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.
