Week 6 - Touba

“At the turn of the century, less than half of Senegal's population was Muslim. Today more than 90% of the population embrace Islam.”

At the most recent count, this is now 94%. Currently reading Senegal: An African Nation Between Islam and the West by Sheldon Gellar. It was the only book I was able to source before getting here and published in 1982, it is very much dated in how it looks at Senegal, taking a very Cold-War geopolitical approach of West vs Communism, making constant note of Senegal's rather midway Socialism. Indeed, the style of the analysis is rather pase these days, but still offers a very interesting look at Senegal, and as with most books about the country are written in French, there is limited information available in English, for any era.

From it I have learnt that Thies' (the city in which I live) University was built and initially staffed by Canada, which helps explain the Quebec flags flying at the entrance. Also that by the mid-80's a proposed bridge across the Gambia will be built, which as I found out last week, certainly never happened. It also says that 2/3rds of Christians live in towns, and that seems to have continued today, with most of the Christian population being limited to two tribes, based in Dakar, Thies and Ziguinchor. It also lists the city of Touba as having less than 25,000 population, and as the current 2^nd biggest city in Senegal, with over 1million people, its rapid rise in size and importance is nothing short of amazing. So of course I had to visit the place. Expressly forbidden from doing so by the ICS co-ordinator, for no better reason than it is “full of Muslims and unsafe”, I, along with Georges and one of my host-brothers went along anyway, to brave the Mohammedeen masses and visit not only the biggest mosque in West Africa, but also home to the most important Sufi brotherhood in Senegal. Three hours away by Mouride (the Muslim brotherhood) subsidised bus, it is a fascinating city. On the bus in, the usual hawkers appear at every stop, normally flogging locally grown peanuts, mangoes or water. This time, a guy got on selling booklets on how to be a good Muslim, from the prayers and songs, to how to wash and pray, which I guess means that not all of the residents or visitors in town have long been practising Muslims! Clearly newly built, the city radiates out from its most important building, the grand mosque. Street lights, a frequent, new and punctual city bus service, rubbish bins and relatively clean streets, the city is a million miles away from much of the rest of Senegal, or indeed west Africa. With smoking and drinking forbidden, and only Qu'ranic schools permitted, the city is very much Muslim, but with the Sufi school being very flexible in terms of dress, there is no provision on head scarves etc, outside of mosques.

 (Just what the place needs, more minarets)

The mosque in question is huge, with the current five minarets having two more brothers (sisters?) added. The building itself is nothing special architecturally, with the body of the founder of the Mouride brotherhood lying in state in the centre (and about the only factor marking this as a Sufi, rather than Sunni or Shia mosque). The current subtle and rather tasteful Moroccan tiling which decorates the prayer areas, along with the minarets, and I think the floor, is in the process of being covered in white marble, all the way from Italy. It will have the unfortunate effect of making the whole place look like simply another ostentatious 'nouveaux' mosque in the oil-states mould. The annoying, and unshakeable 'tour-guides' aside, it was nice to visit at least, and the calm was welcome, before braving the chaos of the market. With Touba being run effectively as a semi-automous region, with the head Cheich holding powers over tax, employment, and who the million plus followers vote for in national elections, it really does feel like a different place, and the market highlights this. Mouride traders are (in)famous throughout Senegal and France - where many now reside, selling crap to tourists under the Eiffel Tower – for their ability to sell sand to the Moors, and our twenty minute foray, mainly just to see the place, proved this to be true. Within seconds, we had an entourage, offering to find/sell/buy anything and everything under the sun, some with very good English, and all totally unresponsive to calls to bugger off. Needless to say I didn't buy anything, as the whole experience was unnecessarily stressful – sometimes the bland and thoroughly bored customer service back home is very appealing.

