black faces

I have to return to the black-white relations topic, inspired by the recent outcry over racism in British cricket, as I find this so interesting when considered from the African perspective.

I’m thinking of the case where an old picture has come to light of a white cricketer in blackface, where he was apparently playing homage to the (then) recently deceased black artist, Tupac Shakur.  It reminded me of an incident maybe ten years ago, when an Australian politician got into hot water over a blackface incident, at which time I innocently mentioned the case to a Cameroonian colleague.  To my surprise, he was confused by the incident.  “What’s wrong with that?” he asked.  I tried to explain, but he found it very strange, telling me about a popular Cameroonian comedian of the time who was known for making himself up as a white person, and then acting out doing typically local jobs which would not normally ever be done in Cameroon by a white person.  I recall he gave one example of street vendors.  My colleague asked me if I found that offensive – which of course I didn’t.  Perhaps an example of white privilege (a term which I don’t think existed at that time) as you don’t get easily offended by mickey-taking when you are in the dominant group.

So this time around, I asked a Senegalese friend – an educated and well-travelled Senegalese friend – what he thought about what this cricketer had done.  Like my Cameroonian colleague, he was confused, telling me that he and other Senegalese would consider it an honour if a white person made themselves up (clothing but also make-up) as Senegalese in homage to someone who had died.  I asked how he would feel if it were done in a more light-hearted context, rather than as homage to someone deceased, and he still said that he and other Senegalese would view it as something positive, showing recognition and appreciation of Senegalese/Africans.  Indeed when I walk in the street wearing anything local, such as outfits in African wax fabric, I get appreciative comments from random strangers – it is never seen as cultural appropriation but rather as a mark of appreciation and respect.

I suppose the negative reactions to such things usually start in the US, where the history of black-white relations is so bad that any instance of white folk interacting with the black culture is viewed with suspicion.  Not that black-white relations in Africa have been exactly balanced and fair, but perhaps being on ‘home turf’ makes a difference in some way.  Indeed, it still astonishes me how positively white people and white culture are seen here.  On my way back from Lompoul last weekend, as our minibus drove through some small towns and villages, several people looked up and noticed that there were some white people in the vehicle – “Toubab!” (the local word for white person) one older lady shouted excitedly as she waved to me.  I don’t know that I’ll ever fully understand that reaction, but one thing I do know is that when I eventually return ‘home’ to the UK, I shall have to be careful as to what I say and do in respect of the minefield of black-white interactions.

the 18sqkm desert of Lompoul

I should have flown to Ethiopia last Thursday, to start a trip to the Omo Valley and from there by land into Somaliland.  Sadly the British tour company I was going with have panicked about the situation with the rebels, and announced just a few days before departure that they have cancelled the trip.

So I booked a last minute weekend away in northern Senegal, to visit the sand dunes of Lompoul.  Somewhere I'd previously decided was not worth my time and money, but with fewer tourists here right now, and the trip not too pricey, I thought it would be preferable to sitting at home moping about my missed Ethiopia trip.

It was billed as an 'astronomy weekend', as a professor of astronomy was to accompany the group, with his telescopes and a ready-made presentation - not really a selling point for me but once he had taken us through the presentation and pointed out Venus and Jupiter when the clouds parted, I was getting interested - so was sad that the clouds thickened during the course of the evening and we didn't get to see Jupiter, Saturn and the surface of the moon through his telescope.  Nor did I get to see Venus at 6am the next morning, as the downside of sleeping in desert tents is the lack of anywhere to charge your phone, so the battery went dead some three hours before the alarm was supposed to wake me up.

However, I did get to be very touristy and do a short walk around on a camel, and also walked about in the dunes looking at the various animal tracks and watching dung beetles do their thing.

As with many events in Senegal which attract tourists or foreign residents, the other participants were mostly French - and whilst I can converse quite happily in French with the Senegalese (indeed with any French-speaking Africans), I find the accent of the French themselves very hard to understand.  I still somehow finished this weekend with a few new friends, however, and had some interesting conversations.  This included some discussion of the risk to the ecology of this part of Senegal - and the livelihoods of those who work there in the tourist trade - from the imminent exploitation of the mineral zircon which was discovered there a few years ago (this apparently being the fourth largest known source in the world).  What I hadn't known was that the Minister of Mines who signed the deal with a French company to exploit the deposits (in which just 10% of the benefit comes to Senegal) was none other than our current president!

the other parts of my trip to Niger

Whilst the Gerewol was the purpose of my trip, and of course the highlight, I did also visit Agadez, Zinder and Mirriah, and some of the scenes viewed along the roads were also interesting.

This was a fully-laden truck, en-route from Libya to Diffa in the south-east of Niger.  The driver had stopped for a nap in the shade of the vehicle, and hearing that it had taken three days to do part of a road that took us eight hours, I really couldn't imagine it having to go through sandy parts of the Libyan desert!!

We also passed a family of Fulani nomads, with all of their household possessions piled up around them on their donkeys, which were almost as overladen as this truck.  & a group of Touaregs, travelling by camel, but with the camels all in their best leatherwork, decorated noseclips and so on, looking really spectacular.

In the towns and cities we were looking at a mixture of mosques (including the UNESCO-listed sixteenth century mud mosque of Agadez), sultan's palaces, and older districts of traditional architecture.  You can see at the top the eighteenth century sultan's palace in the town of Mirriah, which still has the old drum inside (beaten to announce the appointment of a new sultan) as well as sacks of something mysterious suspended from the ceiling inside the entrance, designed to protect the interior from evil.  Despite the presence of Islamist terrorism in parts of the country, it still holds a variety of traditional beliefs alongside Islam.

& here the front wall of the sultan's palace in Zinder, reputed to have three young girls and four Korans buried within (or under), on the advice from 1850 when it was built of some spiritual guides and hunters, considered to have mystical powers.

