It’s hard to stomach writing this blog at the moment, seeing as I can’t stomach anything. 2 weeks after arriving back in the States, my body is still reeling from 2 weeks in Dakar, where NYU took me on an Honors trip. Given that my last blog was on China, it seems perfectly apt to write a new one about yet another daunting quasi-solo trip of mine. (The life of Accent on the É depends on it…)
Any and all excitement going into this trip was thwarted by my petty brain. I anxiously skitted around the fact that I would be traveling to Senegal two days after New Year’s and - instead - chose to focus on picking out gifts or fighting through the book, Lonesome Dove (sorry, Jeff). For context: this trip was something I applied to. My studies of the French language (Senegal is a former colony) and of cuisine (the trip must entail eating, right?) made me a prime candidate for an all-expenses-paid (not really all, but close enough) academic adventure. I remember making Annabelle and I late to dinner one night as roommates last year in Paris (I was “writing an application” and “it will be like 5 minutes” which, of course, meant 20… plus the time it takes to tie my shoes.) I hadn’t thought seriously about the reality of this trip to Senegal since.
I did, in the meantime, learn as much about the West African country as I could. I took myself on a crash course, and I turned every single open-ended assignment for my classes into some exploration of Senegalese film or art or identity politics. The trip’s educational theme was “Art and Activism,” so we met with a plethora of artists like Momar Seck and rappers like Foumalade (which means “crazy sick guy” in French). But hey - we are here to talk about the food. Upon receiving an acceptance email, I was already salivating, but the trip came with an intense stipulation: IF YOU ARE ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS YOU CANNOT AND WILL NOT PARTAKE IN THIS PROGRAM.
That would be mafé. The peanut stew was a regular feature of lunch at WARC, or the West African Research Center, or - where all the white people go. When we first heard of WARC I imagined some sort of lab, where questions of democracy and what the West has to do with it are put into little vats and mixed together by white-coated scientists. Clearly, I went off of the “Research” part, when in reality WARC was chill as hell. Every day, we’d convene there for a sprawling buffet lunch, prepared by a woman named Bridgette who struggled to teach us Wolof as we’d pile food onto our plates.
I digress… the meals at WARC were hands down the best, by far, by miles. The center operates a restaurant, not exclusive to school groups; so if you ever find yourself in Dakar, it’s imperative you go. Right down the street from the Confucius Center, you’ll find uptight French men wearing laniards and eating Bridgette’s food in between conferences.
My absolute favorite was the Thié bou Yapp. It was served during our last lunch at WARC (bottom right). My stomach was already sending distress signals at this point (after part taking in a questionable buffet at the ultra-touristy Wildlife Reserve and also being robbed of my fanny pack, which can’t be good for the gut). But I managed to power through to enjoy the tender brisket and well-seasoned, warm broken rice.
the juice is loose
In my entire life, I don’t think I have ever consumed as much juice as I did on this trip. What even was juice, before going to Senegal? Nothing to me, nothing! Now, I sorely miss the classic lineup of sugary beverages present at nearly every breakfast, lunch, and “refreshments” our group attended.
My tier ranking is as follows:
the Gingembre: pulverized ginger mixed with pineapple juice. Literally, where can I find this in New York?! The last sip of my glass would give me intense hiccups, given the sheer power and concentration of ginger muddled to the bottom. At lunch, my fellow honors students and I would fight for seats at the table bequeathed with the large plastic water bottle filled with this stuff.
The Bouye: made from the Baobab tree’s fruit called “Monkeybread,” apparently considered “nature’s Imodium.”
The Bissap: made from hibiscus flower. Mix with Bouye to make a Pepto Bismol-colored concoction.
Lastly, the Tamarind. Didn’t do it for me.
Late into our trip, during our visit to the Gorée Institute on (you guessed it) Gorée Island, we were introduced to a mysterious 5th juice. This might be one of the only times I ever write this sentence in my life, but I was too scared to try it. If Baobab was sold as an Imodium, the green Ditakh juice was quite the opposite. I could not sacrifice it, although its matcha color was enticing. My roommate tried it, and let’s say I’m glad I passed on the opportunity.
the three fishes episode
Breakfast was covered by the hotel and presented nothing out of the ordinary. Trés français, the whole thing was. Crêpes and croissants (both of which I was told would be deliciux in Senegal. Safe to say, I’m a snob and was disappointed). In the lead-up to the adventure, we as a unit were told to avoid speaking French and opt for Wolof phrases as greetings. As salaamu alay kum, to which you reply, Mu alay kum salaam. This was also not true. As fun as it was to try Wolof, the French was needed.
The whole thing felt very Survivor-esque. In one of the first pre-departure meetings, I raised my hand high and was proud to be one of the two French speakers in our group. This immediately ousted me as an asset, and I felt like the Queen B I always wanted to be. Chloe, will you take this cab with me? You know French. Will you please come shopping with us? We don’t know French. While the trip remained pretty non-cliquey, I knew that if there was a clique, I’d certainly be a part of it.
