Where is the Roommate Love? Right here.

Understanding the end of this post requires a passing knowledge of Islam and The Black Eyed Peas

This post is going to be dedicated to my roommate, Boubacar Diao Diallo, or Boubs, as he hates to be called.

Emmanuel told me that “There will be two dates on your tombstone, and the only thing that matters is the dash in between them.” Boubacar embodies that ideal; he attacks life in the same way that I attack chocolate cupcakes: positively. Speaking of assaulting edibles, Boubacar also eats twice his weight in food every day, a feat made all the more impressive when one realizes how small the portions are here. Let’s just say that he is as surreptitious as he is friendly.

Since Boubacar told me that one of his goals in learning English is to be able to read my blog, I’m not going to go into too much more detail in describing him. But I will draw him! When Boubacar relaxes all of the muscles in his body, this is what he looks like:


Boubacar and I get along very well, partially because it’s impossible to not get along with him, and partially because I help him with English. In fact, I have already taught him some absolutely vital vocabulary. Examples include: “practice what you preach”, “she cleans up well” and “peanut butter”. At the time, I didn’t realize that he’d worked on a peanut farm for a whole summer, and in hindsight that would have helped get the message across. In any case, we do get lost in translation occasionally. Yesterday, I told Boubacar that it was Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday, and he apparently only heard one syllable because he replied, “Why are you hot?”

Boubacar is also the only Muslim I have ever lived with. The first time he prayed while I was in the room, I sat completely still and busied myself by adjusting my watch. But about two weeks later, I realized just how little he cared about distractions. The other day, Boubacar turned on “Where is the Love” (by the Black Eyed Peas) and then immediately started praying. I could only imagine what was happening in his head. So I did:

“Allaaahu Akbar…Islam means to surrender, but I’m going to surrender to Will.i.am’s greatness first. After all, I gotta keep my faith alive ‘till love is found. That’s why I’m praying! Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah…I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except God. Send some guidance from above! Yes, that makes sense in this context, well said Justin Timberlake! Hayya’ alas Salaah. Where is the love? Surah 12, that’s where it is.”

(For the record, Surah 12 does mention love.)

As you may have noticed by now, Boubacar loves “Where is The Love”. As a matter of fact, it is one his twelve favorite songs. That is because he listens to music from his phone…which has twelve songs. I like eleven of them. Boubacar is positive, focused, and considerate; he shares everything, from lamps to adaptors to chocolate. But there is one drawback to having him as a roommate: the sentence “a diva is a female version of a hustler” now sends me into uncontrollable fits of rage. For God’s sake, if Beyoncé is so good at singing, why can’t she just sing that line? It sounds horrible, and it’s not even true! A diva is a female version of Freddy Mercury.

Phillips Exeter Academy vs. ALA vs. Ukraine

I went to a rich New England prep school called Phillips Exeter Academy for four years. We had a nine-storey library, over 450 courses, and around 4000 polo shirts (at a conservative average of four per student). Preppy since 1781!

Contrastingly, ALA is very new, and has some catching up to do in the ostentation department. Its crest has yet to be printed onto a hardwood floor, a donor hasn’t been found for a piano, and none of the classes take place above ground level (although the entire campus is at an oxygen-deprived 2200 ft). Worst of all, it hasn’t been able to afford strings for its teabags or corners for its “quad”, which is circular. One day, we hope that the funding will come through to make it a true quadrangle, with right angles and everything.

On the other hand, ALA crushes Exeter at diversity. Although all of its students are African, (with three glaring exceptions), very few of them are even vaguely local. Each student is very different from the next one, and all of us speak at least two or three languages fluently. And there isn’t much overlap; at ALA, every one is a minority. Phillips Exeter Academy, eat your heart out.

