Goat slaughtering and milk drinking

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 10/11/14
Tabaski

I was at my temporary home stay site, Ndoomor (No-more), for the week of Tabaski. Tabaski is a Muslim holiday that is as important as Christmas is to Christians. It comes from the story of Abraham who, right before following God’s order to sacrifice his son, Ismael, was given a goat to sacrifice instead. It is a day more full of cooking, eating, greeting, and dressing nice than usual. In the morning, the men go to prey and come back to slaughter the male sheep. It all happens very quickly. The holes are dug for their blood and guts, they are cut quick and humanely, hung and skinned, and in no time they are being grilled by the women. The women are peeling and cutting about 50 onions and potatoes each for French fries and onion sauce. My mom had me put on a velvety pink dress with sparkles and flowers to cook in. Later, I wore a fitted wax “complète” with headdress, top and skirt and oversized sparkly sandals lent to me by my friend.
I live with two moms, 6(?) kids, and a father in a pretty wealthy compound. The kids in my family go to school, one of my mom’s is a French teacher, and my father is an engineer, realtor, activist and probably more. They have electricity, a TV and a fridge, and I have my own room with a fan so I’m very lucky!

My tabaski dress and mom!



          Half of my home stay family around Maffe (peanut sauce with rice)

What Drinking Milk (“Naan meoh”) Means

One of my host sisters is a hip, model-looking teenage girl named Fatou. Fatou and her friend, Binta, invite me to drink milk. I curiously accompany them. After about 1.5 hours of stopping by people’s houses to greet and eat (Senegalese “terranga,” or hospitality), we arrive at the house of the wedding the night before (which reminded me of a rave with flashing pink hearts and palm tree lights). It’s a moonlit night and I hear voices coming from the sky. Turns out there’s a large roof (where a lot of families sleep since it’s 10 degrees cooler) filled with teenagers and some younger kids around a gas tank. The girls are sitting on a mat gossiping and showing each other selfies on their phones while the men are sitting in chairs off to the side. I shine a flashlight on Binta’s ingredients: 2 bottles of Gloria milk (looks kind of brown and is non-refrigerated), half a bag of powdered milk, a bag of mint bon-bons, and 1/3 cup of sugar for a liter tea pot. She adds the sugary conglomeration together and stirs it over the gas tank.
I knew Senegalese loved sugar when I saw them make attaya, a traditional green tea where my family adds at least 6 cubes of sugar for a little less than a cup of tea and then pours it at great heights into tiny tea cups to make it foamy. But when I saw this milk being made after a full day of eating, I was already planning how I could discreetly only drink a few sips.
I got handed the biggest and first cup. I smiled and took the tiniest of sips while my mouth and intestines screamed diabetes. After about half an hour of sitting and sort of chatting, I managed to take two sips. I put my cup back on the tray and, of course, they shined a flash light into it and were shocked that I wouldn’t want to finish their specialty milk.

                       
                   Pinkies up for attaya! (Add another foot in the air and that's how the pro's pour)

Everyone Knows

There is no such thing as being discreet here. Unless you lock the door to your room (which they think is all Americans want to do, even if you just do it for an hour a day to change or study), the whole village will know. For instance, I found out that my village knows the English word for poop when I asked, “where’s the bathroom?” and the woman asked, “what are you going to do there?” I thought, “seriously, I have to tell them?” and she goes “Poop? Poop?” When I reappeared many minutes later, women down the street were saying, “Xadi was pooping. It was that dish she ate for lunch.” Nice to meet you, too.

Xadi Diop (x= hard ‘ch”) is my first Senegalese name (I will get a new one at permanent site). I was named after my grandmother and I have a younger sister named Xadi, too. I met at least 20 other Xadis and 30 other Diop’s in the village. While in the US, people make up names or try to find the most unique ones, uniqueness of names is not important here. What’s more important is familial association.