trekking to touba (alhamdoullilay, quoi)

Touba is said to be one of the holiest sites for Muslims in all of Africa. We were invited to go on the annual Mauride pilgrimage there by our Bayefall (Bayefall are a subset of Mourides who are often quite spiritual-not necessarily religious-and who practice music and grow dreadlocks, among other things) friends, as I mentioned last time. (They are pictured here in their typically Bifal colorful patchwork clothing)

Going to Touba for Mauride Muslims is a close substitute for making the trek to Mecca. The city houses a spectacular mosque and is a place where their spiritual leader Cheikh Amadou Bamba was living when the French officials forced him into exile. Legend has it that Bamba at this time was performing such miracles as praying on water, confronting evil spirits, and being generally a pretty impressive guy. When he finally left exile, he came back to Touba and thus was born the Magal (Mike’s filling in the details here for me).


An added perk of visiting Touba during the Magal is the forgiveness of your sins. During this time it’s also the place where you can hear around-the-clock arabic chanting/"sing-alongs" (this probably isn't kosher, but not being able to understand the content of the chants, and only judging by the tone and melody (or lack of it), I found a lot of it to sound like old-fashioned college drinking songs).

I'm not quite sure how Touba and Amadou Bamba and Marabouts (religous leaders here) fit into the larger Islamic world. Senagelese Islam is very particular, multi-faceted, and dynamic. For one thing, religion here is often a blend of traditional Senagalese spiritual practices and more conventional Islamic teachings. Marabouts are sort of the equivalent of a bishop mixed with a shaman. They are powerful religious leaders who are called upon for spiritual guidance, revered like demi-prophets, and treated like quasi-kings.

Our journey

We arrived at our friends' house to leave for Touba in "their car" at 5 pm but actually ended up taking a car rapide (that left at 11pm!) all the way there (imagine being pressed in every direction for 5 hours). we arrived in touba at dawn and hopped a horse-drawn cart to the complex. lucky for us this included front-row tickets to the diurnal dawn slaughtering-of-the-bulls. each large house we passed seemed to be either slaying, hacking up, or otherwise handling a big, bloody bull carcass, a few feet away from our passing wagon. certainly an interesting way to enter the place...

Apart from all the butchering, i was feeling self-conscious with my inadequate western clothing- i had heard how important it was for women to wear long skirts and headscarves in Touba (our friends got yelled at on a previous visit), and I was wearing neither because I assumed we were getting in late at night and sleeping. It turned out luckily not to be a big deal, though, and we were greeted at the Bayefall complex by other devotees. most people were waking up (rolling over on their mats on the ground) when we arrived, but mike and i wanted nothing more than to crawl into a nice fluffy bed (riiiiight...) and sleep off the crazy night waiting (we waited over 7 hrs to leave!) and travelling (5 hrs in a cramped car rapide, or Senegalese van). after a short nap, we woke to the bright sun, noon heat, and melodic chanting that characterizes Touba. We were very happy to have brought our sleeping bags because the accommodations were actually glorified campgrounds: sand-pit-floors and trees enclosed by walls and gates, with the only roofs on the maribou's rooms.

The pilgrimage to Touba is a bit off the beaten path, as you might imagine. We actually only encountered one other toubab-the wolof word for foreigner which is on par with "gringo"-the whole weekend. She was a french gal married to a senegalese bloke who happened to be Bayefall and a devotee of one of the marabouts in the complex.

We soon realized there was not all that much to DO in Touba, since the point of the pilgrimage was to go pay respects to people and places (see our friend, left, inside a sacred mausoleum) that we weren't necessarily familiar with. in effect, we did a lot of sitting on straw mats and awkwardly greeting people (i never really knew who i was shaking hands with, and therefore how much courtesy i needed to show). One of the passing girls in the complex saw me sitting around doing nothing and grabbed me, shouting something in wolof that i didn't understand. "She says she wants you to go help in the kitchen with her," explained our friends. I thought, why not, and let her laughingly lead me over to where the majority of the women in the complex (aside from the marabout's family) were engaged in all sorts of peeling, chopping, and soaking for the afternoon meal.

