An Afternoon in the Rice Fields

It was my first time on a charrette—two wheeled horse-drawn cart. Fun as they look when they pass me, they are a little more awkward to ride on than I expected. One has to make sure not to lean too far this way or that way, for fear of either sliding off the end or sliding into the horse’s rear, neither of which is a choice option when clip-clopping along a dusty, weathered, rut-ridden dirt road at a generous pace for any two wheeled vehicle. Luckily I was in between my friend Kory and our host Iseta so my safety not really a concern, and, to his credit, our driver was quite commendable (except when we barreled over a huge pothole without so much as a hesitation, or when we had to flatter ourselves horizontally to avoid being lacerated by the vicious thorn bushes that infringed on our road space).

We were driven about two kilometers out into the rice fields. It was just after three o’clock, meaning that the sun was barely past its prime, and the heat of the day was still at its height. Kory and I had been invited to accompany Iseta out to her rice fields to help with/observe the harvest. When we arrived, there were already many people in the fields, working on various stages of the harvest process. They stopped working when we arrived to share in the big bowl of theibu diene that Iseta had brought them. Presumably they had been working non-stop all day, paying no mind (necessarily) to the sun, dust and flies that one just has to get used to.

Iseta told us she has about 94 acres, and when harvest time comes around, what a project it is! Having never been in a rice field before, I did not know what all went into the producing of this grain that feeds the richest and the poorest, not only here but all over the world. Well, this was my chance to learn. For those of you who do not know, rice grows in water and even at harvest time, the ground is completely saturated and muddy. When it is time to cut the rice, then men come with small scythes and handful by small handful they cut all the rice down. Now, I can only speak from what I saw. I imagine that there are more modernly efficient ways of harvesting rice that have not found their way to the small, African village called Guédé Chantier. But for all I know, rice is harvested with a small scythe, one cut at a time.

So the rice is cut, but this is only the first step. The small grains of course still cling to the stalk. So then, again handful by small handful, the stalks are hit against the belly of a large, barrel which lays on a tarp. As the stalks are hit against the barrel, all the rice that is aching to be detached falls willingly from the stalk and lands on the tarp below. That which does not fall is not ripe, so it is not wanted anyway. The coolest part of the harvest comes now. All the empty, discarded stalks are strewn around the work area, creating a straw-like bed that covers the muddy wetness, and as the day goes on, the dry workspace grows. By the time the sorting of the rice begins, a straw island has been created in the middle of the harvested rice field.

I think I heard somewhere that one should avoid stagnant water in places like Africa, where many unpleasant, bacterial creatures make their home. Well, such advice sometimes must be disregarded, for example, when you are handed a scythe and instructed to go cut rice. In all honesty, Kory and I were only given the scythe for the Kodak moment of it, to say that we helped harvest the rice. We would probably just get in the way if we tried to help for real. Nonetheless, we did cut a little, about a square meter’s worth. Then we took our rice to the barrel and hit it until all the ripe, little grains fell to the tarp. But the small little pile of rice was full of straw and sticks that had to be sorted. This turned into the most time consuming and tedious step of the process. After about a half hour (with Iseta’s help) we had ourselves no more than one kilo (about two pounds) of rice—not rice ready to cook, mind you, but rice ready to be set in the sun for a day, hulled, and then cooked. This was one square meter. Imagine 94 acres.

Guédé Chantier is largely a rice-producing village so it is the livelihood of many villagers. As Iseta explained to us, the villagers who work for her choose to receive their pay in cash or in rice, and they have a system whereby every certain amount of kilos sorted for her, one is taken out for their pay. I was amazed at the large scale to which rice production exists, all by hand, but I guess when it is all that has ever been, why do anything else? Iseta did explain that a tractor is rented to till up the field for the next crop. Apart from this, it is an operation entirely dependent on physical, human labor.
We stayed out in the field until dusk began to descend, until women began to close up shop, putting their bags of rice, their empty bowls and empty water bottles on their heads, and heading across the fields for the two-kilometer trek home. Men sewed up the last of the 50-pound bags and loaded them on waiting charrettes, while others loaded piles of rice straw onto the carts to bring back to their livestock. As our cart was covered with bags of rice, we also set off to make the walk back to the village. And that was that. For them, it was a day in the field like any other. For me, it was just a glimpse of what supports this village and it will give me more appreciation for my thiebu diene next time I eat it.

