a prequel to Youssou

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It’s a shame I couldn’t get around to writing about Youssou til more than a week later, but I was busy preparing for and then going on a second pick-up shoot in the Kaolack region over the weekend. 

Speaking of that shoot… here is the moment when the women of Forou Serer, a tiny village of 300 people, showed me what’s what when it comes to celebrating.

I literally get high off of the music and dancing in this country.

Please enjoy this video as a preview of the profound awesomeness that is to come… Up next, YOUSSOU!!! 

my weekend with Youssou

Youssou_a_DakarTickets in hand for Youssou N’Dour on Sunday. I’m so excited about this show that I would pay good money just to fast forward the clock a couple of days.

Acquiring concert tickets here is quite a different beast than in the United States. It’s quite a bigger beast, I should say. Whatever, bygones. We have tickets and all is right with the world.

I don’t have any weekend reads to share this week except for this one, which makes me want to seriously dial back my encouragement to get to Cuba. I hadn’t considered how an influx of visitors could further deprive Cubans who have very little to begin with. 😦

Passez un bon week-end, tout le monde!

monnaie monnaie monnaie monnaieeee, monnaie

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Senegal has a problem with change. I don’t mean the abstract kind, which is hard for anyone. I mean money. No one here EVER has change for anything, and yet change is needed for everything. It’s a classic Catch-22.

At the grocery store, I tried to pay with a 10,000 CFA note (around $20) for a 4,950 CFA purchase. They asked me whether I had 50 CFA, and when I said no, they gave me a 5,000 CFA note and 50 CFA worth of candy and sent me on my way. Another time they overpaid me more than 200 CFA because they couldn’t make correct change. This Monday I was running late to catch a cab uptown when I realized I only had large bills. I rushed to the store to buy something in the hopes they’d break a 5,000 CFA note (because while grocery stores rarely have change, taxis NEVER do). No such luck.

I took a taxi anyway, and then spent ten minutes at my destination waiting with the driver as he flagged down passersby asking for change. No one had any. Finally the woman I was going to visit spotted me the 1000 CFA I was short. After our meeting, I hoped she would tell me not to worry about repaying her, not because I am a freeloader but because I knew what a hassle it would be. But nope, she wanted her money.

So, I stopped in at various bodegas on her block to buy something, anything, in exchange for monnaie. (This word was not in my vocabulary before Senegal, but I am sure it will now stay with me until my dying day. Perhaps it will even be my “Rosebud.”) It wasn’t until the third store that I was able to get my hands on four beautiful 1000 CFA notes, which makes no sense, because all three of them sold nothing but cheap products. They should all have had a plethora of small bills and coins at their disposal.

I never took an economics class in my life, so I have no idea what a distinct lack of small change means for a country’s financial situation. I just know what it means for me: constant suppression of the bemusement-frustration mix that has come to be a hallmark of my time here. (Or rather, constant mental effort to tip the balance more heavily towards bemusement.)

a new French benchmark! (Frenchmark?)

espresso machine

People. Today I had a meeting… in French.

The first thing the man I was meeting with asked was, “Français? Anglais?” I chose the latter because though I’m seizing every opportunity to speak French, a business meeting is no place to practice. I then proceeded to lose all professional decorum when he offered me espresso from his Lavazza machine.* It was like Beatlemania applied to a coffeemaker.

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So to be fair, there wasn’t much farther to fall. But I was alarmed when the man called over one of his staff, seemingly to introduce us, but actually to join us for the rest of the meeting – in French, because I had said that was fine when I thought we’d be doing five seconds’ worth of, “Je m’appelle Ruth. Enchantée. À bientôt.

For the next twenty minutes I had three parallel streams of thought running through my mind. One was, “Holy shit, I’m having a meeting in French and I can understand!!!!” One was, “Holy shit, I’m having a meeting in French, what if I can’t understand????” And then of course, one was the conversation itself.

