Man, where does the time go?
It seemed like only yesterday that my international frolicking (as one friend put it) was the only life I knew and would know. And in the blink of an eye, here I am in an apartment in Metro Atlanta, getting ready to teach 25 4th graders. So much has happened so quickly and I am suffering an identity crisis as a result. The me who I was not a few months ago seems to longer exist and as I read through blogposts and journal entries, I struggle at times to connect with that person. I go back and forth between just moving on and trying to hold on to memories that seem more and more and like those of somebody else.
A few moments before I began to type, I came to a decision that will put my soul at ease. I will do my best to hold on because the 10 months that I spent outside of this country have shaped me in more ways than I can wrap my mind around. I have a feeling that my decision wouldn't matter because the experience has already shaped me and will continue to shape me, regardless of whether I acknowledge it.
So the question is, what is your tangible next step, Chas? I'm glad you asked. I've got a bunch of blogposts saved up that may or may not make it to blogspot. I want to say yes, but once again, I have found myself in the position of having too many things to do and not enough time. That said, I probably will try to compile, in a hard copy, all of my blogposts, both digitally and longhand recorded. And to the more serious part of this project? Between now and Christmas, I will be translating and transcribing the interviews conducted and conversations had in the four countries I visited for my project. On top of that, I will be, in a more organized fashion, recording my observations and will turn in this final project to the Finley Fellowship Committee. Based on what I have, I really do feel I have the content for a great piece of work. It's all a matter of whether I have the ability to synthesize such a work. Only time will tell...
On top of all that, I will be compiling a photo album of global graffiti and other public art/writing which is to be tentatively titled: The Writing's on the Wall or The Writings on the Wall. I can't yet decide between the two, or if I want to use something completely different. Anyway, any suggestions you (to whom I am referring, I don't know as I think everyone who was reading this blogged has moved on) have would be warmly welcomed. I am hoping that I will have the content necessary for the book as my Mac's hard drive was corrupted and needed to be replaced and I have about 2000 pictures saved on a faulty hard drive. Keep your fingers crossed for me.
Faithfully,
Chas
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Magal
With that background, I was very excited to make the trip with Sam and his family to Touba, if for no other reason than to see what all of the hype was about. The week leading up to the event was madness as every other television advertisement had something to do with Touba and the Magal. Sam convinced me that I needed to be appropriately robed for the occasion and after a fair amount of prodding, I finally relented, buying a blue and black patterned outfit (a bou-bou) and sandals in the market downtown. When I tried the full outfit on back at the home of Sam's family, he nodded his approval, and called the rest of the family into his room for a look. "You are now ready for the Magal, brother."
I was also excited to make the trip to Touba because I felt it would help me to understand Sam better. This is not to say that he was a complete mystery, but he was certainly unique, compared to the rest of the members of his family (and everyone else I knew in Dakar). Above all (and relevant to this religious journey) he was the only one of his four brothers who did not pray regularly, and though we became close quite quickly, the area of religious practice was one in which I did not want to intrude so carelessly. Early on as I observed Sam, my initial conclusion was that perhaps he was not religious; however, his genuine enthusiasm for the journey to Touba suggested otherwise.
The trip to Touba (we journeyed first to Mbacke (the birthplace of Sheik Bamba), where Sam's extended family lives) was a spectacle itself. Starting several days before the Magal, a steady stream of Senegalese oozed out of Dakar, piling into (and on top of ) cars, taxis, car rapets, trucks and pretty much anything else with wheels. Six of us traveled in the most comfortable means of transportation possible--a taxi--and during the almost 8 hour journey to Touba we witnessed nearly two dozen accidents, seeing many of them in realtime as vehicles jumped across lanes and offroad in an effort to secure the quickest route to the holy city. In an almost continuous string from Dakar to Mbacke were women and children posted at the side of the road with nuts, oranges and other goods to sell to any who had an interest. I am happy (and thankful to God) that we arrived in Mbacke safely and without major incident.
The next morning we awoke early to make the second (and much shorter) leg of the journey to Touba. I had slept well, perhaps the only person of Sam's 30 relatives at the house that night to have a bed to myself. With only a couple hours having passed since the rising of the sun, it was surprisingly hot, which made my outdoor bucket shower quite pleasant, but made the 5 km journey to Touba a bit more difficult than expected (and pretty did away any good done by the shower). Fortunately we found a cab that would take us (I had to hide while Sam negotiated the price so that he could haggle), though in terms of how quickly we covered the distance, we may have been better off on foot. The streets were choked with everything from cars, bicyles, and motorbikes to sheep, goats, cows, bulls and chicken. As Touba was known as the biggest feast of the year, many of these animals had been groomed, destined for death over this weekend. I wondered if any of them knew, though not for too long as it instantly seemed like a silly question to have. We passed through a huge herd of livestock and stopped, caught once again in the gridlock that would seemingly never loosen up. A few cows stuck their noses curiously through my rolled down passenger-side window. "You have no idea what's coming for you," I said absent-mindedly as I nudged a few of the intruding snouts. Needless to say, the streets were quite a bit emptier as we made our exit a couple days later.