Inside included an area where prisoners used to be kept, with three doors to small dark 'rooms' (only shoulder high) where they could be sent to reflect on whether they had any information to divulge: the first where they were just left on their own for a while in the dark; the second where they were accompanied by a scorpion; and the third where they were accompanied by a snake.  Finally from the same area was the Door of No Return - any prisoner passing through here either met his death or was sold into the transatlantic slave trade.  Zinder was a major power along the trans-Saharan trade route.  Bizarrely, the current sultan also has a thing about fancy cars, and inside the palace were two very duty old Rolls Royces alongside a number of other fancy older brands and a ridiculously long limousine that surely has never been out in the streets of the city!

The Birni district of Zinder (around the palace) had some impressive old Hausa architecture, as well as a strange old French cemetery with no markings on any of the gravestones - I've not been able to get any explanation for that.  Agadez also had some nice architecture, and was very pleasant to walk around.

Even aside from the festival, Niger was a rewarding country to visit although, I will admit, not the most comfortable in terms of climate or facilities.

the Gerewol and the Yaké

The core of the gathering of nomads that takes place in northern Niger at the end of every year's rainy season is the performance throughout the week of 'dances' by the young men, who are competing to be selected as the most beautiful.  There are two main dances, the Gerewol, after which the festival is named, and the Yaké, which is featured in most of the photographs one might see of the event.  The costumes, make-up and jewellery are traditional, as are the chants and movements that the men perform to show off their attributes.  Height, symmetry of features and white eyes and teeth are prized.

The dances start in the late morning with the Yaké - by far the most impressive, to my mind.  Firstly the men have to prepare, their hair braided (often by a sister), traditional costumes donned, and the make-up carefully applied by the participants themselves.  The yellow (and later red) make up is natural, but I was told that battery acid is used by some to make the black colour applied to the mouth and eyes.  We were able to see all of this preparation taking place, and I have to say that some of the young men were stunning!!

This is a picture of the Yaké dance being performed:

At the same time as the Yaké is taking place, other young men will be preparing themselves for the Gerewol dances which take place during the afternoon and all through the night.  These involve a different costume and different make-up, but with the same objectives.  Here you can see some Gerewol participants showing off the whites of their eyes and teeth!

This is the first, main, part of the performance, which can have around 70 participants, and after which a much smaller number are selected for a 'dance-off', with more vigorous movements. It wasn't clear who makes this selection.  In the Gerewol dance, this 'dance-off' follows the removal of the initial headpiece and the application in its place of a kind of 'plume'.

Female judges (we only saw two per dance, but apparently there can be more) watch their performance and indicate their selected winner by pulling on the plume.  I didn't get to find out how the judges are appointed, but they also sport traditional hairstyles and jewellery, and follow a convention of shielding their faces from the audience with their hands, whilst slowly walking up and down the line of participants to make their choice - not directly looking at them, with their whole performance being very coy.  I also didn't see them make their selection, as despite the presence of men wielding sticks to beat back the audience if they approach the participants too closely, it always descended into apparent chaos at the end, with everyone rushing forward to see who was going to win.

The audience is made up of a mixture of young women - who all stay together - and men, some seated and some standing, and behind them the Touaregs on their camels.  The Touaregs don't participate in the dances (perhaps better termed beauty contests?) and no-one explained to me why they attend.  The women check out the contestants carefully, for this festival is basically - how can I put this? - a chance for the young people to get laid!  With the women in the driving seat.

Apparently the hair protruding over the forehead is the sign that a particular woman or girl is 'up for it' - and there is no judgement against this behaviour, everything is allowed during the festival.  I suppose when you normally spend the year travelling, with just your family group and your animals, this is understandable.  The liaisons can lead to marriage, but they can equally be just a bit of fun - and I heard that the girls can be quite competitive, trying to out-do eachother in the number of beautiful young men they can bed (I also heard that STIs are rife).  The activity is not restricted to single women either - apparently beauty is so highly prized amongst the Wodaabe that a man will accept his wife sleeping with a beatiful dance participant, reasoning that should she become pregnant, the baby will be more beautiful than if he had fathered it himself!!

So, all in all, a lot to take in, and I am still processing what I saw some two weeks after the festival.  It certainly lived up to - and indeed surpassed - my expectations.

Nomads of Niger

The title of this post is actually the name of a book which I bought when aged 21 or 22, still a student trying to get by on a student grant, but which grabbed my attention when I saw it displayed in a shop.  I still have the book, and have long dreamed of going to see the people portrayed in it (the Wodaabe) - to see their famous Gerewol festival.

I didn't go when I lived in London, as Niger was not the easiest country to get a visa for (there being no embassy in the UK), and then when I moved out to West Africa it always seemed better to wait until 'next year', when the security situation in that part of Niger might improve.  It never did, but now it doesn't feel so threatening when compared with the much worse situation in neighbouring Mali and Burkina Faso.  So I decided to bite the bullet and go this year, whilst I have a Niger embassy just down the road and am still young enough to cope with nights sleeping in the desert.  I had found a Nigerien company (Zenith Tours) who offered such a trip (together with the mandatory security escort), and with Covid thankfully not an issue in this part of the world, I packed my bags and set off - to finally fulfill this long-held dream!

The experience was actually quite overwhelming, both the dance performances which are the purpose of the festival, but also the gathering itself - several thousand nomads, mostly Fulani but also Touaregs, with their cattle, sheep, goats, donkeys and camels.  & no concessions to tourists other than allowing us to wander wherever we liked and phtograph whoever and whatever we liked.

So early in the morning you could see people bringing in water from the watering hole at the edge of the site, preparing food, and leading their cattle out to graze.

Whilst some had traditional tents like the one in the photo to the left, some had modern tents.  A small number came by motorbike, with Nigerien music blasting out - and I saw many small, portable solar panels, mostly used to charge mobile phones, it seems.  But these were the only hints of the modern world. 

