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2nd
Dear Family,
It was good to see so many of you; yet sad to have missed seeing so many. Anyway, back in Dakar, I'm just about thawed out from my trip. Anne is still in Washington, until Feb. 14th. Having her back with me will be the best Valentine's Day present. Enjoy my latest adventure.
Travel with Anzie - Part 22:
Meet Idy Tall. A tall, well-built Peul, Idy is a former soldier with the Senegalese Army who now lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Today I celebrated "Tabaski" with him.
We met at the Ramada Plaza in Queens, NY, last Sunday. I was on my return trip to Dakar, flying out of JFK when our flight was canceled. It seems that our plane had an accident at the Dakar airport, so the flight to JFK was canceled. Therefore, we passengers were compelled to wait 24 hours for another flight. I was disappointed. You know how you feel when you've got yourself psyched up to handle the stress of overseas travel, and then it's delayed? That's how I felt.
But, when a door closes a window often opens. We were both having a drink at the bar when we struck up a conversation. Idy is an Auditor for UPS, and travels all over the US, Europe and now Senegal. During our conversation we discovered that Idy taught Wolof to Peace Corps Volunteers at their training site in Thies while he was in high school. His family lives in Oukam, which is about 15 minutes from our house. He also knows Ed Jones, our next door neighbor. During dinner he explained that his wife lives in St Louis, Sen., where she owns and operates a medical lab. He comes to Senegal every two months to see her and their one-year-old baby. Before we part he invited me to celebrate "Tabaski" with him and his family.
Tabaski is the biggest holiday among the Muslims. Like the Christian tradition of Christmas, it is a time for giving gifts. Like Christmas, it is a time for visiting friends and family. The children go from house to house where they receive treats, usually small sums of money.
Instead of buying a Christmas tree, they buy a sheep. It is to commemorate the sacrifice of Isaac by his father, Abraham. Except in the Qoran, where Isaac is known as Ishmael. Muhammed is a descendant of Ishmael. Custom requires the head of the family to buy a male sheep, a ram. This is an expensive proposition. A ram sells for anywhere from $80 to $200 -- quite a sum in these parts. Each family gives the portion they don't eat to the poor people of the community. I asked my Muslim friends why they don't just eat chicken as they do to celebrate the end of Ramadan. "It just isn't done", is the reply. Societal pressure dictates that one must buy a sheep. We were pressured about mid-January by Amadou, Omar and Abu to advance them money for Tabaski, which we did.
The head of the household must perform the ritual slaughter of the sheep. The other members of the family, including the children, lay their hands on the sheep as its throat is cut. The sheep is then skinned and dismembered. It is then charcoal-grilled in pieces.
I was really looking forward to my first Tabaski. Idy was celebrating it at his in-laws' house. I wore my traditional boubou along with the white leather pointy-toed slippers that are slipped off before you enter any carpeted room. I was really surprised when I arrived at the house. It is located in Fann Residence, the high-rent district of Dakar. The houses are all older -- built in the 50's-60's era -- the time when Senegal gained its independence and the government moved from St. Louis to Dakar. The house is located next to the Brazilian ambassador's. The house is rather large, probably 6-7 bedrooms, and surrounded by spacious grounds.
I was introduced to Idy's wife, Katia, and her parents, the Diofs. Katia's mother explained that Katia's grandfather died only six months ago at age 94. The grandfather was the first head of the National Assembly under Leopold Senghor, the first president of Senegal. Madam Diof explained that the family is in a state of "dis-equilibrium", as she put it. The government owns their house The deal is that the family was allowed to live rent-free in the house as long as grandpa was alive. Now they must move out. They don't know when, so they are sitting there, waiting for the axe to fall.
I happened to gaze out the front window, and saw three men dressing out a sheep. The carcass was hanging from a tree with various body parts strewn around the ground in piles. One man was hard at work cleaning the intestines. Securing an end in one hand, he pinched the intestine with the fingers of his other hand and slid his pinched fingers down the length of the intestine, allowing the contents to fall to the ground.
