Saint Louis

Last weekend, I took a 7-hr trip to a city on the northwestern coast called Saint Louis. It's the former capital of Senegal, dating back to colonial times.

Me and a friend of mine, Lamine, left home at5pm Friday at started our trip at a place where people gather to get rides to other parts of the country. They call it the "gare" but it's nothing like a train station. It's just a bunch of people, cars and chaos, and thank God I had Lamine, cuz I would have never found my way around otherwise. People who want to make some money just drive their cars over, wait until they have enough passengers, and then take off to whatever destination. So there are people there looking to get rides, people looking to give rides, and people who want to sell things to those who are waiting - everything from biscuits to eggs to noisemakers! We rode a minibus with about 15 people (the pic is from my view in the back), for a distance of 270 km (yes, 270 km took 7 hours - hello traffic!) for the equivalent of $5 each - which would have been a wicked deal, only, they shoved an extra person in the back with us, so litterally, you were stuck to your seat and to the people on either side of you for the whole trip. My butt was sweating just sitting there. When someone needs to pee, he just calls out to the driver, who pulls over on the side of the road for two minutes. And everytime you stop, villagers on the street stick something in your face that they want you to buy. (Since the traffic is so bad, there is a whole business in just selling to people travelling along the main route from Dakar to Thies (on the way to St. Louis). Mangos are quite popular, but there are other things too). Although, everywhere in Senegal, it is comon to sell things to people through car windows. Merchants will run alongside the slow-moving car, until the transaction is over, then the car drives on, and the merchant gets a rest.

Anyways, so we arrived at St. Louis at midnight! Luckily a nice room and meal awaited me at Lamine's aunt's house, where I stayed for the weekend.

St. Louis is nice. Less western/cosmopolitan than Dakar, even more Senegalese. The beach is really nice and the architecture is colonial style. Anyways, here are some pics (Lamine along the water, the market, and where they dry the fishes):

Malicounda Pics

Here are pics from my visit to Malicounda for the commemoration of the day 10 years ago that 35 village women announced they were abandoning female genital mutilation...

And the article is at: http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=73680

This is the woman I quote in the article, who said she had conducted female circumcision on about 500 girls in her lifetime, but she gave it up after learning the health risks... Funny thing about this woman - she's a traditional villager: only speaks Wolof, 60 years old, wears booboos, etc. But she carries around a cell phone! (Only when it rings, she lifts up her shirt to find it in her waste bag and doesn't even notice that she's exposing her breasts in the process.) Quite a few older, bigger women don't wear bras here, and their tops are very loose... I'll leave it at that.

To the right is a picture of the main square where all the commemmorative speeches were taking place. All the villagers sat under tents on the outside, and all the media on the inside. Below left are some of the signs they created for the event, which read "Malicounda Bambara village symbole dans le processus d'abandon de l'excision."

And of course, no party would be would be Senegalese without some dancing and singing, so that explains the last picture.

Malicounda Bambara

Jeez... sorry for the delay!

My first out-of-town trip for work was... to say the least... interesting. It was the 10-year-commemoration of the first public declaration from village women in Senegal that they were abandonning female gential mutilation. From the get-go the set-up was unusual from a Canadian perspective. UNICEF, which organized the event we were reporting on, also organized a bus for all the press (about 30 Senegalese print, radio and TV reporters - and me!), fed us the whole weekend, and gave us cash for our hotel... Can you say conflict of interest? (yes, still.searching, i agree that media realities in Africa might be different - perhaps the media can't afford to cover things any other way - but one Senegalese journalist said her media organization never accepts money, so maybe things aren't so different after all. And certainly UNICEF wanted to make it easy for the journalists and get them onside the cause). In any case, the whole thing was disorganized. The bus didn't leave on time, of course. There was no air conditioning, and it was SO HOT. Seriously, I don't think I've ever lived a day where I was continuously sweating like this day.

We stopped first in this town called Thies, about 3 hours (actually 45 minutes, but with traffic 3 hours) east of Dakar. There, a bunch of delegates from different countries met to discuss strategies in the fight against female genital mutilation. The sound was horrible. I had no idea who the various speakers were. Parts were in a language I didn't understand. Overall, it was rather useless. When it was over, the MC asked if the media had questions. No one said a thing. Then, when the group dispersed, it was like a free-for-all, with all the journalists going after different people to interview. I kinda stood there, lost in the crowd, not knowing who to talk to or what information I wanted. It was a challenge to say the least.

