A Tale of Thanksgiving
Moor Laam’s Bone is the title of a play, first staged in 1967/68, written by a Senegalese playwright named Birago Diop. It is the sort of thing every Senegalese child knows and many have memorized in school, it is an integral part of their national cultural heritage, perhaps the way the Flintstones are for American children. The story is a simple comedy, but remarkably illustrative of the values of Senegalese society: in a poor community where people haven’t eaten red meat in so long that they cannot remember its taste, one villager has the good fortune to receive a big and luscious piece, still on the bone.
In Senegal, land of teranga, or hospitality, people can stop by at mealtime and will always be invited to dig in. However, in this particular instance, rumor has it that our protagonist Moor Laam wants to keep his doors firmly shut against all and sundry, including his best friend and even the stray fly! His one obsessive thought is having his wife prepare a dish so tender and succulent that the meat will fall off the bone, hence his repeated question as to whether she has correctly prepared and seasoned the mouthwatering dish, a question that constitutes a sort of refrain throughout the play.
Phaeton Rising
When a whole trimester of The Crucible got too much even for me to bear, I suggested to my friend that we go on an outing to the Iles de la Madeleine. These little islands are within full view of downtown Dakar and the lighthouse at Mamelles; they are a mere 20 minutes away by pirogue. After a labyrinthine walk to procure a ticket (down several winding staircases next to the extremely unattractive amusement park called Magicland), we came upon several men dressed in army fatigues who were drinking tea and playing checkers. They looked almost taken aback to see us, but were good about getting us tickets and into a pirogue with our guide, nicknamed Doudou (yes, unfortunately it is pronounced just the way you suspect it is, but as many Muslim names happen to end in
‘-dou,’ from Mohamodou to Amadou, it cannot be helped).
The Walk to Edioungou
We took the main road past the market in Oussouye, walking along rice fields vibrant with colorfully clad harvesters. Soon we found ourselves turning onto red dirt roads, with playful goats bleating cheerfully at one another. We passed huge areas of bright red bissap flowers, a tart local plant, chock-full of vitamin C like hibiscus and used to make a ruby red juice. The sun beat down hot upon our heads and we paused in some tall grass, inhaling the scent of fresh mint. Finally we came upon one of the little ’boutiques’ locals depend on in the absence of supermarkets. These are basically tiny convenience stores, about as big as closets, that sell virtually EVERYTHING in tiny (hence affordable) quantities, from a single scoop of sugar or vegetable oil or vinegar sold in a plastic bag to a single egg. They are in complete contrast to the bulk- or family-sized quantities American families love to stock up on in places like Costco’s – the Senegalese have neither storage space nor, quite frequently, the electricity they would need in order to keep anything perishable for longer than a day. We were delighted to stumble upon the boutique and have a cold drink, although when the big eyes of the children are upon you, you inevitably hand over your half-finished bottle (in case some of my more hygiene-obsessed readers are wincing, there is absolutely NO squeamishness here about sharing cups or bottles with virtual strangers, not even toubabs!) because of the pure joy that lights up the children’s faces at even such a small gesture of kindness.
In the Lonely Planet guide, we had read about a gorgeous place to stay and/or eat just nearby called the Campement des Bolongs. We had to ask our way through, and one young boy pretty much led us by the hand, as it was in a fairly secluded location at the water’s edge. It was well worth the trek, however, as we got to lounge in hammocks on an enormous deck overlooking the mangroves, sipping bissap with mint while awaiting our lunch. Our starter was the most generous serving of shrimp I have EVER gotten anywhere, and they must have known I was a garlic lover, because these exquisite beauties were seasoned perfectly to my taste. For dessert, we were each treated to half of a miniature pineapple, plus a memorable view of all the neighborhood children congregating rapturously in front of the lodge’s TV set.
Anchors Away
Schoolteachers are every bit as eager to get away when school ends as are their students, so I booked myself a ticket on the huge ferry leaving Dakar twice a week bound for Ziguinchor (zig-an-shore) in the Casamance. This particular voyage has a black stain on its history, as there was a national tragedy in September of 2002 when a boat christened the Joola sank due to overloading; there were fewer than 50 survivors, see article: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/
Most embassies also warn against non-essential travel to the Casamance because of both rebel and bandit activity – only last year there was a case of people’s ears being chopped off! Mine are still thankfully both intact, despite my recklessness (which will doubtless be the death of me one day), but the trip was absolutely worth it. This region, in the deep south of the country, is known as the garden of Senegal, and it is gorgeously green, with fruits in glorious abundance – papayas, mangoes, watermelon and – what a revelation – passionfruit! It makes my mouth water just to think of it. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the small green fruit (yellow when ripe) that grows on vines, you can cut it in half just like a kiwi and scoop out the pulp, it is delectable.