Red, White and Blue

TUESDAY, DAKAR—I woke up at 7:39 a.m. A few thousand miles away, New York City nightlife was just coming to an end. In Wisconsin many a busy college student no doubt poured over textbooks, the thought of sleep only a fleeting wish. Across the country, California had barely finished dinner.

I woke up and rubbed my eyes, surprised to actually find myself chilly in just underwear and a tank top. I spent a moment appreciating this new sensation, that of a cool breeze passing over my body. I had forgotten what it is like to wake up with such pleasantness. When my snooze went off again—7:40—I rolled over and got out of bed. Then I remembered what day it was.

In Senegal, it was November 4, 2008. At home, it was at varying stages of November 4, 2008. Election day. Here I was, miles and miles from my home turf, my country. Perhaps today will be one of the momentous historical moments of my lifetime as an American. At the least, it will be the culmination of a historic political battle. And I am not at home. But interestingly, it is okay. Even though it will be tomorrow for me before California polls even close, it is okay. In fact, I almost prefer it this way.

For much of my politically conscious life, my country’s politics have had one identity. And under this identity, many events have come and gone—heart wrenching tragedies, extreme economic difficulties and devastating natural disasters from which our history will never escape. It has been a tumultuous time and I daresay I am not the only American who wakes up disheartened with our country and the direction it has been heading. I know I am also not the only American who is embarrassed to associate herself with the stars and stripes, sick with what they represent today. Especially living abroad, it has become harder and harder to enter into a new culture with a clean slate. For years, when I am in other countries, people demand to know my politics before they shake my hand. So this day, November 4, 2008, has been a long time coming. Even if I will not be there to share in the frenzy, and will go to bed tonight without knowing, being here in Senegal, and more importantly being away from home, makes it easy to see what we have been waiting for, hoping for.

I voted from here. In order to vote, I was sent my ballot, which took three weeks to arrive. To return it, as there is no post office right around where I live, I took my ballot and hopped on a car rapide, the common mode of transportation, rusty, colorful and decorated buses, paid my 100 francs, and squeezed in with mothers, business men and children. Ten minutes later, I was dropped off at the post office where, with French and my little bit of Wolof, I bought stamps. My ballot would arrive with Senegalese stamps.

Today, as I go about my life in Senegal, I am reminded of all that my ballot represented, arriving with stamps from Senegal. This election is a chance for the American people to show that they are ready for, and ready to choose, a new direction for their country. My ballot voiced my faith in the ideals of my country. The United States of America was founded by a group of individuals ready for change, and ready to make change themselves. It is not to be denied that our history is shaped by cultural tolerance, intolerance and collaboration, racial inclusion and exclusion, economic discrimination and cooperation, global partnership and separation. The history of the United States is colorful, for good and for bad. But in this election, I am joining many other Americans to vote in the name of the ideals, to take the risk in the name of hope and change, and to hope with all our hearts. I get chills in thinking about the next 24 hours, and the future that will follow. As Barack Obama said of our country at the 2004 Democratic Convention, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…and that is the genius of America!” This is the ideal, our hopes and our deepest wishes as Americans. The outcome of this election will show what the American people truly want. We will show ourselves, and more importantly we will show the world, which sits on the edge of its seat waiting to see what our powerful country will choose.

In being abroad during the elections I have come to understand their significance for the rest of the world. The world waits to see if American citizens are ready to choose change. Usually when I walk to school in the morning I have to ignore the shouts of “Toubab!” that, while I have learned to tune out, I still find rude. Today, I could not help but smile when people shouted, “Obama!” as I walked past. So now it is finally here, after months of grueling campaigning, and waiting and wondering. In New York the polls are about to open. There are moments in time when we live history in the making. Let this be one.

What Caught My Eye

There I was, sitting in the back of a taxi, daydreaming about nothing. It was around 6:30 in the evening. I was semi-conscious of the noise, the traffic and the stench of downtown Dakar, but sleepiness and Senegalese radio diverted my thoughts.

We made our way out of downtown onto the highway. I continued to muse as billboards of President Wade and Tigo! telephone advertisements passed by my window. Sheep, goats and cows were everywhere, as is normal here. On the side of the highway, vendors sat on the ground, surrounded by fruit and vegetables of all sorts, bread, peanuts, sugar and children.

