Why They’re Better Mixed

June 4, 2008

I remember when friends of mine began having their first children, both in the US and in Europe. Virtually everything they bought was top of the line, organically produced, etc -  vegetable-based paint for the baby’s room, organically treated wood for the cradle, lovingly raised New Zealand sheep hand-shorn for the carpet (perhaps I exaggerate here, but only slightly), baby wipes containing organic chamomile and aloe vera, even special bathtubs and bottles ergonomically suited to a baby.

My friends spent hours comparing different stroller options, explaining that this was a huge investment in their own as well as the baby’s comfort. They pored over catalogues full of astronomically-priced sunshades, removable baby seats, adjustable strollers, etc. Later on, whenever I tried walking down 7^th Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I thought of them as I was forced to yield to the Mercedes SUV-style strollers dominating the pavement.

Next on their lists were the three-wheeled jogging strollers and the trailers for the bicycles, plus of course the pack and play, the high chair and the millions of accoutrements any first-time parent feels compelled to buy so that the child can grow up safe and secure in the certain knowledge that it is loved.

Music and other entertainments were carefully selected, too - Baby Mozart and Baby Einstein were there to inspire and stimulate baby’s imagination and factory-produced toys and clothes were eschewed in favour of the handmade/organic/vegan/fragranc e-free variety (the online catalogue for one such company was even thoughtful enough to include among its wares some specially imported bath salts from the Himalayas to help with mommy’s tension).

Flash forward to Dakar, Senegal, where barefoot children really do roam the streets more or less unsupervised. Babies are slung into a non-organic colourful piece of fabric and worn on the mother’s back so that there is almost constant physical contact until they are laid on blankets under mango trees and left to sleep. Uncannily, you will almost never hear an African child cry; if it does, it will nurse and quiet down almost immediately. If the child crawls or stands or walks or speaks or eats its porridge, there is no applause, no encouraging cries of “How wonderful! Good job! I’m so proud of you!” There is no ritual of a good-night kiss. They are seldom coddled or cossetted. Yet the Senegalese, from what I have observed, have healthier self-esteem than most Westerners. Whether it is because of the reassuring presence of the large extended family, the close physical contact to the mother or some combination of reasons, I cannot venture to say, but even their exquisite posture exudes self-confidence, and this despite the no-muss, no-fuss approach the Senegalese often seem to have to child-rearing, as in, “I have _____ other children to consider, so get in line!”

Older children do not have garages full of toys; instead, they make their own, usually out of refuse. One boy I saw on the island of Gorée was intent on cutting off the top off of a large plastic bucket. I observed him in fascination. Hung on a nail, the rim served as a fabulous basketball hoop, even if perhaps lacking the fancy trimmings of the one you can buy at Toys R Us for $43. A broken plastic chair placed on the ground can be used as a rocker or recliner - these are good for hours of pleasure - and empty tins can serve nicely as percussive instruments, so that an Ode to Joy can take many forms.

I will admit that it does get a little hairy when you see children ingesting candy that they have stored in a plastic container clearly (at least for Anglophones) marked “brake fluid” (!), but Senegalese children are ingenious problem solvers. They will always find a way to use the little they have at their disposal in imaginative and unexpected ways, even sans Fisher Price.

As we talked about the over-protectiveness of  those Western parents who are bent on doing everything exactly right versus the very laissez-faire approach of some Africans, an Estonian friend and mother of two, who is married to a Ghanaian summed up with a twinkle in her eye: “That’s why they’re better mixed!”

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