Tënjjkat yi

'The mourners.' (continued from the last entry)

No time was wasted the morning of Jean's death. The men of the house, being Jean's son Christian and Ernestine's brother Denis, moved straight into action as if the routine had been built into their bodies beforehand. After only a few moments of weeping, doors where propped open, the furniture hefted over to the neighbors', and plastic chairs rented out from across Mermoz. I tagged along, occasionally trying to ask how I could help.

In a matter of no time people were flowing into the house. At first I thought that as a member of the family, my presence was needed by my mother and grandmother. But with the entrance of each of Jean's or Ernestine's relatives or friends, I felt more and more estranged from the family.

I think now I better understand the limitations of fitting into a family in this culture. At the time of Jean's death, I'd lived in the Kayounga household for 4 months. I'd helped out with household chores and been helped a whole lot more with my own. I'd chatted and joked with Ernestine and Meme over lunches and dinners. I'd sought consel, been scolded, and given advice. I'd known Jean better than many in the last few months of his life. But when it came down to it, I wasn't flesh and blood. And there's no getting past that.

I was confused by the cultural rules and traditions governing the events after Jean's death and frustrated by the distance between me and the women of the house. While before I'd constantly chatted with Ernestine or Meme, now I could only offer hushed and formal greetings amongst a sea of guests. My presence in the house felt almost like an affront to the family. I was an obvious stranger surrounded by the hushed and disapproving mourners. I could not possibly explain what the heck I was doing amongst the family.

But let me get away from these gloomy meditations and explain what actually goes on in a modern day Senegalese-Catholic-Cap Verdian-Mankagne funeral. Beginning with Ernestine's simblings and friends from Dakar and ending with Jean's entire extended family from Casamance and numerous dignitaries from various stages of his life, the house filled to the brim with guests, and then overflowed.

I never thought I'd end up citing my Senegalese Society and Culture course, but a passage from Mariama Ba's "Une si longue lettre" stuck in my mind in the first days after Jean's death. After the death of her husband, Ba describes the friends and relatives who come to pay him respects once dead - and coincidentally, to drink and feast - guests who had never once visited him while sick. Ernestine had told me the story of how Jean's friends had abandoned him once he could no longer leave the house, and I could only bite my lip as those who'd never visited during my stay in the household now came to occupy it.

(more to come when I have the time.)

Sama papa wu Senegal dafa gaanu

'My Senegalese father has died.' I knew my host father, Jean Kayounga, as the first person I greeted while easing shut the front door in the evening; him sitting in his plastic chair behind the dining table. "Bon-jour... Ça-va?" He spoke in plodding 2-syllable phrases, heavy with breath. I'd quickly shake his hand, correct the same grammar mistakes he'd make every night, and then move on to greet the rest of the family. I also remember him eating dinner across the table; lifting the spoon slowly as he tilted his head down to meet it; spilling varying amounts of his food onto the table, himself, and the floor; always eating a large second helping.

At first, the only explanation for Jean was that he was 'malade' but now I know more of the story. Jean had been seriously debilitated since he fell and hit his head in the shower more than twenty years ago. At the time he had been married to my host mother, Ernestine Kayounga, for only a year. Over the years, a combination Western medecine and Catholic prayers healed Jean to varying degrees, and apparently even allowed him to go back to work as a lycée teacher for a time. However for as long as I knew him, Jean walked stiffly by shuffling his right foot along, sat in his chair, and spoke only a few broken French phrases - though sometimes, in the midst of a conversation he would surprisingly grasp what was being said in French, Wolof, or his native Mankagne.

(My two families. From top left: my father Derek, my mum Judith, suma nijaay (uncle) Denis, suma yaay (mother) Ernestine, suma papa Jean, suma maam (grandmother) Meme (Marie), sama rakk (older sibling) Christian, and me. I'm sorry for blocking out Jean with my head.)

I didn't know how to feel about Jean, perhaps because I didn't know where I fit into the family. On occasions I deeply pitied him, and mulled over what I could possibly do to help. However to be honest, I was more often frustrated by the burden (physical, moral, and financial) he imposed on the family and the everyday annoyances he caused me: blocking the bathroom for an hour each morning, spilling and dirtying things around the house, shuffling into my room at 7 am to watch the sleeping figure of my host brother and his only child, Christian.

The morning of Jean's death, when I was woken up by the shrieks of Ernestine and Meme, my grandmother, the first thing I felt was relief. Ernestine would no longer pull double duty watching Jean and working full time, from 5 in the morning until 10 at night. Meme would no longer pace across Dakar looking for the next expensive perscription. The people of the house would finally have time for themselves.

But the grieving process here is intense, to say the very least.

Waay fate naa juli bi!