Most people did not speak either French or English, and of course I do not speak any of the languages of the participants, but I was able to find a few I could communicate with, those who had learned a little French in school, or who had picked up some English during time in Nigeria or Ghana.  For these are well-travelled people!  I asked one young man how many people were in the group he travelled with, but as a Fulani he travelled alone with his cattle - travelling for up to three months at a time, he told me.

Whilst those men who shared a language with me were happy to talk, communicating with the women was a different matter. 

The girls and young women seemed fascinated by me, but were also afraid.  I tried to make some physical contact, extending my hand, and there were gasps of fear as they backed off, whilst some of the younger girls hid behind the older ones.  By hanging around with them for a while - and not just smiling, but deliberately playing with my hair, which of course fascinated them - I was able to get some contact eventually with some of the braver ones who eventually touched my hair and my arm, but how I wish we could have had a conversation!

I should say that this lady to the left was not typical - most did not sport so much jewellery - but she was certainly photogenic!  Her hairstyle, however, is typical, with the hair pulled out over the forehead.  One person told me that this style indicates that they are 'available' for the young men who participate in the dance (which I will explain in the next post).

What was far more common was the facial tattoos; again I wish I could have communicated with the participants to understand the meaning behind them, but I did at least pick up that the three little lines spreading from the corners of the mouth indicate that one is a member of the Wodaabe ethnic group.  The rest could signify clan/family, or perhaps are simply decorative.

So much that I wanted to understand, but could not!!

Which maybe added to the sense that I was in a totally different time and place, almost a different world.  Nearly two weeks have gone by since I was at this festival and I am still struggling to bring myself back to the world I live in.

To finish, in any case, here is a picture I sneakily took between our tents early in the morning, of our security escort.  I should say that at no point did it 'feel' as though such an escort was necessary, but I suppose those who are kidnapped in this part of the world are unlikely to sense that a kidnap is imminent.

white fantasy, black dream

No, I'm not trying to promote the place above (although, given how the internet works, I recognise the risk that this post is seen by someone who then shares the picture in various networks), just wanting to say how it disturbs me every time I walk past it - and how it so accurately reflects a sad part of this country and indeed, many other places in sub-Saharan Africa.

As background, I should explain that there is a general feeling here that people from developed, Western countries are 'better'.  I refer to developed, Western countries, rather than white countries, because it does seem that African Americans (and I presume black Europeans) are categorised together with white Amercians and Europeans - so I don't believe this has the racial undertones that it might appear to have.  Unpicking that term 'better' is rather more difficult; it certainly means wealthier, and with more job/career opportunities, but it also means more educated and therefore more worthy of being listened to, and respected.  It also means that something manufactured in the West is preferred; I think here of a friend of a friend, really happy because her family have installed what is called here an English toilet (ie a sit-down toilet) which, although not so good for you as the local-style squat toilet (can cause you to develop piles), is considered much higher status.

But then - the main point of this post - we have the sex tourism.  At a basic level it involves older white (mostly French) men and women coming here to have sex with Africans for a couple of weeks and then returning home.  But beyond that, some of the tourists fall in love, and either send money from home to support their lover and return annually to rekindle the physical side, or they actually come here to live.  I've seen the tearful goodbyes at the airport between wrinkly old white women and fit, young Senegalese men, and even knew (before I'd ever visited Senegal) a British woman in her seventies with a young husband out here, who had taken up work in London as a 'vintage escort' as the only way she could find to fund her Senegalese husband's incessant demands for money.

I also heard recently of one case of a young Senegalese woman whose old (and now bedridden) French lover moved here to marry her and live here with her - where she complains to friends that he's not dead yet, and she is apparently giving him 'medication' that is not what he thinks he's getting but rather something that should shorten his life.  Then she will inherit the house and money and can move in with the secret Senegalese lover she already has on the side.  I'm told this kind of situation is not all that uncommon.

Since in most cases both parties to the transaction are willing participants, I'm not sure whether it really counts as exploitation.  What it does do is reflect the imbalance of resources and opportunities in today's world.  Those young Senegalese men and women do not, in most cases, genuinely find their older customers to be sexually attractive, and most of them would choose other ways of making money if jobs were available.  But jobs are not available ... so prostitution is common (any nightclub here will be full of young Senegalese women with very high heels, long nails and long eyelashes, and very revealing clothing, who immediately approach any unaccompanied white man who walks in), but more disturbingly for me, any white woman out in public here without an accompanying man or children will be hit upon.  Those approaching her can be of any age, and can be already married, but they still see that opportunity to improve their life if they can hook up with her - whether that be for an hour, a night, a couple of weeks, or for life.  If they are married, they do not even hide the relationship from the wife - in part because polygamy is legal and accepted here, but in part because the wife will also want the family to benefit from the opportunities associated with the white woman.

Negotiating this minefield is a regular part of my life here.  Whilst in many ways I can distance myself from it and act as a (fascinated) neutral observer, it is an irritation.  Just walking down the street to the supermarket often involves dealing with young men telling me I am beautiful and wanting my phone number.  I find myself giving my stock response as to why I am not interested ("I want to remain single - I can do what I like, where I like, how I like, when I like, with whom I like, without having to justify or explain it to anyone, as I am free!") quite frequently, and still sometimes waste an afternoon or evening in some man's company having mistakenly believed their assurance they they would like to meet for a drink "as friends".  But the situation also makes me very sad.

the community bank

So the flatmate who had Covid is feeling better, another flatmate who caught it whilst elsewhere in the country is staying away until he tests negative, and it seems that the remaining two of us got lucky and avoided getting ill.

