A rough journey

-

BAOBABS OF KISSANG

8
6

-

6 a.m. We get the last of our bags together. Still half asleep, I watch an anxious Fatou, as she buzzes around making sure every detail is accounted for. She has been preparing the entire week: Trips to the fabric shops. Meetings with her brother who has tailored her garments; a day outfit and a shiny, glittery evening dress for each of the 5 days. There was also the beauty appointment, 3 hours of taming wild hair into intricately designed braids, twisted back into an elegant bun.

Fatou is not able to make many visits to her native village, so she has scoured the Dakar side-walk markets for gifts to give to her numerous family members. There was also, of course, the wedding gift… or rather gifts, since Islam preaches that wives should be treated equally. “The beginning of a polygamous marriage is very delicate” Mady explains, “it can quickly become ‘complicated’ if jealousy arises”. In order to avoid any potential problems, Fatou has 2 identical dresses made. With no experience in African weddings, I asked Fatou to purchase my gifts as well; two sets of flower-print bed sheets.

7:20 a.m. We hail a taxi. Mor pouts as Fatou throws her bags in the trunk. I kiss him on the forehead, “we’ll be back soon, it’s just one week”. Fatou has already climbed in the taxi, giving the driver directions in a tone that would make one think that the President himself was waiting on us.

We are taken to a huge parking lot where one can catch a ride to all corners of Senegal, using transportation that range in quality and in price… Maurid buses, vans, taxis-brousses. We have opted for the 7-places, a station wagon that, as the name indicates, seats 7 people. The advantage is that passengers are grouped by destination, thereby cutting down on travel time… that is, if there aren’t any breakdowns on the road. After haggling over prices, we squeeze in to the back seat… and 6 hours later, we arrive in Koupentoum, the town on the main highway closest to Kissang.

Everyone warned me that it would be a lot hotter in the interior. But, I had NO IDEA it would be quite this hot… around 118 degrees (46° c), with scarce shade and zero breeze.

2 p.m. The sun shows us no mercy. Sleep deprived and already light-headed, I squint hoping to spot a haven from the heat… a cyber café, if I’m lucky. Apparently, we aren’t going to make the 7-mile trek through the wilderness towards her village until there is a truck full of people ready to go, which won’t happen until folks doing business in-town are done for the day. I can’t help but grumble to myself, “and why the heck did we have to leave so freakin’ early?” I do find a cyber-café but, there is only one computer and it doesn’t work. Shocking. I resign myself to following Fatou as she peruses the road-side stretch of stands, searching out last minute provisions… a flash light, a bar of soap, a small mirror and instant coffee.

6 p.m. My head pounding, nauseous, I pray for nightfall… yet 2 more hours go by before the sun sets, around the same time the truck finally cranks up for departure. Except, it doesn’t start. I have difficulty hiding my irritation while the other 20 odd people packed in and hanging on all sides remain calm as cucumbers. Eventually, the motor roars and a push-off gets us rolling.

8:30 p.m. I am jerked from my sleep, “Kissang! Ici! Kissang!” I can see nothing but swirls of flashlights. We are greeted by a high-pitched cacophony of voices. As I hop out the back of the truck, I am immediately surrounded by 30 screaming children, grabbing my arms, fighting to get a look at the toubab. Moments later, a shrieking order disperses them and like agile worker ants, they grab our stock of heavy bags, lift them over their heads and scurry towards the family compound.

Fatou’s brother, Ousmane welcomes us to his home, composed of a large dirt courtyard surrounded by 7 mud-straw huts and enclosed by a straw fence. Ousmane tells the children to bring us out a mattress. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I plop down, relieved to finally get some rest. 10 minutes later, a small troop calls for me to come. Ousmane says they have fetched water for my bath. Fatou follows behind. Mady has surely given her firm instructions to make sure I am closely watched over. “Liliane doesn’t know about brousse-life, she will need your help”. She accompanies me to the wash area, a small sectioned off square, attached to the outside of the living quarters. There is a bucket and a cup. Fatou explains with hand motions how it works. As I get undressed, she just stands there, apparently unconvinced that I can figure it out. She doesn’t budge until I tell her, “it’s o.k. Fatou, I understand the drill”.

