Crocodiles and crazy dancing

Life in Senegal has already provided many surprises and new experiences, but none could be as outrageous as those of this week.  Beyond the realms of my own imagination, they have been events that I could never have thought possible.

Last Saturday, we attended an event of traditional Wolof dancing, known as a Sabar.  The occasion takes its name from the drum used to create the music: a conga-shaped instrument played with sticks, hands or a mixture of both.  A group of between five and seven drummers will beat a set of very fast and complicated rhythms to which people will dance.

When we arrived, it was as though nothing unusual was happening that night.  People were going about their daily business: washing dishes from dinner; drinking attaya; sitting about chatting.  I was sure that we had stopped at the wrong place.  As the drummers started to play, however, a large crowd soon gathered, forming a wide circle around them.  Some even brought chairs, whilst others positioned themselves on nearby walls in order to spectate.  Almost all were turned out in their best boubous and, before long, the road had become a sparkling sea of energy.  Having been forewarned, Lauren and I, too, were donning our taille-basses. 

At various intervals, women would jump into the centre of the circle, often alone, and start dancing.  However, being Senegalese, it was not dancing as the rest of the world knows it.  Foot stamping, arms flailing in all sorts of directions, twerking, jumping and even somersaulting were all part of the routines.  After just a minute or two, the women would then scurry back to their seats, merging into the crowd once again.  I could only sit in stunned amazement, jaw hanging halfway to the floor, as I looked on.  That is, until one women decided to grab my hand and pull me into the centre of the circle with her.  Just the two of us.  A crowd of more than 200 people.  Aaarrggghhh!

Having only been watching for a short period of time by this point, I had very little idea of what I should be doing.  The same feeling that comes over you just before a rollercoaster does its biggest drop filled my body.  The only problem was that, in this situation, I was required to do something.  It would not be enough to just sit tight and scream.

Copying my kidnapper, I stamped my feet and waved my hands about as wildly as I could.  Applause and shouts of delight filled my ears as everyone watched the white girl attempting to dance like a Senegalese.  After doing a little spin, we shook hands in true British style and I returned to my place on the edge of the circle.  The whole experience was such an adrenaline rush and I found myself smiling for the rest of the night.  More practise is definitely needed though if I am ever to participate again.

In a continuation of bizarre activities, this week also saw me eat a crocodile… and chips.  There are very few occasions when such an opportunity will present itself to you on a menu and so, with just a little hesitation, I decided that it might be a good idea to give it a try.  Tasting like a mixture of both fish and beef, it was certainly different but also surprisingly nice.

During a lesson a few days later, I played Two Truths and One Lie with my students.  Over half of the class thought that my sister-in-law was Rihanna as they couldn’t believe that I had consumed a crocodile!  An entertaining week indeed.

Tabaski

On Wednesday 16^th October, the Islamic population of Senegal celebrated Tabaski. In other parts of the world, this festival is known as Eid al-Adha and is, arguably, one of the most important in the Muslim calendar.  According to the Koran, Allah asks the prophet Ibrahim to show his devotion as a Muslim by sacrificing his most cherished son, Ismail.  Ibrahim agrees but, at the point at which he is about to kill his son, Allah intervenes.  The prophet’s willingness is satisfaction enough and so he is instead provided with a lamb to sacrifice.  In recognition of this, Muslims across the globe will kill halal domestic animals, such as sheep and goats, on the Tabaski day.

 From my own experience, it is a day purely devoted to feasting and family reunion.  Food preparation can start very early in the morning and will continue throughout the day.  In Senegal, Tabaski is a national holiday, allowing friends and relatives to travel from far and wide to spend the event together.  For some, it is the only time in the year when whole families will see each other.  In one neighbouring household, a man had come all the way from Haiti for the celebration.

 During the days leading up to Tabaski, it is common to see a large number of sheep tied up at the side of the road or outside houses.  Most families will have bought at least one to sacrifice.  The family with whom we celebrated the day was very large and so six sheep were killed there in total.  However, the Islamic faith teaches that one should only spend as much as he can afford.  It is perfectly acceptable for those without the means to purchase meat from the butcher instead.