A consequence of the resident Covid-infected flatmate being confined to her room, however, was that she was unable to go to work to collect her salary, so her employer paid the money directly into her new Senegalese bank account - for which she doesn't yet have a card to enable her to withdraw the money so I was asked if I could, please, lend her CFA150,000 (some US$270) towards her rent due on 31 July.  I did so.  Then last week, on Thursday, the flatmate who sublets to us needed a loan of CFA40,000 to go out that evening.  Not an acceptable reason for me to make a loan (and I was brought up to NEVER borrow or lend money), but it was to be just overnight as she showed me her salary cheque that she was going to cash the next day - and of course I pay my monthly rent to her so could always offset any money owed me if I had to.  I didn't want to appear difficult, so made the loan.

The next day I went out to my regular Friday lunchtime haunt - a non-descript looking bar-restaurant with a regular crowd of mostly retired 'intellectuals' (as they call themselves), mostly (if not all) with PhDs, formerly employed as journalists, university professors, etc.  Their conversation is usually pretty interesting, covering subjects close to my own heart such as politics and philosophy, and the place has the added bonus of the cheapest food and drink in Dakar.  Many of these interesting folk seem to spend a lot of their time in the back terrace there, eeking out their small pensions on coffee, beer or wine, whilst those who can afford to also eat their lunch there tend to discretely go into a different part of the building to do so.  I once made the mistake of eating at the table, and one retired journalist asked if I could possibly spare just a morsel of my cheese, only to be loudly rebuked by another person present for behaving inappropriately, the whole scene being quite embarrassing for several of us sitting at the table.

This same retired journalist was there on Friday, and I sat at a vacant seat beside him.  As I was about to order my glass of wine (the cheapest kind they sell, being CFA1,000 a glass), I decided to ask if he wanted a glass.  He accepted and so I bought a small bottle, at CFA2,000, which provided each of us with a large glass full.  Being unemployed and therefore careful with my money, I made that glass last me the two hours that I spent there.  He, however, drank his more quickly and signalled for a second glass.  As I paid my bill I was astonished to be asked by him if he could please have CFA1,000 - presumably for him to use to pay for his second glass.  The cheek of it!  But I paid up, as it would have been awkward to say no, and it was not really very much money.

I arrived home to an annoyed and embarrassed flatmate telling me she had been unable to cash her cheque, as by the time she got seen following a wait of six hours (believable, from my limited experience with banks here), the person who needed to provide authorisation from her company had already gone home for the day.  I told her that it wasn't my lucky day, recounting the story of the additional glass of wine I'd had to pay for earlier.

But the tale wasn't over.  Later that night I was woken by a knocking at my bedroom door - at what turned out to be 02:30 - by my flatmate.  I said that yes, she could come in, and what did she want?  Well, apparently she and her boyfriend had gone out to a nice restaurant for a pizza with something to drink, and when it came to pay the bill, it turned out that her boyfriend didn't have any money on him - as of course she didn't.  So the restaurant called the police, and were holding her boyfriend there as she was allowed to go and try to 'find' the money.  She'd tried calling me, but I turn my phone off when I go to bed and so hadn't responded, so she'd come back to the flat to ask me in person, as the situation was desperate.  I could hardly say no to this, so rolled, naked, out of bed (I'm not worried about being naked in front of another woman, but it is not normal in the Senegalese culture and I felt awkward) and went to check what cash I had; I was able to lend her a further CFA40,000 of the CFA50,000 she wanted, and she told me that this should do the trick.

Later on Saturday I was recounting all this to a friend, when my phone rang.  I didn't recognise the number and so didn't answer it, but it was followed by a text message saying "hello Louise" and then a further call, so I answered - to hear my flatmate's boyfriend telling me that he had an urgent situation with a friend in his truck on the Senegal-Mali border needing money...  Of course I told him that I didn't have any left, but this little run of experiences seems to show that once you show any generosity to someone here, you open the floodgates to further requests.

Our cleaner, who normally leaves by 16:30, is still sitting here as I write this at 18:30, and I imagine this means that she is waiting to be paid some money by my flatmate, who is not yet home (I can't ask why she's here as she doesn't speak French and my Wolof is very limited).  I'm wondering whether she, and I, will get paid this evening - but one thing is certain, that if my flatmate says she still couldn't access her salary today, and asks me to loan money to pay the cleaner, I will make it very clear that I have no more money right now and that I will not be making loans in future!

Covid's third wave

I've not written too much about Covid-19, in part because Senegal had pretty much escaped its grip until recently and so it was having little impact on my day-to-day life (well, apart from it costing me my job of course!).  However, we now have our third wave of the virus in Senegal, and it is much worse than the first and second waves.  A couple of weeks ago our new daily case count shot up from 40 to some 1,300, and whilst it now hovers around 600-700 a day, they are also reporting that the test centres are overwhelmed and turning people away, that Dakar's hospitals are full, and that there is no oxygen left which has been responsible for some of the recent deaths.  Restrictions are slowly being reintroduced; the Senegalese wrestling match I'd planned to go to this Saturday has been cancelled, masks are now compulsory in the street as well as on public transport and in the shops, and there is talk of international and long-distance transport being stopped.  I can't imagine that concerts and nightclubs will be able to continue for much longer.

So this week I've stayed at home rather more than I would have in normal times (there doesn't seem much point in risking a crowded bus when mask-wearing has still to be fully enforced) - but hadn't banked on the virus visiting the apartment where I live.

One of my flatmates is a young French woman, who likes to party.  Not long after moving in she had a two-day-long cocaine- and alcohol-fuelled binge with a few friends in her room - didn't really bother me but the Senegalese flatmate who sublets to us knew who the friends were, and was not happy (the Congolese friend is apparently a known local drug-dealer).  So the French woman was instructed not to bring them here again, and now meets them elsewhere (including out in the street in front of our building) and sometimes comes home in the early hours drunk and/or under the influence of  various drugs, including (we think) marijuana, cocaine and ecstasy.  Her poorly controlled behaviour has already resulted in her getting an infected foot (infected somehow by sea urchin spines!?) and being robbed of both her camera and two mobile phones in three separate events, and I sent an irritated message to her this morning when I found that the kitchen light had been left on all night as well as the gas burning away under an empty saucepan.  She admitted responsibility and apologised, but explained that she felt ill - and asked whether I could make enquiries about her getting a Covid test.

