Black Watchdogs of Empire

This is a tirailleur senegalais. Or at least one advertiser's version of one. (The caption translates roughly as "it be good, Banania." Thank God we're past such blatant racism in advertising. Er, unless you go down the maple syrup aisle in any American grocery store.)

The tirailleurs senegalais were West Africans who served in the French Colonial Army. They were by no means all Senegalese (despite the name), but interestingly enough, nearly 2/3 of the African recruits were Bambara speakers, to the point that Bambara became the colonial army's vernacular language. The tirailleurs senegalais were involved in everything from world wars to the Suez Crisis. Despite their heavy involvement in France's dalliances around the world, the tirailleurs weren't always viewed with respect; hence the Banania ads, which led Senghor to pen the lines:

"You are not poor men, with nothing in your pockets, without honor.//I will tear down the banania smiles from every wall in France."

Senghor, who called the tirailleurs France's "black watchdogs of empire," was by no means against military service, but spoke out against the way African troops were treated. Later, when Senegal became independent, Senghor made military conscription obligatory, which is how Sara Kote, a 21 year old villager from Senegal, ended up in the Congo as one of Lumumba's security guards.

Sara Kote is no longer a strapping 21 year old lad. He's old. And forgetful. So when he agreed to let me interview him for the radio, he forgot, and continued to forget occasionally during the course of the interview, stopping me every few minutes to ask how I knew he had been in the Congo. He also forgot that I had brought him kola nuts as a gift, and several times asked for more. Convenient. Nonetheless, what follows are a few of Sara Kote's memories with the Senegalese military.

I left in April of 1960. That was the date of our independence. There were two warring parties in the Congo, and Lumumba invited us to protect him. I was six months there. There were 60 of us between two planes. My plane was called Globe Master and I'm happy to say that all the people in my plane made it back alive. It took us 32 hours to fly from Dakar to Leopoldville.

Why would you ask if I wanted to go? What a silly question - it was obligatory! Otherwise, I wouldn't have gone. I'm not sure who told you that Bambaras (i.e. Malinkes) made good soldiers, but maybe it's because of the gris-gris we had to protect us. I had a gris-gris I wore to keep me safe from any weapons, so I was never injured or even sick. Also, Senghor said of us Bambaras that we would prefer death to shame. Does that answer your question?

While in the Congo, we were assured of food and medical care. Then, back in Senegal, I continued to receive 150 francs a month (about $27). When I left the Senegalese military, I became a literacy teacher. Do I have any souvenirs from my military days? I received a medal, but I'm not sure where I put it. 

Oh, you want to know about the Congolese? They're like savages, even the military; they're not assimilated to civilization (I should mention the views expressed here are NOT the author's). They don't even wear pants, just pagnes!

(The interviewee then breaks into a Swahili song he learned while in the Congo. In the meantime, his wife is behind him, on the floor, laughing.) Sure I remember some Swahili. If I say 'koyinda wape' that means 'where are you going?' 'Bibi' is the word for 'girls'. 

(Looks off into the distance, lost in thought, then turns to me suspiciously.) How did you know I was in the Congo?




("Yes, Lord, forgive France, who treats her Senegalese like hired hands, making them the black dogs of her empire." - Senghor)

Trash Talk

*One man's trash is another man's treasure.

Chained Melody

I didn’t think I had asked too much of Cameron. He was going to the kitchen anyway, and did he mind bringing me some water when he came back? Nonetheless, at my request, Cameron turned to me and said “What am I, your dad’s captive?”

The practice of slavery was by no means a foreign concept on the shores of Africa when the Western world asserted its right over land and human alike. In fact, “slave” was a role in the caste system, as was “leatherworker” or “blacksmith.” It afforded people not only protection and security, but a status within society. Given the mutually beneficial (and consensual, I should add) relationship of slaves and masters, it’s no wonder this system still exists. Which is why I bring Cameron into the conversation.

Cameron knows things. He can expound for hours on topics ranging from the economic and political consequences of the Paraguayan war to the importance of feminist erotica to the literary canon. (As singer/songwriter Jubal Faircloth has pointed out, “Cameron’s read more books than you,” in a song by the same title.) It came as no surprise, then, when Cameron delivered an impromptu lecture on the caste system and slavery in his village once while lounging at the Dindifelo waterfall.

Cameron, in the midst of thinking something profound

To begin with, it’s a bit suspicious that he has a Jaxanke last name while living in a Pulaar village. “They were just absorbed into Pulaar culture,” Cameron explained. “There’s no ‘1 drop rule’ like there was in America. Pulaars didn’t have leatherworkers, so they took Jaxanke leatherworkers as slaves.” (Having no leatherworkers, they likewise had no word for it, and merely adopted the Jaxanke word.)

So, following this example, what does it mean for Cameron’s host father, a Pulaar with a Jaxanke last name? “There’s no shame in it,” Cameron said, with gesticulations characteristic of when he gets going on a good topic. “My dad makes tools for free for his master and in return, his master gives him meat and performs important ceremonies, like weddings, for him.”

But then, the Portuguese got involved, followed by other European powers, and as the West is wont to do, they upscaled the operation of slavery to a level bigger and meaner than anyone had known before. Nowhere is the memory of this more alive (for a price, and mainly for tourists) than on Gorée Island, off the coast of Dakar.

