La lutte

January – ‘tis the season for la lutte! That’s a style of traditional Seereer wrestling, and the season is in full force. Every week, the competition is held in a different village. What used to be a weeklong event is now a more modernized, compressed, high-energy weekend with three nights of wrestling. Sunday night is the culmination with the heavyweight finals and the presentation of the champions for the other two weight classes. The lutte was quite possibly the coolest thing I’ve seen in my village so far.

Night I : [ho-ly-shit]
Having suffered through another excruciating hour with my language tutor with only the solace of the excitement to follow, I headed into town to meet E~. I found her at a friend’s house, where the buzz of anticipation was decidedly less high-pitched than I expected. In fact, the women barely seemed to register the loud speaker noise coming from the village square and they were in no hurry to head in that direction. It took the time to make and drink tea (at least an hour) before E~ and I took our leave.

When we got to the main square, it was dark out and electric. Huge tarps marked off the arena, keeping the source of the noise, the music, the thrill hidden. E~ found an unmarked hole in the fabric wall and leaned in, speakeasy-style, to negotiate a ticket for me.

Even now I can’t adequately describe what it was like when we first entered the arena. It was loud – the crowd, the drumming, the chanting. There were people – the audience - lining the arena, standing or sitting in chairs and on the ground. And there, in the middle of it all, stomping and strutting and peacocking around the square, were a bunch of young, buff, half-naked men: the lutteurs.

It took me a good hour to un-drop my jaw. These men, ripped and clothed in underwear and gris-gris (protective, good luck talismans) and not much else, were running around the arena, dancing creatively to the beat of the tam-tam drummers, and pouring strength-giving ‘potions’ over their bodies. It was like watching Olympic swimmers gone Lord of the Flies and, I would find out later, these weren’t even the heaviest weight classes. Yes, there was some wrestling, too, but honestly, my brain was too overwhelmed by the entire spectacle to really focus on the sport’s finer points.

The night’s stimulation was interrupted, and then interrupted again and again, when the generator powering the arena lights cut out. Since the fight officials couldn’t very well officiate in the dark, the matches got held up every time the power shut off. Eventually E~ got fed up and we left. For the better, perhaps, since I can’t really think of anything that could have pulled me away from the scene.

Night II : Ear Plugs
Saturday night was the continuation of the lutte. This time, E~ and I and a bunch of children showed up early, before the lutteurs even, to snag some good seats behind the organizing commission. To our left was a dozen tam-tam drummers; to the right, half a dozen hefty female musicians who spent the night chanting praise-songs of the various wrestlers and notable village-people. The noise levels were beyond intense; the crowd’s reactions to the back-and-forth between the drummers and singers was almost as loud as the music itself. Again, there was some wrestling…which was ever-harder to focus on.

Night III : The Riot
Sunday night was the most anticipated night of the lutte. Even all of the toubab tourists from the campements came, sprinkling the crowd with white and random camera flashes of light. The light- and middle-weight awards were presented, again with lots of praise-chants from those lady singers. And the winners took to dancing outrageously in the center of the tam-tam circle, much to the crowd’s delight.

And then Mbalka, the local lutteur, darling of ML~, and a champion of some recent Africa Cup lutte, arrived. The crowd, which had been cheering enthusiastically for two-and-a-half nights already, erupted into a thunderous roar. And Mbalka relished every shout, every cheer, every second of the crowd’s adulation. He ran circles around the arena, strutting and stomping to the drumming, soaking up the attention. The other wrestlers awkwardly continued their rounds and their matches, trying to pretend like they were still attracting some of the attention. Everything was wonderful and festive.

But then something was not wonderful. There was a loud noise from off to my right. The women around me, who had been cheering and clapping in delight, snatched up their children, knocked over chairs, and started to rush anywhere, away from that noise. I had been so caught up in the show that at first I didn’t know what we were running from – an animal stampede, maybe? (Yes, that’s dumb, but this is Africa, right? The Discover Channel has me convinced they materialize from nothing like storm clouds.) E~ yelled for me to get out of the arena, to get away and get safe.

It wasn’t until a little later, when we had reconvened at E~’s mother’s home, with all of the kids and grandkids accounted for, that the rush and the riot were explained. Apparently, the organizing commissioners had decided that Mbalka had shown up for the lutte’s registration – gasp – late. Excuse my shock, but this is Senegal, isn’t it? Everyone is late to everything. And, horror of horrors, they weren’t about to let anyone break the rules and fight, even someone like the adored local Mbalka.

The young people’s collective reaction: riot. Throw a shit-fit. Tear apart the arena (explaining the loud noise). And maybe try to beat up the commissioners. The villagers know that this sort of thing – favoritism or de-favoritism of a local lutteur - has happened before and the resulting melee has resulted in some serious injuries, even a death or two. Hence the people-stampede.

Unfortunately, this meant that the lutte was cut short. The heavy-weight fights were not fought. If Mbalka wasn’t going to fight, no one was. And instead of ending on a high note, the 2010 ML~ event ended with most of the villagers peering out from their compounds, wondering if those angry youths had succeeded in finding those despicable commissioners (they didn’t).

Still, for me, it was one hell of an experience.

Pictures and videos are up on picasa.