 It would also appear that inclusion is an intrinsic part of the day.  For each sheep sacrificed, the meat will be split into thirds.  One third will be cooked and eaten by the family on the day of the feast.  Another will be put aside for the days and weeks afterwards and the final third will be given to those unable to afford their own sheep.  The Catholic contingency of Senegal also has the opportunity to share in the festivities.  Some will spend the day with a Muslim family whilst others will be the receivers of many cooked plates of food, provided by their Muslim friends.  Nobody is forgotten as the country prepares to party.

 And party it does indeed.  Of course.  On Tabaski day, everyone dresses in their finest clothing.  For the Senegalese, this means wearing their most elaborate boubous.  The hard work of the tailors, whose sewing machines can be heard clicking away ceaselessly as Tabaski approaches, can finally be enjoyed.  Men and women alike will be sporting outfits heavily decorated with embroidered patterns.  Children, too, will be shining in their bright and sometimes almost fluorescent fabrics.  There will be women with hair braided and threaded with beads; women with hijabs covered in sequins; clean-shaven men, wearing shoes which precisely match the colour of their clothing.  Houses with speakers blare out a mixture of modern and mbalax music.  Neighbours have no choice but to join in and dance.

 The continued cooking ensures that meal upon meal is consumed throughout the day.  It is normal that adults fast in the morning, while men and elders pray at the mosque.  However, once the sacrifice has taken place, every part of the animal will be grilled, fried, barbequed or boiled to create a great selection of dishes.  The sense of community that already exists at Senegalese meal times heightens as neighbours and friends bring their plates together.  Many large dishes will fill an area and, as all gather round, there can be as many as twenty or thirty people eating in the one place.  Tradition is observed: men and women eat separately and the right hand only is used.  No option of a knife and fork.

 Between meals, people visit neighbouring houses, asking for forgiveness.  The words ‘balma akk’ (Wolof for ‘forgive me of my sins’) will be repeated many times over the course of the day.  Wishes for good health and long life create a positive atmosphere.  There is a relaxed feeling, despite it being a time of much activity.  Children also make a similar sort of round, although theirs will entail a demand for sweets or bags of rice from everyone that they meet.  It is important that parents listen to the local radio station as some can wander great distances in search of their ‘Tabaski gifts’. 

 Kindness and generosity are almost certainly the words with which to define this special day.  Nothing can quite compare to the sensation of being included so readily and having the opportunity to share in such an important event with people who have now become as close as family.

 Fekay dewin you buri buri buri buri – May God let us share many many more future Tabaskis together!

What not to expect...

Whilst still in Yene, there had been many willing to give us their opinion of Ziguinchor.  Some had visited the town before, others had only seen pictures on the television.  Both parties, however, knew precisely what we would meet on arrival.  We would experience much rain, encounter many mosquitoes and have problems with the local dialects, as Wolof is spoken by absolutely no one.  With these facts in mind, we were somewhat daunted at the prospect of spending a year in such a wet, foreign and insect infested place.

However, having now been in Ziguinchor for a little over two weeks, I can perhaps attempt to straighten out some of these facts.  As far as mosquitoes are concerned, they have not, as of yet, bothered us any more than usual.  Providing you own a mosquito net, a fan and some insect repellent, they generally tend to admire your forward planning and will only bite occasionally.

Our Wolof lessons, too, were not taken in vain.  Whilst the Casamance region does have a wide variety of ethnic groups with the predominant being ‘Diola’, Wolof is the lingua franca of Senegal.  Local dialects often differ so greatly that they cannot be understood by others of another ethnicity.  For this reason, Wolof serves as the common bond and is the language that is heard most frequently.  Both Lauren and I have been enjoying practising with local residents and were very proud of ourselves recently, when we managed to have a complete conversation without having to revert to French.

