I am sitting at a computer with a stick in my mouth. (No, Dad, not log in foot. ) If you have ever carefully read a health pamphlet about oral hygene, you'll see a funny option listed next to toothbrushing: cure-dent sticks. Apparently they provide better cleaning power than a toothbrush, and come close to the benefits of flossing. On top of that, they give you reason to look dignified while chewing on stick.
I was somewhat baffled by the presence of these sticks when I first arrived. Poking jauntilly out of the mouths of adults and children alike, these sticks bob along in perpetual yes-man agreeance with whatever their chewer is saying. These feisty little sticks can be seen walking down the street or talking to a neighbor, one even made the appearance dangling from the lip of a visiting university faculty lecturer.
Look for them soon in Colorado.

Spending the next week in a mountain village stay. More to come.

102.6 degree fever. Mmmmm boy.
Not to say that I didn't expect something of the sort to occur at some point, but really now. Everyone else just vomited once or twice. Being the overachiever I am, I contracted a bacterial gastronomical infection and landed myself on three medications. Never fear (mom, dad, grandparents, tia ruth, et al.) I went straight away to the doctor and now, 36 hours later, am fully hydrated and eating for the first time. Things happen quickly here in Senegal.

This sickness offered a new perspective on many aspects of life here, in the form of many questions.

• How close am I to my new aunts? Answer: not as close as I had thought. Preferred to give self-care.
• Just how well can I speak french when feverish? Answer: Better than expected. Survival instincts kicking in?
• Can I convert Fahrenheit to Celsius? Answer: Not when feverish. Rough translation of my explanation of my fever: "It's Very very high. Very hot. Dangerous. I need to call a doctor." I realized the point might not have translated completely when my aunt responded: "Well, you have money. Walk down the street to the tellecenter."
• Mange? (Eat?) Yes. Apparently this isn't only a nightly declaration, but a life mantra. Eating, my family seems to think, will cure anything. Including nauseau. I spent my first ill night politely refusing several containers of milk, spicy beef and rice, and an entire bowl of sugary sweet pudding.
• Does Senegalese Tarenga (famed kindness and hospitality) truly exist? Answer: YES. My uncle said to me a few nights ago that he heard once that if you fell over in the street ill in America, you might lie there for hours, or even days, before someone helped you. I had to tell him that yes, perhaps in some places, that was true. Appalled, he explained that in Senegal that would never happen. This very situation was played out almost word for word yesterday. Coming out of the doctors office, I found myself too weak to walk to the street - some ten meters away. I paused in a chair on the doctor's porch, gathering my energy and trying in my feverish state to make a plan as to how I could land myself back at school. After several minutes, I plunged ahead. The world blurred and smeared a little bit. The sun was impossibly bright. As I neared the sidewalk and the edge of the road, I felt my limbs falling limp below me. The sidewalk, cool and stable, was quite unexpectedly supporting my torso, knees, and hips. Suddenly, a mans voice: "Madame, you are sick?" Yes. "There is a doctor not ten meters from here! I will take you." No, merci, I just came from there. I...I need a taxi. "I will help you. Stay here." This mirage of a man walked into the street and within thirty seconds returned with a taxi. He helped me in, then made sure the driver knew where to go and wouldn't charge me too much. As the taxi began to drive away, I heard him saying "You will be well, Inchalla."

So yes. My uncle was right about Senegalese Tarenga. I just had to find out the hard way.

On Saturday, I took tea on the roof under the light of the full moon. (Picturesque, but done out of necessity. Power outage.) Between the three traditional cups taken over the course of 20 to 50 minutes, I relaxed with my uncles and cousins, off-handedly switching between practicing wolof and translating hiphop lyrics for Momo.
Suddenly, a man bursts onto the roof; shouting, grinning, and welcoming the embraces of the other men. My uncles excitedly gather around him, smiles spread wide across their faces, hands swimming through the frenzy... now grasping a shoulder, now clapping a back, now clasping another hand. The man raises his head and shouts thanks towards the sky. The other men do the same. After a few minutes of mixed fran-wolof, I come to realize that this mystery man has just become a father for the first time.
What a welcoming for that child into the world.

