Cat is Moose in Wolof: Reflections on Living in Dakar

I'm learning Wolof, and it has changed my relationship with the Senegalese working at ISD and down our street.  I used to be the nice toubab American teacher who is often seen walking with his wife.  Now I'm the nice toubab American teacher who is learning Wolof.  I'm no longer anonymous.

Wolof is a language spoken widely in Senegal, Gambia and Mauritania.  It is the native language of the Wolof people, about 40% of the population of Senegal.  The Wolof Empire was a medieval West African state that ruled parts of Senegal and Gambia from about 1350 to 1890, dominating the history of north-central Senegal for the past 800 years.  See Wolof for a map of the distribution of the Wolof people in Senegal.

In the States, I'd drive to work, and engage no one save the clerk at the 7-11 where I picked-up my morning coffee and lunch.   Same in the afternoon.  After leaving the school campus, I was generally anonymous, and would relax in the privacy of my own mind.  

Not so here, and particularly not now.  As an American friend, with a Senegalese husband, recently commented to Randi, I've blown it, implying that many will now want to engage me in Wolof.  It will no longer be possible to go for a walk without greeting lots of new friends and language coaches.

It's true, and while it will obviously benefit my learning Wolof, there are certainly times when I'd pefer to roll up the windows and listen to the stereo.

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I didn't expect the seasons to be so distinct and long-lasting.  

We arrived during the rainy season, a period of very high humidity, hurricane-producing storm fronts, and heat.  The sea was toasty-warm, and the air sweltering.  We sweat profusely and guzzled liquids.  A pre-frozen two-liter bottle of water was standard equipment on walks around town.  Running out of water meant our walks were over, and time to flag a taxi.

The rainy season passed in late October to early November.  The humidity lifted, replaced by five months of stiff offshore winds, cooling temperatures, and ocean upwelling, dropping the sea temperatures into the middle 60s, with temperatures at depth for diving into the 50s. 

Now, reaching mid-April, we still have a sleeping bag on the bed, serving as a down comforter, and I only recently stopped wearing a pile jacket to work in the mornings.

While I've yet to experience the months of May and June, it appears that diving and ROVing are seasonal sports reserved for the fall and late spring.  A class field trip to Ile de Madeleine has been pushed back to mid-May to allow for the seas to warm for swimming.  

While I knew that the seas would cool, I didn't anticipate that the offshore winds driving upwelling would so dramatically influence the marine environment.

Dakar is known for its excellent surfing, and I can attest to the consistent swell running through the winter months, certainly not with the ferocity of northern California, but enough to curb our ROVing.

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I've discovered a real fondness and respect for the Senegalese people, who are generally warm, gracious, and deeply spiritual.  Materialism does not distract from their connection to God and to one another, the depth of which is humbling, though, like any individual or group, there are profound contradictions.   

Randi and I have recently begun to discover how complex and layered society is here, as in our neighborhood of Sotrac Mermoz.  

The residents are generally expats or relatively wealthy Senegalese, their large homes set behind walls or gates, protected by house guards, who congregate outside on the street. Vendors wander by selling everything from brooms to sunglasses to fish from styrofoam chests.  House guards are served meals throughout the day via a system I've yet to figure out.  A colleague at school explained that these meals can be prepared by woman who otherwise reside in unfinished concrete buildings, of which there are aplenty.

Early in the morning, residents' cars parked along the street are washed by groups of young men.  Breakfast is served outside at tables along Ouakam, the main north-south road, from what are essentially mini-restaurants, Senegalese fast food.  Fresh fruits and vegetables are sold from a half dozen produce stands.  Artisans live and work in carport-size shops making and selling furniture, woven baskets and bookcases, drums and drum cases, metal work, and ceramics.  Some sleep in their shops.  

Young talibe boys practice writing verses from the Koran on wooden boards with their teacher, who also runs a boutique, a sort of kiosk which sells a wide variety of goods.  Children of university professors in blue school uniforms gather at their bus stop.  A block east of us there is a block-long row of rough shanty-style shelters vibrant with activity on weekends.  It is unlikely that those children attend school.  

Women roast, package and sell small bags of peanuts on almost every corner, 25 CFA a bag, the equivalent of about a nickel a bag.  

All this life unfolds around us, everyone making their way, making it work, finding meaning.

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Randi and I walked over to visit with an ISD colleague, Rebecca, who lives in a nearby middle-class Senegalese neighborhood.  On the way out I stopped and consulted with my jangi cats (spelled phonetically), my Wolof teachers, a gathering of six house guards sitting together.  I lean on them to check my pronunciation and word order.  Here's this morning's lesson:

maangi am moose

I have a cat

maangi am moose bu tutti

I have a little cat

maangi am moose bu tutti ark bu m'bok

I have a little yellow cat

nungi dem keer cha-rit

we are going to a friend's house

It's like writing a primer for Kindergarteners.  So it goes.  The guys are humored by my cat sentences, which is the point.