Admittedly, though, the south of Senegal does receive a lot more rain than in other parts of the country.  And when I say rain, I really do mean rain.  Heavy rain.  There is none of that drizzle which so frequently flurries about on UK wind currents and gets you a little damp.  It was this misunderstanding of the true definition of rain that Lauren and I had to learn the hard way…

Mid-afternoon.  Lunch had just been finished at our hosts’ house and it was time to return to our own place of residence.  At this precise moment, the first drops of rain began splashing onto the ground outside.  The brilliant blue sky that had been visible just seconds before was now overcast with a swarm of grey clouds.  Both hailing from rather wet parts of the UK, Lauren and I decided that a little rain would not stop us and that walking home shouldn’t be a problem.  We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Our host family armed us with umbrellas: a kind thought that at least added some colour to the bleak surroundings.  Unfortunately, they weren’t very effective as rain shields.  As we stepped out onto the road, the sound of thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance.  As we continued walking, flashes of lightning lit the sky.  Sheltering beneath such an obvious electrical conductor, I began wondering whether it would have been more helpful to just leave the umbrella behind.

In a very short space of time, every road was a river.  This is not a metaphor.  As we splashed our way along, tributaries bearing all sorts of litter and rotten vegetables joined the river’s load and, at one point, Lauren nearly lost a flip-flop as it got swept along in the current.  The bright yellow taxis, which are normally a frequent sight in every district of Ziguinchor, ceased to be a frequent sight.  Not a single car dared venture out into the elements.  The only people that we saw were those sheltering in doorways or under canopies.  We received many quizzical looks and I, too, began to question our motives for being out in such weather.

A journey that should take twenty minutes took just short of an hour as we half-walked, half-swam through the town.  It was an expedition that required a full set of waterproof clothing.  Choosing to wear a summery maxi dress that day might not have been my greatest idea.  The two bedraggled volunteers who arrived at their destination had certainly learnt which facts had an element of truth to them:

Perhaps the warning about the weather was one that we should have listened to more carefully…

A Passage to Ziguinchor

A 14 hour-long boat journey.  We arrive at the port in Dakar trawling all our belongings for the next year behind us.  A bucket, bought in Yene for washing our clothes, nestles comfortably among them.  Having grown quite attached, we were reluctant to leave it behind.

 There is a man, stood at the gates, checking passports and tickets.  The bucket is inspected suspiciously.  We successfully manage to escape the bemused stare as we head to the check-in desk.  Before we enter the building, our tickets, passports and bucket are checked by another wave of security staff.  This time, the bucket must be emptied as we show the guards a few garments of clothing and Lauren’s shoes.  More puzzled looks as we scurry into the terminal.  Large bags are labelled with our names and destination, before joining the heap which is to be loaded separately onto the boat.  We are asked whether we are sure that we want to take the bucket, to which we answer in the affirmative.

 Another desk with yet another check of tickets and passports.  We put our smaller bags onto a conveyer belt to be scanned by a computer.  As we watch the bucket being swallowed into the dark tunnel, we fear for its fate.  We get through unscathed and find ourselves standing in a sort of waiting room.  Rows of chairs face the French windows which open onto the quay.  Television screens are attached to the wall above us.  No sort of ferry timetable can be seen on them.  Instead, there are Latin-American soaps, dubbed in French.  It is now the two of us who possess the bemused looks as we stumble into the nearest seats, hoping that we are in the right place.

 We sit for perhaps an hour.  As it gets closer to the departure time, the seats around us begin to fill.  There is little sound of talking among the expectant passengers, as most choose to watch the drama playing out on the screens.  A boat bound for Gorée Island comes and goes.

 Finally, it is time to board.  There is no announcement, just a mass movement towards the door.  We join the other passengers as all make a silent scramble towards it.  We look for the end of the queue, but none seems to exist.  After several “after you”s, we decide that it is time to leave behind our British etiquette and jump into the sea of people around us, waving our tickets at yet more guards as we are swept along in the current.  Ahead, the ferry sits comfortably upon the water, unafraid of the towering tankers which shadow over it.  The sound of reggae music is booming out from an upper deck.

 A series of steep steps lead to the lounge area.  We climb them slowly, struggling against the heat.  Wiping the sweat from our brows, we stagger into the room with the same feeling that Sir Edmund Hillary felt on reaching the top of Everest.  A smartly dressed, smiling woman greets us and kindly points in the direction of our cabin.  As we move towards the region indicated, we find ourselves caught in a maze of corridors, all full of cabins.  After passing the same two women twice, we realise that we have come full circle, no closer to finding our own temporary bedroom.  We stop and look around us, exasperated.  To our left, a fellow passenger unfurls a prayer mat and begins to pray. 