Washed up, we take our seats back on the mattress and are brought dinner. We are served couscous made of mill, their staple means of nutrition, with a mafé sauce. Mady said I’d eat a lot of mafé while here, an inexpensive accompaniment to rice or couscous made of puréed peanuts, tomato paste and a few other condiments, depending on availability. In Kissang, a village where a total of maybe 4 or 5 people make wages, recipes contain the bare minimum.

After filling up on gritty peanut couscous, I lay my head down and instantly fall asleep. After an unknown period, I am awakened by a drum cadence outside the hut compound. The moon is full and has now risen high in the sky, illuminating the entire village. I peer outside the gate and see a gathering of 15 boisterous children forming a circle. 2 girls effortlessly create rhythmic beats with sticks and large empty jugs. The rest take turns making their way into the middle, showing off their limber, electric moves. Still delirious, and ill to my stomach, I hesitate to go out and join them. However, I am quickly spotted, brought towards the group and given a prime spot by the drummers. “Danser! Danser! Il faut danser!”. “Oh no, not tonight”. In my best Wolof (hoping someone will understand since the native language here is Mandingue) I explain, “dama sonn… dama feebar”. I am tired and I don’t feel well. The eldest girl, smiles, “graoul”, it’s o.k.
I was sorry to disappoint them. I knew it wasn’t haphazard that they had set up next to the Thiam home. I promised them I’d dance tomorrow. Soon after, I slipped away and went inside to rest my oh-so-weary head.

Back home...

Mangroves of Ziguinchor
-

Phew, am I drained! I just got back in this a.m. from a 2 week trip. The first 5 days were spent in a tiny village, way out in “la brousse” … total wilderness. No electricity, only 2 water fountains, 120 degree weather, small huts, rudimentary tools. I was accompanying Fatou to her native village for her brother’s wedding, a 4 day affair. Needless to say, it was an incredible experience. Expect to hear of the adventure, hopefully by the weekend.

-

-

Groom and (second) Bride

-
Afterwards, I went off again with Albert and Karim on a few missions in Bakel (southwest Senegal) and Ziguinchor (southeast). I went along to do some filming for the volunteer video project. Luckily, there was also time for fun… we got to see tons of monkeys at the big national park Niokolo Koba and on my birthday I went out on a Senegalese canoe for some bird watching and to visit a village on an island hidden amongst mangroves. I felt like I was back in Florida… underdeveloped Florida.

So, my loyal blog fans, I hope you can make it through another week of silence… For french readers, I strongly recommend a fascinating and beautifully written book called “Une si longue lettre…” by Mariama Ba. This will help you understand the context of my experience in a Senegalese village with strong patriarchal roots and polygamist practices.

Dependency and delusions

I should preface that the following excerpts are just recent examples amongst a multitude of similar conversations I've had while in Senegal... so, I've met my limit and am now very direct with people. I realize I simplify things in my answers but often times I don't have much choice. I just don't have hours to spend with every person that comes up to me, which is several times a day, full of misconceptions.

And since, I recently took a long walk along the Corniche (West coast of of Dakar), I also take this moment to share with you the gorgeous views.
-

Young Gambian, 27, enters the closet size take-out joint where I am waiting for my Senegalese version of a burger.

“Good evening beautiful lady!”
“hello.”
“Are you French?”
“No.”
“English?”
“No, I am American.”
“Ahhh… American. That is very nice, very nice.” 15 second pause.
“I love you. Will you want to love me too?”
“What? No. I don’t know you and I have a fiancé.”
“So, you are not officially married. Well, give me your phone number. I want to be your friend.”
“No can do.”
“You don’t want to be my friend? I am here, I like to meet people. I like to talk with people. You see… we can talk, here is my number.”
“I don’t want your number.” Another 15 second pause.
“O.k. I want to give you my picture. Will you take it? When you go back to the United States, you can show the picture and get me a wife.”
“Woah, listen, let me tell you right now if you don’t already know, American women and Western women in general don’t work that way. We are educated, we have jobs and when we marry, we take the time to get to know the person. Marriage isn’t, as it is so often times here, a question of utility. We look at the man’s personality, his goals, his interests, his values...”
“Ah. No problem! I will also give you my biography! I will write everything about me… I will even write all about my family.”
“No, no. It isn’t that easy. It is upon meeting someone, exchanging with them that people start relationships. Friendship and love grows out of time spent together.”
“Ah. You Western women are way too complicated. Life is so much more simple than that! And, I am living with an American, a black American, and he tells me that I am a good looking guy, I should have no problem!”
“Well then, let him go look for a wife for you.”
Lady hands me my burger.
“Have a good night!”
“Wait, my picture!!!”