Switching topics, I learned today that in July 2009, only 4% of Ukrainians approved of their country’s leadership. Predictably, it was the lowest recorded rating in any nation, ever. That having been said, most of Ukraine’s main contenders for civilian dissatisfaction, such as Cambodia under Pol Pot, England during the 2010 World Cup and France on Bastille Day, did not waste their time holding polls.

I love ALA, but there have been two moments when my contentment definitely dipped below 4%:

First, Louis Pasteur went to a lot of effort to develop pasteurization in the early 1860’s, and ALA is ignoring all of his sterling work. Yesterday, I was just about to tuck into an almost perfect snack of milk and donuts when I was unpleasantly surprised. It’s only happened once, but donuts and sour milk do not complement well. And once again, Gaciru was told that in Africa people just deal with inadequate beverages. She was not amused.

Second, the school’s internet frequently redirects me from Facebook to the Cambridge International Examinations homepage. I would rather be Rick Rolled (sorry if you don’t get the reference) than look at site reminding me that the A-levels are approaching. In fact, as a matter of principle, I would rather be swarmed by rabid bats and then beaten with a broomstick than lose any more of my internet privileges.

Finally, I owe an apology to Senegal, who do have cinemas, despite what I said. Malick informed me that they have “thrrrrrrrrree!!” Roll the ‘r for authenticity. If you ask me, they do have an over-simplified calendar system though. I was helping Linda with her CV yesterday, and this is the conversation we had (click on the picture to enlarge):

“Hey, Pfffffffffff, Come Over Here!”

Everyone has preconceptions about other societies, and I’m pioneering at least one culture at ALA; for the first time in my life, I stand out as an Asian. (At Exeter, I was more like a motif in the gigantic Eastern wallpaper that coated the entire school.) And in Africa, political correctness is still in its infancy…or maybe its father is still trying to get a date. So unsurprisingly, I’ve been subject to a broad spectrum of poorly thought out stereotypes.

When I first got here, I was asked, pretty much non-stop, if I could do Kungfu. Then I was forced onto my house table tennis team on the grounds that my countrymen were naturally gifted. But all things considered, those two examples were tame. Little did I know just how wide the flood gates could open.



The other day, a girl asked if I could see when I was laughing (because my eyes get smaller). Just exactly how would the entire continent of Asia function if that were true?? The streets of Tokyo and Beijing would be in utter chaos and littered with the debris of thousands of joke-triggered car crashes. It wouldn’t just be impolite to laugh at life and death matters; laughter would be a life and death matter. There would be no comedy TV in Korea, only comedy radio, and criminals who wanted to conceal their identity could just tickle you. Worst of all, hapless pedestrians would hear something funny, and then walk blindly into other people, trip over rubbish bins, and fall down manholes. It would basically be like having a population with a 100% epilepsy rate.



But even that assumption paled in comparison to this following one. After all, my eyes do get very small when I laugh. Yesterday, five different people asked me whether it’s true that in China, they name their children by dropping something on the floor and then using whatever noise it makes. I’m not a champion of political correctness, but I was pretty shocked that so many of my friends could believe some 1.4 billion people had names without a meaning. Funnily, Abdulraman mistook my incredulity for confusion and gave me a demonstration. So now if I’m ever stuck for ideas, I’ll know to drop a plastic cup on a wooden table and name my daughter “Pok Pok”.

On the other hand, imagine that I didn’t use those materials. Imagine that I used a metal bowl on stone tiling; my daughter would be called Tongtong. That would be alright because that’s actually my cousin’s nickname. Now what if I didn’t happen to be sitting near anything hard at all? My child would be forever cursed by the chance coincidence that I was sitting near a moldy beanbag during her official naming ceremony. She would be called “ch”. She and her older brother, pfffffffffff (silk pillow on shag carpet), would be ridiculed, miserable, and very difficult to call to dinner. “HEY ch AND pfffffffffff, DINNER IS SERVED!!” I like onomatopoeia, but it’s not a practical way to name children.



