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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.]

Harmattan was my wrestling nickname

A few months before I came to Senegal, I remember getting very excited (and a little concerned) when NASA's image-of-the-day website featured a satellite picture of West Africa and the Atlantic Ocean. The shot captured just about everything I knew then about Senegal, which is to say its basic geography.

The disconcerting thing was the dirty smudge that showed up on the screen, like a smear of paint dragged from the Sahara out into the royal blue of the Atlantic, shrouding that western tip of the continent where I knew Dakar to be. I science-geeked out over this, the dry hot Harmattan winds carrying sand and dust and dirt from Africa out across the ocean. Sometime back in an environmental science class, I'd learned that it was because of this annual occurrence, which is sometimes strong enough to reach South America, that the rain forests of that continent continue to exist. When the African dirt finally precipitates out of the atmosphere over Brazil, it replenishes and rejuvenates the depleted soils.

But awe gave way to terror when I imagined how that satellite photo would translate on the ground. Even a windstorm in Colorado isn't all that pleasant to breathe in.

So here we are almost a year later, barreling toward the hottest, driest season of the year. I can't say I've experienced Harmattans yet, but it gets plenty windy. The gusts blow in my window screens daily. From the shelter of my room, I watch the wind pushing mini-dunes in the loose sand. A not-so-fine film of dust covers every inch of everything inside, too; sweeping is a Sisyphean task. Dust is in the air, assaulting lungs and leeching every bit of moisture from throats and eyes.

Some days, like today, you can't make out the sun until 9-10a.m. (it rises hours earlier); the haze that veils it reminds me of the fog on a snowy morning back home. It's extremely disorienting.

The sun had come up when I took this...

I should hedge this. It's already May (the Harmattans are a winter phenomenon). If I've survived the worst, perhaps this isn't so bad. The peak of the hot season and the dreaded rainy season are bigger menaces right now. A moment of silent gratitude is in order; island-life imposes a constant humidity on life. Yes, I'll be cursing the skies come mosquito season (er, more-mosquito season), but for now it's a blessing that keeps the dust down (relative to the poor folks farther inland, closer to the source of all this airborn grit).

Nevertheless, the science-geek still thinks it's fucking awesome that you can see this stuff from space. Here are links:

Last June's Nasa pic!

Another cool NASA shot

And wikipedia on Harmattan

Well hello!

It's been awhile since I've written here. Contrary to that fraudulent email you may have received, I am not in London where, desperate for funds, I might still be taking advantage of cooler temperatures, electricity and decent internet.

Nope, tempted as I was to take a return flight home with my eema, I'm still in Senegal. And, actually, my mom's visit replenished my hug quota enough to tie me over at least another few weeks. I'll put some pictures from her trip on Picasa eventually so that you can see the wonderful things we did while she was here. Maybe you'll even be inspired to plan your own trip. (Seriously. Come see me. It's only Africa. I need hugs.)

On the work front, things are slowly picking up. More people are starting to talk about doing a waste management project. Starting to talk is not starting to do, but I take what I can get. There's also talk about me tutoring some middle school girls in English (can't shake that damn ling nerdiness) and that might develop into an English club next fall (maybe.) And finally, for shits and giggles, I've offered to paint a mural at the Catholic health post. Oooh, arsty.

And that's about it for now. I'll try to post this week about more interesting goings on.

Yay!

My eema comes this week! My eema comes this week! Less than 72 hours away!!!

Paperasse

Taking cues from its former colonial power, Senegal has in place a bureaucracy almost as asinine as the one I encountered in France. No surprise. But here, insisting on the formal where the informal reigns is futile. And so getting my residence permit renewed in Senegal was in no way like the organized, if complicated and unending process of doing the same in France.

Here’s how it went:

March 10:
PCVs receive a text message reminding us to renew res permits. For my stage, expiration dates are coming up; get on that.

March 14:
Deciding to head to Kaolack to get this out of the way, I make the mistake of sleeping in on a travel day. I’m rewarded with 6 hours of crowded, squishy transportation during the hottest part of the day. And my first bus broke down twice en route.

Why Kaolack? I’ve been informed that the office in my region’s capital hasn’t opened yet – no further explanation. And Dakar is a more expensive trip.

March 14, p.m.:
Upon arriving at the PC regional house, I’m told by 3 other volunteers that I am doomed to fail. The guy who signs off res permits is a dick; he won’t do it before the actual expiration date. And no one knows where the office is anyway, not even the PCV (M~) who lives in Kaolack.

March 15:
Tempting fate (my permit expires the 22nd), I head downtown to find this mysterious office and confront the evil troll guarding my legal status to be in this country.

M~ and I navigate trash heaps and construction pits before stumbling into a jail – no joke – which we then realize is exactly the building we need. We run as fast as we can past the incarceration area to an admin doorway. There, we find the Troll quite literally guarding the hallway.

I explain my quest, wave my soon (so soon!) to expire permit in his face, and get hit with the verbal equivalent of a cascade of arrows: each tip a sharp Wolof phrase insisting the renewal can’t and won’t be done before March 22.

