Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Stars, Salutations, and Sacrificial Cows

Salaam Malekum. Before beginning, I just want to point out that this is the second entry being posted at this time. You’ll need to scroll down to read the first post, and then you can scroll back up to read this one.

Picking up where I left off previously, I’m going to share some of my memories from the four day village stay I enjoyed in the Sine-Saloum delta of Southwestern Senegal. We left early on Saturday, May 13th, crammed into an absolutely hilarious, bright orange car rapide, on top of which were piled suitcases, backpacks, about 100 liters of bottled water, and, of course, one surfboard. Inside the orange bus were eight students (including myself), two Americans who had lived in the village previously, a local guide, and the driver. As we bounced our way out of Dakar on potholed roads – the driver’s prayer mat repeatedly falling from the little shelf, decorated with marabout images, where it was stored – we couldn’t help but notice the change in scenery. Buildings and shanty towns gave way to open landscapes and the deserts of the Sahel – baobab trees, with their gnarled, crooked limbs stretching always outward, beginning to dot the terrain in all directions. Small villages occasionally popped up in the distance, and sometimes children herding animals or women fetching water waved to us from the side of the road. We began to realize that, though Dakar is no less genuinely “African,” what we were seeing now was the Africa that everyone imagines. And, if this realization hadn’t fully sunk in after four or five hours of driving through the heat, what happened next surely reminded everyone of just what it means to be traveling in Africa. Having finally reached the delta, we noticed that the pot-holed, paved road had now become a dirt road meandering across expansive salt flats and tidal plains. Apparently, our driver was in the mood for some adventure because he decided (for reasons we still haven’t been told) that the dry road ahead looked less promising than the two feet of standing water (carried in by the tides) to the side. Off we went, and, not surprisingly, we made it exactly halfway through the pool of water before becoming stuck. The driver then revved the tires for a few minutes just to make sure they were buried extra-deep in the mud. Once everyone had filed out the back, the other three guys and I put all our strength into pushing the bus out but, despite a cheering audience of ladies, had no luck. So, standing in the 100 degree heat with no shelter – not even a tree – anywhere in sight, our feet covered in mud, we were barely even phased by the scene (or was it a mirage?) which unfolded. Out of nowhere, what had to have been an entire village appeared on the road, walking directly towards us. Most of them standing a half foot taller than the guys in our group, they gave the bus one shove and, with a bit of hooting and hollering, had us out in a matter of seconds. Barely allowing us time to thank them, the villagers abruptly turned around and began walking home; we could only stare at one another and grin as we ourselves recommenced our journey, truly excited about the new and unpredictable version of Africa which lay ahead.

At last, we saw it: Palmarin – our home for the next four days. Located beside the ocean, just north of the delta’s extensive mangrove swamps, Palmarin is a small, traditional fishing village. Virtually everyone in the village is related, and everyone, of course, knows one another. Being a Serer (the third or fourth largest ethnicity in Senegal) village, Wolof is not the predominant language (though it, as well as French, is generally understood). Also, the village is divided nearly equally between Muslims and Christians; one of its greatest sources of pride is that its small mosque and church stand almost next to each other, and everyone coexists peacefully. As far as work, the villagers divide their energy among fishing, collecting salt from the salt flats, and preparing the fish to be shipped inland. When our giant orange bus pulled into the village, we were immediately surrounded by at least fifty children who looked at us with curiosity and whispered to each other and giggled. One little boy got up the courage to come shake my hand, and, after I introduced myself and showed him my surfboard, the ice had been broken. Little Ousmane ran ahead of me, balancing the surfboard on his head, motioning to me to hurry as he led me to my new homestay at the residence of Abdoulaye Sarr and his family. Abdoulaye was immediately welcoming, and we were soon lost in a great conversation. Though he spoke no English, we got along quite well in French and had very few communication problems. The language element of the village homestay actually turned out to be one of the most rewarding for me because I was forced to speak literally nothing but French. In Dakar I’m around the other W&L students (most of whom don’t speak French) so often that I find it very difficult to maintain a French-speaking mindset. The constant switching back and forth really hinders my language uptake, as does my Dakar family’s frequent use of Wolof at home. That’s not to say that my French hasn’t improved tremendously in Dakar, but the village homestay really forced me to focus on it and, in turn, kind of jump-started my conversational ability.

One of my most unique memories from the village occurred after I asked Abdoulaye to show me the beach (it might not come as a surprise that I made this request about 45 minutes after arriving). After we had trudged down sandy paths for a few minutes, walking around animals and greeting children, the beach came into sight. Aboulaye, however, pointed out a straw hut to my right and said we should go greet the “grandfathers.” I realized that the “grandfathers” were basically the elders of the village, the men who make the important decisions and command enormous respect. As I slipped off my shoes and ducked into the hut, I was hit with a wave of greetings. In traditional Senegalese fashion, I made my way slowly around the circle to greet each of the ten or fifteen elders individually. My training at the Baobab Center fortunately came back to me, and I found myself instinctively grasping my right arm with my left hand as I shook the elders’ hands (as a sign of deference), bowing slightly and avoiding making prolonged eye contact, and – most surprising to me of all – shifting seamlessly among French, Wolof, and Serer to respond to salutations. Abdoulaye literally had just taught me the Serer salutations, but, despite feeling a bit flustered, I managed to remember almost everything. I exhaled a sigh of relief after I had shaken the last hand and gladly accepted Abdoulaye’s invitation to continue to the beach.

During our time in Palmarin, we enjoyed a variety of activities. Sunday began with a tour of the village and, quite memorably, was kicked off by the village chief himself. We all gathered into a small room, in which the elderly chief extended to us (by way of a translator) his best wishes and a warm welcome. We then sat in silence for a moment as he recited an ancient prayer for our safety and well-being. As we walked leisurely through the village and down the beach, huge crowds of kids fell in behind us, kicking soccer balls, shaking our hands, and laughing. They were so curious and attached that some of the local men on the tour felt obliged to shoo them away, though we tried to explain that such action was unnecessary. Sunday night was spent at a regional wresting match in a nearby village. We stopped halfway through the 45 minute trip to the village at a mango farm owned by the villagers and helped ourselves to delicious fruit straight from the trees. Wrestling is considered one of the national sports of Senegal, though it’s rather different than the wrestling known by most Westerners. The two fighters, wearing nothing but loin cloths and perhaps a few charms (grigri), begin by clawing at each other like cats, alternating hands each time. This continues until one of them thinks he sees an opening and he makes a move to take down his opponent. Sometimes, the wrestlers remain in a stand-off – each refusing to give up his current hold on the other – but eventually one of them is able to break free, make a violently quick move, and throw the other. Once contact with the sand is made, the match is over. The match we watched featured very loud drumming and African music throughout, and the audience included various sections of men and women dressed in elaborate, traditional outfits. In all, it was a bit chaotic and difficult to follow but definitely a unique experience. Monday’s main activity was a pirogue tour of the mangrove swamps. The guides laughed and called me Indiana Jones as I climbed into the narrow boat wearing my sunglasses and wide-brimmed safari hat. We rested contentedly as we motored through narrow channels among the mangroves; crocodiles didn’t present a problem, but the trip was still exciting enough. That night we attended a traditional drumming and dance exhibition performed by the women of Palmarin. The central meeting area of the village, called L’Arena, is a sand filled auditorium of sorts surrounded by baobabs. The other two male students and I – being guys – couldn’t help but pretend we were Russell Crowe in “Gladiator” and took pictures of ourselves kneeling dramatically in the sand. The drumming and dancing were amazing, and we each had a chance to join in. Basically, the dancing involves a whole lot of shaking of the booty (that was phrased politely, eh?) and stomping of the feet. The women were so coordinated that their movements coincided with the complicated rhythm of the drumming, but the students, for the most part, just kind of floundered. Two of us also managed to break a traditional, ceremonial fishing net used only for special occasions. In performing the ritual, after one of the women places a stick part of the way in the net, another woman creeps up carefully behind the stick, to the beat of the music, and then quickly snatches up the net, thereby “catching” the stick. Basically the Senegalese equivalent of a rain-dance, this ritual is supposed to bring the fishermen good luck. Well, hopefully, their fish supply hasn’t run out recently, because the two students who tried to mimic the ritual pulled too hard on the net and tore it apart. Oops.

Needless to say, living in Palmarin was very different than living in Dakar. One of the biggest changes was adjusting to having absolutely no privacy. My room, which basically was just a concrete cubicle with holes in the roof and two square openings in the walls for windows, was open to the public at all times, even at night. Abdoulaye ate all his meals with me in my room, and we sat on small stools around the bowl in traditional fashion. He also felt obliged to accompany me absolutely everywhere, so I literally didn’t have a minute to myself the entire day. My home also lacked electricity and running water, which certainly wasn’t a big deal to me but was nevertheless a change. For showering, one receives a bucket of water and a scooper with which to pour it over himself. The only problem I had with the outhouse was not knowing at first to lock the gate which separates it from the rest of the household; the goats which live beside the outhouse were all too eager to escape and wasted no time in heading for freedom. My apologies didn’t seem to carry much weight as they scampered out into the village, nay’ing mischievously. Breakfast each morning was a whole baguette eaten like a sandwich, with butter inside, and coffee to drink. Lunch and dinner were the typical Senegalese dishes – cheb., mafait, etc. Eating a lot of food is very important in Senegal, especially rural Senegal, so I was constantly being told “Mangez, mangez!” One of my friends, having visited several homestays during the evening, ended up being forced to eat four dinners in one night. At night the stars shone brighter than I could have hoped, and I was reminded of how much I enjoy the country. I do enjoy cities and all they have to offer, but I can’t help but prefer the tranquility and peace of living under the open sky.