What greatly enhanced my experience in Touba (once we finally arrived) was that not only was I sharing the experience with Sam, but also a friend from college, Franciso, who, posted in the country's South (Sigur Shore) made a true pilgrimmage to make it to Touba in time for the Magal. If nothing else, having Francisco allowed me the comfort of sharing the experience with another Toubab. More than this comfort alone (as I can recognize in retrospect) it also hieghtened and sharpened my awareness and observations as every experience over the course of the 48 hours that we were both there became the object of thorough analysis and discussion.
Entering the famous mosque on the day of the Magal was an experience that I will not forget. The mosque at Touba is enormous and stunningly beautiful, especially by night. Intricately designed in its interior, the mosque is truly an architectual masterpeice. That said, the most surprising aspect of the entire experience was that as we neared the tomb of Sheik Amadou Bamba, we saw a line formed, being controlled by police officers with long, blunt clubs. Every so often, to keep order, an officer would walk up the line, swinging his club in a violent chopping motion. It was clear that most in the line had the wisdom (gained through experience) to get out of the club's path, though not everyone was so lucky as an unfortunate few got clipped. I remember exchanging a couple of glances with Cisco as we both tried to make sense of the chaos around us. We proceeded on and though Cisco and I were both content to remain outside of the Sheik Bamba's tomb (the most sacred part of the entire mosque), Sam pressed us forward, going as far as enlisting the support of an individual who appeared to have some connections with the authority as he herded the three of us past the line of individuals waiting in line and into the inner chambers of the mosque. Protected back a thick glass viewing wall, the innermost chamber, the tomb of Sheik Amadou Bamba, was beautifully ornate and a bookshelf on one of the walls held dozens of books. There at the glass wall, Sam and others knelt and prayed. At random intervals, individuals would rise, finished with their prayers, and throw money over the top of the wall, which would clang with a soft jingle on the floor around the coffin of Sheik Bamba. As Sam explained later, this money was collected at the end of the Magal and was used to provide for the people of Touba (in gratitude for their hospitality) until next year's Magal.
While Sam prayed, I bowed my head in an effort to be respectful (though I felt awkward and intruding) and said a prayer myself. The soft hum of prayers and jingle of coins was suddenly and loudly interrupted by a group of guards with whistles, shoving and grabbing people (mostly women) and roughly escorting them out of the chambers. It was hard to believe that this was actually happening in, what many would consider to be the holiest site in Senegal. Apparently, the reasoning for this procedure is the need to accommodate the many (thousands upon thousands) people outside of the mosque still waiting to pray. It took me a few minutes to understand the reasoning, though the implementation left a bad taste in my mouth that I couldn't get rid of. Amid the din of whistles, shouts, mumbled prayers and jingling coins, Sam finished his prayer, grabbed a pocketful of coins from his pants, threw them over the top and nodded--slyly slipping our connect a crumpled bill--signaling that it was time to go.
We made our way through the crowds trying to push their way into the mosque, collected our shoes (being held by a friend of Sam's outside of the mosque) and began walking. Almost before Cisco and I had an opportunity to exchange commentary on this latest experience, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge market (the biggest I had seen thus far), literally on the mosque's doorstep. It was truly enormous and it occurred to me at that moment that half the people who had oozed out of Dakar in the previous days had not gone for the mosque, but for the market. As much as I didn't want to be in the market right now (the novelty had worn off days before, while in Dakar) there was no avoiding it as it was in the middle of the best route back to where we were staying. Had it not been for the streets packed with merchants and consumers alike, I would have turned to Cisco and said something like, "Well, we wanted an experience and we got a full one." But the debriefing would have to wait until we got through the packed crowds, which fortunately, didn't take more than 20 minutes. My lasting image of Touba will, unfortunately, not be of the beautiful and ornate mosque; rather it will be the fading of the mosque's call to prayer, drowned out by the dozens of bullhorns weilded by the street vendors, their cramped stalls on the mosque's doorstep a reminder that even on the holiest of days, commerce reigns supreme in Senegal.
I was also excited to make the trip to Touba because I felt it would help me to understand Sam better. This is not to say that he was a complete mystery, but he was certainly unique, compared to the rest of the members of his family (and everyone else I knew in Dakar). Above all (and relevant to this religious journey) he was the only one of his four brothers who did not pray regularly, and though we became close quite quickly, the area of religious practice was one in which I did not want to intrude so carelessly. Early on as I observed Sam, my initial conclusion was that perhaps he was not religious; however, his genuine enthusiasm for the journey to Touba suggested otherwise.
