Ah, it's Grand, Sure

-“Howya?”

“Grand, sure, you know.”

-“Ah yeah, grand, grand.”

“Right, and how’s the family?”

-“Ahh fine, sure, can’t complain, thank God.”

“Right, well I’ll be seeing ya.”

You might now be quickly checking to make sure you have my blog location correct, because the inflections of this conversation might not seem traditionally Senegalese. Rather, for that version you would read this (translated from Wolof to English):

-“How are you doing?”

“I’m here, only.”

-“And you?”

“Here only, my friend.”

-“And how is your family?”

“They are there only.”

-“Until next time, God willing.”

Translated to English I admit it loses some of its finesse, but this is the rough meaning of the back and forth phrases used in a traditional Senegalese greeting. The first conversation, however, is a traditionally Irish exchange. To me, the two anecdotes carry the same sentiment, the same expression of communion and gratefulness. You might be having the Irish conversation on a damp, windy day with sideways rain lashing down on you, but you’d still be willing to say everything was “just grand.” And, you wouldn’t dare rush by a friend without quickly asking after him and his family. Not too long into the exchange someone would be thanking God for their blessings (no matter how small), before each converser heads on his way. Sometimes this brief greeting will grow into a longer conversation as old friends stop to recount a story, expertly delivering the build-up to the punch line with classic Irish style.

On the narrow sidewalks of Dakar I have seen many pause mid-commute to greet friends. When one inquires after how you are doing, it is not a time to launch into a tirade on everything that is going wrong, but a moment to acknowledge one’s presence with the response of Mangi fi, rekk (I am here, only). And family and God quickly make an appearance in both countries’ scripts.

I believe that one of the reasons I have so quickly found my home in Senegal is because it is not all that different from Ireland, my birth country. Since leaving as a toddler I have only been able to spend my summers on the emerald isle, but I still feel deeply connected to the Irish people and culture. And, it is a country of people who welcome you quickly, much like the Senegalese with their custom of teranga that I covered in my last post. Many tourists enjoy visiting Ireland because the people are quick to help, always eager to share their pride in their culture while helping a newcomer discover the country. As the newcomer in Senegal, I have only been greeted with encouraging nods when I try out my Wolof. And, the oft-asked question of “how do you like it?” is not just mere curiosity but an opportunity for affirmation that this is a country one loves deeply, regardless of nationality.

In addition to the ephemeral feeling of belonging I experience while bouncing along in a car rapide or enjoying some ceebujen with friends, there are some more tangible similarities between the two countries. Firstly, is the emphasis on family. As with many African countries, the definition of family surpasses one’s immediate, nuclear unit and encompasses aunts, uncles, cousins, and anyone else who feels like dropping in. Therefore, physical homes are rarely just inhabited by a set of parents and their children but include grandparents and a couple different sets of children all cohabitating.

In a similar manner, when we visit family in Ireland, we often will pay someone a visit only to find a couple different branches of relatives all under the same roof, while an assortment of kids kick a soccer ball around out the back after having been dropped off for the day (or summer) when their parents work. Both Senegal and Ireland hold the strong belief that family is not just society’s glue but also one’s personal wealth and source of happiness. This feeling of community also stretches into the realm of hospitality to all visitors, which is best be illustrated by each country’s use of tea.

When you barely have your foot in the door of an Irish home you will quickly be asked, “Ahh, sure you’ll stay for a cup of tea.” Though sneakily posed in a manner that seems like a question, there really isn’t much choice in the matter. A refusal without a legitimate excuse will only lead to a couple rounds of prompting. In Senegal, I have had more cups of ataaya (the word for tea in Wolof) than I can count. The sweet yet bitter beverage most closely resembles very strong green tea, though that comparison does not really do its unique and robust flavor justice.

One Friday evening, when preparing to go out with friends, I made the rounds of collecting the group members so we could all walk together. When a friend and I arrived at the first girl’s house, we were ushered inside and offered ataaya. After a couple weeks in the country we did not even attempt refusal, and upon realizing we were running low on mint someone was quickly sent out to the corner boutique to make sure the experience wouldn’t be amiss. After finishing off our round of ataaya we made our way to the next house, where we were not in the door for long before we were handed a tray of homemade beignets and, of course, a tray of ataaya. This beignet-ataaya combo is the Senegalese equivalent of some biscuits and Bewley’s tea in Ireland.

Though the heat can sometimes get to you in West Africa, steaming hot ataaya never seems like a bad idea and it is always an opportunity for conversation and reflection. It is a chance to pause and enjoy tea with friends, despite the business of modern life.

This relaxed sense of time is also a shared value. In my home in Dakar, three energetic boys who are the grandchildren of my host mom stay with us after school until their father picks them up at eight. Much like Irish children, they are certainly not victims of helicopter parenting as they are allowed freedom to play with each other as rough or as wild as they please. The American-trained teacher in me has had no choice but to sometimes to diffuse situations that I truly saw ending in trips to the emergency room.

When their father arrives in the evening, he first greets everyone and then quickly turns to his sons, suddenly ‘stern,’ and asks them to quickly gather all their belongings (ie: shoes, shirt, socks, etc.- all of which have been misplaced during the course of play). Though he may speak like someone in a great rush, I often will go into the front room up to 30 minutes after his arrival to see him sitting back and chatting with his mother and brother. Even though he gave the impression of utmost urgency, nothing is really more important than a chance to touch base and retell the day’s stories.

In Ireland, my grandfather’s customers for his car mechanic business will often swing by to ask after a certain strange noise or pick up a part. We have left the house when someone is arriving and returned quite a bit later to see them still leaning against the hood of a car chatting expressively. Upon seeing our return, he might exclaim “Right, now, I’m off!” but really this is no guarantee of an impending departure.

The shared Senegalese and Irish appreciation for family, hospitality, and shared company are a powerful anecdote to the ‘time is money and money is power’ stifling East Coast mentality. I feel so at home in both Ireland and Senegal because it feels as though people are living life the way it is meant to be lived.

I have certainly fallen victim to the rat race that plagues competitive high schools and colleges in America. At 20 years-old I was starting to feel a little too tired, a little too falsely motivated by things that really weren’t motivating or meaningful at all. I don’t think the solution to our problem is to all resettle in Dublin or Dakar (though that certainly wouldn’t hurt!), but I do hope that upon my return I can bring more of this ‘people appreciation’ back to my daily life in Silver Spring, Maryland. To all my dear friends and family reading, I can’t wait to share a couple relaxed rounds of ataaya* with you when I return in May!

*research is currently underway as to how to best transport and prepare ataaya in America