I decided to participate in a new “bridge year” program. This meant traveling to Senegal with five other students like me and a “program manager” who acted as, coordinator, professor, mentor and more. The first month we took French and Wolof language lessons in the capital of Dakar. We then moved to more rural locations to live with host families and work in near by apprenticeships. The basic goal was to learn about and adapt to the country and its culture.

Daily life proved to be full of lessons not taught in books. Expecting to speak French in a former French colony, my ears were surprised to be immersed in the native tongue of Wolof. It soon became apparent that learning this language I had only heard of a month prior was a necessity. Surrounded by the sharp sounds and quick words, I thought it would be easy. However, after years of schooling where writing and reading come well before speaking a new language my ears were not prepared for picking up on a word that I had never seen.

Each morning, stepping out the door into the sandy streets, greeted by children’s calls of “toubab,” meaning white person, occasionally accompanied by the thud of a rock behind me, was a constant reminder of how foreign I was in this place farther than I had ever been from home. Adding to the feeling that I was completely out of context, the household I entered was very different from any I had ever known. I shared a room, which was kept more like a second living room than a bedroom, with three children. This forced me to adapt quickly. The hardest part proved to be appreciating the young couple who, in their combined seventy two years of life, had attended less school than I had in my meager eighteen. But, while there were frustrations, there was never a point when I doubted my decision to be there. With time, my host parents helped me learn to celebrate the culture they so graciously shared with me, marvel in their beliefs in vampires and miracles, and become aware of, and in doing so begin to shed, all the American baggage I had brought with me.

Much of my time was spent with women and I was surprised to find that they became some of my most influential teachers. The difference in language and culture often proved to be a greater doorway into the women’s world than a barrier from it. On most days I was an apprentice at the local “maternité”, a health and birthing center for women. At first, the gregarious but private midwives were cautious to share the details of their work with me. After about a month they realized that I was younger then all of them and had absolutely no medical training. Instead of me giving something to them I was there to learn from them. This made me different from all of the other westerners they had met. I became their little doll. It was fun for them to introduce me to aspects of their culture because for me everything was new and exciting. I also appreciated being joked with because it was their way of showing that they enjoyed my presence. The patients were quick to adopted this geniality toward me and let me be present in some of their more precious and vulnerable moments.

Four to six hours four days a week I helped the midwives with consultations. These were unscheduled appointments for pregnant women, women taking birth control, prostitutes and any other woman seeking reproductive help. While many consultations were uneventful some were dramatic, others amusing and a few just plain scary.

A particularly persistent woman came in after giving birth to her eighth child looking for help to have a ninth. Determined, she arrived every week until she convinced the midwives to do all they could to help her. In another consultation, the midwives read the results of a woman’s ultra sound to discover that one of her twin babies had been dead inside her for over ten days. The young woman was immediately rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. I was comforted to find her a week later cheerfully holding the surviving twin. Unfortunately other stories did not have such happy endings. One prostitute came in to be told that she was HIV positive. Watching tears stream down her face as the head mid wife tried to comfort her I could do nothing but sit in silence. As the silent, smiling, light-haired girl, I also had the joy of standing with women through their births then placing their newborn babies in their arms. Through witnessing their large and small struggles and triumphs I was pushed to gain a deeper understanding of their lives.

I also quickly connected with women outside the maternité.  I found my self as a bridesmaid in a wedding, and friends offered to name their children after me. I spent countless hours memorizing the women’s daily activities cooking the family’s one-pot lunch on a single gas burner, hand-washing endless piles of clothes in buckets of soapy water, braiding weave into my friends’ hair, then sitting watching the world go by when there was nothing else to do. I learned about the lives of girls I have little in common with. I ended up with unique and invaluable friendships.

Throughout this past year my awareness for the world has increased immensely. I have visited countries that I could not have placed on a map. I can speak a language that I did not even know exists. I have come to understand and accept practices that I looked down upon such as polygamy. I have experienced real life challenges that I had never been exposed to such as lack of waste management.

Now it has been a year since I made the decision to go to Senegal, eight months since I left home and a month since I have been back. I would have been fine going to school with my classmates. At the same time listening to my friends share their past year of dorm mate drama and study stress then telling them about my visit to a giant mosque and adventure through mangroves I know it was worth the wait. I also realize that through the ups and downs of learning how to take care of myself in a place so different from home I have acquired skills that will be useful in the years to come. Moments like this increase my appreciation for the opportunity I have had.

The first month I was expected to be her fourth child but having that relationship proved to be extremely difficult. It took a good month and a half for me to adjust, find that I could make my place as a third adult in the family and make things that used to annoy me about my host mother funny. Little things tended to get to me: once, she tried to explain to me that in Senegal burping is acceptable but passing gas is rude, whereas in the U.S. passing gas is acceptable and burping is rude. Since she does not know the word for either in French and I do not know in Wolof she proceeded to belch every time she wanted to say the word burp and because she can’t pass gas on command act like she was pulling something out of her rear end every time she wanted to say that. To balance all that, I give her every opportunity to teach me something she is an expert at such as washing clothes, ironing with hot coals, and Senegalese cooking.

Getting to this point has been the most challenging part of my GCY experience thus far but now that I am there it will also probably be the most valuable. As well as having forced me to learn how to adapt both to personalities and cultures living with this woman has given me an inside view at the life of a young, uneducated, Senegalese mother.

