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.

FGM

The central image in Ousmane Sembene's movie Moolaade about female genital mutilation is fitting: an ostrich egg sitting in the crevice on the top of the village mosque. The symbolism is clear: unlike one character's assertion that Islam requires women to be cut (this is a practice that existed pre-Muhammad), the religion - in this case the mosque - holds and cherishes a woman's complete sexuality.

This movie, set in Burkina Faso, follows six girls who escape from their own circumcision ceremony (in the Bambara language, this is innocently referred to as "the hand washing ceremony") to the house of Colle, correctly assuming that Colle, who didn't allow her own daughters to be cut, would protect them. This creates a division in the village between those who condone and those who condemn this traditional practice.

The subject of FGM is a difficult one to broach in my village. I've learned that depending on how I ask questions, I will get very different responses. Once, while lounging on a bench with my 14 year old sister, I began asking her questions and at first, she was receptive to talking about it. She explained how, traditionally, it's the blacksmith who does the circumcision; a male blacksmith for the boys and a female blacksmith for the girls. Sometimes these people come from the community, or sometimes they come from Kedougou. To encourage Goundo to keep talking, I told her that in America, girls aren't circumcised at all, and it's the parent's decision if they circumcise the boys. Goundo got silent, suddenly remembering something she had been told awhile back, and she shut the conversation down.

New initiates in Sembene's film

I knew what that something was. It's become well known in this part of the world what Westerners think of FGM. Big aid organizations will come into a community and give large amounts of money if that community will promise to stop the practice of female cutting. The community promises, the papers are signed, they receive their money...and they continue right on with their tradition.

When I've asked people in my village if the women are cut, I've heard everything from "yes, every single woman" to "no, we don't do that here." With varied responses like that, I can only assume that the tradition lives on.

Last night, I was walking through the village with my aunt. We had gone to watch some communal tv and were headed home in the clear moonlight. I had a little sister clinging to each hand. My aunt's little daughter was strapped to her back. "Aunt Noba, how old are girls when they get cut?" I asked, holding tightly to my little sisters.

"About five," she responded. Then after a pause, she added, "You know, if they don't get cut, they can't have kids."

For most aspects of life here, I try to approach anthropologically - observing and even participating without judgment. Female cutting is one of the few exceptions. Beautiful people and beautiful traditions exist here in Senegal, and FGM is not one of them.

Mosque from Sembene's film, balancing an ostrich egg

The final shot in Moolaade is a simple, yet powerful, image. Sembene cuts back to the mosque, which is still swaddling the ostrich egg. After all the conflict the village went through - beating people, banishing them from the community, confiscating and burning all the radios - the most important and unifying aspect (religion) still holds strong. With this image, Sembene tells us that we can abandon unhealthy practices while still respecting the tradition of our ancestors.

Jusqu'a la mort!

I heard the sound of the bells on their ankles and the whistles in their mouths long before I spotted them. People crowded to the edge of the village in anticipation. Before long, I saw the line of men snaking through the woods, approaching the village. What before had been a cacophony of noises soon became a cadenced rhythm as they came closer - stomp whistle stomp whistle stomp. These men - recently welcomed to manhood - with their goathair leg warmers and jelly shoes - were passing the torch. A new group of men would be initiated this weekend.

These people are Bassari and this means one important thing to a Peace Corps Volunteer: as Christian animists, they have no taboos about drinking. And it is this unique cultural experience that compelled 30 Americans and 1 Spaniard to sit in a hot bus, just to arrive in the village of Egath hours later covered in red dust.

Later, as the last of the whistles died away (they would be back and going strong until well past midnight, I soon found out), I sat under a tree with Josef, a Bassari man who works at the Baptist Mission in Kedougou. He told me about his initiation back in 1985 and how - now with pride in his voice - his two oldest sons recently went through theirs. He explained the confusion that ensued when a matrilineal society became colonized by a patrilineal one, and how he avoided some of this confusion by marrying a woman with the same last name. And then Josef outlined how the rest of the night would proceed:

Visitors walk from house to house, greeting the people of Egath. In so doing, they are given a cup of honey wine (or palm wine or millet beer). That first day, the alcohol would be free-flowing; the next day we would have to pay.

"Wow, so by the end of the night, after visiting every house in the village..." I trailed off.

Josef looked at me and smiled.

Chip, Janet, and I were in a language group together during training. It seemed fitting that now, a year later, we should have a reunion. The three of us broke apart from the rest of the group to tour the village together. And that's when our lives would be forever changed: we met Albert.

Chip, Albert, and Chrissie

Albert was a man about half my height. He carried a stick and had tucked something into the back of his pants to make a tail. This tail would swish as he swayed back and forth - something he did more and more often as the night progressed. Also, Albert was already three sheets to the wind at the time we met him and asked him to be our unofficial guide to the festivities. He was only too happy to oblige.

Albert was funny. He was dramatic. He would caution us to watch our step as we approached a leaf. ("Attention!" he would gasp.) Inbetween houses, we would throw our heads back and proclaim to the stars "We will drink palm wine jusqu'a la mort (until we die)!"

By the time we reached the last house, a small group of our friends had attached themsevles to us. In the circle we formed, passing the cup of honey wine, an old woman came out of her house and began dancing. She was so cute, I couldn't help myself. I danced, too. Sometime later I asked if she would be my Egath mom. She agreed. She said to come back the next day. I promised I would. Sometime even later, I fell asleep under the stars.

The next day was the day of the wrestling match between the older boys and the new initiates. Women are not allowed to attend this match, so as the men went off to the spectacle, the artisans rolled out their goods and the women went shopping.