My first clash with a basic difference in values.

• Every day between three and fifteen different children will approach me with pails constructed from empty tomato tins and coat hangers. They ask for money. I smile, say "no, but have a nice day", and move on.
• Venders try to sell me things, often physically (I have inadvertently ended up wearing bracelets, necklaces, shawls, shoes...), and I again smile, remove the item for sale from my body, and say - more forcefully here - "Non, merci."
• My aunts push another pile of rice into my portion of the bowl just as they see me beginning to get up from dinner. I smile and say "Jerejef, surna!" (Thank you, I'm full!)
• My brother asks if I'll lend money. Going with SIT's warnings about lending money to femily members (tricky, usually doesn't return), I say "No, sorry. "

According to me, I handled all these situations in a fine manner. According to Senegal, I am rude. Multiple Senegalese have explained to me a concept of "respect" for situations like these that I myself find completely disrespectful: false hope.

One should never say "No", as that is rude and harsh. One should, instead, leave the possibility open...let them believe that someday you have the intention of following through with the thing you don't wish to do at present. This is common courtesy. It also goes against my upbringing and grates on my sense of open honesty. I do not say things that I don't intend to follow through on, and yet this culture demands it.

How does anything get done around here? How do you know when anyone is truly speaking their mind or when they're just trying to appease you? Can you really believe someone when thay make a statement of their intentions and then follow it with "Inchalla"? (if god wills it) Everything is thought to be slightly preordained, or at least in direct connection to the whims of a god whose characteristics and humor I have yet to comprehend.

As I write this, my own words are screaming back at me "American!" ...well...yes. I am. So how do I fit this all together? Honesty without disrespect, adaptation without a loss of my own values...

oy. I'm working on it.

I've become used to my newly multi-colored body. White (not black) skin, Perpetually rosy cheeks; freckly speckled nose; sandy, tanned legs gradually shifting from one shade of brown to the next, cranberry mosquito bites dotting my ankles and heels... A new addition this week: swollen, pulsing, purply-reddish, sometimes blue palms and digits. I've been drumming.

Our class gathers in an old schoolroom: 3 walls covered in blackboard and french cartoons explaining how to brush one's teeth, 1 wall covered in an impossible 15 by 20 foot block of haphazardly stacked (strewn in a vertical fashion) picnic tables, desks, and chairs. We circle in the center, 8 new drummers and 2 griots (those born into the lowest caste of Senegalese society...also the considered the most talented musiciens.)

The elder man starts beating the bass drum. The younger man with dreads smacks out a complicated mbalax rhythm. Or...arythm. My mind can't quite fit around the obvious disregard for 4/4 timing (let alone 2/4, 3/4...) Slowly our hands begin to mimic his. 9 different rhythms collide. Stop. Listen. The beat starts again. The mbalax commences. Our eyes squint at the movements of his calloused fingers, our wrists flick, we try again. No. Stop. Listen.

Stop. Listen. Stop. Listen.

The bass is louder this time. The ryhthm is slower, but still foreign (kind of like the wolof I tend to hear directed towards me these days). I close my eyes and listen. A song emerges. Not just beat, or rythm, but a melody of impacts. Like a heartbeat.

The djembe responds to the impact of one's fingers - receiving, then pressing back, throwing your hand back in the air. Gravity takes over and pulls the palm down for the next beat. Once you start the cycle, let go and the drumming takes care of itself.

We learned 5 traditional Senegalese rhythms and cycled between them. I was surprised how each felt oddly different from any beat i had ever experienced in my western musical training...and yet each was truly simple in nature. Children sing along to this music. Infants learn how to crawl, step, and eventually dance to it. Women hum it, and I've watched the maid fold the laundry to it's beat. There is a rythm to Senegalese life... I'm learning how to play it.

