Have you ever walked down the street in New York City, smiled at someone, and gotten a suspicious frown or a pleasantly shocked half-smile back? I hate that. That is how I feel about New York, about Penn, about much of the States. People are suspicious of over-friendliness, and possibly rightfully so, especially in a place like NYC. But it can also make the day-to-day a lot colder than it needs to be. I think about my commute to Brooklyn last summer: an hour-long bus, a 15 minute walk, a half-hour on the blue line, and a half-hour on the red line- listening to my ipod the entire way. I noticed one evening on my way home that at least a third of the people in my subway car had on headphones- from preteen girls to businessmen and women in powersuits to gray-haired men reading the newspaper. If someone smiled at me on the subway, it was either a young man practicing his sly-across-the-subway-car smile or it was a drunk. Somewhere a little less hostile than New York City, say Penn's campus, still respects these same only-flirts-and-weirdos-greet-strangers stigma: smiling at person you're sharing the laundry room with is probably okay, but asking the people waiting for the elevator how their day was is likely going to get you a look or two.
There is no such stigma in Senegal. If you walk into a classroom without greeting the room at large "asalaa maalekum," then you are probably either rude, American, or both. I greet about 90 percent of the people I come into close contact with during the day- strangers or not. I think there might be an unspoken distance rule: if you come within 4 feet of someone, you exchange greetings.
By greetings, I do not mean just "hello" (bonjour). Greetings can take place in French or in Wolof, and either way they are long, friendly, and impersonal. In French, a greeting to a person who is not a stranger but not a close friend consists of:
-Bonjour (hello)
-Bonjour (hello)
-Ca va? (how's it goin?)
-Oui, ca va. (yea, it's goin)
-Ca va bien? (it's going well?)
-Bien merci, ca va? (fine thanks, how's it going?)
-Merci, et les affaires? (thanks, and the thing's you're doing?)
-Ca marche un peu (they're pretty much going)
-Et la journée? (and your day?)
-Oui, ce marche (yea, it's going)
-Ah, bon, ca va (ahh, good, it's going)
-Ca va (yep, it's going)
-Ciao (...ciao)
Throughout the conversation, the two parties usually are taking baby steps away from each other, until finally they turn away and continue on walking. Or sometimes, if someone's really in a rush, they might skip the small talk and go right to "bien, merci" as they continue on. The first couple times this happened, I turned after them, puzzled, thinking.. but... I didn't ask yet... but now I have learned better. When in Senegal, greet like the Senegalese.
In Wolof, greetings are even more elaborate (this, too, is not an exaggeration):
-Asalaa Maalekum (May peace be with you)
-Maalekum salaam (May peace be with you as well)
-Na nga def? (How are you doing?)
-Maa ngi fii rekk (I am only here)
-Ana waa Village I? (How/where are the people of your dorm?)
-Nun nga fa (They are there)
-Naka journée bi? (How is your day going?)
-Mu ngi dox (It's going)
-Yaa ngi ci jamm? (Are you feeling at peace?)
-Jamm rekk, Alhamdulilahi (Only peace, thanks be to God)
-Alhamdulilahi (Thanks be to God)
-Naka tangaay bi? (How's the heat?)
-Ah, tang na torop (Ah, it's very hot)
-Ah, dafa tang! (Ah, it's hot!)
-Waaw, maa ngiy dem (Yes, I'm leaving.)
As over-the-top as these greetings can feel, I really appreciate them. I love walking past stangers and having them wish me a good evening, having some sort of interaction with the people I come into contact with. I think that this all goes back to Senegalese values. There's a stereotype that the West is preoccupied with individualism, and that in Senegal community and family are valued much more highly. I think this is a somewhat unfair generalization- I would attribute it less to West vs. East or West vs. "Third World," and more to a rural lifestyle versus a cosmopolitan one. Dakar is not friendly, and the Midwest is quite friendly. Or I think of my Memere and Grandpa in Jersey, who have always lived in what seems to me a very supportive community, with Memere reaching out to neighbors and Grandpa greeting passerby with a hearty "hello, hello, beautiful weather today!"
Nonetheless, I think it's fair to say the value of community is very, very high here- more so than in many parts of the States that I've seen. Long greetings are a part of this- acknowledging everyone's place in the community and making sure that the people around you are part of your consciousness. The value of community is clear in a lot of other ways as well, especially in the housing situation here. There aren't nearly enough beds to house all the students, so many students take in friends, cousins, even friends of cousins' friends, and house them for the year. Take my friend Tabs for example: she lives in a single (meant for one person) that belongs to a friend of a classmate. Tabs sleeps on the bed, and the other two girls share a mattress on the floor. In fact I think I know more people who share their singles than people who live alone in them. At first I was struck by how kind this is of everyone, to be willing to share their space like that, but I've learned that to them it's just the right thing to do. Or rather, it is the only thing to do. I find it very admirable. Noo ko bokk: people share it all. If I buy cookies, I always make sure to buy twice as much as I want, because I know I'll be offering it to friends. It doesn't feel like an obligation at all; it's just what you do. Juice, notes, cell phones, meal tickets: Noo ko bokk.
Back to greetings. Asking about how the person is handling the current weather situation is key to any proper greeting. If it's 11pm in March, the question is, "how's the cold"... if it's noon in most any month, the question is "how's the heat", but if it's noon or any time between the hours of 9am and 8pm in May, then the response to "how's the heat" is likely to be "metti, metti rekk"... "pain, nothing but pain."
Because that is what the heat is like right now, at 3:20 on May 9th. Pain, nothing but pain. Although the heat itself is nothing new (I've felt some degree of uncomfortably hot most days since being here), this degree of heat is something I have never experienced before. It is just hot. There is nothing else going on outside right now except for heat, heat, heat. At lunchtime today it was 104 degrees farenheit, and yesterday it was 114. There is no humidity whatsoever, so that is a thermometer reading- we don't add in "heat index" like all those very sweaty and non-greeting summertime subway commuters in New York.
Of course, the fact that there is no humidity helps make the heat tolerable. It's not the sticky, sleepy heat I associate with summer camp and afternoons at the pool; it's more like the heat you feel when you're taking a cookie sheet out of the oven and the best-looking cookie falls off the back of the sheet onto the grate, so you reach in to get it, and end up with one full arm inside and your face positioned so close to the oven that within a half-second your lips start to chap, your eyes squint, and you have to turn your face away. Except that here there is nowhere to turn your face away to.
There is another bizarre weather phenomenon that has accompanied this insufferable heat: we call it, "la poussière." Dust. Mauritania has decided to pay the area a visit, and for the last couple days we have been living under the Sahara. I say living "under" the Sahara because the dust hasn't settled yet- it's still in the air. I don't think I can possibly paint a picture detailed enough to describe la poussière. But I will try. Today the sun is out and the sky is, I assume, blue, as it nearly always is this time of year. However, I cannot be sure because there is so much dust that from horizon to horizon it looks like the sky is covered in thick rainclouds. There was no sunset yesterday- just more brownish grey.
In order to conserve energy and water, facilities are often shut off during the day- this means no running water during sunlight hours, and at least once a day the power will be cut. This is an admirable effort that I find very hard to appreciate when I am hot and sweaty and all I want is a cold shower and a fan. Fortunately, even the oppressive 100 degree heat doesn't keep the university from watering the flora- not only were the gardeners out this morning, but the sprinklers were going. Wouldn't want those poor nonnative plants to overheat, now would we.
Forgive my sarcasm, I really do love it here.
And so I am spending my day in the computer lab, where we have a fan and I can sit and read or write without moving. Tomorrow I'm off to the southeast of the country for 5 days, where it is rumored to be much hotter than here. For those of you who are worried and are most likely are members of my loving family, I will be going equipped with longsleeves, sunscreen, and a great big hat- like Indiana Jones, but paler. We're going to see the national park (safari! giraffes! lions?!?), Senegal's beautiful waterfall, and a secluded village where we'll be able to observe yearly initiation rituals and ceremonies- I assume this means music and dancing. I really can't wait.
I'm gonna miss this place.
Maa ngiy dem,
Morgan
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Post bi, dafa mar lool...
This post is hella long. Really, to warn you all, it is very, very long... but, if you are interested, I think it's a pretty good story so here it is:
As promised, a blog about my spring break. Plus pictures this time!
I spent the first week of my break in the Casamance, which is the southern region of Senegal. I went with four American friends from UGB (my university here), who are awesome people. The region is absolutely beautiful- thick with vegetation, green and lush everywhere you go, except in the massive fields that are used for cultivation (and the occasional soccer game). It’s much less developed than the north of the country, which is where both Dakar and Saint-Louis are. The lack of development manifests itself in many ways, most notably in the road conditions- roads are hardly passable. The “main road” between the two main tourist destinations is a dirt road, basically composed of consecutive potholes. Not gonna lie, the driving got hairy at times, but we were going so outrageously slow it wouldn’t have mattered. Another way in which the Casamance really differs from the North is in the overall attitude, especially toward tourists; the whole region has a much more laid-back feel, and I found the people to be both friendlier and more disinterested in me (a welcome change). While in Dakar or Saint-Louis I can’t walk ten feet without being cat-called or hearing “ey! Toubaab!” (“hey white person!” basically), it was really rare in the Casamance to be noted at all by locals- in fact when we were hassled, it felt really out of place. Even walking alone, I felt comfortable and was really rarely approached. It was wonderful. But, all the same, we were sure to stick together at night and to *try* to be inconspicuous, especially by speaking Wolof whenever we could.
We started our trip by taking the ferry from Dakar to Ziguinchor.
That was actually a pretty big deal for me, because although I'm not really afraid of very many things, I've come to terms with the fact that I am in fact afraid of the ocean. I think I afford it perhaps more than a healthy respect. In any case, the ride was fine, fun even- although I did go to sleep early and wake up late.
The hotel we stayed in in Ziguinchor was... really something. It was beautiful, totally charming, on the outside (in the courtyard)... trees, flowers, benches, the whole deal...
but really pretty foul on the inside (I'm talking yellow sheets, ceiling falling down, massive spiders). But you get what you pay for...
4 dollars a night doesn't yet you much. But it was all we needed, and felt very authentic- in fact, people do live in some of the rooms. Plus, the staff was really great.
We spent the first day in the Casamance taking a pirogue (small fishing boat) ride through the mangroves to two villages north of the Casamance River.
The trip was wonderful- the weather was beautiful, the villages were beautiful, and people were friendly, the company was great. The two villages were really interesting- both were rural villages, where villagers live in thatch huts for the most part and appear to farm to make a living. At the first village, we went to the local “museum,” a house full of carvings that was built by a man who traveled to Europe and came back determined to recreate the sky-scrapers he had seen there- by building a two-story house. And build it he did, although we spent about 30 seconds on the second floor and were told to come back down, the floor wasn’t, uh, sturdy. Also interesting about this village, which I also found later in Cape Verde, is that they use solar panels to produce electricity. It’s heartening to see that in some ways, these villages are able to develop without destroying their phenomenal natural environment. The next village we visited was equally beautiful, but much larger. We walked around for about an hour, were served ceebujen for lunch (rice with fish... traditional Senegalese dish), and then were joined by a bunch of local kids who played with us and accompanied us to their school, church, etc.
It was really interesting how much the situation reminded me of being in villages in Sri Lanka: the school looked almost identical, the church had similarly bizarre (in my opinion) florescent and neon lights, and the kids were equally excited to come and play with us. But I was also reminded of Sri Lanka because of how out of place I felt- for the first time in Senegal I was a total tourist, visiting a village where I knew nobody, just for the sake of seeing it. This second village is actually well-known for tourism- they’ve even built a faux-traditional dwelling (as in, from centuries ago) that tourists can pay to spend the night in. I’m personally not crazy about the idea... it seems like an unauthentic experience, shallow even, that turns the village into something of a zoo exhibit for tourists (like me, I won’t deny it) who come and feel like they’ve “learned what it’s like to live in a village.” But on the other hand, these campements, as they’re called, are a huge source of revenue for the villages- this particular one that we visited has given the village enough money to build a school and a youth center. So, either the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, or every cloud has a silver lining. Most likely a combination.
In any case, we had a lovely time, and I had a great conversation on the way back with our pirogue guide about the petering-out rebellion in the now-peaceful Ziguinchor region. He inspired me to do my independent study project on the situation, or rather, on political communications and how nobody outside of the region really has any idea what is going on (especially the U.S. embassy).