I ate crow. As it turns out, literally three-quarters of the crew took French throughout high school. And they ran circles around me. How could my Damon Dominique crash course ever compete with learning to roll your R’s as a 10-year-old? I was the bottom of the barrel. “Oh, Chloe… didn’t see you there… you also know some French, don’t you?” [Direct quote]
Overestimated my abilities, and majorly underdelivered.
In addition to crow, I ate fish. So. Much. Fish. Breakfast was the only meal where I DIDN’T and really COULDN’T eat fish. At first, we all rejoiced. “We can’t eat fish like this in New York!” Since Dakar is situated right on the Atlantic, our hotel was steps away from lines of fish markets. Sprawling, smelly, glorious. We felt reckless, a few of us, on our second to last night - seeing Sweetgreen and bagels just upon our horizons, knowing our stomachs would soon be safe. Where’s the harm in an 8-hour flight with food poisoning?
So we trekked down a hill of sand onto a dark beach. I watched so many movies in preparation for my trip, as any highly educated person does. Mati Diop’s Atlantiques (on Netflix) paints a hauntingly beautiful picture of Dakar past sunset. The lighted city is tormented by the most unruly ocean waves, pounding hard against the rocks where many young couples sit and look out into the infinite stretch of the Atlantic. This image of the monstrous, black waves stuck with me in the film, and I was hypnotized by them while there. I’ve dreamt about these waves for most nights since returning.
On the fish night, the second to last night, the waves greeted us first on the beach. The sea was busy displacing the slew of diners, hastily rearranging their plastic chairs in the sand. Seated at your plastic table, the only light comes from behind you - where nearly fifteen fresh fish vendors illuminate their choices with white, dentist-office fluorescents. You bargain for what you want. They grill it simply with seasoning salt and lemon. You grab a beer, put your toes in the cool night sand, and enjoy.
The variety and preparations of fish I ate in Dakar were dizzying, and I didn’t keep great notes. I was just trying to survive at that point, bite by bite. My most notable fish dish is the poisson yassa - “yassa” meaning doused in pile of lemony grilled onions. It was on the menu everywhere we went, to which I said: YASSSSS-a (I made that joke very early on in the trip). By the end, I was just eating the onions and opting out of the protein. No such thing as too much of a good thing? I beg to differ.
highlight reel
Some other cool things I tried were:
the nems (many Senegalese soldiers in the Vietnam War brought back Vietnamese wives, we learned, who thereby implemented their cuisine into Senegal’s).
Café Touba (it’s ubiquitous there, on every corner. Often when we met with artists and activists, one of their disciples would mysteriously produce a tiny mouthwash cup of the stuff while they were speaking).
The fried plantains I scalded the roof of my mouth on (see above).
The porridge dessert, Thiakry. A simple, warm millet porridge with a subtly sweet cream poured on top. Not too many desserts on this trip (the juice exceeded my daily sugar intake on its own). We also tried a famous Senegalese French pâtisserie shop, but I’m lately enamored with “mush” foods (#oats) and it feels like there’s a thiakry equivalent across many cuisines.
all in all
On our last night, our professor, Ibou, generously and bravely hosted us (twenty 20-year-olds) in his brand-new Dakar apartment, which is more like a family complex. He lives with his entire family: his wife, his kids, his sisters and their families, his parents, and maybe a cousin too (if my memory serves).
One of the inedible highlights of the trip (and that night) was the performance of a griot, or a traditional West African storyteller. He was a family friend of our classmate Hollie, so he came to party and perform a little for us on that last night. All of us were quite drunk on homemade palm wine at this point, intently and silently listening to his lyrical tales of old neighbors and friends - played beautifully on his kora (instrument).
This oral history is endangered, he told Hollie. Young people in Senegal - who follow the griot lineage - are uninterested in becoming these sorts of storytellers, preferring TikTok and Instagram. French colonization seized a lot of the power, wealth, and status once shared by griots and their family names. But, simultaneously, the introduction of radios through international trade gave the oral tradition a new lifeline and an expanded audience.
I thought a lot about the complications of globalization on this trip, and imperialism along with it (as global powers proverbially “share the cake” that is Africa). The food provided a convivial and rather idealistic view of this, as Asian, African, and European cultures blended beautifully into new tastes I had never tried nor seen. But, how long can we preserve the past like this? What’s the expiration?
I'm not even sure if this blog is the place for these #musings, and two weeks isn’t really long enough to achieve a succinct answer. Just last night, my NYU group met up for the first time post-trip, in a sterile classroom off of NYC’s bustling Broadway, to discuss these very issues - now from very far away…
What a trip! You have such an adventurous palette .. and clearly a resilient tummy! Love you, Chloe 😍
Wow Chloe this is your biggest adventure yet! Thank you for sharing and bringing your experiences to life! I love you🩷🩷 Aunt Jackie🤗🤗