last night i had a dream that I was back in the states. everyone around me was white. and i was confused. i kept asking myself, who are all these tubaabs? what are they doing here? what is going on? then i realized i was back in America, and i was grieving because of it.

i’m not sure what that dream means. many days here in saint louis are difficult having white skin. in fact, almost every place i have been outside of dakar, it has been difficult for me, a white woman.

a day does not go by without being asked for money, no, not asked, told to give them money. no one will ever give me a good price, and people are always trying to take advantage of me. people mock my french, the children at the school don’t listen to me, and men grab my wrists and wont let go until i tell them my name, where i live, and if i’m married. women giggle and children yell names at me when i pass in the street. boys enjoy speaking to me in wolof and laughing together at whatever crude thing they probably said that they know i can’t understand. nothing is free, not even good citizen like help.

(eating for the first time in a week)

yet, as a friend said today, Senegal is the land of surprises. the things that have happened to me here have been wonderful, emotional, exciting, terrifying, offensive, out of control. i have laughed, sobbed, and shared life with people who have become very special to me. i have adapted to a way of life that many americans and europeans would never go for. i have failed over and over to understand and speak french. but i learn. and God has seen me through wonderful adventures in the desert as well as a week-long battle with possible malaria.

possibly one of the most interesting experiences occured on my way to the desert. i found myself in a small town called Kébémer, waiting to meet up with scott, mike, tara, and annette. after being hassled almost to the point of tears by the men on the street, i sought refuge somewhere that i could be alone, out of sight of everyone and everything. i wandered into a neighborhood where i became the delight of what must have been ten girls ranging in ages. two came and grabbed my hands asking me to come inside a house. thinking to myself that it would be much better than roaming the streets to be the spectacle for all, i agreed to go in. oh boy. i did not escape my role as the spectacle.

the mother, or whatever she was, of the house immediately perked up up, sat me down and began the interrogation. who am i, where am i from, what do i speak, where am i going, how long have i been here, do i like senegal, what do i like about it, am i going to stay with her, am i going to let her daughter/cousin/niece/daughter in law (i have no idea) braid my hair, how much did i pay for my scarf, am i married, what is his name, is he italian or is he black (i didnt know those were the only two options), will i take a senegalese husband, why not?!, am i coming back tomorrow, do i want some tea, are the flies bothering me, do i want to rest, and my persoanl favorite- where is the money that i am going to give her.

this question was asked multiple times. i hate that question. it makes me so uncomfortable. yeah, americans have more money than people here. but i cant just give my money away.

the room was full of what must have been fifteen women and girls, all listening, all giggling. i dont know if i have ever felt more uncomfortable. they were nice, sure, but i was their subject of entertainment and laughter and i really dont like that. whats worse is, after about two hours of this awful period of questioning and laughter, the mother takes me into this room to rest. im thinking its going to be this room with a bed and a fan and i was appreciating the gesture. but no. she takes me into possibly the poshest room i have seen in all of senegal. five huge leather couches, animal fur rugs, flat screen tv, golden pillows, beautiful decoration, stereo system. this woman has more than me!!! and she’s freaking asking me for money over and over. i was really offended. sometimes, its hard not to be. some things may be passed off as cultural i believe, but some things are really just people trying to take advantage of you.

im glad for the experience, even though it was uncomfortable. when i think about it now, and even at the time, it was pretty funny. but such is Senegal. you NEVER know what to expect and even when you think you do, you are wrong.

i continue to realize the role of art in my life. i love it. the past two days, around five pm have found me the happiest that i have been in saint louis. last week i somehow ended up at a center for some talibés (in a nutshell-children who are forced to beg on the street). someone originally wanted me to teach basically french and reading, but then a guy, wilfried, discovered that i am an artist. he told me to come back on monday and that i would help him teach painting. not knowing what to expect, i came back on monday. i spent monday and tuesday drawing on banners for some of the children to paint. i believe i will be doing the same thing today, and after that who knows! in those moments i felt so at home, like i was in MY skin. that i was doing what i should be, a feeling that you must know by now, i really desire.