 At last we realise that we are on the wrong floor.  With a little help from an attendant and one flight of stairs later, we find our room.  Two bunks on either wall with just enough space to walk between.  Each mattress is covered in a patterned purple sheet, with matching pillow placed at the head.  A bright orange curtain runs along the outer edge of the bed so that, when closed, each person is able to form their own little den of privacy.  The other two passengers that we are due to be sharing with are yet to arrive.  Perhaps they, too, have been absorbed by the labyrinth on the lower deck.  More probably, they are still waiting to board.

 We have no key for our door.  The jubilation of our discovery is short lived.  With no safe place to store our belongings, we exit our room, still lugging our bags behind us.  A door to the outer deck emerges on our right.  We take it, falling out into the glare of the setting sun.  A warm breeze passes across our faces and we take deep breaths of the pleasant sea air.

On the top deck, we sit and take in the view of Dakar harbour.  The sun has now fallen behind many of the taller buildings, throwing them into silhouette.  A rich orange, yellow glow creates the backdrop of this cityscape.  The deck is alive with people:  people hanging over the railings; people pointing and laughing at sights around them; people taking photographs of family and friends. 

 As the darkness approaches, so does the beginning of our voyage.  The boat pulls gracefully away from its berth and we watch as the twinkling lights of the city get slowly smaller.  At the harbour walls, the red and green lights of port and starboard shine brightly on either side of us: the international language of the nautical world.

 A long night stretches ahead of us, but we fill it mainly with a restless sleep, full of vivid dreams.  It is not until an hour before arrival that we wake.  With haste, we change and, once again, hurry out on deck with a complete set of bags in tow.  The scene is very different.  The sea is replaced with a wide river.  Scattered across its width are a number of smaller fishing boats, bobbing crazily in the wake of the ferry.  The striking green of the foliage is dazzling, and far removed from the sand-coloured north that we waved goodbye to yesterday.  Palm trees weave themselves between pretty little houses on the river bank as we approach our destination.

 The boat stops.  We disembark.  Ziguinchor has been reached and we swing our bucket happily as we enter the town.

Fêtes and Farewells

It has now been more than three weeks since arrival.  Senegal has started to feel very much like home as I really begin to settle in (I suppose it helps that as I sit writing, the rain is pouring down outside and the sound of thunder rages in the distance… not too different from the weather I left behind!).  Sadly, this milestone also signifies the end of our stay in the village of Yene.

 Our last week in the village saw many events take place.  The summer school at which we were giving English classes finished last Friday.  We gave our final lesson to the beginners, teaching them the chorus of We Will Rock You.  This was received well, despite the fact that the clapping remained slightly out of time throughout.  Singing was strong and the boys in the class really showed enthusiasm when they decided to take on the guitar solo at the end with random objects found in the classroom.  All I can say is that I’ve never seen a better guitar rendition performed with a giant protractor!

 At the weekend, there really was cause for celebration as we attended our very first Senegalese wedding.  Earlier the previous week, Lauren and I had visited the tailor with our host mother to get boubous fitted ready for Tabaski.  A ‘boubou’ is the form of attire worn by the Senegalese, with varying styles created in beautiful fabrics.  Luckily, these were ready for us by Saturday and so the two of us were able to attend the wedding wearing our brand new and, as described by the guests, very ‘à la mode’ ‘Taille Basses’.  The wedding itself was a spectacular event.  All who attended were dressed in such lovely clothes, filling the area with a whole spectrum of colour.

 Our invitation had come from the host father of the volunteers situated in Joal, so we did not actually know a single guest, let alone who the bride and groom were.  Despite this, we were welcomed warmly.  All were keen to greet us and we were given very good seats at the reception.  After watching some emotional speeches made by family members and friends and the cutting of an exquisitely decorated cake, the dancing began.  And what dancing it was!  The day taught me two things:

1)      The Senegalese can really throw a good party

2)      They would be able to own the dance floor absolutely anywhere.