Abdoulaye Basse, 35, entrepreneur in audio industry. Collects African poetry, oral histories, sermons given by famous marabous, speeches of African leaders and records them on cds in French and local languages.

After a tour of the Institut Fondamentale de l’Afrique Noire, we sit in a café for a drink. During our conversation, I ask:

“are you married?”
“no, not yet. I am waiting. smiling I am going to find me a white woman.”
“a white woman?”
“yes, and then I’ll get out of here”.

I feel my blood rise, my heart start to pound. I hear this discourse over and over again. But no, not this one; smart, educated, active in his community.

“Listen, Abdoulaye, what do you think you are going to find over there? Success? The easy life? Wrong! It is a struggle man. A struggle. And your brothers, sisters and cousins who manage to make it to Europe or America, they aren’t gong to tell you how hard it is. They can’t bear to break the illusion, the hope people cling on to here. They feel responsible for keeping the lie alive that if you make it out, you automatically become more respectable because you will be able to send money home. I worked at an association in France where everyday I met ‘sanspapiers’ and legalized immigrants. I can not even begin to describe the misery. People stuffed in small one room apartments in massive cement towers found in polluted industrial zones. Huge communes of shabby apartment towers with no outlet for productive human activity. People living off of tiny welfare allocations in a place where everything is expensive. You think you are going to find a job there with a 35% unemployment rate amongst foreigners and where discrimination runs rampant? Do you know how long it takes to find affordable housing? On average, 7 years! 7 years! Or would you rather go to the US? Leave all your family behind… all that you know, for what? To become a taxi driver? A dishwasher or cook? You can make it out there, sure… but at what price? Listen, I am not necessarily saying this to you, maybe you would be part of the very small percentage that actually finds a decent life… I’m saying this to the millions of people here who just don’t get it. Your family members over there send you money, at the expense of themselves not eating or not being able to use that money and invest in something. They just struggle, struggle to survive in a country that is not their own, far from their family and friends.”

-

Café owner, 55, spent 10 years working at a hotel in New York City. Upon hearing our conversation, he interjects:

Looking at Abdoulaye, “she is right”, then turns towards me, “but until you give us jobs here, we will continue to want to leave, it is as simple as that.”
“Until WE give you jobs? What about YOU creating your own businesses, investing in education, holding corrupt leaders responsible?”
“US? We have nothing. We have nothing with which to create. It is the Western countries that took everything from us. They have all the money. They have to give us the jobs. Even when they say they are helping, they hoard the money. They come and build schools, roads, hydraulic systems, industries, but the money circulates only in their hands. Western aid organizations partnering with Western companies… the only income it helps generate here is the crumbs they give for manual labor. All we are left with is quickly degrading infrastructure and debt.”
“Well, maybe it is your fatalistic mentality that is the problem, as if things can not improve here… you are victimized and so you are going to sit on your ass until someone comes and fixes everything. That day isn’t going to come!”
“What do you want us to do?” He pauses, looks at me with forceful eyes. “We are UNDER-DEVELOPED!”
“You are under-developed? As if you had a medical condition making you exempt from effort! Bullshit! Look at other supposed underdeveloped countries, for example in Asia, who started with little but were able to harness their man power into productive activity.”
“Ahhh… but they have science and technology!”
“Do you think it just dropped down from the sky? No, they worked for that, they made it a priority.”
I look at my watch and realize I am going to be late for a meeting so we say goodbye.
The café owner stretches his arms out, “Please, come back, come back and talk… I would like to continue our conversation!”

-

While walking down the road to catch a carrapid, I continue my conversation with Abdoulaye.