The next few days were equally wonderful. We spent them at the house of a local artisan named Sherif, a Guinean batik-maker (batiks are those colorful cloth paintings that people put on their walls, of village scenes and baobab trees and such). We paid him to teach us how to make batiks ourselves, and in the end Christine and I (who stayed an extra day longer while the others went down to Guinea-Bissau) made three batiks each.
It was really cool learning the craft, and also getting to know the family- before we left we translated some letters for them, and were invited to eat lunch out of the communal bowl with them.
The next day, Christine and I traveled to a village about two hours away to spend the night with a friend from UGB, Fatou, and her family. That, too, was a great experience- her village is gorgeous, with enormous trees and enormous bugs and enormous pigs and beautiful thatch houses. We took a walk in the evening through the forest, and ate deLICIOUS Good Friday food with the family. My night in Oussouye (her village) was what I think most people would expect “Africa” to be like- my shower was with well water from a bucket in the backyard, and the bathroom was a hole in the dirt ground surrounded by some metal planks as low walls. Lovely, except the rat that ran across my feet in the “bathroom.” I still don’t like rats.
The next day, Christine and I continued on to Ile des Carabanes- an island in the Casamance River with beautiful beaches and as always, friendly people. Getting there was quite the adventure- we took a car rapide (colorful van with benches in the back), which traveled over what can barely be considered to be roads, squeezed in the car with 40- I counted, it was actually 40- other people.
I spent the first half hour standing, which actually wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be- I didn’t have to worry about falling, given that I couldn’t move an inch, it was so crowded. Then we took another lovely pirogue ride to get to the island, where we spent a relaxing afternoon and evening sitting on the beach and talking. The island was as beautiful as Lonely Planet said it would be, and it was especially nice because there were so few tourists- we had the beach to ourselves, except for the three little kids playing in the water nearby.
We woke up early the next morning to take another pirogue ride, this time to THE tourist spot in Senegal- Cap Skirring. To be honest, Cap Skirring really didn’t appeal to me. It was beautiful, sure, but all that was there was a beach (yes, a very nice beach) and a lot of other tourists. It felt like it could have been any tropical beach spot. I only stayed for the afternoon, reading on the beach. That evening, I began the second leg of my spring break trip.
The beginning of my second spring break adventure was a pretty notable event in my life. It was possibly the first time that I felt totally independent, totally capable of taking care of myself and dealing with whatever comes along. Around 7pm I hailed myself a taxi and took myself to the airport (two one-room buildings, each with a thatch roof). I saw myself onto the plane, sat with myself in the economy seat that I had bought for myself at a travel agency with the money I had earned myself at school, and then met myself at the airport in Dakar. I hailed myself a taxi, took myself home to my host family, and let myself in the door. It might not sound like a big deal, but it really was to me- not having someone at either end of the flight, or a travel buddy to sit with. Here's the inside of the airport:
Thus began phase two (little did I know that was nothing compared to how “independent” I’d be later in the week). For the second week, a one of my American host sisters in Dakar (Kat) and I had bought tickets to fly to Cape Verde and meet our other host sister, Becky, and a group from her program. I was excited to see Becky and her friends again, they’re really great people, and also I was beyond excited to see Cape Verde- it’s famous for its incredible hiking (and beautiful beaches, but I didn’t visit the beach islands). The biggest draw for me was Mt. Fogo- an active volcano that forms one of the country’s islands and draws hikers every year to climb to the top of the most recently active peaks. My 7th grade self nearly had a heart attack upon learning that- for those of you who might not know, my dream used to be to be a volcanologist.
So, off we went to Cape Verde. We arrived late at night on Saturday, and immediately realized how incredibly unprepared we were. The trip immediately became a lesson in being young, foolish, and flexible. As soon as we got to the airport, we realized we were all but helpless. Nobody spoke English, French, or Wolof (Portuguese and Creole instead). We had no hotel reservation. The cash we had brought over was not exchangeable at night. We had no guidebook, and therefore no idea where hotels were. We had no idea which of the many islands our friends were on (and in the end, we never were able to meet up with them). Fortunately, in the first of a long series of serendipitous events, we met a nice young woman named Angela who also had nowhere to stay and no language skills- but did have a guidebook. So we all managed to get a taxi and found a really great place to stay- pretty cheap, clean, and with a conceirge who spoke some French and a little English. Also, with a lovely view from our little room balcony.
It was sitting in the hotel that night that I had time to reflect on the past couple hours, and began to learn my first life lesson from Cape Verde- the importance of speaking the local language. I had never been in that situation before: if I ever went on vacation to a country where I didn’t speak the language, I was young enough that my parents took care of things. But here, I realized that not only does speaking the language make life a LOT easier, but it also earns you as a traveler a lot of respect and credence with the local population. Not to mention how much THEY appreciate the effort put in by tourists who do try to spit out whatever they can in Portuguese, or better yet, Creole. By the end of the trip, I learned how to say a few basic phrases in Creole, and together Kat and I were able to string together the few Spanish words we remembered from general life in the States to get what we needed (“agua,” “bueno,” “no habla portuguese”). Most Cape Verdians could at least figure out what we were talking about, and many words turned out to be the same in Portuguese as in Spanish. It was nice to see our clueless “obrigada”s (“thank you”) get an appreciative smile out of waiters and taxi drivers.
So, Praia, the capital city. That’s where we spent our first day in Cape Verde. We had intended on spending as little time as possible there, as it was described in the guide book as “neither beautiful nor clean.” A jump-off spot. However, as luck would have it (and as we unprepared travelers had completely overlooked), our first day in Cape Verde, a Catholic country, was Easter Sunday. Nothing was open, no shops or restaurants or what-have-yous, and there was certainly no inter-island transportation going on. But we ended up having a great time in Priai, which in fact turned out to be both beautiful AND clean (perhaps that reflects my really, really low standards, coming out of Dakar). Plus, our bad timing turned out to be wonderful timing, as we were able to experience one of the most important holidays for Cape Verdians with them. We went to church in the morning (a Protestant church, it turned out), and although I didn’t understand a word they said, they got the point across- the incredible singing, the attentive audience, the laid-back atmosphere, the clean bright church, all gave the feeling of a passionate, spiritual celebration. Wonderful. Wonderful really is the best word to describe the whole trip, so forgive me if I use it a lot.
Praia is a wonderful, wonderful city, did I mention that? It is pretty and really laid-back; a nice combination of quiet country feel (trees, fountains, smiling people, etc etc) and the warm buzz of a colorful city (kids running around, cars- occasionally- going by, etc etc). I imagine it to be similar to Bermuda, though I’ve never been there. It had an African feel in the markets and the artwork, a Latin American feel in the attitude or ambiance of the place (does it count as Latin if it was colonized by the Portuguese?), and European in the architecture. Very unique. We spent the rest of the day walking around the lovely city.
We decided to fly out of Praia the next morning, to go to Fogo (we flew, rather than take the ferry, because Kat had to leave Cape Verde in a few days and uncooperative boat schedules would have caused her to not get to see Fogo at all). To get there, we took a 40 person plane with propellers- a little nerve-wracking, bumpy little thing. But so worth the view from the air. The volcano rises out of the ocean just like you’d expect it to, massive and gorgeous, with ancient lava rivers and carvings all throughout the island.
Upon arriving, we immediately found a taxibus, which we shared with 2 really nice Germans and a really nice French couple, both of whom I’d get to know better in the next couple days (the French couple, who were so sweet, even invited me to join them on the next leg of their trip when Kat left). The driver asked if we were going to “the hotel” in the caldera, which to us implied “the only hotel” in the caldera, so we said yes and headed up. It actually turned out to be “the nicest hotel” in the caldera- not gaudy at all, very natural and unintrusive, and really actually very cheap, but not at all roughing it like I expected to.
I’m so glad we ended up staying there, though- the owner was a great friendly French guy, the clientel were mostly middle-aged or older European couples (experienced climbers all), and all the climbing guides (young men who live in the village in the caldera) hang out there playing cards, so we got to know a lot of really interesting people. And to be honest, I spent most of the time in thrilled disbelief that I was actually spending four nights in the caldera of an active volcano. And what a force it was- when we arrived in the crater itself after an hour long drive up a windy cliff-lined road, I was stunned by the beauty and power of the place. It just doesn’t feel like anywhere else in the world, that I’ve been at least; it is the crater of a volcano, in the middle of the ocean. Big, imposing, with an enormous ring lining it to the West
(the rest collapsed a long time ago), and an almost mile-high peak rising out of the caldera to the East. The last time the volcano erupted was in 1995, when a new, smaller peak was formed to the south of the larger peak (all in the caldera of the original volcano). All the guides I talked to had been old enough during the eruption to remember it- they said that they had felt it coming for months, with rumbling at night, and that the night the explosion and the lava flows started, the whole village evacuated up the side of the rim. They then left to the base of the island, where they stayed for three months while the caldera filled with lava. In the end, one of three villages in the crater was completely covered by lava, but there were no deaths.
Because we thought we’d only be spending one night on the island in order to get Kat back to her flight home, we decided to hike Mt. Fogo (that tallest, more recent peak) right away. We set out around 2:30pm, once again totally unprepared. Because Lonely Planet made it seem like a not-a-big-deal hike, I had only brought sneakers and Kat had only brought Chocos (hiking sandals). Life lesson number two: do not trust guide books. Ask people. It turned out that the majority of people who hike Fogo are either seasoned or in good shape, and that it is meant to be done with good hiking gear- boots, some even had poles. Oh well. We were getting to the top of that peak, dammit.
And get there we did. The hike was a grueling three hours at a 45 degree incline, which was really, really hard. We spent about 1/3 of the time using our hands to help us balance and pull ourselves up, it was so steep. We also switched shoes halfway to share the pain.
And around 5:30 we reached the top.
It was unbelievable. First of all because we were just so, so happy to finally be done climbing, and because we felt great having conquered the peak. But second because the top was just incredible. It was high, high above the clouds, and from the top you could see over the entire caldera and all three villages in it.
To the other side, you could look down into the higher caldera- the caldera of Fogo, the peak we just climbed. That view itself was totally worth the entire trip. The inside of that upper caldera is covered in yellow sulfur residue, and the rocks are all shaped in gorgeous, bizarre patterns. At one spot, there was even sulfuric gas coming out of a crevasse in the rocks. It really is active. You can feel it up there, something very natural, and very, very powerful.
The descent was the opposite of the climb- not just because it was, obviously, going the other direction, but because the descent was SO much fun. We went down a side of the volcano that is entirely fine volcanic rock/ash, which feels like sand when you walk through it (larger, sharper sand). The point is, it slides away as soon as you step down, so that you’re forced to keep your legs moving at all times or else you’ll fall... basically, you have to run. So, for over an hour we flew down the side of the volcano, weaving in and out, flailing our arms and legs, hollering and laughing, looking down at the clouds to the east and totally unable to stop until we reached the path at the bottom for fear of falling (which, several times, we did). Gives a new meaning to my understanding of the word Frolicking.
We slept very well that night, and woke up very sore the next morning. In addition, we decided to extend our stay in the caldera- Kat changed her ticket so that she could stay an extra night, and I decided not to try to find Becky and co. But to stay in the Caldera for the rest of the week. We spent the next day hanging out, relaxing and soaking in the landscape. We also got to know a few of the guides better- Lucas and Carlos, two friendly, annoyingly flirty young guys. We played cards at the hotel, then went out to the village co-op to try local wine, dance, and listen to a few guys playing beautiful Cape Verdian music.
The next day, Kat left. I was sad to see her go- we had such a great time together, and got to know each other really well. But I was also excited to be on my own, something I’d never done to that extent before. I spent my first day after she left relaxing again, not really feeling like hiking and just happy to take life slowly (Dad’s words of wisdom: remember, you don’t have to live life all in one day. Somehow, despite my efforts to follow this sagely advice, I think I ended up living a year’s worth of experiences in less than one week). I went to watch my guide friends play soccer in the afternoon, got to know a lot of the people staying at my hotel, and cracked the French family- the one who made “the popular table” at the hotel, as Kat and I called it, the one who made fun of us in French when they saw us come down from the volcano, and who made a rude comment about Americans in front of us when they thought we only spoke English. Well, at the soccer game, I started speaking with the dad in French, and got to know more about the family... and told them more about myself. They were totally surprised and really happy that I’m actually currently a student in Senegal, and that I speak decent French (how great to find an American who speaks a foreign language! they said. I set the record straight- there are lots of us). It turned that despite their initial distaste for Americans, they’re actually a really sweet, very cool family. Again, a lesson in how important it is to speak other languages- to get respect, and show respect. The family ended up sort of adopting me for the evening; I went with them to the house of one of the guides, Alcindo, to try grog (local rum- did not enjoy) and again listen to Cape Verdian music. Cape Verdian music, by the way, is unbelievably beautiful- haunting, exactly as I had been told it would be. If you get the chance, I cannot recommend Cesaria Evora enough. Gorgeous music.
