneath our wheels on the cracked highway. I would be lying if I said I was not in love with it; there is a secret sort of pleasure when you realize that your Hollywood-style expectations are actually somewhat true, after all. And when I made it to my little Peuhl Bande village, Bounda Kodi, I was in heaven.

There are two sides to the same coin, however, and as excited as I was, I was almost equally nervous. After all, not all of my preconceptions of “the real Africa” (as relatives back home have somewhat simple-mindedly dubbed Kedougou) are positive. There is an expectation of poverty, simplicity, and lacking of basic amenities. Life, it is supposed, is hard. Nothing I encountered during my three nights in Bounda Kodi quiet contradicted that, but just like Dakar, I realized that my preconceptions of village life had grossly over-simplified things.

Because it would be very easy to look at the basic facts of the village stay, just like when I looked out the windows of our bus, and come away with nothing more than a reinforcement of the popular stereotypes. Each morning we would eat a basic breakfast or rice or corn porridge and enjoy the brief hours before the unbearable heat, playing with what kids were already awake in our compound or speaking with the few brothers who knew French while chickens and goats roamed the courtyard. Almost immediately, the women would get to work making food, grinding peanuts and cleaning rice outside or in sweltering and smoky huts while the men went out to look for work. Lunch was communal and simple – other than Mafe with a bit of goat meat on the first day we ate only rice with okra or couscous with leafy gravy – and afterwards everyone retired from the heat to nap through the mid-afternoon. Then it was off to the garden, carrying water on our heads while kids in tattered American style clothes laughed and played at the well. As the sun set, the young men set out to play the day’s soccer match while the women continued preparing dinner, which was often a repeat of lunch, and afterwards the family would settle under the moonlight and drift to sleep. Wake up the next day, rinse, and repeat.

Like usual though, it was the little things that made all of the difference. Despite the routineness and simplicity, and despite the lack of running water or electricity, people in Bounda Kodi seem profoundly and genuinely happy. Maybe it is not in spite of those things, because of them. Because in my short few days living with the Peuhl Bande, I started to see that people in the village approach life in an entirely different way than most people do in America. The more I think about it the less I believe that the simplicity of life in Bounda Kodi acts like a set of shackles. Instead, it was provided a few of the most liberating days of my entire semester.

Why though was it so refreshing, and how exactly did it manifest itself? The easy response is perhaps a bit too Marxist for my liking – that the lack of material culture allows people to focus on more humanistic pursuits of happiness. I think that this is partially true, to be fair, and when people are not so worried about careers or the next great toy they can sit and enjoy life a little more. Nowhere was this more apparent than with the chief, who, like the chief in Mouit, lived a very simple and modest life. With a big smile on his face, he would ride off each morning on his bike to Bounda Fassi to act as the regional council, a weighty and important position. Yet, despite his status, he often seemed less well off than any of the many men who came through our doors to talk to him. His bike seemed like nothing compared to the motorcycles parked outside; his robes frayed compared to leather jackets and clean jeans. We rarely even had ataaya, and when we did he did not often take his first, as there was only a limited amount. But I don’t suspect that this was an accident. Rather, I think these sorts of things simply were not a huge priority. One evening, when I couldn’t sleep in my hut due to the heat, I went out for a walk to the well to cool off. As I passed the chief on his bed in the middle of the courtyard, I accidentally woke him. Immediately, he sprung off the bed and gestured for me to lie down, despite there being nowhere else he could have slept had I taken his place. The bed wasn’t that important, I was.