A windswept Goree

It was a drizzly, gray day as the ferry set off from Senegal’s capital, a testament to the dark history that the island represents, where untold numbers of people passed through the Maison des Esclaves on their way to Europe or the Americas. There, in the back of the house, is a door opening directly out onto the water where slaves were supposedly loaded directly onto the ships to be transported across the Atlantic (la porte sans retour). (This, however, is unlikely, as rocks would prevent any ship, save a canoe, from getting too close to shore. Nonetheless, this infamous door, framing an image of Barack and Michelle during their recent visit to Senegal, as they gaze across the sea to America, is forever etched into our collective unconscious.)

La porte sans retour

The island was originally uninhabited due to a lack of drinking water, which is why the Dutch were given the esteemed privilege of naming the island. Now inhabited mostly by those who cater to tourists, many of the residents live inside of the hill on the western side of the island, known as the Castel. Aisha was one such resident, a boutique owner I met on the ferry ride over. Later in the day, she found me, wandering and lost, and showed me the way to the History Museum (which is paltry, to say the least – the best exhibit comes from your imagination as you stand on the roof of the museum and gaze out over the island). Along the way, Aisha greeted everyone by name, bouncing along and singing a song she had heard at a soirée on the beach the night before. “When you’re done here, come see my shop!” she sang out. “You promise?” And she bounced away into the rain.

Before leaving for Dakar, I had asked Cameron for any suggestions he might have on good questions to ask a Gorée tour guide. He had a response, as I knew he would. “Ask them what it says about Senegal that they grossly exaggerate Gorée’s role in the slave trade.” I did not take Cameron’s advice. I decided to ignore his sarcastic profundity, choosing instead to be swept up in the emotional experience I had paid for.

To escape, for at least a few moments of reprieve, from the rain, I sat in the cathedral, where images of a white Jesus adorned the walls. Outside, across the Rue des Bambaras, the call to prayer could be heard from the mosque. How historically poignant, this infrastructure. The inhabitants of present day Senegal – mostly Wolof – were explicitly forbidden by their faith from selling their Muslim brothers and sisters into slavery, so in order to supply their Christian clientele with human cargo, they had to draw from a different population. As often happens, the good fortune of some is the bad fortune of others. The Mandes (which include Bambaras, Malinkes, and Jaxankes, among others) were late in converting to Islam. Selling and buying heathen souls seemed hardly to weigh upon the moral brow of human commerce. And so it was that a large number of slaves that passed through Gorée were of Mande origin. Each cobblestone along the Rue des Bambaras lays down a line of poetry more haunting and heavy than any I’ve read before.

At the end of the day, we can’t change the past. But we can reflect on it. And we can go forward into the future as better selves than we were before, doing good for our fellow human beings. (Like bringing them a glass of water.)

Confessions of an American Kola Nut Eater

As the Peace Corps is a child of the ‘60s, I decided to honor that tradition by abusing substances. Well, one substance, to be exact – the kola nut. In one day I consumed more kola than is probably doctor-recommended.

A handful of kola

 

8am. On my way to the mosque. Today is the part of Ramadan known as the “Day of Forgiveness” and as such, I’ll spend my first two hours praying. Good thing I chewed some kola. Kola makes sense as a stimulant and social glue for Muslims who can’t drink alcohol.

10am. Back in my hut now, another bite, so bitter, then a sweetness that comes after, like anise. “Fatou, come pull water!” I hear my sister call from the well. “I’m coming!” I snap, taking another bite. Self-control never being a strength of mine, I eat too much and feel unutterable joy.

1130am. My thoughts soar. I remember once, early in my service, when Old Man Dramé asked me to be his fourth wife. I said I wasn’t sure my (host) dad would agree and besides, there were no kola nuts present, when who happened to ride up on his bicycle? My host dad – with a package of kola nuts. Life! You’re just too much sometimes. (The old men that day were happy. They say kola is a cheap alternative to Viagra. Is this why they’re a necessity at every wedding?)

1230pm. Mid-crossword puzzle. I can’t for the life of me remember who composed “Planets.” Stare at the ground so long I lose track of time until I’m called to lunch a half hour later.

330pm. I have switched from red to white. It tastes the same. Thoughts again roam: Would Pemberton be proud of his recipe today? John Pemberton was a Confederate war veteran and morphine addict, who got hooked to ease the pain from battle wounds. He wanted to kick the morphine habit, so he made a concoction of kola and coca (as in, cocaine) and carbonated water, thus making Coca-Cola. The only part of the original recipe that remains is the carbonated water. Coke and kola nut may have the same effect, but every time I buy kola, the seller always gives me one extra “as a gift,” and this makes me a happy and loyal customer.

Kola nut sellers

 

615pm. At what point do I stop so I can sleep tonight? I’m going for another round. They say kola staves off hunger pangs. Kola is cooler than cigarettes – all the old ladies are doing it!

830pm. Kola by candlelight in my hut after dinner, reading a book and listening to crickets. My sister lies down next to me, so I quickly swallow the wad I’ve been chewing on. Oops. That’s not supposed to happen. My stomach gurgles. My sister lifts her head. “Is there a frog in your belly?” she asks. I groan. Sure feels like it.

10pm. My grandmother comes to take my sister away and I decide to call it a night. Outside in my latrine for a last round of hygiene. How did all my toothpaste disappear? Did I eat it? I look up and see lightning roll across the sky in its gentle way at the start of the rainy season. My head spins. Suddenly I got it: Holst! Holst! He’s the composer of “Planets!”