Touba is also famous in Senegal for its titular coffee, with cafe Touba making a nice change from the Nescafe I get for breakfast. With the coffee beans roasted alongside peppercorns, there is a subtle spice to the brew, which, alongside a liberal helping of sugar, makes a really rather nice drink. Served, seemingly exclusively in small plastic cups, it is by now means posh, but for 12p a shot, doesn't break the bank, and with slightly less sugar used than normally, and maybe a touch stronger, the cafe Touba in Touba actually does taste better! (Which is more than can be said for the Chicken Kievs in Kiev)

The bus ride home was hilarious. A deodorant (and toothpaste) seller got on, and sacrificed a can to the bus, so everyone could get a smell, and subsequently apply some as needed. After only selling 2 cans, I can't help but think he needs to change the model. He managed to speak for five minutes about the virtues of the stuff, and Georges and I had fun imagining what he was saying, as it was all in wolof. With all our smiles and giggles, he took it to mean we liked the stuff, and announced in French to the whole bus that “the toubabs (foreigners) like it!” Smiles and laughs all round. Someone got on with two chickens, I was hit in the head by a falling bag, a normal journey really.

I had a much needed haircut tonight, as it was getting a little crazy, although my lack of French really influenced the result, as I am now the proud owner of a totally shaved head, the shortest it has ever been! Sorry mum. What was very strange though, and highlights the still strong animalist religious beliefs that pervade all aspects of life here, was that my hair was collected in a bag and given to me, to avoid other people using it to make charms or spells against myself or the village. First time I have been given my own hair after a hair cut, and at first I assumed it was for the compost or the pigs and made a joke about voodoo, before being given the above answer totally seriously.

Sunday saw me at church, rounding out a very religious weekend. There is a Benedictine monastery about thirty minutes from Thies, famous for its goats cheese, and singing and chanting in the local wolof language. The music really was beautiful, with a traditional harp-like instrument and drum accompanying much of the songs, and the chanting indeed being lovely. Large murals, in a 1960's African style, of key scenes from the bible offered a strangely modern backdrop to twenty men in robes, but I thought they were beautiful, and Richard, your promised postcard (I sent one from Sierra Leone, honest-injun) features one. Alas, the goats cheese is only available after the rainy season is solidly underway, and being over a month late this year, I was out of luck on that front, although I was able to buy some local fruit jam to supplement my chocolate spread on bread breakfast.

Next stop, Lac Rose, the former finish spot for the Paris-Dakar rally, and somewhere solidly on the 'tourist day trip agenda from Dakar', with bus loads of grey haired French people keeping the tourist shops and restaurants which blight the waterfront, unfortunately in business. With the lake being decidedly only pink-ish (it depends on the light apparently), we trooped off to the beach, over huge forested sand dunes, and were greeted with golden, rubbish free and relatively empty beach stretching along the coast. The water was lovely and warm, and the waves big enough to actually body-surf, but my gosh was the undercurrent strong, and even treading water one would be sucked out to sea very quickly. Not a spot for weak swimmers, but immense fun while my energy lasted!

Other random thoughts that have come to me this week:

With the three month summer holiday from school and university being solidly underway, football seems to be the activity of choice for Senegal's males. Organised training, alongside pick-up matches take priority of the school pitch near my house, and it certainly isn't for lack of practice that Senegal is only ranked 62^nd in the world right not!

If anyone remembers the video I uploaded of sand sand and more sand on the journey to Saint Louis, the rainy season has absolutely transformed the country, in the space of two weeks. Grass and clover now cover everywhere, and what had before seemed like useless desert, is now being farmed. I have had to adapt my running route to now avoid people's farms, crazy.

Yet another drive along the motorway, and the endless stalls of mangoes and peanuts, all staffed by the lady of whichever house grew the product, and I can't help but think that a locally organised co-operative system would work wonders for the rural economy. With all the products being exactly the same, and priced the same, it would be easy enough for a rota to be made, and one lady each day to man the stall, thus freeing up huge amounts of female-power to be used in an infinite number of ways (but realistically here, in the home, looking after kids, and cooking and cleaning). The current system is such a waste of labour, it is amazing nothing has been done to change things.

My initial joy at the food here has been tempered somewhat, largely by the dinners at home. A large bowl of carbohydrate (pasta, rice, couscous), with meat on top, and bread on the side, it is remarkably similar to the food in Kazakhstan, thankfully with less oil. Pork is held as an elicit pleasure by the Christians here, talked about in whispered tones. Vegetables are a garnish, and I haven't had one for dinner in a week. As in Kazakhstan, it is such a shame, as vegetables are everywhere, and very tasty, yet carbohydrates offer quick and cheap options, and meat is again held in the highest regard.