Suddenly something caught the corner of my eye. An old woman was standing on the shoulder of the roadway, next to a parked taxi cab, and a man, presumably the driver of the cab, was beating her as she tried desperately to ward him off. No sooner had I noticed then my driver and every car behind us saw as well. My driver pulled over, as did many cars behind us, and soon there were at least 20 cars stalled on the highway. People jumped out of their cars to rush to the old woman’s aid. My driver got out of his car but upon seeing that many others were there, we moved on.

Startled from my thoughts, I was now fully awake and very puzzled. All that I had seen happened so fast that I didn’t know what to make of it, and I will never know really what happened, or why. But I do know that what I saw in that brief moment gave me a poignant impression of the Senegalese culture in which I am living.

I have a hard time imagining such a circumstance back home. Would a whole line of traffic really be allowed to just come to a halt, for the sake of a poor woman on the side of the road? I fear that too often this would be discouraged, in avoidance of chaos or for whatever other reason, and it is more likely that care would be turned over to the professionals—the police, for instance, and we would continue on our way. Whereas here, people live for each other, they watch out for each other, they sacrifice for each other. No matter what, it seems.

That moment on the highway was a shocking example of the essence of this culture. Like I said, I will never know what prompted the upset, nor what became of it. But it remains in my mind like a clip from a film, unfinished, unclear, but all too vivid.

Senegal Vs. Gambia: the fight for more than victory on the field

Many of us understand what it means to be loyal to a sports team. We feel the team’s agony and ecstasy in our bones, as if it were our own. We cheer for the team, knowing that ultimately its victory assures our sanity while its defeat leaves us empty and aimless. At least, perhaps some of us are that loyal. The Senegalese are that loyal.

It was the football (soccer) match we were all waiting for. The winner would continue its battle toward a spot in the Coupe d’Afrique Nationale, and ultimately the World Cup in 2012. The loser would say farewell to its chance for the next 3 years. Not only were the stakes high. More importantly, Gambia was coming to our home turf. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the geography of Senegal, the country looks as though it has a mouth, inside of which the tiny strip of Gambia has been swallowed. In other words, Gambia is entirely surrounded by Senegal, except for a tiny portion Atlantic coastline. It is easy to assume that the two countries are archrivals, and the Senegalese, who already joke that the Gambia is apart of their country, had only one thought in mind: victory.

We arrived at the Leopold Sedar Senghor stadium at about 3:00. The match was to begin at 4:00. Hundreds and hundreds of people were already in line at the gates, and the string of eager fans seemed to stretch for miles. Yet somehow, we were able to make our way into the line and we arrived at the gates, and then to our seats, before the kickoff. Not unlike their geographical relationship, the Senegalese fans filled every seat in the stadium, giving off a yellow, red and green hue. Only one small section was occupied by a rowdy bunch of blue, red and green Gambians.

The game began and proceeded rather uneventfully. Neither team was particularly exciting, although we exaggerated the applause whenever slightly appropriate. At the end of 45 minutes, the score was 0-0.

Towards the middle of the second half, Senegal took control, swerving, dribbling and passing around the Gambians to finally get the ball in the net. As 1-0 appeared on the large screen, the crowd exploded in excitement and relief, while down on the field the players did much the same. After that, we all settled back a little into our seats, no longer gripping the edge in nervous anticipation. Bravo Senegal. We were all doubtlessly confident. Well, our naïve assuredness was shattered when, five minutes from the end of the match, Gambia snatched up the ball and sunk it in the our goal. 1-1. There was a second of excruciating, stunned silence before the small but powerful Gambian crowd erupted in gleeful shouting, drumming and chanting. Around the stadium, the yellow, red and green flags stopped waving.

The remaining time ticked away too quickly but hope had already been lost. You could see it in their faces. We exited the stadium with the crowd, quiet and sullen at first. It took me a while to realize that people kept shouting at me to take off the Senegal cap that I was sporting. To be honest, I was rather disappointed at the Senegalese lack of team spirit. Win or lose, you are supposed to tough it out with your team. That is what loyal is. Well, as we were headed to our bus, we saw some sort of commotion up ahead. Before we could get close enough to see what was going on, we were being herded in the other direction. But then it became very clear. A crowd of young boys was shoving, throwing stones, shouting. It was like a suction effect as more and more joined the ruckus, and the pulsating swarm of them only got more and more dense. As we walked up the hill away from them, I could see the beginning puffs of smoke coming from the tear gas that was sprayed, and I watched until I could no longer see the crowd, only the sky getting thicker and darker with smoke.