'But I forgot about the festival!' In all my eagerness to get down the gritty details of Tabaski and to convey some of the amusement that Senegal provides on a regular basis, I completely forgot to explain what the hell this festival is actually about. I'm getting that out of the way here and now, hopefully in not too many paragraphs.

Tabaski is a huge festival throughout the Muslim world, though I've heard that outside West Africa it is preferably called simply Eid Kabir, 'The Big Feast.' It stems from (and forgive me my complete theological ignorance) when that one famous guy (Ibrahim in Islam) in the Koran/Bible/Tora was told by God to sacrifice his son. However, just as he was getting down to do the dirty business, God pulled a little switcheroo with a sheep. I believe that Christians and Muslims disagree on the name of the son in question, but its basically the same story.

Perhaps because this story emphasizes the necessity of absolute and unquestioning obedience to God - and the word Islam means 'submission to God' - the whole Muslim world prays long at the mosque and then kills off quite a significant number of sheep to recognize the anniversary of this event. (Though in a classicly Senegalese turn of events, not every country agrees on on which day this anniversary actually falls. Apparantly it all depends on the moon.)

Tabaski morning, before any of the slaughtering began, I watched just about every man in my neighborhood - and quite a few older women - stride to the mosque in their newly-purchased finery. Prayer mats were laid out in straight columns marching out north and south from the mosque courtyard. Traffic stopped, and in the streets and in the sand men stood, bent over, and pressed their forhead to the ground to the muezzin's rhythm: Allah akbar! - 'God is grand.' The rakkas of the prayer were slower and more attentive than ever I've seen before. Half of the faithful then left for their relatives' houses, while the rest sat quietly on their mats and listened to the sermon read in Wolof. Thanks were given for the plump sheep, prayers made for peace and health and money, and a touch of advice added on how much to donate to religious leaders. Of course, missing among the faithful that morning were the thousands and thousands who had emmigrated from the city in previous days, to spend Tabaski with wives and family in natal villages.

Mixed into this idyllic picture are of course details of human vice and silliness: the purchasing of boubous outrageously beyond one's means in order to show that one has the means; the equally outrageous purchasing of sheep; the careful distribution of meat to the needy and the Christian in order to gaurantee success for the 'giving' family; the increased crime leading up to the festival; etc. But I won't spoil (or enlarge) this quick entry with that. Tabaski is really what Senegal is all about: eating a lot, visiting your neighbors and family, and giving of what you've got.

Here's a little Wolof wisdom to top things off: what to say when you've eaten too much meat.

Xar bi moy ma mbekk! - 'The sheep is butting me!'

and the response:

Bu la xar bi mbekk! - 'Don't let the sheep butt!'

Naka lañuy rey xar

'How to kill a sheep.' And as a Tabaski in Senegal will teach you, it's really quite simple. The following is an affectionately mocking step by step guide. This Tabaski tradition clearly isn't pretty, and while I've kept the worst of the photos to myself, I don't recommend this entry for the queezy.

1) Jendal ay xar - 'Buy some sheep'

These can be found in small herds sitting in the dust along most major roadways. Back routes and neighbors can also be good suppliers. A small splotchy male will cost you around 30,000 CFA, ($60) but if you really want to impress you're relatives you'd better invest in something a little more quality. Might I suggest a plump, handsome fellow who lathargically munches out of an old tire down the road from my house. He's scrubbed to a pure white perfection, and sports an impressive set of mangled horns. Yes, he'll set you back a hefty 80,000 or so, but just think of all the brochettes you'll have for your relatives, not to mention what you'll be able to give away to the Christians and poor folk in your neighborhood. If you're a minister or important official, you're more likely to invest in the extreme upper end of the scale, dishing out 200,000 or more for a real whopper. Keep in mind that you have to buy at least one sheep for each wife in your household.

(A freshly emptied sheep station on Tabaski)

2) Gasal benna kambb - 'Dig a pit'

Sheep killing is a dirty business, and without particularly efficient waste disposal services, you'll need to make your own arrangements. Fortunately, Dakar is full of dirt streets, alleys, and courtyards ripe for the digging. Don't worry if your neighborhood is pathed-over, you can always just hack up the road in front of your house, or else pry open a nearby sewage grate and dump down plenty of water once you're finished.

However, even with the best of precautions, the concentration of ship bits on Dakar's streets will inevitably rise after Tabaski. As long as you do your best, your neighbors will certainly forgive the occasional foot or horn that ends up in the side alley.

3) Jëngal xar bi - 'Tie up the sheep'

This is where the sheep's previously relaxed, uneventful life starts to go wrong. Senegalese sheep are accustomed to having their four legs tied together so that they can be loaded onto the rooves of ancient and precarious passenger buses for inter-city transport. However they seem understandably anxious about this event on Tabaski morning. At least they've led relatively quiet, normal sheep lives up until this point.