You May Now Kiss the Brides

Before leaving for Senegal, the aspect of my future life in the Peace Corps that most interested my students – besides the left hand as toilet paper phenomenon – was the fact that men could have more than one wife. Up to four, in fact, according to the Koran. “Americans seem to have an inexhaustible interest in polygamy,” anthropologist Paul Bohannan states in his fascinating, if slightly outdated, book Africa and Africans.

Gettin my groove on at a wedding.

 

Senegalese film-maker Ousmane Sembene must have known this when he filmed the movie Xala. The film opens with a government official of a newly-independent Senegal preparing for his third wedding. The first two wives, unsure of each other, are even more unsure about the prospect of a third co-wife.

Mamboy, the wife of my co-worker at the health post, was one day teasing another woman about being the second wife of her husband. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked, rather obtusely. “Would you want to be someone’s second wife?” Mamboy responded. I admitted that the idea wasn’t particularly appealing. She continued her defense: “When you’re the first wife, you get to be the queen.” Point taken. Mamboy, in any case, doesn’t have too much to worry about. When I asked her husband about his future marriage plans, he laughed. “Deux femmes, deux problèmes.”

 

The queen of my co-worker.

 

“Polygamy is part of your religious patrimony!” the foolish, and not altogether blameless, protagonist of Xala proclaims. Sembene sets the scene well. And while he’s pulling the viewer into the dramatic (yet often comical) scenes of shared domestic disputes, he’s meanwhile weaving a complex metaphor regarding the manner in which Senegal is being governed. In this case, to use Mamboy’s analogy – France is like the queen, ruling over the household of Senegal with a dominant and authoritative self-righteousness. The queen doesn’t share power very well, but when she has to (i.e. when Senegal becomes independent and demands self-rule), it is begrudgingly and with an air of superiority. And in the film, France, like the first wife, eventually has to pick up her belongings and leave.

Most of the men in my compound are all in some various state of trying to obtain a second wife. My host father, Sina, for example has a first wife living with him (my mom and namesake, Fatoumata). Sina’s second wife is Mahamba, and though they have a child together, she doesn’t yet live with us. (Her dowry hasn’t fully been paid yet.) I heard through the gossip mill that when my mom’s father moved to Paris, he and my mom were working hard to help Sina obtain the necessary papers to also live in France. But when Sina took a second wife, his jealous first wife got mad and put an end to the paper work. An outside source has described my mom as a lion – she’s intimidating and fierce and often gets her way. (Which is perhaps why Mahamba doesn’t yet live with us.)

To continue Sembene’s metaphor, Senegal marries a second wife. A group of (most likely French-) educated leaders assume the rôle of governing Senegal. This is a difficult position to be in – they must prove they are worthy of the rôle while simultaneously paying homage to the old vanguard. In fact, in Xala, the old vanguard never completely goes away. In every scene where there is a gathering of officials, there is always the brooding and watchful Frenchman in the background, influencing their every move. According to Sembene, the first wife is self-righteous and assuming, whereas #2 is jealous and easily influenced.

In my Senegalese family, I have three grandmothers. My grandfather, may his soul rest in peace, was an energetic fellow. Not only did he marry three women, he also founded the village in which I live. His first wife, Hawa, became blind the day before her husband, Soma, married his second wife, so she has never actually laid eyes on any of her co-spouses. Mama Hawa may be blind and toothless, but she’s not without her share of sass. “Soma accused me of going blind so I wouldn’t have to do any more work,” she told me one day with a big grin on her face. I was sitting next to her on her bed. “Did you agree with Soma’s decision to take two more wives?” I asked her. If Mama Hawa had eyes that worked, I’m sure she would’ve rolled them at me. “If I hadn’t agreed, do you think he would’ve done it?” she responded. Touché.

Sassy Mama Hawa

Now, perhaps, Sembene is looking to the third wife to know where the future of Senegal lies. In Xala, this future is bleak. Our unfortunate protagonist is left broke and alone after a curse renders him impotent. We hardly get to meet the third wife before their marriage is called off. Is Senegal also left impotent after bouts of outside (mis)rule and civil disputes? Who will lift the curse and lead our protagonist – and his country – to domestic bliss?

A Fable of Old

This is the story about a true village and its true crazy man. The way he became crazy is also true, if you believe in magic. (Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. And in any case, he's not so innocent, as he tried to steal my dinner one night.)

Once upon a time, in the land of Diakhaba, lived a man named Vieux. Despite his name (which means old in French), Vieux was a young man; he was given his nickname because his excellent farming skills gave him the air of being wise beyond his years. It was that time of year when the mangoes were just ending, clearing out in time for the rains to bring corn, and every day found the people of the village out in their fields, clearing the ground for the next harvest.

On this particular day Vieux rose with the sun. He wasn't yet married, so he went to the well and pulled water for himself. He washed his face and head, his hands and feet, preparing his body for the morning prayer, after which he ate a breakfast of rice leftover from dinner, then headed out. On the way, Vieux joined up with some other men who shared his fields and together they walked silently through the early morning. At the edge of the cultivated land, the men took off their shoes, as was the custom, and began pulling up the earth and turning it over. In this manner, an entire day passed, with the occasional pause for food and water, or to joke with someone about their wife eating beans (implying she is pregnant).

At the end of the day, all the men put their shoes back on and headed home. All the men, that is, except Vieux. Somehow during the day's work, his shoes - brown plastic flip flops - had gotten covered over by dirt. (His own hands were responsible for this, but he wouldn't know that until it was too late.) Instead, he assumed his shoes had been stolen and so, irate about his own brothers stealing from him, marched straight to the house of the marabout, barefoot and all!

