Korite yi neexoon nañu de - and that's plural!

Korite is old news here. It's been more than a week since the festival, which - to the great embarrassement of some Senegalese, the great joy of others - happened twice. (see my last entry for explanation) The boubous that were bought at outrageous expense have been put away for the next wedding or baptism. (The next big festival on the Islamic calendar, Tabaski, is not an acceptable occasion to re-wear Korite boubous. Even more extravagant garmants must be purchased. I cannot imagine how impoverished families survive this celebratory double whammy.) Nonetheless, I'm only just posting my version of events. Last week passed in a mad haze thanks to an Islam paper, a Gender presentation, and a French test, (which turned out to be only 'entre parentheses') all compounded by my overactive sense of procrastination. Next we took a quick holiday to the Sine-Saloum region and today, finally, I have a free hour to write a post.

(Brittany and I in the courtyard of her extended family's luxurious home)
The morning of Korite, eager to don my first Senegalese garment, I awoke early and walked to the house of Jenise's family in Mermoz. I was hoping to make it in time to go to mosque with the men, and was expecting the whole house to be bustling with preparation. However, I arrived to find only Jenise's older brother Iddie in full outfit; the rest of the house was fast asleep. Despite the last night's promise, I was quickly informed that it would be too akward for me to come to the mosque. I've found this sort of apparently sudden change of heart pretty standard in Senegal, so I walked home relatively unphased. I watched the sandy square behind the mosque fill up with prayer mats, and men in their starched white sabadoors, and still made it home in time to eat a little breakfast.

I was planning to spend the first part of day with Brittany, another friend's, extended family in Jebel, so I arrived at her door at the stroke of ten, decked out in sabadoor, hat, and baboushes (Moroccan slippers). I thought I struck quite a figure, but Brittany quickly cut me down to size. She was under strict instructions from her family not to arrive in bouboued splendor. Instead, we were to bring our finest garments in a plastic sack. Though it bamboozled me, in Senegal it seems to make obvious sense: the clothes that cost most families several arms and legs are of course not worn proudly all day long. Instead, you sit around all day until 6:30, the last half hour of sunlight. Then you don your finery and parade around for a brief few hours, before abandoning the boubou to the next minor celebration. (it's incomplete, but see my flickr photos)
(Me and the nearly suicidally over-active children of my Mouride neighbors during Korite #2)

Baal ma aqq

In other Dakar news, Korite, the festival at the end of Ramadan, is coming up on either Thursday or Friday. Apparently the date of this important celebration is fixed in most of the Muslim world, but here, as in so many other cases, Senegal does things a little differently. Each night this week, the 'grand marabout' (head boss) of each Muslim brotherhood will be fixedly watching the moon, trying to discern the exact moment when it is covered entirely by shadow. When this occurs, however late at night, Korite will be declared for the next day. This might appear potentially confusing, as the celebrations are supposed to begin at 6 am in the morning. To make matters worse, the 'grands marabouts' are likely to choose different days, in order to assert their authority over one another. However, like so much in Senegal that at first appears competely unreasonable, things will certainly work themselves out in the end.

You might expect a festival at the end of 30 days of fasting to be loud, colourful, and raucous, as are many such celebrations the world over. However, in classic Senegalese style, Korite is again, a little different. This Thursday/Friday, there will be no fireworks, no bands, and no grand parades. Instead, the day's main activites will consist of: (1) stuffing ourselves continually from dawn until dusk (actually the exact inverse of the current routine during Ramadan) and (2) going to visit all of our neighbors, dressed up in the finest boubous we can possibly (or quite possibly cannot) afford.

(Sunset over roofs near Suffolk University)
But to get away from this friendly mockery, there is a sincere aspect of the festival which I truly admire. When neighbors meet on Korite, they traditionally greet each other by asking pardon for the all the unrealized wrongs they have done one another. In this way, the small slights and annoyances that have built up over the year; the bickering, gossiping, and akward silences that inevitably separate neighbors; all are forgiven and forgotten, and everyone starts with a clean slate. The traditional greeting between neighbors might go something like this:

Dewenti. Baal ma aqq.
(Happy new year. Forgive me my wrongs.)

Baal naa la. Baal ma aqq.
(I have forgiven you. Fogive me my wrongs.)

Baal naa la.
(I have forgiven you.)

[together] Yalla nanu yalla bole baal.
(May God forgive us together.)

Jexugu toubab bu tey

Here's the toubab joke of the day, though we've actually been chuckling about it for some time now. To the addled toubab mind, the innocent name of this Mermoz preschool becomes an inscription both morbid and foreboding. It's a bit mean-spirited, but it was humour like this that got us through some of the rougher initial encounters with Senegalese, and developing nation, culture. I was thrilled when I realized one day that I actually understood the title: Sunu+y = ours(plural); doom = child.

There's another nursery school, with an even more inexplicable name, just down the Route d'Ouakam: Le prescolaire Lady Oprah Winfrey. It's front wall is jovially decourated with a bright mural, showing children from around the world dancing and playing together. All of these schools actually seem rather sweet.