 Lauren and I were very content to just sit and watch as shimmering outfits jumped and jived to the music. That is, until the bride herself came and pulled us out of our seats to dance with her!  Neither of us knew what we were doing and I think we provided more entertainment than perhaps we should have as we attempted to follow everyone else.  There is definitely an art to this dancing that I am yet to learn.  Luckily, we were saved by the DJ, who started playing ‘Gangnam Style’ and we finally had chance to impress with our PSY impersonations!

 As this week has drawn to its close, so too has our time in Yene.  Emotions ran high as we said farewell to our newly adopted brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and husbands.  It is not really until you have to say goodbye that you realise just how many people there are to say goodbye to.  We have encountered such kindness from so many here.  As the car pulled away from our hosts’ house, we found ourselves being waved off by a great crowd of locals, all of whom have added to our stay in some way or another.

 However, despite the sadness of leaving, there is also the thrill of that which lies ahead.  The next chapter is about to begin as we head for our main project… Ziguinchor here we come!

 

New experiences

The adventure has begun!  Nearly two weeks ago, I was sat on an aeroplane at Heathrow airport, full of anticipation about what the future might bring.  However, life here is such a world apart that it is impossible to try to imagine it.  Every day, as I wake up under my mosquito net to the sound of tropical birds and bleating, free-roaming goats, I have to remind myself that this is not a dream.

For the present, we are staying in the small fishing village of Yenne, situated just south of Dakar.  School children here are still enjoying their summer holiday and will be doing so until mid-October.  For this reason, my PT partner, Lauren, and I have been giving English reinforcement classes in a summer school before moving to our main project in two weeks’ time.

Despite the preparation given on training, walking into a classroom full of expectant students and being told to teach has, at times, been challenging.  However, having fallen into more of a rhythm now, there is no better feeling than having a successful lesson.  Each day we alternate between teaching a beginners’ class and an advanced class, although there is still much variation in ability within these classes.  It has been great fun to let lose my imagination and be creative in the classroom.  So far, there have been some heated debates, crazy games and lots of laughter. 

We are always extremely busy and there is never a dull moment.  I think the reason for this is that everyone in Senegal is so hospitable and friendly.  Being new to the village, we provide quite a fascination for the people here.  All are keen to entertain us.  After finishing our morning classes at the summer school, there always seems to be somebody around who will extend an invite to us.  It could be to come and drink ‘atiya’ (Senegalese tea), go to the beach, or someone will simply want to introduce us to the rest of their relatives.  Living here is like being welcomed into one, big family, especially since everyone introduces themselves as so-and-so’s aunt, cousin, brother etc.  We have even been adopted as the aunts, wives, or sisters of those in the community.

Each evening, we take classes in Wolof, the most widely spoken dialect of Senegal.  This has been a particularly enjoyable part of the day.  All are keen to help us practise and are impressed when we can address them in their local tongue (even if they do laugh at our accents!).  However, Wolof greetings can take a while.  It is not sufficient to just say ‘hello’ to passers-by.  Having asked how the person is in both French and Wolof, people then ask how your family is, how your morning/afternoon/evening is going, where you are going, what you are doing, where you come from, before finally saying ‘goodbye’ or ‘see you later’.  As you can imagine, it can sometimes take an awfully long time to get from one end of the road to the other!

The sense of community is even felt at meal times.  Food is eaten out of one, large dish for all to share.  This can be at a table or sat on rugs on the floor, the latter tending to be the norm.  Everyone is welcome and families never seem to mind if there are a few extra guests to dinner – there is certainly always enough food!

Despite what anyone may say, the Senegalese really do love their football.  Whether you are walking past an open stretch of land, along a beach or even on the road, you are sure to find some sort of match taking place.  At the weekend, we attended a match in the village, along with almost the whole local population.  On our return, the number of people traipsing back to their homes was comparable to the crowds streaming from the stadiums of professional football matches.  Locals are now even keeping me up to date with Swansea’s progress, knowing that I come from Wales!

It is impossible to share all my experiences and thoughts from these last few days in a single blog post; however, I have been having the most amazing time here and am very much looking forward to the months ahead of me.

Senegal volunteers 2013/2014