Shortly thereafter we went out back to meet the rest of the family, who were grilling sheep pieces over charcoal. I was introduced to grandmother Diof, 93 years old, who was supervising the cutting and grilling operations. I noted the many pieces that were separated according to function into containers. I mentioned to Idy that I could have sworn that I saw a lot more than four legs. He explained that they slaughtered a total of five sheep.
We returned to the living room where we met Katia's brother, Bobacar, who speaks excellent English. He spent six years in NYC studying at Columbia. He works with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs directing conferences. He has lived in New York, Washington and Bern, Switzerland working in Foreign Affairs.
While we talked, the women served us pieces of grilled sheep liver and kidneys -- the traditional first course of Tabaski. It was delicious! We washed this down with Coke, Fanta orange and Sprite. No alcohol allowed.
Other friends arrived … all men … all wearing boubous. Chuckie was in style! The visitors left after 15 minutes. The objective is to visit as many friends' houses as one can during Tabaski.
Three of us, Idy, Bobacar and myself, were ushered into the dining room for dinner. Dinner consisted of mutton ribs, salad and fruit for dessert. The meat was tough. My dining partners explained that mutton is always better on the second day, when the meat has had time to relax. The women did the cooking and serving, while the men sat around and schmoozed. The women ate separately from the men. West Africa is still very tradition-bound, and I don't think the men want to change it one iota.
After about 45 minutes we adjourned to the living room for tea and schmoozing. Other visitors had arrived -- again, all men. Some were politicians, friends of the grandfather and Katia's father. One was the "griot" for the National Assembly -- somewhat like a singing poet laureate. He also plays the tam-tam in the national orchestra. They have traveled throughout the world. Another visitor, Souleyman, is an actor in the National Theater. They discussed the grandfather's honesty as a politician. The President doles out a certain amount to his ministry heads. Little or no controls are placed upon how this money is spent. Normal practice is that the ministry chiefs share the money with their loyal colleagues. They then put some aside for themselves. This was not the case with Grandfather. As a result the family is not wealthy. They're not destitute either. Grandfather didn't find soft jobs for his offspring, as do most of the pols. All of the children received a good education, and then made their own way. Katia is a graduate biologist and two of her brothers are doctors.. Bobacar, of course, was introduced to the right people in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But, from there on, he made his own way.
I turned the conversation over to one of my favorite theories: Many African countries have suffered years of unstable government, of civil war, of revolution. The majority of those countries are rich in natural resources -- precious minerals, petroleum. The presence of these resources give rise to avarice, which in turn leads to unrest. Not so in Senegal, where the natural resources extend to fish, peanuts and some mighty fine beaches, which bring tourism. The reason Senegal is so stable is that there is nothing worth fighting over.
The general response was that my theory was valid, as far as it went. But it didn't go far enough. Two other reasons for the stability are:
Before France gave Senegal its independence in 1960, the French insisted that the Senegalese be educated. They required that parents send their children to the French schools and not just to Koranic school. Idy explained that he went to Koranic school from age 5 to 14. At age 10 he also went to French school during the day and Koranic School from 5:00 to 7:00 at night. He went to school six days a week. "My kids could never handle that much schooling," said I. "What did you do with all of that pent-up youthful energy?" "It depends on what you're used to," replied Idy. " every body did the exact same thing; so I wasn't unique in my neighborhood." So, I find a great many Senegalese who were educated in the local French-run schools and went on to study in France. Idy mentioned that many Peul from his area, the land of Futa, along the Senegal River to the north of Senegal, rebelled against the French dictate that one must send one's children to a French school. Instead they sent the children of their slaves. This gave rise to an educated class of slaves, which in turn led to not exactly abolition of the slave class, but a greater equality.
France gave French citizenship to citizens of the four communes that made up Dakar, as well as to the citizens of St. Louis, the original center of French government in West Africa. The Senegalese people felt like they were French. Leopold Senghor, the first President, was also the first African member of the Academie Francaise for his ability as writer and poet.
Makes sense to me.
