Hail to Obama 009

April 12, 2009

The way things work here always astonishes me slightly, but I guess this is all part of the charm of being in Senegal. I have been to a lovely fishing village called Toubab Dialaw about three times now (http://www.traveling-stories-magazine.com/726/ ), and have become friendly with a local woman named Marieme as a result.
Marieme is a necklace seller stationed just outside one of the more upscale hotels in the area. Her ‘shop’ consists of about a yard or so of fabric spread on the ground. She removes the necklaces from her enormous woven basket, (which is generally perched atop her head on her way to work), arranges them carefully on the cloth, and voila – she is ready for business.
I think it was her baby Babacar that caused us to enter into our first conversation, as he is utterly adorable. Three unneeded necklaces later, we were all fast friends. When I returned to the area last weekend for a visit, bringing copies of the photos I had taken last time for Marieme and her family to keep, I asked where I could eat a really good thiebou dieune, the national rice dish with fish and vegetables (http://www.traveling-stories-magazine.com/waiting-for-the-barbarians/ ).

It never occurred to me that I might be invited home, but that was exactly what happened as a result, and around two that afternoon she left her colleagues to attend to her wares while she walked me through her village to her home. Like the majority of local homes, there was a stereo and electricity, but neither a stove nor a fridge. Since the locals often have neither the luxury of gas supplied through a mains pipe, nor the certainty of being able to pay a regular monthly bill, gas must be bought in containable units stored in canisters, and continually replaced when the canister runs out.

The majority of cooking is thus done directly over a big gas canister, and meals are served in large aluminum bowls. Local authors point out that the communal eating of the same food from the same bowl becomes both a literal as well as a highly symbolic act, reinforcing the idea of cohesion and the family as an inviolate entity. Though I was technically an interloper, I was not made to feel so in the least. Spoons were offered all around, thus depriving me of the chance to watch the others and perfect the rice-ball-in-one-hand-making skills that I have still not entirely mastered all these months into my stay: http://www.traveling-stories-magazine.com/to-expat-or-not/.

As is usual in any Senegalese household, the place was brimming over with people of all ages, including nieces and neighbors plus a daughter who had only just given birth in November – on November 4^th, to be exact - which is why the daughter decided to name her newborn son after the newly-elected Chief Executive of the United States of America.  I thought the story to good to keep to myself, so here, ladies and gentlemen, I present you with the portrait of one Barack Obama, Senegalese version, almost as irresistible as his namesake, as I am sure you will agree.
So, Mr. Obama, if by any chance you are an avid reader of this column, know that you have a delightful namesake out in a remote fishing village in West Africa – if you can work it in, you really should stop by and see him sometime!

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com