I looked very out of place in my newly tailored semi-bubu (traditional senegalese dress, which includes large sleeves, long skirt, and a big headwrap which i didn't have), when all the women were donning the equivalent of apron-outfits to cook in (see blue shirts in pic). Nonetheless, i figured i may as well pitch in, and got down on the ground and chopped veggies with the rest of the group. (Luckily i was not sentenced to the boiling meat room, where I was taken first to greet the older women who were busy cleaning all kinds of dilectible cow and goat parts (liver, stomach, bladder, whatever…)


The girls tried to ask me questions as we worked. my responses often sent them into bouts of hysterical laughter (good thing i didnt have any pride in my french language ability!). I think they were pretty amused by me and the fact that i kept at the work (they kept asking me "tu est fatigue, non?") and even tried to teach them some spanish. when we were done chopping they were super-friendly and excited to greet me whenever they passed me in the complex during the next day and a half, calling "Yassin, Na nga def?" (Yassin = my senegalese name, na nga def = how's it going?) It was interesting being both part of that group and also being allowed into the intimate space and time of the marabouts. they treated mike and i exceptionally well, so much so that I think it must have been an honor for them to have foreigners seeking them out. (everyone was super-friendly to us, in fact, and very curious about what we were doing there, etc).

One marabout in particular (the one i call "the Rockstar," for what I perceived to be his constant need for attention) befriended mike and decided that since mike already had dreads, he could be a Bayefall. and also, (by the way) he was going to be mike's spiritual leader. mike effectively nodded and smiled and now has the guy's cell phone number in case of any spiritual emergencies (no email though).


The marabouts were definitely different from what we expected, each with their own distinct personalities (I ingenuously named them the Nice One, the Rockstar, and the Look-Alike) Though we had imagined them to be very rich and indifferent to their followers, their major luxuries were shiny sheets (the Rockstar has his in neon pink) and coca-cola. They were much more like normal people than I expected, though a lot of that might be because we were not expecting anything in particular from them.

All in all, we certainly saw a side of Senegalese life that I'd bet few tourists ever see (although apparently Steven Segal attended the Magal??). We made some great friends and even made it home unscathed(the stampede out of town was not as bad as we expected), though incredibly ready to be back in dakar, checking internet at "Chez Becca" and reading trashy hollywood magazines that make us o-so-happy to be about as far from LA as possible. (check out the bubus on mike!)

P.S. Alhamdoullilay means "thanks be to God," and people say it all the time here- like when you say your family is well or that you had a good Magal. People here also overuse "quoi" at the end of their sentences, sort of the equivalent of using "like" when you're telling a story. we caught our friend merging the two on the way back from touba, with an offhand "alhamdoullilay, quoi," which still makes us crack up (maybe you had to be there).

ndeup ceremony and beyond

So there are new adventures to tell as always, and some striking pictures to share (This one is of goats on the beach in Yoff Village, Dakar). Things are almost off the ground here with the planning of our research project, though we’re sort of on hold until Mike kicks the cold or sinus thing that he’s had for over a week now (but real bad just the last 2 days). Don’t worry, I’ve been pumping him (and me) full of water, juice, and fresh fruit (which isn’t difficult since it’s been about 90 degrees during the last few days). I think he’s almost better. I want us to have a working survey or instrument that we can start using by Friday, but at least by early next week.

We’ve been invited to go with some friends (that Mike knew from 5 years ago and who recognized him on the beach this week!) to Touba, for the annual pilgrimage there this weekend, which I’m sure would be fascinating. I luckily just got a long, Senegalese outfit, so I can cover up from head to toe (long skirts and head scarves are a must in Touba, which is a Mouride Muslim holy city about 4 hours from Dakar). But more on that next week.

As promised, I’ll begin with some pictures of the Ndeup ceremony that we attended in the village of Yoff the week before last. We went with our French psychologist friends from the hospital, with whom you can see Mike lounging on the beach. We thought that the ceremony was going to be for a mentally ill individual (mental illness is traditionally thought of in the spiritual realm in Senegal). The ceremony is meant to assuage the “rab,” or spirits of ancestors of the village who supposedly watch over, protect, and occasionally get angry at the living. If the individual does not carefully respect the rab he/she coexists with, which is always present within the individual and the family, it acts up and presents itself as a strong mental illnes, according to certain Wolof and Lebou beliefs (here I am paraphrasing from what I’ve been told and read). The ndeup ceremony allows the whole community to participate in the assuaging of the rab and the curing of the individual from his/her illness, which is really seen as the whole community’s responsibility. It involves the kosher killing of a bull (who takes on the burden of the angry rab and thus the individual’s mental illness) a lot of drumming and dancing, and the preparation of certain special foods. One of these is “chyakri”(sp?), which is lait calle- a sweet cultured milk like yogurt- with millet.

Instead of a ceremony to cure an individual, however, the ceremony we attended was for the entire village of Yoff, a neighborhood of Dakar that feels a lot more like a small village than a part of the capital city. There was a lot of anticipation in the air, and you can see people spilling out of windows, shops, and rooftops (well, not spilling exactly). Though there was no mentally ill individual, 4 bulls were slaughtered (we got front row seats in the splash section based on skin privilege- which I’m not sure was such a privilege in this case) and the meat was split up amongst everyone and eaten that afternoon with couscous.