Senegalese Dining 101

1. You did not come to Senegal for the food. (Don't lie.) This guide addresses the basic rules of etiquette when it comes to nourishing oneself in a Senegalese setting. If you wanted gourmet, you'd be in Paris.
2. Utensils: Forks, knives, spoons? Senegalese response: hands. Hand, that is. The right one. Use left and find yourself banished from the bowl. (I've yet to address the bathroom situation in depth...no toilet seat, nor toilet paper. The Senegalese have very strong quads and calves, and very dexterous left hands. In other words, the left hand is considered a tool for the dirtiest of work. It is likewise shunned from more delicate tasks such as eating and hand shaking.)
3. Bowl? Yes. The entire family eats from one bowl (mum - our big red bowl!) centered over a rug in whatever particular floor space has been designated the "dining room" for that night. Most eat from a seated position on the floor, while miniature rectangular stools - which usually give the recipient an advantage of about 4 extra inches - may be provided for a few of the women and smaller children. As a guest, you will be given a stool for the first three days. After that, it's up to you to negotiate stool real estate. Thusfar I have shared spots on these stools with two infants, an aunt, and a maid. Bowl-eating etiquitte requires one to mentally divide the bowl into sections (think of pieces of a pie), and to then eat whatever food happens to land in that section. Do not go scavenging. Pieces of fish and meat will most likely appear magically in your section from time to time. (This fact bewildered and amazed me for the first few days. A careful eye caught the quick hand of a concerned aunt looking out for my well being and waistline.)
4. Rice. Learn to like it. Brown, tan, speckled, off-white...It is the base (literally...underneath) of almost every meal. If not...
5. Bread! Baguette, always. Think of it as that other missing utensil. It is fine to hold your bread in your left hand as you are tearing it with your right. However, do not attempt to pop that last morcel of left-hand bread into your mouth without first switching it to the right hand! (see #2)
6. Fish. No matter how many times Khady unveils our dinner of fish and rice, I still can't quite accustom myself to seeing the dinner literally staring back at me. The fish are always whole...skin, tail, bones (lots), eyes... Don't worry about navigating the bones: as a foreigner, you are treated much like a child in the eating process, and this translates to preferential treatment in the division of meat. (see generous aunt in #3)
7. Beverages - not necessary. There will not be one with dinner.
8. Spice - Last night, the family decided to play a joke on me by purposefully scooting one of the fire-truck red peppers into my section of the bowl. Without a second thought I began to include it in my next bite, when suddenly the whole family burst out laughing and told me to "Laisse-la!" (put it down!) This was apparently one of their hotter peppers, and was not meant to be eaten by an american, "We haven't seen you cry yet, but you would if you ate it!" After watching carefully, I then surprised them by following suit with an aunt who had squished the pepper oils into a bite of couscous. I took the plunge. The Sambs watched in bemused horror - one nearly went for water. I, meanwhile, finished my bite and went for the next - surprised and underwhelmed by the medium level of heat I felt in my mouth. Thanks to spice-abusers for parents, it was nothing. I think I gained some respect in the family.

September 11th in a Muslim country.

My thoughts turn to the multiple conversations with various aunts, uncles, and professors concerning the American definitions of 'terrorist', 'taliban', and 'muslim'. (No I don't equate them... yes, there are probably some Americans who do.) As the sole US citizen in the household, and for that matter the neighborhood, I find myself often in a position of speaking for the US as a whole. I'm not yet comfortable in this role ... not in English, and certainly not in French. How does one explain in simple terms (I'm guessing I speak at about a 5th grade level right now) that citezens of the US do not ascribe to a single path of thought? How does one express love and pride for one's homeland while simultaneously expressing a distaste for certain dogma, ideology, and practices? How can I possibly say to a family of devout Muslims that: yes, there are a good number of people in middle america who would just as soon believe that anyone reading a koran might as well be an enemy of state? (A sweeping generalization? Hopefully. Grounded in some semblance of truth? ...Probably.)
Yes, I'm a christian.
No, I'm not afraid of Muslims.
Yes, September 11th bewildered and angered me.
No, I don't believe you are to blame.
As a child I often listed 'ambassador' as a possible career choice; I believe I'm getting a taste of that right now.