Thus, life lesson number three. A lesson in being alone: you’re never really alone. I have found that as much as one may be without familiar faces, when it comes down to it people will find a common ground and look out for each other. That is not to say that people are angels- in fact, one guy with a particularly devious sense of humor gave me a very wrong translation of the word “honey,” which I was supposed to buy for my host family in Dakar- rather than translating “honey,” he gave me the word for “beer.” It took me about an hour of not being directed toward any sort of honey isle in the market to realize what happened. But, the point is, there are people who are willing to create community or to expand the one they already have, out of goodness, curiosity, whatever. That’s been true everywhere I’ve been in Senegal, it was true in the caldera, and as I’ll explain shortly, it was even truer later on when I arrived in Sao Filipe.
The next day, I set out with yet another local guide to hike the outer rim of the caldera.
We hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to get to the base (so much fun!), then hiked all afternoon (considered to be a pretty moderate hike, but frankly, I thought it was really hard... I should exercise more), and stopped when we got to a dip in the caldera where there was enough space to pitch a tent. Paolo, the guide, started a campfire, which is a tradition- letting the other guides in the village far below know that we were up there. Apparently they also have celebrations up there sometimes- bring up drums, start a campfire, and dance and sing all night. How awesome.
Dinner was a can of sardines mixed into a can of chickpeas- surprisingly good. We had a great time, talking and enjoying the view, him explaining about life in the village. Paolo, by the way, is a really nice guy- I hired him because he was the only one who didn’t offer to take me up. As nice as the guides were, they had their fair share of sketchy young men. We also hiked to the top of the closest rim peak to watch the sun set, which was not stunning but very pretty, and then went back to watch the fire die down. Paolo went to sleep, and I stayed up for a bit to look at the stars. It’s incredible how bright they are up there, with no electricity for miles and miles- and how MANY there are. I’d never seen so many layers of stars. I’ve decided I like the big dipper the best- because it’s always the first I can pick out, ever night, no matter where I am: Cape Verde, Senegal, the Poconos. Forgive my cheesy, but we all share the same sky.
Paolo woke me up at 5am the next morning to start are descent. Painful, yes. The sun hadn’t started to rise yet, but did begin to just as we finished packing up the tent. The sunrise was phenomenal- all pinks and oranges and yellows, emerging from behind the big blue-grey cone of Mt. Fogo. I only wish we’d had more time to sit and enjoy the sunrise, but Paolo seemed insistent on walking as fast as humanly possible to get down- not easy, considering the ground is so unstable. I have to say, it was pretty frustrating. But beautiful nonetheless.
By the way, the guides all speak some French because the clients at the hotel are all European. So that’s how we communicated. Also by the way, I had temporarily lost my camera at this point, so there are no pictures from camping- turns out it had fallen into the bed of the pickup that dropped us off, but the driver found it and then found me in Sao Filipe the next day and returned it, which was so good of him.
We waited for about an hour at the base of the rim for Patrique, the hotel owner, to come and pick us me up in his pickup to take me to the city at the base of the island, Sao Filipe. Patrique, by the way, is a very interesting character- I think that what he told me translates as he was a contractor in France for years, then decided to move to Cape Verde. He spent 6 years in the capital, and has been in the caldera for 6 years since then. His business is great, and I’m sure it brings a lot of tourism to the area- but I can’t help but be struck by the contrast between his lifestyle, the only permanent European there as far as I could tell, and the extreme poverty of the village. I would later find out that not only is the village really poor, but there is a huge gender gap- girls often don’t go to school, and if they do, it’s often just to find a man. Then, once married, it is accepted that men will have mistresses, and even families with their mistresses. Like unofficial polygamy. Women, on the other hand, stay at home and do the dirty work, for fear of being left.
So down we went to the base of the island. I was sad to leave the volcano and the people I had gotten to know there- what an incredible place- but also really ready to stop traveling and just be home (UGB home). My plan was to buy my ferry ticket at 10am as instructed by the ferry staff, then board at 12, spend the night in Praia, and fly from Praia to Dakar the next day.
Or so I thought. As I have often found to be the case in West Africa, plans are hardly worth making, and schedules are hardly worth looking into. Lesson number four: be flexible, be easy-going. Just sit back and let life make the decisions on its own sometimes. Not only is that necessary in certain cases, but I’ve found that life is more fun, more interesting, and more comfortable when things have the chance to happen on their own. Often the best experiences can’t be predicted, and can’t be planned. In Sao Filipe, life made some initially really frustrating decisions that ended up creating a wonderful weekend.
What happened was, I got down to the ticket agency at 10, as told, to buy my ticket, and was told that in fact the boat did not leave at noon but at 7pm, and would be an overnight boat. Whatever, I can handle that, I’ll buy the ticket anyways. Except... I have no money. Shite. And oh man oh man, my bank account only has 6 dollars left in it. Shite. I ended up having to take out a cash advance from the credit card- really expensive, but really, really necessary. And I bought the boat ticket. Then, while sitting in a little park, waiting for my now later-than-expected ferry, I came across a volcano guide and had a nice convo with him- just happy to find someone who spoke one of the languages I speak (French, again). He asked about my departure, and informed me that I had not bought the ticket that I thought I had bought, at all. What I had bought was a ticket for a freight boat- a small wooden fishing/freight boat that would be dirty and dangerous, going through open seas, and that surely I would be vomiting all night. There would be no other tourists on board- me and shippers. It would get into port at Praia at 3am, which would mean there would be no taxis to meet me to take me to my non-existent hotel. Deeeeedeeeet. There was NO way I would be doing that- aside from my afore-admitted fear of the ocean (which I am working on), it is just not a smart idea to be alone at a port in Praia in the middle of the night with nobody but boat workers and not a taxi in sight. Beginning to feel a little concerned about how exactly I would get off the island, I went up to the Cape Verdian Airlines agency to see about a flight. Thankfully, they said they had place on a flight the next morning that would meet my flight to Dakar, and I should come back after lunch, when the system was running again at 3. The hotel was great by the way- nice and clean, with a really sweet concierge, and HOT WATER! A tv in the room too, which played CSPAN in English! Fyi, I was not impressed by the presidential candidates’ speeches at Lincoln Day Republican Dinner.
And right about here, Mom deserves credit for being the absolute greatest when I called home that afternoon. Thanks, Ma :)
Unfortunately, things got a little worse before they got better. I went back to the flight agency at 3, as told, to buy my plane ticket... and found that they had already SOLD it to someone else. Oh, my, god. That was a really, really bad moment. Alone on an island in the middle of the Atlantic, broke, not speaking either of the languages spoken on the island, hardly able to communicate with anybody, a wicked sunburn on my back, exhausted from 2 weeks of nonstop travel, no clean clothes, and now no way to get home. Ohh, bad moment.
But, as everything does in the end, it turned out fine. I was able to change my flight to Dakar, and bought a ticket to fly to Praia the next day instead. So I ended up spending 2 extra nights on Fogo. I slept really, really well that night.
The next morning I wandered around Sao Filipe, hoping I’d run into someone I recognized... when all of a sudden, from across the street, what should I hear but “ey! Toubaab!” ... Toubaab?! Did you just say TOUBAAB!? I have never been so happy in my life to have hey, whitey, shouted at me. I went over to talk to the two Senegalese men who had shouted at me, and sure enough, they spoke Wolof, as well as some French. I was having great small talk with them in Wolof, when I noticed an American-looking guy sort of hanging out behind us. I wrapped up with the Senegalese guys and turned to see what was up. As it turned out, he was a really nice guy named Mike, a member of the Peace Corps who was stationed on the island. He said he normally ignores white people, assuming we’re tourists, but noticed I was speaking Wolof and thought it’d be worth seeing what my deal was. And I am so, so glad he did. It turned out Peace Corps group on the island was going to be having a party that night, and Mike invited me to join in. I ended up spending the afternoon with him and another Peace Corps guy, Sam, buying food for the party and then going down to sit on the beach. Then later that night I went over to the house, where I met the rest of the island’s Peace Corps- such a sweet group of people. I had a wonderful time, sitting around talking and eating and getting to know yet another group of awesome, interesting people. After the party, I walked down to the beach again with two of them to watch the waves and the stars and talk. It was fantastic.
I left Fogo the next day on another small plane, which I ended up taking with that nice German man and woman, and also with a South African documentarian I had been told to keep an eye out for. Alone, but also not alone at all.
Rather than spend 6 hours at the airport waiting for my flight to Dakar, I decided to go downtown and sit at my favorite coffee shop. I had a wonderful afternoon- sitting and reading Paradise by Toni Morrison (which perfectly fit the mood, with its magic and witchcraft, soul searching, racial struggles, the whole deal) and listening to beautiful Cape Verdian music from the cafe’s speakers. Wonderful.
Then the conclusion of my trip to Cape Verde: after about an hour at the airport, I looked up from my croissant and who should I see walking toward me- but three of the friends I was supposed to meet up with in Cape Verde, the original reason I had decided to come. They were on my flight, and I was SO happy to see them, to hear their stories and exchange photos. And, as if that wasn’t enough, a few minutes later another friend of mine, Andy (another American at UGB) walked in as well- he, too, was on my flight, after spending a few days at a Rotary conference in Praia.
And thus was my spring break. I returned to Saint-Louis, and to UGB, after a night in Dakar, and have been very happy to be back. The only snag upon my return to UGB was when I went to see my professor and ask what I missed in class Monday (I had missed it because I got stuck on Fogo), and he informed me no don’t worry, there was no class... everyone’s studying for your midterm tomorrow morning! ...my what? But that is another story.
Congratulations to all who made it this far... I know this was another ridiculously long entry, but it was an experience that really made an impression on me. It feels good to write it out, helps me to digest it.
I hope everyone is doing well... I’m coming home in 2 months, and can’t wait to see you all, although I’m also going to miss it here so much. Well, that’s all for now.
Babeneen,
Morgan
As promised, a blog about my spring break. Plus pictures this time!
I spent the first week of my break in the Casamance, which is the southern region of Senegal. I went with four American friends from UGB (my university here), who are awesome people. The region is absolutely beautiful- thick with vegetation, green and lush everywhere you go, except in the massive fields that are used for cultivation (and the occasional soccer game). It’s much less developed than the north of the country, which is where both Dakar and Saint-Louis are. The lack of development manifests itself in many ways, most notably in the road conditions- roads are hardly passable. The “main road” between the two main tourist destinations is a dirt road, basically composed of consecutive potholes. Not gonna lie, the driving got hairy at times, but we were going so outrageously slow it wouldn’t have mattered. Another way in which the Casamance really differs from the North is in the overall attitude, especially toward tourists; the whole region has a much more laid-back feel, and I found the people to be both friendlier and more disinterested in me (a welcome change). While in Dakar or Saint-Louis I can’t walk ten feet without being cat-called or hearing “ey! Toubaab!” (“hey white person!” basically), it was really rare in the Casamance to be noted at all by locals- in fact when we were hassled, it felt really out of place. Even walking alone, I felt comfortable and was really rarely approached. It was wonderful. But, all the same, we were sure to stick together at night and to *try* to be inconspicuous, especially by speaking Wolof whenever we could.
We started our trip by taking the ferry from Dakar to Ziguinchor.
That was actually a pretty big deal for me, because although I'm not really afraid of very many things, I've come to terms with the fact that I am in fact afraid of the ocean. I think I afford it perhaps more than a healthy respect. In any case, the ride was fine, fun even- although I did go to sleep early and wake up late.
The hotel we stayed in in Ziguinchor was... really something. It was beautiful, totally charming, on the outside (in the courtyard)... trees, flowers, benches, the whole deal...
but really pretty foul on the inside (I'm talking yellow sheets, ceiling falling down, massive spiders). But you get what you pay for...
4 dollars a night doesn't yet you much. But it was all we needed, and felt very authentic- in fact, people do live in some of the rooms. Plus, the staff was really great.
We spent the first day in the Casamance taking a pirogue (small fishing boat) ride through the mangroves to two villages north of the Casamance River.
