Tonight I'm missing a gigantic West African cross dressing street festivity because I'm too tired from work. Earlier this morning, the ambulance driver dropped me off at the gas station, instructing the station pumper to look after me and ensure I got on a vehicle to St. Louis. I waited for about two hours at the gas station, shaking hands with random people, and answering questions from various men. It seems that here in Senegal, all I do is talk about drugs and sex. Drugs of course, I have to talk about for my work, since access to medication is a big component of our project. I thought Senegal was a conservative, Muslim country, but it seems everyone I meet on the street wants to talk about sex.
"What would you say if your husband wanted to have sex five time in five days?"
"Have you and your husband waited for marriage before having sex?"
"Here we have a big party when a girl loses her virginity, do you celebrate that too?"
"Senegalese woman never want to have sex."
"African men are different from American men, we are too much for one woman to handle."
Given how much Senegalese men seem to focus on sex, you would think that Senegalese women wouldn't have to try hard at all, but at the market, the women tell me, "if you wear this dress, I promise, magic will happen in the bed room," or, "men love this color, it sets them on fire."
Especially towards the end of the week, I'm exhausted, and I don't want to talk at all--let alone use the brain power to conjur up polite answers, in French, about the love life I have with my fake husband.
As I sat by the gas station, the others sitting with me offered me yet another type of berry from a local tree. "It's like candy," they explained. Only it's not. It's really bitter. You're supposed to suck on it until only the seed remains (I suppose that's what they mean when they compared it to candy), and when I go to spit it out before the adequate amount of time, they all yell, "NO!" Apparently it cures all sorts of ailments. When the bus comes, they all jump up and run after it, yelling at it to stop, pushing me towards the right direction. People here are very nice to me, I suppose the least I could do is answer their awkward questions.
The bus is definitely worse than the sept-place. There are no aisles because there is a folding seat that comes down to fill that space. At any stop, a swarm of people selling bags of sugar, flip flops, baobab seeds, or boiled eggs surge onto the bus, leaning on top of me to try to stuff their goods in the faces of the passengers behind me. I'm luckily seated near the front, but there is no space and I have to keep my heavy backpack on my lap. The man next to me leans over and says, pointing to the man on my other side, "he is mentally ill." At first I think he is joking, but apparently the man is his younger brother, and every 3 months they have to go to Dakar to refill his prescription. "What are you talking about," the brother asks, suspiciously.
"Just that you are going to Dakar," I say, feeling nervous that I'm sitting next to someone who warrants a warning. The brother smiles happily, and then proceeds to fall asleep as soon as the bus starts moving. He's actually a great person to have seated next to me, because he sleeps with his hands folded in front of him, taking up very little space. And he's silent, unlike his brother, who wants to ask me about my fake husband.
We stop by an open field, and some of the men--the ones that can manage to climb over the seats and get to the door--go out to use the bathroom. After having waited at the gas station for so long, I really have to go too, so I step out. I inform the driver that I plan to go to the bathroom (so he doesn't leave without me), and apparently they think that's a riot. "You can use this bush," a man yells at me, after he zips up his pants. I don't particularly want to use a bush that someone else has literally just used, but there is no other foliage behind which to take cover. All the men are staring at me, but when you have to go you have to go--it would still be a few hours before we reached St. Louis. So I duck behind the bush, ignoring the fact that I could see some of them craning their necks to try to look, shove my bag in front of me to sort of hide myself, and pee as quickly as I can. Then I run back to the bus, to the laughter of the driver and some of my fellow passengers, who wink at me at though we've just shared a special moment.
They drop me off at the gas station in St. Louis, where I take a cab to my hotel. "500," he says. I'm so used to being ripped off that I hear "5000," and I yell, "WHAT! It should be 1000!" He's a nice guy though, and still gives me the fare for 500.
I spend some time walking through the narrow alleys. St. Louis is small, an island like Manhattan that sits on the Senegal River. There are goats running around everywhere, munching on garbage and "bahhhing" at each other. It's like a throaty chorus everywhere I go. Down every street, there are groups of children playing soccer, barefoot in the sand. The streets here have seashells stuck in the cement. I come across a wall to which at least 10 sheep are leashed. Two women invite me to sit, and tell me about the Muslim New Year.
"It's a huuuuge party," one girl says.
"Yes," the other adds. "Tonight all of these sheep you see here are going to be KILLED." She really emphasizes the word killed.