As I mentioned earlier, surfing – as the pandemic it rightfully is – entered the village of Palmarin by way of myself. With a north swell predominating, Palmarin didn’t get much in the way of waves while I was there, but I didn’t regret for a minute taking my board. Basically, I had the chance to introduce the sport of surfing – the lifestyle of surfing – to a place it had never before touched, to a people who knew nothing about it. There were a few ripples on Monday, so I took my board out after lunch – of course, followed by an entourage of kids – and gave my first surf lesson. For some reason most of the students initially wanted to try to stand up on the side with the fins (the bottom of the board), which I found to be interesting. I also had to correct those who tried to paddle with both arms at once, which usually ended up in the board tipping over. In the end, there wasn’t a whole lot of surfing that went down (though I did manage to get a few rides), but there was a fantastic exchange of culture, and this made the trip to Palmarin all the more special.

My strongest and most cherished memory from Palmarin, though, is of the long, laughter-filled conversations I had there. My family and the family of Becky, another student, ended up spending lots of time together in the evenings, gathered around a candle talking well into the night. We literally exchanged stories, professed fears, and talked of hopes and dreams as if we’d known each other for ages. Becky speaks good French, so language hang-ups were few and far between, and I could feel my French improving by the minute. It’s amazing what you’re capable of doing when you’re thrust into a situation of having to “play up” to a higher ability level in order to keep up with others. As Becky and I told jokes in French and tried to explain and demonstrate American dances to our new friends, I could see cross-cultural bonding taking place right before my eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether, if I had chosen to come to Senegal on my own for a homestay experience similar to the others I’ve chosen, I would have found this very village and ended up living with this very family. It all seemed so perfect, so exactly in tune with what I always hope to get out of language and cultural immersion experiences. I felt almost as relaxed as I would at home in the States; that is, if it weren’t for Fatou…

Yes, one interesting, very memorable, element of the cross cultural bonding involved a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl named Fatou N’Dour. Fatou’s family – and my father Abdoulaye – decided early on that I was destined to be Fatou’s husband. Yes, you read that correctly. The introductions took place rather formally; Becky warned me about 10 seconds in advance about what was going to happen before Fatou appeared in front of the group, wearing her veil as usual, and was introduced to me. The jaws of the other guys in the group dropped, and they told me I’d better not pass up this opportunity. Nevertheless, after thinking the matter over I decided that, despite Fatou’s beauty and undeniable intelligence and charm, I wasn’t quite ready for marriage. After trying to convey this to the families in French, I thought the matter was settled. But, then, on the last night, just when I was relaxing into another great conversation, the sacrificial cows entered the picture. Yes, you read that correctly as well. Fatou’s family began reiterating how much they would love for me to take Fatou back to America. I stumbled through an explanation of how I couldn’t afford to buy her plane ticket, but, in doing so, I really opened up a can of worms. Abdoulaye suddenly piped in, promising me that he would buy the plane ticket. Then, he made the offer which he honestly thought would seal the deal: 5 sacrificial cows! Holy beef, an airline ticket, a beautiful bride…what more could I have possibly asked for? Still a bit ecstatic at the prospect of receiving those heffers, I simply couldn’t make my French work. Not a word. Fortunately, Becky came to my aid and tactfully changed the subject while politely declining the marriage for me. I don’t even remember what she said (“Man, that’s a lot of beef…”), but whatever it was, it apparently worked. As I rode off the next morning in my big orange bus, my face plastered to the window in order to steal one last glance at the bride who could have been, I couldn’t help but wonder… “Will she always be the one who got away?” This I may never know, but I am truly afraid that I’ll never really come to terms with my passing up the sacrificial cows…perhaps the greatest mistake of my life.

After a brief stop on Tuesday at a game reserve, at which we saw rhinoceros (very up-close!), giraffes, crocodiles, and many other cool African animals, we returned to find Dakar as loud and brash as ever. Though I do love Dakar and all its personality, I’ll always feel a bit of nostalgia for the laid-back, friendly pace of life in Palmarin. The friendships I formed there in such a short amount of time are truly a testament to the hospitality and openness of its people, whose memory I will long cherish.

Warning: Scholarly Material Ahead

Greetings. I’m faced once again with the question of where to take this blog. Should it be academic and serious in nature, or should it recount only my humorous, entertaining, or near-death experiences (which some people seem to find entertaining)? Considering the way in which I engage very serious issues of culture and language using non-serious media like surfing, it should not come as a surprise that I want this blog to be both serious and fun. With that in mind, this post is going to fall mainly under the serious category. I’ve written several formal papers for my classes here in Senegal, and I’d like to share them – not really for the sake of inspiring literary or political debate but for the insights I believe they offer about Senegalese culture and about what I have been experiencing here on a near daily basis. I have copied and pasted a few excerpts from my two literary analyses and, following them, my final research paper for politics in its entirety. The politics paper, in particular, analyzes numerous aspects of Senegalese culture and offers my view on the status of democracy in this country. Though the oral presentation of my study resulted in a good bit of criticism, it inspired more debate than almost any other presentation, so I’m pretty sure I hit on something important. Additionally, the thesis I pose evolved from a very existentialist philosophical inquiry, demonstrating – as my friend reminded me – that the University Scholars existentialism class I took last fall “just won’t go away.” Read as much or as little of the following as you wish – I promise more entertaining stories with my next post, but I believe too that these analyses constitute a worthwhile read in themselves. Enjoy.


on Ferdinand Oyono’s Houseboy:

At the core of the West African storytelling tradition–and particularly evident in modern West African works–is a ceaseless struggle to define and, ultimately, to understand one’s self-identity. Truly spanning the ages, this struggle was instrumental in the rigidly hierarchical societies of centuries past and is equally, if not more, crucial for today’s generation of West Africans, which must at last move beyond the atrocities of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and colonial intervention and look ahead to a brighter future. Oyono’s Houseboy brilliantly captures this struggle for identity, particularly in relation to the clash between tradition and modernity, the interactions of religion and society, and the overriding importance of fate.

West Africa is perhaps one of the most “backward” yet simultaneously progressive regions in the entire world. Consider, for instance, the fact that Senegal, one of Africa’s most democratic nations, is bordered by Mauritania, one of the last countries in the world to outlaw slavery. In the streets of the region’s major cities, carts pulled by horses appear side-by-side with the newest and most expensive European and American cars. Off the coast of West Africa, local fishermen in hand-crafted pirogues compete against well-funded foreign fishermen using state-of-the-art equipment and boats. In every part of West African society, there exists an element of this clash between tradition and modernity, and it often makes defining one’s identity difficult.

Considering the importance of language–and the fact that particular languages not only express what one thinks but also how he thinks–how can West Africans living in Francophone (or Anglophone) West Africa truly understand their roots and, subsequently, their identity? Furthermore, how are French- (or English-) speaking West Africans to be called? In the beginning of Houseboy, a dying Toundi asks the narrator, (4) “‘Brother . . . Brother, what are we? What are we blackmen who are called French?’” With the advent of new languages and new cultures, many West Africans have become virtually nameless, lacking any genuine self-identity. Certainly, Toundi is not really a Frenchman as he says, but, having been in large part (though not fully) assimilated into European culture, he is no longer African in the traditional sense, either. Ultimately, the perplexed and disillusioned Toundi whom the reader encounters at the story’s outset, when Toundi is on his deathbed, reflecting on the tragic events which are recounted in his journal, is the embodiment of the West African without an identity. Perhaps a warning from Oyono to fellow West Africans or perhaps just a symbol of Africa’s lost generations, Toundi clearly illustrates the necessity of reconciling tradition and modernity in defining one’s identity.


on Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus:

In spite of the desolate villages of torn Africa
Hope was preserved in us as in a fortress
And from the mines of Swaziland to the factories of Europe
Spring will be reborn under our bright steps.
– “The Vultures”

Modern-day West Africa sits at a crossroads–its past as relevant to the present as its future, the memories which beg to be forgotten intersecting with the hopes for a brighter tomorrow. It is at this crossroads that today’s West Africans must forge a new identity for themselves, amalgamating their histories with their dreams and their indigenous traditions with those they adopted from others. This crossroads is characterized by a constant struggle for freedom–freedom from political subordination and cultural submission to foreign powers–for though West Africa’s governments have regained their sovereignty, its people still struggle to define their identity. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel Purple Hibiscus, the coming-of-age tale of a fifteen-year-old girl named Kambili’s personal transformation as she comes to recognize and–ultimately–to free herself from the bondage imposed on her by her overly paternalistic, fanatically religious father, brilliantly captures the essence of the modern-day West African’s struggle for freedom. Both Kambili and the society she represents find themselves bowing to gods they love yet simultaneously hate, and only by rediscovering the meaning of freedom can they begin the slow yet necessary process of accepting the past, looking to the future, and regaining the happiness that both deserve. Throughout the novel freedom is most clearly manifested in terms of love, laughter, and courage–perpetually contemporaneous ideals which truly transcend cultural boundaries.