When we came in the bulls were tied up in a pen, but after all the important people were seated and some drumming and singing happened, they were brought out. You can see the chiefs of the village in red robes and hats right in front of me, as well as the bull getting pulled into view in the background. In the next picture, a bull’s throat has been cut, and it is bleeding into a hole in the ground (this is the kosher way of killing an animal, as its nerves to feel pain are cut first and it dies faster- though watching it you wouldn’t necessarily think so! it was quite nauseating to see how much an animal of that size twitches and bleeds- ok I’ll stop with the details).

Anyhow,it was definitely an experience being there, and afterward we had lunch, watched this parade go by, and walked the beach for a bit (where i snapped pictures of these discarded pufferfish!). Once back in less-exciting Mermoz, where we're staying with our friend til the end of the month, we plotted other adventures. We had Prof N and her sons over for Indian food last Friday (thanks to my mom, who sent me a package full of Indian spices!! yay!!!). I cooked an elaborate 3 course meal composed of samosas, sag paneer and chana masala, and a fruit salad with a saffron-coconut-raisin sauce. it was good, if i say so myself :)

Actually, we spent the day with Prof N yesterday, talking about the project and helping her husband review grant proposals written in english (he's a sociology professor at another university in senegal). i read all about land, resources, and democratization in nigeria- seems like the government is really corrupt and that a lot of the "ethnic violence" in the area are really disputes over land and resources, which aren't being treated in the political arena cause the government has no interest in it, etc. interesting stuff. anyways, i'm off to yoga a bit. tout à l'heure!

in memory of an orange hoop

so i thought i would take a moment to commemorate a good hoop that went astray- well actually i threw it off of the sixth floor balcony here into a stand of trees. it wasn't the best hoop in the world, or even a very good one, but it did make me happy for the few days after i made it. RIP, orange hoop. *tear*.

p.s. all is well here, mike and i are trying to get the project questions defined and ready before our planned excursion to a rural village at the end of the month. we also bought some fabric at the market on saturday which we want to go get outfits made out of. it is sunny and gorgeous and getting a bit hot here. my french still sucks. but we've made some really great friends with these french psychologists who are studying at the hospital where we are doing interviews. so i'm hoping that hanging out with them will help me get on track- although i can communicate basic ideas now, which is good. yesterday we spent the day with them at what we thought was going to be a Ndeup Ceremony, a traditional mental health ceremony here, but was actually a more general offering and ceremony for the ancestors of the village and not any specific person. i'll post some pics and give more details soon- definitely my first time to see bulls sacrificed. RIP, bulls.

oh, crepe!

here's a happy pic from valentine's day- i made tri-filled crepes and such.

caught in the crossfire

As many of you already know, Mike and i experienced a very frightening event a little over a week ago. We had celebrated the somewhat preemptive opening of our computer lab with an inauguration ceremony, as I mentioned in my last post. The very next weekend Prof N wanted us to give a brief demonstration of the multimedia aspects of the lab (using the medical CD-Roms and DVDs that had been donated from France) and hold another kind of “open house” to correspond with the second weekend of le grand foire de livres (that’s book fair for all you francotards). A film crew was going to tape the event.

Anyways, we mustered up the last of our energy (I swear our advisor doesn’t sleep) to prepare for the flurry of media and medical students that were all set to descend upon us Saturday morning. Unfortunately, things never got that far. On Friday a grève (strike/demonstration) erupted on the university campus. This is not unusual. The students (or, a small minority of them, as the case usually is) often strike to protest bad university conditions, perceived injustices, or just to get more time to study for their exams. These demonstrations sometimes do get rowdy and even a bit violent. Some students are pelted with tear gas, some police get rocks thrown at them, and many people are generally caught in the crossfire just trying to go about their business. In any case, a strike can be cause to stay home, but often not when there’s tons of work to be done. In fact, we had been on campus before when police were throwing tear gas at demonstrators, so this time we didn’t worry as much about being there, even though the strike seemed more serious.

In any case, Mike and I were debating whether to stay with everyone and finish getting things ready for the big event (which we probably would have) or take off earlier and eat dinner, when a man came in to paint the adjacent phonebooth. The smell of his silver enamel paint made it nearly impossible to stay, and so we took the opportunity to go for a walk. We only made it about a block or two from the building when we realized people around us weren’t going any farther. They were actually running backward in many cases. We were both intrigued to go towards the action and frightened to get caught in the crossfire, as can easily happen here.