Sights to see in the area include two lovely islands accessible by pirogues, one called Karabane and the other Egueye. Both are situated in the middle of the mangroves, and for those readers who like oysters, you might want to know that oysters love to attach themselves to the roots of mangroves. Locals break off the roots of the mangroves in order to roast the oysters over an open fire. Though I am positive this is environmentally reprehensible, and despite the fact that I care about the wetlands ecosystem and even referred to myself as a mangrove hugger in a previous article, http://www.traveling-stories-
Tabaski 2008 - In loving memory of Chi Murakami
When I was in Granada, Spain, I demurred long and hard as to whether or not I should buy a ticket to see the corrida, or bullfight. On the one hand I love animals and hate cruelty, but on the other hand I was visiting another country and wanted to try and see the beauty and pageantry in what the Spaniards consider to be a prized art form. It is true that the spectacle of man versus beast is riveting and that the matadors move most elegantly, brandishing their red capes with a flourish, but I had not realized beforehand to what extent the bull was driven out of its mind by the picadores chasing and circling it and drawing the first blood of the fight, followed by the banderilleros who antagonize and maim the hapless beast still further.
To the consternation of the cheering Spaniards around me, I cried when the first bull went down. To help me over the hurdle, they encouraged me, offering me sips from their hide-covered flasks of (thankfully very potent) alcohol.
Words of Wisdom in Wolof
Wolof, one of six national languages which include Pulaar, Serer, Diola, and Mandinka, is by far the most widely used language in Senegal, spoken by about 80 per cent of the population. It is one of the Niger-Congo languages, like Chichewa, Xhosa and Zulu. Wolof spelling using the Latin alphabet was standardized only in 1974. As some readers may remember, Wolof has no word for please, which shocked me initially.
Equally interesting is that its verbs are unchangeable words which are not conjugated; instead, personal pronouns are conjugated to express different tenses or aspects of an action. Whereas grammar is something that only a specialized few can truly appreciate, however, proverbs are fascinating and can be appreciated by a wide audience.
Thirty Years World Heritage: Goree Island, 1978-2008
Goree Island exploded in a three day celebration, and I caught the tail end of it. I left early on a Sunday morning, in time to take the 10 am ferry, and stood patiently on a looong line surrounded by a bunch of people unwilling to queue up properly. (Ferry tickets, by the way, are 1500 CFA for residents and 2500 for visitors, who are also expected to pay a tax upon arrival which I have learned to avoid by moving quickly and decisively in another direction).
After you get the ticket you are still not home clear, because you must go through a manned turnstile and may once again have to show proof of residency – it would be far too easy to ask any local to buy your ticket for you, so the guards pay close attention. Once you are seated on the boat, you are a captive audience for all the musical instrument vendors and boutique owners (who all greet one another by name, the island is small and they are regulars on the ferry), who will smile brightly, offer you a seat, ask you all sorts of questions about your visit so far (remember just how easy it is to pick out the tourists here!) and then begin their relentless patter: “Please come and visit my boutique, pour le plaisir des yeux – just for the pleasure of looking.” This is insidious, because if you do stop by just to look, as they have suggested, they will make you feel so guilty that you will invariably end up buying something you did not want or need all the same – this has happened to me on more than one occasion.
Quality of Life Issues
Later on this year in the global issues part of my class I will be discussing topics as diverse as the death penalty, abortion, and euthanasia, but that is not what I wanted to touch on here. Rather, I wanted to reflect for a moment on my life as it was before I left Bay Ridge and my life as it has been since my arrival in Dakar.
From the Bay Ridge Avenue stop in Brooklyn, a 10-minute walk from my apartment, I would get on the decrepit and smelly R train, where I would usually stand patiently until my stop at Canal Street in Manhattan, a ride of about 35 minutes. I developed all kinds of strategies for saving time, such as switching from the express to the local, choosing my exits to get me as close as possible to my destination, etc. I would have to fiddle in the depths of my bag for my ID before I would be allowed to make the mad dash to the elevator, and there, unlike here, I would sit at a nicely appointed desk with phone, Filofax and binders and carry out the tasks entrusted to me.
Halloween, Senegalese Style
Let me begin by saying that it is rather odd to be in a place that is warm on October 31st. I remember hiking in the crisp clean air of Cold Spring back in New York this time of year, admiring the striking reds and yellows of the leaves and the carved pumpkins adorning most porches, then coming back down to the main street to watch the joyous faces of the children participating in the local ragamuffin parade. Here, if I were to carve anything, it would probably be a watermelon.
Here, also, I did what I typically do, from slathering on the sunscreen to going for a quick after-school dip in the ocean to unwind (though the temperature of the water has dropped considerably, another indication of Senegal’s little winter).
Sunday with the Monks
Bright sunshine illuminated the grounds of Keur Moussa when we rolled in at 8:30 a.m. Not entirely sure when the mass would start, we had left Dakar at 7 a.m. sharp in order to get to this Benedictine monastery (founded about an hour outside of Senegal’s capital back in 1962) on time. On the way, we stopped at a tangana to have a delectable smooshed pea sandwich (see http://www.traveling-stories-
Mass did not actually begin until 10, but many of the monks were walking about chatting quietly to one another while others were practicing their music. The brothers wore extremely simple tunics made of coarse white cloth tied with slender brown ropes around their waists, and most wore sandals. There were a few older white monks, generally French or Franco-Canadian, but many were young Senegalese who appeared to be no older than their late twenties, leading me to wonder what it was that made them decide to enter monastic life so early on.