About 3:00 PM Idy suggested that we go see his brother, who lived downtown. Downtown Dakar was an absolute ghost town. I've never seen it so void of traffic. You could have shot the proverbial cannon down any street and not hit a soul. We arrive at an apartment complex located about 4-5 blocks from the US Embassy, where I am introduced to Idy's brother, Samba ( meme pere, meme mere), his wife and three children. Samba has worked with some mutual acquaintances at the U.S. Embassy. A major, he is commandant of the Training Battalion located in Ouakam. He insists that we visit the Animal Preserve locate in the southeast corner of Senegal - Parc National du Niokolo Koba. He spent three years there, which is next to Guinea.
About 4:30 we say goodbye, and I headed off to my second Tabaski, at the home of Baro Diouf, in the quarter known as Parselles Assainie. Baro lives only three blocks from a wide, sandy beach where the ocean shows off some nice surf. Baro manages facilities, procurement, among other duties at Peace Corps. He's also a pretty good artist. When I arrived I announced that I had already eaten. Nevertheless, Madam Diouf put a large plate of mutton and beans in front of me. I surprised myself by polishing off most of the plate. I stayed and visited for about an hour, then excused myself.
When I reached home, I went straight to bed. After a 1 1/2 hour nap I awoke, showered, and went over to the Marine House to watch one of the most exciting Superbowl games ever. And I don't mean Janet Jackson. It started at 11:30 PM our time, and finished at about 3:30. I started a pool involving the last digit of the total score, and I won it -- 10,000CFA -- about $19.00!
Anzie
says "Hi!" from Washington, where she'll be until February 14.
A la prochaine, Anne & Chuck
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Dear Family and Friends:
Whew! I know it's been a long time since the last edition, but we've been very busy.
Son Rowan just left last Sunday after a whirlwind two-week visit. It was absolutely wonderful! He learned enough of the local language, Wolof, so that he could converse somewhat with the local women. He could say, " You are pretty." He fell in love 21 times. My boss was kind enough to allow me some extra time off, so we were able to do a lot of sightseeing: Goree Island, N'Gor Island, St Louis, Djoudj Bird sanctuary, Bandia Animal Reserve. Rowan got to participate in the local scene; he met lots of people; he ate Senegalese cuisine. He really had a wonderful experience. We hope he comes back real soon.
(if you have trouble, try cut & pasting the URL into your address field: http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=11119ozd.bbb5cxjd&x=1&y=gimqzf)
In the meantime, our lives have become very busy. Anne is traveling a lot. I'm teaching Marketing at Suffolk U. Tuesdays and Thursdays, and working in the real estate dept. of the embassy Mon., Wed. and Fri. It sort of puts a cramp in my writing style. Anyway, we're loving it! Stay tuned for news of our trip to the Grand Mosque at Touba with two of Charley's Angels.
12th
Travels with Anzie - Part
23:
Meet Baro Diouf. He is descended from a long line of royalty in the Sine Region of Senegal. He is Serrer, Muslim and an Animist. He also works for Peace Corps as the head of Facilities Maintenance, Procurement, among other things. A handsome, if diminutive, vivacious, sweet, gentle man with the temperament and the talent of an artist, we have become good friends since we arrived here in Senegal.
He invited us to attend the one-year anniversary celebration of his mother-in-law's death. That's right. They "celebrate" the death of a loved one. This celebration was a bit different. Although the family practices Islam, the mother, like many Senegalese, still believed in Animism. Still in good health at age 93, she called her daughter, Baro's wife, over a year ago to announce that she knew she would die within a month. She made her daughter promise to hold an animist celebration of her death one year hence.
Animists believe in the attribution of life or consciousness to natural objects or phenomena. Thus a certain tree, mountain, river or stone may be sacred because it represents, is home to, or simply is a spirit or deity. Animism was the religion in West Africa before Islam and Christianity arrived. I've heard it said more than once: "Scratch a West African Muslim or Christian, and you'll find an animist underneath." As you will note later on, this statement seems to be oh so true.