“Abdoulaye, why do you want a white woman? I don’t understand. I think the Sahélienne women are quite possibly the most beautiful on earth!”
“It’s a question of taste. White women… we see them in all the movies, you know. They are more laid-back. And they have their own money so there is less pressure on the man.”
“But, movies are fictional! They far from represent the average ‘white women’. Movies are made to sell… pumped up with sex and pretty things. A guy in St.Louis told me that men here believe Western women have voracious sexual appetites… that we are all sex fiends. Is that true?”
Abdoulaye looking embarrassed, “Lots of people believe that.”
“Well, I guess I can understand false perceptions if people only know shows like Desperate housewives, Baywatch… not to mention our huge pornographic industry, and smutty music videos... but, I assure you, it is far from reality. It is a show, a façade, to make money.”
“But, it is also reinforced by Western women tourists, who come here knowing that with just a little money and the fact that they represent a ticket out of here, they can find a man, often times half their age, who will ‘satisfy their needs’. They come here, exploit our desperation, for sex.”

Before hopping on board my rickety ride, I thank Abdoulaye for accompanying me to the Institute. I tell him I think it is wonderful that he is working towards something… that he has goals. But, I remind him that his country desperately needs people like him to stay and work and build things. And, if he makes a list of all his productions, I will take it with me and give it to the Language department, the African studies department and anyone else who might be interested in his work. That way, though I can not make any promises, he might be able to make a little money, without having to leave.

-

-

Malcolm Versel, 50s, National Director of the U.S. Peacecorps. In charge of the 150 odd peacecorps volunteers in Senegal. Served himself as volunteer between the years of 72-75. I was accorded a couple hours to discuss with him the principal objectives of the Peace corps and their approach to development work.

“You know Liliane, I am not sure I am the guy you want to talk to because I have a very cynical slant on ‘development’. Development work never seems to have been about helping people, it is an industry. ”
“no, on the contrary, if that’s the case, I think we will get along just fine.”
“And it is funny, right before you came in here, I had a meeting with a group of people in several different domains discussing work to do, and I told these guys, I am so frustrated. Money gets pumped in, and things are only getting worse. Do you know what hard-slate it?”
“No”
“It is what happens here when dirt doesn’t get turned and worked. It becomes like clay. Then, when it gets hot, it bakes in the sun and turns hard as concrete. When it rains, water just shoots right off the surface. Hard-slate is becoming a big problem. Nothing can be grown in it. When I think back to 72’ when I was a volunteer, we were still trying to teach rural villagers the concept of animal traction (using animals for farming), but man, they were so much better off than they are today. It is so disheartening to see people suffering.” Pause. “And, I assure you, you can choose any school you like, you’ll never find in one establishment the 3 following ingredients reunited:
-an actual building and material
-a qualified teacher
-a teacher who has actually gotten paid
I don’t know why… The State has just dropped education as a priority. It’s like they’ve just given up on public works because there is just too much to do”.
“Granted, development has failed. Westerners came in with their Western priorities and Western solutions… forgetting that ultimately it is the people who use what they build and install that decide on its efficacy. And how silly to put in some expensive machinery in that is meant to make people’s lives easier but that local people have neither the technology nor money to keep operational… And of course, there is the fact that Western nations have never been too judicious about whose hands the money touches… in countries known for outright corruption. But what about the thing we don’t talk enough of… the cultural factors that block progress. For example, Senegalese live and breathe Islam… they are taught to value charity. Begging is an honorable activity… thousands of children run around, spending their entire youths asking for money for their marabous. It is a cult of dependency. And what do you do when something needs to get done? ...if someone falls ill or if there an emergency requiring serious action… INSHALLAH!, ‘if God wills it.’ They always have their inshallah to fall back on… removing the responsibility off of themselves.”
“Woah, I see the direction you are going… but be careful what you wish for!!! Can you imagine what this country would be like without the inshallah? It is the people’s resounding faith that keeps this place from being another Iraq or Kosovo. It is their belief in God that allows them to endure their hardship without resorting to violence and chaos. It is a religion of peace.”
“I am not saying that they should rid themselves of religion, I am only saying that we have to recognize it’s place when attempting to do anything for these people… and the people here have to come to express themselves their needs and see that there is a better way.”

…. Just a part of a long discussion. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts too.

