Death in Senegal

Far and away the biggest event I've ever witnessed in my village was the commemoration of the end of someone's life. The funeral was for a villager I didn't know - Banga had been living in Paris for the last few years. It's generally not important to discuss how someone dies. When I asked, I was told he hadn't been well. My village pooled together money to have the body shipped back to Diakhaba.

That day, all the boutiks were closed and people came from many surrounding villages for the event, brilliantly dressed. I even had six couchsurfers visiting me at the time (www.couchsurfing.org), so the village was packed.

Shortly after lunch, all the men and old women went to the mosque to pray. Women still of reproductive age aren't allowed to enter the mosque, so we crowded under a tree outside, listening to the sounds of prayer, then lined the road as the coffin was brought outside, for which we ladies had to slip our flip flops partially off and turn our backs on the procession. The entire village then walked together to the family's compound. This is the only time in 4 months I've been amongst my villages without exchanging dozens of greetings. It was a solemn procession, some people crying, others chanting.

With the exception of the huge van that drove into the family compound to deposit the deceased's belongings, the rest of the ceremony was similar to other big events, like weddings. The men with important-looking kuufies sit in a circle with everyone else crowding around in any available shade. One by one these men speak softly to another person, who is the designated mouthpiece, and who repeats the same thing for us all to hear. This was a bit hard to follow, but I heard them mention many names of people in connection to the family, as well as the names of surrounding villages. Then people began filing out (men first), collecting dego as they left. Dego is a sweetened ground corn that's also given out at baptisms. People will grab handfuls and bring it back for family members who didn't attend the event (in this case, kids).

A mountain of delicious dego.

The actual burial remains a mystery to me, since not everyone attends this part. In fact, I'm not even sure where my village's cemetery is. It doesn't seem to be a place that is often visited, as in the States.

As for Banga, Allah mu aljanno daa la a yen. (May God welcome him in Paradise.)

Meet Patrick Hair

Listed among the ranks of Kedougou's finest volunteers is Patrick Hair, an expert in many areas, including the birds of Senegal. I was lucky enough to be granted a rare interview with this highly distinguished individual.

The interviewer drawing a bird on the interviewee's chest.

Chrissie Faupel: How is it that the birds of Senegal have captured so much of your interest?
Patrick Hair: Let's be honest. The rest of Senegal really isn't that exciting.
CF: When did you first get into birding?
PH: When I was a boy and I got sick, my mom would apply a rectal thermometer. At the same time, she would sing that duck song, you know, the one that goes "the one with a feather on its back, he led the others with a quack quack quack." The rest is history.
CF: If you were to be any kind of bird, what kind of bird would you be?
PH: I've identified pertinear [sic] 160 birds in Kedougou. I've had a lot of fun watching birds. Hammerkops! They kind of waddle. They splish splash in the wetlands. Greenback herons are also wetlands birds. There's nothing like a good marsh.
CF: I'm going to give you an adjective and I want you to give me a bird that goes with that adjective.
PH: Okay.
CF: Cunning.
PH: Red-throated Bee Eater.
CF: Sexy.
PH: Sunbird.
CF: Nostalgic.
PH: House Sparrow.
CF: Evil.
PH: African Scops Owl.
CF: Milquetoast.
PH: Common Bulbul.
CF: Gay.
PH: Abyssinian Roller.
CF: So how does one become an expert birder like Patrick Hair?
PH: It takes a lot of free time. And a lack of intimate relationship. You have to say no to many ladies. When they see the binoculars, you might be drawn to compromise the integrity of the birding experience.
CF: If you were asked to rap about birding, how might that sound?
PH: M*** F***!/If you think you're going to flash that gal,/I've got some Nikons hangin' round my neck./The ladies love it when the binos a'danglin.
[N.B. Binos: street slang for binoculars]
CF: At this point, I'd like to open up this Q&A session to our audience. First question submitted - If you could only watch one bird for the rest of your life, what bird would it be?
PH: The Parasitic Jaegar in Alaska. What this bird's all about, if I may elaborate, it chases other birds, makes them regurgitate their food by scaring them, then eats that food themselves.
CF: One audience member wants to know - When not birding, it's been alleged that you moonlight as a pleaser of women. Please speak on this claim.
PH: Women have a thing for birders. You don't know how many times I've been asked to take young ladies birding. I've never actually done it. The ladies see me wearing my bino bra - you know, it takes the pressure off the neck - and they know I'm no amateur. Women like a man who's observant, who will say "Hey, you got a new haircut," or "No, those pants don't make your butt look fat."
CF: Is it safe to shoot one of those red or yellow birds with a sling shot, cook it over a bed of coals, and then eat it?
PH: You're probably talking about the yellow Village Weavers. Villagers eat them a lot. Their chicks, too, are a good snack. There's plenty of them, so bissimilah. They also have this cool chromatic...colorization...their eggs...I'll have to think of the word when I'm sober. The red ones are Northern Bishops. They're hard to spot in the dry season because they're brown. If you're a brown bird, you might want to accessorize.
CF: Who's your ideal birding partner?
PH: One who plays a mean banjo, of the female variety [it's unclear whether the interviewee is qualifying the player or the instrument] who also sings songs to me. I'm tired of singing songs to women.
CF: And if we'd like to sing songs to you, how might we get in touch with you?
PH: Write me at bignakedguyinatreewithbinoculars@aol.com. But if you want to find me, I'll be in the bush. I  may be watching you. I have binoculars.