As the colonial powers did for West Africa, Papa makes many praiseworthy contributions to the life of Kambili, so she cannot help but feel a sense of attachment, gratefulness, and perhaps even dependence towards him. Nevertheless, she also cannot help but feel conflicting emotions–resentment, detest, hatred–for being physically battered and psychologically abused on a regular basis by the same person who brings her so much happiness. Being a father, to Papa, is like the enterprise of colonialism: “A civilizing mission that is portrayed as benevolent, benign, and sanctioned by God” (Cham 50). What both he and the colonial powers fail to realize is that they themselves do not have the ability to decide what is “sanctioned by God.” By playing God, not only do they impose on others their own ideas, beliefs, and desires but also they take from those whom–for the most part–they wish to help the freedom which constitutes the very source of happiness for those people.

I laughed. It seemed so easy now, laughter. So many things seemed easy now. Jaja was laughing, too, as was Amaka, and we were all sitting on the grass . . . [Obiora] walked up slowly, holding something that turned out to be a grasshopper. . . . He spread his palm and watched the grasshopper fly off. (Adichie 284-285)
Kambili’s laughter is liberating for her, and, though she does not yet possess the wings to escape captivity as the grasshopper does, she can at least momentarily free herself from reality. Her reliance upon laughter is perhaps representative of how West Africans have managed to cope with their injustices and how they can continue to do so as they strive for greater freedom and personal identity. Closely tied to–and, indeed, emerging from–the oral tradition, laughter seems to hold special significance within the context of the West Africa of both yesterday and tomorrow.

In conclusion, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus is a powerful story of change, both in terms of young Kambili and the West African society she represents. It is a tale of how blossoms of freedom can emerge in even the darkest of prisons and how, with love, laughter, and courage, enslaved individuals can triumph over their masters. Though West Africa has its political freedom, its people still search for an identity, living within a culture shaped by their own past as well as that of foreign powers. It is through coming to terms with this past and forging ahead with a new and unique sense of freedom that, like Kambili, modern-day West Africans can create for themselves the extraordinary future they deserve.


Politics: Final Research Paper:

A Culture of Car Rapides, Cadeaux, and Collectivism:
Impediments for Senegalese Democracy

Senegal, Francophone West Africa’s “beacon of democracy,” is heralded for having held relatively free and fair political elections and for having played host to not one coup since its independence in 1960. Likewise, the election of Abdoulaye Wade in 2000 and the alternance this entailed triggered worldwide optimism from democratic hopefuls. Further, in this day of religious intolerance and persecution, Senegal rests atop a pedestal as a model for religious cohabitation, particularly between Muslims and Christians. Unfortunately, however, upon closer inspection these successes constitute nothing more than a façade of democracy, beneath which exists many serious problems. Rampant corruption, the absence of a free press, gender inequality, widespread poverty, and, at times, nonsecular politics all stand in the way of democracy. This analysis holds that understanding why Senegal lacks a truly functioning democracy despite its history of political stability is as simple as hopping on one of the anachronistically comical yellow and blue car rapides which are considered a national symbol by locals and cherished as a fond memory by visitors. Unlike busses in the West with distinctly separate seats for each person, all of which typically face forward, Senegal’s car rapides consist of two benches facing one another and running from the front of the bus to the back. The result of this seating arrangement is overcrowded busses in which personal space does not exist and a collective mentality persists in its stead. It is this collective mentality, lying at the very core of Senegalese society and manifesting itself in all aspects of the nation’s culture, which is the most fundamental obstruction to democratic progress within the government. In this study evidence of collectivism and examination of how it encumbers democratic progress will be provided through an analysis of the religion, social and familial mores, and political centralization of Senegal, as well as a concluding look at the methodology of the analyses themselves.

Before proceeding, however, a note on the definition of democracy, as it will be considered in this analysis, is necessary. This study is not intended to be comparative in nature–simply juxtaposing Senegalese democracy (or the lack thereof) with American or European democracy–nor is it meant to be a purely theoretical inquiry based on a definition of democracy so rigid as to be unrealistic in any part of the world. Moreover, it is not meant to be perceived as a vindication for the spread of democracy; in fact, it is the author’s belief that the very reasons why Senegal lacks a functioning democracy perhaps also indicate that some other form of government might be better suited for the wellbeing of its people. Instead, this analysis will attempt to penetrate deep into the social framework of Senegal in order to understand better the collective mentality which unites its people and prevents its government from being able to establish a functioning democracy. Rather than navigating the intricacies of determining what truly constitutes a functioning democracy–in other words, what amount of socially redistributive political action is permitted before what was previously a democracy must be called something else–the emphasis of this study will be on the Senegalese people, particularly on instances or examples of their behavior and mindset which are undeniably collectivist in nature and therefore not conducive to democracy (however rigidly it is defined) on a political scale. It is the leveling nature of collectivist ideals which makes them incompatible with democracy; equality in a truly democratic sense champions the individual and his inherent right to pursue success without impediment. Rather than suppressing individualistic achievement to maintain social conformity, democratic equality exalts the personal freedom and self-determination present in a system which allows people to act out of self-interest. Freedom, individuality, and self-determination do not exist at the core of Senegal’s social framework, and, for this reason, close analysis of the mentality of the Senegalese people is more important than a meticulous, drawn-out study of the Senegalese government and its democratic shortcomings.

One of the most obvious ways in which the collective mentality of the Senegalese manifests itself is through religion, particularly Islam, which is practiced by approximately 95% of the population. Though Islam in Senegal differs greatly from that of much of the Arab world, in which fundamentalism is much more common, the core tenets of the religion are certainly present, and these were long ago identified as contrary to the basic spirit of democracy. Alexis Tocqueville, for instance, “had little confidence in Islam’s potential for fostering social equality and democracy . . . [and regarded it] as too detailed in its prescriptions and a rigid unbending fundamentalist religion where all the rules were clearly laid down and enforced by a theocratic state” (Sheldon Gellar 108). While it is important to note that Senegal is technically a secular state and that the vast majority of its Muslims are moderate and tolerant in their views, Islam is built upon a foundation of collectivism which does not readily coalesce with democracy. Consider, first, the principle of alms giving, which is one of the Five Pillars of Islam. Though an emphasis on charity is certainly not in opposition to the spirit of democracy, the notion that individuals are morally obligated to give a percentage of their wealth to those who have less not only is anti-capitalistic but is indeed undemocratic, as well. Democracy implies only equality of opportunity, and, further, it grants individuals the freedom to act as they wish provided that they do not infringe upon the rights of others. In Islam, though, everyone who is able is expected to partake in almsgiving, regardless of whether the beneficiaries are truly needy or, for example, they are “wealthy men who desperately need money to repay their debts to avoid insolvency and public humiliation” (Gellar 113). Such a system in which fiscal irresponsibility and lack of motivation are condoned and their consequences mitigated by a wide-reaching social safety net is perfectly antithetical to democracy and capitalism as they are known in the West. The situation is complicated further in Senegal by the presence of talibés, young children enrolled in Koranic schools who spend much of the day wandering the streets as beggars to provide the salaries of their teachers. This is a case not only of a collectivist mentality (in that people readily give these children money) but also of genuine exploitation, in which “democracy” allows for minors to be manipulated and taken advantage of in the name of religion.

One last aspect of religion in Senegal which serves as an obstacle to democracy involves the widespread participation in Islamic brotherhoods and allegiance to marabouts, the spiritual leaders of the brotherhoods. Linda J. Beck, a political pundit, explains that “Mouride marabouts offer a prime example of . . . the ‘decentralized despotism’ of customary authority. . . . Because recent efforts at democratization in Africa have largely ignored decentralized despotism, political reforms have failed to empower ordinary Africans” (602). Because members of these brotherhoods profess absolute, undying allegiance to their marabout, they essentially sacrifice the self-determination they should possess as a result of democratic politics. Further, by relinquishing their individual autonomy, they reject democratic ideals and instead emphasize “strong communitarian values that [stress] the subordination of individual preferences to community norms” (Gellar 109). Finally, the prevalence of the brotherhoods and power of the marabouts threaten democracy in a theocratic sense: “The separation of church and state has become more problematic since Wade came to power. One of Wade’s first acts as president was to go to Touba to ask for the blessing of the Grand Khalife and to reconfirm his submission to his spiritual guide” (Gellar 122). How can a democratic, supposedly secular government allow its leader to acknowledge publicly his adherence to the desires of a particular religious leader? There cannot be a functioning democracy in Senegal while religious leaders wield more power than the president, the vast majority of the nation’s citizens prefer microcosms of despotism over democratic society, and a collective mentality which relegates the significance of the individual remains so rampant.

