Mame Tine is one of the more dynamic (and memorable) characters around Keur Ndoye (the Ndoye household). She's an elderly woman; the dark skin of her face seems stretched over her cheek bones and her forehead, which seems to go on forever, probably because her headscarf is always slipping back and her hairline is so receded (likely the result of years of tight braids). She drops by usually in time for a meal, but never eats much, particularly not lettuce. Instead she tells long, engaging stories in Wolof in her gravelly, creaky, voice; always speaking fast and when she isn't lying down, gesturing wildly with her hands, sometimes even getting up to imitate people in her stories.
Of course most of the time she is reclining, anywhere, a couch, a mattress on the floor, the floor, her thin arms and legs sticking out of her large colorful boubous at strange angles, giving her the appearance of a funny squashed insect.
Sometimes I'll come home to find her telling fortunes with her handful of cowries (plus a CFA coin and a few other trinkets) to someone in the family. Lightly running her hand past the mix of shells and oddments over and over, speaking quickly in low, quiet Wolof (these are the only times she keeps her voice down, I've noticed, and it lends a gravity to her words) as she reads the positions of the shells in relation to one another.
Once she read my fortune as everyone in the near vicinity attempted to translate for me (Mame Tine speaks no French). According to my fortune, someday soon I'll have a well-paying job. The first dollar I make from said job I am to throw into the ocean (lucky I live near the water in the States too) and directly call my host mom. The only other tidbit I remember from that afternoon counsel was her order that I give milk or sugar to a talibe (beggar children who are students in Koranic schools in the city) and all would become clear. Of course I did as I was told (I am nothing if not an obedient toubab). Two days later I bestowed a small bottle of milk upon a lucky young talibe, and I'm still waiting for my universal clarity (this was about two months ago now. Despite the failure of this first counsel, I can't wait to throw a dollar in the ocean and call Mama Mbengue from the States.
And I'm just fine without my clarity; I like life a little fuzzy.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Its lovely to have an older sister.
Short Anecdote:
Especially within my host family, I've been thinking a lot about gender and poverty in Senegal as compared to the States. Lately a few young brothers have been spending a lot of time at our house. There's a rotation of other people's kids that spend much of their days in our house, most notably my Aunt Yama's five kids. I only met these new additions a few weeks ago; they are considerably cheekier than many of the other kids who spend time around the house. Their clothes are not particularly clean, nor are they in the best condition. The younger boys' faces are covered in the warts common on many of the young children in my neighborhood. (I looked this up once; apparently its a result of less-than-stellar hygiene).
Yesterday, one of the elder ones was being particularly cheeky. I'd guess he's a young to mid-teen, not sure if he's still in school. I came home from my weekend in St. Louis (for the world-famous Jazz Festival, more on that later) after dinner, so I was sitting with Bineta (my fabulous older sister) outside my room eating the massive amount of fish and avocado (avocado!!) sauce she'd saved for me while she made attaaya (Senegalese tea; I'm addicted).
So this cheeky young man comes round the corner from another part of the house and motions with his thumb to mouth that he wants water. While this motion is common in Senegal for "I'm thirsty" and I've observed its pretty customary for men to ask women to provide them a drink of water, I think even Bineta found this rude. For one, our young friend is nearly a decade her junior, and not an immediate member of her family. (Also, perfectly capable of getting his own water). She motioned to the fridge and handed him a cup without getting up from her seat. She then flashed me a fabulous facial expression of disgust at the rudeness of the exchange. We shared a silent laugh, which I enjoyed, while wishing I could rebuke the injustice of the demand.
He spent the rest of the evening teasing me in a manner similar to that many of the young kids take with me, the funny toubab lady. He would ask me repeatedly "Nanga def" (traditional Wolof greeting), in a mocking, singsong tone, to which I would politely and correctly respond "Maangi fi." A few times I tried to engage him in further conversation in Wolof, which only prompted him to poke his head into my room numerous times and ask "Ana sa xaalis bi?" (Where's your money?). Eventually, Bineta poked her head round the door and counseled that I shut it. She came back later to explain her advice, describing him as an irresponsible, untrustworthy youth. (Who, to my observation, she refused to acknowledge fully, perhaps explaining her neglecting earlier to rebuke his rudeness.)
In any case, its really lovely to have an older sister like Bineta. I have an infinite respect for her, and I only hope I'm able to convey that to her. Also, that I'm able to be such a figure at least sometimes for my own younger sisters back home. (Lots of love to you, Meghan and Susanna! See you in less than 4 weeks!)
Especially within my host family, I've been thinking a lot about gender and poverty in Senegal as compared to the States. Lately a few young brothers have been spending a lot of time at our house. There's a rotation of other people's kids that spend much of their days in our house, most notably my Aunt Yama's five kids. I only met these new additions a few weeks ago; they are considerably cheekier than many of the other kids who spend time around the house. Their clothes are not particularly clean, nor are they in the best condition. The younger boys' faces are covered in the warts common on many of the young children in my neighborhood. (I looked this up once; apparently its a result of less-than-stellar hygiene).
Yesterday, one of the elder ones was being particularly cheeky. I'd guess he's a young to mid-teen, not sure if he's still in school. I came home from my weekend in St. Louis (for the world-famous Jazz Festival, more on that later) after dinner, so I was sitting with Bineta (my fabulous older sister) outside my room eating the massive amount of fish and avocado (avocado!!) sauce she'd saved for me while she made attaaya (Senegalese tea; I'm addicted).
So this cheeky young man comes round the corner from another part of the house and motions with his thumb to mouth that he wants water. While this motion is common in Senegal for "I'm thirsty" and I've observed its pretty customary for men to ask women to provide them a drink of water, I think even Bineta found this rude. For one, our young friend is nearly a decade her junior, and not an immediate member of her family. (Also, perfectly capable of getting his own water). She motioned to the fridge and handed him a cup without getting up from her seat. She then flashed me a fabulous facial expression of disgust at the rudeness of the exchange. We shared a silent laugh, which I enjoyed, while wishing I could rebuke the injustice of the demand.
He spent the rest of the evening teasing me in a manner similar to that many of the young kids take with me, the funny toubab lady. He would ask me repeatedly "Nanga def" (traditional Wolof greeting), in a mocking, singsong tone, to which I would politely and correctly respond "Maangi fi." A few times I tried to engage him in further conversation in Wolof, which only prompted him to poke his head into my room numerous times and ask "Ana sa xaalis bi?" (Where's your money?). Eventually, Bineta poked her head round the door and counseled that I shut it. She came back later to explain her advice, describing him as an irresponsible, untrustworthy youth. (Who, to my observation, she refused to acknowledge fully, perhaps explaining her neglecting earlier to rebuke his rudeness.)
In any case, its really lovely to have an older sister like Bineta. I have an infinite respect for her, and I only hope I'm able to convey that to her. Also, that I'm able to be such a figure at least sometimes for my own younger sisters back home. (Lots of love to you, Meghan and Susanna! See you in less than 4 weeks!)
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