Smiling, I pull out my two secret weapons: infinite patience (public transportation in a developing country requires it) … and a hand-written note to the Kaolack commissaire from my counterpart.

Residence permits can’t be renewed until the very day they expire?
“I understand, really, I do,” said in every language I know. “But can I please just speak with Mr. Fall for a moment, briefly, just to say hello? You see this note with Mr. Fall’s name and phone number? My counterpart will be furious if I don’t. Just to say hi. Salutations only, I swear. Nuyoo rekk.”

Eventually the Troll, weakened by my insistence on saying hello in a country where greetings are so important, caved. I was shown to Mr. Fall’s office where, a moment of name-and-note-dropping later, I found myself waiting while he went back out to smoothly request the Troll’s assistance in such a minor bureaucratic task. Seconds after that, I was in possession of the prized residence permit, renewed to the end of 2010.

I thanked Mr. Fall effusively and quickly snuck out the side door so as not to disgruntle the Troll again.

Just like that. Easy.

Telling this story later to my host-sister E~, she said, “Wow. You’re work like a Senegalese person now.” Yikes. Come December 31, 2010, though, I know how to navigate this bureaucratic mess again. Step 1: head to Dakar…


As an aside, I spent a lovely 36 hours in Kaolack. Post-adventure, M~ and I visited the local artisanal market and spent the rest of the day catching up in a restaurant. Nice.

I've gotten good at SST (Senegalese Standard Time)

IST is over and I’ve been back at site for almost a week. I’m once again relieved to be “home,” breathing the clean air (pollution-free, but a little dusty), sleeping in my own bed. There is still some residual motivation and optimism from my training. The sense of overwhelming isolation and simple goddamn heat just knock a lot out of me, but there is work to do!

Anyway, some funny things from the last few days:

I. No matter how right you are, if you are a young, toubab (white) girl, you are always wrong. To get back to site last week, I rented a car with a couple of other volunteers. It’s a much more expensive alternative to public transport; but with a month’s worth of luggage, it was an attractive solution to getting home.

The only problem was that the car’s owner refused to take the route I laid out, swearing the paved road was a safer bet than the red bush-road for the last leg of the trip. Except that I actually live here now and I know that the paved road is a wreck, utterly beat up and potholed. What should be a 25-minute ride takes an hour and a half because the cars are forced to slow down and navigate the trenches. The bush-road, on the other hand, is in fine condition this side of the rainy season.

But having three counts against me (my age, gender and skin color), I couldn’t possibly be right. We took the paved road. The driver, unlike his boss, had never even heard of my port town; would you believe he was asking me, “Are we there yet?” every half hour?! The trip to N~ ultimately took an excruciating 3 hours. And topping off the day’s adventures in transport, I then had to wait 2 hours for the next pirogue. When I bitch about being isolated in spite of being this close to Dakar, you can understand what I mean.

II. On Saturday I went to buy some milk powder and laundry soap.

En route I

a) scared a donkey (hysterical), and

b) saw a charette with a sign reading “Hitler – Mar Salou – 1933-45” (uncomfortable and weird).

Ah, Senegal. You never cease to confuse the hell out of me.

III. File this under the List of Things You Probably Didn’t Want to Know About Your Food Before Eating It:

Ndambe is a bean dish made with onions and spicy red sauce. Wander around any village or neighborhood any morning of the week and you’ll eventually find at least one woman selling homemade ndambe out of a large, shallow bowl. If you’re lucky, you’ll get your ndambe on tapalapa (village bread, as opposed to industrially produced crap) and the vendor might add in kane (hot sauce) or homemade mayonnaise or hardboiled egg. Some families eat ndambe as an evening meal, over rice or millet couscous, often with bread to ensure that you have an overdose of carbohydrates equal to the unusual quantity of protein in the dish. Ndambe is one of the few tricks of Senegalese cuisine worth bringing home. (We’ve already discussed introducing bean sandwiches to the American breakfast diet; it’s our post-service business plan.)

As ubiquitous as bean sandwich ladies are, my family in ML~ doesn’t eat ndambe –or beans in any form – all that often. So when I saw a plate of beans (black-eyed peas, I think) out in the sun the other day, I got excited. Hoping to subtly relay my enthusiasm through overeager curiosity, I asked E~ why she’d put the beans out in the sun, if that was an integral part of the cooking process.

Well, she replied, she’d been storing those beans just a little too long and des petites bêtes (read: insects) had gone and eaten holes into every last been. Placing the metal plate out in the hot sun forced the bugs to crawl out of the beans and die. A quick look confirmed the fact: tiny black bugs were withering next to the precious black-eyed peas. Seeing my face turn what I can only assume was a disconcerting shade of green, she added, “All good beans have bugs. That’s how you know they’re good.”

…

That night we ate ndambe with shrimp, using tapalapa in lieu of utensils. It was one of the best meals I’ve had in 7 months, petites bêtes notwithstanding.

III. b)

And here is how wext (dried sea urchin, I think?) is prepared:

Dried, chopped and salted to keep away the flies, on a cinder-block in the middle of the compound.