Since almost everyone I know before this year has gone to or will go to college until this experience I had never truly known what being uneducated means and grasped the importance of education. My host mother and many of her friends quit school when they were around the age of twelve, some because they had to work, others because they just did not want to go. It is amazing to me to see the great differences in their demeanor and actions verses that of my friend’s mother who lives across the street and finished high school. Understanding that this is greatly the reason to my host mother’s naiveté and why she does not understand things such as you can not believe everything you see on TV has been eye opening and possibly one of the most important lessons I will take away with me.

One of the first aspects of the Senegalese people many of the fellows noticed upon arrival is that no one looks starving here. In fact, I think it is safe to say that I have never seen more obese women in my life. Part of this is due to the culture which emulates the large, voluptuous woman; however, I also speculate that it is heightened by the eating style and quality of food. The typical Senegalese breakfast consists of roughly a six-inch piece of machine-made baguette with butter or chocolate spread. Six to seven hours later at lunch everyone fills up on a rice based meal which is almost always cebbujen, rice and fish with a few vegetables whose nutrients have been boiled down to almost nonexistence. This is made using a good amount of oil (for my host family a quarter liter) and “Maggi” or a similar artificially flavored cube of sodium and MSG. Dinner is then often leftovers from lunch or ceré (millet) with sauce made from oil and meat broth or ground up leaves and peanuts. There is always more than enough food at lunch, the main meal of the day, however there is an obvious lack of nutrients in the daily diet. In addition, the copious amounts of oil and rice consumed have unpleasant side effects, the two which the other fellows and I have most commonly experienced being acne and weight gain.

Coming to Senegal and eating like the average Senegalese is like when I was a little kid and never appreciated how good a cook my mom is until I had dinner at a friend’s house except this is blown up to a world sized scale. It is not that I don’t like Senegalese food, because I actually do. My host mother also happens to be a good cook and while cooking with her I have written down many recipes that I plan to make for family and friends at home. It is that I never fully grasped how wonderfully varied, full and balanced my diet was at home. In addition, until now I had never craved a food or wanted an ingredient that was not available somewhere.

At the same time it was not until after sharing spaghetti, gnocchi and oatmeal with Senegalese friends that I realized how open my palette is. While they were kind and pretended to like the food it was obvious that they preferred the usual cebbujen. Considering they have mainly eaten meals of rice, bread and millet their whole lives and are not accustomed to trying new foods I understand. However, it was not until those experiences that I thought about the fact that growing up in the U.S. I have been exposed to and enjoyed a wide variety of food from all over the world.

Those of you who know me well know that I have never been a food person. While I of course have my favorite foods and enjoy baking occasionally food was just never that important to me. So it is funny to me that now among all luxuries Senegal has made me have a better appreciation for, food is by far the greatest.

Probably the most impactful event since beginning work here happened about a month ago. One morning, soon after I arrived, a woman came in with an extremely tiny baby all wrapped up. I thought the baby had just been born until I noticed its pierced ears and the large black eye brows painted on its weirdly shrunken face. The woman was explaining something  I could not understand as one of the midwives unwrapped the little bundle. I immediatly knew something was wrong but did not realize how wrong until its fral ribs and caved in stomach were revieled. With horror I thought the baby must be dead. The mid wife gasped and began chastisizing the woman. The child was starving. We rushed to put her under heat lights and spooned water little by little into her mouth, waiting for the woman to return from the pharmacy with formula. The midwife explained to me that the mother was very young and had not begun to produce milk yet. I asked if another woman who had just had a baby could feed her but she said they would not do that in Senegal. As more mid wives began coming in for work, they were all upset by the state of the baby.

About an half hour later the mother arrived. The midwife pulled out her breasts and was surprised when a little jet of milk squirted out. A few spoonfuls were feed to the baby. The mother just sat there milk dripping from her full breasts not saying or doing anything. I have no idea what was going through her mind as her twenty-three-day-old daughter was about to die, she just seemed blank and confused. A few minutes later she left and the baby died. I had never  seen a dead person before and even if I had I still think looking at this tiny, grey, shrunken face with drawn on eyebrows would have given me the chills.

While the  midwife scolded the mother, I truly think no one can be blamed. Even though the mother produced milk, the baby would not drink, and the mother was not educated enough to bring her to the maternite until it was too late. Just standing there, watching the baby die made me feel more useless then ever before. Although  it was extremely frusturating watching this knowing there was nothing I could do, I think right now observing and just being aware is what is important and the ultimate goal of the GCY experience. It also made me more aware of the hardships and challenges that exist in our village that I no longer think about every day.

A few nights ago the topic came up again when one of my host sisters entered the living room covered in a sticky liquid. My host mother explained that it was a powder from a tree to protect her from vampires because she was sick and vampires prey on sick people. This led her to tell me even more about vampires such as how a person can become a vampire and how only people with special abilities can tell vampires from real people. The conviction and gravity with which she explained her belief was quite intense, especially considering it was coming from a woman who is rarely serious.

Throughout the past few months it has been intriguing to see how large of a role these beliefs play in my host family’s daily life and how easily they mix with the family’s Islamic religion. Sometimes I have difficulty knowing which practices come from African spirituality and which from Islam for example using words from the Quran for healing.

Before learning about these practices and beliefs when someone said sorcerer, as most likely many other young Americans, Harry Potter came to mind. Similarly Twilight was my first thought if Vampires were mentioned. I previously viewed beliefs in magic such as these like a belief in Santa Clause, fun and exciting but also childish. Living with my current host family however has made me come to see them as something that can be completely different and have a very serious tone.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.