Later, I gave him a picture of me and my family to remember me by, and despite giving him a soccer ball, ataaya, sugar, coloring books, and crayons the day before, he treated the photo more preciously than anything else I had gifted. To say that no one valued material goods would be a lie – I talked to plenty of young men who headed into town whenever they could to watch soccer on a TV or dreamed of going to the big city where everyone has phones and a radio – but the prevailing sentiment, every time, was that they would always return to their little village. Family comes first, and family has much broader connotations there than in America. Children from ages four to fourteen, for example, spent the days roaming in giant, laughing packs without adult supervision, jumping off of ledges, catching and cooking rodents, and convincing us to have sing-alongs. If one got hurt, the oldest would clean off the wound and take care of it. They had no toys, no games, no music, and an infinite number of ways to hurt themselves, yet they were given complete freedom to enjoy and protect themselves. Case in point: the day before we arrived, a young boy was stung to death throwing rocks at a beehive and yet the next day there were no parents holding their kids close to home or forbidding them to go out and play. A large part of being a family is trust, and it was refreshing to see it being given so readily.

This spirit of openness and honesty is reflected in everything, right down to the physical layout of the village. My particular compound consisted of twelve huts, each with their own little back porch for showering, and a large open space in the middle with several shady lean-tos. Chairs were scattered around, and the families animals wandered in and out at will. During the day, the only people around were the children, as it was Easter break and they didn’t have school, and the women. But at night, everyone came back, and the feeling of love and closeness was astounding. Sometimes a radio would be playing mbalax softly from one of the huts, and sometimes the glow of the ataaya burner would light up the face of a brother or mother. The real action though, was within the family. Conversation stretched casually across the compound for hours as people drifted in and out of sleep, laughing and sharing gossip. There was no need for a TV, no need even for a kitchen table. People just enjoyed each other’s company.

The sentiment was prevalent throughout the entire village – people would invite me in for tea, children I had never met before would hold my hand, and I was even involved in preparing mortar and helping to build a bit of a new hut. The community garden typified the spirit better than any other location, as everyone helped care for everyone else’s plants, and profit was spilt 50-50, with half going back to the community, and half going to the family who sold the vegetables. What was so inspiring was that it was never really a question of fairness. In fact it was never really treated as a question at all. This was just how things were done; it would be ridiculous not to share. There is an American cliché that says, “sharing is caring,” and despite hearing it all my life, I am not so sure I believe it anymore. If you care about someone, as the people of Bounda Kodi clearly do, sharing with them is about as natural as breathing.

Before dinner every evening we would head to the field on the other side of town for exercise. The afternoon soccer game was always a hit, and anyone could play if they wanted, though the young girls and many of boys sat and formed the spectator section. Teams were divided up randomly, and most of it was self-officiated. Other men often exercised on the side as well, but even if they didn’t take place in the actual game, the sentiment was the same—the afternoon is the time to come together and enjoy some time as a community. Sport just happened to be the easiest common denominator. And on the last day, we found out why. As they finished their final workout, Catherine and Julia sat talking to Julia’s brother Moktar, who had been our unofficial guide of sorts throughout the village stay. He thanked them for exercising with them, and told them he hoped they liked his gift – the gift of sport. There was not much, he lamented, that he could give them, but he could always give them company, and exercises, and hoped that they would do the same for him.

I would if I could, and I’ll try my best to repay him should he ever come to the states, but I think it will be difficult. Despite what he thinks, he gave us a lot more than the gift of sport those afternoons in Kedougou. He gave us a glimpse into happiness as it should be – simple, unassuming, and surrounded by the ones you love. It will be hard sentiment to shake, and I hope I never do.

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Gettin' Around

This morning, I pretty foolishly decided to come into school at 8:30, not realizing that I didn't really need to be here until 10:00. But it freed up time for a blog post, and gave me ample time to think about it on my solitary ride into Point E. 

After walking to meet up with the others, we still have about a 20-30 minute commute into school from Ouakam (though that will change as of tomorrow, as I move into my apartment). We've tried about everything to get around, and by now, I feel pretty confident getting to and fro around Dakar.