Life at home changes, expands, and improves daily. Visitors come and go constantly, as family members mill between the three floors. I may experience many things in this household, but boredom will never be one of them.

• I did finally meet my mother, who is indeed the minister of industry for the country of Senegal. Elegant, intelligent, funny. I am a very lucky girl. She has decided that I am only to speak Wolof in her presence. I have decided that I shall sound like an idiot around her for the next month and a half. In time I'll improve, Inchalla! (God willing)
• I really do love this family. Yesterday I was party to the Great Baby Powder War of 05. 1st floor terrace. The Samb children and one friend (2 years old) + sugar high, compliments of jus de bisap (afore-mentioned hibiscus juice) + one bottle baby powder (used to ward of heat blisters on the childrens' backs) = closest thing to a snow shower that these children have ever seen. Laughter. Faces and arms smeared white. An amused mother. A foreign exchange student in hysterics (these kids were FUNNY).
• I tend to spend days with the children and aunts, and evenings with the uncles: studying and taking part in Senegalese tea ceremonies. Lamine is my favorite "uncle" thusfar (quotations because, in theory, he is not actually an uncle. But with the Senegalese's loose definitions of family and my odd situation, I have decided to take this whole family tree business into my own hands. He is therefore my uncle, because I say so). Lamine is fantastic. New expressions tumble across his face constantly as he takes in every detail of conversation in the room. He'll ask all the tough questions and then help me find my way to the answers. He excitedly talks to me about his job at the printing press (a REAL printing press. Thank god I watched Newsies as a child, as that allows me to actually picture the machines he describes), and every night he makes sure to invite me up to the uncles' quarters for tea. Last night we watched reruns of "Dallas" and I learned how much sugar to use per pot of tradtional tea (answer: a lot.) Tala, another uncle, is an up and coming business man of the family, having studied in both Dakar and France. He now finds himself overqualified for the majority of job openings in Senegal, and therefore unemployed. He hopes to move to the US by the end of the year to start a company selling African art. Bocar is a neighbor and friend of the family who I think may of notions of courting me. I've explained that I'm very studious and have no interest whatsoever in men right now, Senegalese or otherwise. Also, my Dad is very strong and protective. ;)

Spoke to Dad today for the first time - so good to hear his voice! Loving it here, but absolutely missing the comfort of home. Love to you and peace to you all.

Jamm ak jamm...

(from peace to peace)

What I've learned this week:

1. Family. On Thursday, I moved in with the Samb family. When I first arrived, I was taken on a whirlwind tour of the family, through 9 rooms and 16 family members. It took all of twenty seconds before I found myself accompanied by three loyal henchmen, aged 2 through 6: Bachir, Ahmed, and Bébé Fa. Two speak some french, the other sits on my lap. There are more uncles than I can count, yet somehow only 2 actually live with us... and one isn't a real uncle. Three aunts with lots of babies and opinions. (Mange! = Eat! ... a common command directed in my direction. Another not so subtle hint: "Do women wear makeup in Colorado?" My bare-faced response: "Yes, many do, but the ones who go to Senegal don't tend to wear as much." ). Grandmère is all I had expected and more. Though I've spent no more than 15 minutes with her since my arrival, I have gathered that she is indeed the African Queen of this household. Truly a sight to behold... a large woman with kind, piercing eyes, lounging on her bed, and more often than not wrapped in beautiful green cloth. Seemingly very popular in the neighborhood, Grandmère generally has visitors fluttering around her as she remains calm, good-humored, and always stationary.
   