The reason for the grève: bad meat at the women’s campus that led to some sick students, as well as underlying discontent. Once the strike got going, though, things got out of hand. Four cars were set on fire, and Mike and I could see the smoke wafting toward our side of campus from not all that far in the distance. I snapped this pic, wondering why no one else seemed overly concerned…

When we returned to the lab, students were running toward our building. We assumed they were running from the police and so ran, too. When we looked back, there wasn’t anyone chasing them, so we figured they were just getting farther away from the scene. Once we got back to the lab, we told everyone about the running students going in our direction, but no one was very alarmed- that sort of thing was pretty commonplace and everyone working in the lab was clearly not involved in the strike. In any case, the smell of the paint continued to make me nauseas, and the fact that we had already considered leaving made me anxious to get going. Mike was also feeling anxious to leave, so we convinced Laye to take us and some others home. Apparently, we made it out just in time.

About a half hour after we left, police barged into the cyber and beat all of the innocent medical students who were working there. Many of them were hiding under desks because they were afraid, but the police dragged them out and beat them also (despite the fact that they were in no way involved in the event and were instead volunteering their time for a book fair). We heard that police had stolen the kids’ property (cell phones and laptops) and even broke or smashed parts of the lab in (I do not know any details about the property). When we first found out, we felt incredibly angry at what had happened, helpless to do anything about it (the police don’t have much to answer to here), and also lucky to have left before it all went down (we had also convinced Laye to leave, so he was also spared abuse). The next day we visited the students at the hospital getting xrays and brought them fruit and some US candy that our housemate, Bec, gave us. When we walked in, they all looked to be in a lot of pain and in pretty low spirits, but the sugar did perk them up a tiny bit. The injustice of the whole situation hung in the air.

In any case, the students were clearly shaken up, and we found out the next day that the campus was planning to retaliate on monday with a “guerre” against the police. the idea of a campus “war” with the clearly unencumbered police was not all that reassuring, especially after all of the senseless violence we’d already seen. so, we decided to stay away from campus for the next week while the events blew over . we also waited to hear from Prof N and Laye about what had really happened and what would be done.

the war was short-lived, though many of the Dakar high schools and a university in st. louis (another big city in Senegal) tried to join in, the police presence on the campus was so strong that very little happened. they also blocked the roads toward Dakar from st. louis and came down hard on the students there (one student was even shot), on friday, a week after the beatings and a few days after all the talk of war had ended, we poked our heads into the lab to see what damage had been done. It was eerie to see bloodstains on the ground, abandoned shoes, torn out plugs, strewn decorations, and sideways computers in what we last had known to be an ordered, civil space. That being said, the damage was not as bad as we had feared.

We had heard that the books for the book fair were burned, but in fact they were spared. What happened was that the police had thrown a grenade at fleeing students, who had run in the direction of our lab. The grenade came in the window of the long hallway outside the lab, burning a pile of equipment and books. These were going to the rural village that is part of the NGO we’re working with’s medical mission and a site Mike and I are planning to visit next month. It turns out that the police saw the fearful medical students in the lab and assumed that they were the same who had set cars on fire and run in the direction of the lab. This is why they were so brutal. Prof N had stepped out of the lab to try to quench the fire that was raging in the hallway when the police entered, so she was unable to get them to stop until after they had hit everyone in the room and arrested 3 students (who spent the weekend in jail without food- and of course justice).

Amazingly, Prof N seems to be in good spirits and fairly diplomatic about the whole course of events, even trying to explain why the police did what they did. I have not seen the medical students since the day getting xrays, but I hear that they are wary to come in the lab, understandably have a bit of post-traumatic stress and fear of the space. On a positive note, the computers are mostly working and the lab was fairly successfully running yesterday. There is still a lot of backtracking and reworking to be done, but it is nothing like what we imagined.

Aside from that awful situation, there have been many positive events in the last two weeks. Mike had his hair dreaded by a friend of Pape’s family (the drummer musicians). We heard about him and went to see him at a cultural center. The guys we were with started playing some drums at the center, and a dance group or class trickled in and started dancing to their rhythms. it was really fun and pretty amazing to watch- so much musical and rhythmic talent here. we were invited to watch Pape’s family perform another gig last weekend, which was a block party for the young women of a certain neighborhood. the dancing was again incredible and often a bit risqué! each girl really tries to outdo the last. a much younger girl who had been watching from the street came and stood beside me and then eventually shared the seat with me, next to the band. she was just there, and I was just there, and we were enjoying each other’s company and watching the women dance. it was sweet. I think I’ll end there.