BFF

I suppose if we had grown up together in the late 80s in small town Alabama, Ramata and I would have been blood sisters. Or at least I would have written her a note that said "Would you like to be my best friend? Check 'iyo' or 'o'oo'."

But we didn't grow up together. In fact, Ramata and I only met two years ago in small village Diakhaba. Which is why it was such an honor one night when she came to my house and presented me with gifts of cloth and jewelry. My host dad Sina explained "Ramata's asking you to accept her as your best friend. What you do you think?"

I accepted with an effulgence of energy, donning the jewelry and prancing around the compound showing off my new gifts.

I don't know exactly what it means to be a best friend here. I do know that I went through a series of good friends in village, and all of them either moved away or got married or faded into the hazy background, like the mountains of Guinea. But Ramata and I are bonded by ceremony, and ceremony means something here.

I bring her coffee and popcorn, visit her new granddaughter at the hospital in Kedougou. I cook with her and take naps next to her in the heat of the day. When I was sick for days with a stomach bug, Ramata brought me a special breakfast every morning and said she couldn't eat or sleep from worry. When I leave Diakhaba in a few weeks, she's warned me she won't be able to accompany me to the road to say goodbye because she'll be crying too much.

Mme nterri musoo nyinya, foo nse fakha.

Ramata and Fatoumata

Jewels

Abdoul Aziz Mbaye

 

 

Dusk was just settling in when we sat down to watch the spectacle in the park. It was Culture Week in Kedougou, in honor of the arrival of the Minister of Culture from Dakar, and we were here for the rap concert. And what a concert! Lyrics in every language and every topic - some lambasting the government for not providing much-needed resources, others against the foreigners for stealing what resources they do have. We were up on our feet clapping and laughing and hooting and hollering when who appeared, but our Jaxanke language instructor all the way from Pre-Service Training in Thies - Falaye! With his 50/50 hat that read "OBEY," he was easily the coolest kid in town. And not just cool, but a man who can make things happen. So during a lull in the music, I leaned over to him and whispered "Can you help me get an interview with the Minister of Culture?"

This is how, the following day, I found myself sitting in the restaurant of the nicest campement in town, craning my neck to see if Abdoul Aziz Mbaye was done with his breakfast. Falaye and I ordered orange sodas and tried to look like professional journalists. Eventually the Minister finished his omelet, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then he and his entourage headed our way.

When he got near our table, Falaye and I stood up. M. Mbaye took one look at Falaye in his OBEY hat, and said "Ah, c'est toi le rappeur d'hier soir!"

"The biggest wealth isn't gold, but knowledge."

I smiled. "Non, M. Mbaye. Moi, je suis une volontaire de Corps de la Paix et lui, c'est mon collegue."

"Et qu'est-ce que je peux faire pour vous?" he asked.

"Si c'est possible, je voudrais faire un interview avec vous."

"I think it would be possible," M. Mbaye responded.

I paused, taken aback. "Do you speak English?"

In his deep, gravelly voice, he replied "Of course. Fluently."

At this point, one of his entourage stepped forward. "I'm sorry. The Minister doesn't have much time. He has a flight to catch to Dakar. You may ask one question."

"One question?!" I thought about how I had stayed up late into the night with my flashlight and my notebook, formulating bleary-eyed questions. "What about 8 petite questions?"

"One," he answered sternly.

I opened my notebook. I gulped. "Juuuust ooooone question," I said slowly, filling the silence that ensued while I tried to choose the best question. I began, "Peace Corps has three goals. And two of those goals stress the importance of cultural exchange." I explicated. I amplified. I hemmed and hawed. If I was going to be granted only one question, I was going to be eloquent. I ended by asking, "What is the one thing you would want us volunteers to share with Americans regarding Senegalese culture?"

M. Mbaye answered without hesitation. "I would want Americans to know about our expertise in urban culture. Just yesterday before the rap concert, a graffiti artist named Doctah did a mural on the stadium wall. Check it out! When it comes to urban culture, Senegal ranks #3 in the world." [N.B. I did not ask for sources to confirm this. What I can confirm is that Senegal is a pretty cool place.]

Something in Wolof.

At this point, Mbaye's bodyguard had turned his back to us to take a phone call. I took advantage of this moment to slip in a second question. "In terms of culture, how does Kedougou stand apart from other regions?"

Mbaye gave me a sly smile, acknowledging that I had broken the rules. But neither of us could help ourselves - he wanted to answer the question as much as I had wanted to ask it. "Kedougou is a melting pot of all the ethnic groups that exist in the countries surrounding Senegal [Guinea, Mali]. There are more jewels on the land here than there is gold under the land."

"A government minister AND a poet!" I declared.

At this point, the bodyguard had ended his call. He walked over to me and took the notepad and pen out of my hand. "For the rest of your questions, you can email them to me." He copied down his contact information.

Later, after the entourage had left, I went up to the bar to pay for the sodas. Leon - the bartender - and I had become friends after an incident in which I had tripped over his friend's motorcycle and broke the mirror off. As I was handing the money over, Leon asked if I had had a chance to talk to the Minister.

"He was in a bit of a rush," I said.

"Well, he had a late start to his day," Leon explained. "He was at the rap concert until midnight. Then he came back and sat around the pool until 4am chatting with his friends."

As I walked away, Leon called out "Watch out for those motorcycles!"

Falaye and I walked out into the stifling Senegalese day, passing by Doctah's mural.

When I leave here, I won't miss the gold in the ground and all the problems it has brought. But I certainly, certainly will miss the jewels.

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.)