The marabout was an old man who had served his community well, and therefore felt that now, in his waning years, he could relax and enjoy life (and rightly so). Vieux found the marabout reclining in his hammock, contemplating the sky. After Vieux went through the proper ritual of greetings, he explained the case of the missing shoes, and ended by asking the marabout to make a charm that would cause the culprit to become crazy.

"Think very carefully about what you're asking me for," the marabout warned. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Vieux assured him it was, and after the offer of enough money, the marabout was convinced to make the charm. But not without one final warning: "If you dig a hole to catch a thief, make sure it's big enough for yourself."

The barefoot man decided to ignore this cryptic proverb, and as soon as he stepped out of the marabout's compound, he strung the charm around his neck. Vieux would forever after be the village crazy man. He was, after all, responsible for "stealing" his own shoes.

If the Elephant Eats Your Grandpa...

If proverbs are a good way to teach moral lessons to kids, they're a great way to teach language to a foreigner. Since my family found out that I love proverbs, there has been a steady stream of them, from the mouth of the kebas (old men) to my notebook. Many of them I will be using in a radio show, comparing Malinke proverbs to American ones. I'm highlighting a few of them here, along with a story - rather inconsequential, I'd say - from my Peace Corps service that demonstrates at least one interpretation of the proverb's meaning.

Dubeng nininna ning fitiroo benta.
If you're looking for shade, wait for the sunset.

It had already started raining slightly when my mom asked if I could accompany my two little sisters - Tunkho and Hawa - to Kedougou so they could visit their grandfather before he went home to Paris. I jumped at the chance. I liked my grandfather and I loved my little sisters, so how fun would it be to take them into the big city of Kedougou?! Hours later I found myself sitting in a hut, still in Diakhaba, with the chauffeur who would take us into town when the rain stopped, drinking tea handed to me by a man who every so often would shake his head and tell me I didn't understand Malinke, since I had trouble catching the meaning of his cryptic proverbs. So when the 3rd round of tea was finished, I turned to my sisters and said "Let's go." Rain or no rain, we would get to Kedougou. Waiting under the mango tree on the side of the road - protection from the sun and rain - I hailed a passing pick up truck. "I be taxala Kedougou?" I asked. He nodded and motioned for us to climb in the back. The three of us climbed in - my two little sisters in their new fancy blue velvet dresses - and behind us an old woman. When she was only halfway in, the truck began driving and I had to grab the woman around the waist and pull her the rest of the way in. Funny that the driver was in such a hurry, considering we didn't get very far - about 10km down the road - before the pick up broke down. We would sit on the side of the road for about an hour. Because of the recent rains, there wasn't much traffic. The men went off into the bushes to urinate. One woman, the one who almost toppled out of the back of the truck, went off in search of what she called "a medicine tree." At long last, another car came by and agreed to take us the rest of the way. Just as we were climbing in - my sisters, wide-eyed, as they were already further out of the village than they had ever been - I saw the familiar white van with the blue stripe around the base - the Diakhaba to Kedougou van - chug on by. The chauffeur smiled and waved.

This picture has nothing to do with the story that was just told.

 Ning samo i bemba muta, nin xa tuwulengo jee, i siborana.
If the elephant eats your grandfather, when you see the termite's mound, you'll run away.

"Did you visit Cissokho today?" my cousin Soma asked me one night. It was after dinner and I was sitting around with him and my best friend, Fode. Cissokho was a traveling marabout, a fortune teller of sorts, constantly wandering the road between Kedougou and Diakhaba and beyond. He carried a walking stick and dressed in more layers of clothing than seemed needed. He was also one of my favorite non-village people, so I was happy to say that I had seen him that day. "Yes," Fode picked up where my cousin had left off, "but did he give you a gris-gris (a small leather pouch worn for protection)?" I shook my head no. "Oh no," Fode continued. "You're in trouble." Knowing Fode's playful sense of humor, I knew he was going to try and scare me. I was also resigned to letting myself be scared by this tag-team of mischief-makers. Soma this time: "You know, if you don't have a gris-gris to protect you, a sorcerer is going to transform into a cat and enter your room tonight and eat you." I was about to respond when something distracted the three of us. It was a cat, skulking quietly out of my room.

Sisse dingo men se yele a naa koto men xa kan xa kee dungungo ti, woo se lon cabrina i naa i le te lun menna.
The chick destined to become a cock still rides around on its mom's back when it's a baby.

Toure was from Bamako, where he lived with his two wives. He often had to take leave of his family, though, due to his job. Toure was a truck driver, transporting gas from Bamako to Dakar, which then would be shipped to other parts of the world. He also came from a marabout family and so, on the eve before a long departure, he would read his own fortune in a series of intricate marks on paper, to know what to expect on the road ahead. On this one particular evening, Toure saw in his fortune that he would be spending some time on the road with a toubab (foreigner). So it came as no surprise to him to find me on the side of the road, somewhere outside of Tambacounda, trying to hitch a ride. Toure was affable, he was friendly and generous. His apprentice in the passenger seat had a small propane gas stove between his feet that he used to make tea for us. The ride was a long one - I was going from one friend's village a ways outside of Tambacounda to another friend's village somewhere near Kaolack. Toure refused to accept money for the ride, and even insisted on paying for my meals along the way. "This is how we do it, where I'm from," he explained. "You're my guest. I'm sure if I went to America, you'd do the same."