Week 5 - Zuiganchor camp

“Just as a blacksmith cannot seize the red hot iron in his naked hand, so the proletariat cannot directly seize the power”

“Let a man, find himself, in distinction from others, on top of two wheels with a chain”

“In comparison with the monarchy and other heirlooms from the cannibals and cave dwellers, democracy is of course a great conquest”

And there we have it, the final quotes from Trotsky!

Last week, I spent the week down in the Casamance region of Senegal. This has been the site of the longest civil war/independence struggle/terrorist insurrection in modern West Africa, although the local Djola tribe fought the French long before it had to fight Dakar. Largely to blame is the economic isolation that this very southern, and cut off region feels from the more developed north. The Gambia, sitting on top like a hat, has greatly contributed to this problem, as goods and people have to travel through the country, and it is a major hindrance, as we discovered. 

The planning for our volunteers to attend the YMCA yearly camp were stressful and convoluted, as most things are here, and involved my writing of a last-minute risk assessment, calls to London, and two afternoons in the office, waiting for updates. All of which was thankfully not in vein, as we did attend, and enjoyed the experience, if not travel there and back. In theory, driving from Thies to Zuguinchor is an eight to ten hour affair, which includes the border crossings into and out of Gambia, as well as the ferry to cross the Gambia River. Needless to say, it took us slightly longer, and having set off early Saturday morning, we didn't arrive at camp until midday on Sunday. Four hours to Kaolack where the other ICS group is, two hours for breakfast and loading up a bigger bus to include volunteers and YMCA members from Dakar, another three hours to the Gambian border, where a bribe was demanded to let the two non-UK passport holders in the ICS programme to continue, another hour to the Gambia River and then...a twelve hour wait for the ferry to depart. Apparently there had been issues with one of the two working ferries, and the line for the boats, parked up in a mangrove swamp certainly suggested people had been there for a while. We didn't get to cross until 1am, at which point, the Senegal border was closed and we had to wait until 6am for it to open. Another five hours to the camp, and our epic journey was over. Thankfully, it took us half this time to get home, but were still unable to do the whole journey in a day.

 (Our home for 12 hours)

With a total of sixteen hours now spent in the Gambia, I consider it 'ticked off the list', with my extended view of its swamps and the title bearing river brining up my countries visited total to forty! What else can I say about the place. It looked exactly the same as Senegal, albeit with English signs instead of French, and the English level was certainly higher, even if French was still the lingua franca, along with the currency of French West Africa. With everyone on both sides of the border being of the same tribe, this lingering colonial influence into the cultures was interesting to see, and highlights just how ridiculous colonial era borders really are (as Iraq clearly shows), and it was nice to be able to apply what I learnt in my MA course to my observations. The roads are also better in Gambia, which was surprising, given its impoverished state, but I certainly wasn't complaining!

(Stormy evening at camp)

Finally in Casamance, and the differences to northern Senegal are instant and vivid. The colour green is overwhelming after the yellow and terracotta I see every day, and the scenery, along with the food and weather was much closer to Sierra Leone than the Senegal I had thus experienced, with the slight drop in temperature most welcome. Given that the area has seen heavy and sustained fighting for the past hundred years, it didn't come as too much of a surprise to see plenty of soldiers, however the heavy weapons they carried (including RPGs), and even a tank, did lead me to question if the current cease-fire was not as secure as is believed. A large number of Red Cross ambulances also plied the roads, further fueled my speculation. 

 (Working in the mangroves)

The purpose of our visit was to attend the YMCA environmental camp, with the main tasks being the 're-rehabilitation' of the mangroves around the village of Toubor, about 10km north of Ziguinchor. Integral to the local ecosystem by providing shelter for fish, shellfish and birds, reducing flooding and absorbing CO2, it is the attractiveness of the trees as firewood that has lead to their slow destruction over the years. Thankfully, money and government support has been leant to their protection and replanting, and this is especially important now that much of Senegal's coastal fish is being stolen.