Fortunately our Senegalese flatmate was able to organise a private test for her through her employer's insurance scheme, so two medics showed up and did the test here.  Strongly positive.  So the rest of us also got tested, and were relieved to find that we were negative - although I was intrigued to be told that my test showed that I had been exposed to the virus but had successfully fought it off, possibly aided by the first shot of the AstraZeneca vaccine that I had in early April.  Thankfully some more AZ vaccine is expected in the country next week, so I should finally be able to get my second shot.

So, a day of drama!  Of course the infected flatmate has been instructed to stay in her room, but as we don't trust her to do so, my other flatmate is  trying to use her employer insurance cover to somehow find somewhere else for her to go asap.  Not sure that she'll have much luck given that all Dakar hospitals are supposed to be full.

This evening I had planned to go up to a nearby hotel roof terrace where a DJ plays good dance music every Thursday evening, but I know people there will not be wearing masks and so have decided to be more sensible and spend another evening in my room.  It will be interesting to see where all this heads - how badly the country will be hit - whilst feeling comforted at a personal level that the risk for me seems relatively low.

doing touristy stuff

 

A post in a Senegal facebook group asked if anyone wanted to join a small group of people who were planning a day out to Bandia Nature Reserve and Accrobaobab, as they had space in their vehicle.  Two touristy places (the nature reserve mostly filled with animals imported from South Africa), but I hadn't been to either and it seemed like a better use of my time than yet another day staring at my laptop screen.  Thankfully they turned out to be a nice group of people (from Senegal, the US and Cape Verde) and the social side went smoothly.

At the reserve we took a two-hour tour (that turned into closer to three hours as the guide had to wait for feeding time to find the white rhino), in the back of an open vehicle that allowed us all to get the photos we wanted - imported impala, nyala, eland, roan antelope, kudu, zebra, giraffe, ostrich and buffalo, alongside native creatures such as warthog, patas and vervet monkeys, crocodiles and of course birds.

There are no predators in the 3,500-hectare reserve (hyenas are kept separately in a fenced-in enclosure) and the animals allow the vehicles to get reasonably close.  It didn't feel particularly authentic - especially once we saw some stacks of food which had been delivered whilst we were in a different section of the park - but of course it is always nice to look at such animals and some pictures, such as this of the roan antelope, do at least look authentic!

After the tour, I quickly went round the reptile house (which included a beautiful green mamba and another snake whose name I missed that burrowed itself entirely under the sand), and we stopped for an early lunch overlooking a large watering hole, keeping a watching eye on the green vervet monkeys which loiter and run on to the tables to steal food when people look away.  I'm afraid I wasn't a very good vegetarian today as I couldn't resist the antelope burger.

After lunch we moved on to the nearby Accrobaobab - an 'adventure playground' amongst the baobab trees.  Not really my thing - zip-lining between baobab trees has never been on my bucket list - but some of the others were keen to have a go, and rather than just sit there waiting for them I decided I had to participate!  Not the seven-stage, $29, affair that they were signing up for, just the single $7.50 zip-line down a 315 metre descent from a platform 24 metres up in a baobab tree.

I signed the waiver form, ticking the box to confirm that I have Senegalese-compliant public liability insurance (cough, cough) and they put on my harness.  Apparently it all complies with European safety standards, but I notice that the form said we would have a compulsory trial run, and that never happened.  Rather we walked a little way through the forest and then were faced with a tall baobab tree with a very rickety-looking wood-and-rope ladder up to the platform.  The instructor duly clipped me onto the safety harness and I made my way (slowly!) up the ladder ... this was the view I then had back down to the ground:

The instructor followed, attached me to the zip-line, and told me to go.

What a moment!!  I knew I was properly attached, and the equipment all looked to be in great condition ... but to just step off the platform into the void like that??!  Every fibre of my body was telling me not to do it ... but of course I had to, and as soon as I did I started sliding down the line, feeling very safe and very glad I'd taken the plunge!  This is me at the end of the course, feeling rather pleased with myself!

the St Louis jazz festival take 2

I went to the St Louis jazz festival back in May 2010, and whilst this year's was smaller - due to the lack of tourists allowed into the country at present, I guess - I thought it worthwhile taking the four-hour trip up there to catch some of the action.  Saturday night was the highlight, with Vieux Farka Toure followed by Baaba Maal on the official stage, and Cheikh Lo playing later as one of the 'off festival' acts.  As with my previous visit, I didn't get to bed until 4am.

It's a great festival - with different acts playing all through the night in at least a dozen different locations - but frustrating as there is no centralised information as to who is playing where, and even when you spot the posters on walls, the advertised times of the performances bear no relation to reality.  So if you try to plan a schedule, you can end up seeing just the first ten minutes (or even just the warming up) of each artist before you rush away to catch the advertised start time of the next.  Much better really to just wander about with little-to-no specific plan.  I would love to be able to re-live the festival weekend so as to catch a different set of acts!

There is also a festival parade, although again, with no useful information available.  There was no advertised route, and people I asked didn't even know if the parade was going to happen - but finally, two hours later than advertised, a couple of floats came along the street, accompanied by a few of the advertised 'false lions' that I had been keen to see.  This picture was taken by a friend of mine, whilst I struggled as ever with a camera which insists on cycling through its settings menu whenever I want to take a picture with it:

Of course there were also the beautiful old streets, with their decaying old buildings, to wander around in the mornings (how I envy people whose body clocks don't wake them at around the same time every day, regardless of what time they got to sleep).  Plus the city is considerably cheaper than the capital (taxis around a quarter of the Dakar price, and some ridiculously cheap restaurants), and whilst the festival was held a month later than usual, the rainy season hadn't yet started, and so I walked the streets, soaking up the atmosphere and admiring the old buildings.