At this point, the interviewee falls asleep on the ground, clutching a bottle of Fanta.

Manyo-Yeah! (A Bridesmaid in Senegal)

I was summoned to my friend Tagui's wedding by the beat of drums issuing from her mom's house next door to me. I hoped I wasn't late. I had, after all, been invited to be a "hotesse," or bridesmaid, but had no idea what this entailed. When I arrived at the house, I found a large group of women standing in a circle clapping and dancing. In the middle of the circle were the drummers. It took me a minute to realize Tagui was also in the middle of the circle, lying on the ground under a sheet, while a musoo khoto (respected older woman) braided her hair.

When the drumming stopped and the griot (sort of like a bard) began singing the praises of the bride's family, the crowd wiped tears as they remembered those that had passed. When the hair was finished, I was summoned to the "washing place." I followed a handful of women - in the midst of which was Tagui - covered fully with a white sheet. The mysterious washing place turned out to be the middle of a field, where Tagui stripped down to nothing but a pagne wrap while the older women scrubbed her with soap and water.

 Newly clean, she was re-covered with the white sheet and we toured the village - Tagui and her entourage. Every time we passed an adult male, my friend would shake his hand and ask for money. Most people gave 100cfa, the equivalent of about 20 cents. Our tour ended at the mosque - an exciting prospect for me since I had never been inside the gates before. We left our shoes at the gate and circled the building three times while singing.

Back at Tagui's house, I got caught up talking with a group of women, when suddenly a great wailing arose from the hut where Tagui had disappeared into. Inside women were screaming and crying, shedding real tears at the prospect of Tagui leaving her mom's house to join her husband's family. The kids in the room, however, betrayed that perhaps this was all for show. They were giggling and wailing with much glee and exaggeration.

In one corner of the family compound were sitting many of the old men of the village, wearing important-looking kuufies. Tagui was sat in front of them, covered still, clutching a gourd spoon - the im portance of which we will revisit later - while listening to the old men's words. I did not listen, however, as I was busy with the women and the henna.

We now arrive at the Great Transition - the moment when Tagui was accompanied by a handful of women to Ibrahima's house. She sat beside him on bed in their bedroom while each of us curtsied to Ibou and we recited each other's last names. We left Tagui there on the bed next to her husband, looking terrified.

I visited my friend later that night. While friends and family danced to the loud music issuing from speakers outside, Tagui was confined to her room. She was not allowed to leave while people paraded in to give their blessings. In direct proportion to the number of adult women that were present, the more tears my friend shed. She told me she had a cold, but I saw her brush away real tears.

*******

The final day of the wedding always falls on a Friday. Friday is to the Muslim what Sunday is to the Christian. A marriage is not official until it is announced by the imam at the mosque; whether the couple is present or not is a moot point.

So now it is Friday, the final day of the wedding. (Weddings here are three days. I missed the first day due to the 4th of July.) People had already begun gathering at Ibrahima's house when I arrived. After some time, the music was quieted and the same old men issued more advice to Tagui, again sitting in front of them covered and holding the same gourd spoon. Then kola nuts were passed around and we shared them while congratulating the happy couple.

At some point, I was summoned to a back room and given my bridesmaid outfit. It's interesting to note the garrish bridesmaid phenomenon is worldwide.

We sat in the back room for hours while people gathered outside. I'm not sure why we waited so long, unless to give the bridesmaids more time to laugh at me while I practiced my dancing. (Despite their laughter, they did, in the end, declare that I was no longer a toubab, but in fact a "fatee fingo" or black skin.)

The mood in general on this final day was much more joyous and I was glad to see my friend laughing and joking again.

We at long last paraded out to the crowd to take photos.