2. My new name. Senegalese family name: Nafy Samb. (Na-fee Sahm)It's a hard day when one is not only becoming acquainted with 16 others in another language, but when one must respond to a different name as well.
   
3. Senegal = Paradox. Every morning, after taking a very cold shower (to be read: turn water on, wet self, turn water off, shiver, shampoo, inch away from giant cockroach, wash, turn water on, rinse, turn water off, realize bathroom may in fact belong more to cockroaches than to me, tip toe back to room, make mental note to buy shower shoes.), I then wait in my room for Khady (pronounced "rhahdee") to bring me my warm breakfast. I would expect neither of these experiences at home.
   
4. Mom was right. Recently, (could Colorado really have been that recent?) a wise mother said: "What is life, but a chance to break our hearts open and cry?" If a swollen heart is life, then I am most surely living it. I have never felt more displaced, aimless, uncomfortable and scared than I did on Thursday when I was finally shown to my room. Mind reeling, I shut the door and fell onto my bed, eyes already welling with tears. As my tears fell, I watched the rain fall inside of my room (leaking roofs are just another part of rainy season). What the hell am I doing here? A good question. I grasped desperately for shreds of normalcy in my current situation. I dug through my bag for familiar things. Who would have thought that my alarm clock, a bookmark, a plato quote, my parents' handwriting... could bring me so much comfort? I think I forgot my own humanity as I packed in Colorado... might I otherwise have included a Teddy Bear? So yes. I'm trying hard (and not quite succeeding, as my internet time is running out) to describe to you my biggest moment in Senegal thusfar. Scary. Eye-opening. Soul-searching. Made me finally come down to earth and ask a lot of WHY's. I'm still asking them... answers don't come easily... but I can now confidently say that I am LIVING this life. The good. The bad. The Cockroaches. The priveledge. The self doubt. The inspiration. I'm learning again to put my faith in the divine... and I'm atuning myself to those moments of learning. My first was right there on the bed, when I heard a tap on the window followed by the tiny voice of 6 year old Bachir: "Nafy, tu es ici?"

Oui, Bachir. I am here.

Yesterday:

Village des Arts
About 40 years ago, the Senegalese government decided to not only provide funding for talented regional artists, but to create an entire community for them. From that idea sprang "La Village Des Arts", an enclosed community made of selected rising artists. The government provides room, board, silence (a true commodity here in Senegal), and studios in which the artists can display their work. Artists stay until they can make a living for themselves...or indefinitely. (Some of the older artists tend to get comfy in the situation and take their time exiting the premises) What a way to truly embrace and support the arts.
...I find myself comparing it to the benefits of community that rise from a military academy in the US. The Senegalese prefer to create that community for their artists too.

Sea Urchin.
We adventurous SITers have - despite a few half-hearted warnings about urchins and rocks - been swimming on the local beach every afternoon. I finally decided to join in yesterday, having watched all the others go in and out of the ocean with ease. It was a lovely swim - temperate blue water, no rocks to be seen, no seaweed or under-water creatures... save one. Unlucky Lilly and I both drifted into a rockier patch of sea urchins. Very painful.

Stats:

• Lilly: 3 small needles in toe
• Meg: 11 larger needles in heel.

Tools:

• 1 swiss army knife
• 3 pairs of tweezers
• 1 needle
• 3 amateur surgeons
• 1 game of "find your pain threshold"

Now I find myself with only five needles left in my foot - all too small to operate on by my local surgical staff (Myself, Jesse, and Keates...we may not be professionals, but we're persistent.) A fun addition to the adventure arose when a few local guys tried to distract me from my foot surgery by singing me "american" songs: "I LAAAHV YOOOOOU...I MIIIIISSSS YOOOUUUU"... not exactly the Mischords, but it did dull the pain in my foot a bit. Young girl said in sweet, soft french: "Wipe your cheek - I can see where your tears were."

