Spelling Bee

There was some time before dinner, so I popped into the bar for a quick beer. It was early still, not time yet for the big crowds to gather, and there was only one man sitting at the bar, gin in hand. I saw his eyes light up when he spotted me. In English, he asked me my name.

"Fatoumata," I replied.

"Ah yes," he said , tracing his fingers through the lines of dust on the bar. "F-A-T-O-U-M-A-T-A," he spelled aloud.

I grinned. "And you?"

"My name's Souleyman, but you can call me Gambia. That's where I'm from. G-A-M-B-I-A."

I invited him to sit with my friends and me. He carried over his gin and his cigarettes, smiling big, and began inquiring after, and then spelling out, my friend's names.

"Have you ever been in a spelling bee?" I asked.

Gambia looked puzzled. I explained to him what it was. "For example, spell school." He obediently, and correctly, spelled it, taking to the idea of a spelling bee like a tsetse fly to my neck on a bike ride through the bush.

"Spell Newjose!" he commanded gleefully.

"Gambia, I don't even know what that is." I tried anyway.

"No!" he declared triumphantly.

"Okay, spell Mississippi."

He looked thoughtful while smoking his cigarette. "M-A-S-I-S-P-Y."

"I have a serious question for you now, Gambia." He nodded in encouragement. "What do you think of your president?" This was a delicate matter and I wasn't sure he would be comfortable discussing it, even if he was in a different country.

"J-A-M-M-E-H," he spelled out.

"No, no," I said. "I don't want you to spell his name. What do you think of him?"

His face grew serious. He rolled his head back, looking at the ceiling, clutching his glass of gin. I grew nervous that I had crossed a line by asking that question.

Suddenly, he threw his head forward, gazing intently at the 3 of us, eyes aglow.

"I've got it! Cisse! Spell Cisse!"

Senegal Sweepstakes

Play the game! Win prizes! Answer these five questions about Senegal correctly, and you'll win a prize! Email your answers to chrissiefaupel@gmail.com. Bonne chance!

1. In 2010, this controversial monument to "African Renaissance" was inaugurated in Dakar, supposedly with some help from the North Koreans. This was the pet project of which Senegalese president?

2. This bridge leads visitors into the northern Senegalese city that used to be the capital of Afrique Occidentale Francaise, until Dakar stole that title in 1902. What city is this?

3. The Mouride brotherhood is the largest of the Sufi brotherhoods in Senegal. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Touba, the brotherhood's sacred headquarters. Pictures of the founder of the Mourides are found all over Senegal. What is the founder's name?

*Special thanks to Chip Ko
for the use of this picture.

4. These trees can be massive - a hollowed out trunk in Australia was once used as a prison. And they produce lots of fruit - in Malinke, if you compare someone to this tree, it means they keep pumping out the kids. In Iwol, a Bedik village in the region of Kedougou, you will find the biggest of its kind in Senegal. What kind of tree is it?

5. These kettles sit outside a mosque in Toubab Dialao for Muslims to wash themselves before prayer. What other important function do these kettles serve?

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?