Our job then, involved digging holes for, and transporting from healthy areas of the mangrove, small trees that will, in a few years, hopefully ensure the healthy expansion of the swamps. This task took three days to complete, and with little to currently show for our efforts, it will be interesting to return in a number of years and see how they have grown. We also transplanted 2,000 mango trees, which will be used to help ensure food security, and the economic prospects of YMCA supported villages in the region.

 (Having spent all morning putting the mango seedlings on top of the bus....off they came)

The work aside, the camp was rather fun, in the liberating sort of way such things can be, and was a new experience for a number of the volunteers. We 'camped' on the floor of the village school, and with wake up at 6am, morning exercises, enforced chores, and plenty of rain, it felt like a camp anywhere! This being the African YMCA, there was a meditation session each morning, but I didn't attend after the first one, after being told that “Christians, Muslims and secular people all agree, God made the world and all the people.” It presented a good opportunity to try to finish Trotsky instead.

 (Daara children, taking a rest)

The city of Ziguinchor was an important trading post for the French, as as such there are a number of large colonial era buildings still present, making a stroll down-town rather interesting. We (Two British volunteers and myself) also managed to escape the massive group for a few hours, and headed out of town to an area of jungle and a crocodile farm! The place was appeared abandoned, with no one else there, and cages and walls falling down, and it had a very Jurassic Park feel to it, yet low and behold, there were still crocodiles, huge and very sedate thankfully, and the surrounding trees yielded mangoes, oranges and grapefruit after a brief scrumping raid. 

(Crocodiles!)

Im not sure what else to say really, the camp provided a good opportunity to meet new people here, as well as catch up with the other ICS group in Kaolack, who by the sounds of things have been having a far harder experience than us. While we have limited work to do, they have done almost nothing, and coupled with a hotter, dirtier and fly infested town in which to live, they seem to have drawn the short straw!

(Sunset over the Gambia river, on our way home)

Week 4

“...the Revolution, now first feeling its power, feeling the unnumbered masses it has aroused, the colossal tasks, the pride in success, the joyful failing of the heart at the thought of the morrow which is to be still more beautiful than today. The revolution still has no ritual, the streets are in smoke, the masses have not yet learned the new songs. The meeting flows without order, without shores, like a river at flood. The Soviet chokes on its own enthusiasm. The revolution is mighty but still naïve.”

“...a class deprived of power inevitably strives to some extent to swerve the governmental course in its favour...The Character of a political structure is directly determined by the relation of the oppressed classes to the ruling class. A single government...is preserved so long as the ruling class succeeds in putting over its economic and political forms upon the whole of society as the only forms possible”

“The feeble and reflected light of the moon makes possible important conclusions about the sunlight”

I have almost finished Trotsky you will be pleased to hear, next week will be the last you have to hear from him!

Another day at the clinic. It is unclear if people come especially to treat burns, or if there really are just such high instances of them, but probably 80% of all the patients I saw presented with various degrees of burns, most often to feet and legs, but also a depressing number to faces. As the photo shows, our supply of materials is woefully inadequate. With last week's brief on-the-job training, I am now trusted to do everything, which is terrifying, as I really have no idea what I am doing. Most cases follow the same basic routine- remove the old bandage, clean the wound and surrounding area with something pink, then apply either the violet liquid for a burn, or the iodine for a different wound or a still bleeding burn, (if the patient is returning for a bandage change after visiting us the week before, then this stage is replaced by applying a 'burn cream'), then its simply a case of covering the wound with a compress, and then bandaging it up. Job done. Infection hopefully avoided, but that is about it. All of this done at a cost to the patient of 20-40p, which is apparently the cost of the materials. All of the wages at the clinic, and indeed the clinic itself is a Catholic concern. The work is exhausting, with the smells, heat and cries making it a tough place to work, but it certainly feels rewarding, and I am certainly learning to be less squeamish around blood and puss. There were so many patients this week that we stayed an hour longer than normal, and lost an hour of our daily three hour lunch break! Zoot alores! There is another 'foreigner' working here, a student nurse from Quebec, on a seven week placement to learn on the job skills. Rather than nursing though, she is given the role of doctor, diagnosing and prescribing to the patients. She has to deal with the place every day, so I feel for her, but it is certainly good preparation for a life in medicine. Her English is also rather terrible (there are locals here with better English), which is just crazy, coming as she does from North America. There is a rather strong (financial) presence from Quebec here, with a major solar-panel company, and the Thies University both bearing the Quebec flag, in what I can only assume in gratitude for support. 