Perhaps it’s due to this overcrowding that my brain seems to skip over some fundamental processing component when working in French. I’ve noticed that I’ll follow along with a conversation, respond accordingly, and conclude with some mutually agreed upon forward-facing plan, but afterwards I’ll find myself unable to recap what was said in anything more than vague general terms. The specifics don’t seem to get banked, even in my short-term memory.

Anticipating that I might have this problem today, I scribbled down notes in English immediately following the meeting. It felt a little like I was cheating the (language acquisition) system, but in this case I couldn’t afford to get anything wrong by writing in French. As it is, I’m terrified that when I email them to follow up they’re going to be like, “Why is she going on and on about X when we asked her to talk about Y?”

That’s not the point. The point is: today I reached a new personal level of awesomeness because I had a business meeting in French. I just gave myself a literal pat on the back, because such things are important.

*It takes capsules just like Nespresso but it is as delicious and potent as the real thing.

What did I tell you?

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See what I mean about Senegalese gents? They are just so hip. After much analysis, I have decided it comes down to the sunglasses. Without them, this man would just be a pious-looking guy, but with the addition of shades he is a temple to cool.

Orchestra Baobab heart heart heart

I said it last week and I’ll say it again: Afro-Latin music is the best stuff on earth.

After an incredible show, Saturday night ended with me sitting in the lead singer Rudy’s car waiting for the ride home he promised me. (I made that sound way more titillating than it actually was because I can’t help myself.) He was about to get in the driver’s seat but then disappeared, apparently to distribute ngalax around the neighorhood. When he showed up again twenty-five minutes later, he said he had to go to a meeting. It was 3:30 in the morning. I’m so accustomed to these lost in translation moments by now that I just laughed, considered it a fun non-adventure, and took a taxi home.

This situation, by the way, was not of my own making. One of the people with whom I went to the show was a guy named Doyen who works at the language center where I’m taking classes. He used to be a radio DJ and is good friends with the band. Rudy offered me a ride because he offered Doyen a ride.

Alas, it was not meant to be. But it is pretty remarkable how small a world it is here and how up close and personal you can get to the amazingly talented musicians in Dakar. Next time I see Rudy I am going to ask him for advice on taking drum lessons here. Because why not.

make yourself at home

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Just a lone cow, wandering through the city streets, with no apparent owner. Bienvenue à Dakar

Kaolack et Latmingué redux

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Two-day filming trip, back to the city and the 4,000-person town where I spent some time two weeks ago. Non-filmic highlights:

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First shared meal, in Kaolack. Everyone creates little de facto plate borders for themselves out of the food itself, so it’s not really as shared (read: germ-swappy) as you would think.

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I tasted baobab fruit fresh from the tree (the pod-thing it comes in is the top picture). It had the melt-in-your-mouth, chalky texture of astronaut ice cream and was sweet and tart at the same time.

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Also, baby goats.

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I just realized that most of what strikes me as notable and shareable during my travels is food-related. It is such a huge part of culture, no?

On that note, if the Internet cooperates, tomorrow I’ll post pictures of the delicious Senegalese Easter concoction I tried yesterday after it was mass-produced in my house (during a serious two days-long all-hands-on-deck operation).

 

touring Senegal

baobabsSo I got back from my trip Saturday night and it felt a bit like a homecoming, which was nice. But then again it also felt like exactly the opposite, which is part of what prompted the waterworks.

I am getting ahead of myself. The trip: I was hired by a non-profit that funds development work in Senegal (and other countries) to make videos about some of their projects. Since I traveled as part of a donor visit whose itinerary contained not only site visits but also lots of tourist stops, I got to enjoy plenty of off-the-clock sightseeing during the week we spent on the road. I also got to enjoy the company of the donors, who were a really fun and interesting group.

Pictures…

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The Chocopain aisle is a thing to behold

chocopain_aisleNo, this is not an Andy Warhol. This is an expression of the Senegalese love for chocolate spread.

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