Matam

Part two of a week journey through Senegal


Saturday morning, Karim, Albert and I hit the road in the car my boss affectionately calls « Le presidentiel ». The sun beats heavily down on us, the skies are at their bluest, large expanses gleam gold in every direction.

-

-

As we head towards the small villages of the interior, the road quickly degrades. Le presidentiel, must at points veer completely off of it to avoid massive potholes… it must also, at many reprises, halt completely to let pass herds of august, staunchly composed cattle. We have entered Peul country. The Peuls, an ethnicity that has long dominated this region, pride themselves on being the care-takers of these large, regal beasts.

-

-
I first heard about the Peuls over dinner with a Senegalese friend. He commented, laughing, that the beef I was eating was probably stolen. Stolen? Yes, not much beef on the market in Senegal… the Peuls own all the cattle and they refuse to sell them. For the Peuls, it is about prestige, how many heads you have. Large quantities of inaccessible cows coupled with a great demand for beef has resulted in an extensive network of cowsnatchers. Prestige? Yes, the Peuls have a very special relationship with their cows... a long tradition of sharing the land, of raising and of accumulating. If a Peul lets go of one of his cows, it isn't for money but given as a gift. Cattle are still offered as part of the dowry to the parents of the bride-to-be.

The second thing I heard about Peuls, from a young man in St. Louis, is that they are all xenophobes. Why?, I ask my interlocuteur. "Because, they refuse to learn Wolof!" Frustrated, he explains, “ they just don’t want to let go of their language, even though everyone now uses Wolof to communicate! They won't even acknowledge someone speaking to them in Wolof, even if they understand.”

Fact check: Wolof, over the last 40 years, quickly spread through Senegal as religious leaders and merchants traveled inwards from larger cities. However, Pulaar is still spoken by over 2 million of the country’s inhabitants and by 16 million + in West Africa.

Before leaving for Matam, I learned at the volunteer committee meeting, during our after-lunch siesta, that Albert is Peul. I had been watching him for a moment, lying on the mat, fingers interlaced on his chest, a serene, even joyful, regard on his face. I ask, “Albert, do you dream?” Though usually quite reserved, he answers promptly, “yes, I’ve had very vivid dreams lately, especially right before I wake. I dream I am surrounded by my animals. A big circle of them… I am in the middle. And I talk to them”. Maybe I had interrupted him right as he was pleasantly recalling his morning’s vision.

Albert is from the Matam region. His grandmother recently passed away. Part of reason he was going with us to Matam was so to pay his respects to his (very large) family. “If there is a little extra time”, he says, “I’d like to visit my animals”. "Do you have a lot of them?" "Oh yes… we have at least 200 cattle, as well as moutons and goats”. Albert explained that in his family, young boys train with the shepherd starting at the age of 6. Up until the age of 12 they are given lessons on how to care for the flocks and herds, how to milk the cows, how to teach the little ones to stay with the group. There is even a system of calls to which the different animals respond. “We learn respect for our animals.” I asked Albert about the Peuls hording all the cattle… "is it really just about prestige?" "Yes, it is mostly about prestige, but also a deeply engrained affection". They can not bare commoditization of an animal they view almost as sacred. Albert describes his family as particularly traditonal in this sense. And though he says they are also devote Muslims, I found his discourse more like that of a Buddhist.

On the road, we crossed paths with Sylla, the coordinator of an NGO in Matam. With so few cars on the rural road, he was easy to spot. Sylla and I had met at the case soon after my arrival. He gave me my first lessons in Senegalese culture.

_
As we rolled along, the three of us talked a great deal about cultural differences between Americans, the French and Sub-Saharan Africans. They had lots of questions about the U.S. Are there few poor people? What percent of the youth are aware of global events? What kind of people support Bush and WHY? Is everyone really overweight? Someone told me if you don’t have money in the States you are nobody, is that true? Do you really think the US is ready for a woman president? This last question, spurred many others. I was also very interested in the topic, since in Africa the women are by and large still fixed in traditional roles. So, what do these two men, involved in the collective progress of their people, think about it? Karim was adamant that big changes needed to be made… and that things can evolve rapidly if action is taken, using Western nations as an example. Albert, on the contrary, thought the change would have to come slowly. People just aren’t ready yet. It was a lively debate. My feeling is that if women themselves are content with their current position, convincing them they should adhere to a different system will be quite difficult. Are women happy with their status, their role in society? I don't know. But, I imagine many women do not give it much thought, since they are too busy just surviving. The one thing we all clearly agreed upon is that girls should have the same access to education as boys. That’ll help move things along.

