Right Hand, Baby Steps

I was a bundle of nerves. My head throbbed and my skin prickled, my body trying to adjust to the sounds and smells of a new place. The performance I dreaded was not a voice recital or a major athletic event, but my first meal in Dakar, Senegal. In preparation for my semester away, I had read in travel books and materials provided by my program about the importance of mealtimes in Senegalese culture, and I wanted to start off on the right foot by impressing my host family with my knowledge. Maman Diagne, my host mother, Dieylani, my host brother, and Aim, their live-in maid, and I settled onto wood benches around the communal bowl. I picked up a spoon and dug in to our dinner of Senegalese couscous, beef, and carrots. Immediately, everyone around me cried out, “Non, non!” and gestured to my spoon. My host brother Dieylani tried to show me how he held his own. I focused on the position of his hand and tried once more, only to hear “non” again. The “Lonely Planet” page on Senegal had neglected to tell me eating with your left-hand is considered impolite, since the hand is used to wipe yourself in the bathroom. The issue wasn’t with how I held the spoon; it was which hand I held it in. Determined to make mealtime as smooth as possible, I switched the spoon to my right hand and faced my first meal in Senegal, my grip as unsteady as a small child making its first steps. 

My initial discomfort in navigating Dakar was overcome by the déjà-vu I experienced walking down each street; I was always reassured by the sight of NesCafé vendors, beignet-sellers, and the merchandise from corner boutiques populating the cluttered sidewalks. While exploring the neighborhood around our school one day, my friend Katie and I found Mohammed’s, a small sandwich shop nearby named for and run by Mohammed. His menu was straightforward: sandwich omelette-frites, consisting of an omelette and french fries, or sandwich omelette-spaghetti. I was hesitant: were eggs and spaghetti really supposed to go together? Mohammed had decided yes, and after trying this combination, I agreed. The logic of Mohammed’s sandwiches was indicative of the underlying norms of life in Senegal. Here, I found that the most unlikely of combinations made total sense. Plus, it tasted good: I averaged three of Mohammed’s sandwiches a week. The best part of the sandwich? They required two hands to be eaten, which left little chance for a cultural faux pas. 

I was initially very confused about these unspoken rules surrounding food: what were you supposed to do if a small fish bone ended up in your mouth at dinner? How much does bread cost if there were no labelled price tags at the corner-store? Why did our meals have so few vegetables? I followed Aim closely trying to get some answers. She found my incessant questions to be very funny. These awkward moments, where my previous interactions with food  conflicted with the underlying logic of eating in Senegal, (I usually did not eat food with bones in it, had always shopped at a grocery store with price tags, and tried to eat some form of veggies each day) brought Aim and me together. From her I slowly learned that bread costs 100 CFA, and I started buying my own “pain et beurre” at the same corner-boutique by school every morning. Aim, fascinated by my love for vegetables, took me with her to purchase tomatoes and salad to have with dinner some nights. These outings broke the ice between us and led to jokes about my ‘healthy’ eating habits. Because I loved salad, she called me “mouton,” or sheep. I was still getting used to the logic surrounding food in Senegal and Aim was getting used to my bizarre eating habits, but we bonded over a love for sweets. Together, we talked about our days over bags of sugar-coated peanuts, or snuck out of the house to get beignets. Somewhere along the way from salad to sugar, I started reaching for food with my right hand.

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