In which it was foretold that I would catch a ride with Toure that day.

Jio gando fula, woo me nyokona sumaya.
If two cups are full of hot water, they can't cool each other down.

It was going to be a hot day, I could tell, so I set off early for the village next door to mine. It was a cute little village, made up of eight compounds. I had to meet with the local health care worker and, while there, I hoped to enlist the local school teacher's help in recording some proverbs for a radio show I was going to do. But Lasanna, the teacher, was hesitant to help me, explaining that proverbs were the domain of the keba. "Sit under this tree," he instructed. "I'll be right back." I sat under the tree, looking out at the village. A few women were gathered, pounding shea seeds into oil. Another group of women formed a line from the water pump, carrying buckets of water on their heads. And in the middle of the village, a broken-down car, left by a group of Guineans who had come to the area in search of gold. The village had re-purposed the car as a gathering place, as it made for a good bench. Then, from the fields across the road, I saw a group of kebas, with farming tools slung over their shoulders, walking towards me. As they got closer, I could start to make out their conversation - they were already arguing over which proverbs were the most important for my radio show. The sun shone brightly as I pulled the recorder out of my bag.

Real kebas wear kuufies.

Hearsay

Since the beginning of time, I suppose, forbidden fruits have always been the most appealing. Eve was only exercising her new human-ness when she accepted the apple (or banana, or pomegranate, depending on the version). The Casamance, then, is designed to be enticing to us volunteers. Not only does it resemble the Garden of Eden in its lush greenery, it's also off-limits to Peace Corps, due to a small group of separatists - MFDC, or Mouvement des Forces Democratiques de la Casamance - who wish to see the Casamance gain independence from Senegal.

Which is why I would never dream of going there. Never. No way.

But to appease my insatiable curiosity, I began asking around, hoping to find out more about the political situation in the Casamance. As a rule-follower, I would have to settle for a vicarious experience of what my friend Papis describes as "the only place in Senegal worth visiting." (Being from Ziguinchor, though, his is a rather biased opinion.)

Seydiou, a young guy in dreads I met on a beach once (not Cap Skirring - I've never been to the Casamance), explained the origins of the conflict. He said that when Senghor (first president of an independent Senegal) rose to power, he promised the MFDC independence after 20 years. Twenty years later, Senghor did not deliver, which is when things turned violent. So much so that a curfew was put in place - after 8pm cars were not allowed to be on the road. Lately, with the easing off of violent attacks, the curfew is not so strictly enforced, though roadblocks remain in most roadside villages (or so I'm told).

Seydiou was laid back in his responses to my questions, perhaps in reflection of his laid back beach lifestyle. Another person I talked to - Ansouman, a law student from Ziguinchor - was a bit more political and passionate in his answers.

"I blame it all on colonization!" he declared, citing the unjust Berlin Conference that carved up Africa without the input of any Africans. "Villages are emptied - they're scared and have gone to bigger cities." Despite the cause of the conflict, Ansouman told me he believed the rebellion keeps Senegal from advancing, a sentiment I heard expressed time and again from various Casamancois.

"If they become independent, can they govern themselves?" I asked Ansouman.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Good question."

At the end of our conversation, Ansouman said, "Whatever the MFDC is doing, I condemn it."

I must say, though, it's no wonder the separatists are so intensely proud of their region. It's beautiful - lush and green (or so it seems from the pictures I've seen). The Casamance is often described as the bread basket of Senegal, supplying the rest of the country with their abundant fruits.

Serving in the Peace Corps in this area would be a dream come true, as it was for John, a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Sedhiou in the 60s. I asked John if he knew any details about Peace Corps' withdrawal from this troubled region.

Around 1991, John told me, Peace Corps moved out of Ziguinchor, the western-most region of the Casamance. But he knew of no particular event that caused them to make this decision. Then, to John's dismay, in 1997 or '98, the US embassy forbade volunteers to be more than a few kilometers west of Kolda (the eastern-most region of the Casamance, which is just west of Kedougou).

"Why to your dismay?" I wanted to know.

He explained that he goes back to the Casamance every year, visiting his host family in Sedhiou and working on various projects in the area. He has never encountered any problems and, in fact, has always been received with open arms and the warmest hospitality of any of his travels. For this reason, he said, he was dismayed.

We may soon be seeing changes, though. A bridge is expected to be built over the Gambia River in the Gambia, linking Dakar to Ziguinchor (this would cut out a 6 hour ferry wait, as I've heard some people have had to do). If this project is completed, Lewis Lukens, the US ambassador to Senegal, announced in February of this year that soon (possibly within a year) the region will be open again to Peace Corps.

This would bring good tidings to an area that is described as having the "oldest, most persistent war in West Africa." And yet, from what I hear, "war" seems grossly out of proportion.

Diatta, the main health worker in my village and my work partner, is a Diola from the Casamance. And, as often happens when people are uprooted from their homes, he is fiercely proud of where he comes from.

"You know, the Casamance was the last region of Senegal to be colonized," he told me one day over a game of Scrabble. I looked up, glad for the distraction. I was having difficulty coming up with a French word longer than 3 letters. Next to him and the school teacher, my Scrabble score was abysmal. "Tell me more."

