Story Time

Cold season is a beautiful time of year here in Senegal. Everyone pulls out their heaviest winter coat that they found at the fukijai (Senegal's version of a thrift store) and at night, with the stars crisp in the sky, families sit around the fire and tell stories to each other. Now, I love a good story, and it was this love of stories that prompted me to do a radio program on Malinke and American tales. I began by translating a few of our stories into Malinke. However, America and Senegal don't always share common creatures; thus the Three Little Pigs becomes the Three Little Warthogs. There are no wolves here, so instead the boy is crying lion. Similarly, it's a big bad hyena that Little Red Riding Hood encounters at her grandma's house.

One day I began to recount these stories to some kids in my compound, but was quickly hushed. "Don't tell a story during the day," my sister Tunkho warned, "or your parents will die." (I immediately went and apologized to my mom for killing her, who laughed at me while she swept the compound.) So it was under a blanket of darkness, with the stars as witness, that I recorded my grandmother's telling their own stories for the radio show. The following is a loose translation of their tales.

Marriage Material
Young Bintou always dreamed of getting married, but when she shared this dream with her mom, her mom refused to let her marry. "My husband doesn't have enough money to take a second wife," her mom thought, "and I need some help around the house." When Bintou heard this, she cried and ran away to the woods. This seemed a suitable enough arrangement, since everyday Bintou's mom would prepare food and bring it to her in the woods. But woods are never without their own dangers, and everyday lions appeared and tried to entice Bintou out of her hiding place. They wanted to eat her. Bintou was a wise enough girl to recognize a lion, but not wise enough to recognize their tricks. One day, a lion transformed itself into a person, probably a rather kingly-looking person, and called for her to come out. Based on the argument with her mom, we're already aware of Bintou's predilection for men, so she came right out of her hiding place and was promptly eaten - all except her clothes. That day when Bintou's mom came to deliver her meal, she found the empty clothes and knew what had happened. She cried, tore her hair, beat her breast a little bit, then when she calmed down, she declared, "From now on, all my kids will marry."

Don't tell stories in the middle of the day! they warned.

Women's Lib
One day the village leper - who was having trouble finding a wife - went to the chief to ask for his help in such matters. The chief agreed that if the leper worked in his house for two years, he would give one of his five daughters in marriage. Fast forward into the future - we see the leper get married, have a son, who becomes chief, who also marries, has five girls and one boy - and we're caught up in time. This new chief was so protective of his daughters he wouldn't let them leave the house. He went so far as to post a guard at his gate at night and said "If anyone comes a knocking at night, kill them!" Well, one night, the chief's son was out late. I imagine he was doing what the young men in my village do late at night - he was sitting at the boutique drinking tea. This suffices for a "night on the town." In any case, the son came home late, knocked on the gate and, as you can imagine, was immediately killed by the guard, who was just following orders (the ethical implications of this are a bit hazy). The chief, upon hearing the news, realized only he was to blame for the death of his son and declared that from then on out, the gates would be open and his daughters would be allowed to leave the house.

It Pays to Deceive
In a distant land, not so far from where I'm living now, there were two kings. One king had a daughter, the other, a son. Now, on paper, this fits together nicely like a puzzle - the two offspring of the kings should marry. And yet, one day, the princess announced publicly that she would never marry that prince (she had a few other choice words for him as well). When that prince heard her declaration, he was a bit hurt, as you can imagine, but he was the type of person who saw the ataaya glass as half full; he came up with a plan. He dressed himself up in all the accoutrements of a respectable young lady - headscarf included - and went to pay the princess a visit. Keep in mind that this is a culture that delights in hospitality, and it's not at all strange to accept a foreigner into your home as a friend. (Except for the cross-dressing thing - that's a little strange.) In any case, the two chatted all day about this and that while making tea and shelling peanuts. As the shadows grew long and the muezzin called out for prayer time, the prince(ss) declared it time to go and the princess decided to accompany her new friend home. On the way, they passed a herd of 100 cows. "Whose cows are those?" the princess asked. "My father's," was the reply. The princess, revealing her depth of character, said "Oh wow. If you were a man, I'd marry you." (Close up shot of the prince's face with a twinkle in his eye.) A similar exchange happened when the two passed a herd of 100 sheep, and then 100 goats. By the time they reached the prince's home, the princess realized who her new friend was. Retracting her earlier public announcement, she then and there agreed to marry the prince.