The social and familial mores of Senegal–particularly with regard to the exchange of assets, the structure of home life, and the art of association–also illustrate the collectivist mentality which obstructs democratic progress. The widespread prevalence of beggars in the form of talibés has already been noted, but the problem extends even further to constitute what might be termed a “culture of cadeaux.” Caucasian visitors to Senegal automatically are perceived as rich and affluent and face the overwhelmingly unified expectation of locals to hand out gifts to new acquaintances and strangers alike. Using the Wolof word for “foreigner,” local children and even some adults repeatedly demand “Toubab, cadeaux,” expecting a gift on the basis of being less financially secure (or, at least, perceiving themselves to be that way). Again, how can democracy hope to exist in a society in which this mentality of expecting free handouts–ingrained in children from the very beginning–flourishes? It cannot, and, further, it faces the added problem of a widespread acceptance of the redistribution of wealth. Sheldon Gellar reports that the Senegalese “stress consensus over majority decision-making rules, the importance of sharing benefits and burdens over maximizing profits, and solidifying social relations and networks over attaining specific economic objectives” (171). Thus, the desires of the Senegalese seem far more conducive to some type of socialist government than to a democratic one. Lastly, in terms of this notion of the exchange of assets, the way the Senegalese exchange information also is not representative of democratic thinking. Radio trottoir, or “pavement radio,” a truly African phenomenon in which the radio is used to spread news, rumor, and gossip, is an inherently collective media outlet, and “it is for the same reason that, in less modern communities, gossip and indeed witchcraft allegations often have an egalitarian effect, punishing individuals who threaten to become too much more powerful than their neighbours” (Ellis 329). The image of large groups of Senegalese sitting around a single radio, acquiring knowledge from a single, unreliable source, brings to mind the oral tradition and the long history of Senegalese sitting around a baobab tree with a single griot–again, an uncontestable if not unreliable source of knowledge with the power to make or break individuals at his discretion. This lack of individual thought in the exchange of ideas–like the collective means of exchanging material assets–is not conducive to democracy.

The structure of home life also exhibits a spirit of collectivism. First, unlike the small, atomic families common in the West, Senegalese society is comprised of large, extended family networks that function according to principles of sharing and solidarity, which are clearly illustrated in the communal method of eating in Senegal termed “around the bowl.” Also, rather than exhibiting the post-materialistic attitude often found in developed countries, many Senegalese simply “accumulate basic necessities in order to survive and to have the ability to assist members of the extended family in time of need” (Vengroff and Magala 135). This, perhaps, explains why there are relatively few homeless people in the streets of large cities like Dakar, considering the country’s widespread poverty. Though this is certainly positive in one regard, one might speculate as to whether having to support relatives who otherwise would be homeless fetters the rest of the family to a destitute, barely sustainable standard of living, thereby essentially nullifying the benefits of democracy. Lastly, familial mores encompass an acceptance of both polygamy and the superiority of males. Polygamy is, of course, in itself a collective institution–in which women must share their husband with others–but its implications are more severe in that it clearly sanctions gender inequality. Thus, with the structure of home life in Senegal permitting inequality and preventing individualist achievement, democracy unsurprisingly fades into the background.

A final aspect of Senegalese social and familial mores concerns what political analyst Sheldon Gellar terms the “art of association.” While some degree of association amongst individuals is certainly necessary for the perpetuation of a successful democracy, too much emphasis on sharing–as was noted earlier–downplays the importance of the individual and thereby limits what can be achieved on both a personal and societal level. Gellar asserts that “old attachments to the values of mutual reciprocity and solidarity became an integral part of the notion of Demokarassi, the newly coined Wolof word for democracy. . . . [These values] obliged individuals to be prepared to contribute when others in their social networks expressed the need for assistance” (106-107). A good example of how sharing and associative living are overemphasized in Senegal involves tontines, associations in which women contribute a set amount of money on a regular basis and take turns receiving the lump sum. The idea behind tontines is that receiving a large amount of money on occasion allows people to solve problems or make investments that typically would be out of financial reach. Tontines can, in some ways, be interpreted as a highly creative way in which Senegalese can counter collectivist pressures and take financial matters into their own hands in the absence of a well-developed banking system. At the same time, though, something seems amiss in the irony of fighting collectivism with a collectivist enterprise. The crucial question, then, is why tontines prove to be necessary at all. If so many people are trying to fight against collectivism–first–why does collectivism still persist, and–second–why is there not a more individualistic alternative for fighting against it? If there exists such a high demand for banks, why has no one taken advantage of this situation and, out of self-interest, sought to supply the country with banks? Paradoxically, the democratic desires of the people who participate in tontines are what illustrate the undemocratic core of Senegalese society; not only does the need of these individuals for tontines point to widespread collectivism throughout society but also the fact that these individuals resort instinctively to a collectivist strategy as opposed to one more reflective of their fundamental intentions (which are supposedly grounded in self-interest) indicates a foundation of non-democracy which permeates their culture.

Political centralization is the third element of Senegalese society which must be addressed in this study of collectivism and its relation to democracy. First, one of the most fundamental concepts to be elucidated is that of clientelism. Senegal has a long history of patron-client relationships between the government and the common people, and, in modern-day society, this system presents one of the most significant problems for democracy. Gellar concurs in the following passage, pointing out some of the dangers which accompany clientelism:
Given the persistence of patrimonial mores, it should not be surprising that many Senegalese political leaders see criticism as personal attacks, have difficulty sharing power and delegating authority to others, and seek to win support and popularity by generously rewarding their followers and constituents with money, jobs, and other material benefits. (156)
It seems highly unlikely that true democracy can emerge from a system that fosters corruption and does not permit serious criticism of the government. Additionally, clientelism fosters what Gellar terms “democratic despotism”; he says that after independence, “Senegal’s new rulers succumbed to the temptations of power and sought to establish a state apparatus that was even more centralized than the state structures they had inherited, often at the expense of their people’s political liberty” (43). It seems very likely that the collective mentality of politicians is what makes them feel justified in centralizing power and depriving the people not only of their right to make decisions but also of their right to complain. How, for example, could the Parti Socialiste maintain control of Senegalese politics for forty years while so many of the country’s problems persisted? The answer lies in democratic despotism and, even more fundamentally, in the collectivist mentality which continues to interfere with and obstruct the traditional safeguards of democracy.

The final subject which must be addressed–at least briefly–in this study is the methodology of interpreting and deciphering elements of Senegalese society and culture. Numerous examples of Senegalese collectivism–and their relevance to democracy and non-democracy–have been discussed in the preceding pages. It remains important to note, however, that Senegalese society is not exclusively collectivist; there do exist cases of individualist behavior and even traditions which point to an individualist mentality. The goal of this analysis, though, was to dig beneath the superficial Senegal portrayed by Western media, to weed out the atypical and the outliers in order to focus on shared traditions and behaviors, and then to demonstrate that what remains is overwhelmingly illustrative of a shared attachment to collectivist thinking. One may point to the vendors in Sandaga Market and speak of laissez-faire, free-market economics operating in its purest form–and the vendors are, indeed, undeniably persistent, resourceful, and interested in making a profit–but, at the same time, what lies beneath their outward show of aggressive self-interest? Is there a distinct hierarchy in Sandaga Market with some vendors emerging as the Walmart superpowers and others fading into economic oblivion due to inaptitude? Do the vendors go home each night, count their money over and over, and then think of ways to reinvest it in their enterprises to make additional profits? To answer these questions is to return to the starting point: collectivism. Sandaga Market has no hierarchy; virtually every shop is similar to the one next-door. Vendors probably make roughly the same amount of money, and, even more importantly, they often work together in collectivist fashion. Often, for example, a customer paying for a piece of artwork will realize that the man he has just paid is the owner of a nearby shop, that the actual creator of the artwork is in someone else’s shop, and that the man who returned the change does not even appear to work in the market! The vendors in Sandaga Market, despite the hard-nosed capitalist mentality they feign, work together to subsist on a very basic level and share their profits. They go home at night and divide the money they have earned among a large, extended family and then give the remaining change to talibés the next morning. While certainly there are anomalies of individualist behavior and thinking, what unites the Senegalese more than anything–transcending religion, language, and ethnicity–is a shared fondness for collectivist ways of living.