As women must stay within their husband's compound for five days following a wedding, I would visit Tagui several times over the next few days. I noticed that same gourd spoon hanging from her ceiling.

"Munna? Why?" I asked.

A young girl piped up. "If Ibrahima beats Tagui, then she has to take the spoon down. As long as he doesn't beat her, the spoon stays up."

Tagui now seems to be enjoying her status as a married woman, even though most women here will tell you that the life of an African woman is very difficult. I was glad to note that the last time I was at Tagui's house, the spoon was still stuck in the ceiling.

Paper or Plastic?

Jaxanke reunion! Chip and Janet came to my village and stayed the night, on our way to our Peace Corps language seminar in Saraya. Chip is my nearest neighbor in Samecouta, a great village with a beautiful mosque and a phallic tower, situated right on a river. Janet came all the way from Tambacounda (another region that Kedougou broke away from recently to form its own region).

I took them to the health post for dinner. The family at the health post wins for best meal in the village. (There was one day that I ate all three meals at the health post. I just couldn't face the dry couscous without sauce that my family was assuredly serving that day.) So, as a treat to my friends, I invited us over for dinner at the health post.

Afterwards, in my hut, sprawled on the floor, we stayed up late into the night talking. Soon, the sound of the yellow horned gonfleck* began, a bird that I only hear at night and makes a sound oddly similar to a grocery store check out line. Everytime we heard its cry, my friends and I would name an item that we wished we were buying at a grocery store in the States.

Beep.

"Cinnamon toast crunch."

Beep.

"Cheetos."

Beep.

"Pizza rolls."

Beep.

"Bacon."

Beep.

"Broccoli." (This was not me. Janet offered up the idea of broccoli. She's from Berkeley, go figure.)

If words were actions, we would have cleaned out every aisle of that Kroger's.

This is the Peace Corps experience. An hour of listing items we'd like to eat from home, in tune to a nocturnal bird.

*I don't know if this is actually the name of the bird. I'm no expert. Be looking out for a blog in which Peace Corps Volunteer and local birding expert, Patrick Hair, is interviewed.

More Images from Senegal

Hut Sweet Hut

Fatumata with Sengalese Tresses

Cutest kid in my compound, hands down. Notice the gris-gris around his neck.

Termite Mound

My mom pounding corn for the morning mono (breakfast)

I was about to finish my next greatest masterpiece when Fode showed up without any pants.

My Slaves

"You and the afternoon."
"I acknowledge you. Are you with peace?"
"There is peace there. What's your last name?"
"Camara. And yours?"
"Camara! I'm a Damba. You are my slave!"
"If I'm your slave, you have to buy me something to eat."

As a white American from the South, I'm not completely at ease in referring to a West African as my slave. But, believe it or not, by doing this, I'm following a generations-old system put in place to keep social harmony. The system of cousinage, or joking cousins, sets up a joking relationship between people of certain last names. For example, I call Camaras my slaves. They, in turn, tell me my mouth is always full of bread.

My family name also has a relationship with the Dansokhos. You may recall the story of my last name - Danfakha - or buffalo killer - in which the men one day killed (fakha) all the buffalo (dan). You may notice a similar word in the name Dansokho - buffalo stabber, or poker. We make fun of the Dansokhos for being weak, or not getting the job done - they merely poked the buffalo, whereas we Danfakhas actually killed them.

So while calling people here my slave is not something Alex Haley would approve of, it is interesting being part of a tradition that has kept peace between families for years.

Now please excuse me while I stuff my mouth with bread.

Parodies of Human Beings

Dakar, 1979. Mour Ndiaye, Director of Department of Public Health and Hygiene has done his country a great service. He has rid the capital city of talibe, beggars, and boroom battu (calabash bearers - those who collect alms in a calabash). Said Ndiaye, "They are a running sore which should be kept hidden." He went on to lambast the shameful nature in which they beg for food, as opposed to wearing their poverty gracefully and silently. "Just because we're beggars, people think we're dogs! We're beginning to get fed up with the way we're treated!" commented an anonymous beggar. He's not alone in this sentiment. The boroom battu have gone into hiding after a crackdown by the Senegalese government (one beggar purportedly died from injuries after a police beat him, following new government regulations). The result? "We are as necessary to them as the air they breathe," responded another anonymous beggar. Havoc and maelstrom prevail in the capital when the rest of the population is not able to give alms to the needy and thus receive blessings from Allah. One grand marabout of the capital asks "You waged war against the beggars? Who won?" To find out, read Aminata Sow Fall's The Beggar's Strike.