My Trip to the Fouta

Despite the Mauritanian's insistence that women shouldn't sit in the front seat, I couldn't help but like him. Throughout our trip up north, he would break into sporadic song in Arabic. The more desolate the landscape became, the more insistent his singing. He was on his way home. As for me, I was far from home, leaving my little round hut and tranquil existence in the south to visit my friend Alicia and celebrate Thanksgiving.

The Fouta is the area stretching across the north of Senegal, made up of Pulaar du Nords, for the most part. It's known by some as the Sahel, by others as a wasteland. Each Peace Corps regional house hosts a different holiday, and it's the house in Ndioum that hosts Thanksgiving.

On the way to Ndioum, I picked up a few Peace Corps Volunteers. Shockingly enough, our car broke down a few hours outside of Ourossogui. I figured this was a good time to call my friend Chip, to whom I owed a phone call.

"How's the North?" he asked.

"How's the North?" I repeated. "Our car broke down. They're saying it'll take a few hours to fix. It's blazing hot. I'm trying to find some shade under a tiny thorn bush. And there's a dead sheep rotting a few feet from us. THAT'S how the North is."

Claire, looking for shade under a thorn bush.

But that's not all there is to the North. The Volunteers in Ndioum outdid themselves in the Thanksgiving spread. It was amazing. It was magical. I had diarrhea for days, that's how good it was. I tried not to eat too much, but as the Pulaars say, habits are like pubic hairs. You can shave them, but they'll just grow back. It's a habit for us Americans to eat a lot at Thanksgiving. And so I did.

Thanksgiving turkey, pre-slaughter.

After Ndioum, I tagged along with my friend Alicia to her village of Sedo Abas.

Alicia with her family.

They found love in
a hopeless place.

Sedo Abas is a Pulaar village of 2500, surrounded by a few Wolof villages, just 3 km off the one road that runs across the north of Senegal. Alicia's family has a farm with all kinds of animals - horses, cows, goats, sheep, chickens. Each day, a guynaco, or herder, comes and takes the animals out for grazing. Each afternoon, they come back, en masse. I learned the different words for shooing the animals, because when they come back they're thirsty and wander the compound. For chickens, you say "cous." For cows, "dik." For horses, goats, and sheep, it's even a different word.

"What happens if you mix them up and say the wrong shooing word?" I asked my friend.

"Well, they just won't understand," she replied.

Charrette is the most common
form of transport in the North . This
horse's name is Barack Obama.

Coming home from the fields.

Alicia's Senegalese name is Hawa Sall and her charming brother Mahamadou explained to me the history of the name. The Salls come from the Ba family, a very common Pulaar last name that we even have down south. One particular king, though, decided to break away from the Ba family, and left with his slaves and griots. They called him Sall, or "the refuser."

The natal village of Macky Sall, Senegal's president, lies just a mere 7 km from Hawa's home.

I mentioned all the cows up north. And you know what that means - milk! In all its splendid varieties. The Pulaars make kosam - or yogurt - that you can buy in sachets. There's fresh squeezed milk. There's a refreshing yogurty, sugary drink that they offer to guests. I was up to my ears in milk and I wanted more.

Milk - fresh squeezed.

A delightful package of kosam.

But alas it was time for me to head back south. I had had one too many thorns in my feet. And my throat was parched from the sand and heat.

We caught a car out of town. On the way to the Peace Corps apartment in Ourossogui, the driver of the car heard Alicia and me speaking English. He turned around and with wild, emphatic hands, he asked "What is George Bush?!"

I shook my head sadly. "Brother, I really don't know."

This tree is the garage of Sedo Abas.

Alicia's compound, with mosque behind.

The Fouta might be harsh and inhospitable. Let's not mince words - it's a wasteland. But there is a certain beauty to its desolation and stench of death, of which only the likes of T.S. Eliot can do it justice. There may not be cascading waterfalls and trees bursting with fruit, like we have down south. But a trip to the Fouta is worth it, if just to say "Bravo!" to the courageous Volunteers who do that everyday.

It's a hard life for the village chief.

The Culture of Tea

Each culture seems to have its shared substance that brings people together. In America, it might be beer or coffee. In Paraguay, terere. In Amsterdam, marijuana. In Senegal, that substance is ataaya, or tea. Ataaya is consumed any place that people gather, at all times of the day, and by everyone. If you'd like to try this at home (which I do recommend), follow these steps.

Tea paraphernalia

1. Gather your ingredients.
Small boutiques sell packs of tea and sugar, with just the right amount of sugar measured out for a session of tea. Every household is already equipped with the small tea pot, two shot-sized glasses, and a fourno with charcoal/wood to heat the tea. If you're really patron, you might also add mint, vanilla-flavored sugar, or mint candy.