In conclusion, despite many successes since independence, Senegal still struggles to show signs of having a functioning democracy. Though on the surface this failure appears attributable simply to governmental corruption and abuse of power, the true source of failure runs much deeper. At the core of why Senegal lacks a functioning democracy are simple and seemingly innocuous traditions and patterns of behavior like riding on car rapides and expecting cadeaux from foreigners. Such behavior is representative of a collective mentality which pervades both the people and the government of Senegal and serves to impede and to obstruct the progress of democracy, as was seen in the previous analyses of the religion, social and familial mores, and political centralization of Senegal. Despite all that stands in their way, however, if the Senegalese decide that they truly want a democracy, they surely are capable of forging ahead and creating one which is grounded in their traditions and past yet empowers individuals to pursue their dreams and create for themselves and their country the bright future that both deserve.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

From Sea to Shining Sea

As the sun is swallowed up by the ocean in an explosion of red and orange, I stare longingly into the distance, searching for one of those bulges in the horizon which, though nearly imperceptible at first, hold the promise of four or five or maybe six magnificent set waves. Looking left, then right, I still see nothing and continue to wait patiently. I look down and notice that I’m floating back and forth with the current over the jagged reef which is a few feet below my board, and I feel a quick rush of adrenaline shoot through my body. Small fish are jumping and splashing everywhere; I steal a nervous glance behind me and brush aside the image of razor-sharp teeth suddenly clamping down on one of my legs. Unfazed by my presence, a duck dives beneath the surface (giving new meaning to the term duck-dive) and reemerges with its evening meal, though it struggles to get the flopping fish all the way down. Overhead, hundreds of birds circle in the thermals, some searching for fish and some – I can’t help but imagine – simply playing. Cold and wishing I had worn my hooded vest under my wetsuit, I look back at the cliff-face where I stashed my gear, but the thought of paddling all the way back to the channel, letting the waves push me into the urchin-covered rocks, and then scampering quickly across them while trying to protect my board from the incoming whitewater deters me. The swell which has persisted for the last 8 or 9 days is finally dying off and there’s a long wait between sets, but I really don’t mind; it’s the first time I’ve had this break to myself, and the solitude is refreshing. I’ve already gotten several awesome rides, and I’m almost as content simply to sit on my board, watching the sun set and breathing the salty air, as I am to ride more waves. I close my eyes and have no trouble imagining I’m floating off the coast of southern North Carolina; I can hear the cawing of the seagulls, the laughter of children, the whistle of a lifeguard. Suddenly, it’s not the whistling of a lifeguard but that of some local kids on the shore which brings me back to reality – back to Africa. I look up at the horizon, grin, and begin to paddle…

Bonjour and salut everyone – thanks for checking in. Senegal continues to amaze me in so many ways, and I have a lot of great stories to share. The surfing has been unbelievable, with the session I described above being one of the most satisfying of my life. I’ll talk a little more about the surfing later, but first… some recent experiences on terra firma.

Monday, May 1st, found me and the other W&L students marching through downtown Dakar in the Labor Day parade with hundreds of locals. Constituting the one and only cluster of white in a long stream of Africans, we were easily noticeable for the thousands who lined the streets, leaned out of windows, and sat on rooftops. Reflecting on the experience afterwards, many of us expressed concern that our participation in the parade had been neither respectful nor tactful. Though it was perhaps amusing how our motley crew stumbled along without any semblance of order or unity in between groups of workers wearing matching outfits, carrying banners, and marching in unison; how the size of our group constantly fluctuated as individuals still not accustomed to the local food took turns dashing off for bathroom emergencies; or how, at the end of the parade route, the dumbfounded MC went silent – not knowing how to introduce us to the crowd – and the pens of the government ministers awaiting our requests froze in midair; were we really justified in taking part in this political and ceremonial activity about which we knew next to nothing? I think the original intent was for us to interact with local advocacy groups and to have a chance to decide, based on a tangible experience, whether the democratic process in Senegal is genuine or just a façade. In this respect, taking part in the parade was certainly beneficial, because we did acquire first-hand experience with Senegalese democracy. I’m still not convinced that we really should have been in the parade, but, based on some occurrences during the event, I’m fairly confident we didn’t do any serious damage to international relations. Most of the crowd actually got a kick out of seeing us – video cameras seemed to focus on us from all angles – and I received a standing ovation from several rooftops full of people when I accepted an invitation to join local dancers as the march paused at an intersection. Additionally, several of us were interviewed by enthusiastic and curious reporters (though the most intelligent thing I could think to say was “Go Senegalese football!”). Overall, our marching in the Labor Day parade wasn’t pretty – and may indeed have been slightly out of line – but it was definitely one of the most memorable and bizarre experiences we’ve had in Senegal.

After three weeks here, I’m really starting to settle in and find a rhythm. I’m more comfortable than ever in my homestay; having long ago switched from vous to tu when speaking with my family, I’m now on a very familiar level with them. Basse and I continue to hang out quite a bit, and, together with his cousin, we’ve watched several movies, gone to the internet café, etc. Gnagna, as I correctly surmised from the start, is a cute little ball of energy. She is constantly singing, dancing, or trying on new clothes in front of the mirror, and, to her mother’s dismay, she wakes up at 5 AM. Ironically, she usually limits herself to one word answers and a grin when I try to talk to her, but I think that’s beginning to change now that she is becoming more comfortable around me. She proudly offered me some Pringles today and has even agreed to show me her pictures from her recent trip to Turkey. In other homestay news, I was slightly mistaken when I reported earlier that we typically eat meals at the table. Actually, we eat quite often “around the bowl,” and though eating this way is a bit laborious for me (my legs usually become numb halfway through the meal because of the way you have to sit), I actually enjoy it and definitely feel more a part of the culture when I’m sitting on the floor with my family and their friends, eating with my hands (well, make that my right hand), and speaking in broken French and Wolof. The religious aspect of the homestay is fascinating. It’s not uncommon for me to walk into the living room to see Mme. Cisse watching a Catholic mass on television and, at the same time, several of her friends kneeling on their prayer mats and reciting Koranic verses. It’s also interesting to see the effects of Western values on traditional African and Muslim values. My family is in love with a French soap opera called “Un, Dos, Tres,” and we watch it every night during dinner despite the fact the nearly every episode has at least one scene which results in an awkward silence broken only by a playfully disapproving “Ooh-la-la…” from my mom. Similarly, Basse, like most Senegalese teenagers, is obsessed with the American rapper 50 Cent. The other day, in front of his mom, he handed me a page of lyrics for one of 50 Cent’s songs so I could doublecheck his pronunciation as he recited the words – I stopped him around the third line after maybe 8 or 9 curse words, professed that I saw real talent in his singing, and left things at that.

My infatuation with Senegalese music continues, and I seek out local tunes whenever I can. Two of my most recent music outings, however, brought with them some unexpected surprises. The first surprise occurred when I was heading to a downtown club with some friends. We split up for the taxi ride downtown, and I ended up with two girls. I told the driver to drop us off in the Mohammad Cinq district – which is known for good nightlife – since we didn’t know the exact location of the club where we were to meet the others. Problems started when we were given incorrect directions from a passerby and we began heading in the wrong direction without knowing it. Then, a Senegalese man approached us and began harassing the girls despite our requests for him to leave us alone. Of course, we had been briefed on the possibility of this happening and immediately recognized the cultural dilemma. It’s considered normal in Senegal for men to approach women they don’t know and flirt, make marriage propositions, etc. in a nonviolent yet aggressive manner. I did everything I could to keep myself between him and the girls and was very direct in telling him to leave, but nothing seemed to work. What made the situation really frustrating was that the man wasn’t really harming us and kept insisting that he just wanted to be friendly and that this was just how Senegalese people act; basically, he didn’t go quite far enough to allow us to do anything forceful or call for the police. Nevertheless, he continued to harass the girls for at least ten minutes, following directly behind us and refusing to leave, and we were getting pretty uptight. At last we arrived at a relatively well-lit street, and I took the girls into a Chinese restaurant and did my best to explain the situation to the manager (ironically, I instinctively used French – I was a bit flustered – though my Chinese would have been much clearer). She reassured us that the man wouldn’t have harmed us (basically reiterating what we’d been told about the cultural difference) but nonetheless yelled at him in Wolof and kicked him out of the restaurant – yes, he had followed us inside. Then, a couple Lebanese men who had just finished dinner asked what the problem was and I again struggled to explain the situation in French. They got the message and ended up driving us in their car to the club we had originally been looking for, which was nice because the man was waiting for us outside the restaurant. So, after a rough start, the evening turned out great, and we had an awesome time dancing well into the morning… My second experience with a musical outing turning sour happened this past Wednesday night on Goree Island. Youssou N’Dour and several other famous Senegalese musicians put together a joint concert on the island to celebrate the abolition of slavery. My mom got excited when she saw a commercial for the concert and decided we could go over to the island as a family, take sandwiches for dinner, and enjoy the music together. This ended up being a fantastic idea, as the concert was really amazing – a huge stage was set up right next to the beach, people were crowded onto the rooftops of the European style cottages which cover Goree, and waves lapped gently against the shore behind us. The problems began after the concert ended and we headed for the ferry dock. Knowing not everyone would fit on the first ferry, people began crowding closer and closer to the gate on the dock. At first I just shook my head in amusement, having often witnessed the same behavior in China. As I moved slowly closer to the bottleneck, though, the situation transformed into something for which I was totally unprepared and had never experienced in my life. In a matter of minutes I went from being uncomfortable to truly in pain; the crowd was packed so closely together I could barely expand my chest to breathe; I was repeatedly hit, scratched, and groped; and I was starting to feel really claustrophobic. At this point I realized that tripping and falling could honestly mean being trampled to death (and I suddenly remembered watching news clips of the deaths caused annually when masses of pilgrims fight to be the closest to different holy sites), so I was forced to put my arms out and push off the people around me for balance. Typically, when in crowds I keep my hands in or over my pockets and remain extremely cognizant of both my belongings and my surroundings. In this situation, though, everything went out the window, and I was fighting for survival. It was all a blur at the time, but, looking back, I remember almost exactly what happened. Just as I neared the gate, a woman near me had some sort of panic attack and started screaming hysterically and hitting everyone around her. This caused the crowd to lurch to my right, and I ended up pinned against the wall next to the gate. As I struggled against the force of hundreds of people, a man next to me reached for my right cargo pocket. One precaution I take is keeping money only in my two cargo pockets, which have both Velcro and zippers and are pretty tough to open. It’s so strange to look back on what happened because I can visualize it all so lucidly, but at the time I was only subconsciously aware that I was being pickpocketed. The man had trouble unzipping my pocket and didn’t succeed until the exact moment when I managed to dislodge myself from the wall (which took maybe 10 seconds I’d guess). I used all my strength to twist into the crowd and, finally breaking free, spun to my right and tumbled through the gate. His hand went into and came out my pocket just as I was beginning to spin. So, the end result? I lost less than $20, made it safely to the ferry, and enjoyed a great night of music. I was, however, left feeling pretty flustered and even betrayed in some ways. Not betrayed in the sense that I was robbed (I realize W&L’s honor system doesn’t apply to the whole world) but betrayed in the sense that I did everything right and still lost. I wasn’t playing the part of the stupid tourist with a big fat wallet in my back pocket, and I had taken precautions and was aware of the dangers. Nevertheless, I was put in a position in which I had to choose between protecting my pocket change and protecting my life; moreover, I didn’t even choose this situation but found myself in it because I had to follow my family as they made their way towards the ferry (I generally avoid crowds when alone). I don’t know why the incident bothers me so much – it was really nothing more than a small growing pain in my maturation as a traveler – but I have a difficult time brushing aside the panic and claustrophobia I felt when I was caught in that mob. The collective power of human beings is truly amazing. An inspiring leader can take that energy and make it the foundation of the most noble of all undertakings, yet it takes but one person to derail everything and transform that energy into an overwhelming wave of panic, chaos, and destruction. I think the sense of helplessness – the total loss of individuality, control, and personal freedom – that I felt in that mob is one of the worst things I’ve ever felt in my life. It was as if I were chained down and submerged – unable to move, unable to breathe – in the blind conformity against which I fight so fiercely. It was the horrible feeling of drowning and not being able to do anything about it. It was a reminder that although I like people, I always seem to prefer the times when they’re not around. :)