(This poor fellow's time is up. The first of four at my neighbors' house in Mermoz.)

By the way, if you're concerned about what to do with the sheep between buying it and tying it up Tabaski morning, have no worries. In Dakar, back courtyards, rooves, and even unfinished rooms in your house can serve as perfectly acceptable sheep pens. In fact, the constant, low-level baa-ing of the neighborhood flock is an icon of the Dakar night.

4) Boomal xar bi - 'Kill the sheep'

(11:30 am in an alley near my house in Mermoz. The baa-ing of previous nights has come to a rather abrupt end.)
This important step is happily done quite quickly over your pit. The requisite tools suddenly show up all across Dakar during the week before Tabaski. Vendors tote knife sets along rows of taxis and at bus stops, while others sit at intersections with piles of assorted blades, machetes, and even the odd hatchet to help get the job done.

A quick gash to the throat finishes off the sheep without much fuss, and be sure to keep as much as possible in the pit. Repeat this step as necessary until you run out of sheep.

5) Teegil der bu xar - 'Skin the sheep'

This step highlights traditional Senegalese values and gets the whole family involved. The men, sometimes instructing their older sons, get the skin itself off and do must of the rough cutting. This uses the small sharp knives you purchased along the road, if you could afford it. Otherwise it's going to be a rough job.

I've heard one report that miracles can be worked if you simply seal off the sheep's neck and insert a bicycle pump into a hind leg... However, not everyone agrees whether this is kosher with Islam. The hatchet will be useful in getting off the legs, as well as for the rather messy task of breaking into the skull. While seemingly non-essential, this extra step yields the small but delectible bits of meat that are vital to a good soup.

(The dirty work chez my neighbors in Mermoz.)
The various categories of cuts are sorted into plastic buckets and then passed off to the women and girls, who remove (only some portion of) the fat and bone, and prepare the meat for the grill. In the mean time the men wash up and get ready to do some serious sitting around.




6) Toggal yap bi - 'Cook the meat'

Another item that appears along the bi-ways of Dakar come Tabaski is the patch-work Senegalese grill. This ingenious little piece comes in many shapes and sizes, banged together from bits of scrap metal collected from aluminum cans, old appliances, and goodness knows what else. Filled with locally-produced charcoal, it certainly get the job done.

(Keru [the house of] Astou Ndiagne, one my kindest friends, who runs a sandwhich stand at Suffolk University.)

The choice meat is grilled as brochettes, while ribs and a fair number of organs (which are by no means to be considered less savory) are grilled and steamed in a pile.

To garnish, cook up a batch of potato fries cooked in peanut oil, a sweet onion yassa sauce, and (Alxamdulilahi!) in the case of the vitamin-conscious family I ate with, an astounding variety of chopped vegetables. But I must emphasize: all non-meat ingredients are to be considered strictly non-esential to this Tabaski feast.


7) Lekkal! - 'Eat!'

Serve in wide, communal bowls (seperate for men and women if desired) with mayonnaise and plenty of kani (hot pepper) dressing. Eat with your right hand, holding a chunk of fresh French bread in your left. If you're the sort of person who dreams of eating fresh grilled meat three times a day (and most Senegalese are) this will be the festival of a lifetime. Mine was a very happy Tabaski.
Reesal ak Jam! - 'Digest in peace!'

(Añ bi pare na. Lunch is finished. From left: Nathalie, Aram, Catherine, Ami, Astou's neice, Astou)

(Boubou time. Just before the children head out to levee a heavy tariff of money and candy. There are three festivals in Senegal that incorporate this Haloween-like element.)

Dem ak jam ak ñewaat ak jam

'Go in peace and return in peace.' Of course this post is long, long overdue. But I'm not going to try to say everything; just the flat facts. I'm hoping that after this, I'll fall into a more regular writing routine.

CIEE's Fall 2005 program in Dakar is over and done. 25 of us have gone home to the U.S., 3 of us jumped to other African countries, and I've heard rumor that one person never left Dakar. From what I saw, everyone's last few weeks in Dakar were perhaps inexplicably wonderful. We fell in love with this city, in love with our families, and a few of us fell in love with Senegalese significant others. In fact I know of at least two people hoping to raise children here. If it's one of you reading this, all my love and support. It might seem totally mad to anyone who hasn't spent time in Senegal, and to any of us when we arrived, but today it makes a bit of sense. My time in the village of Ndiaguene hinted at how hard it is to leave this place without promising to yourself and to others that you'll come back some day. 'Damay ñewaat, Insh'allah.'