We started with taxis, as we have a travel stipend and we could be sure of being dropped off right where we needed to be. Taxis here have no meter, you just let the driver know where you are going and start bargaining. This, of course, has its pros and cons. On the one hand, it can be wicked cheap, I've never paid more than 2000 CFA (about $4) for a ride, and even that is pretty rare, as I generally get them for 1000-1500 CFA. And bargaining is pretty fun -- especially once you learn to speak Wolof, which always makes the taximan laugh and can usually get you a lot lower price (they start us toubabs off pretty high, more often than not). But sometimes you are just not in the mood to bargain, and when we travel, with our big backpacks and out-of-place faces, it can be pretty hard to find a driver not taking advantage of you.

Plus, they do pretty much whatever they want. Rules of the road aren't really a thing here -- I've seen about 3 traffic lights total and I've never seen a working odometer. I've had taxis stop for gas and demand the fare in advance, and I've had policemen pull taxi's over to demand bribes for not wearing a seat belt (from the driver, not from me). And, though it doesn't sound like it, taxis are expensive.

So we started taking the bus. Being environmentally conscious, and all. The number 7 traces all through Ouakam and drops us off about 5 minutes from school, and all for 125 CFA, and 25 cents to get around ain't bad at all. The big blue monstrocities are called DDDs (Dakar Dem Diek, or the Dakar There & Back), and could comfortably fit probably 30-40 people.

Except they don't fit 30-40 people, they fit 100. Try and get a window spot if you can, or catch it early enough to grab a seat, because it's a hot and smelly mess of a transportation system. You'll be lucky if you can even pay the caged ticket master sitting in the middle, more often than not you have to pass you change along a string of people and wait for your ticket to come back. But we just assumed that we got what we payed for.

That was until we started taking the Car Rapide, one of the symbols of Dakar. We had taken them before to get home, but it was only after getting fed up with the bus that we started taking them into school as well. Turns out that that was a great decision.

Car Rapides are some of the most iconic images of Dakar. They are basically vans, with the sides bored out to form windows and seats for 15-20 placed along the back and sides. People are usually in better moods than on the bus (and the body odor is better), and love to try speaking Wolof with Americans. The sides of the rapide are immaculately painted, most often yellow and blue, with religious symbols and phrases, soccer teams, family crests and occupations, and stickers everywhere. On the inside, posters of Khalifas and mosques adorn the walls. Each car is owned by two people -- a driver and his assistant, the "apprenti," and they take great pride in making the car their own.

Of course, like the bus, just because its supposed to fit 15-20 people doesn't mean it will. But there is always a great breeze blowing through the sides, more people can sit down, and if you're lucky you can ride on the ledge on the back, holding on the railing with the apprenti. Plus, its only 100 CFA, and I've gotten it for 50 before.

So this morning I of course took a Car Rapide. The apprenti, hanging on the back, shouts out the destination, and people run to hop in or grab the back (though only guys are allowed to do that, and are expected to give up their seat if a woman enters the cabin). The one I took today was packed tight, so I shared the back ledge with 5 other men, each of us intertwined to hold on. And when someone had to get off, I had to let them pass, and then run to catch the moving car as it pulled out again. Kinda stressful, and completely awesome.

Of course, I can also walk and bike many places, but that is just not as much fun -- and in the case of the bike, much more stressful.

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The finished and beautiful product.

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Ceebu Yaap (Beef Stew and Rice)

Yesterday, I got the distinguished pleasure of getting to cook with my Sister-In-Law, Kine, who makes all of our meals at my home in Ouakam. We made Ceebu Yaap with Onion Sauce, which is one of the big staples of Senegalese Cuisine. The recipe is pretty easy, and getting to work with her allowed me to really notice what is happening, so you can have faith this is the real deal. Again, because of ingredient differences, I've Americanized it a bit. 

Ceebu Yaap for 4-5

Ingredients:

3-5 Small Sweet Onions, minced

Half to 3/4 a Kilo Stew Beef

8-10 Green Onions, chopped finely

1/2 Clove of Garlic, chopped finely

Half a handful of Whole Black Peppercorns

2 Green Bell Peppers, in small strips

Beef or Veg. Broth, or if you don't have any, we used water

2 Small, Hot peppers

Dijon Mustard

Vinegar

Oil

And Rice. Again, its really just a crapshoot as to the amount. 