In the end, I was able to set my companions straight, although no one seemed to get just how absurd the whole idea was. I then went on to explain what a hotdog was because we were eating them for dinner. Occasionally I step out of my role as Asian to become the resident American when Julia and Gaciru aren’t there.

“That’s called a hotdog in the US, Seidou”
“Horrog?”
“No, hot-dog. Comme chien chaud.”
“hot. DOG? This is dog???”
“No it’s just a name! It’s not really a dog. It’s a normal sausage.”
“Oh. It’s awful.”
“Try ketchup; the stuff was invented to put on hotdogs.”
“Don’t they eat dogs in China?”
“Yes, in some places, that’s true.”
“And cats.”
“Again, yes…but not everywhere.”
“Hm. Hey! Some people in China eat live rats, did you know that Liam?”

That doesn’t even deserve to be ridiculed.

The Three Faces of Mr. Peter

Not everything at ALA is unfamiliar; some things remind me of home a lot. On my first day here, I was delighted to discover that the American faculty members had imported the magnificent sport of ultimate frisbee. About a week later, Boubacar came back from volleyball wearing an orange shirt with black tiger stripes on it. For a brief moment, I thought that my second roommate in a row supported the Cincinnati Bengals. But alas, Boubacar is no Neil Herman; he knows nothing of the mighty Carson Palmer and, amazingly, his shirt is actually from the Sandy City (State of Utah!) Recreational Soccer Team. He says he 'just found it', but I don't believe him.

But when it comes to making me reminisce about the US of A, nothing comes even close to our head of residential life, Mr. Gavin Peter. His personality operates in three modes:


Work Mode

This is Mr. Peter’s default, autopilot setting, and it brings and unprecedented amount of joy and happiness to all of the domestic and mundane activities that he supervises. It is in this mode that Mr. Peter conducts most of his day-to-day activities, which include: telling students about rules, telling students about soap, and telling students not to eat each other’s food. He goes about all of those in his own special way, bringing in phrases that you would have thought were unrelated to the topic at hand. For instance, when he was extolling the virtues of personal hygiene, he managed to include life partners, college applications, and a real life demonstration in which Julia was forced to sniff the necks of five different boys. Good stuff.

Happy Mall Mode

Imagine the most happy-go-lucky tour guide possible. When Mr. Peter is in Happy Mall Mode, he is that and more. He wears colorful African clothing with pride, beams at everything, and dances everywhere. We love Mr. Peter when he’s like this.









Angry Mall Mode

Mr. Peter has one duty which places a lot of stress on him, and that is the safekeeping of all student passports. He’s fine with keeping them in his invincible suitcase, but there are problems when we need them back for mall trips. (In South Africa you need a passport for everything: bank accounts, SIM cards, a Fanta, Debonair’s pizza). Students fail to follow instructions and Mr. Peter loses it. His eyes erupt into flames, his ears smoke with furious impatience, and his powerful hands itch towards you neck. Then he roars, “WHY DID YOU NOT COME UP WITH THE REST OF YOUR HALL WHEN I CALLED FOR YOU!!” I have, on at least one occasion, forsaken my passport retrieval in order to preserve my life.


So what exactly does Mr. Peter have to do with home? Well, the gap year students have noticed that he is a perfect, carbon copy, real-life Peter Griffin. One time, while he was explaining evacuation procedures to us, he sat on the stage and went “FireFireFire!!” with his mouth wide open and his hands and feet flailing. We almost died laughing.

As you can see from the microscopically accurate cartoons that I have provided, Mr. Peter also bears a striking physical resemblance to Mr. Griffin.

Disclaimer: Nobody actually looks like Peter Griffin; I used a great deal of artistic license.

Discussion Week

We just finished a week of group discussions that ALA calls seminal readings. Each day, we read something to enrich our minds, we talk about it for two hours, and we leave the classroom inspired, with wisdom beyond our years, and ready to go change the world. On the other hand, no plan is perfect.