(Evening at the infamous 'On the Run' by the Route de Ouakam)
My last few weeks passed really well too, and all too easily. I finally realized what an incredible family I'd been living with; the best I could possibly ask for. In fact we all sat down and talked out every little fault we'd held against each other in the previous months - what hadn't been sufficiently washed/flushed, what was being left in the wrong place, which routines had been forgotten, and when I was coming home too late for dinner. Then we laughed a lot about all of these and talked about how much we'd miss each other.

In these same weeks I also faulted my family once more - I spent more and more and more time outside the house with friends, American and Senegalese. The pressure was on to get to all the restaurants we'd talked about checking out, have all the boubous and assorted clothings that we'd dreamed up made, and record the songs we'd put together with a certain street-corner gang. We also had to cram in the last of our old favourites: attaya, Mbalax/Cap Verdian dance parties, patisseries, and Dakar fast food. Not to mention, of course, seeing as much of each other as possible.

So that explains, though doesn't really justify, why I hardly wrote a blog or email throughout December. Then gradually everyone filtered out of Senegal on various late night flights. I myself went to South Africa to spend Christmas with my grandparents.

I'll give a quick rundown of my journey: My parents came to Dakar for three days to check out 'my life in Senegal.' On the whole, all went well. The hotel was fancy enough - AC, hot water, even jam and real coffee for breakfast - but it still had that vital touch of Senegalese-ness. There was plently of Wolof, a screwy reservation, and a massive over-charge on the rooms when we tried to check out. Being with my parents newly reminded me of the pollution and filth, the broken pavements, and the overwhelmingness of Dakar. But showing someone around also affirmed my confidence here. By the end, though my family was definitely more than sick of hearing me yelling in Wolof while waving my finger at cab-drivers, merchants, and hasslers.

(Classic Senegalese cart and pirogues along la plage de Yoff) The experience was capped off when we showed up at the airport at 4 am only to be imformed that although we held valid tickets for the flight to Johannesburg, we would not be allowed to get on. Of course this was all due to some screw-up 'in New York.' My attempted Senegalese negotiating, from false anger and threats to arm-linking friendliness and finally attempting to offer a bribe got us nowhere. Then a few minutes of my Mum screaming in French and English got her right on the flight. As 'componsation,' my Dad, brother and I were shunted off to the hotel Meridian President, spoken of with wide-eyes as the fanciest in Senegal. President Abdoulaye Wade even takes his motorcade there some mornings for breakfast. The place was nice, but not that nice. I did, however meet half the staff, who couldn't believe they were seeing a Wolof-speaking toubab. It seems only the fabulously wealthy and insensitive dain to stop at the Meridian. Fortunately, I was able to sneak out goodies: stationary, pens, soap, shampoo. Distributed to friends at Sadjo's corner, along with mythical stories about the rooms and service, these drew grins and rapt attention. Senegal finally let us go the next morning, on a plane that was for some reason half-empty.

South Africa was surprisingly normal - just as our other family trips. A few months in Senegal had given me a host of false expectations, however. I'd thought I'd be able to make all sorts of comparisons about food, language, dress, and culture. In the end, I was left a little shocked by western dress, well-maintained and garbage-free streets, functioning cars, segregation of race and class, and the looming threat of violent crime that made me uneasy about walking down the street. Perhaps most of all, couldn't believe how many white people there were and was disconcerted by the extreme lack of sheep. Though visiting my grandparents was at least as stressful and worrying as before, it was really good to touch back with my real family, 'sama wa ker degga degga' as I say in Dakar. Few Senegalese would question the value of spending much money and travelling far to see the family. Maybe a bit of that has rubbed off on me.
(I've posted some photos and explanations on my Flickr album, which is linked to the colourful, shifting photo box above in the right-hand column.)
(Christmas lunch with my grandparents in Durban, S.A.)

And now, I'm back in Dakar. It was strange and satisfying and lonely to come back. Things certainly feel quiet here. The good friends with whom I learned Dakar and through whom I understand Senegal are gone, and that's obviously a little hard. I guess I, like their other friends and family here, am clinging to their promises to come back. (Degg ngeen? Hear that guys?) But my family's overjoyed to see me and Sadjo and the gang are still out there all night - he'd missed two nights of sleep and was totally overexcited by music, fireworks, and people everywhere when I saw him at 4 am, New Year's morning. My January 1 was saved by my hair-cutting friend Delphine, who invited me to Goree Island for the afternoon. It was quiet and lacking tourists and hastlers, so we walked all over the island. Now I've got a bit more time to see my family, excercise, and check out a few more spots in Dakar. Yesterday I ran all over town to organize Pular lessons, and talk to a group called EcoYoff about volunteering/doing research in the Kedougou area for the next 4 months. But more on those plans later. Ba baneen yoon - see you next time.

(Hari Krishna temple / fabled vegetarian restaurant in Durban.)