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.