I met Baro at his house at 8:30 Saturday morning. He was wearing a gleaming white boubou along with black dress shoes with brass buckles. I was dressed in standard western garb, but my boubou was hanging in the back seat. It took us a little over three hours to get to Fatik, a village located southeast of Dakar.
Fatik is Baro Diouf's birthplace. I noticed that the name Diouf was found on all sorts of buildings -- schools, hospitals, businesses. Baro explained that the Diouf family was, and still is, considered royalty in this the Sine region of Senegal. It is named after the Sine River, which winds through the region from central Senegal southeast to the point where it joins with the Saloum and heads out to the Atlantic. When the French granted independence to the country in 1960, things were not going at all well in the Sine region until the new government under Senghor appointed Baro's grandfather as regional director. Still considered "king", he was able to bring relative peace and organization to the region.
But enough of the history, let's discuss the animists and their specific beliefs. As prologue I must describe events as they occurred after our arrival in Fatik. Our first stop was at a bar. It was crowded with men, most sporting boubous, watching the African Cup Football games on TV. I could tell that I was in Serrer territory. Everyone drank and smoked. The bar was all cement - floors, walls, seats, even the bar itself - even though it was decorated with some non-descript tile. It looked to be designed so that you could hose it down real quick to clean it each day.
We were there for about a half hour when up came a tall man who looked and acted to me like my brother, Kevin, would had he been black. Dio-Dio (Jo-jo) is a griot. He is also a non-stop comedian who drinks and smokes to excess. During our conversation he stated that he currently had four wives. He used to have nine! When we discussed the logistics of this arrangement, we all had a good laugh. We stayed and watched an exciting match between Guinea and Mali. Dio-Dio, Baro and I then drove over to a house owned by Baro that he rents out to a family. We spent a half hour there, after which we drove off overland, following sand cart paths to the deceased's little village of Sagne.
We caused quite a stir when we arrived. A large open-sided tent had been erected for the occasion. Underneath were several griots, both male and female, who were entertaining about 50 people with singing and drumming. We met up with Baro's wife, who introduced me to several of her relatives. Everyone was dressed in colorful boubous.
I was then escorted into the tent, given a seat, and entertained by the griots. I then walked over to the head griot and gave him a 1000 franc note - about $2.00. This is standard practice as I had learned on other similar occasions. One difference here, though: as soon as I pulled money out of my pocket, all of the ladies gathered around me asking for money. One of them even touched my pocket. All of a sudden I felt the same way I sometimes do around my sons -- like I'm a walking ATM machine. I felt very uncomfortable as the token toubab=money, and I left the tent as quickly as I could with due courtesy to the entertainers.
I sat with Baro and his wife's relatives, and took some pictures with our digital camera. They were fascinated with the results. I promised them that I would give copies to Baro to send to them.
The big match -- Senegal vs. Tunisia -- was about to start. So four of us guys took off to a mud hut with a six-pack of beer to listen to it on the radio. Senegal lost. A disheartened bunch returned to the central meeting place for the final celebration.
This time I was dressed for the
occasion in my boubou. Baro was
signaled that it was time for the graveside ceremony.
The drumming and singing began anew, and Baro went over next to a large
baobab tree, where a man and his wife were selling liter bottles of warm
Coca-Cola and red wine. He bought a
bottle of red wine. We -- Baro,
Dio-Dio and myself -- then walked the
100 yards to the village cemetery. The
graves in the cemetery were poorly marked, if at all.
Baro's mother-in-law's grave was distinguished only by a raised mound of
dirt that was bordered by a mess of twigs.
We waited while a group of twenty women danced their way from the village center over to the graveside. They all sang and danced a uniform step which was accompanied by hand gestures that looked as if they were pushing something away. They danced around the graveside twice and danced the 150 yards back to where they started. They repeated the same ritual three times. The third time they stood on one side of the grave while Baro poured a half bottle of wine over the grave. He then gave the bottle to Dio-Dio, the griot, who immediately chugged the remainder. Whether this was part of the ritual or merely evidence of Dio-Dio's bacchanalian appetite, I really can't say.