Before I had the chance to do even two interviews, the bus swept us away to take us to a hotel in the neighbouring tourist town called Syla. I tried comparing notes with some of the other journalists, but most didn't get that much out of it either. At least they helped me with the spelling of some of the names, which were totally foreign to me. Funny, in Canada, when you quote somebody, you always have to ask them to spell out their name, so that you get it right. Here, if they hear a name, they know how to spell it - I guess because all the names are spelled the same way.

So, on this very "informative" trip, we wasted the night away waiting for the bus at the hotel, which was to take us to dinner and a cultural night. The bus was so late, that after dinner, it was midnight, and we cancelled the culturnal night and went back to the hotel. So in a whole day of travel, we got barely any information.

The only useful part was when Marie (a local journalist I met on the bus) and I went off into the village to try to find out if despite the big hoopla about abandoning the practice, FGM was still going on. We found a village elder who said exactly that. She spoke in Wolof. I didn't understand a thing. Marie would translate after every answer. She said that just a week ago, a girl had been circumcised in the village. But of course, she had no proof.

The next day was the big ceremony in the nearby village of Malicounda Bambara - complete with a marching band, posters, music, dancing. There were thousands of people there gathered around this square, with speeches etc. It was such a difficult day, because almost all the speeches were in Wolof. I had no idea what was being said. Talking to people without a local journalist by my side was near impossible, because most of the villagers didn't speak French. I felt totally handicapped. And even when you do have someone translating for you, the answers are never as good. You can't get the real emotion, or for that matter, more than a yes or no answer in a lot of cases. On top of that, there were so many different people present and different avenues you could take with the article, so it was pretty overwhelming.

At the end of it all, I came home with more confusion than anything, a whole bunch of notes without anything too useful, a headache and a tan from being in the gruelling sun. And of course, a bunch of new friends !

(A note on the friends. When you make friends with a Senegalese person, they expect a lot out of you. You're supposed to call them everyday to say hello, how you doing... When you slack off in the communication, they get offended (somewhat like my friends in Canada!). They could easily text/call you 2-3 day in the course of the day, without anything meaningful to say!)

Anyways, that's my report on my trip to Malicounda Bambara... the town where 35 women made history in Senegal. My article will explain the story... I'll post that with pictures soon....

But basically, it opened my eyes to the difficulties of reporting in a foreign place. And this wasn't even a conflict zone. Imagine if you had to deal with a language you don't know, names you don't recognize, an environment you don't understand, and bullets flying over your head ! It's a whole other world - and one that requires a lot of patience and dogged hard work. I wonder if I'll ever find myself there !

The Senegalese Press Conference

For those of you not in the media world, let me give you some context about an average Canadian press conference. You walk in; one, two, maybe three people read short statements; they take some questions; and it's all over in 30 minutes.

My first Senegalese press conference lasted 6 hours. I kid you not. It was supposed to be a "briefing" about an event coming up this weekend. (Commemoration of the day 10 years ago when 35 village women declared they were abandonning female genital mutilation - Today, about half of Senegal's 5000 villages have abandoned the practice.) Instead, it was like a day-long conference - with tons of local journalists, about 10 different people speaking, powerpoint presentations, microphones at each seat, the whole works. Each person in the room introduced themselves (including all the journalists)... it was like a nice family reunion. The organizers even gave us money for our transportation costs - straight cash in my hand. (In Canada, media organizations bear any costs they incurr themselves). This weekend, I'm travelling to a village about 2 hours from Dakar to go to this event, and UNICEF is organizing a bus for all the journalists to go together... and giving you money for your hotel... it's crazy !

Anyways, half the press conference was in French. The other half in Wolof, and I had someone sitting beside me whispering in my ear what was going on. Afterwards, I did an interview through a translator with a woman who used to remove the genitalia of young girls (the most severe form of FGM is when you remove all the clitoris and the labia and then sow the vagina up, leaving only a small hole the size of a matchstick for urine to come out - sorry for the graphic details, but just so you get the idea) This woman said she probably did 500 procedures - but has now given it up because she's learned about the health risks involved (can lead to hemorrhage, HIV/AIDS, problems during child birth, even death sometimes, not to mention psychological problems, sexual dysfunction, etc). Should be an interesting weekend in any event.