The trip was wonderful- the weather was beautiful, the villages were beautiful, and people were friendly, the company was great. The two villages were really interesting- both were rural villages, where villagers live in thatch huts for the most part and appear to farm to make a living. At the first village, we went to the local “museum,” a house full of carvings that was built by a man who traveled to Europe and came back determined to recreate the sky-scrapers he had seen there- by building a two-story house. And build it he did, although we spent about 30 seconds on the second floor and were told to come back down, the floor wasn’t, uh, sturdy. Also interesting about this village, which I also found later in Cape Verde, is that they use solar panels to produce electricity. It’s heartening to see that in some ways, these villages are able to develop without destroying their phenomenal natural environment. The next village we visited was equally beautiful, but much larger. We walked around for about an hour, were served ceebujen for lunch (rice with fish... traditional Senegalese dish), and then were joined by a bunch of local kids who played with us and accompanied us to their school, church, etc.
It was really interesting how much the situation reminded me of being in villages in Sri Lanka: the school looked almost identical, the church had similarly bizarre (in my opinion) florescent and neon lights, and the kids were equally excited to come and play with us. But I was also reminded of Sri Lanka because of how out of place I felt- for the first time in Senegal I was a total tourist, visiting a village where I knew nobody, just for the sake of seeing it. This second village is actually well-known for tourism- they’ve even built a faux-traditional dwelling (as in, from centuries ago) that tourists can pay to spend the night in. I’m personally not crazy about the idea... it seems like an unauthentic experience, shallow even, that turns the village into something of a zoo exhibit for tourists (like me, I won’t deny it) who come and feel like they’ve “learned what it’s like to live in a village.” But on the other hand, these campements, as they’re called, are a huge source of revenue for the villages- this particular one that we visited has given the village enough money to build a school and a youth center. So, either the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, or every cloud has a silver lining. Most likely a combination.
In any case, we had a lovely time, and I had a great conversation on the way back with our pirogue guide about the petering-out rebellion in the now-peaceful Ziguinchor region. He inspired me to do my independent study project on the situation, or rather, on political communications and how nobody outside of the region really has any idea what is going on (especially the U.S. embassy).
The next few days were equally wonderful. We spent them at the house of a local artisan named Sherif, a Guinean batik-maker (batiks are those colorful cloth paintings that people put on their walls, of village scenes and baobab trees and such). We paid him to teach us how to make batiks ourselves, and in the end Christine and I (who stayed an extra day longer while the others went down to Guinea-Bissau) made three batiks each.
It was really cool learning the craft, and also getting to know the family- before we left we translated some letters for them, and were invited to eat lunch out of the communal bowl with them.
The next day, Christine and I traveled to a village about two hours away to spend the night with a friend from UGB, Fatou, and her family. That, too, was a great experience- her village is gorgeous, with enormous trees and enormous bugs and enormous pigs and beautiful thatch houses. We took a walk in the evening through the forest, and ate deLICIOUS Good Friday food with the family. My night in Oussouye (her village) was what I think most people would expect “Africa” to be like- my shower was with well water from a bucket in the backyard, and the bathroom was a hole in the dirt ground surrounded by some metal planks as low walls. Lovely, except the rat that ran across my feet in the “bathroom.” I still don’t like rats.
The next day, Christine and I continued on to Ile des Carabanes- an island in the Casamance River with beautiful beaches and as always, friendly people. Getting there was quite the adventure- we took a car rapide (colorful van with benches in the back), which traveled over what can barely be considered to be roads, squeezed in the car with 40- I counted, it was actually 40- other people.
I spent the first half hour standing, which actually wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be- I didn’t have to worry about falling, given that I couldn’t move an inch, it was so crowded. Then we took another lovely pirogue ride to get to the island, where we spent a relaxing afternoon and evening sitting on the beach and talking. The island was as beautiful as Lonely Planet said it would be, and it was especially nice because there were so few tourists- we had the beach to ourselves, except for the three little kids playing in the water nearby.
We woke up early the next morning to take another pirogue ride, this time to THE tourist spot in Senegal- Cap Skirring. To be honest, Cap Skirring really didn’t appeal to me. It was beautiful, sure, but all that was there was a beach (yes, a very nice beach) and a lot of other tourists. It felt like it could have been any tropical beach spot. I only stayed for the afternoon, reading on the beach. That evening, I began the second leg of my spring break trip.
The beginning of my second spring break adventure was a pretty notable event in my life. It was possibly the first time that I felt totally independent, totally capable of taking care of myself and dealing with whatever comes along. Around 7pm I hailed myself a taxi and took myself to the airport (two one-room buildings, each with a thatch roof). I saw myself onto the plane, sat with myself in the economy seat that I had bought for myself at a travel agency with the money I had earned myself at school, and then met myself at the airport in Dakar. I hailed myself a taxi, took myself home to my host family, and let myself in the door. It might not sound like a big deal, but it really was to me- not having someone at either end of the flight, or a travel buddy to sit with. Here's the inside of the airport:
Thus began phase two (little did I know that was nothing compared to how “independent” I’d be later in the week). For the second week, a one of my American host sisters in Dakar (Kat) and I had bought tickets to fly to Cape Verde and meet our other host sister, Becky, and a group from her program. I was excited to see Becky and her friends again, they’re really great people, and also I was beyond excited to see Cape Verde- it’s famous for its incredible hiking (and beautiful beaches, but I didn’t visit the beach islands). The biggest draw for me was Mt. Fogo- an active volcano that forms one of the country’s islands and draws hikers every year to climb to the top of the most recently active peaks. My 7th grade self nearly had a heart attack upon learning that- for those of you who might not know, my dream used to be to be a volcanologist.
So, off we went to Cape Verde. We arrived late at night on Saturday, and immediately realized how incredibly unprepared we were. The trip immediately became a lesson in being young, foolish, and flexible. As soon as we got to the airport, we realized we were all but helpless. Nobody spoke English, French, or Wolof (Portuguese and Creole instead). We had no hotel reservation. The cash we had brought over was not exchangeable at night. We had no guidebook, and therefore no idea where hotels were. We had no idea which of the many islands our friends were on (and in the end, we never were able to meet up with them). Fortunately, in the first of a long series of serendipitous events, we met a nice young woman named Angela who also had nowhere to stay and no language skills- but did have a guidebook. So we all managed to get a taxi and found a really great place to stay- pretty cheap, clean, and with a conceirge who spoke some French and a little English. Also, with a lovely view from our little room balcony.
It was sitting in the hotel that night that I had time to reflect on the past couple hours, and began to learn my first life lesson from Cape Verde- the importance of speaking the local language. I had never been in that situation before: if I ever went on vacation to a country where I didn’t speak the language, I was young enough that my parents took care of things. But here, I realized that not only does speaking the language make life a LOT easier, but it also earns you as a traveler a lot of respect and credence with the local population. Not to mention how much THEY appreciate the effort put in by tourists who do try to spit out whatever they can in Portuguese, or better yet, Creole. By the end of the trip, I learned how to say a few basic phrases in Creole, and together Kat and I were able to string together the few Spanish words we remembered from general life in the States to get what we needed (“agua,” “bueno,” “no habla portuguese”). Most Cape Verdians could at least figure out what we were talking about, and many words turned out to be the same in Portuguese as in Spanish. It was nice to see our clueless “obrigada”s (“thank you”) get an appreciative smile out of waiters and taxi drivers.
So, Praia, the capital city. That’s where we spent our first day in Cape Verde. We had intended on spending as little time as possible there, as it was described in the guide book as “neither beautiful nor clean.” A jump-off spot. However, as luck would have it (and as we unprepared travelers had completely overlooked), our first day in Cape Verde, a Catholic country, was Easter Sunday. Nothing was open, no shops or restaurants or what-have-yous, and there was certainly no inter-island transportation going on. But we ended up having a great time in Priai, which in fact turned out to be both beautiful AND clean (perhaps that reflects my really, really low standards, coming out of Dakar). Plus, our bad timing turned out to be wonderful timing, as we were able to experience one of the most important holidays for Cape Verdians with them. We went to church in the morning (a Protestant church, it turned out), and although I didn’t understand a word they said, they got the point across- the incredible singing, the attentive audience, the laid-back atmosphere, the clean bright church, all gave the feeling of a passionate, spiritual celebration. Wonderful. Wonderful really is the best word to describe the whole trip, so forgive me if I use it a lot.
Praia is a wonderful, wonderful city, did I mention that? It is pretty and really laid-back; a nice combination of quiet country feel (trees, fountains, smiling people, etc etc) and the warm buzz of a colorful city (kids running around, cars- occasionally- going by, etc etc). I imagine it to be similar to Bermuda, though I’ve never been there. It had an African feel in the markets and the artwork, a Latin American feel in the attitude or ambiance of the place (does it count as Latin if it was colonized by the Portuguese?), and European in the architecture. Very unique. We spent the rest of the day walking around the lovely city.
We decided to fly out of Praia the next morning, to go to Fogo (we flew, rather than take the ferry, because Kat had to leave Cape Verde in a few days and uncooperative boat schedules would have caused her to not get to see Fogo at all). To get there, we took a 40 person plane with propellers- a little nerve-wracking, bumpy little thing. But so worth the view from the air. The volcano rises out of the ocean just like you’d expect it to, massive and gorgeous, with ancient lava rivers and carvings all throughout the island.
Upon arriving, we immediately found a taxibus, which we shared with 2 really nice Germans and a really nice French couple, both of whom I’d get to know better in the next couple days (the French couple, who were so sweet, even invited me to join them on the next leg of their trip when Kat left). The driver asked if we were going to “the hotel” in the caldera, which to us implied “the only hotel” in the caldera, so we said yes and headed up. It actually turned out to be “the nicest hotel” in the caldera- not gaudy at all, very natural and unintrusive, and really actually very cheap, but not at all roughing it like I expected to.
I’m so glad we ended up staying there, though- the owner was a great friendly French guy, the clientel were mostly middle-aged or older European couples (experienced climbers all), and all the climbing guides (young men who live in the village in the caldera) hang out there playing cards, so we got to know a lot of really interesting people. And to be honest, I spent most of the time in thrilled disbelief that I was actually spending four nights in the caldera of an active volcano. And what a force it was- when we arrived in the crater itself after an hour long drive up a windy cliff-lined road, I was stunned by the beauty and power of the place. It just doesn’t feel like anywhere else in the world, that I’ve been at least; it is the crater of a volcano, in the middle of the ocean. Big, imposing, with an enormous ring lining it to the West
(the rest collapsed a long time ago), and an almost mile-high peak rising out of the caldera to the East. The last time the volcano erupted was in 1995, when a new, smaller peak was formed to the south of the larger peak (all in the caldera of the original volcano). All the guides I talked to had been old enough during the eruption to remember it- they said that they had felt it coming for months, with rumbling at night, and that the night the explosion and the lava flows started, the whole village evacuated up the side of the rim. They then left to the base of the island, where they stayed for three months while the caldera filled with lava. In the end, one of three villages in the crater was completely covered by lava, but there were no deaths.
Because we thought we’d only be spending one night on the island in order to get Kat back to her flight home, we decided to hike Mt. Fogo (that tallest, more recent peak) right away. We set out around 2:30pm, once again totally unprepared. Because Lonely Planet made it seem like a not-a-big-deal hike, I had only brought sneakers and Kat had only brought Chocos (hiking sandals). Life lesson number two: do not trust guide books. Ask people. It turned out that the majority of people who hike Fogo are either seasoned or in good shape, and that it is meant to be done with good hiking gear- boots, some even had poles. Oh well. We were getting to the top of that peak, dammit.
And get there we did. The hike was a grueling three hours at a 45 degree incline, which was really, really hard. We spent about 1/3 of the time using our hands to help us balance and pull ourselves up, it was so steep. We also switched shoes halfway to share the pain.
And around 5:30 we reached the top.
It was unbelievable. First of all because we were just so, so happy to finally be done climbing, and because we felt great having conquered the peak. But second because the top was just incredible. It was high, high above the clouds, and from the top you could see over the entire caldera and all three villages in it.
To the other side, you could look down into the higher caldera- the caldera of Fogo, the peak we just climbed. That view itself was totally worth the entire trip. The inside of that upper caldera is covered in yellow sulfur residue, and the rocks are all shaped in gorgeous, bizarre patterns. At one spot, there was even sulfuric gas coming out of a crevasse in the rocks. It really is active. You can feel it up there, something very natural, and very, very powerful.