+ Chopped cucumber, tomatoes and peppers to garnish.

Salt & Spices (again, Paprika, cumin, onion powder, crushed red pepper and chili peppers to taste, a bit of cayenne, and definitely a bit of sugar -- everything here is prepackaged and really doesn't have ingredient lists, so I'm going off of taste here. Kine's not so secret addition, one I have only seen in my house, is to add bay leafs, too. Experiment beaucoup).

For the Stew:

Start browning the beef in the oil (be generous, it'll have use) with some salt and a few bay leaves while you cut and prepare the vegetables.

In a mortar and pestle (though a food processor will work just fine), blend the garlic, peppercorns, green onions (save one or two), a handful of chopped sweet onions, one of the bell peppers and some of your desired spice mixture together into a pretty fine green paste. Add a bit to the beef as it cooks. 

Once the beef is well cooked, add the broth/water to taste (it needs to cover the meet liberally) and bring to a boil. Add more paste, salt, a hot pepper, and seasoning to taste.

Lower the heat and let it simmer, covered, for at least an hour.

Steam the rice about halfway (if you can, place it in a culinder over the stew and cover). Remove it from the heat and let it cool back down. It should still be pretty hard to the touch.

After you are comfortable with the stew, doting over it and trying it liberally to add more spaces (don't spell it though, that's rude), add the partially cooked rice and raise the heat a bit. Finish cooking the rice in the stew so it soaks up the liquid. ***Don't stir the rice much! The super cooked stuff at the bottom gets scraped off and is super good***

For the Onion Sauce:

Add the minced onions, the remaining peppers and green onions, and the leftover pepper paste to a bowl with salt and mix. To taste, add spices and a chopped hot pepper. If you've got some garlic left over, toss it in as well.

Mix in 2-3 tablespoons Dijon and a generous coating of vinegar (these ratios are very subjective and change from house to house. Personally, I like it a little heavy on the Dijon and a little more subtle with the vinegar).

Place in a skillet on the stove and cook uncovered until the onions are browned and sweet. 

**** This sauce is amazing with chicken too, and is super crucial ****

Finishing Touches:

Chop the tomatoes, cucumber, and any uncooked bell peppers, and mix them with little dijon, vinegar, and salt.

Place the rice stew on a big platter and cover with the onion sauce. Garnish the sides with the fresh vegetables, and enjoy!

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Any Road

Well, its been a while, hasn’t it? I apologize for the delay, but as I said before, homework (and some fun) have been consuming a lot of my time. But enough apologies, lets get to the (hopefully) good stuff.

I returned yesterday from my second village stay, part of a weeklong trip to Kedougou, a small city in the Southeast of Senegal, off of the Gambia River. Its a 13 hour journey by bus as a result of the road conditions, so we hoped in a bus, music devices charged, and set out from Dakar into what most people would call, without hesitation, the “Real” Africa. Or at least the Africa we all have come to expect. 

The land opens up only an hour or so into dusty red rock plains and brush, dotted by the massive, convoluted baobabs and the occasional village or mining operation. Each village greeted our bus with smiles, holding up food and little goods to look at, or waving at us with big, broad gestures. And the further we traveled, the more thay changed, the low concrete structures growing more and more round, the roofs more often thatched. 

And it grew hotter, too. A lot hotter. Most days, Dakar is somewhere between 80-90 degrees. But the air in Kedougou slapped you across the face at 100 or more. The high the first day there was 111, and though it’s a dry heat, it’s a small consolation. We started a bushfire dropping an unlit match into some grass (thank god a passing motorcylcist knew what to do) But, despite the gripping, it only added to the allure — this is the bush! This is Africa! We passed through a national park on the way and saw monkeys and wild boar! How much better could it get?

