Thirty Years World Heritage: Goree Island, 1978-2008

November 27, 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.

I did my usual tour of the island, stopping by the Maltese chapel of St. Charles Borromee (constructed in 1830, http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Gor%C3%A9eSaintCharlesBorrom%C3%A9e.JPG ) just in time for their wonderfully musical mass. Charles – or actually Carlo Borromeo, as he - an Italian with a rather unfortunate nose who was canonized in 1610 by Paul V - was a great reformer who participated in the Council of Trent.

Having fulfilled my cultural duties first, I then commenced visiting various boutiques, snagging a used bright blue boubou that fit me like a charm. I played a round of soccer with some local children and then spontaneously stopped by the house of an acquaintance only to discover that one of the brothers was celebrating his 29th birthday, so I was placed in front of a huge platter of couscous with raisins and chicken, handed a spoon and told to tuck in – that is what the Senegalese call teranga, or hospitality. I was all for it, as I just love home-cooked meals en famille and am already sad that I will not be in Valley Stream this Thanksgiving to enjoy my friend Sally’s stuffing and pumpkin pie.

Soon after we had polished off the couscous, drummers announced the beginning of la lutte senegalaise, or Laamb in Wolof: the wrestling matches. First there was a procession of resplendent ladies dressed in what I presume was traditional festive garb. They wore conical hats and hoop skirts in gold and rust and orange, with cowries, colorful beads and gold coins adorning the headdress, accompanied by still further accessories such as fans and scarves.

The wrestlers came out, very fine specimens all, wearing abbreviated trunks with juju (good luck charms, amulets and talismans prepared by a marabout or religious leader, usually containing Koranic verses) tied around their bulging biceps, calf and thigh muscles. Originally, only single young men could wrestle as potential partners promenaded around the ring as part of the courtship ritual. Needless to say, times have changed and wrestling has become a money-making industry far removed from the traditional sport it once was.

The wrestlers, called M’burr in Wolof, danced to the beat of the drums or did exercises such as squats and jumping jacks before the start of the games. Women, meanwhile, are chanting songs of valor and strength. Before getting down to business in the sand, the wrestlers would circle one another, pawing one another in a ritualistic manner. They would then attack, generally holding one another in a close headlock in a standing position, with the posteriors of both contestants (still snugly encased in minuscule shorts and loincloths, I was quite enjoying this!) prominently in the air. The drummers kept pace with the action, pounding the large djembe drums and handheld tama in a frenzy of excitement until one of the fighter’s backs touched the ground, thus concluding the fight.

When the matches (there were about 4 in all) ended, two voluminous women with ample bottoms entered the ring, staging a mock battle of their own full of ribald sexual humor as the audience cheered them on lustily. In all, the wrestling match turned out to be an extravaganza of singing, drumming, dancing, movement and pageantry - it was quite the show.

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