The ladies danced back to the village center where the singing and dancing continued. Baro, Dio-Dio and I adjourned back to the drink vendor and settled down under the baobab. I bought us another bottle of red wine. I noted that the wine was from France but was bottled in Dakar. The vendor produced some water glasses, and all four of us shared the bottle. The wine was surprisingly good.
I began asking questions about the animist beliefs. The answers were really fascinating. Here is what I remember, in no particular order:
1. They believe in the power of "gri-gri". Gri-gri is a form of talisman that is worn somewhere on the body. It either protects you or gives you some form of strength. The gri-gri may be an animal or bird part -- hair, fur, feathers, teeth, eyes, claws or paws. People often wear a small leather pouch that contains the gri-gri or else a passage from the Koran on the upper arm. For instance, Baro wears a one-inch square of lionskin beneath his boubou to assure his virility. Watch out, Viagra!
In the old days, when tribes were warring against one another, the warriors used potions and gri-gri to render themselves invincible to spears, knives and bullets. Baro has seen men who, after downing the right potion and/or donning the right amulet, can be neither cut nor pierced with a sharp knife.
2. A Griot is not buried in the ground, for fear that nothing will grow in that surrounding soil. Instead he is interred inside a baobab tree. The wineseller explained that they use a knife to slit the tree bark. The baobab opens up to the point where the griot's body will fit. After the body is in place the baobab grows around it to seal it in.
Baro added that sometimes the griot doesn't want to be buried in a particular baobab. The corpse suddenly becomes heavy to the point that it is next to impossible to carry.
A short time ago, when son Rowan visited, we toured a wild animal reserve, Bandia. While there we inspected a very old baobab inside which we could see the skulls and bones of griots. This baobab hadn't completely sealed in the remains. Our guide explained that this ritual was banned in the area in 1976, after which time griots were buried in the ground in the traditional manner. Wouldn't you know it? 1976 was the first of several years of extraordinary drought in the area, during which time virtually nothing would grow. Believe it or not!
The next morning Baro took me to a spot on the Sine River, a tidal river, where a stake was implanted half way between the high and low tide lines. We could see coins lying at the base of the stake. Baro explained that the river spirit, "Mindis", will sometimes appear in the town on market day, Saturday. She appears as a beautiful, well-dressed woman. She makes several purchases, and then disappears. No one knows where she goes. We added some coins to those around the stake. Baro commented that Mindis must be quite well off, judging from the number of coins that he has seen there.
From there we drove a short distance down the river to the Malango Healing Center. It could pass for a Club Med, save for the wall that surrounds it. Located right on the river fronted by a sandy beach, it consists of many round, cement, thatch-roofed huts. It is here that people come to be cured of their ailments by the "guerriseurs" - the healers - who use techniques and medicines that are not recognized by traditional medicine. Some of the sick have tried traditional medical treatments to no avail. Others come here as soon as they become ill.
It is Sunday, no patients. An assistant director explained that the Center began about ten years before with grants from several American concerns, including the Ford Foundation. Enough evidence existed of the beneficial results of the non-traditional healing processes that these entities chose to fund research. Every case is carefully documented. This documentation is forwarded to a research center in the U.S where it is examined and placed into a database. Only one problem - a big one: none of the healers care to share the procedural details of their cures. "Eye of newt … wing of bat … blood of lizard"? None of that. This info is only passed down to a younger member of the same family, who is destined to become the next healer in line.
Baro tells a story of a woman he knew who suffered from a severe stomach ailment. After many months of seeing a variety of traditional doctors and trying many prescribed remedies, she finally visited a female healer. The healer examined her, went into some sort of trance, and reached right through the skin of the woman's stomach. She pulled out a rather large, writhing black snake, which she threw into a fire. The previously ailing woman rose, thanked the healer, and walked out completely cured -- without a mark on her.
Everyone you talk to in this area has similar stories to tell.
On the way home -- a trip that took much longer than three hours due to car trouble -- I thought about the animist beliefs and their main point being that a higher power exists everywhere in nature. I realized that many of us are in close accord.
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A la prochaine,
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