Today, our work felt fully like a token measure to keep us busy. Which is not to say it wasn't without merit or purpose, but it was significantly detached from our youth and health focus, revolving as it did around agriculture. We were assisting a local NGO- GRIM – in its programme to grow fruit trees. This involved weeding and counting thousands of seedlings. It was great to get out and see more of the farms surrounding Thies, and my tan certainly benefited, but, as to the overall purpose of it all, I am unsure.

We visited another Daara this afternoon, again to check on the results of the health sensitisation programme. I have grave issues with the value of the programme, as lecturing these kids on the benefits of cleanliness is pointless when one looks at the boys and sees how filthy they are. They are clearly not being given access to water and soap, and when asked if we could introduce and supervise collective washing, was told by the 'teacher' that this was impossible and unnecessary. We will continue to try, but one cant help but feel frustrated and impotent. It is these illiterate and uneducated children that will be the strain - and drain - on Senegalese society once they have left these schools, and the associated unemployment, health and crime issues will all be far more expensive and difficult to deal with. But they all seemed happier than the last group, and the compound was a slight improvement, it contained a mango and lime tree, so no scurvy at least. For mine (and therefore you sake), they also allowed us to take photos, so here are a few. I only had my phone on me, so apologies for that. 

The one day we visit a daara and are allowed to take photos, and i leave my camera at home- typical. These were taken on my phone.

 (Yes, the marks around her face is a tattoo, unique to her Paular (?) tribe.)

Week 3

“Those who loose by a revolution are rarely inclined to call it by its real name...The privileged classes of every age, as also their lackeys, have always tried to declare the revolution which overthrew them in contrast to past revolutions, a mutiny, a riot a revolt of the rabble. Classes which have outlived themselves are not distinguished by originality”

I am still reading Trotsky I am afraid, so you will have to put up with these kinda quotes for a little longer!

As mentioned last week, the challenge so far this week has been to find enough to do. The work load of the previous group of volunteers was decidedly low, and being the stubborn person that I am, I will not settle for this again! So as a group we have been identifying possible partners to work with. I met with PLAN today, and will have a meeting with the local Peace Corps office this week, to see if there is anything we can help with. Our current scheduled tasks – Teaching English and working at the clinic, only take up two mornings a week, and while there are other YMCA tasks (apparently), they are not regular. With the Y-Care/YMCA mandate aimed squarely at youth, and with the number of kids here, it shouldn't prove difficult to find meaningful and important work.

I spent four hours cleaning and bandaging wounds at the clinic on Monday, for which I have absolutely no training or prior experience. So many of the patients - who only have to pay for the material costs - presented with burn injuries, including a worrying number of children who had managed to pour scalding water over themselves. Against the especially dark skin of most Senegalese, the scars will show for the rest of their lives, and at least two young girls today will now have visible marks on their faces. With no pain relief other than ether to dab on the wound, the silence and lack of crying from most of the patients was amazing. I will be working here once a week from now on, so hope to get some pictures – full scrubs and blood everywhere.

Tuesday's much heralded 'Eid Feast' with family was rather an anti-climax, being as it was rather closer to just a normal lunch. It was still nice to visit a different village and explore more of the area, including the discovery of a clearly European funded Baobab factory. The locally grown fruit is made into a drink that is actually rather nice, although the half tonne of sugar added rather negates the health benefits of the fruit- very high in calcium and vitamin C apparently. I managed to see a farm collective as well, with enough cabbage and chilli peppers being grown to be sold in the local market. It is indeed possible to make the desert green, although the piles of plastic rubbish were not confidence inspiring. 