Wow, I didn’t intend to write so much about such downer topics; but, then, traveling isn’t all good times, and, if it were, I don’t think it would be nearly as rewarding. Either way, I think I should change the subject now and what better thing to focus on than…yep, you guessed it.

You know, I wish I could just say or write the word surfing – just toss it out there – and everyone within earshot, everyone reading…could simply understand the essence of it all. The mere sound or sight of the word conjures up so many intense emotions and feelings in me, but I know this isn’t true for many people – after all, how can it be if you’ve never experienced what surfing really is? The anticipation which grows steadily more intense as set waves loom larger and larger, rolling ever closer towards you. The terror of looking over the lip of a large wave, having already committed to drop in, and seeing a jagged reef two feet below the surface. The incredible acceleration as the wave takes hold of you and then the sudden sense of harmony and peace as your being merges with that of the wave and you notice out of the corner of your eye the vertical wall of water next to you which suddenly begins flowing over your head in a graceful arc. Underneath that graceful arc is a world within a world, free from the constraints and limitations of everyday existence. It is a world of motion and speed: motion of the body relative to the board, of the board relative to the wave, of the wave relative to the ocean. It’s a world in which a vertically moving wall of water can provide as much support for an outstretched hand as a solid wall on land, in which conscious thought does not and cannot survive, and in which time stops and all worries cease to exist. Surfing is the most beautiful expression of living I know, and I only wish I could better capture its essence with words.

Fortunately, I can recount my latest surfing adventures, one of which I’m particularly proud. Last Thursday I took the afternoon off to search for the best waves in the region. I started at Virage because the swell was out of the North, but the winds were also out of the North, making for poor conditions there. Next, I took a cab to Memelles, located beside a really cool lighthouse perched high on a rocky cliff. Here, as predicted, the wind was offshore (that’s good), but, unfortunately, the waves were very closed out. Closed out means that the entire wave breaks at once instead of starting at one end and gradually breaking. I got a good laugh out of allowing a local kid to confuse me as I approached the beach by telling me “C’est fermé,” which literally means “It’s closed.” I initially thought he meant the beach itself was closed and I awkwardly tried to inquire whether it would be ok if I walked around the beach because I just wanted to surf. Yea, he gave me a nice long stare and just walked away. What makes it all worse, though, is that exactly the same situation occurred in Costa Rica two years ago when a local there told me “Esta cerrado.” Apparently I’m a slow learner. Anyway, once I realized that Memelles was going to get me killed if I tried to surf it that day, I left and walked several kilometers up the coast looking for waves. Just as I was getting discouraged, I stumbled upon a break called Vivier. Practically the entire surfing community was there, and I’d suddenly broken into the scene. The waves were outstanding – well overhead at both the left (Gauche) and Right (Droite) breaks at Vivier. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing as videocameras on tripods recorded surfer after surfer getting covered up in long tubes and pulling fancy moves above the lips of the waves. After I’d gotten my fill of the surf (ie. when I couldn’t paddle anymore), I started chatting with some of the locals, and they informed me there would be a pro contest the coming weekend at that very spot. I noticed, however, that the posters they showed me clearly stated that all competing surfers must have a valid license. When I got ready to leave, one of my new local friends said he’d see me at the competition on Saturday and I replied that maybe I’d come and watch but, of course, I couldn’t compete because I didn’t have a license. He grinned and told me reassuringly just to show up a half hour early on Saturday, explaining that he’d seen me surfing and could “arrange things.” Well, my good friend came through. With a small exchange of currency and a few handshakes on Saturday, I got my license. That’s how I came to be an officially licensed professional surfer in the nation of Senegal.

So, you might be thinking that, since I decided to enter a pro contest in Africa, at a break I’d only surfed once, and after only one week of surfing in months, that I must have a lot of competitions under my belt. No, this was my first. That doesn’t mean I let anyone in on this secret, though. Let’s just say that, for the three or four hours before I actually competed, I was the dark horse no one knew about. I had an entourage of several female W&L students who came to watch and support me, so this drew immediate attention. I also own a pretty nice surfboard and all the flashy gear and accessories to go along with it, so, to the local crowd of surfers, I was very possibly a sponsored, pro surfer from America who had traveled to Senegal with my entourage for the sole purpose of winning this competition. If only I’d thought to sign autographs before I competed… Well, I not surprisingly didn’t win, but I certainly didn’t get last either. I took 3rd in my heat of 4 people (the top 2 advance), actually having had a chance to slide into second earlier in the heat. I got two solid waves early on, then took a bad whipeout on what ended up being the biggest wave of the heat for anyone. That happened at 10 minutes into the 20 minute heat and, unfortunately, the break I was surfing essentially went flat for the remaining time and I couldn’t get another wave. With each surfer’s best two waves counting, I was in good enough shape for 3rd but couldn’t advance. Nevertheless, the competition was really fun and an awesome experience. A DJ pumped out great music throughout the contest, while an announcer narrated each surfer’s moves and called out the remaining time in each heat. More people than I ever would have imagined showed up – literally overrunning the venue and crowding out onto the rocks to watch – and I was really moved when a number of them applauded as I paddled back in at the end of my heat. As the only non-native French speaker in the contest, I was welcomed by everyone and treated really well. Overall, the contest was an incredibly unique experience and, generally speaking, a fairly solid showing for my first time as a licensed pro surfer.

Let’s see, a few final notes… The Cinema de Paris no longer exists in Dakar. Hoping to catch a movie during our free time, some friends and I spent nearly an hour trying to find this theatre. Using my guidebook, I knew its approximate location and just needed someone to point it out to me. Everyone I asked seemed to point in the same general direction, but it was nowhere to be found. I thought I was going crazy as I walked in circles around the area that was supposed to be a theatre but wasn’t. Finally, someone laughed and explained “Il n’existe pas,” making a sort of slicing motion with his hand. Things made sense pretty quickly. We ended up resorting to having juice and peanuts on top of the Hotel d’Independence, which features a rooftop pool and fine views of the coast. I also recently had my first (and only, at this point in time) non-Senegalese meal. As always, I was craving cheese and couldn’t resist a pizza. By the way, I have never eaten so much fish in my life! Barricuda, mackerel, tuna, tiny fish that are basically just bones; fish heads, fish eyes, fish bones; fish and rice, fish fillets, fishballs, fish and bread, fish that seems to stare at you, fish that seems to stare at the person next to you (it always stares at someone), fish, fish, fish. …What else? We visited a really interesting NGO recently called EcoPol. It employs local children from the poorest neighborhoods and teaches them how to recycle trash from the streets and turn it into creations which are practical, aesthetic, or both. Some of the things they do are absolutely amazing, like making toy bicycles of out steel wire, genuinely attractive pocketbooks out of plastic bags, or picture frames out of bottle caps and cardboard boxes. I’ve also done a ton of academic work recently, including the reading of three novels and writing of one paper and one blog update in five days. I might post some excerpts from my paper at some point, as it hits on some interesting cultural phenomena.