None of the Senegalese seemed very shaken by the affair, and thus I wasn’t either. But in all actuality, I was. When we arrived back to school, I went upstairs to print out a document. Fifteen minutes later I was about to walk out the door to go home when someone stopped me and told me to go out on the balcony. The street (where I would have crossed) was filled with people throwing rocks, pushing things over, shouting, shoving. The normally busy street had been blocked off so no cars could pass by. Soon, two pick-up trucks pulled up and police jumped out, wearing helmets and carrying shields, and proceeded to chase the scattering crowd, which disappeared as soon as the officials arrived. I later spoke with my friend who had been in the gas station during the riots, and witnessed burning cars, and the storming and vandalizing of a convenience store across the street. This was more than loyalty to a sports team. This was desperation.

I was up and about early the next morning. It was as peaceful and quiet as any other morning (which is not that peaceful or quiet). The road was open. People walked to and fro where the day before riots were raging. Walking by the convenience store, I saw that it was closed and the windows were shattered, confirming that it had not all been a figment of my imagination.

On the surface, it was all for the loss of a football match; perhaps a little deeper down it was for the loss of dignity, a wound to their pride. But it is clearly more than that. While I will never entirely understand, I can understand that the yellow, red and green garb a cultural and patriotic identity, a history, hope for the future and anger at the present, and not only a sports team.

Korité

Korité marks the end of the month of Ramadan, and is determined by the first sighting of the moon. Therefore, no one really knows exactly when it will be, though I gathered that they really do know, and the suspense is for tradition’s sake. Either way, there was something in the air the days leading up to it. People were getting excited. I felt like even the traffic was moving faster, coupled with the taxi drivers becoming more obnoxious and hard to dodge (when crossing the street or not). Everyone was talking about, “La fête! La fête!” So I was expecting a big party.

Tuesday night the moon was sighted. I was in the market at dusk, having spent the last few hours pushing and shoving my way through the crowd to a decent price on fabric. Content with my finds at 500CFA per meter, I was finding my way back to the main road to catch a taxi, just as it was getting dark and the final day’s fast was being broken. I thought I caught the smells of festive foods wafting through the air. Back on the main road, I was utterly surprised to find that no taxi would respond to my outstretched hand, because as I mentioned, lately they had been particularly insistent in their honking and signaling. Yet, none came to my call. Then I realized that it was because they all had passengers already, and I assumed it must be Korité and people were out and about with no work or school the next two days. Finally I caught a packed bus back to Yoff, and upon arriving home I was informed by mother that yes indeed the moon had been sighted. I am still not entirely sure how they knew, because my mother told me they saw it as 7:00 p.m. and at 7:00 p.m. it was barely dark. At 10:00 p.m. when I looked at the sky I could not see the moon. But what do I know? Whatever sign was needed was received.

My family had told me that the morning of Korité we would go to the mosque, after which feasting and festivities would begin. From what I understood, it was a day of celebration marked by cooking food, wearing nice clothes and visiting with family and friends. Now I am not sure if the misunderstanding came from the language barrier or some other barrier but clearly I was left misunderstanding. I woke up Wednesday morning and donned my white “boubou,” loaned to me by my family the night before. I had been told that I needed to be dressed all in white to go to the mosque. Feeling a little uncomfortable in my Senegalese outfit, I exited my room for breakfast. My family seemed very content to see me dressed as I was, and it made me relax. That is, until I asked when we would be leaving and my mother offered to show me the way. “Je vais toute seule?” I asked, trying to mask my incredulousness. And I was informed the following:

All of the women in my family were on their period. The Koran forbids women to pray at this time of month. So they were not going. The father, having been sick, was also not going. And the brothers were going to a different mosque, and besides, they had already left. So there I was, alone. Understanding that I didn’t want to go by myself, not to mention that I didn’t know where the mosque was, or what to do when I got there, my mother suggested I go with the neighbors. Fine. Going with another Senegalese family would be just as well. I was not expecting to go with a single, middle-aged man, who didn’t look at or speak to me. I literally followed him like a dog, winding down little side streets that I would have no idea how to find again. It must have been a funny sight, a Senegalese man leading a Toubab dressed in a boubou shuffling behind him (I say shuffle because my skirt was a bit restraining for my legs). But by now I was very curious as to what would be next in my morning so I obediently followed.