 (Village life)

This evening I was home early enough to go for an exploratory walk around my neighborhood. From the highway to my compound is a five minute walk, passing a mosque, school, nursery school and the rest rather build up with houses. However, beyond mine, the houses peter out into the desert, with lots of partially built shells of houses – it is unclear if they are abandoned or just waiting for further funds – but little sign of habitation, apart from all of the rubbish of course. Passing the small Muslim cemetery, next to the slightly grander Christian one, and was asked the pretty standard question of what religion I am. I usually get a bemused but non-questioning shrug when I answer Buddhist (I am not one, but feels more natural and closer to my outlook on life than Christian), but this time was surprised by “why are you not a Muslim?” I didn't really have an answer, and my rather meak “Because I am from England”, was hardly an explanation, especially given my equally non-traditionally British religion of Buddhism.

It is the summer holiday here, and with nothing in the way of parks or amusements, and most families in my neighbourhood being too poor to have a Playstation, the sandy streets and alleyways are full of children. I have witnessed two group games that are rather baffling, and don't have an equivalent in England. The first one involves a group of kids taking off their sandles, put them on their hands, and then race to a set point, all the while hitting each other with the said sandles. The other follows the basic idea of dodgeball, with a large group of children having to avoid being hit with a tennis ball. But there are no teams, once hit you are not out, but rather continue throwing the ball at someone else. Both struck me as a possible metaphor for Senegal, namely that everyone runs around a lot, and gets hit along the way, yet there is no aim to the tasks, and therefore no clear winners. It needs some polishing, but the basics are there. 

(Sunset near my house)

So many people in the family, but one is a cute three year old girl called Khady. She is incredibly energetic and inquisitive, both attributes that are exhausting for the adults, but not at all negative in my opinion. She has explored my room, knocked most things over and had great fun doing so (and I now lock my room when im not in, as I don't want her breaking anything), and I have no problem with this. However it really pains me how much she is smacked due to her actions. I am far more used to hearing her crying than laughing, and it is all so unnecessary. Granted, I don't have my own children, but have four years of teaching experience, which must count for something and it strikes me that smacking is just the sign of lazy parenting. Its only legacy being that children grow up believing that violence is a suitable and adult response to situations that don't like, which is clearly untrue. Taking the time to explain and demonstrate correct behaviour, while of course more effort, is far more beneficial in the long run, and even with the language barrier, I do my best to encourage positive changes rather than berate her behaviour. 

 (Cows, boats and the sea)

We managed to get away for the first time last weekend, with a overnight trip to Saint Louis. This is the former capital of all of French West Africa, and has retained its clear French roots. The buildings, much like for the British in Calcutta, are crumblings relics and reminders of the colonial past, yet they have a charm and elegance that is lacking in the modern concrete cubes that the developing world has chosen to adopt (for far more practical reasons that architectural merit I admit). The main French area sits on a island in the mouth of the Senegal River, which forms the border between decidedly African Senegal, and far more Arab Mauritania to the north. Indeed, as it was only a few km away, there was a strong Mauritanian presence, especially in shop ownership, and they are easy to spot, not just by the dark olive skin tones, but the distinctive clothing (it looks rather like a giant pillowcase with arm and head holes cut out. As with Sierra Leone, it is a foreign merchant class that is in charge of commercial business, although im not sure here if this is organic or a colonial legacy as in Sierra Leone. 

 (Saint Louis, where coastal Africa meets colonial France)

The four hour drive from Thies to Saint Louis was, frankly exhausting, in the way only a journey in the developing world can be. We arrived at 7am, as agreed with the bus driver, and indeed, our reserved eight seats at the front were there and waiting. Yet we didn't leave until 9am, as it took us this long to fill the remaining seven seats. There being no clear timetable, or departure times, it is just pot luck as to when you might leave (it took us a comparable time to find transport home again as well). About twenty minutes out of town, at one of the innumerable police checkpoints we had to stop at, it transpired that our driver was missing a document of some kind, for which he was forced to jump on a passing motorbike and head back to pick. Thirty minutes later, and rather later than our expected 7am departure, we were off again, and made it to our lovely guest-house for about 2pm, exhausted and dirty. The whole experience was enough to dampen desires to travel far within the country, and it provided a good example of the importance that reliable and frequent transport to the health of a country. Most of the volunteers here have not travelled so far north before, as the cost and stress are not deemed worth it.

 (The last dock crane)