Phil Collins

I had casually mentioned to a friend that I should have my hair braided if the water was going to be off all the time. The next thing I knew he said that we would be going to visit the Gueye family, a wealthy and traditional Muslim family, who have hired help who would braid my hair. Visiting the elite of Senegal is a true experience. First of all, this house is about the size of a Senegalese apartment building. It has 3 levels, one for the eldest son (age 28)and his wife, one for the father and mother and the younger chidren, and one for the second son (age 26). The house also has space for 2 cars, and even a sand pit for the second son to practice broad jump. It's a Senegalese mansion, with the finest amenities that include; sliding panels on the balcony doors, two layers of curtains (one sheer and one opaque), and bowls specifically designed to drain the dirty water from the bowl as one washes his or her hands for meals or prayer. Please keep in mind that all of the other houses I have visited here have had a whole in the floor as a toilet, so this house seemed especially grand on a hot Senegalese day.

My friend explained to me that the family would offer me a lot of different things, and I would be expected to take something as a sign of thanks and respect. So with nervous anticipation, I rang the door bell at the Gueye mansion. A tired young woman hurried to open the gate, at the order of some loud and distant supreme being. She looked at me and sighed, as if my presence meant more work for her. I walked up to the second floor where I was greeted by 7 women, 4 family members and 3 hired workers. Immediately, I was pulled inside and passed around the family members for the traditional greeting. Then, before I could take my seat I was offered bread, butter, chocolate, water, and Senegalese tea. I accepted some water, took my seat, and watched as the hired women scurried from room to room cleaning everything from floor to ceiling. It was quite obvious who was in charge of this place; the older woman covered from head to toe in patterned, white garments continued to bark orders as the rest of the family members half-heartedly watched an Indian soap opera and drank small cups of dark green tea. Soon, a tall, thin woman with very dark circles under her eyes, pointed me to a chair outside on the balcony, where she would braid my hair. All the women gathered around, taking turns running their fingers through my hair (which much to my dismay, had not been washed in 4 days), making comments, and nodding their heads in agreement with one another. The woman started the braiding process, and I soon began to fear that my head was going to split wide open if she continued to do what she was doing. As the hours passed, the women would come out to the balcony, approve the progress, and then go back to their soap opera. After she was finished, and I was sure my head was going to explode, all of the women crowded around saying different things in Wolof and finally one of them looked at me, "C'est tres jolie!" (It's very nice).

Another hour passed and the tired woman, who opened the gate, soon returned with lunch. Mats and blankets were spread on the balcony and short seats were handed out. We gathered around a large bowl of Senegalese rice garnished with a few vegetables. A car pulled into the garage, and all the women jumped up and began clearing an area in the corner of the balcony. The hired woman brought a separate bowl of rice and a large bottle of cold lard just in time for an older man to walk onto the balcony. He looked at me, nodded, said "Bon appetite", and sat down to his food. After we had eaten, I was told to go with my friend and the second son down to the first floor, where we could watch a large television. Before I could leave I had to tell the father of the house that my food was good and that I was full.

Then, the three of us sat in a large Americanized living room. The second son brought in an Arabic Coca-Cola (which tastes different from other Senegalese coke) and poured it over crushed ice. The son looked at me and said in a heavy Wolof accent, "You like Phil Collins?" And even though I would never listen to Phil Collins in the U.S., I told him that I love Phil Collins. So there we sat, sipping iced Coca-Cola and listening to Phil Collins, under a ceiling fan that looked like it came from my own living room, and then the power cut off. That's when I was reminded that this was Senegal, and no matter who you are you can't escape the boundaries of your location. As much money as this family had, they could not call someone in charge and tell them to turn the power back on so their American guest could feel at home. The fourth call to prayer rang out, the second son left to pray, and I wondered how I could have ever forgotten that this was Senegal.