On the Road (through the Gambia), Christmas Kerouac-Style

Three Peace Corps Volunteers set out on an epic bike trip across the Gambia on Christmas Eve. Their main goal - to reach Banjul, the capital, by New Years. Their secondary goal - to understand the nuances that exist between two countries that share histories and ethnicities, yet were colonized by two different countries. This is a true account of their trip, extracted from the diaries of these brave volunteers. (Besides a brief interlude when one of us thought she was a lion, climbed a tree, and scraped her foot, no volunteers were hurt in the making of this adventure.)

Day One, 12/24: Took a bush path from Senegal into the Gambia, but no road signs. We knew we had switched languages when a "Police" car passed us (no longer gendarmes). Approached a village - women at the forage began cheering and dancing for us. Kids stretched out their hands - "five!" High five. Villagers filled our bottles with water and our hearts with happiness. Made it to Basse, and a Peace Corps transit house, by afternoon. Christmas Eve dinner was four hot dogs and french fries. Does the name Gambia come from gambas, big shrimp?

Day Two, 12/25: Bought bean sandwiches for breakfast and boiled sweet potatoes for lunch later. Grandma gave us blessings for the road when we bought bananas from her. "Sister, how is your body?" ("Quite well, if I do say so myself.") One village stopover, a kid called us toubab, but then squatted in deference when he shook my hand. Made it to Janjanbureh (or Georgetown, the original capital) by afternoon. The proprietor of our campement greeted us - "Merry Christmas! I hope you can dance." When asked their thoughts on the British over JulBrew, we were told "they took everything and left us nothing but empty houses." There were feelings of jealousy towards the Senegalese and the kind of development the French left in the wake of colonialism. As it was Jesus' birthday, we made up stories about his years left out of the Bible - in one version he ends up in Mexico buying silver for Mary.

Day Three, 12/26: Ferry crossing to the other side of the Gambia River. Peace Corps has a good reputation here and the ferry man didn't charge us. We picnicked under a tree, then took a nap to wait out the heat, suddenly surrounded by a Pulaar herder and his cows, going towards the river. Back on the road, we sang 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, all the way to the Wassu Stone Circles, an archaeological enigma, I'm told. Or is it? They've dug up bodies below the stones, so it's clearly a burial site, and pre-Islamic, based on the positioning of the bodies. In the middle of one of the circles, I meditate, in the shade and wind, imagining each stone one of Mother Earth's fingers as she cradles me in the palm of her hand. That evening darkness fell as we were on the road, and a Wolof family took us in.

Day Four, 12/27: I awoke to someone standing over me. It was the moon. What do you want? I yawned. It's cold and I'm trying to sleep. Tell me a story, she said. The stars aren't out tonight and I'm all alone up here. Yeah, I can see that. I'm going to tell you a story about a girl. She's really sad. I don't like this kind of story! the moon interjected. Go back to bed. When I awoke again, she was crouching at my feet. The stars had decided to join her. I have another story to tell you, I said, sitting up. I dreamed I was a drug addict in New York City. Now that's my kind of story, the moon said. Were you wearing a scarf? I thought hard. How did you know? The one I bought in the Mission. Oh good. Then you'll be seeing a lot more of me. Go back to sleep. The stars are out, so I'm not lonely anymore.When I woke up again, she was gone, my hands feeling for the scarf around my neck.
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Reached Farafenni and halfway point. Dark night of the soul. How can we go on? Mint M&Ms gave me hope and I was able to continue the journey.

Day Five, 12/28: Globalization changes roadside greetings: "Hello, sister, can I have your email?" Last night at hostel in Farafenni, a Canadian tells us about James Island, where Alex Haley traced his ancestry through Kunta Kinteh (read Roots) and much of the slave trade happened. That will be our next stop, but we have to leave the main road. Down small dirt road, stop to sleep in another Wolof village. The chief's son takes us in, offers us bread, tea, sweet. Another family sends over a meal of couscous and cassava. We are surrounded by a group of kids and adults. Do toubabs come down this path, ever? I sing Jingle Bells; they scream and clap.