Tomorrow morning (Sat. 5/13) we leave for our village stay in the Sine-Saloum Delta, located several hours south of Dakar. We are heading to three separate villages, and I managed to make sure I’m heading to the one which is located on the coast. Needless to say, I’ve already checked the wave forecast. I’m not sure just how rustic things will be – I’m pretty sure no electricity and no running water, for starters. I’m sure it will be right up my alley, so I’m very excited. I’m hoping to post this update in the morning before I leave (by the way, in case I haven’t made it clear, for this particular trip I type updates on my laptop and then transfer them to and post them from computers in local internet cafes); if there’s a power outage or something in the morning, then I’ll have to post it next week as I won’t have computer access until then. I wish you all well until next time – aloha and au revoir.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Westward Vista

Asalaa Maalekum from Dakar, Senegal, on the Cap Vert Peninsula, the westernmost region of the African continent. On this cape I can’t help but look continually westward, towards home, and wonder how things can be so different yet simultaneously so similar on either side of the great big pond which now separates me from most of my readers. Arabic fills the air five times a day as it resonates from the towers of elaborate mosques, small children begging for change cover the streets like a plague, and a strong equatorial sun beats down upon the sands in and around this city of the Sahel. At the same time, though, friends gather in front of their homes, talking and laughing well into the evening; families sit down together for dinner each night; and old men rest on the cliffs outside of town, staring out at the line between blue sea and bluer sky – searching, seeking, questioning. For all the differences which exist here, I do, in many ways, feel at home. But I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I…

Although I swore to myself some time ago never again to travel with a “tour group,” I decided to take a chance with this program run by Washington and Lee University in the US and the ACI Baobab Center here in Dakar. I do recognize the inherent advantages of organized tours (less stress, group discounts, and – with professional guides being guaranteed at all times – the opportunity to learn a great deal of factual information), but I believe that the learning which takes place when an individual traveler has to figure things out on his own, often making mistakes along the way, is far more beneficial. Nevertheless, I was attracted to this program from the start – particularly because it seemed to offer a reasonable balance between “the individual” and “the group” – and decided to give it a shot. So, on Monday, April 24th, I found myself in Washington, DC, mingling with the rest of the group and chatting excitedly about what lay ahead. After eating dinner together on Monday night at an Ethiopian restaurant, we divided our time over the next two days among a variety of orientation activities intended to acquaint us better with Senegal and Africa as a whole. We attended lectures by a past US Secretary of State for Africa, an attaché of the Senegalese ambassador to the US (the ambassador himself had to cancel at the last moment), and a Peace Corps alum who had served in West Africa. We also toured African art exhibits, visited DC’s largest mosque, and discussed West African cultural traditions. Feeling a bit outnumbered by the 20 girls in the group, the six other guys and I also managed to score tickets to a Wizards basketball game on Tuesday night. Wednesday evening found us boarding our plane at Dulles and, before long, we were on our way to Africa. Coincidentally, I ended up sitting next to the Human Rights Watch’s number one person in West Africa, and she shared with me some fascinating information about international politics and some incredible stories from her travels within the world’s most war-torn and volatile regions. Oh, in case anyone reading happens to be a surfer, I should mention that I highly recommend flying Air France on surf trips whenever possible. Apparently, their check-in attendants are either unaware of the company’s policies or are simply sympathetic towards the surfing community because I got away with checking my two surfboards without any paying extra fees (which could have cost up to $320 round-trip). And in case you’re wondering, I am aware (at least partially aware) that this is an academic trip; the fact that I brought two surfboards, a wetsuit, wetsuit accessories, extra fins, an extra leash, wax, a ding repair kit, a giant boardbag, etc. etc. and forgot to bring a notebook or writing utensils is understandable considering that my intent – noble to say the least – is “to study the people and culture of Senegal’s coastal areas, using surfing as a medium to do this, and ultimately attempt to gain a more complete understanding of West Africa from the very waters which separate it from other lands.” Hmm… Truthfully, surfing does provide an amazing opportunity to learn about local cultures (I remember the hours I spent in the waters of Costa Rica chatting in Spanish with local surfers and then, last year, the many long conversations I had in Chinese while hitchhiking with my board up and down the east coast of Taiwan), and, at the same time, it is indeed possible to balance work and play.

Rolling my eight-foot-long boardbag behind me on Thursday night, I found myself exiting the airport outside of Dakar and entering an exciting new world. I spent the next three nights housed in an apartment complex with the other W&L students, slowly growing more accustomed to my new surroundings. Saturday and Sunday were devoted to further orientation exercises, these coordinated by the local Baobab Institute. The orientation was extremely thorough, and I found it exceedingly interesting how many of the “do’s” and “do not’s” I had already figured out for myself during my own travels. It seemed ironic that everyone was just being spoon-fed the information I had gleaned piece by piece by making mistakes, enduring embarrassment, and tolerating a bit of hardship on occasion. Nevertheless, the orientation benefited me for sure, and I felt very confident that my upcoming homestay (my third one in less than three years) would go well. I also learned some important cultural facts specific to Senegal that I must keep in mind constantly. For instance, greetings are extremely important in Senegal, and if you approach someone on the street for directions and begin with nothing more than an “Excuse me…,” you may be shunned and ignored. Even the most basic transaction or exchange of words should include most, if not all, of the following Arabic/Wolof greeting: “Asalaa Maalekum…Maalekum Salaam…Na nga def?...Maa ngi fii rekk…Ana waa ker ga?...Nu nga fa…Al hamdulilaay!...Al hamdulilaay!” Greetings between acquaintances often last more than 30 seconds and involve a variety of handshakes and embraces. Dining etiquette is also very demanding. The traditional way to eat in Senegal is termed “around the bowl” and involves each person sitting cross-legged on a mat around a large bowl of food. The heads of the family typically reach in first and tear apart whatever may be in the middle – a fish, a couple squashes, and an onion perhaps – and toss the torn bits into each person’s pie-shaped “territory” of the rice around the outside of the bowl. Then, each person reaches into his territory, grabs a handful of rice with some of the food just tossed his way, and molds the contents into a fist-sized ball ready for eating. Of course, only the right hand is used for eating (for reasons which should be obvious if I tell you that typically a kettle of water can be found in the bathroom rather than toilet paper), and using the left hand would be a grave mistake (which is why I have resorted to sitting on my left hand for the duration of meals). There are a variety of other rules about eating around the bowl, but the end result is always rice- and sauce-coated hands and faces and stained clothes (well, for me at least). I could elaborate on all that I discovered during the days of orientation – as much of it really is fascinating and surprising – but I think it will most likely emerge as I continue to describe my experiences here in Senegal.

There is, perhaps, one last thing I should note about those first few days I spent in the apartment before transitioning to my homestay. During that time, I was struck with the notion that Africa really does move to a different beat. I formed what I believe will be some of my strongest memories as I took in everything around me, a bit tipsy with adrenaline and excitement. The music of Senegal, in particular, captured me immediately and I was soon swaying to the intoxicating rhythms of this part of the world. Dakar is known as the music capital of West Africa, and, spending the first nights in downtown clubs with the rest of the group, I wasted no time in verifying this distinction. I don’t even know how to describe the local music (and it is, of course, diverse), but it’s almost always highly percussionist and fast with a great beat that makes dancing irresistible. The first night most of the group was a bit timid, but a few of the girls and I wanted to dance, and, after we broke out our West African moves in front of the stage, the band went wild and we couldn’t seem to go anywhere without being stopped and told by astonished (or was it amused?) locals, “Vous dansez bien!” On that first weekend I also got to hear the man himself, international superstar and local demi-god Youssou N’Dour, at his famous club Thioussane. Everything happens a bit later here in Dakar, with many families not eating dinner until 10:00 or later, so N’dour doesn’t even start his act until 2:30 AM. Needless to say, it was a late night, but the experience of cramming into an overflowing Thioussane and joining locals in swaying back and forth to the fervent beat of his music is one which I will long remember. More than anything, I have been absolutely enthralled by the uninhibited joie de vivre which pervades the clubs and music venues here. Outside, on the streets, Senegal is one of the poorest countries in the world, with the average citizen dying before the age of 50; but, in the clubs, all the country’s troubles cease to exist. Icons like Youssou N’Dour on stage sweating and singing with incredible passion to captivated audiences are this country’s images of hope. Once taken away by the music, people have no worries or concerns; instead, they revel in a sort of collective bliss, and, indeed, with a uniquely African pulse. When I returned to the apartment late in the morning after dancing all night, my gaze was drawn constantly by the lights of downtown Dakar. On the third floor of the apartment was a wall with circular openings to the outside along its entire length. For some reason, I was mesmerized by this wall and often found myself leaning against it, staring out through the holes at the yellow haze over the city. One night, with the wind against my face, I was simply taking it all in – the rumble of music still filtering in from far away, the darkness which covered the desert around the city, the mosques visible in the distance. Suddenly, I was experiencing the same rush – the same sense of passion and exhilaration and energy – which I had felt in the overflowing clubs; when the feeling subsided and I had regained my thoughts, I realized that this was the pulse of Africa.

