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In an effort to increase cultural understanding, this year I celebrated both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in my village. For Rosh Hashanah, I bought apples in my regional capital, Kolda, since apples are occasionally but not always available in Dabo. Honey was a lot easier. You can buy honey anywhere in Dabo. In fact, I’d say it’s easier to get honey in Dabo than it is just about anywhere in America.

When the New Year began, I told my family that we were going to celebrate “my New Year.” I explained to them that one of the things we do to accomplish that was dipping apples in honey, and eating them. This confused them. They like apples. They like honey. But combining them? My host sister-in-law took an apple and ate it, then when I asked her to dip it in the honey, she refused. “That’s what you do,” she said, “not what I do.”

After a good deal of cajoling, she caved. She immersed her slice of apple in the honey, and emerged with a giant grin in her face. “Samba, this is really good. You spoke the truth.” I explained to her, “I know. That’s why we do it.” When it comes to food, Senegalese people do not like thinking outside the box (neither do many Americans, I know). When principal dishes are made, slight alterations are few and far between. If I ask my mom to put something different in our lunch bowl, to add to the flavor of rice and sauce, I usually get a quizzical look, indicating, “Really? You think you know how to make maafe follere better than I do?” So I consider my apples and honey triumph even sweeter.

For Yom Kippur, I told my family in advance that I was going to be fasting from sundown to sundown. Since we always eat dinner after sundown, they brought me leftover lunch for my pre-fast meal. While it was nice, it did make fasting more difficult than it typically is in America. The morning after, I woke up needing to bike to a town nearby to measure the doorframes for a hut in a village receiving a new volunteer. I biked the 26 kilometers (~16 miles) out there, and then the 7 kilometers (a little over 4 miles) back to the main road, before deciding anymore biking on an empty stomach was a terrible idea. At this point I took a car home (cost: roughly 40 American cents).

Upon returning home near lunchtime, I retreated into my room to avoid watching my family eat. I passed the afternoon napping and hanging out with my family, until finally the sun went down. Soon thereafter, my host mother came out to ask, “Is your fast finished?” When I answered in the affirmative, she immediately returned with a giant bowl full of chopped up cucumber. After finishing all of that, she brought me a plate full of french fries. Then of course came dinner. All I have to say is, I think she understands how to properly break a fast.

I think that this probably is one of the greatest Jewish-West African Muslim cultural exchanges of all time.

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