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A few nights ago, after accompanying Victoria to her host house, I walked the twenty minutes back on the route nationale with two Senegalese friends. While it was dark, it was only about eight thirty and we could see by the car lights streaming past us. Randomly, a shiny new truck pulled off the road. A middle aged white man, cigarette in hand, leaned out the window and called to us. We walked over and my friend whose French is the best out of the three of us stepped forward. He quickly indicated, however, that he wanted to speak with me. He told me he had seen me on the road before and wanted to make my acquaintance. Not wanting to be rude but feeling like this very forward man was being inappropriate and knowing that it would probably not be a good idea, I quickly searched for a way to kindly get rid of him. Before I could say anything my friend was already giving him my number. At that point there was nothing I could do but stand there. As I was walking away quickly as possible I realized my friend was still talking to him. A few minutes later she came running up clutching 4,000 CFA he had just given her.

When we returned to the house my two friends recounted the whole event to another friend as if we were freshmen in high school and I had just been asked to homecoming. The next day the usual “nanga deff” was replaced with “did he call?” He had but I decided not to answer. This news was met with shocked faces and exclamations of “why not!?” I tried to explain my reasoning to them but from the beginning I knew it would be difficult for them to understand since relationships are different in Senegal. Many women marry in their late teens and early twenties, often to men much older than them who already have money to support a family. In addition, Senegalese women tend to be open and flirtatious, so one of the most challenging things for many of my friends here to understand is that when I say I don’t want a boyfriend I mean it. Somewhere in the middle of all of this I realized that if any of my friends in the U.S had given my number to a complete stranger I would have been mad at them and thought they were crazy. But here, the culture and relationships between men and women are just different.

When we arrived in our rural locations, all of the Senegal fellows were given an assigned friend. This was a person outside of our home stay families who could show us around the community and introduce us to more people. I was lucky to be assigned a friendly, intelligent girl my age with a big, welcoming family. Having never been assigned a friend before at first I think we were both a little uncertain of our roles, but with similar personalities after sharing many meals, holidays and celebrations by now the friendship is much more genuine than assigned. Living across the street we see each other almost every day. Usually we sit in front of her mother’s boutique and watch people go by on the route nationale, or she will teach me something such as how to braid African hair or cook beignets. Often we talk about events taking place in the community or I ask her questions about Senegal. Sometimes we just sit in a comfortable silence and hang out, which has been difficult for me to learn how to do but necessary in Senegal.

Until this point, I have felt like I am comfortable with my Senegalese friends and act like myself around them. However, this recent situation made me aware that I have unconsciously been acting different with them than I do with my friends at home. I am not sure if this means that while I think I am my self around them I am really not or if I have just adapted to the cultural differences but what ever it is it has made me more conscious of how, while it may not be noticeable to others, throughout the past two months my actions, attitudes and even thoughts have slowly changed hopefully for the better.

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The Thursday after my debut as a Senegalese bridesmaid was the night when close family and friends accompany the bride to her husband’s home and involves much tradition and festivities. I arrived at the bride’s house just as she was being prepared to depart with a shower and two foulards (big pieces of fabric) wrapped around her. Her two suitcases of cloths and a giant supply of cooking equipment waited on a mat spread over the dirt court yard. But as the older women lead her out of the house their way was blocked by the bridesmaids who sang and clapped while demanding money from the groom’s family. The price started at 15,000 CFA then dropped to 10,000 but they ended up having to make due with 5,000.

Finally the bride made it to the middle of the mat where she sat by her little sister. I could not see their faces but their bodies shook with silent sobs. Everyone gathered around as the griot spoke about how difficult but necessary the move was. At this time I was motioned by a friend to follow her. We piled into a car overflowing with girls and were rushed off to the groom’s family’s home in anticipation for the bride. Her arrival was signaled by the honking car horns and four cars jammed packed with people and the bride‘s possessions pulled up in front of the house.

A new blockade was created this time preventing the bride from entering. It was slightly raid like as the men of the house threw screaming girls aside until they succeeded in getting the bride to her new bedroom. When this happened the roles were reversed and I watched as a my host mother hurled herself at the men with hysterical laughs mixed with loud cries in determination to enter the room. As the mosh pit grew I found my self pulled forward by a little girl and miraculously lead through the men’s barrier into the room, no screaming or even talking involved, to find that I had been summoned by an old woman who wanted my to watch their traditions.