Upon arriving, my escort disappeared in the crowd. Now I was completely alone. The mosque was situated looking out at the ocean and was surrounded by a huge, sandy arena. I quickly saw the thin rope dividing the men’s side from the women’s and made my way appropriately to the left. I found a place to sit down and wait. Five minutes passed and I watched as people poured in through the gate—men, women and children of all ages. Fifteen minutes more of the same. Thirty minutes later I was fighting the urge to dose. The sea of white-clad people was growing and covering the arena. I was probably at the mosque for a total of an hour and a half and no more than fifteen minutes of it was spent in prayer. Finally I was nudged by the women next to me to stand. What proceeded was a series of short prayers, during which I followed those around me as best I could. While I could not understand, I found the prayers very beautiful, and the sound of hundreds of people chanting in unison, and the image of their bodies bowing in unison, was quite remarkable.

When the prayers were completed, the crowd turned into a stampede as everyone pushed their way through the [relatively] small gate and into the streets. I squeezed my way through and once out in the street, proceeded to find my way home by guessing and a general sense of direction. Like I said, having been led down back allies and side streets, it was impossible to retrace my footsteps. But having a pretty clear idea of my whereabouts, I was not too worried. As it was, I went a street too far and had to back track a little. But because Yoff is based along one main road, anything is pretty easy to find with enough sniffing.

The rest of the day continued largely without incident. The pomp and circumstance I had been expecting was unfulfilled. They did dress me up in a second outfit, resembling something someone might wear for Senegalese Easter (see photo). But the “feasting and festivities” were manifest in eating what we always eat—thiebu diene, a dish with a base of rice, topped with root vegetables, fish, and a spicy pepper sauce. Granted, it is very good, but after almost a month of the same thing, my palette starts to crave new stimulus.

I spent the rest of the day with two friends, and we celebrated Korité by making cheese/apple/vinaigrette sandwiches. Delicious! As we sat on the balcony that night, we saw a few pitiful firecrackers shoot up in the sky, only to quickly fall to their end. So a grande fête it was not. But an interesting day for me, culturally rich and informative, it was indeed.

A Belated Introduction

I realize that some of you reading my blog may not know me or know what brought me here. So I thought I would supply a formal introduction. Currently I am a student at Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts, USA, where I study international relations and foreign languages, with philosophy and economics on the side. I identify with being a global citizen, meaning that I seek to explore many cultures of the world. I rejoice in discovering new lifestyles and letting my impressions abroad enrich my individual person. Finding the small idiosyncrasies and deep-seeded traditions that define a culture is to me forever interesting and invaluable.

That said, I have found myself in Senegal by way of the organization Living Routes. Living Routes works in affiliation with GEN (Global Ecovillage Network). Together these organizations strive to promote the idea and practice of sustainable development around the world. Sustainable development is understood as development which is concerned with its social, ecological and economic impacts. In Senegal alone there are about 45 ecovillages working to transform themselves into sustainable communities. Organic agriculture, alternative energy resources, water sanitation and education are all examples sustainable practices.

During my 3½ month stay here I am working with other American and Senegalese university students, as well as with GENSEN (GEN-Senegal) staff to study, research and apply elements of sustainable development. Throughout the semester we will be working in a rural village in Northern Senegal, Guédé Chantier, conducting service projects that further Guédé’s sustainable aspirations. Meanwhile, we are studying more generally and theoretically sustainable development in West Africa so as to be able to bridge academic knowledge with practical work.

This is the scripted agenda of my time here. A part from that, I am here to improve my French, eat new food, play on the beach, hear people’s stories, explore religion, go on adventures, live life in a new way, and come home with a little more self-awareness, a little more global awareness, some new ideas and at least one bag of dates (the fruits, not the suitors).

Many Hands for One Tree

I never thought that planting a tree could be such a process, endearing and inefficient. Oh, it can. The idea was that the villagers would plant trees, one in front of each house, so that each family would be in charge of the care of a tree, and thus provide shade for the house and the street–a noble and worthy plan. But when an entire village with one shovel and one pick tries to help dig the hole, put the sapling in the ground and water it, one must admit that there is such a thing as too many hands. Many hands do make light work, but too many hands do NOT work!

