Like most vehicles I saw in Senegal, both the odometer and speedometer had been disconnected, with the last recorded mileage at 585,549 kilometers. Our vehicle for the first leg of our two-day trip to Kolda
was hired at the garage of Pompier in Dakar. Garage would imply a structure, but this was an open-air trip marketplace where one seeks out a driver going to one’s destination, and then sits in the Renault until it fills with seven passengers (plus children on laps, who ride free). How to make friends with fellow passengers at Pompier? Do what we did, and purchase all the remaining seats, (in our case three extra) and the now-fully bought car leaves right away. Is the driver pleased? No. He’s paid extra for the baggage, which is tied to the roof. So with only two bags for five places sold, he’s grumpy. Cost per seat for the 500 kilometer trip: about $20.
One of our fellow passengers was a Senegalese teacher-trainer who was heading out to the provinces. The other was a young man of uncertain nationality reading a book by the Dalai Lama in Spanish. French was our common language, though the Afro-pop on the radio drowned out much conversation. After an hour or so the music became less noticeable. Outside of Dakar the dry-scrub countryside of Senegal north of the Gambia River was visible in the form of flat, dry land punctuated by baobab trees. Animal life consisted of free
-range donkeys, cows, sheep, goats and chickens as we passed through villages. A few vultures circle high overhead or roost in the larger trees. A pair of disturbingly large monkeys streak across a field as the traffic passes. The excitement of the day is provided by the condition of the road, the main paved route north of the Gambia River between Dakar and Tambacounda, the midpoint in our journey, where we will spend a night. Potholes of all shapes and depths appear at fairly regular intervals. The driver prefers not to slow down, but to play an elaborate game of chicken for several hours. He calculates the shortest, flattest route around the trucks, bikes, donkey carts called charettes, pedestrians, livestock and deep potholes. Sometimes it’s quickest to two-wheel it onto the dirt shoulder; others it’s best to plunge ahead. “I don’t look, Mom,” advises Katie from the back seat.
It’s hot, dry, dusty. The heat and sun are mitigated by the black muslim curtains hung around the back and side windows of the Renault. Sleep is possible, and then there is the PCV solution: an I-Pod filled with NPR podcasts. I catch up on “Fresh Air” and “Feakonomics.” Katie’s alone in the far back seat, enjoying videos via her hidden Netbook with earphones. Best not to flash electronics around. We arrive in eight hours.
We head to the Hotel Niji, the best in town. The restaurant and pool area are simple and pleasant, though the rooms upstairs have the look of a third-world fugitive’s safehouse. Outside groups of Talibe (TA-lee-bay) boys hunt for alms with their yellow margarine-tub begging bowls.
Poor families give their sons—ages seven through fourteen—to men who will feed and instruct them in Islam. Part of their work is to beg much of the day, usually in cities far from their families. Katie gives them food, never money. When I later inquire about the potential for abuse I’m told it is a choice made by families who cannot feed their sons.
We hunt for a cab the next morning, and they are suspiciously absent from the dirt streets. We take a horse-drawn charette to the Tambacounda garage and learn the problem.
Drivers are striking to protest the $8 a gallon fuel cost, which has recently risen. No cars to Katie’s village can be hired that day. Rocks are being thrown at drivers on the roads. We’re back at the Niji for another 24 hours. There is nothing to do, see or buy in dusty Tambacounda. Here again, technology saves the day. I continue my reading of the Steve Jobs biography on my I-Pad, and then watch the entire season of “Homeland” on Katie’s Netbook.
The following day we are successful—Katie pulls strings to hire a small pick-up truck, with a pleasant, less-aggressive driver. I don’t mind the second-hand Marlboro smoke, as it serves to mask a mix of other smells. Katie is then asked the usual question: “Have a husband?” And she gives her usual reply, “No. But my father wants 50 cows for me.” She’s too costly for our driver; a typical dowry is the value of one cow. Our trip is uneventful, and then we are flagged down by a man in military uniform. Should I be worried? No. It’s the “bush mail” system at work. The soldier needs a package dropped off some 20 minutes drive down the road. He doesn’t know the driver, but trusts it will be delivered, and it is. After three hours and 100 kilometers we arrive in Sare Sara, Katie’s village. What follows could be called “Friends: the PCV Episode.” We are met by Sharon and Dave, PC colleagues who live relatively nearby.