There's a famous Diola by the name of Aline Sitoe Diatta, he told me, who opposed French rule and she got thrown in jail. Now she's considered a martyr for her controversial stance. There's even a monument in Ziguinchor in her honor (I think, I mean I've never been there).

Connecting the dots between this story and the stories of others I've met from the Casamance, I begin to see spelled out an immense pride for this idyllic, Eden-esque land. Abdoulaye Cysso Mane, an artist based in Ziguinchor (I must have seen an exhibit of his on display somewhere else), reflects this tranquility in his works. To promote the idea of the Casamance as Senegal's bread basket, he produces painting after painting of people cultivating in the rice fields. If art imitates life, then Cysso - as he prefers to be called - shows us the aesthetic beauty of this region, stenciling in the complicated history with every brush stroke, to finally produce a work that is as complex and breathtakingly beautiful as the land he uses for his subject.

Or so I've been told.

FGM

The central image in Ousmane Sembene's movie Moolaade about female genital mutilation is fitting: an ostrich egg sitting in the crevice on the top of the village mosque. The symbolism is clear: unlike one character's assertion that Islam requires women to be cut (this is a practice that existed pre-Muhammad), the religion - in this case the mosque - holds and cherishes a woman's complete sexuality.

This movie, set in Burkina Faso, follows six girls who escape from their own circumcision ceremony (in the Bambara language, this is innocently referred to as "the hand washing ceremony") to the house of Colle, correctly assuming that Colle, who didn't allow her own daughters to be cut, would protect them. This creates a division in the village between those who condone and those who condemn this traditional practice.

The subject of FGM is a difficult one to broach in my village. I've learned that depending on how I ask questions, I will get very different responses. Once, while lounging on a bench with my 14 year old sister, I began asking her questions and at first, she was receptive to talking about it. She explained how, traditionally, it's the blacksmith who does the circumcision; a male blacksmith for the boys and a female blacksmith for the girls. Sometimes these people come from the community, or sometimes they come from Kedougou. To encourage Goundo to keep talking, I told her that in America, girls aren't circumcised at all, and it's the parent's decision if they circumcise the boys. Goundo got silent, suddenly remembering something she had been told awhile back, and she shut the conversation down.

New initiates in Sembene's film

I knew what that something was. It's become well known in this part of the world what Westerners think of FGM. Big aid organizations will come into a community and give large amounts of money if that community will promise to stop the practice of female cutting. The community promises, the papers are signed, they receive their money...and they continue right on with their tradition.

When I've asked people in my village if the women are cut, I've heard everything from "yes, every single woman" to "no, we don't do that here." With varied responses like that, I can only assume that the tradition lives on.

Last night, I was walking through the village with my aunt. We had gone to watch some communal tv and were headed home in the clear moonlight. I had a little sister clinging to each hand. My aunt's little daughter was strapped to her back. "Aunt Noba, how old are girls when they get cut?" I asked, holding tightly to my little sisters.

"About five," she responded. Then after a pause, she added, "You know, if they don't get cut, they can't have kids."

For most aspects of life here, I try to approach anthropologically - observing and even participating without judgment. Female cutting is one of the few exceptions. Beautiful people and beautiful traditions exist here in Senegal, and FGM is not one of them.

Mosque from Sembene's film, balancing an ostrich egg

The final shot in Moolaade is a simple, yet powerful, image. Sembene cuts back to the mosque, which is still swaddling the ostrich egg. After all the conflict the village went through - beating people, banishing them from the community, confiscating and burning all the radios - the most important and unifying aspect (religion) still holds strong. With this image, Sembene tells us that we can abandon unhealthy practices while still respecting the tradition of our ancestors.

Jusqu'a la mort!

I heard the sound of the bells on their ankles and the whistles in their mouths long before I spotted them. People crowded to the edge of the village in anticipation. Before long, I saw the line of men snaking through the woods, approaching the village. What before had been a cacophony of noises soon became a cadenced rhythm as they came closer - stomp whistle stomp whistle stomp. These men - recently welcomed to manhood - with their goathair leg warmers and jelly shoes - were passing the torch. A new group of men would be initiated this weekend.

These people are Bassari and this means one important thing to a Peace Corps Volunteer: as Christian animists, they have no taboos about drinking. And it is this unique cultural experience that compelled 30 Americans and 1 Spaniard to sit in a hot bus, just to arrive in the village of Egath hours later covered in red dust.

Later, as the last of the whistles died away (they would be back and going strong until well past midnight, I soon found out), I sat under a tree with Josef, a Bassari man who works at the Baptist Mission in Kedougou. He told me about his initiation back in 1985 and how - now with pride in his voice - his two oldest sons recently went through theirs. He explained the confusion that ensued when a matrilineal society became colonized by a patrilineal one, and how he avoided some of this confusion by marrying a woman with the same last name. And then Josef outlined how the rest of the night would proceed:

Visitors walk from house to house, greeting the people of Egath. In so doing, they are given a cup of honey wine (or palm wine or millet beer). That first day, the alcohol would be free-flowing; the next day we would have to pay.

"Wow, so by the end of the night, after visiting every house in the village..." I trailed off.

Josef looked at me and smiled.

Chip, Janet, and I were in a language group together during training. It seemed fitting that now, a year later, we should have a reunion. The three of us broke apart from the rest of the group to tour the village together. And that's when our lives would be forever changed: we met Albert.

