Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Le Plat National: Ceebu Dien + un Coca

I fell into a mid-afternoon slumber yesterday, content with the energy of this city and how it is beginning to work me like clay. At the SIT program center I have been asking around to figure out what the students are doing their independent studies on, and with equal interest they want to know all about my experience in India, which proves to be a great exercise in finding the words to articulate how the similarities and differences of Dakar strike me in comparison. And it makes me feel much older than I was when I made that trip, and reminds me how much it was a true coming of age experience-- traveling this time is different certainly, and I'm not yet sure if my reactions and assimilation have to do with having more travel experience under my belt, or if I'm simply more sure of myself, or if it all has to do with this being a totally different continent, country, and culture. In the end, I'm filling a notebook with observences and thoughts, images I don't want to forget, and enjoying the luxury of having the time to write and write and write.

One girl is going out to a village fifteen hours from here to learn about superstitions surrounding pregnancy, another is in St. Louis conducting research on superstitions of the fisherman, and of course I quickly befriended Brit, the student who has decided to learn what she can about Senegalese food. Today she and I are going to go check out the market, and tomorrow she'll come over to my homestay family's house where Khadie, my homestay sister, is going to teach us how to make le plat national: ceebu dien. Yesterday Brit lead me to a restaurant to try out this dish at lunch time-- en fait, it's local fish with cabbage, carrots, and tubors, one piquant pepper, a spinach sauce and one that I couldn't place, all served over couscous which soaks up the wonderful fish broth. I think there are differences from house to house in the particular spices, and the dish I tried yesterday was quite lemony, which I loved. I also loved dining in a busy room with couples out to lunch, offices out to lunch, the trés chic of Dakar with their suits and designer glasses, cell phones toujours at the ready, and everyone chatting away in Wolof over the soft presence of radio music.

In the afternoon I followed two other students out to La Village des Artes, a collection of studios errected in rows and situated between the stadium and the highway. The two girls I went with have rented studios out there for the month to do their projects, and were so happy to lead me around through the gardens of vegetables and bougunvilla that are planted entre the studio spaces. One house was painted in varying shades of blue, another had individual little paintings on each brick. In the center of the village is a great gallery with a sand floor and open, white washed walls. The artists have collective exhibitions here that change every few months, and the paintings were carefully hung par tout, with pedestals in the open center of the space to display terracotta pots. Jenn, one of the girls who was showing me around, explained that the artists had originally taken over an old factory downtown in the '80s-- I think it was the '80s-- but the governmetn had kicked them out. In lieu of the factory, the government had set up the village to offer space to artists so they can live and work affordably and still create. I seem to remember a program like this that was set up in France.... unfortunately I don't recall all the details, but I agreed with the girls, this seems like paradise. Artists-- mostly men, and of varying ages-- were hanging out outside, widdling and painting and, bien sur, talking the talk. We wound our way around, saying hello, checking out the sculptures, and the studios, and then walked out to the casting space which is set off in the distance a little and is in open air. A group of young guys worked on small metal sculptures, pushed their welding glasses back, and stopped what they were doing when we wandered up. The spokesman tested my new friends on their Wolof skills, smiling big, and seeing how much they could get across, then finally resulted to French and said But you are in Senegal! and in Senegal, il faut parler en Wolof! Much laughing accompanied the order, and the girls agreed to come back again the next day for language lessons.

Kids try to sell Q-tips through car windows, horses pull carts laden with equiptment, the city is getting ready to host the world-wide Muslim Conference here next month, and Dakar is under construction. Riding home from la Village des Artes with the window down, red, sandy dirt caught in my hair and eyes, which felt strangely satisfying. On the side of the road a boy peels the skin off oranges in long curlyques, on top of a car rapide boys ride with the wind at their backs. Baskets, baskets, and more baskets.

2 comments:

Kit said...

Jeanne it's so exciting reading your blog; I am getting all riled up about my own upcoming excursion abroad in January! Mostly, I am excited for you to cook for all of us upon your return...

Margaret Parker said...

Sounds so wonderful and easy to have fun in such a place. We'll look forward to some fish stew with a pepper!

The artist colony sounds great. How nice to have friends to take you around.
Lot's of love,
Mom