So by the end of this day, I was pretty exhausted and hungry. Went home looking for something to snack on until dinner (which isn't til 9:30pm) ... A bag of chips would have been amazing. Went to two or three corner shops who had no idea what "croustilles" were... Finally, somebody handed me what looked like a bag of corn pops, but I only had a bill of 2000 CFA (about $4), and it costs 50 CFA (10 cents)... Since nobody in Senegal has change, needless to say, I didn't get the "chips". So instead I bought a hamburger, and the guy who sold it to me asked me if I was married... and I wanted to swear at him. ... That's when I knew I needed some downtime.

Sometimes, nothing bothers you. Then other times, everything does. And not being able to find a bag of chips will push you over the edge. So it's just a matter of noticing when you're near your breaking point, and retiring to a quiet place to regroup. That's my strategy anyway.

The Downpour

The first big rainfall of the rainy season came today. The thunder was so strong it woke me up in the morning, and lightning at 8 a.m. - can you imagine? And I heard lots of sirens too...

A surprising number of people used umbrellas on the street, some wore shower caps or tied platic bags around their heads. Others used a towel or a newspaper to keep their heads dry. But most just used nothing at all, and walked around as normal.

The traffic calmed down. It was the first time I saw drivers in Dakar going at a reasonable pace and slowing for oncoming traffic. The bus had to take a detour because of flooded roads - it would go up one way, realize it couldn't get through, turn around and try a different route. I don't know what happens to the people on the original route waiting for the bus, but we picked up more people along the new route! (The bus driver of course, wipes his windshield with his hand in order to see)

Anyways, so the detour caused me to have no idea where we were (I only know specific routes and landmarks) so of course I missed my stop, had to get off the bus and walk for a good 20 minutes in the rain. Once I got close to the office - the whole street was flooded... literally, there was nowhere to go. The guy before me used some cement blocks that were in the midst of the puddles, in order to make it across... I got up onto one of them, stood there for about two minutes, and realized there was no way I would be able to hop from one to the other without falling off the blocks and into the water. So I chose to walk through the water instead. I awkwardly climbed down off the block, and wadded through the water, only to realize that a group of little boys who were watching me go through this whole process were getting a good laugh out of it !

Anyways, I'm glad I invested in the $100 MEC rain jacket... !

The Universal Touch

First of all, who is still.searching? I read your comments, but I don't know who you are !

So get this.
Friday night, I was standing in a sand pit watching black men in underwear roll around in the sand wrestling. Saturday, I was sitting in a luxurious garden in a Canadian guy's villa, eating bre and gouda cheese, amongst reporters/photographers from Reuters, New York Times, etc. You can have it all here, there are so many different sides to this city. It's a little destabilizing actually - because you start wondering who you want to be, and where you fit. So as I was debating these philosophical questions (having a bit of an identity crisis actually), I walked by some 7-year-old boys playing soccer on the street. I asked one of them what his name was, he said "Ronaldino" and that was it... in my flip flops and with my purse on my shoulder, i ran around with the kids, and felt great ! It's amazing what a bit of soccer can do for the soul.... No more questions of identity - i know where I belong, whether in Africa or Canada - on the soccer field !

Speaking of soccer, one of the guys from the house took me for some real soccer at the college next to where we live... and intsead of being the only white person, I was the only girl (Not so different from Canada)... and surprsingly quickly the guys got past that, and I was in there getting dirty and sweaty like the rest of them. A few notes on the soccer... the Senegalese play soccer in sand of course, with dust flying everywhere... and they play in sandals - literally plastic beach sandals... they run in them, they play in them. It's like the footwear of choice here, it's so funny ! Sometimes they have a real ball, other times it's a flat tiny thing that barely rolls... sometimes they use boulders of cement they find on the street as nets, and draw a line in the sand... anyways, it's incredible how little you need to play the game... the universal game of soccer....

A few other observations about universality... (I'm trying to make a smooth transition, but it's a bit of a stretch I know)
I remember thinking long ago how Africans have so little, but they're so much happier than we are in North America. I had this idea that in traditional societies, people have a better sense of what's important in life - they value family and togetherness, they're less concerned about money and success - and are just generally happier people.
But I think that's a bit naive. At one of the drumming ceremonies I was at, I spent some time just looking around, watching the people. There were boys bullying other boys. There were the loner kids sitting alone in the corner with no friends. There were 12-year-old girls wearing miniskirts and holter tops. There's materialism here, just like anywhere else. I guess certain aspects of human nature are simply universal.