Ouro Sugi

Arriving in Matam, we first stopped off in the small town of Ouro Sogui for lunch at Albert’s family home. As soon as I stepped out of the car, children ran towards us, squealing with glee, TOUBAB, TOUBAB!!! I asked Albert why do they always do the Toubab chant? And how is it that every child, even as young as 2 years old, knows the term? He laughs… “I don’t know how, does it bother you?”. It doesn’t bother me on a personal level but I just don’t understand how or why they are taught this distinction. Albert tells me that I certainly shouldn’t take offense. It is their way of making you feel weclome, it’s like a term of endearment. He goes on to say that way back when, toubab (which literally means foreigner) was the name for a doctor who came and helped people. Good thing I asked because for the next 3 days I was singled out, pointed at, danced around by children of all ages singing “toubab, toubab, toubab!” everywhere we went. And I did stop minding, since they were so full of smiles, and unlike in Dakar, they weren’t asking me for money.

Albert, shows a local effort in his home town of planting banana fields.

Luckily, we managed to get most of the official business taken care the first day, leaving Sunday open for downtime. Albert invited us to spend the afternoon with him at his grandmother’s house… then later, we could go out in the “ brousse” to visit his animals. Karim and I, knowing it was a delicate time with the recent passing, thought it better to decline. But, he insisted.

That night, Albert stayed with his family. Karim and I lodged at Sylla's home. When night fell, my breath was taken away by the millions of twinkling stars in the sky. Very few times in my life have had I been in a place with close to no artificial light. I could have stayed up all night, gazing up at the heavens… shooting stars flashing by every few minutes.

Having lunch at Albert’s grandmother’s home on Sunday helpd me better understand his reasoning in the prior day's conversation. After the usual extensive greeting process, we took our seats on a mat with a few of his uncles and brothers. Not long after, the women and children across the courtyard were huddled on their own mat around a communal platter. I said jokingly to Albert “shouldn’t I be eating with them?”. Looking relieved, he exclaims, “oh, you want to eat with them, no problem! Come, come, I’ll introduce you”. Woah, wasn’t expecting that. But, one need not be very perceptive to understand that Albert was uneasy about this Western woman guest colliding with his home world of "traditional" values… so I was happy to bring him peace and to just go with the flow. The children and women smiled and giggled, expertly palming the rice into little balls, making it in their mouths with out a drop. I, refusing the spoon they had offered me, clumsily tried to do the same. More giggles and laughter. It didn't take long before one of the women sent a child to get me a cloth to cover my clothes.

I stayed with the ladies the whole of the afternoon. Within 10 minutes, they wanted to marry me off to a Senegalese man and were ready to send me home to the US with one of the youngest children. The little guy, already a little frightened by my pale appearance, would let out little screams when maman would say “don’t you want to go with her to les Etats Unis!”.

Notice the posture of the young girl cleaning the big bowl. Legs completely straight, back forming a graceful S curve.

But that was about the extent of our communication. No one spoke more than a few words of french, and Albert had warned me sternly to keep my Wolof under lock and key. No matter, I was happy just to sit and observe. 3 families live in this large home, each couple with about 8 children. My goodness, 24 kids plus visiting cousins and friends made for a full house! 7 men sat together, appearing to be in deep reflection, speaking one at a time, long pauses in between.

The younger boys sat a little ways from the men, preparing the 3 service tea. The women and girls stayed busy with domestic chores, the kids ran around and played. And even though all the activity made for a super boisterous afternoon, there was an underlying calm, a sort of harmonization. Everything executed in perfect orchestration, with out the need of a conductor.

The Diallo family... kids everywhere!

Around 5pm we said our multitude of goodbyes, and made our way out to small patch on a huge piece of land where the shepherd and his family lives.

Getting there wasn't easy... but thanks to heavy procreation, we had loads of little guys to help us out of sand spots!