The descent was the opposite of the climb- not just because it was, obviously, going the other direction, but because the descent was SO much fun. We went down a side of the volcano that is entirely fine volcanic rock/ash, which feels like sand when you walk through it (larger, sharper sand). The point is, it slides away as soon as you step down, so that you’re forced to keep your legs moving at all times or else you’ll fall... basically, you have to run. So, for over an hour we flew down the side of the volcano, weaving in and out, flailing our arms and legs, hollering and laughing, looking down at the clouds to the east and totally unable to stop until we reached the path at the bottom for fear of falling (which, several times, we did). Gives a new meaning to my understanding of the word Frolicking.
We slept very well that night, and woke up very sore the next morning. In addition, we decided to extend our stay in the caldera- Kat changed her ticket so that she could stay an extra night, and I decided not to try to find Becky and co. But to stay in the Caldera for the rest of the week. We spent the next day hanging out, relaxing and soaking in the landscape. We also got to know a few of the guides better- Lucas and Carlos, two friendly, annoyingly flirty young guys. We played cards at the hotel, then went out to the village co-op to try local wine, dance, and listen to a few guys playing beautiful Cape Verdian music.
The next day, Kat left. I was sad to see her go- we had such a great time together, and got to know each other really well. But I was also excited to be on my own, something I’d never done to that extent before. I spent my first day after she left relaxing again, not really feeling like hiking and just happy to take life slowly (Dad’s words of wisdom: remember, you don’t have to live life all in one day. Somehow, despite my efforts to follow this sagely advice, I think I ended up living a year’s worth of experiences in less than one week). I went to watch my guide friends play soccer in the afternoon, got to know a lot of the people staying at my hotel, and cracked the French family- the one who made “the popular table” at the hotel, as Kat and I called it, the one who made fun of us in French when they saw us come down from the volcano, and who made a rude comment about Americans in front of us when they thought we only spoke English. Well, at the soccer game, I started speaking with the dad in French, and got to know more about the family... and told them more about myself. They were totally surprised and really happy that I’m actually currently a student in Senegal, and that I speak decent French (how great to find an American who speaks a foreign language! they said. I set the record straight- there are lots of us). It turned that despite their initial distaste for Americans, they’re actually a really sweet, very cool family. Again, a lesson in how important it is to speak other languages- to get respect, and show respect. The family ended up sort of adopting me for the evening; I went with them to the house of one of the guides, Alcindo, to try grog (local rum- did not enjoy) and again listen to Cape Verdian music. Cape Verdian music, by the way, is unbelievably beautiful- haunting, exactly as I had been told it would be. If you get the chance, I cannot recommend Cesaria Evora enough. Gorgeous music.
Thus, life lesson number three. A lesson in being alone: you’re never really alone. I have found that as much as one may be without familiar faces, when it comes down to it people will find a common ground and look out for each other. That is not to say that people are angels- in fact, one guy with a particularly devious sense of humor gave me a very wrong translation of the word “honey,” which I was supposed to buy for my host family in Dakar- rather than translating “honey,” he gave me the word for “beer.” It took me about an hour of not being directed toward any sort of honey isle in the market to realize what happened. But, the point is, there are people who are willing to create community or to expand the one they already have, out of goodness, curiosity, whatever. That’s been true everywhere I’ve been in Senegal, it was true in the caldera, and as I’ll explain shortly, it was even truer later on when I arrived in Sao Filipe.
The next day, I set out with yet another local guide to hike the outer rim of the caldera.
We hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to get to the base (so much fun!), then hiked all afternoon (considered to be a pretty moderate hike, but frankly, I thought it was really hard... I should exercise more), and stopped when we got to a dip in the caldera where there was enough space to pitch a tent. Paolo, the guide, started a campfire, which is a tradition- letting the other guides in the village far below know that we were up there. Apparently they also have celebrations up there sometimes- bring up drums, start a campfire, and dance and sing all night. How awesome.
Dinner was a can of sardines mixed into a can of chickpeas- surprisingly good. We had a great time, talking and enjoying the view, him explaining about life in the village. Paolo, by the way, is a really nice guy- I hired him because he was the only one who didn’t offer to take me up. As nice as the guides were, they had their fair share of sketchy young men. We also hiked to the top of the closest rim peak to watch the sun set, which was not stunning but very pretty, and then went back to watch the fire die down. Paolo went to sleep, and I stayed up for a bit to look at the stars. It’s incredible how bright they are up there, with no electricity for miles and miles- and how MANY there are. I’d never seen so many layers of stars. I’ve decided I like the big dipper the best- because it’s always the first I can pick out, ever night, no matter where I am: Cape Verde, Senegal, the Poconos. Forgive my cheesy, but we all share the same sky.
Paolo woke me up at 5am the next morning to start are descent. Painful, yes. The sun hadn’t started to rise yet, but did begin to just as we finished packing up the tent. The sunrise was phenomenal- all pinks and oranges and yellows, emerging from behind the big blue-grey cone of Mt. Fogo. I only wish we’d had more time to sit and enjoy the sunrise, but Paolo seemed insistent on walking as fast as humanly possible to get down- not easy, considering the ground is so unstable. I have to say, it was pretty frustrating. But beautiful nonetheless.
By the way, the guides all speak some French because the clients at the hotel are all European. So that’s how we communicated. Also by the way, I had temporarily lost my camera at this point, so there are no pictures from camping- turns out it had fallen into the bed of the pickup that dropped us off, but the driver found it and then found me in Sao Filipe the next day and returned it, which was so good of him.
We waited for about an hour at the base of the rim for Patrique, the hotel owner, to come and pick us me up in his pickup to take me to the city at the base of the island, Sao Filipe. Patrique, by the way, is a very interesting character- I think that what he told me translates as he was a contractor in France for years, then decided to move to Cape Verde. He spent 6 years in the capital, and has been in the caldera for 6 years since then. His business is great, and I’m sure it brings a lot of tourism to the area- but I can’t help but be struck by the contrast between his lifestyle, the only permanent European there as far as I could tell, and the extreme poverty of the village. I would later find out that not only is the village really poor, but there is a huge gender gap- girls often don’t go to school, and if they do, it’s often just to find a man. Then, once married, it is accepted that men will have mistresses, and even families with their mistresses. Like unofficial polygamy. Women, on the other hand, stay at home and do the dirty work, for fear of being left.
So down we went to the base of the island. I was sad to leave the volcano and the people I had gotten to know there- what an incredible place- but also really ready to stop traveling and just be home (UGB home). My plan was to buy my ferry ticket at 10am as instructed by the ferry staff, then board at 12, spend the night in Praia, and fly from Praia to Dakar the next day.
Or so I thought. As I have often found to be the case in West Africa, plans are hardly worth making, and schedules are hardly worth looking into. Lesson number four: be flexible, be easy-going. Just sit back and let life make the decisions on its own sometimes. Not only is that necessary in certain cases, but I’ve found that life is more fun, more interesting, and more comfortable when things have the chance to happen on their own. Often the best experiences can’t be predicted, and can’t be planned. In Sao Filipe, life made some initially really frustrating decisions that ended up creating a wonderful weekend.
What happened was, I got down to the ticket agency at 10, as told, to buy my ticket, and was told that in fact the boat did not leave at noon but at 7pm, and would be an overnight boat. Whatever, I can handle that, I’ll buy the ticket anyways. Except... I have no money. Shite. And oh man oh man, my bank account only has 6 dollars left in it. Shite. I ended up having to take out a cash advance from the credit card- really expensive, but really, really necessary. And I bought the boat ticket. Then, while sitting in a little park, waiting for my now later-than-expected ferry, I came across a volcano guide and had a nice convo with him- just happy to find someone who spoke one of the languages I speak (French, again). He asked about my departure, and informed me that I had not bought the ticket that I thought I had bought, at all. What I had bought was a ticket for a freight boat- a small wooden fishing/freight boat that would be dirty and dangerous, going through open seas, and that surely I would be vomiting all night. There would be no other tourists on board- me and shippers. It would get into port at Praia at 3am, which would mean there would be no taxis to meet me to take me to my non-existent hotel. Deeeeedeeeet. There was NO way I would be doing that- aside from my afore-admitted fear of the ocean (which I am working on), it is just not a smart idea to be alone at a port in Praia in the middle of the night with nobody but boat workers and not a taxi in sight. Beginning to feel a little concerned about how exactly I would get off the island, I went up to the Cape Verdian Airlines agency to see about a flight. Thankfully, they said they had place on a flight the next morning that would meet my flight to Dakar, and I should come back after lunch, when the system was running again at 3. The hotel was great by the way- nice and clean, with a really sweet concierge, and HOT WATER! A tv in the room too, which played CSPAN in English! Fyi, I was not impressed by the presidential candidates’ speeches at Lincoln Day Republican Dinner.
And right about here, Mom deserves credit for being the absolute greatest when I called home that afternoon. Thanks, Ma :)
Unfortunately, things got a little worse before they got better. I went back to the flight agency at 3, as told, to buy my plane ticket... and found that they had already SOLD it to someone else. Oh, my, god. That was a really, really bad moment. Alone on an island in the middle of the Atlantic, broke, not speaking either of the languages spoken on the island, hardly able to communicate with anybody, a wicked sunburn on my back, exhausted from 2 weeks of nonstop travel, no clean clothes, and now no way to get home. Ohh, bad moment.
But, as everything does in the end, it turned out fine. I was able to change my flight to Dakar, and bought a ticket to fly to Praia the next day instead. So I ended up spending 2 extra nights on Fogo. I slept really, really well that night.
The next morning I wandered around Sao Filipe, hoping I’d run into someone I recognized... when all of a sudden, from across the street, what should I hear but “ey! Toubaab!” ... Toubaab?! Did you just say TOUBAAB!? I have never been so happy in my life to have hey, whitey, shouted at me. I went over to talk to the two Senegalese men who had shouted at me, and sure enough, they spoke Wolof, as well as some French. I was having great small talk with them in Wolof, when I noticed an American-looking guy sort of hanging out behind us. I wrapped up with the Senegalese guys and turned to see what was up. As it turned out, he was a really nice guy named Mike, a member of the Peace Corps who was stationed on the island. He said he normally ignores white people, assuming we’re tourists, but noticed I was speaking Wolof and thought it’d be worth seeing what my deal was. And I am so, so glad he did. It turned out Peace Corps group on the island was going to be having a party that night, and Mike invited me to join in. I ended up spending the afternoon with him and another Peace Corps guy, Sam, buying food for the party and then going down to sit on the beach. Then later that night I went over to the house, where I met the rest of the island’s Peace Corps- such a sweet group of people. I had a wonderful time, sitting around talking and eating and getting to know yet another group of awesome, interesting people. After the party, I walked down to the beach again with two of them to watch the waves and the stars and talk. It was fantastic.
I left Fogo the next day on another small plane, which I ended up taking with that nice German man and woman, and also with a South African documentarian I had been told to keep an eye out for. Alone, but also not alone at all.
Rather than spend 6 hours at the airport waiting for my flight to Dakar, I decided to go downtown and sit at my favorite coffee shop. I had a wonderful afternoon- sitting and reading Paradise by Toni Morrison (which perfectly fit the mood, with its magic and witchcraft, soul searching, racial struggles, the whole deal) and listening to beautiful Cape Verdian music from the cafe’s speakers. Wonderful.
Then the conclusion of my trip to Cape Verde: after about an hour at the airport, I looked up from my croissant and who should I see walking toward me- but three of the friends I was supposed to meet up with in Cape Verde, the original reason I had decided to come. They were on my flight, and I was SO happy to see them, to hear their stories and exchange photos. And, as if that wasn’t enough, a few minutes later another friend of mine, Andy (another American at UGB) walked in as well- he, too, was on my flight, after spending a few days at a Rotary conference in Praia.
And thus was my spring break. I returned to Saint-Louis, and to UGB, after a night in Dakar, and have been very happy to be back. The only snag upon my return to UGB was when I went to see my professor and ask what I missed in class Monday (I had missed it because I got stuck on Fogo), and he informed me no don’t worry, there was no class... everyone’s studying for your midterm tomorrow morning! ...my what? But that is another story.
Congratulations to all who made it this far... I know this was another ridiculously long entry, but it was an experience that really made an impression on me. It feels good to write it out, helps me to digest it.
I hope everyone is doing well... I’m coming home in 2 months, and can’t wait to see you all, although I’m also going to miss it here so much. Well, that’s all for now.
