Home on Christmas Eve.

Dakar airport to JFK to Atlanta to Denver. Before leaving, I was treated to one last marriage proposal, one last jaay fonde joke, one last life-threatening ride in a taxi, one last look at the country I've made the habit of calling home. Then, I was swept away into airports, time zones, suitcases overflowing with fabrics and cure-dents, sunset descents through the clouds, America, airports pumping out Christmas music, my first cup of non-instant coffee in over four months, a midnight arrival, and home. Now, 42 hours later, I reflect.

I am surrounded by odd familiarity. I know all this so well - surprisingly well. How easy it was to fall back into old habits! Crawling into bed with the parents for early morning newspaper reading, fighting with brother, Patrick, about music selection and volume, absent-mindedly going to the pantry for another handful of almonds... I know my life here and it knows me. And Yet. Moments of 'culture shock' begin to emerge...I don't quite know how to define them just yet. I know that our house seems vaguely too big for its 2-4 inhabitants. I appreciate my dad and his role in the family more (untouched blog topic as of yet: the roles of men and women in Senegalese families...polygamy...the absence of many fathers). I find myself looking more sternly at our televisions. (And I am overwhelmed by commercials...oh god...what are we doing to our brains?) I am stunned by the grooming of my city: every sidewalk is even, every lawn has grass (or patches of it, keep trying, Dad), every intersection has a stoplight and every store has enough money to make change for a twenty. I find myself speaking casually about race...and maybe not in a PC way. And then I hear that I've changed.

(ok...now I must interject that, rather than the cacophony of mbalax and American rap that I am so used to hearing in Senegal's cybers, I now write this with the brilliant sound of my mother SCREAMING in the next room as she watches the Green Bay Packers make a comeback...since when do we root for the Packers? Le Vikings Fan?)

Back to changes in myself…harder to see, but also noticeably there. I walk into rooms and have the strong urge to greet every person individually – Asalamalekum. I am relaxed, very relaxed – a product of the Senegalese lifestyle? I am tan, no complaints there. Mom says I’m more confident and that my fingers grew longer (can they do that independently at this stage of life?). A woman at church said my eyes changed. The waistband on my old pants says that the ceebu jen didn’t affect me as much as once thought (alxhamdullila!). My cats say that I smell differently and my skin says that Colorado is much too cold. As it was 60 degrees today, I realize that I have a lot of acclimating to do before re-entering Vermont’s balmy winters… These changes were hard to think of. That list took half an hour and much brain activity. I find myself thinking more easily of new moments of joy, comfort, and familiarity in this old setting:

• A surprise 1:30 in-house ambush from my girls (thank you)
• The incomparable warmth of cuddling on the big red couch with Dad
• Big, happy cats
• FIBER
• Serving communion to familiar faces on Christmas Eve
• Telling Senegal stories to seemingly eager ears (if you're faking it, I appreciate the feigned enthusiasm. Keep it up... I have a lot to talk about.)

Now it’s Christmas evening. Mom has fallen asleep in the next room while Dad watches the Vikings miss an interception opportunity. Senegal has managed to weasel its way into the situation via the unwrapped gifts strewn around the room: home-made batik, wooden platters, and gourd spoons.

Santa has come and gone. My friend saw a ‘Santa’ in down-town Dakar just before we left…a skinny Senegalese man wearing a full mask of a white man’s face. Scary, my friend said. Interesting cultural interpretation, I thought. Two days later I saw a CNN special on a scuba-diving Santa in Hong Kong. He held an electric eel. Asian innovation. I have a British children’s book that depicts Santa as a slightly hostile old man who wants nothing more than to get into bed with a good pot of tea and his cat, “Blooming Christmas here again!...I hate winter! Blooming chimneys!” As a child I didn’t especially like the book. Now I must read it every Christmas. British wit. In his recent book, David Sedaris explored the realm of Santa in Poland. Rumor has it he travels with 8 black men who will either give you presents or beat you and take you in a sack back to Spain. Tell this to Senegalese Meg and she’s apt to question the importance of this posse’s skin color and not blink twice after the beating bit (Kids, wives, animals…all fair targets in Senegal. Hard to be around.) The Santa that I imagine delivered my presents is kind, rosy-cheeked (white-skinned), and jolly; he prefers reindeer to eels, and winter to summer, his posse does not beat or sack, but they can fly.