Day Six, 12/29: Monkeys on the jungly road to Juffureh, James Island. We eat supocongee with a group of guides, speaking a mix of Mandinka and Pulaar, who then give us a good deal on pirogue trip to island. Woman from North Carolina on the boat ("I don't understand. You're gonna have to translate from the Gambian for me."). I learn the name Gambia comes from Kambi Baalongo, a Mandinka word for the river - Kambi being a last name, Baalongo meaning river. That night at dinner, Modou, a guide who has befriended us, tells us a hyena and rabbit story (my favorite time of year is right now, when the evening finds me sitting around the fire with my family while they tell hyena and rabbit stories).              
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Hyena and rabbit go walking through the woods, when they come to a hole in the ground. Rabbit says to hyena, "get in there." Hyena refuses. Rabbit says, "No, no, really, it's a good idea. You go first. And because I'm small, if someone comes along, I can easily dive in and warn you." Hyena is convinced, so he goes in. Rabbit quickly covers the hole with rocks and goes on his merry way, as rabbits are wont to do. When hyena digs his way out, boy is he mad, and he chases rabbit down. Rabbit runs and runs. As he nears the water's edge, at the last minute, he ducks down into a hole and hyena runs straight into the water. End of hyena.

Day Seven, 12/30: We have successfully biked the entire length of the country, at long last making it to Banjul (a Mandinka word meaning Bamboo Island). Odd being in a country where my local language is a majority language, whereas in Senegal, it is most certainly a minority language. We went to the beach and put our feet in the water, feeling proud. Is it cathartic? Who do I want to be? What qualities am I supposed to be cultivating? Right now I have nowhere to be. The most common English phrase I hear in this part of the world, when people are talking about America, is "time is money." Today someone wishes me happy new year and says "time is pleasure." Amiina.

Day Eight, 12/31: I couldn't decide between the falafel and the fish and chips, so I went for both. I'm on vacation, after all. Evening found us on the beach around a bonfire and drum circle. Fireworks at midnight. Happy 2013. On walk home, it is cold cold and we wrap skirts around our shoulders. A Brit approaches us. "I'm going to a party. I'd take you, but you're already wearing your mufties. You look like you're going to bed." So that's exactly what we do.

Day Nine, 1/1: Instead of ferry across to Barra, this time we take a pirogue. Men are employed to carry the passengers on their shoulders out into the water to the pirogue, as there is no dock. ("Don't worry sister, I am strong boy.") We are crammed into the bottom like sardines. In a country with very few rules and regulations, odd they make us wear life vests. Riding out of the Gambia through Wolof villages, kids throwing stuff. One group actually says "Get out of our area." Is it because they are Wolof? Or we are nearing the Senegalese border? This is certainly not indicative of the hospitality we were shown all along the way. In fact, I would say Gambians seem friendlier than Senegalese, but there's no way to quantify this. Bush path across the border, through a cashew plantation. We left as we entered, without a clue as to when we actually cross the border, until a gendarme passes us in a car - cross over into French again. And we're out.

Final Conclusions: This section of my journal is left blank. I don't know how these two countries differ. Should they even be two different countries? The Gambia is carved out of the interior of Senegal. The Brits, after a certain point, didn't even want control of the Gambia anymore, but couldn't get rid of it. Though why? Surely the river was an invaluable resource. The same ethnic groups exist in both. In the Gambia, when my local language fails, I feel guilty speaking in English, whereas I don't when I speak French. But French is also the colonizing language and I'll think twice the next time I use it in Senegal. The Gambia is an easier country to visit, in terms of price from Europe, language access, and size of country. With easier access, one sees a certain type of tourist come in ("I don't speak the Gambian.") which could alter local attitudes towards foreigners. Is this why those villages told us to get out of their area? Senegal has handfuls of ethnic groups, like the Gambia, but Senegal is also much bigger, resulting in affinity along ethnicity, not along nationality (I never hear anyone in my village speak of being Senegalese, they speak of being Malinke). Do Gambians identify more as Gambians, since it's a smaller country? And because they have a dictator? (Volunteers refer to him as the Easter Bunny. We are not allowed to talk about him.) All questions to ponder as this tired head and body rest from the trip.

Happy New Year, y'all.