Day 1. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela: Statement from the dock at the opening of the defence case in the Rivonia Trial, 1964.

Our first discussion was a little misguided; everyone wanted his or her country to be heard about. Also, some of my classmates have the specificity of a fortune cookie. These were some of the most memorable points that were made.

-Nelson Mandela used “we” and “I” at different points in his speech because he sometimes wanted to speak for all Africans.
-The British are to blame for Apartheid. That, I thought was a little harsh, given it was actually the Dutch, so I defended my country with panache.



Day 2. Part 1, Kwame Nkrumah: Speech from the Founding Conference of the Organization for African Unity, 1963

-European countries owe their former colonies a lot. People scowled at me and I felt uncomfortable.
-Pan Africanism is a valuable goal to strive for.
-It actually rains chocolates in Ghana. How awesome is that?! Apparently the President (General Willy Wonka) chucked them down from helicopters to gain popularity with his nougat-deprived citizens. Not such a great use of governmental funds though.
-“How could you not vote for the Governator??” Spectacularly, when Ms. Kraft made that statement, it wasn’t too random. At that point in the conversation my mind wandered off, and I remembered that as an adult American, I could potentially participate in any upcoming California elections by mail. Then I realized that the South African postal system would likely ruin that plan; last year, a teacher here ordered a box of Doritos from the US and received a box of empty Doritos packets. To add insult to injury, the gluttonous and crafty mailroom thief had resealed the box with tape.

Part 2, Wangari Maathai: Getting To the Heart of the Matter, 2004

-African development is a bowl balanced on a stool with three legs: peace, good governance, and well managed resources. Liam should draw that on the board.
-Is Maathai a crazy Kenyan feminist or not? No.
-Rwanda is the ish.
-The South African President, Zuma, has too many wives. Also, he cheated on them. If you ask me, 6 wives is enough. He's setting a greedy example! No wonder mailroom workers are stealing comestibles.


Day 3. Part 1, Candace Allen. The Entrepreneur As Hero, 1997

-Is an entrepreneur a hero?
-Esther whispered to me that I should consider plucking my eyebrows. I felt self-conscious for the rest of the afternoon.


Part 2, Sadi Carnot: Reflections on the Motive Power of Fire, 1824

-My God, these steam engines are confusing, Liam should draw one on the board. For the record, there’s a big gap in schematic difficulty between a steam engine and stool, and I haven’t crossed it yet.
-Seidou kept stealing my pens. I got annoyed.
-Madame G. talked about pigeon racing. Yes, that does actually exist. What’s next? Slug slaloming? Wombat steeple-chase? I think pigeon racing must be up there with castles in fish tanks for pointfulness (just what exactly does a fish appreciate about having it’s own portcullis?). On the subject of pigeons, this school is filled with them. They are disgusting, and I do not like them flying around in the dining hall near my PB&J ingredients.


Day 4. W.E.B. DuBois: The Talented Tenth, 1903

- Finally, my New England prep school instincts kicked in and told me to track the conversation on paper, so I did. This is what I came up with, and it was fairly typical going for the week: W.E.B. DuBois → Is culture defined by the upper echelon of society? → Esther thinks that tradition comes from your elders → Should Francis bring in Ghanaian food for us to eat?
- Nature vs. Nurture. This had the makings of a really sophisticated conversation because people really dug into whether or not talent makes or breaks you. But then Stanley gave a long speech about dress soiling, and things weren’t the same after that.
- Again, Esther informed me that I suffer from “Potential Monobrow”.


It might seem this week has been mostly about pigeons and eyebrows, but that’s not true. All of the readings have been extremely interesting; it’s just that no one wants to hear me analyze them. With the exception of the Sadi Carnot, which was actually about steam engines, I would definitely recommend any of them.

Ms. Kraft is not related to the American cheese company; I asked.