What was sad was seeing the signs of severe coastal erosion on the outer island of Guet Ndar.

Apparently the sea now comes 200-300m further inshore than it did some 20-30 years ago, and you can clearly see the effect, with the back walls of what were once rooms now exposed to the elements, the foundations also exposed.  & this community already, apparently, the most densely populated area in the whole of West Africa. Thankfully, work is now underway to build up the sand into a long 'sea wall', which will give some protection although I can't see that it will last all that long.

The weekend ended far too quickly, and I did at one stage ask myself why I am living in Dakar rather than in St Louis!

the music scene kicks off again

Now that Ramadan is over, and with the curfew lifted earlier in the year, there is rather an explosion of live music happening in Dakar.  People sometimes ask me why I am staying in Dakar, which is more expensive than somewhere down the coast and with all of the disadvantages of a big city (noise, traffic, pollution, crime, etc) - and the availability of live music is the main reason why.

So last weekend I went to my usual hang-out - Le Relais - to see Pape & Cheikh, playing traditional Senegalese folk music.  The singer's voice has gone a little croaky as he's aged and he sounds better now than he did on the old music of their's that you can buy.

The downside of live music here is the timing of the concerts, never starting before midnight and in this case as there was a support band, Pape & Cheikh didn't come on stage until around 01:30 (and finished at around 03:15).  I passed the time beforehand in conversation with a man sitting at the same table - who turned out to be a very talented harmonica player.  He got up and jammed on one track with the (jazz) support band and totally transformed their otherwise quite bland performance.  We swapped numbers and I'm hoping that he might prove to be a useful contact.

Then this weekend there was a difficult choice to make, with Salif Keita in from Mali to give a gala performance (= dinner included, ticket price very high) at the Pullman Hotel, and Oumou Sangare, supported by Bassekou Kouyate (both also in from Mali), giving a gala performance beside the Renaissance statue, near to where I live.  Then there was Wally Seck, performing at a much more reasonable price at the National Theatre.  I felt I had to see one of the Malian visitors, and as I'd never yet seen Salif Keita perform live I took a deep breath and purchased my CFA 50,000 (US$93) ticket; fortunately I was able to find a buyer for 41 of my old CDs, which at CFA 1,000 each helped to defray most of the cost.

Thankfully also, being in the grounds of a hotel which might have had guests who wanted to sleep that night, the concert started relatively early and was over by 1am.  I wait to see who will play where this coming weekend, but for sure I will have another musical outing ... and another late night.  I was also pleasantly surprised this morning to learn that the St Louis Jazz Festival will take place later this month - whilst our COVID cases here now are negligible (33 new cases reported yesterday - out of a population of nearly 17 million) I still thought that they might cancel it for a second year.

the contradictions within an outwardly conservative society

 

Starting this post with a very poor quality photo - but you get the idea, I'm sure.  It is a poster currently displayed on many sites around town, advertising a popular series (now in its third season) on local television, called "Mistress of a married man".  The one at my local bus stop, having been up for a month, has now been replaced by a condom advert.

I've been thinking about this, and many other aspects of society here, as my life begins to justify the title of my blog that I am "in" Senegal rather than, as previously, it being a transit point between my travels to other countries.

Remind yourselves that this is a 95% Muslim country, ranked in one 2019 study as the second most religious country in the world, where life is based around the family.  But now that I'm spending all my time here, starting to get a deeper understanding of the country, I'm seeing much more of the many contradictions that lie just below the surface.  Yes, the people here are very religious - their belief in Allah is central to their lives - but that doesn't seem to mean that they have to follow all of its requirements!

Affairs outside of marriage seem to be very common.  I asked a friend about this, and he told me that his behaviour was allowable since the religion permits up to four wives, and realistically he cannot be expected to choose a second wife without 'trying her out' first!  I have yet to get a more 'official' view on this - maybe something for me to ask about in Saudi Arabia, if my December trip goes ahead!  At the same time, women here have quite a lot of clout.  Not only are 42% of parliamentary seats held by women (putting Senegal in the top ten internationally for female political representation), but amongst the small wealthy section of society, women have a lot of money.  As one rather resentful Senegalese man explained to me, the Koran requires the man to pay all household costs - the rent, utility bills, food, etc - so if the woman has any income, that money is hers and she can do whatever she wants with it.  So, as he pointed out, many of the smart (expensive) SUVs driving around are owned by women (not obvious as their drivers will always be male).  Certainly the outfits (both the clothes and the jewellery) that some women wear on nights out is astonishing.

Alcohol is another contradiction.  Forbidden by the Koran, it is nevertheless widely consumed.  Of course there are the more expat-orientated places that serve it, such as the beach-side bars - although a good proportion of the clientele at such places are Senegalese - but additionally, every neighbourhood has a wall with a nondescript metal door behind which is a beer garden of some kind.  This may well be different out in the villages, but in Dakar it seems that most people drink alcohol. Indeed most supermarkets have a whole aisle of beers, wines and spirits - certainly far more than could be consumed by the expats and the 5% Christian community!  It is, however, consumed behind closed doors and not to excess, which thankfully means that there is no public drunkenness.

There is no clear religious prohibition against cannabis (although some Sunni scholars class it as an 'intoxicant' and therefore forbidden), and it is surprisingly common.  The Bayefall community (a particularly Senegalese sufi Islamic sect) consume it as part of their beliefs, alongside music, to get closer to Allah.  Whilst there seems to be tacit acceptance of its use by the Bayefall, it is illegal, and the local press seems to be full of news articles on seizures of yamba, as it called locally.  I note, however, that some of the seizures are from police officers and religious leaders!  There is also - within Dakar, at least - a group of reggae adherents who hold all-night reggae parties, at which yamba is consumed freely, with the police standing guard outside ... I've been told that the organisers acquire a 'special licence' for this...