I spent last week in a rural village in Northern Senegal, Guédé Chantier. This village will later be the location of our service projects, so this visit was meant as an introduction to the people and the possibilities there. The first morning we helped with the project of planting the trees. Now, not only were there about twenty of us, but there were also at least one hundred villagers keen on being involved. So, with a wheelbarrow full of young saplings (which at least five people tried to push) we made our way from house to house. One (or four) people dug the hole, another (or many others) put the tree in the ground a few people followed behind with a bucket of water. It was an extravagant affair. To me it was hilarious, but also touching to see the sincerity of all the villagers.

What became very clear to me after this activity was the strong sense of community in the village. Coming from my home, I credit myself with understanding a bit about community. I take for granted that I share food and kitchen appliances with my neighbors, that grocery shopping always takes longer than anticipated because of the conversations I strike up in the aisles and that my bank tellers know me (and my dog, for that matter). But Guédé Chantier gave me an entirely new concept of community. These people live for each other. Their activities are part of network that keeps them and their village alive. They do not choose their lifestyle as they would a pair of jeans, like many of us have the luxury of doing. It is a necessity.

We in the West pride ourselves on our individuality. Here in Senegal, that concept is largely foreign. Having tried in vain to explain to my Senegalese classmates my need for occasional solitude, I have come to understand that family and community are more important than all else. The project of planting the trees was a perfect illustration of this.

So, while my eye, trained to detect the efficient from the inefficient, could see the many ways to improve this project, they were irrelevant. I may credit myself with living a communal life. However, it is a life built on a foundation of individualism. The community I encountered in Guédé has not been spoiled by self-awareness. They understand what I never will. It does take all to plant a tree.

The Heat, Honking Traffic and a Hungry Stomach

It’s another hot and muggy day in West Africa. On top of the unrelenting heat, in observation of the month of Ramadan I am not eating or drinking between sunrise and sunset. The lack of sustenance takes a toll on my energy. It is probably not the best idea to go all day without food and water while still acclimating to change of climate. Yet, I want to understand what it is that everyone around me is experiencing. I like sharing with my family and classmates the excitement and anticipation of the sun’s setting.

My last few days have been spent exploring mostly. In my exploration, I have learned one very important thing: do not assume the traffic will keep you in mind. Such luxuries as crosswalks, stop signs and traffic lights do not exist here. When crossing the street or highway, look in ALL directions, and then be quick. A bridge is being built to traverse the main roadway but until it is done (which may not be anytime soon) one must cross four lanes of traffic, hopping the double median that divides them. This road stands between my house and the school, so I make the trek often. I must often remind myself, FAIT ATTENTION! Furthermore, the din of the traffic is ceaseless. Honking taxis (honking everything actually), buses, trucks and all other wheeled and hoofed vehicles make their way night and day.

My family is fairly traditional. There is the mother and father, six children and the mother’s brother. For meals, we eat on the floor from the same bowl. Thus far the meals have been very simple. Because of Ramadan, we rise before the sun to eat a breakfast of soft, white bread baguettes with butter and sweet tea. Then we go back to sleep for a few hours. We break the fast in the evening with the same bread and tea, little doughnut-like sweet breads and dates. Dinner follows a while later. The dinners are always a spicy dish of rice, fish and vegetables. We all eat from one big bowl, either with a spoon or our hands. I have been surprised to find that no fresh food is eaten, even with the abundance of delicious fruit here. I have taken it upon myself to buy fruit because I am afraid it won’t be long before my stomach starts to resist the constant intake of empty carbs.

The hardest challenge, however, has not been the new food (or the lack of food) or the heat. It has been the language. Senegalese French is much less crisp than the French to which I am accustomed and comprehension is often difficult. Plus, everyone speaks Wolof to each other, and they try to speak it to me but I know next to nothing. “Manga def?” I have finally come to recognize and respond, “Mangi fi rekk.” This is the most common greeting. “How are you?” “I am doing well.”

5:00 in the evening. Two and a half hours before the breaking of the fast. A fresh mango awaits me. Until the next time, I will simply say, “Asalam Alekum.” Peace be with you.