My Trip to the Fouta

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

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

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

"How's the North?" he asked.

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

Claire, looking for shade under a thorn bush.

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

Thanksgiving turkey, pre-slaughter.

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

Alicia with her family.

They found love in
a hopeless place.

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

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

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

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

Coming home from the fields.

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

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

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

Milk - fresh squeezed.

A delightful package of kosam.

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

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

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

This tree is the garage of Sedo Abas.

Alicia's compound, with mosque behind.

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

It's a hard life for the village chief.