Jamm nga yendoo? Nunga fa!
This morning the gardener stopped, mid-wheel barrowing to make sure I was practicing my Wolof. Using my one day of Wolof class experience, I was able to discover that his name is Ibba Fahj...(something something...), that he is well, his day has been peaceful, and, thanks be to god, his family is also well.


A bit of housekeeping:
Due to spotty internet, it's easiest for me to receive notes from you via comments on this blog. I'll write comments back in the comment section whenever the chance arises- make sure to check for them! Emails are much harder to open and reply to. BUT...I love (love love love!) any and all communication!

Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes - the day was indeed BIG, exciting, challenging (see last entry...), etc. Wonderful, all in all. Your well wishes only made it better. Last night (birthday night), the group went out to dinner at Chez Mimi's. Along the way, we were able to add to our gaggle of SITers:

1 Middlebury friend (MAREN!!! A student with CIEE)

1 Nigerian (Mary - feisty girl who we became acquainted with during a violent estrogen-filled game of spoon the night before. Laughter, claw marks, and several wrestling matches.)

1 Guinean (Yves - my neighbor, and a student here at Suffolk completing his BS in the Boston-Suffolk exchange program. He speaks VERY Limited English (about comparable to my Wolof) and fluent French. We speak French.)

2 friends from Burkina Faso (friends of Yves - a lively, fun addition to the party)

Chez Mimi, the hostess was not at all surprised to be pounced upon by a group of 18 with mangled French. Within seconds, tables were happily pushed together and chairs were scooted around to allow our herd to move in. I don't know that I've ever seen a more agreeable restaurant staff. (Laura, I can only imagine how the Red Robin staff might act in the same situation...visions of post-choir-concert burger gatherings and bitter waiters are flying through my head...) The other students made me a card and secretly bought me a green tie-dye sarong. Ah wonderful SIT friends... (I discovered later that my wardrobe had quite clearly displayed my fondness for the color green) All in all, a wonderful birthday, alxamdulilla! (thanks be to God!)
We were placed in our French groups today...Grace a l'ecole francais de Middlebury, je suis dans le niveau le plus avance! Thanks to Middlebury Language School, I'm in the highest level! I am truly thankful for this past summer of French...only just now am I realizing how much it has helped me in both my listening abilities and my comfort level with speaking to students, profs, my Senegalese brother, the gardener, Amadou the guard, Monsieur Mane...etc. Merci Middlebury!

Best quote so far (rough translation):
“You seem to really love living every moment. You’re in the right country for that.”