Chip, Albert, and Chrissie

Albert was a man about half my height. He carried a stick and had tucked something into the back of his pants to make a tail. This tail would swish as he swayed back and forth - something he did more and more often as the night progressed. Also, Albert was already three sheets to the wind at the time we met him and asked him to be our unofficial guide to the festivities. He was only too happy to oblige.

Albert was funny. He was dramatic. He would caution us to watch our step as we approached a leaf. ("Attention!" he would gasp.) Inbetween houses, we would throw our heads back and proclaim to the stars "We will drink palm wine jusqu'a la mort (until we die)!"

By the time we reached the last house, a small group of our friends had attached themsevles to us. In the circle we formed, passing the cup of honey wine, an old woman came out of her house and began dancing. She was so cute, I couldn't help myself. I danced, too. Sometime later I asked if she would be my Egath mom. She agreed. She said to come back the next day. I promised I would. Sometime even later, I fell asleep under the stars.

The next day was the day of the wrestling match between the older boys and the new initiates. Women are not allowed to attend this match, so as the men went off to the spectacle, the artisans rolled out their goods and the women went shopping.

I decided this would be a good time to visit my new host mom. I bought a pack of beignets and headed to her house. She was as sweet as I remember from the night before - offering me refreshment and a really delicious powdery concoction of pounded peanuts and sugar. There was only one thing I hadn't noticed before - my new mom and I didn't share a common language. Not a word.

They say blood is thicker than water, but is it thicker than palm wine? Could we traverse our differences? Could I tell her stories about my real mom in America, or she tell me about her childhood?

The answer is no, but it doesn't matter. I would visit her five more times that day; each time, the portion of honey wine and peanuts would become more and more substantial.

That day before leaving for Kedougou, I said goodbye to Josef, goodbye to my mom, goodbye to Albert - who was still wearing his tail, and goodbye to this experience I would remember jusqu'a la mort.

*Special thanks to Ashleigh Baker for contributing photos for this blog entry.

Do You Speak Pulaar?

Some say the Pulaars stretch as far east as the Sudan and as far south as the Congo. Others say it is the third most widely spoken language in Africa. Any way you look at it, it's a vast ethnic group, and Kedougou is lucky to have its own little slice of the pie, in the Pula Foutas.

This branch of the Pulaars hails mainly from Guinea Conakry. During the reign of Sekou Toure - the first president of an independent Guinea - populations scattered quite a bit. Toure was in perpetual fear of a "constant plot" against him at the hands of the CIA, Russians, Pulaars, and teachers. (A motley crew of rebellion if I ever heard one.) As a result, many Guinean Pulaars sought refuge in Senegal.

To see the layout of a Pula Fouta village is to get a glimpse of the effects of colonisation. This once-nomadic group settled into a sedentary life - it's hard to tax nomads - and the layout of the villages reflects this wandering lifestyle. As opposed to the Malinkes who live practically on top of each other in a smothering family kind of way, with fields on the outskirts, the Pulaar villages are spread out with plenty of room between each compound and the fields in the middle of the village.

There's another way in which Pulaar-land differs from Malinke-land: the natural beauty. In Koboye, where my friend Ashleigh lives, there is a cliff behind her house that looks out over the entire valley below in one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. It is peaceful and contemplative. Near Jamie's house in Lesfelo, there is a waterfall. In dry season, which is now, this is a water-less fall, yet even in dry season, it's not lacking in beauty. Here, with several other volunteers, we laid on the rocks, saw snakes and chimp nests, and talked about life. Contrast this to Malinke-land; there we have gold mining and prostitutes.

With ethnic tensions high right now between Pulaars and Malinkes in Guinea, I was curious to see the relationship between the same groups in Senegal. Senegal prides itself on being a peaceful country even when all the countries around it fall by the wayside. If any tensions exist, they must be subtle. For example, to ask a Malinke if they speak Pulaar, you say simply "Do you speak Pulaar?" However, if the tables are turned and a Pulaar asks someone if they speak Malinke, they say "Do you speak ceddo?" (Ceddo here means warrior, an interesting point to consider if you read my blog post The Outsiders.)

Also, Pulaars have some interesting verbs; for example, there's a verb that means to look at someone or touch them to get them to stop talking when someone enters the room. They also have the verb "domogol" - which means to show up somewhere just in time to eat. "Domo" is the Malinke word for eating. While it's not confirmed, I have a feeling the Pulaars are commenting on our eating habits.

The Malinkes, however, are nothing but kind and sweet to everyone. (Perhaps with the exception of the Wolof. See my blog post entitled Uncle Wolof.)

Regardless, Pulaar-land is a natural wonderland and well worth a visit. Just don't show up right before lunch - they may accuse you of being a warrior.

BAMM!

This month is Blog About Malaria Month. I am going to blog about malaria. I am by no means an expert on the subject, as I have never had malaria, but I know a few things that I would like to share. I take mefloquin every ten days and I own a mosquito net. I have bizarre mefloquine dreams, such as the one in which I am eating dinner on the back of a llama.

Malaria comes from the French for "bad air." Perhaps once upon a time people thought air caused malaria. I'm pretty sure they've found this to be untrue. Although this morning I was biking into Kedougou and a cow had died on the side of the road. It smelled so bad, I thought I might catch malaria. You can never be sure about these things.

Then the English came along and began prescribing gin and tonics to fight malaria. This is pretty smart of the English, I feel. I know the English and French have not always gotten along. This makes me sad. We should all sit down and drink gin and tonics together. And toast to our health, free of malaria.