Babeneen,
Morgan
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Demoon naa... partout
I went... everywhere
That's sort of how I feel about the last month or so. I've been traveling, traveling, traveling, and having an incredible time. I got back from spring break last Monday night, and had the most incredible two weeks of my life. But before I get into that, here's a little update on my life in Saint-Louis:
Life in Saint-Louis is good. It is really, really slow; Senegalese time usually implies be between 5 minutes and 2 hours late. It was frustrating to adjust to at first, but now, I love it. I feel very much at home at this pace. In the states, where I'm guaranteed to have to run around like hell in the morning to be ready and I'm still running into class just as the door is being closed... that just isn't an issue here. When it takes me 25 minutes to get out of bed, 30 to walk back from lunch, and an extra 30 minutes to get to a friend's room for tea, it's just not a big deal. I wonder how that's going to fly when I get home... just kidding. Anyways, I think what I love most about the pace of life here is that there's time to think. I've found that in the states, I'm flying through life, gathering experiences and attempts and successes and sights and sounds, then leaving them comfortably as memories. But here, it's very different. "Experiences" (whether they be trips and adventures or just eating, talking, doing the laundry) are fewer and farther between, but in those in-betweens I have so much time to digest everything that happens. Every time something happens that I consider really significant, I am able to spend days just reflecting... sitting and thinking, journaling, or just subconsciously digesting what happened while I go about my comfortably relaxed day. It makes for incredible learning and growing experiences. And it does not feel like "wasting time" at all. As a Senegalese friend articulated so well, "in America, time is money. Here, time is... time is taking time."
Other news? Well, I'm still taking this dance class, and I think I have a love-hate relationship with it. I love the people in it; they're loud and fun, and we share a love of dancing. But it can be really hard, too. They speak amongst themselves in verryyy fast French, which I have a really hard time understanding (especially with the horrible acoustics in our dance room), so I'm pretty marginalized to begin with. But I'm also really clearly "the white girl." In fact, yesterday, the teacher (a good friend of mine) told me to stop hiding in the back (I'm tired of being in the front), it's only aesthetically pleasing if the one who stands out is in the middle. That would be the white one, me. They don't mean it to be insulting, I know... it's just not something that I'm comfortable with. In the states, race is such a taboo topic. Skin color is just not something that I've been taught to take into account, aesthetically or otherwise. Here, they do.
Anyways, the point about dance is, we have three recitals coming up... and one is going to be in the city, at the cultural center, with a professional dance troupe from Gabon! How awesome. I absolutely cannot wait.
Other news... academically, things are going. Sort of. Ish. In fact, I came back from break and went to ask a prof what I missed on Monday (I was stuck on the island so I missed class), and he responded "no nothing, we had no class." Oh, wonderful! Why? "They're all studying for your midterm tomorrow morning." Ummmm... excuse me? Apparently, exams are posted on the bulletin board that I was not informed existed. Surprise! So I spent the afternoon studying. We'll see how that turns out.
I'm also getting really close with a lot of people. The tubaabs (Americans, specifically) are getting closer all the time, and I've got some pretty good friends from dance and from my dorm. One is about to start teaching me traditional dance in exchange for English lessons. Sweeeeeet
Let's see, what else... the weather has been great, not too hot still (knock on wood). My Wolof is really improving, I can understand pretty decently complex conversations, although the speaking is still coming slowly. My French, on the other hand, seems to be getting worse. I just never, ever think in French. English with the Americans, Wolof whenever I can with Senegalese. Bummer for French, but cool overall.
Also, I spent today volunteering at a free clinic to screen women for cervical and breast cancer. It was really interesting, although at the beginning I felt a little uncomfortable being an unqualified foreigner asking women these really personal questions (we were helping them fill out their forms, since many couldn't speak French, or couldn't read/write, or both). And, almost the whole time we spoke with them in Wolof. Woo!
You know what, I'm actually really tired right now, so I'm going to go to sleep. I'll update about spring break tomorrow, assuming there's internet.
Goodnight everyone :)
Morg
That's sort of how I feel about the last month or so. I've been traveling, traveling, traveling, and having an incredible time. I got back from spring break last Monday night, and had the most incredible two weeks of my life. But before I get into that, here's a little update on my life in Saint-Louis:
Life in Saint-Louis is good. It is really, really slow; Senegalese time usually implies be between 5 minutes and 2 hours late. It was frustrating to adjust to at first, but now, I love it. I feel very much at home at this pace. In the states, where I'm guaranteed to have to run around like hell in the morning to be ready and I'm still running into class just as the door is being closed... that just isn't an issue here. When it takes me 25 minutes to get out of bed, 30 to walk back from lunch, and an extra 30 minutes to get to a friend's room for tea, it's just not a big deal. I wonder how that's going to fly when I get home... just kidding. Anyways, I think what I love most about the pace of life here is that there's time to think. I've found that in the states, I'm flying through life, gathering experiences and attempts and successes and sights and sounds, then leaving them comfortably as memories. But here, it's very different. "Experiences" (whether they be trips and adventures or just eating, talking, doing the laundry) are fewer and farther between, but in those in-betweens I have so much time to digest everything that happens. Every time something happens that I consider really significant, I am able to spend days just reflecting... sitting and thinking, journaling, or just subconsciously digesting what happened while I go about my comfortably relaxed day. It makes for incredible learning and growing experiences. And it does not feel like "wasting time" at all. As a Senegalese friend articulated so well, "in America, time is money. Here, time is... time is taking time."
Other news? Well, I'm still taking this dance class, and I think I have a love-hate relationship with it. I love the people in it; they're loud and fun, and we share a love of dancing. But it can be really hard, too. They speak amongst themselves in verryyy fast French, which I have a really hard time understanding (especially with the horrible acoustics in our dance room), so I'm pretty marginalized to begin with. But I'm also really clearly "the white girl." In fact, yesterday, the teacher (a good friend of mine) told me to stop hiding in the back (I'm tired of being in the front), it's only aesthetically pleasing if the one who stands out is in the middle. That would be the white one, me. They don't mean it to be insulting, I know... it's just not something that I'm comfortable with. In the states, race is such a taboo topic. Skin color is just not something that I've been taught to take into account, aesthetically or otherwise. Here, they do.
Anyways, the point about dance is, we have three recitals coming up... and one is going to be in the city, at the cultural center, with a professional dance troupe from Gabon! How awesome. I absolutely cannot wait.
Other news... academically, things are going. Sort of. Ish. In fact, I came back from break and went to ask a prof what I missed on Monday (I was stuck on the island so I missed class), and he responded "no nothing, we had no class." Oh, wonderful! Why? "They're all studying for your midterm tomorrow morning." Ummmm... excuse me? Apparently, exams are posted on the bulletin board that I was not informed existed. Surprise! So I spent the afternoon studying. We'll see how that turns out.
I'm also getting really close with a lot of people. The tubaabs (Americans, specifically) are getting closer all the time, and I've got some pretty good friends from dance and from my dorm. One is about to start teaching me traditional dance in exchange for English lessons. Sweeeeeet
Let's see, what else... the weather has been great, not too hot still (knock on wood). My Wolof is really improving, I can understand pretty decently complex conversations, although the speaking is still coming slowly. My French, on the other hand, seems to be getting worse. I just never, ever think in French. English with the Americans, Wolof whenever I can with Senegalese. Bummer for French, but cool overall.
Also, I spent today volunteering at a free clinic to screen women for cervical and breast cancer. It was really interesting, although at the beginning I felt a little uncomfortable being an unqualified foreigner asking women these really personal questions (we were helping them fill out their forms, since many couldn't speak French, or couldn't read/write, or both). And, almost the whole time we spoke with them in Wolof. Woo!
You know what, I'm actually really tired right now, so I'm going to go to sleep. I'll update about spring break tomorrow, assuming there's internet.
Goodnight everyone :)
Morg
Thursday, March 15, 2007
My Holy Pilgrimage
I kid you not.
Last week I spent three days in the city of Touba, in the interior of Senegal. It was the most unbelievable three days of my stay here... one of the most incredible experiences of my life. And by that I don't mean it was a total blast, three days of endless fun and excitement... but it was without a doubt one of the most eventful times of my life, one of the biggest learning experiences and probably one of the more difficult experiences, too. This might sound ridiculous, but it inspired a 116 page journal entry. There was a lot to think about afterwards. Don't worry, this entry is long, but it will not take 116 pages.
Before I get into my time there, I'll explain a little bit of the background behind Touba. To begin, Senegal is a Muslim country: about 90 percent of Senegalese are Muslim. They are separated into different brotherhoods, the largest being the Murids. Muridism was founded by Cheikh Amadou Bamba in the 19th century; in 1887, Bamba founded the holy city of Senegal, Touba. Once a year, the Grand Maggal de Touba takes place, in which millions of Murids take a pilgrimage to Touba in celebration of Bamba's bravery upon being exiled to Gabon by the French government. This year, word has it that over 6 million people made the pilgrimage.
Hence, this blog entry.
And so begins my journey. Last Tuesday, I set out with a Senegalese friend (a Murid) and three American friends to make the trek to Touba to experience Maggal. We set out to meet the bus at 3pm, the "departure time," and so naturally we began loading the bus at 5. Oh, Senegal time. The bus experience should have been my first hint at the what was to come. First of all, they informed us that women would be sitting in the back of the bus, men in the front. Accepting this as a religious protocol, I got on the bus when my name was called first and sat at the front of the back half of the bus. Bad choice. The men spilled over, and the Americans were asked to please relocate to make room for the men... to the back of the bus. And so the final cross-section of the bus was: men in front, women in back, white people in the super back. The racial segregation was by chance, but I have to say that I gained new appreciation for equality struggles of the 1960s... everybody move to the back of the bus. The bus started up to leave shortly thereafter, but paused to wait a few minutes so the men could step outside and say their prayer before leaving. Then we left.
The bus ride was pretty uneventful- hot and uncomfortable, about 5 hours long, but we had a brief break at sunset when the men again had to leave the bus to say their prayer. We arrived in Touba around 10, excited to find our homestay and crash on whatever couch or rug we were invited to crash on.
Wrong. It turned out we were not to be staying in a homestay the first night, but at a loging site. Translation: field of sand with thatched fence around it. It was actually really awesome; we pulled out our sheets and laid down in the open air, listening to the prayer songs from the mosque next door being megaphoned over the field. Funny story, the prayer songs finally ended around midnight or 1, with the chiming of Windows shutting down... apparently, we had not been listening to a chorus, but to a PC.
The sleeping arrangements were something else. Aside from the out-in-the-sand factor, we were crowded in like nothing I'd seen before. I couldn't extend my legs or I'd kick the little boy sleeping at my feet, and I couldn't roll over or the woman above me would stroke my neck with her foot.
We were awakened 4 hours later, before daybreak, by the hustle and bustle of people getting ready to prepare for Maggal. Tabs (Tabara, my Senegalese friend) came over to hurry us along to her family's house, where the other three Americans would be staying until Friday. I was going to stay with a Senegalese friend from Dakar and his family, and was meant to leave after breakfast.
Sure enough, after breakfast Tabs and I left sleepily to walk to the taxi garage to get me to Saliou (Dakar friend)'s family's home. After walking for about 15 minutes we realized the garage was damn far away, and so we decided to take a...horse-drawn buggy, I suppose you could call it. A few wooden planks on 2 wheels being pulled by a horse. Not just any horse, but an off-road horse! Really, we were flying through the sand on this buggy. I clung for my life. The Senegalese sitting next to me seemed fine, but hey, they've had practice. It was scary. And totally fun.
When we finally got me to a taxi I was royally ripped off, but didn't complain because I figured a well-paid taxi driver is a happy, less likely to kidnap me taxi driver. Tabs had asked me 5 minutes before whether I had something sharp... something sharp?... yea, a weapon. No Tabs, I did not think I would be needing to defend myself in the holy city! Thus, I paid the taximan well. He was nice tho, we had a lovely conversation (in wolof!).
The house I stayed at, Saliou's family's, was pretty nice, and I spent the first few minutes talking with his brother and sister (Saliou would arrive that night). They both spoke French and English, and were really welcoming. Unfortunately, they disappeared early on, and left me with a HIGHLY unfriendly group of gossipy young Senegalese women who spoke nothing but Wolof. Really, I like to think the best of people, but they were just plain mean- clearly talking about me in front of my face, framing questions such that I'd unknowingly answer "yes" to "do you want to marry Kebe's husband?" (thereby infuriating Kebe), etc. etc. I kept offering to help cook, or clean, or anything, but was not welcome. Until they decided that sure, I could do all the dishes. But there were so many! They did in fact come over to help me, but were loudly making fun of my lack of washing skills, laughing in my face when I couldn't respond, until finally... I threw down my towel, turned to the ringleader, and said in wolof, "I only speak a little bit of Wolof!" then in English, "I have no idea what you all are saying about me, but that is not because I'm stupid, it's because I'm still learning your language! Either speak in French or English, or stop mocking me." Then in French, "if you want me to stop helping, I'll stop." Dead silence. Then they started laughing... not at me this time, but at the ringleader. What an amazing feeling.
