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.

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