Salaamalekum! (malekusalaam!)
A new, improved, sun burnt, fishy-smelling, sandy, exhausted, and awed Meg writes to you today. While my last blog was only 3 days ago...(3? 4? 2? Senegalese time confounds me), looking back at it I realize in a quiet moment of despair that there is no possible way to even skim the surface of what has come to pass so far. Overwhelmed is not the proper world...I' m not sure I have one yet. Big. Intimate. Messy. Beautiful colors everywhere. Goats everywhere. I should be married. Why am I not? My knees are shameful. Americans don't smile enough. I am nice because I said hi when no one else did. Will I give money? An apple? I am so pretty. I want to pet a cat and can't. I'm holding hands with a child even though the health book told me not to. Bread and chocolate is an excellent breakfast.
- First off: Given an urn and told to use my people-skills and French to discover its significance, use, and occasions when one would use it. An older man says: "It is an incense pot used by women to embalm a room with scent after the rain, or to seduce her husband. You are married?"
- Discover that fortunes can be told with seashells. Gather ten in your hand. Open hand in sweeping motion to spread them across floor. Interpret.
- Find myself in the unexpected role of comforting a child who speaks only Wolof. Handholding commences. -One of my favorite Senegalese bands (L'orchestre Baobab) plays at a local club! SIT students and CIEE students band together to form mass of 25 white students. We take up half of the miniature nightclub, noting that the other half is frequented by very well dressed Senegalese officials. Wonderful music...band spilling off the tiny stage into the dark red and glowing yellow room. We danced conservatively but vibrantly...still noting that the Senegalese always managed to look more elegant. They danced in pairs - beautiful, old, subtle ballroom dances adapted to the pulsing jazz
- French interview and placement exam went well. I think I'm finally becoming comfortable truly speaking my mind in another language. The women interviewing me were charming and lively. Stunning moment: 2 Senegalese women complimenting me on my clothes! These means quite a lot coming from a culture that says: "Eat what you like, but dress according to us". Quite the confidence boost.
-Before meeting a member of my host family for an initial introduction, I felt more nervous than I even felt stepping onto the Africa-bound plane earlier this week. Interesting internal response to an event that I hadn't mentally considered to be much of a big deal.
- Met my host brother! (moving in with family on thurs). His name is Momo (spelling subject to change), he is 22, and he is extraordinarily gracious. I am somehow now directly related to the Minister of Industry and Arts of Senegal (my mother? aunt?...family trees here are like baobabs...big, windy, and impossible to fit your arms around! (let alone your head...)) I will live under the care of Grand mere...who speaks only Wolof. Salaamalekum. Malekusalaam (peace be with you. and also with you.)
- Wolof classes began yesterday. I sound a little like Fozy from the Muppets: "Naka wa ker ga?" I also realized that not only do I need to know French, I need to learn another language in it! Oy gevalt. -Today I turned 20! In celebration, I was dropped in the middle of Central Dakar with a buddy and 5000 CFA ($10) and told to complete a scavenger hunt, eat lunch, find out how much a banana costs, etc...then make my way home via bartering with a taxi driver. (ok, so this wasn't a birthday celebration per se, more like the class assignment for the day.) In the center of the city the roads are covered in taxis, mopeds, men selling newspapers and rags, children begging for donations for Arabic school (a daily ritual teaching humility), goats, cows, trash... and 2 Americans. We met a man named Monsieur Mane (mahnay) who told us about his hometown of Casamance, relations between Muslims and Catholics, the solidarity of Senegal, and his love for watching French horse races on TV. He ended up being a wonderful guide, who took us to his favorite restaurant, introduced us to the owner, and then accompanied us to the bank for security. Truly a wonderful man, with an altruistic heart! When we said thank you, he responded with (loosely translated) :"why are you thanking me? I am to thank you. Welcome to Senegal."

Africa!
After about two days of travel and six hours of sleep I've arrived, with my new group of equally jetlagged friends, in Senegal. It has been raining nonstop for the last 10 days - all the streets are flooded with about 10 inches of water, and many of the school roofs are leaking. Thankfully, until we move in with our host families next week, we'll live in wonderful, leak-free (for now...) dorm rooms, complete with AC. (much needed...HUMID). My hair is already a tiny bit curly. (amazing.)
We arrived at about 7:30am Senegal time (midnight thirty for those in Colorado...I'm 7 hours ahead of you, 6 hours ahead on MN, 5 hours ahead of Middlebury). I've already met my academic director and housing coordinator - both are welcoming and warm, with great senses of humor ;) I also met Anna, the student coordinator for this university, who immediately took us on an impromptu, very wet (this rain won't quit. It's a little like constantly taking a warm shower), tour of the school, complete with a random visit to the head dean, who did not seem at all shocked at the arrival of several dripping Americans in his office. I've been told that here in Senegal one must always be willing to stop and chat - thus far that seems to hold true even for those in the highest of positions! Continental breakfast: half a baguette, instant coffee, and hibiscus juice. (Surprising. Fruity, minty, spicy...).
Discoveries today:
I did not know that a van could function after driving for 20 miles through 10 inches of water. It can.
Hibiscus juice is wonderful.
Excitement can override jetlag.

...and that's just the beginning.