Waiting for the Barbarians

May 8, 2008

“So when you first agreed to come, did you think you would find us swinging from trees and stuff?” asked one of my students eagerly, to the sound of giggles all around.

“Not really, but I did not know whether I would be expected to cover my head, if there would always be electricity or if I would have hot running water.” (I don’t, sadly).

We spoke about the preconceptions that so many people have of the Dark Continent, the Heart of Darkness: savagery, violence, AIDS, famine, children running barefoot, crippling poverty, superstition and. brightly colored war paint adorning the faces of loincloth-wearing tribal elders. On some level, I, too, shared this view to the extent that I idealistically in some way wanted to ‘help.’ Help those in need, help those who had not grown up in the First World of privilege and materialism – not lift up the heathen, mind you, but try to do good in some small way and share the benefits I had enjoyed by virtue of having grown up in a developed nation. What a shock it was to realize that to the Senegalese, it is those of us from the so-called developed countries who are barbaric! Let’s take me as an example.

First of all, there were my table manners. The national dish, thiboudieune, consists of rice with fish adorning the center, surrounded by carrot, cabbage, manioc, eggplant, and other vegetables. It is deeee-licious, and is usually eaten from a big platter shared by a large number of people. The custom is to keep to your area and not reach elsewhere: “We are taught to share – take a bit for yourself and remember there are others. Always let the older ones help themselves first,” as I was told by a Senegalese friend (in more traditional homes it is even customary to drop a little curtsey when you are presented to someone older, which of course I did not know and therefore did not do, yet another in a long line of social faux pas). But because the food was so tasty I was of course reaching to get fish and carrot and eating like an affamée, or a starving person (well, perhaps not as bad as that, but I did eat with gusto. Remember how Scarlett O’Hara used to eat before parties, because eating very little in public was a sign of good breeding? That is the equivalent of what is done here). If pressed to eat and you have already eaten, however, you are obliged to take at least a spoonful, as you must never reject an offer of hospitality.

With unfamiliar foods at home one will often take an inquisitive sniff to get an idea of what the dish might be like, how spicy it might be, etc. Here, the rule is simple: do not sniff your food. Ever. And never, ever use your left hand, even when you are holding a glass or something else in your right hand. Regrettably, I am always forgetting and reaching for things with my left hand, which is, as my guidebook delicately phrased it, ‘reserved for other uses.’ If you want me to be more specific, here’s a newsflash: toilet paper is not used by everyone on the planet. Here, most consider it more hygienic to wash using water and your (left) hand, so next to the toilet you will find either a little plastic watering can or a big water bucket complete with dipper for your sanitary needs. The majority of Senegalese are accustomed to performing ritual ablutions several times a day to purify themselves before prayer, and after a heart to heart with a Muslim friend on the subject, I was forced to concede that water does on the whole cleanse more thoroughly than paper.

To return to my favourite subject, however, food: never finish what is on your plate. In the West, we are instructed to clean our plates because ‘children are starving in Africa,’ yet here, I was astonished to discover that one must always ‘leave a little something for the cat,’ otherwise your hosts might think you have not eaten your fill. Needless to say, I have been scraping my plate diligently since my first days here, simply because everything has been so tasty. Small wonder they think I am a barbarian!

Besides being socially inept as outlined above, I am also deficient in all the usual skills possessed by a Senegalese housewife: I am unable to make a decent and frothy cup of tea, unable to prepare a simple sauce, unable to wash my own clothes properly by hand or keep up with the dust during the dry season.

Last but not least, I also have the unfortunate Western habit of looking people directly in the eye during conversation, which here apparently connotes that one has not been brought up with the proper notions of modesty and respect. Though it’s always unsettling when my students or acquaintances look off to one side as we chat, it serves as a reminder to this barbarian that politeness, like so many other things, can vary widely from culture to culture.

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com