Perhaps malaria was something invented by the white man to keep the black man down, the way AIDS was. This is not something I'd particularly like to elaborate on.

If mosquitoes were lollipops, we might enjoy getting mosquito bites. It would be like one of those dismal but necessary chores you have to do with a reward at the end, like when you go to the bank and stand in line for a long time just to find out you're actually overdrawn, but it's okay because at the end you can take a lollipop for yourself, and one for your child waiting in the car, except you don't have a child waiting in the car and you're actually going to eat the second lollipop yourself.

If I tried to draw a picture of a mosquito, it would probably look more like a dragon fly. I'm not sure of the genetic differences between mosquitoes and dragon flies, but I know dragons can breathe fire, which is no match for a mosquito net. In fact, mosquito nets are probably fairly flammable and this train of thought is just a recipe for disaster.

In any case, my friend Karin says I should probably stop writing about malaria now. She would know, she went to Malaria Boot Camp. She may know a few more things about this than me. Read what she has to say at krnordstrom.wordpress.com. Also, go to the Stomp Out Malaria website. You know, if you feel like it.

It's a Baby in a Bucket!

The Outsiders

"When a lizard mocks a turkey, he makes sure there is a tree nearby."

So speaks one of the characters in Ousmane Sembene's film Ceddo. Sembene, one of Senegal's most well-known film-makers, had good reason to follow the advice of his own character. He mocks not only Islam, but also Christianity, as well as slave traders. These three groups are lumped into one, referred to as "ceddo," or outsiders. This is a bold move for someone whose culture is steeped in Islam. In "mocking the turkey," Sembene's tree may have been nearby, but his film did not escape censure - Senghor, the first president of an independent Senegal, banned the film.

The word "Islam" means the peace that comes from submitting yourself to God. Regardless of what I read in the news, I prefer to take my direct, personal experience of Islam to inform my views on the religion. In Diakhaba, the villagers show me a humble and gentle approach to God. They do their five daily prayers and ask me how I pray. They take care of family, each in their own way, and with a larger concept of family than we seem to have in the States - every person's welfare belongs to the village. This includes the crazy man who showed up seemingly out of nowhere; my family gets a kick out of listening to him rant to himself, yet always feeds him when he comes around at supper time. (He is a Danfakha, after all.) And when tragedy strikes, they remind me that God is big. This, to me, is Islam.

In Ceddo, the daughter of the king is kidnapped by the ceddo - the outsiders or, in other words, the animists that existed before Islam came. The ceddo want to send a message to the king that their tradition is strong and they will not be converted. A war ensues. The imam - the Islamic spiritual leader - usurps power from the king and eventually assassinates him. The first attempt to rescue the princess (held captive by a ceddo with bow and arrow) by a Muslim (with a gun) ends in the Muslim getting killed. The symbolism is clear - in this scenario, tradition wins. Later, when the guns come back, the guns win and the princess is rescued. Tradition grows weak and each villager converts to Islam and begins attending mosque.

I have only been to my village's mosque once during Tabaski. Normally I am not allowed to attend, given my age and reproductive status. Mosques the world over are all vastly different, depending mostly on the wealth of the community. Even in Senegal, you find everything from the mosque in Touba - the burial site of Cheikh Amadou Bamba - to the tiny mosque built out of sticks in the village of 100 people next to Diakhaba. What unites these vastly different types of architecture is the crescent moon and star symbol of Islam that adorns the top, much like a cross on a church. A mosque, however, unlike a church, is simply a place to pray. It is this simple type of prayer that I reflect on at night, sitting under the moon and stars, eating dinner with my grandmothers. Is this, then, my form of prayer?

The Great Mosque of Touba

At the end of the film, the princess confronts the imam and kills him with his own gun. Did she, then, not convert to Islam? Is she, herself, a ceddo? These answers remain hazy. We do know, however, that Senegal succumbed fairly easily to conversion to a Sufi form of Islam. If you ask anyone in my village if they are Muslim, the answer is a resounding yes (despite the presence of a missionary in Diakhaba during the last seven years). Yet if you ask if they are Sufi, no one will have heard of that word. Perhaps it's a designation that we, as outsiders ourselves, have placed on them. And it makes sense. Sufis seem more willing to accept the magical components of an animist tradition, such as gris-gris and fetishes. Also, the Sufis are interested in having a more direct spiritual experience of God, more so than experiencing God through texts such as the Quran or the hadiths (sayings of the Prophet). This would clearly appeal to a society that's largely illiterate. However, as Bocande, my host dad's best friend, is quick to assure me, all forms of Islam are the same.

Coumba, my friend's baby, wears gris-gris around her neck to protect her.

It occurs to me that Sembene is being intentionally oblique in the designation of "ceddo." In the film, the group referred to as such are the people resisting conversion. And yet Sembene's critiques of these foreign meddlers is so apparent, we can only assume he considers them to be the outsiders. By the end of the film, the village is homogenized when everyone is baptized with a Quranic name, such as happened to me when I moved to Diakhaba. I was named Fatoumata - after my host mom and also the Prophet Muhammad's daughter - and I took the family name Danfakha (women keep their last name in marriage but children take their father's last name). This was not a forced conversion. I was happy to take a Quranic name and a local last name. It gave me a family to fit into and rendered me no longer an outsider. As the kids in my house are quick to point out, when they put their arm up to mine - "A be kilin." We are the same.

A be kilin.

By the way, Sembene is a great film maker, and watching any of his films would provide for a delightful viewing experience.