I want this blog to recount many of the experiences I have while traveling, but, at the same time, I don’t want it to read like a day-by-day journal. So, as I continue writing, I plan to approach things from a broader perspective, focusing more on the themes and interconnected occurrences which I believe to be representative of what I experience on a daily basis. There certainly will be some simple recounting on a chronological basis of what I did, saw, and heard, but hopefully the majority of my posts will not take that form. With this in mind, I’ll offer a few stories from and information about my most recent week in Senegal. On Sunday evening I moved into my homestay with Mme. Madeleine Cissé and her fourteen-year-old son Basse and eight-year-old daughter Gnagna. They live in a nice apartment located close to the Baobab Center and the ARED Center (where we also have class). Mme. Cissé works in the Senegalese Dept. of Finance as an income tax auditor and is wonderfully outgoing and friendly. Basse is one of those people whom you know from the first moment could not be any kinder or more sincere. He is extremely mature (I constantly forget that he’s only 14) and, perhaps because he’s almost the same age as my own little bro (hey dude!), we bonded instantaneously. Gnagna actually just arrived home today (Sun, 4-30) from some kind of trip, but, judging from what I heard early this morning while still in bed, she’s a little ball of energy. In all, the family situation couldn’t be any better. I’ve been treated amazingly well and already feel attached to my new family. They speak to me in French (though Basse speaks some English), and this is helping me tremendously, as I expected. There’s just no substitute for learning a language immersion-style, and this is proving to be a third success for that philosophy. Let’s see, what else… I actually have my own room and bathroom, which is nice, and by now I’m used to cold showers when I travel. There are quite a lot of mosquitoes, and malaria is a serious problem, but hopefully my Malarone will work. The weather is exactly the same every day with sunny skies and highs around 80. It’s not really that hot, but the sun is so strong here that it feels hotter and I don’t leave the house without my wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. Now that class has started, I follow a similar schedule each day. Breakfast is the same each day – French baguette; butter, jellies, or camembert cheese; and tea. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I go to Wolof (a local indigenous language) class at 9:00, so I’m able to eat breakfast with the family before they leave for school and work. My West African Politics class taught by Prof. Dickovick runs from 11:30 until 1:00, and then I return home for lunch with the maid (as in many countries, having a maid is very common). From 3:00-5:00 I attend Prof. Lambeth’s West African Literature/Media/Culture class, and dinner, as I said earlier, is late in the evening. My family is relatively “French,” so we usually sit at the table and eat in basically the way as one eats in the West. Meals are always Senegalese – tieboudienne, yassa poulet, yassa poison, etc. – with rice and fish being the two staples. We do sometimes eat in the traditional way, also, on the floor, “around the bowl.” I was looking forward to a quiet lunch alone last Friday when suddenly Mme. Cissé and a bunch of her relatives, colleagues, and friends burst in and set up the bowl. Friday, the holy day in Islam, always seems to bring surprises as everyone wears traditional clothes, beggars are out in full force, and mosques overflow. My family is actually Christian, which is interesting because it provides insight into what it’s like for a 5% minority to exist peacefully within a Muslim society. Plus, most of the extended family is Muslim, so I really am in a fascinating position to learn about religious cohabitation in Senegal. As far as class, things are going well despite the fact that we have a ridiculous amount of work. It’s difficult to read novels, write papers, and do daily assignments when there is so much else going on; nevertheless, I’m sure I’ll manage. Wolof is an interesting language, more difficult than Spanish or French because it’s not a Romance language, but certainly easier than Chinese because it’s phonetic and does not have a system of intonation. I can say some basic things in Wolof now, but there’s really no way any of us will be able to communicate on a conversational level by the end of six weeks. I’m looking at it more as a study of linguistics that might help me better understand my other languages. And actually, the Wolof classes are taught almost entirely in French, so I’m really learning two languages at once; as for the students who don’t speak any French, I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to learn a language you don’t know…in a language you don’t know. Bizarre.

Just a few last notes on this past week, and I’ll try to wrap up this lengthy post. I went with my mom to the fish market last Monday, and that was quite an experience. There were literally chunks of fish landing on my head as I navigated around vendors chopping off fish heads and slicing off scales. I was amazed watching my mom bargain with the vendors – she was dressed in traditional clothes (as she usually is) and moved about with an air of confidence and – I guess you could say – elegance, though elegance is not something I typically would associate with fish markets. On Wednesday the group spent the entire day on Goree Island, located just off the coast of Dakar. Goree, a World Heritage Site, was one of the principle centers of the West African slave trade, and we were able to tour the Maison d’Esclaves, the prison used to hold slaves temporarily before they boarded ships for the Americas. The tour was led by a local guide, and he was blunt and straightforward in speaking about the atrocities committed there. The rooms in which slaves were kept are unbelievably small and confining, and the horrors endured in them are unimaginable. Most haunting of all, though, was the Door of No Return. This small door overlooking the ocean and facing west, served for 300 years as the portal to the New World for millions of slaves who would never again see their home. I literally felt chills as I stared out through this door, knowing I was looking in the exact direction of my home in North Carolina. Outside of the Maison d’Esclaves, Gorree is an enchanting little island with no cars and few crowds, and many Dakar residents come here to enjoy the peace and quiet. We had time to tour the island as well as explore things on our own for a bit. I was intrigued to learn that the artillery gun on Goree was used to sink a British/French ship during WWII and keep much of West Africa under Axis command. It’s hard to believe that the effects of the war would be felt somewhere so far removed as this island off Dakar. After the tour, I found a nice quiet little spot by the ocean where I curled up with a book. Looking up from my book every once in a while and staring out at the Atlantic, I couldn’t help but think about how much own views will undoubtedly change as I continue to view the world from this new perspective. After reading for a while, I was in need of a bit of adventure, so I embarked a little surfing odyssey. I had brought my board over on the ferry hoping to find waves (though not expecting any, as the surf is very inconsistent on Goree), so I ended up using it to paddle nearly the entire circumference of the island. I got some interesting looks as I made my way slowly along the rocks which line the coast and especially as I returned to the ferry through small alleys in my wetsuit, board underarm. Watching the sunset over the Dakar skyline from the water was absolutely amazing and made even the lack of waves bearable.

Speaking of waves, I have indeed scored some surf recently! I’ve now been to Almadies (the point of Africa which juts out farthest west), N’Gor Island (filmed by Bruce Brown for his classic film The Endless Summer, which revolutionized surfing and essentially took the sport mainstream (for better or worse)), and Virage (home to the only “surf shop” – and the quotations are intended – in the country, to my knowledge). N’Gor and Almadies are very rocky and a bit treacherous, I suppose, depending on the tides. At N’Gor, 5-inch-long sea urchin spines repeatedly pierced my wetsuit booties and lodged themselves in the side of my foot; it took me several painful hours to pull them out with tweezers. This weekend we’ve been enjoying an excellent North-Northwest swell – big enough for a small craft advisory to be issued – so the waves at Virage have been great. I actually got the smack-down laid upon me by the ocean the other day when I got caught on the inside and pummeled all the way into the shore by one wave after another. The way I look at it, that’s just the ocean’s way of reminding me who the boss is, which is definitely a good thing, because those who play in the ocean without any fear or respect don’t last long. I also met some local surfers, including a semi-professional who lives at Virage and whom I had read about online before arriving here. I now have some phone numbers and local beta, which makes surfing much safer and easier. The other day, when I finished riding my first wave in Senegal, I sat back down on my board filled with the same euphoria I feel every time I surf but also with the simple yet satisfying thought that “That’s that…I’ve now surfed in Africa.” It’s so bizarre to walk past the shanties in Dakar or hop into a long, narrow pirogue with locals to be ferried over to N’Gor Island with my surfboard under my arm or on my head, wetsuit hanging off my backpack. There’s something really special about surf travel to exotic locations that makes the experience worthwhile even if there aren’t great waves. So far, however, the Senegalese waves have been good and promise to be better, making for a very, very happy yours truly.

Well, that’s a pretty lengthy update of what I’ve been up to, so if you’re still reading you certainly deserved to be commended (or maybe reprimanded). I prefer to make updates more frequently so that they’re not so long, but that just hasn’t been possible thus far. This one did contain a lot of general information about Senegal, though, that will not be necessary in future posts. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the update and will continue to follow my blog. I have to get ready now for another week of classes; cross-cultural, cross-language communication; and excellent surfing. From Dakar, Alhamdulilay!