Anyways, those are just some thoughts for the moment.
More to follow I'm sure.

Atouman's World

Hey everyone - first I'll update you on the good news, because apparently some of you are unnecessarily worried about me! Both my luggages have now arrived - the second one had been sent to Beirut if you can imagine, and was brought back by Air Italia - crazy ! And I am not malnourished! The food situation has stabilized, and I'm getting more than enough so don't worry...

Ok, onto the post:

Until recently, I had been a little disapointed that I wasn't getting as much access/exposure to Senegalese culture as I expected (and certainly not as much as when I was in Spain, where I was constantly running into interesting people and things). I attribute that largely to the fact that I don't have as much time (since I work five days a week) and I didn't know the right people....

Enter Atouman.

Atouman Gueye, 22 years old, djembe player. He lives next door to the hairdresser where I got my hair braided. He hangs around there a lot and the girls who work there know him well, so that's how I got to know him. Anyways, since then, he has introduced me to a whole new world.(Here's Ndieme on the left, who did my braids, and at the beach, Atouman and Maud (a French intern at work)

So last weekend, Atouman took me to a ceremony - well really a huge neighbhourhood party - where the young girls of the neighbourhood get dressed up in matching green sparkly dresses, do their hair and so on, and organize this big party. Chairs are set up in a huge rectangle right on the street, big speakers play music, lights are shining, etc. Then around 11pm, the WHOLE neighbourhood piles onto the street, crowding around this rectangle - it must have been like 500 people. I of course, was the only white person there. (Can you find Waldo in the picture?)

Atouman is part of a group of drummers who perform at ceremonies like these ones (this was just a fun party to celebrate summer time, but others, for example, celebrate the confirmation that a woman is a virgin after her first night with ther husband). Musicians are highly respected in Senegalese culture, going back I think to when there were (there still are to a large extent) social classes. Musicians/drummers/dancers/performers are part of the Grillo class I think. Anyways, Atouman's group wasn't performing that night, but another group asked him to play. It was about 8 guys, playing Sabars, which are like Djembes, only you play them with one hand, and the other using a little stick.

So the drummers drum for hours - and I'm talking serious drumming - to the point that sweat is just flowing from their faces. And then the girls - the dressed up ones as well as others from the neighbourhood, and some older women too - come up to the drummers, do a quick dance and run back to their seats. Their dancing is like nothing you've ever seen, and fascinating to watch. Their hands wave around and their legs are spread wide - it's almost like a gorilla jumping around, but faster and very intense! Often the dancer will match herself to the drumming, adding a little shake of the bum as a finale.

Then came the chanting and singing, because the drummers only get money by having women drop bills into their hands, so they chant to the women .... including me... All of a sudden I hear the word 'Toubab' which means foreigner... And they started chanting in Wolof/French 'Hey foreigner, give us money!' ... everyone was singing and looking at me and it was so funny !

So this was an incredible experience for me...

The next time I hung out with Atouman, he took me to meet his father's wife's family (not his own mother, but they are still close). Off the street, there are a number of clay buildings and alleywalls. When you go down those alleyways, little curtains in doorways lead directly into people's bedrooms. It's crazy. Imagine having your bedroom lead right onto the street! Anyways, so in one of these bedrooms, there were like 15 people crowded into the room watching a TV report about the big wrestling match over the weekend. Wrestling - or 'la lutte' - is the national sport in Senegal and a huge deal. This weekend was an important match, and featured our very own Gris-Bordeaux (from my neighbourhood of Dakar: Fass) against a big hot shot, Bombardier, from elsewhere in Senegal. So everyone was very excited. (Gris-Bordeaux won, but I think he just got lucky)... Anyways, as we're watching, people jump in from the alleyway to grap a peak, and everyone knows each other of course.

At one point, a girl handed me a plastic sack with some liquid inside and a knot at the top keeping it from leaking. I didn't know what she wanted me to do with it. It turned out it was some kind of food - like couscous in a sweet milky liquid - and she wanted me to try it. I had no idea how I was supposed to consume it. Atouman poked a whole in the bag, put it to his mouth and just sucked on it. I of course had to do the same, and then pass it around. Tasted pretty good, I guess!

Anywyas, so Atouman seems to be my key into a whole other world. He's determined he's going to teach me how to dance, drum and speak Wolof. A little too ambitious if you ask me, but we'll see...