Stupid Americans and their Laundry Baskets

So there’s one major drawback to life here: we can’t leave the African Leadership Academy unless we go on a special school trip, and it’s tiny. All of the buildings that concern us surround a single quad that’s about half a frisbee-throw across. I know that because I massively overestimated its size the other day, and almost brought my lifetime “discs to a teacher’s face” tally to two. For those of you who know her, Ms. Zia was number one.

But worse than the small campus are the cars that we see driving past it. They are a tantalizing reminder of the freedom that our friends in college are enjoying. The first time I saw those cars, I began plotting my escape. Maybe I could pole vault over the barbed wire. Maybe I could take a hang glider, or escape in the rubbish truck. (Yes, I do get most of my escape ideas from Toy Story 3). Living at ALA is like living in a goldfish bowl and watching nine year olds tap their pudgy fingers on the glass all day.

I was therefore suitably ecstatic when we visited the mall for the first time. I suspect those who witness the Rapture will experience similar emotions, because I had to stop myself from kissing the floor. Instead, I spoke in that high, almost squeaking voice that guys use when they’re delighted. “Oh my God it’s a mall! It’s a MALL! Look, it’s not a brick building! No quad! I can go wherever I want here!! OHHHHH. It’s so NICE! MAYBE they have ADAPTORS!”


They didn’t have an adaptor. But they did have other things, like laundry baskets! Gaciru, Julia and I all bought one and packed everything else (toothpaste, flip flops, Ferrero Rocher etc.) into it. For the remainder of the trip, we wandered around with our purchases in hand. We were delighted! Until we realized that we looked like fools. South Africans are cool; they wear chic jeans, and elegant canvas shoulder bags. We were three Americans, traipsing around with an L.L.Bean backpack, a fluffy New England vest, and matching laundry baskets. We were dorky tourists, but with a hint of the domestic. The South Africans looked at us with a mixture of repulsion, and judgment.


To make matters worse, the baskets weighed us down, and we had to run back to the bus with them. It was difficult to tell what the other students were thinking, but we were fairly sure it was “these foreigners are morons.”

High School Musical isn't a True Story

The African Leadership Academy is small and micromanaged, but the students here make it worth it. They see so much potential in their continent, and have such a thirst for learning. Even Francophone students who find English hard are very, very friendly. This is the first time I’ve met people from Lesotho, Rwanda, or Senegal, and we have very different views of the world. I’ve learned that:

1) Fish in Mauritania is expensive, even though the country itself has a huge number of fishing ports
2) Ethiopian dancing has a lot of very difficult shoulder shrugging movements that I lack the speed and control to do.
3) A lot of Africans listen to American hip-hop and rap almost exclusively. To them, Akon is African music.
4) There are cinemas in Nigeria, but not in Senegal. The Nigerians gloat about this a lot. “One day, even Senegal will have beautiful, paved roads.”

In return for these tidbits, I have taught my new friends about the following things:

1) PB&J (all day, every day!). That was actually quite hard, because my roommate, Boubacar, didn’t know what the phrase peanut butter meant.
2) Snow and -25˚C weather. Boubacar thinks it’s cold here and ran around playing football in the sun even when he was fasting for Ramadan. It’s 80˚F every day.
3) WWE is just bad acting, and High School Musical is not based on a true story.
4) Half Asians. Most people here have definitely not seen hapas before.

Although it’s easy to remember fun facts about Africa, names are still hard, especially if the names have syllables you’ve never heard before. Orientation is all about having the same conversation over and over again until all you have is a huge pile of vague memories that involve handshakes, bad pronunciation, and mute nodding. After a while you hate meeting people just because it’s tiring to explain where you’re from.

In my case that’s a complicated few sentences (live in England, went to highschool in the US blahblahblah), but it always leads to the same place. And that place reminds me that what would be considered a racist stereotype in the US is an empirical observation in Africa. This is what I go through five times a day (click on the image to enlarge):