2. Heat water with tea leaves.
The job of tea preparation in Senegal is unique in that it can fall to either men or women. Most other tasks are clearly defined along gender lines. Age, though, matters in that, if you are older, you generally don't make tea. You are served by younger folks. (Unless I'm the young one there. I do not make tea.)

3. As water boils, add sugar. And keep on adding.
Generally, three rounds of tea are served. Very rarely is it less (some complain that round 3 is just sugar water, an odd complaint considering how much sugar is consumed here). The first round is quite strong. Number two - my personal favorite - is a perfect balance of strong tea and sugary sweetness.

4. Make foam.
The tea is poured back and forth between the two glasses, creating foam. The foam effect not only ensures everything is mixed, it also cools down the tea.

5. Serve tea.
Having only two glasses in a family of 20 is not indicative of poverty, it is the norm. Having only two glasses is important - it establishes hierarchy. The first two people to be offered tea are the highest on the totem pole (generally, older men). When I first arrived, I was always offered tea first. Now I'm first after the men. I suppose I should take this as a compliment.

I've seen volunteers get frustrated when villagers claim not to have money for medicine when they're sick, though the tea supply is always stocked. But this is very telling. Medicine is expensive, tea is not. Sometimes it's necessary to walk long distances to the nearest dispensaire. Tea is sold on every corner. Medicine is a big purchase for one individual. Tea is a small purchase for the collective. It's been estimated that only about half of the Western medicines handed out actually work. Tea is 100% effective in uniting people, necessary if you have guests, and generally good for the soul.

So barrin kelu nin barrin musoolu (brothers and sisters), pull up a stool and I'll put the kettle on.

Tabaski

"Verily among those who followed his Way was Ibrahima," reads the Koran. Ibrahima was called on to sacrifice his son. In the Koranic version, it is Ishmael that is taken to the mountaintop. And it is Ishmael that is spared when Allah puts a sheep in his place.

In the lead up to Tabaski - the biggest holiday in Muslim Senegal (called Saliba, or "big prayer," in Malinke) - one will see dozens of sheep gathered on the roadside for sale, the Senegalese version of a Christmas tree lot. Eating meat is a sign of prosperity here, and my family bought two for the occasion, no easy feat.



My cousin and dad with one of our sheep.

The night before Tabaski, the women get ready by covering the bottom of their feet and palm of their left hand with henna, which turns the skin reddish. The next morning I was invited by my grandmother to pray at the mosque. She loaned me a scarf to cover my head, and we shared her prayer mat in the back with the women. I couldn't understand what the imam was saying, but he sounded a bit like a Malinke Jerry Seinfeld and I created an imaginary dialogue for him. ("So what's the deal with all these sheep?")

My henna'd feet. We're several weeks later and the design is still there.

When I got back home, I went to inspect two small holes that my uncle had dug in the ground. "Go get your camera!" my family urged. Perplexed, I came back with my camera, to see the sheep being held over the holes, in slaughter position. While I heard the life blood gurgle out of them, I snapped a quick picture, then feigned battery issues while I ran back to my hut.



Blood, blood in the holes.

I must say, though, they were delicious. The meal was a big one, with several families exchanging bowls of food, so we ate three meals for lunch. The family of my father's second wife joined us, so there was a crowd in my grandmother's hut while we ate vermicelli, manioc, fried potatoes, and mutton. When we were full, we drank Fanta (another sign of wealth) and then the women started in on the prayers The prayers went on and on, giving thanks to Allah for all he's provided us, intoning us to sacrifice for him, interspersed with some "Amiinas" while we rubbed our foreheads. At a pause in the prayers, I looked up to see everyone waiting on me to continue.

"Allah mu i kilin kilin kunina," I said. (May you wake up one by one; inappropriate since it wasn't night time.) Everyone replied, "Amiina."

But I couldn't stop at one. Most women had said five or six prayers. "Allah mu i tilinta heera to," I continued. (May God grant you a peaceful day; inappropriate since it wasn't morning.) Everyone called, "Amiina."

I thought hard. "Allah mu albarako bola," I finished. (May God heal you; inappropriate since nobody was sick.) "Amiina!" they all laughed.

After lunch, everyone put on their finest outfits and walked around greeting each other. Dinner that night was a light one since lunch was so plentiful - rice soup and meat. "What happens next for Tabaski?" I asked. "Now you wash your hands really well with soap," my grandmothers told me. "Otherwise, if the mice smell meat on your fingers, they'll nibble them."

The Koran continues, "Thus indeed do We reward those who do right, for this was obviously a trial." Most people in my village may not be able to quote the story of Ibrahima and Ishmael as it relates to Tabaski, but it's a story they know well - a story of toil and sacrifice, a story of doing right by God and being rewarded; in this case by eating meat and drinking Fanta and spending time with loved ones.