The Middle Ages Want Their Pilgrimage Back; or, Popenguine: Not as Hard as I Thought

I've often thought that religion inspires people to do silly things - things like pilgrimages. It turns out you don't even need religion to do silly things - things like pilgrimages.

A few weeks ago Catholics observed Pentecost. In Senegal, a country which prides itself on religious co-existence, the holiday was observed nationally with government offices closed; otherwise, it was an unremarkable occasion for the country's Muslim majority (95%). For Catholics here, however, Pentecost also marks the time of year when the Black Madonna was spotted in a nature reserve in Popenguine some time back. To recall said sighting, there is a pilgrimage to Popenguine every year at Pentecost. Most pilgrims arrive by car, bus, and taxi from all over the country. When I heard there was an environmentally-friendly option, I jumped at the occasion to integrate with my family/community (Catholic) and to experience whatever the heck made pilgrimages so popular in the Middle Ages.

And then I found out that the environmentally-friendly option was walking and no one in my family was dumb enough or pious enough to sign on for a 30km walk in the middle of the hot season. I am hardly pious (I'm not even Catholic! ...which leaves us with 'dumb'), but by this time I'd already signed up and paid my hefty 4500cfa ($9 to cover a busride to the starting point in Mbour, lunch during the march and dinner after).

Consoled by the assurance of a local "scout" to look over me and accompanied by the youthful brother-and-sister owners (Bernard and Theresa) of a ML campement, I decided to swallow my fear and aversion of strangers, religion and physical activity. Come Saturday, off I went with an early group to Fimela, where we spent the night at the Catholic Mission. Maybe I'm getting crotchety in my old age (upcoming birthday alert!), but it exasperated me that the eventual grouping of some 75 parish high-schoolers refused to get a good night's sleep before a daylong walk. I snuck in about 2 hours before someone woke me up at 4a.m. for a chilly and rather unnecessary bucket bath. We trundled onto the bus for Mbour already exhausted, and I grumpily began to second-guess my "why not?" decision-making.

In Mbour we were dropped off in a sandy soccer field where groups of marchers from all points south and west were congregating. Mbour to Popenguine is ~30km; the slog ahead inspired grim apprehension. The day started off impeccably organized - each parish trickling out on the route at regular intervals, with group leaders heading prayers and discussions.

Once we wound our way out of the city, it took about an hour before the singing and dancing started. The kids in each group picked up whatever they found - used water bottles, empty tomato cans - and drummed along. In spite of the increasingly unfortunate terrain (red dirt paths through dry millet fields and low scrub), the level of enthusiasm jumped as groups competed in volume with the parishes ahead and behind. Not knowing any religious hymns in Seereer or French or Wolof (...or English?), I drummed along and kept track of my sunscreen applications. The "scout" asked me how my morale was every 20 minutes and Theresa was cheery in her religious fervor.

Dance-pilgrimage

We reached the halfway point around 1:30 and all happily, hungrily collapsed in a rare shaded grove for lunch and a break. We stretched our legs and waited ...and drank some water and waited ...and loosened our shoe-ties and waited. It was a good hour and a half before we realized someone had made a mistake: lunch was not coming. Senegal's track record of logistical planning failures holds.

This is before we knew about lunch

There was universal frustration and anger and hunger-induced irritability. Nowhere more so than from Theresa, who was hungry and starting to feel the beginning of a hip cramp. The remarkable organization at the march's debut degenerated into a mob, with each parish shoving to get back on the path toward Popenguine and put this disaster of a lunch(less) break behind them.

Chaos

The second half of the day was less pleasant. Certain parishes kept up the joyful singing, but ML got split up in the chaos. Theresa and I slowly drifted to the very back of the march as her leg cramped up and kept her from anything more than a limp. When we finally - painfully - climbed the last hill into Popenguine, I could feel the blisters forming; it was already 6p.m.

Still smiling. Just dirtier.

We found the ML group, collapsed in a heap of red dirt and sweat, and swallowed dinner (which was unremarkable except in the fact that it existed and was on time). I excused myself to meet up with some other PCVs (who had arrived by less environmentally-friendly means).

We spent the rest of the evening drinking palm wine, wandering the market of religious trinkets and souvenirs, and absorbing the atmosphere of a tiny village thronged with pilgrims. We peered in on the evening mass, but checked out the next morning (Pentecost proper) before the main mass of the event. Thirty kilometers was enough of a non-religious religious experience for me.

The pilgrimage was an awesome experience; I've never done anything like it before. Ultimately it wasn't even as difficult as I expected; although, the blisters on my feet lasted 2 weeks and were unbelievably huge. Back in ML, walking to Popenguine has earned me some street cred among the villagers, so blisters were a small price to pay. All in all, a success.

[Oh, but next year, if JazzFest and the Popenguine pilgrimage coincide like they did this time, I'm opting for the former. Doing a pilgrimage twice - that'd just be silly.]