I decided this would be a good time to visit my new host mom. I bought a pack of beignets and headed to her house. She was as sweet as I remember from the night before - offering me refreshment and a really delicious powdery concoction of pounded peanuts and sugar. There was only one thing I hadn't noticed before - my new mom and I didn't share a common language. Not a word.

They say blood is thicker than water, but is it thicker than palm wine? Could we traverse our differences? Could I tell her stories about my real mom in America, or she tell me about her childhood?

The answer is no, but it doesn't matter. I would visit her five more times that day; each time, the portion of honey wine and peanuts would become more and more substantial.

That day before leaving for Kedougou, I said goodbye to Josef, goodbye to my mom, goodbye to Albert - who was still wearing his tail, and goodbye to this experience I would remember jusqu'a la mort.

*Special thanks to Ashleigh Baker for contributing photos for this blog entry.

Do You Speak Pulaar?

Some say the Pulaars stretch as far east as the Sudan and as far south as the Congo. Others say it is the third most widely spoken language in Africa. Any way you look at it, it's a vast ethnic group, and Kedougou is lucky to have its own little slice of the pie, in the Pula Foutas.

This branch of the Pulaars hails mainly from Guinea Conakry. During the reign of Sekou Toure - the first president of an independent Guinea - populations scattered quite a bit. Toure was in perpetual fear of a "constant plot" against him at the hands of the CIA, Russians, Pulaars, and teachers. (A motley crew of rebellion if I ever heard one.) As a result, many Guinean Pulaars sought refuge in Senegal.

To see the layout of a Pula Fouta village is to get a glimpse of the effects of colonisation. This once-nomadic group settled into a sedentary life - it's hard to tax nomads - and the layout of the villages reflects this wandering lifestyle. As opposed to the Malinkes who live practically on top of each other in a smothering family kind of way, with fields on the outskirts, the Pulaar villages are spread out with plenty of room between each compound and the fields in the middle of the village.

There's another way in which Pulaar-land differs from Malinke-land: the natural beauty. In Koboye, where my friend Ashleigh lives, there is a cliff behind her house that looks out over the entire valley below in one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. It is peaceful and contemplative. Near Jamie's house in Lesfelo, there is a waterfall. In dry season, which is now, this is a water-less fall, yet even in dry season, it's not lacking in beauty. Here, with several other volunteers, we laid on the rocks, saw snakes and chimp nests, and talked about life. Contrast this to Malinke-land; there we have gold mining and prostitutes.

With ethnic tensions high right now between Pulaars and Malinkes in Guinea, I was curious to see the relationship between the same groups in Senegal. Senegal prides itself on being a peaceful country even when all the countries around it fall by the wayside. If any tensions exist, they must be subtle. For example, to ask a Malinke if they speak Pulaar, you say simply "Do you speak Pulaar?" However, if the tables are turned and a Pulaar asks someone if they speak Malinke, they say "Do you speak ceddo?" (Ceddo here means warrior, an interesting point to consider if you read my blog post The Outsiders.)

Also, Pulaars have some interesting verbs; for example, there's a verb that means to look at someone or touch them to get them to stop talking when someone enters the room. They also have the verb "domogol" - which means to show up somewhere just in time to eat. "Domo" is the Malinke word for eating. While it's not confirmed, I have a feeling the Pulaars are commenting on our eating habits.

The Malinkes, however, are nothing but kind and sweet to everyone. (Perhaps with the exception of the Wolof. See my blog post entitled Uncle Wolof.)

Regardless, Pulaar-land is a natural wonderland and well worth a visit. Just don't show up right before lunch - they may accuse you of being a warrior.

BAMM!

This month is Blog About Malaria Month. I am going to blog about malaria. I am by no means an expert on the subject, as I have never had malaria, but I know a few things that I would like to share. I take mefloquin every ten days and I own a mosquito net. I have bizarre mefloquine dreams, such as the one in which I am eating dinner on the back of a llama.

Malaria comes from the French for "bad air." Perhaps once upon a time people thought air caused malaria. I'm pretty sure they've found this to be untrue. Although this morning I was biking into Kedougou and a cow had died on the side of the road. It smelled so bad, I thought I might catch malaria. You can never be sure about these things.

Then the English came along and began prescribing gin and tonics to fight malaria. This is pretty smart of the English, I feel. I know the English and French have not always gotten along. This makes me sad. We should all sit down and drink gin and tonics together. And toast to our health, free of malaria.

Perhaps malaria was something invented by the white man to keep the black man down, the way AIDS was. This is not something I'd particularly like to elaborate on.

If mosquitoes were lollipops, we might enjoy getting mosquito bites. It would be like one of those dismal but necessary chores you have to do with a reward at the end, like when you go to the bank and stand in line for a long time just to find out you're actually overdrawn, but it's okay because at the end you can take a lollipop for yourself, and one for your child waiting in the car, except you don't have a child waiting in the car and you're actually going to eat the second lollipop yourself.

If I tried to draw a picture of a mosquito, it would probably look more like a dragon fly. I'm not sure of the genetic differences between mosquitoes and dragon flies, but I know dragons can breathe fire, which is no match for a mosquito net. In fact, mosquito nets are probably fairly flammable and this train of thought is just a recipe for disaster.

In any case, my friend Karin says I should probably stop writing about malaria now. She would know, she went to Malaria Boot Camp. She may know a few more things about this than me. Read what she has to say at krnordstrom.wordpress.com. Also, go to the Stomp Out Malaria website. You know, if you feel like it.