First, the bride’s feet and face were bathed. She then crawled around on her hands and knees in a circle with an elder woman. This was followed by millet mixed with peanuts and beans being poured over her head and hands. Next a bowl of lax was brought in and for the first time I realized her husband was in the room covered in a woman’s prayer shawl. They sat on the mattress under a blanket feeding each other lax only to be interrupted every couple of minutes by my host mother who liked to peek her head in and giggle at them. When they were finished there was a stampede for the court yard where big platters of lax were brought out for everyone. I was pulled down to a platter and found my friend instructing me how to stick my hand into the mushy millet blanketed by warm milk and slurp the pudding like goo from my dripping fingers.

It was midnight when we finally made our way back through the maze of sandy streets guided by starlight and the beat of a distant drummer.

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Last week I had the honor and surprise of being a bridesmaid in one of my Senegalese friend’s wedding. I first heard about the event a month ago when my friend was showing me, the new toubab, off to all her friends while giving them an oral invitation to the celebration. A few weeks later I was invited to her house for the receiving of Le Premier Cadeau, meaning the first gift. This is sometime before the wedding when the groom’s family gives the bride’s money to pay for the reception.

My first hint that I might have a bigger role than just being present and giving congratulations at the wedding was a week before when a friend and relative of the bride took my measurements for a dress that was going to match hers for the celebration. However Senegalese women enjoy dressing the same for all big events so I figured it was going to be like that at the wedding.

The day of the event was spent running to and from the tailors where the dresses were receiving final touches and waiting for the bride to return from the hair salon. When she arrived in full Senegalese makeup and dress, complete with purple eye brows and gold glittering lashes she was met by a cacophony of African drums and entourage of dancing women. Camera man in the lead the group danced their way through the house.

That night a tent-like altar was set up on the roof of a house and everyone waited for the bride’s arrival in plastic chairs. Sitting with three of the other fellows I soon realized that I was the only one wearing the dress I had previously thought many women would be wearing. Then the camera man appeared and a couple, the girl wearing the same dress as me, began a solemn walk down the aisle. This was followed by people pointing at me and yelling in Wolof and French that I was not were I was supposed to be. Having been previously told by a friend to sit and wait a bit embarrassed and confused I stayed in my seat. That was until a boy appeared in the entry way alone and waiting. At this point I realized he was alone because I was supposed to be walking with him so accompanied by lots of laughing and yelling I walked up the aisle to walk down it again. This was followed by the bride entering in a new outfit, more filming, pictures and lots of laughter. All in all it was a night to remember.

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I recently started one of my apprenticeships at Sebikotane’s Poste de Sante. For the World Day of Diabetes the health center set up a week of free testing for all the people of Sebikotane and the surrounding communities. My job was to write the names, ages, neighborhoods and blood sugar levels of the people being tested. It was funny how what would be somewhat of a mindless task for me in the U.S. was difficult in Senegal.

Many of the people being tested only speak the native language, Wolof. So numerous times when I thought I was asking them naata at nga am (how old are you) and foo dekk (where do you live) they would look at me in a way that I know I was not pronouncing the words correctly. On top of that Senegalese names are very different from American names and for me are of course not spelled phonetically. For example the J sound is made by Di so the common last name Diallo is pronounced Jallo. Therefore when a person would finally figure out that I was asking them no tudd (what is your name) it would take me a while to write it down correctly. Luckily there was often a friendly, French speaking, Senegalese person near by who was very eager to help and my mistakes lead to much laughter and discussion.

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This summer while house sitting for a good friend the fish died. Before the family returned my French exchange student and I spent a good fifteen minutes at the fist store determined to find a perfect replica so the children would not know the fish had died. We ended up not being very successful, however when they returned the children believed that Sounder, the fish, had changed colors due to the heat. Had they found out Sounder’s true fate I know many tears would have been shed. I have been thinking about this and American’s relationship to animals in general since I woke up this morning to find one of my host family’s sheep dead. As I was often woken in the night by her regurgitating and she has shown a lack of interest the past couple of days in my electric tooth brush (I brush my teeth outside their cage) I knew her days were short. At the same time it was a tad heart breaking to see her lifeless body on my way to breakfast this morning. Later in the day I was informed by one of the girls that the sheep had died. It then disappeared and the household continued on as if nothing unusual happened. And nothing unusual might have happened.