Some Senegalese have told me that they are a nation of hypocrites, but I think you could also say that they are tolerant and open-minded!

traditional rites - initiation of the boys of the Bassari tribe

Not fully satisfied with a life spent drinking wine or coffee with friends in local cafes/restaurants with occasional days working on the To Do List, I was pleased to discover that the initiation ceremonies of the adolesecent boys of the Bassari tribe were taking place this month.  A real trek to get to the small town of Salemata (40 minutes in a shared transit van; 20 minutes pushing my way through an overcrowded street market; 2 hours in a 'waiting room'; 14 hours in an overnight bus with continuous music and quite a few stops including police checks of our ID; quick taxi ride to the shared taxi station where there is only a 30 minute wait until there are seven of us; 90-minute drive in the seven-place taxi; 30-minute wait with a log to sit on thanks to a kind family; 10 minutes on the back of a motorbike taxi to my very basic accommodation), and then a 4km walk on dirt tracks (including one very steep hill) in 42C heat each day to get to the small village of Egath where the initiation was taking place ... but definitely worth the effort.

The first day involved a lot of dancing by a big group of young men in traditional colourful outfits (performing the Yanguët dance), whilst those a couple of years younger, in the (to me) bizarre 'traditional' attire of football kits, had their hair braided before doing a dance performance of their own around the village.  It was noisy (whoops, whistles and a traditional wooden flute), colourful, and plenty of honey wine, palm wine and millet beer was consumed.  I was the only tourist there.

The next morning I got up very early so as to depart Salemata at 6am and avoid the worst of the heat for the walk there - but also to be sure to catch all of the action on this the main day of the initiation.  Or at least most of the action, as the physical combat between the initiates and their older initiated opponents is off-limits to female spectators, unfortunately.  But for me, again, the main attraction was the colour and spectacle of the dancers - who first appeared out of the trees on a distant hillside, making a sound I cannot describe, so as to remind the boys of what was to come.

Whether these (the Odkwëta od Khëmër masks) were the same guys who had danced the previous day I cannot say, as they remained masked all day apart from during the combat which I couldn't watch.  There were dozens of them, who came slowly down the hill towards the village behind a guy in a different mask - the 'grandfather' of the troupe I think someone called that mask.  Pretty much like the dancers of the previous day, they performed a kind of foot-stomping dance to the accompaniment of flute, whistles and the strange sounds they made themselves.

Meanwhile, the family of each of the 42 initiates slit the throat of a male goat they had brought, as a sacrifice, and cut it into appropriate pieces, after which the boys went off to take part in the combat and the men to watch.  While that was going on, the women prepared lunch - goat meat, of course.

During the afternoon there was a further sacrifice, this time of cockerels, with the feathers then woven into the hair of the now shirtless young initiates to show that they had completed the combat.  Suitably adorned, the boys paraded around the village, where they were presented with big blocks of a kind of cake made with sugar and peanut butter - and of course more alcohol, which had been again available all day.  They were also given gifts - banknotes attached to their hair with safety pins, and long bolts of fabric draped over their arms.

After a long break (to allow time for the consumption of more goat meat and more alcohol), the dancers returned, this time accompanied by drummers, to begin a long night of continuous celebration.  By this time though the heat, the alcohol and the lack of sleep had got to me, so I made my way back to Salemata for a short night's sleep before beginning the long trek back to Dakar.

As this initiation process takes place for three weekends in a row in three different villages in the region, I suppose if I had planned it better I could have stayed on, spent the intervening week hiking in the hills looking for birds and chimpanzees before watching the whole thing all over again in a different village (apparently the one taking place in Ethiolo this weekend will be bigger), but in any case I am really glad to have had the opportunity to see this - reminding myself that people in much of the world are going through all of the challenges related to the COVID pandemic whilst I was in what seemed like a different universe.

Lucky me!

a different lifestyle

So having lived alone for the last three years in a two-bedroom, two-balcony, duplex apartment with 24-hour guard service (all paid for by my employer), I have now, as an unemployed/retired person (a lady of leisure??), moved into a very small apartment with four other people.  I have my own bedroom and en-suite bathroom, but share a small entrance hall cum living room, a very small cockroach-infested kitchen, and a tiny balcony (aka the smoking space for the rest of my flatmates).  We do seem to have reliable electricity and internet, although sometimes there is no water.  Oh, and there is a cleaning lady who comes every day, but who only speaks Wolof.

My flatmates are from Senegal, France, Syria and Switzerland, and the French-Syrian couple have a kitten - thankfully I love cats.  Both the conversation and the food has been good (the Syrian is a keen cook and loves to cook for others).  However the Senegalese lady who sub-lets to the rest of us fell out with the Syrian guy last week, and after a dramatic day full of shouted accusations and insults, with both parties going to the police, the French-Syrian couple have to move out - which is a great shame.  We'll see whether the Spanish lady who will take over their room is such good company.

It's a very different way of life ... kind of like being in a student flatshare ... but so far I'm enjoying it.

I've had a fair bit of admin to do, dealing with my former employer (returning equipment, getting exit forms signed off, etc as well as a 'goodbye' lunch and presentation the day after my contract ended) and with the company who will ship the bulk of my possessions back to the UK, not to mention time spent setting up a local telephone account and mobile money account, and settling into my new accommodation.  I've been quite busy.

I've managed to fit in a little relaxation, including in a couple of different restaurants along this coastal part of Dakar, chatting with friends over a few glasses of wine, and saw a couple of live music performances before Ramadan started yesterday which puts an almost complete stop to live music for the month, sadly.