"We cook them with cous cous!"
"And then men dress up in women's clothes, and women dress in men's clothes!"
They invite me to their house for this giant sheep slaughtering fest, and I would have liked to go, but I'm simply too tired from the long trip that I had. I have a balcony, so maybe I'll peek outside later.
"What would you say if your husband wanted to have sex five time in five days?"
"Have you and your husband waited for marriage before having sex?"
"Here we have a big party when a girl loses her virginity, do you celebrate that too?"
"Senegalese woman never want to have sex."
"African men are different from American men, we are too much for one woman to handle."
Given how much Senegalese men seem to focus on sex, you would think that Senegalese women wouldn't have to try hard at all, but at the market, the women tell me, "if you wear this dress, I promise, magic will happen in the bed room," or, "men love this color, it sets them on fire."
Especially towards the end of the week, I'm exhausted, and I don't want to talk at all--let alone use the brain power to conjur up polite answers, in French, about the love life I have with my fake husband.
As I sat by the gas station, the others sitting with me offered me yet another type of berry from a local tree. "It's like candy," they explained. Only it's not. It's really bitter. You're supposed to suck on it until only the seed remains (I suppose that's what they mean when they compared it to candy), and when I go to spit it out before the adequate amount of time, they all yell, "NO!" Apparently it cures all sorts of ailments. When the bus comes, they all jump up and run after it, yelling at it to stop, pushing me towards the right direction. People here are very nice to me, I suppose the least I could do is answer their awkward questions.
The bus is definitely worse than the sept-place. There are no aisles because there is a folding seat that comes down to fill that space. At any stop, a swarm of people selling bags of sugar, flip flops, baobab seeds, or boiled eggs surge onto the bus, leaning on top of me to try to stuff their goods in the faces of the passengers behind me. I'm luckily seated near the front, but there is no space and I have to keep my heavy backpack on my lap. The man next to me leans over and says, pointing to the man on my other side, "he is mentally ill." At first I think he is joking, but apparently the man is his younger brother, and every 3 months they have to go to Dakar to refill his prescription. "What are you talking about," the brother asks, suspiciously.
"Just that you are going to Dakar," I say, feeling nervous that I'm sitting next to someone who warrants a warning. The brother smiles happily, and then proceeds to fall asleep as soon as the bus starts moving. He's actually a great person to have seated next to me, because he sleeps with his hands folded in front of him, taking up very little space. And he's silent, unlike his brother, who wants to ask me about my fake husband.
We stop by an open field, and some of the men--the ones that can manage to climb over the seats and get to the door--go out to use the bathroom. After having waited at the gas station for so long, I really have to go too, so I step out. I inform the driver that I plan to go to the bathroom (so he doesn't leave without me), and apparently they think that's a riot. "You can use this bush," a man yells at me, after he zips up his pants. I don't particularly want to use a bush that someone else has literally just used, but there is no other foliage behind which to take cover. All the men are staring at me, but when you have to go you have to go--it would still be a few hours before we reached St. Louis. So I duck behind the bush, ignoring the fact that I could see some of them craning their necks to try to look, shove my bag in front of me to sort of hide myself, and pee as quickly as I can. Then I run back to the bus, to the laughter of the driver and some of my fellow passengers, who wink at me at though we've just shared a special moment.
They drop me off at the gas station in St. Louis, where I take a cab to my hotel. "500," he says. I'm so used to being ripped off that I hear "5000," and I yell, "WHAT! It should be 1000!" He's a nice guy though, and still gives me the fare for 500.
I spend some time walking through the narrow alleys. St. Louis is small, an island like Manhattan that sits on the Senegal River. There are goats running around everywhere, munching on garbage and "bahhhing" at each other. It's like a throaty chorus everywhere I go. Down every street, there are groups of children playing soccer, barefoot in the sand. The streets here have seashells stuck in the cement. I come across a wall to which at least 10 sheep are leashed. Two women invite me to sit, and tell me about the Muslim New Year.
"It's a huuuuge party," one girl says.
"Yes," the other adds. "Tonight all of these sheep you see here are going to be KILLED." She really emphasizes the word killed.
"We cook them with cous cous!"
"And then men dress up in women's clothes, and women dress in men's clothes!"
They invite me to their house for this giant sheep slaughtering fest, and I would have liked to go, but I'm simply too tired from the long trip that I had. I have a balcony, so maybe I'll peek outside later.
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