As we headed further in to the wilderness, It was like being whisked off in a time machine to a world of long past. As the sun was setting, the animals trotted back towards their night refuge. We watched the procession in silence. I was moved by the beauty, by the simplicity and by seeing Albert so content.

ALBERT'S TROUPEAU

Senegalese Cows... majestic.

--

Talking with Albert and the Shepherd

_

No running water, no electricity. Food is cooked in large cauldrons over wood gathered from the fields.

The Shepherd

_

-

So there you have it, a glimpse in to the world of the Peuls… to a village of Africa still doted with the traditional practices of long ago. A life-style founded upon rites, rituals and roles, of balance and harmony… a life-style on the verge of extinction.

Bye bye Matam...

St. Louis

Part One of a week long journey through Senegal

I went on a week trip with the National Delegate, the person in charge of all the AFVP activity in Senegal, and another colleague who does followup/support for half the volunteers in the country. It was a good deal for me because I was able to ride in a super nice vehicle up to St. Louis rather than take public transportation. I avoided paying for a crammed spot in a rickety ol’ van that usually takes double the trip time (from 4 to 8 hours).

On the road, stoked not to be in the van.

-

-

-

I was also glad that I’d have the opportunity for exchange... compare what my western education has taught me about international development with the thoughts of a Malian and a Senegalese who work in the field.

Karim, Nat. Delegate

-

One of the volunteers, Céline, also made the trek up with us. Our first stop was St. Louis, where we would join the 20 odd volunteers getting together for a tri-annual reunion. Each meeting, they choose a different location. The volunteers stationed in the host town come up with 3-4 days of activities for the whole gang. St. Louis is a small island in the North of Senegal. It is one of the old “colonial” establishments, which is evident by the bright yellow and pinks of Nice/Marseille style villas, cozy restaurants and bars. It has a warm, relaxed feel… much more agréable than chaotic, polluted Dakar.

-

-

View of the mainland from St.Louis

-

-

Nothin' but blue skies.

A river runs through the island... fishing boats line both banks.

-

-

-

Celine tells me, "Lili, sit on your left hand!"

Céline arrived in Senegal one week earlier than me. She and I enjoyed sharing our experiences on the way up. She managed to pick up on some details that, unfortunately, I had not. Though, this was not her first time in Africa. For example, I could not understand why in all the bathrooms you always find a big bucket full of water and a cup floating in it. I figured it was related to plumbing problems. I wondered if you were supposed to add water to the ceramic tank if you noticed it was low. Well, she explained that Senegalese do not use toilet paper… which, finally accounts for the total lack in bathrooms here. It also explains why there is always water everywhere ! Apparently, the ritual is to clean yourself up with water (and soap, though there is rarely ever any) using your left hand. That is why the left hand is regarded as “impure”. Then she rattles off, “you know, that is why you never eat with your left hand when eating the communal platter...” I cringe, hard. She continues, “if someone touched the food with their left hand everyone would stop eating!”. ackk! I didn’t know! I didn’t know! Thankfully, my Senegalese hosts apparently were able to forgive my ill-mannered toubab ways.

-

-

You can go about making your purchases with much less hassle in St. Louis

-

She also told me about a little secret your average visitor would never find out. Senegal, a country anchored in Muslim cultural codes, requires women to be very discrete about their sexuality. Revealing clothes are rare. And, you will never see a women displaying public affection to her sweetheart. Never. However, since polygamy is widely accepted, women have to work harder for their man’s attention and to keep them around in general! You’ll notice women burning pastes of exotic aromas to lure the man inside the home. Another means of seduction is the binbee, a string of beads of various textures and colors, worn around the waste. Indiscernible to the eye, but as the saying goes “nothing excites a man like the cry of pearls”. A man hears the beads brush against one another in her natural movement… a subtle yet very effective reminder of her sexuality. Très charming.

I am happy to have Celine, a "cool chick" with whom I can discover Dakar.

The comittee meeting started with a talk by a guest professor who explained to us the potential of using the nearby river water to sustain local agriculture.

Little boy curiously stares in to get a view of a full herd of toubabs chillin' outside. Not long after, he was joined by 7 others.

All in all the reunion was a success. It gave the volunteers a chance to meet the newcomers and discuss a bit their projects.

-

-

And, a moment to get away from the workload for a few days of fun in the HOT sun.