At that moment, a woman sitting at the wall called to me, "Awa Njaay! Kai fii!" (come here Awa Njaay!...my Senegalese name). Turns out, she speaks French. Surprise! She said, Awa you are brave, come sit with me. And sit I did. Then one by one the young women finished their work and came to sit with us. And they were really, really nice to me from then on. The ringleader even offered to braid my hair.
So the afternoon was lovely- I helped cook and chatted with the ladies. I learned a lot about them, and was really happy to practice wolof so much. Then around 9, I was sitting with Saliou's sister again, when the men brought the cow over to our little hut we were sitting under, and tied it up. I sighed- poor thing must be being taken to be killed somewhere. Only half right. The cow was in fact to be killed, but not to be taken anywhere. The men just walked up to it right there, grabbed it around the neck, and turned and turned until it broke. It was awful. I'm sorry if this is graphic, but it was really, really a big deal for me to see it- the first time I had ever seen anything die. Anything larger than an insect at least. So they broke its neck, tipped it over, and took out a machete. I'll spare the details, but you can imagine how upsetting it was... and the poor thing lived for so long into the whole process. I really felt like I had a religious experience watching this cow be sacrificed for my meal. Saliou's sister Chaba asked if I would be a vegetarian from then on... no, but since then I have had a real respect for the meat I eat.
During this whole process, Saliou finally arrived- with Becky, my housemate from Dakar, and some of her friends. Here's Becky and me with Sooxna, the "ringleader" of that group of girls who by now had accepted me:
Such great people. We were all exhausted and ready for an early bed, but were informed by Saliou that tonight (like all nights in Touba, it turns out) was not for sleeping. Instead, we spent a couple hours at the house of a Marabout- a religious guide, one of Cheikh Amadou Bamba's grandsons. It was fascinating. We talked with him about religion and gender, and he served us a delicious dinner (that unfortunately we were all too full to enjoy). What was really interesing was the respect the Murids award to him and the other Marabouts- we were all forbidden from looking him in the eye, and Saliou kept his head bowed as low as possible the entire time. It was actually sort of frightening to see Saliou so submissive.
We passed the night under that thatched hut I'd watched the cow from, on a little mattress.
In the morning, I took my first Touba shower- a bucket shower in a small hut with a drain to one side. It's being clean that matters tho, not how you get there. We spent the morning helping the women cook-
they continued to be friendly, chatted with us, and taught us tips on how to chop onions without a cutting board and how to keep from tearing up (put an onion peel on your head while you cut- it actually works).
Then we had a delicious lunch. It was... beef.
We spent the afternoon discovering some more about Muridism and the Marabouts. We dressed in our traditional clothes
(I had one made the week before, which I love) and headed out for a 25 minute walk in the 114 degree farenheit weather to visit a Marabout. Yea, it was hot. But more than hot, it was fascinating... we spent the first part of the visit with a man and his sons, discussing soccer and music and travel. The family (and the Marabout, and Saliou) are Baay Falls: a subsect of Muridism, the Baay Falls were founded by a man who felt that the duties in the Quran (no alcohol, pray 5 times daily) were impossible for him to follow, but who was nonetheless not ready to give up his devotion to God and Mohommad. So, he founded the Baay Falls, a more laid-back sect. The Baay Falls are easily noticeable anywhere- they have massive dreadlocks, wear several layers of clothing ending in a striped sweater-vest-ish smock, and wear between one and five or six chunky wooden necklaces. Ryan, Becky's friend, commented that they look like pirates. Well said. Fabulous pirates, though.
Then we went to meet the actual Marabout himself- another grandson of Bamba.
What an experience. Our first encounter was outside his enormous house, when he stuck his arm through the bars of a window and men came running from all over to walk up, eyes downcast, and kiss his hand. The guys in our group did it too, as was expected of them. Then we were taken into a big living room, where we knelt on the ground in a mass of people awaiting the Marabout... and in he came, sat in a chair to one side of the room, and waited for people to approach. They literally crawled up to him in small groups to kiss his hand as he said a low prayer... then they crawled back and the next group approached. We went up too, crawled up and shook his hand (women don't kiss it), but I was shocked when instead of a prayer, he said to us in perfect English "hello! How are you!" Umm... we're fine thanks? He was very nice, and offered us lunch. So again we crawled away, then walked out to the foyer where we were served rice and meat (as usual) in a communal bowl (as usual) to eat with our hands (as usual). It was delicious (as usual), and I actually ate some cow pancreas (not usual, but quite tasty- tastes just like chicken).
We spent what remained of the afternoon cooking and resting,
and after dinner had a great time sharing a little bit of dance culture with our new Senegalese friends- they helped us with the Mbala (a dance to Youssou N'Dour, famous contemporary musician), and we showed them a little bit of swing, and of course, Cotton Eyed Joe. For those of you who are not familiar with Cotton Eyed Joe, this is a very popular middle school soiree/Bat Mitzvah/sweet 16/all-around feel-good line dance. It was a blast.
But all that, and we hadn't even celebrated Maggal yet. We still had the last leg of the pilgrimage to make. So at 2:00am, after a brief nap, Saliou, Becky, Becky's friends, and I got up and started our trek. It was over 4 miles to the Grand Mosque, but as was apparently the tradition, we all agreed to walk it. It was much easier than I expected- I was so high on adrenaline, and had some great talks with Saliou and some of Becky's friends. There was also a lot to see- markets, people (TONS of people, especially for 2am), and some bizarre things too: mosques with neon lights that looked like mini amusement parks, vendors selling teeshirts with the Marabouts' faces screened on them, right next to shirts with Eminem's face screened on them.
The Mosque itself was unlike anything I have ever experienced. It was stunning- powerful, beautiful, breathtaking, imposing, everything I'd expect a massive house of god to be.
Just striking.
It almost looked like it should be one of the castles or fortresses defended in the Lord of the Rings movies. The Mosque was enormous and entirely made of marble, with lights illuminating the four smaller towers and the one main one ("Lamp Fall" it's called). In the courtyard between the buildings were tons and tons of people sleeping and milling about- people who'd come for the pilgrimage and were happy to sleep in the sand in exchange for the opporutnity.
Saliou took us into almost all of the smaller buildings, which house the tombs of past Marabouts- in fact, we went into one building and found men singing and dancing, arms and faces raised, around a large cage- which apparently houses the actual tomb of Cheikh Amadou Bamba. In all of these buildings (temples?) we did as the Murids did, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible (not easy)... we checked our veils to be sure our hair and shoulders were covered, touched the wall and then our faces in some sign of spirituality, and sat down in silent prayer (or in our case, reflection). It was fascinating. Also interesting, but not surprising, was that in many of the buildings the women had to enter and exit, even pray, separately from the men.
Our final stop was the main building- the Mosque itself. I'm not sure if Mosque needs to be capitalized here, in fact I don't think it does, but trust me this Mosque deserves a capital C (no, I'm not converting, just in awe). The line for the men was out of control, so Saliou sent Becky, Kate, Sam, and me in alone. Inside, the Mosque is as gorgeous as it is outside- all pillars and arches, carved so, so intricately in cream/rose/blue arabic shapes.
Beautiful. We waited in line for a while, inside the main foyer, while the men's line advanced. What I found really strange about the situation was that there were guards, Murids, walking about ensuring that the women's headscarves were on right and that nobody was making trouble- but also that there were actual police doing the same thing, police with massive guns at their sides. In a mosque. I wonder if they're always there, or just to keep the peace on Maggal.
Finally the women's line started to move... and then it started to MOVE. The guards and police shouted, go! fast!, and we the women ran through the gate at the front, being pushed not only by the women behind us but also by the guards. I still have no idea why we had to get there so fast, but the Senegalese women did not seem phased. Inside, we sat in prayer again, in yet another beautiful room that I believe was a tomb. We left pretty quickly, tired and ready to find the guys, but had some trouble... you see Saliou had said he'd meet us at the exit, but there were a lot of exits, and the Mosque is massive. A really sweet young Senegalese woman tried to help us (in wolof), but ended up leading us into more prayer rooms. Finally we found the guys, and got ready to finish up the night with a nice car rapide ride home.
Unfortunately, the car rapides were not running. Nothing was running. Traffic was at a total standstill, since it was almost morning and everyone was trying to leave the city to go home. So instead of driving, we started to walk. And walk. I hate to whine, but really, it was so, so painful. I had slept 9 hours in the past 3 nights, had already walked 4 or 5 miles that night, hadn't eaten since dinner, and felt like every cell in my body was ready to collapse, or implode. And it was so hard to breathe, walking through streets filled with cars made in the 80s puffing exhaust in our faces. But on we walked. After a mile or two traffic finally picked up, and we found a car rapide to take us home. Becky and Saliou got on, and I walked up to follow them, when the car started rolling! Fast! Sam, Kate, Ryan, Elie and I ran and ran after the car rapide, me in my stupid narrow Senegalese skirt, and finally it slowed down enough so that Saliou could reach out and grab me, and pull me into the moving car rapide. It was really pretty hilarious. The rest made it in within a minute, and we collapsed for the ride home.
The story doesn't quite end there, but that's about the end of the Maggal pilgrimage story. What happened next is just sort of uncomfortable- on my way to meet Tabs and go back to campus Saliou announced that he loved me. He tried to keep me from leaving, and something questionable happened on my way back to find Tabs that caused me to be an hour late- I'm not sure if there was a misunderstanding, or if Saliou was maybe not trying really hard to get me to Tabs, but I got into a minor fight with Saliou over it when he refused to drop the question of romance. I was pissed, but it all ended up fine: I found Tabs, went home, took a fabulous cold shower, and collapsed into my bed, where I slept for 21 hours straight.
And that was my trip to Touba.
Last week I spent three days in the city of Touba, in the interior of Senegal. It was the most unbelievable three days of my stay here... one of the most incredible experiences of my life. And by that I don't mean it was a total blast, three days of endless fun and excitement... but it was without a doubt one of the most eventful times of my life, one of the biggest learning experiences and probably one of the more difficult experiences, too. This might sound ridiculous, but it inspired a 116 page journal entry. There was a lot to think about afterwards. Don't worry, this entry is long, but it will not take 116 pages.
Before I get into my time there, I'll explain a little bit of the background behind Touba. To begin, Senegal is a Muslim country: about 90 percent of Senegalese are Muslim. They are separated into different brotherhoods, the largest being the Murids. Muridism was founded by Cheikh Amadou Bamba in the 19th century; in 1887, Bamba founded the holy city of Senegal, Touba. Once a year, the Grand Maggal de Touba takes place, in which millions of Murids take a pilgrimage to Touba in celebration of Bamba's bravery upon being exiled to Gabon by the French government. This year, word has it that over 6 million people made the pilgrimage.
Hence, this blog entry.
And so begins my journey. Last Tuesday, I set out with a Senegalese friend (a Murid) and three American friends to make the trek to Touba to experience Maggal. We set out to meet the bus at 3pm, the "departure time," and so naturally we began loading the bus at 5. Oh, Senegal time. The bus experience should have been my first hint at the what was to come. First of all, they informed us that women would be sitting in the back of the bus, men in the front. Accepting this as a religious protocol, I got on the bus when my name was called first and sat at the front of the back half of the bus. Bad choice. The men spilled over, and the Americans were asked to please relocate to make room for the men... to the back of the bus. And so the final cross-section of the bus was: men in front, women in back, white people in the super back. The racial segregation was by chance, but I have to say that I gained new appreciation for equality struggles of the 1960s... everybody move to the back of the bus. The bus started up to leave shortly thereafter, but paused to wait a few minutes so the men could step outside and say their prayer before leaving. Then we left.
The bus ride was pretty uneventful- hot and uncomfortable, about 5 hours long, but we had a brief break at sunset when the men again had to leave the bus to say their prayer. We arrived in Touba around 10, excited to find our homestay and crash on whatever couch or rug we were invited to crash on.
Wrong. It turned out we were not to be staying in a homestay the first night, but at a loging site. Translation: field of sand with thatched fence around it. It was actually really awesome; we pulled out our sheets and laid down in the open air, listening to the prayer songs from the mosque next door being megaphoned over the field. Funny story, the prayer songs finally ended around midnight or 1, with the chiming of Windows shutting down... apparently, we had not been listening to a chorus, but to a PC.