Why am I thinking so much about Santa? I think he might be my international traveling icon. Santa traverses the world on borrowed time, doing more than is humanly possible. Whether sporting a mask, scuba diving, grumbling, or gifting, Santa manages to approach the world in a generous way. He has seen it all and has cared enough to give back. Santa stretches time and resources, crossing cultural boundaries to gift the people of the world, or so my version goes. He does the impossible. In the spirit of Christmas I honor this man. He is living the international life that my post-Senegal self now dreams of:

Seeing much, doing much, giving back, and ending the day with a good pot of tea.

Merry Christmas to all.

SHE'S ARRIVED!

No, not my mother (but she will be here in 12 hours! I can hardly stand it. More on that later.)

On Friday, December 9th, the Samb family expanded (one member contracted) . Fatou, my aunt, gave birth to a baby girl in a local Dakar hospital. They are both healthy, although they remain under the care of doctors. Her name is Marie. (This is surprising! 1. not a muslim name 2. Naming a child before a baptism? Unheard of. The Sambs are outlandish folk.)

My Mother (Mumsy, momma, Lynn) and I will be attending the baptism ceremony - this will be her introduction to my other family. For me, this is the perfect way to introduce one world of mine to another...to have them crash together in a house-overflowing day of warmth, joy, juice, head-shaving, baby-crying, and bubus. I cannot wait to bring Mom into the insanity that is the Samb household...especially when I stop to remember that she will speak neither of their two languages. While I've played many parts this semester, cultural and linguistic translator is a new one.

I am nearly done here in Senegal. Three days with Momma, then whoosh! Off to a pre-xmas quick cultural skinnydip in Morocco, then snap! Back to Dakar just long enough to Bang! Land in the US for christmas. ("You Americans do too much.")

First xmas tree sighting: It is covered in neon flashing lights (nothing new there) and positioned rakishly below a palm tree.

I've always prided myself on knowing how to destress through celebration; today was a prime example.

I spent the last month swimming (and sinking and floating...) through my first independent in-field research project. (I now have a 35+ page document on my hands to prove it.) In any case, while exciting and exhilarating, informative and horizon-broadening, this experience, like all good ones, was TAXING. Today, I just needed to relax...

Formula:

Grab a djembe and a few friends! Meet up with the neighborhood street-corner musicians. Promanade, ensemble, until you hit the river. Wait for the pirogue to arrive. Hop in. (careful with that djembe). Traverse river. Hop out. Pay 25 CFA (5 cents) to the 12-year-old captain. Say 'Jerejef'.

Walk past some colonial ruins; note that there are baby goats frolicking in the gutted second story of an old general's mansion. Don't be surprised when the streets and houses quite suddenly give way to beach and expansive Atlantic ocean. (yes, now is the time to chide yourself for spending so much time typing that pesky paper and not exploring the island!)

Now...

Listen to the waves. Feel the sun (was going to use the adjective 'African', but no, it's the same sun everywhere. Colorado. Vermont. Chile. Africa.) touching your cheeks and collar bone and the rounds of your exposed knees. Locate a comfy dip in the sand and sit. Tip djembe in front of you.
Tap. Pound. Bang. get it all out. Fall into rythm with the others drumming nearby. Sing. Invite the fishermans' children to dance with you, and they will. They will also offer you presents of live fish. Take photos on a digital camera and watch as the subjects smile, shout, and jump when they see themselves. Repeat. (This game will not tire...note that particularly interesting photos will be pointed at with a fish.) Continue until the fisherman part for the night's catch and the sun falls into the ocean, shy and red.

Then...
Get back to the river before the pirogues go home for dinner. Nap. Wake up in time to enjoy fresh fried fish, yassa onion sauce, and bissap juice with the neighbors: Banda, Issa, and Fecckat ('dancer' in Wolof...the real name of this rythmic man has escaped me). Banter in a foreign language and dance to Madonna's 'Like a Prayer'.

Instant Stress Release.

There's no pausing here, even when I pause...

A single 3-block walk home yielded three dinner invitations, two lessons in Wolof, one tour of a stranger's house, and one glass of ataaya (tea).

After dinner this evening (and what a dinner it was! It seems that term papers inspire the chefs in all of us...tonight: pasta, sautéed eggplant, andpeanut sauce (yes, it lives on in Senegal! Wherever I am, there too shall be peanut sauce)), our house was quite suddenly filled with:

• Banda (neighbor friend, stopping by to take another shot at wooing Alia)
• Aziz (tailor friend, stopping by to take another stab at measuring Whitney for her skirt),
• and Mystery man (a friend of someone? I think he was hoping to pop in at the right time for the third glass of tea.)

Now, as I sit here listening to mbalax remixes of bad american pop, and ponder buying peanuts from the vendor across the street, I am suddenly aware of my dwindling time here... but that's a much bigger emotion for another entry.

Home on December 23rd.