So will I get bored?  Well it's hard to tell as yet.  I have a To Do List, and have so far watched four episodes of Andrew Marr's "A History of Modern Britain", sewn up the hem on a pair of trousers, labelled and filed a part of my digital music collection, and worked my way through the first four chapters of a French text book (a little late in the day, I know, but I would like to improve my French and then dispose of the CDs and textbooks before I move on from here).  I've also picked up a couple of new Wolof phrases.  I think the To Do List will keep me busy for quite a few months, and by late summer I'm hoping that COVID travel restrictions around the world will be lessening, thus giving me the option to move on if I feel the need to by then.  I certainly don't envisage moving back to London within the next year, although it's really too early to know whether or not I will find myself wanting to get back into the world of work.

another form of uncertainty

I've been putting off writing this post for so long.

What I didn't say in my 'certainty returns' post last year was that I was told that my department still had no budget to fund my position, so even though I had been saved from redundancy at that time, there was no possibility of extending my contract beyond its 31 March official end date.  So by the time you read this, I will be unemployed / retired / on a break from work (I have no idea as yet which is the correct term).

Thankfully the amount of day-to-day work I had to do tailed off considerably over my last month in the job, an enormous relief as there was so much for me to think about and organise during that time.  My contract ending meant that I would have to give back/lose my apartment, my laptop, my phone and phone number, my email address, and my medical insurance.  Having quickly concluded that this is not the time to either return to the UK or to put on my rucksack and start exploring SE Asia, I decided to stay on in Senegal - and so needed, before 31 March, to replace all of the above, whilst at the same time organising handover of my work and removal of all of my possessions from the nice, comfortable apartment paid for by my employer.

Medical insurance was easy thanks to advice from other long-term travellers (although a $101 monthly expense that I didn't have previously), and a very good friend helped me acquire a laptop and phone (although I'm already regretting listening to the friend who advised me to switch to an iPhone, which seems vastly more complicated than any of the Samsung Galaxy phones I had through work).  

Other elements were not so easy.  I do now have a local SIM card, and it works - but I have no idea how quickly it is using up the credit I paid in when I set up the account, nor how I add more credit.  I also have a mobile money account - again, with credit in it - but as yet have no idea how to use it.

Organising my stuff was quite difficult and time-consuming.  I had several categories: ship back to London; keep with me in Senegal with a view to eventual travel further afield, therefore to fit into my rucksack (this later reluctantly expanded to rucksack plus suitcase); keep with me in Senegal to use (up) in my new home but not to take on with me afterwards; sell; give away; throw away.  Seeing the price of storage in London (depot space plus obligatory insurance) I was trying to be tough with myself as to what I REALLY wanted to ship home to keep for the long-term, and as the exercise progressed I kept moving things from this 'ship home' category into one of the disposal categories.   It was initially difficult to make the decision to dispose of things that do still have value ... but balancing the cost of storing things versus the cost of replacing them certainly reduced the sentimental aspect.  I also took a good look at those clothes in my wardrobe that haven't been worn for years, and eventually accepted that regardless of their initial cost, I am never again going to need such items as a charcoal grey (designer) city skirt suit, or even those very good quality double-cuff shirts.  In the end it was quite liberating to dispose of so much.

The guard at the entrance to my apartment block was very happy with the flow of gifts (baseball caps, women's clothes which he gave to his sister or kept for himself in the case of larger-sized Tshirts, bandages and other medications, some thirty-odd ballpoint pens I had somehow collected up over the years ... all sorts of stuff), and I was able to sell a few bits and pieces that I advertised online (swimming goggles, an old camera and binoculars, bags, a small number of CDs).  & my new flatmates are happy that I brought a few things with me for general household use (shoe rack, coffee machine, saucepan and frying pan, tea towels, etc) - I'm sure they'll also be happy when I eventually move on and they get my storage canisters, fruit bowl, mug, etc, which I am currently keeping for personal use!

The other big task was to find somewhere to live.  There are a few facebook groups that cover this area, but I had little-to-no free time and in the end viewed only two alternative places.  My choice was influenced in part by price, but more by the personality of the Senegalese lady running the apartment that I chose - a lively, friendly 28-year-old who not only does not want marriage or children (an exceedingly rare choice in this part of the world) but equally importantly who gave directions to the place by reference to the no. 61 bus stop ... the first Senegalese person I have met who can afford taxis but still chooses to use public transport ... my kinda gal!!

I will write more about the new place - and the 180° change in lifestyle from my old life alone in a two-bedroom, two-balcony fully furnished duplex apartment financed by my employer to my new life in what is effectively a student flatshare with four other people and a cat.

the Dakar visual art scene

With all this time stuck in Senegal, unable to travel to other countries, I decided to explore Dakar a little further - and was helped enormously by a city arts festival taking place in many different galleries around the city during December and early January.

The exhibits included both sculptures (like the cormorant above) and paintings, and kept me occupied and impressed for several weeks.  It also opened my eyes to some of the other artwork around the city - that freely available to all as it has been painted on the city's walls.

Such murals are everywhere, with some just pleasing on the eye, others quite clever (this macaw on the right is wearing prayer beads, and the woolly hat which is so common here on older men) - and of course some with political or social comment.

At the same time there was a series of posters appearing all over town, captioned "You are beautiful the way you are", each with a photograph of a person or group of people dressed in a way that doesn't fit the Western world stereotype of what is attractive - other than one on an underground platform labelled 'Europe', with a line-up of waiting commuters of different ethnicities.  Clearly an exhibition with a message.

Looking for further sources I even found a rather nice small stained glass window that seemed to be on the stairwell of a local hotel.

All of this showing how incredibly talented the Senegalese are.  The music from this country is rightly famous (even those not into West African music have mostly heard of Youssou N'dour and Baaba Maal) but the artistic talent really does extend to all the different forms of expression.