The sleeping arrangements were something else. Aside from the out-in-the-sand factor, we were crowded in like nothing I'd seen before. I couldn't extend my legs or I'd kick the little boy sleeping at my feet, and I couldn't roll over or the woman above me would stroke my neck with her foot.
We were awakened 4 hours later, before daybreak, by the hustle and bustle of people getting ready to prepare for Maggal. Tabs (Tabara, my Senegalese friend) came over to hurry us along to her family's house, where the other three Americans would be staying until Friday. I was going to stay with a Senegalese friend from Dakar and his family, and was meant to leave after breakfast.
Sure enough, after breakfast Tabs and I left sleepily to walk to the taxi garage to get me to Saliou (Dakar friend)'s family's home. After walking for about 15 minutes we realized the garage was damn far away, and so we decided to take a...horse-drawn buggy, I suppose you could call it. A few wooden planks on 2 wheels being pulled by a horse. Not just any horse, but an off-road horse! Really, we were flying through the sand on this buggy. I clung for my life. The Senegalese sitting next to me seemed fine, but hey, they've had practice. It was scary. And totally fun.
When we finally got me to a taxi I was royally ripped off, but didn't complain because I figured a well-paid taxi driver is a happy, less likely to kidnap me taxi driver. Tabs had asked me 5 minutes before whether I had something sharp... something sharp?... yea, a weapon. No Tabs, I did not think I would be needing to defend myself in the holy city! Thus, I paid the taximan well. He was nice tho, we had a lovely conversation (in wolof!).
The house I stayed at, Saliou's family's, was pretty nice, and I spent the first few minutes talking with his brother and sister (Saliou would arrive that night). They both spoke French and English, and were really welcoming. Unfortunately, they disappeared early on, and left me with a HIGHLY unfriendly group of gossipy young Senegalese women who spoke nothing but Wolof. Really, I like to think the best of people, but they were just plain mean- clearly talking about me in front of my face, framing questions such that I'd unknowingly answer "yes" to "do you want to marry Kebe's husband?" (thereby infuriating Kebe), etc. etc. I kept offering to help cook, or clean, or anything, but was not welcome. Until they decided that sure, I could do all the dishes. But there were so many! They did in fact come over to help me, but were loudly making fun of my lack of washing skills, laughing in my face when I couldn't respond, until finally... I threw down my towel, turned to the ringleader, and said in wolof, "I only speak a little bit of Wolof!" then in English, "I have no idea what you all are saying about me, but that is not because I'm stupid, it's because I'm still learning your language! Either speak in French or English, or stop mocking me." Then in French, "if you want me to stop helping, I'll stop." Dead silence. Then they started laughing... not at me this time, but at the ringleader. What an amazing feeling.
At that moment, a woman sitting at the wall called to me, "Awa Njaay! Kai fii!" (come here Awa Njaay!...my Senegalese name). Turns out, she speaks French. Surprise! She said, Awa you are brave, come sit with me. And sit I did. Then one by one the young women finished their work and came to sit with us. And they were really, really nice to me from then on. The ringleader even offered to braid my hair.
So the afternoon was lovely- I helped cook and chatted with the ladies. I learned a lot about them, and was really happy to practice wolof so much. Then around 9, I was sitting with Saliou's sister again, when the men brought the cow over to our little hut we were sitting under, and tied it up. I sighed- poor thing must be being taken to be killed somewhere. Only half right. The cow was in fact to be killed, but not to be taken anywhere. The men just walked up to it right there, grabbed it around the neck, and turned and turned until it broke. It was awful. I'm sorry if this is graphic, but it was really, really a big deal for me to see it- the first time I had ever seen anything die. Anything larger than an insect at least. So they broke its neck, tipped it over, and took out a machete. I'll spare the details, but you can imagine how upsetting it was... and the poor thing lived for so long into the whole process. I really felt like I had a religious experience watching this cow be sacrificed for my meal. Saliou's sister Chaba asked if I would be a vegetarian from then on... no, but since then I have had a real respect for the meat I eat.
During this whole process, Saliou finally arrived- with Becky, my housemate from Dakar, and some of her friends. Here's Becky and me with Sooxna, the "ringleader" of that group of girls who by now had accepted me:
Such great people. We were all exhausted and ready for an early bed, but were informed by Saliou that tonight (like all nights in Touba, it turns out) was not for sleeping. Instead, we spent a couple hours at the house of a Marabout- a religious guide, one of Cheikh Amadou Bamba's grandsons. It was fascinating. We talked with him about religion and gender, and he served us a delicious dinner (that unfortunately we were all too full to enjoy). What was really interesing was the respect the Murids award to him and the other Marabouts- we were all forbidden from looking him in the eye, and Saliou kept his head bowed as low as possible the entire time. It was actually sort of frightening to see Saliou so submissive.
We passed the night under that thatched hut I'd watched the cow from, on a little mattress.
In the morning, I took my first Touba shower- a bucket shower in a small hut with a drain to one side. It's being clean that matters tho, not how you get there. We spent the morning helping the women cook-
they continued to be friendly, chatted with us, and taught us tips on how to chop onions without a cutting board and how to keep from tearing up (put an onion peel on your head while you cut- it actually works).
Then we had a delicious lunch. It was... beef.
We spent the afternoon discovering some more about Muridism and the Marabouts. We dressed in our traditional clothes
(I had one made the week before, which I love) and headed out for a 25 minute walk in the 114 degree farenheit weather to visit a Marabout. Yea, it was hot. But more than hot, it was fascinating... we spent the first part of the visit with a man and his sons, discussing soccer and music and travel. The family (and the Marabout, and Saliou) are Baay Falls: a subsect of Muridism, the Baay Falls were founded by a man who felt that the duties in the Quran (no alcohol, pray 5 times daily) were impossible for him to follow, but who was nonetheless not ready to give up his devotion to God and Mohommad. So, he founded the Baay Falls, a more laid-back sect. The Baay Falls are easily noticeable anywhere- they have massive dreadlocks, wear several layers of clothing ending in a striped sweater-vest-ish smock, and wear between one and five or six chunky wooden necklaces. Ryan, Becky's friend, commented that they look like pirates. Well said. Fabulous pirates, though.
Then we went to meet the actual Marabout himself- another grandson of Bamba.
What an experience. Our first encounter was outside his enormous house, when he stuck his arm through the bars of a window and men came running from all over to walk up, eyes downcast, and kiss his hand. The guys in our group did it too, as was expected of them. Then we were taken into a big living room, where we knelt on the ground in a mass of people awaiting the Marabout... and in he came, sat in a chair to one side of the room, and waited for people to approach. They literally crawled up to him in small groups to kiss his hand as he said a low prayer... then they crawled back and the next group approached. We went up too, crawled up and shook his hand (women don't kiss it), but I was shocked when instead of a prayer, he said to us in perfect English "hello! How are you!" Umm... we're fine thanks? He was very nice, and offered us lunch. So again we crawled away, then walked out to the foyer where we were served rice and meat (as usual) in a communal bowl (as usual) to eat with our hands (as usual). It was delicious (as usual), and I actually ate some cow pancreas (not usual, but quite tasty- tastes just like chicken).
We spent what remained of the afternoon cooking and resting,
and after dinner had a great time sharing a little bit of dance culture with our new Senegalese friends- they helped us with the Mbala (a dance to Youssou N'Dour, famous contemporary musician), and we showed them a little bit of swing, and of course, Cotton Eyed Joe. For those of you who are not familiar with Cotton Eyed Joe, this is a very popular middle school soiree/Bat Mitzvah/sweet 16/all-around feel-good line dance. It was a blast.
But all that, and we hadn't even celebrated Maggal yet. We still had the last leg of the pilgrimage to make. So at 2:00am, after a brief nap, Saliou, Becky, Becky's friends, and I got up and started our trek. It was over 4 miles to the Grand Mosque, but as was apparently the tradition, we all agreed to walk it. It was much easier than I expected- I was so high on adrenaline, and had some great talks with Saliou and some of Becky's friends. There was also a lot to see- markets, people (TONS of people, especially for 2am), and some bizarre things too: mosques with neon lights that looked like mini amusement parks, vendors selling teeshirts with the Marabouts' faces screened on them, right next to shirts with Eminem's face screened on them.
The Mosque itself was unlike anything I have ever experienced. It was stunning- powerful, beautiful, breathtaking, imposing, everything I'd expect a massive house of god to be.
Just striking.
It almost looked like it should be one of the castles or fortresses defended in the Lord of the Rings movies. The Mosque was enormous and entirely made of marble, with lights illuminating the four smaller towers and the one main one ("Lamp Fall" it's called). In the courtyard between the buildings were tons and tons of people sleeping and milling about- people who'd come for the pilgrimage and were happy to sleep in the sand in exchange for the opporutnity.
Saliou took us into almost all of the smaller buildings, which house the tombs of past Marabouts- in fact, we went into one building and found men singing and dancing, arms and faces raised, around a large cage- which apparently houses the actual tomb of Cheikh Amadou Bamba. In all of these buildings (temples?) we did as the Murids did, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible (not easy)... we checked our veils to be sure our hair and shoulders were covered, touched the wall and then our faces in some sign of spirituality, and sat down in silent prayer (or in our case, reflection). It was fascinating. Also interesting, but not surprising, was that in many of the buildings the women had to enter and exit, even pray, separately from the men.
Our final stop was the main building- the Mosque itself. I'm not sure if Mosque needs to be capitalized here, in fact I don't think it does, but trust me this Mosque deserves a capital C (no, I'm not converting, just in awe). The line for the men was out of control, so Saliou sent Becky, Kate, Sam, and me in alone. Inside, the Mosque is as gorgeous as it is outside- all pillars and arches, carved so, so intricately in cream/rose/blue arabic shapes.
Beautiful. We waited in line for a while, inside the main foyer, while the men's line advanced. What I found really strange about the situation was that there were guards, Murids, walking about ensuring that the women's headscarves were on right and that nobody was making trouble- but also that there were actual police doing the same thing, police with massive guns at their sides. In a mosque. I wonder if they're always there, or just to keep the peace on Maggal.
Finally the women's line started to move... and then it started to MOVE. The guards and police shouted, go! fast!, and we the women ran through the gate at the front, being pushed not only by the women behind us but also by the guards. I still have no idea why we had to get there so fast, but the Senegalese women did not seem phased. Inside, we sat in prayer again, in yet another beautiful room that I believe was a tomb. We left pretty quickly, tired and ready to find the guys, but had some trouble... you see Saliou had said he'd meet us at the exit, but there were a lot of exits, and the Mosque is massive. A really sweet young Senegalese woman tried to help us (in wolof), but ended up leading us into more prayer rooms. Finally we found the guys, and got ready to finish up the night with a nice car rapide ride home.
Unfortunately, the car rapides were not running. Nothing was running. Traffic was at a total standstill, since it was almost morning and everyone was trying to leave the city to go home. So instead of driving, we started to walk. And walk. I hate to whine, but really, it was so, so painful. I had slept 9 hours in the past 3 nights, had already walked 4 or 5 miles that night, hadn't eaten since dinner, and felt like every cell in my body was ready to collapse, or implode. And it was so hard to breathe, walking through streets filled with cars made in the 80s puffing exhaust in our faces. But on we walked. After a mile or two traffic finally picked up, and we found a car rapide to take us home. Becky and Saliou got on, and I walked up to follow them, when the car started rolling! Fast! Sam, Kate, Ryan, Elie and I ran and ran after the car rapide, me in my stupid narrow Senegalese skirt, and finally it slowed down enough so that Saliou could reach out and grab me, and pull me into the moving car rapide. It was really pretty hilarious. The rest made it in within a minute, and we collapsed for the ride home.
The story doesn't quite end there, but that's about the end of the Maggal pilgrimage story. What happened next is just sort of uncomfortable- on my way to meet Tabs and go back to campus Saliou announced that he loved me. He tried to keep me from leaving, and something questionable happened on my way back to find Tabs that caused me to be an hour late- I'm not sure if there was a misunderstanding, or if Saliou was maybe not trying really hard to get me to Tabs, but I got into a minor fight with Saliou over it when he refused to drop the question of romance. I was pissed, but it all ended up fine: I found Tabs, went home, took a fabulous cold shower, and collapsed into my bed, where I slept for 21 hours straight.
And that was my trip to Touba.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