They’ve biked over to welcome us and catch up on PC gossip. The Kolda region’s PCVs seem to have an admirable support system, facilitated by cell phone connectivity, a comfortable regional house and frequent bike trips. We share lunch, made by Khady Diamanka, the mother in Katie’s host family. It’s fried fish balls over rice, with an excellent brown sauce. As we’re guests we get large spoons (vs. hands), but otherwise eat Senegal-style, seated on a mat and sharing a large aluminum pan. Etiquette requires no use of the left hand, and sticking to one’s own roughly defined section of the bowl. Also, conversation during the process of eating is frowned upon. One eats and then conversation recommences. All future lunches and dinners will be a variant on this formula. Rice, or pounded millet or corn meal fills the bowl. Then fish, chicken, or peanut sauce is placed on top.
I’ve reflected on my visit to Sare Sara, on what life is like for those who live on a few dollars a day. What I saw were strong extended families, and women who work from dawn to the moonlit nights. It’s said that babies are carried “a year in front; two in back,” and this is true. Infants are nursed on demand for two years, and are usually wrapped around their mother’s or aunt’s or sister’s back with two rectangular lengths of cloth. That constant connection makes them quite content. Once they are two-year-old walkers their independence begins. Except for a daily bath, which involves vigorous scrubbing by mom, they are free, and are expected to entertain themselves with friends, sibs and the free-range livestock. Cooking fires, well openings, animal droppings, road traffic and other hazards seem to be avoided with little maternal intervention. Mom is pounding grain, killing a chicken, scaling fish, hand washing garments, shelling peanuts, planting a garden, or harvesting hibiscus flowers, and has no time to hover.
Omar Diamanka, Katie’s host dad, is a local mover, fixer, entrepreneur and café owner.
From dawn to evening he’s running his roadside café, serving breakfast of peppery bean-paste on bread and tea, or fruit slices at mid-day, to travelers, mostly truckers. Many other men in the village seem to be less gainfully employed, and are found conversing at the mosque, or outside Café Omar. Early January is neither planting nor harvest season, so there’s less work for the men.
What there is always time for is greeting, and here I see Katie’s (aka Koumba) popularity. “Koumba!” is called from all sides as we enter a family compound. I was taught various greetings appropriate for the time of day: “A fini” or “Jarama” and then the all-purpose “Jamtan.” My mix-ups are cause for giggles. Everyone shakes hands, and looks you straight in the eye—it’s endearing, not formal. Omar has christened me “Hawa Kunde,” his mother’s name, and I have the fun of being the “tokara” (TOK-ara) or namesake, of several “Hawas” in the village. This gains me bonus points during the meet ‘n’ greet festivities. I see that Katie is respected, valued and genuinely liked in Sare Sara. Her Pulaar is now advanced enough to encompass good-natured jokes and necessary bargaining.
I see Katie’s connection with the young mothers of the village while I help out at a monthly baby-weighing.
The scale is hung in the branch of a mango tree, and Katie records the little squirmers’ weights, checking them against a standard growth chart.
My assistance involves taking photographs of the mothers with their infants. Later Katie will use the pictures as an incentive for future weighings.
Meanwhile many women have gathered to process hibiscus-flower heads that were harvested that day. I assist with the stripping of the fleshy red leaves (to make bisap tea) and saving of the seed-heads. My competence here pleasantly surprises some. We return to Katie’s home compound for a daily afternoon rest, reading time and the daily bucket bath. Dinner is late, after sunset.
After dinner around the fire we sat on low stools or a woven bench and enjoyed the peace and the moonlight. The women are finally at rest, their work over. There is no television or radio, no bills to pay, nothing to fix, no email to read, no preparations for the next day. The serenity of those nights of fireside conversation remains with me. I see why my daughter loves Africa.