After stopping halfway at a hotel (with a pool) for dinner and a night in the air conditioning, we arrived in Kedougou and settled into a encampment on the outskirts of town for our first few days before the village stay, and for another night afterwards. Although the village stay was definitely the highlight, I’m going to save that for another post to do it justice. Kedougou has enough going on for one post, that’s for sure.

To call Kedougou a city, by Western standards, is certainly a stretch. Few buildings rise about 2 stories, and you can drive through the entire thing in only a few minutes. Blackouts were a daily occurrence. 

Yet the streets are bustling, and if it doesn’t physically resemble a city (to my overly trained eyes), it absolutely feels like one. The market, starting on the main streets and winding through the tight alleyways off the sides, is packed every afternoon with fabrics (including the regionally famous indigo cloth), fruits, bike equipment (number one transport here, huzzah!), and thrifted western clothes. Each neighborhood has their own soccer team, and one day the field across from our camp hosted a game, and an easy 200 people showed up to watch and comment. There’s even a little night club, The Black & White, in the middle of town.

Despite the mild warnings to the contrary, I headed to the river to beat the heat my last day (sorry mom, but I’m fine!). The river too was bursting with life, with kids jumping and swimming while women did laundry and men lounged in the son (though I plan on tackling it later, this gives you a pretty decent glimpse into gender relations out here, though they are infinitely more nuanced than they seem). To delighted cries of “Toubab!” I swam up the river and to the other side, occasionally meeting people in the middle to talk and tread water. Eventually I made my way up the other bank, where the village ended, and found myself in a beautifully luscious field of peppers, cabbage, tomatoes, and more. The sun was dipping low enough to make the day bearable, and in the afternoon light young men watered and tended plants, each arraigned in low earthen walled sections to retain moisture. I had left most of my clothes and shoes on the other shore, but the ground was solid, the breeze cool, and the sites irresistible.

So I continued on, picking up a walking stick and following the cattle trails through a dried up stream bed and into the beginnings of a light forest. Birds the size of crows and infinitely more attractive were everywhere, as were long-horned cows, and I even accidentally sent several monkeys out of a tree and scampering in front of me.

Like all humans, I was drawn immediately to the highest point in the area, where the view promised to be large and a feeling of grandeur awaited. So I crawled up the side with my walking stick, building up sweat and altitude. I made it to the summit to find nothing but cattle paths and rocks, and then I turned around.

Traveling somewhere as different as Africa, with the inevitable preconceptions that entails, can be something of a self-fulfilling prophesy. We all have our ideas of a “dream trip,” and unconsciously or not we often seek out ways to make it possible. That’s not a bad thing, especially when if goes right.

As I looked down on The Gambia River, with the huts of Kedougou in the distance and plains of Africa all around me, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something deeply and personally profound in the moment that transcended both cliche and expectation. Staff in hand, shirtless, sweaty, and looking hard into the setting sun, I felt both bigger and smaller than I have in my adult life. This was Graceland, this was The Power of One. But more importantly, it was mine.

I descended the other side into a little, and an army man, curious at the site of a shoeless honkey walking popping randomly from the brush, came to greet me. He spoke Mandinka and no French, yet he smiled anyway, pointing all the time at my feet and laughing, and led me to meet his family before taking me back to the river. He waved as I dove in repeating the Mandinka word for thank you, which I somehow gleaned from him. He shouted the same thing back at me, took his shirt off, and jumped in as well.

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Method Man and GZA, also known as my brothers here.

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Any new posts in the works?

Yes -- in my brain....

Its been a long couple of weeks, and homework has been piling up lately, so I haven't had a lot of time to write blog posts. But I've got ideas, and a few notes jotted down, so I'll hopefully get to something soon. Bear with me, and I'll get to it ASAP! Until then, I'll keep putting pictures up to compensate.

[studyinsenegal-blog]

Grande Mosque a Touba

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That's one orangey burger.