The trip to Touba (we journeyed first to Mbacke (the birthplace of Sheik Bamba), where Sam's extended family lives) was a spectacle itself. Starting several days before the Magal, a steady stream of Senegalese oozed out of Dakar, piling into (and on top of ) cars, taxis, car rapets, trucks and pretty much anything else with wheels. Six of us traveled in the most comfortable means of transportation possible--a taxi--and during the almost 8 hour journey to Touba we witnessed nearly two dozen accidents, seeing many of them in realtime as vehicles jumped across lanes and offroad in an effort to secure the quickest route to the holy city. In an almost continuous string from Dakar to Mbacke were women and children posted at the side of the road with nuts, oranges and other goods to sell to any who had an interest. I am happy (and thankful to God) that we arrived in Mbacke safely and without major incident.
The next morning we awoke early to make the second (and much shorter) leg of the journey to Touba. I had slept well, perhaps the only person of Sam's 30 relatives at the house that night to have a bed to myself. With only a couple hours having passed since the rising of the sun, it was surprisingly hot, which made my outdoor bucket shower quite pleasant, but made the 5 km journey to Touba a bit more difficult than expected (and pretty did away any good done by the shower). Fortunately we found a cab that would take us (I had to hide while Sam negotiated the price so that he could haggle), though in terms of how quickly we covered the distance, we may have been better off on foot. The streets were choked with everything from cars, bicyles, and motorbikes to sheep, goats, cows, bulls and chicken. As Touba was known as the biggest feast of the year, many of these animals had been groomed, destined for death over this weekend. I wondered if any of them knew, though not for too long as it instantly seemed like a silly question to have. We passed through a huge herd of livestock and stopped, caught once again in the gridlock that would seemingly never loosen up. A few cows stuck their noses curiously through my rolled down passenger-side window. "You have no idea what's coming for you," I said absent-mindedly as I nudged a few of the intruding snouts. Needless to say, the streets were quite a bit emptier as we made our exit a couple days later.
What greatly enhanced my experience in Touba (once we finally arrived) was that not only was I sharing the experience with Sam, but also a friend from college, Franciso, who, posted in the country's South (Sigur Shore) made a true pilgrimmage to make it to Touba in time for the Magal. If nothing else, having Francisco allowed me the comfort of sharing the experience with another Toubab. More than this comfort alone (as I can recognize in retrospect) it also hieghtened and sharpened my awareness and observations as every experience over the course of the 48 hours that we were both there became the object of thorough analysis and discussion.
Entering the famous mosque on the day of the Magal was an experience that I will not forget. The mosque at Touba is enormous and stunningly beautiful, especially by night. Intricately designed in its interior, the mosque is truly an architectual masterpeice. That said, the most surprising aspect of the entire experience was that as we neared the tomb of Sheik Amadou Bamba, we saw a line formed, being controlled by police officers with long, blunt clubs. Every so often, to keep order, an officer would walk up the line, swinging his club in a violent chopping motion. It was clear that most in the line had the wisdom (gained through experience) to get out of the club's path, though not everyone was so lucky as an unfortunate few got clipped. I remember exchanging a couple of glances with Cisco as we both tried to make sense of the chaos around us. We proceeded on and though Cisco and I were both content to remain outside of the Sheik Bamba's tomb (the most sacred part of the entire mosque), Sam pressed us forward, going as far as enlisting the support of an individual who appeared to have some connections with the authority as he herded the three of us past the line of individuals waiting in line and into the inner chambers of the mosque. Protected back a thick glass viewing wall, the innermost chamber, the tomb of Sheik Amadou Bamba, was beautifully ornate and a bookshelf on one of the walls held dozens of books. There at the glass wall, Sam and others knelt and prayed. At random intervals, individuals would rise, finished with their prayers, and throw money over the top of the wall, which would clang with a soft jingle on the floor around the coffin of Sheik Bamba. As Sam explained later, this money was collected at the end of the Magal and was used to provide for the people of Touba (in gratitude for their hospitality) until next year's Magal.
While Sam prayed, I bowed my head in an effort to be respectful (though I felt awkward and intruding) and said a prayer myself. The soft hum of prayers and jingle of coins was suddenly and loudly interrupted by a group of guards with whistles, shoving and grabbing people (mostly women) and roughly escorting them out of the chambers. It was hard to believe that this was actually happening in, what many would consider to be the holiest site in Senegal. Apparently, the reasoning for this procedure is the need to accommodate the many (thousands upon thousands) people outside of the mosque still waiting to pray. It took me a few minutes to understand the reasoning, though the implementation left a bad taste in my mouth that I couldn't get rid of. Amid the din of whistles, shouts, mumbled prayers and jingling coins, Sam finished his prayer, grabbed a pocketful of coins from his pants, threw them over the top and nodded--slyly slipping our connect a crumpled bill--signaling that it was time to go.
We made our way through the crowds trying to push their way into the mosque, collected our shoes (being held by a friend of Sam's outside of the mosque) and began walking. Almost before Cisco and I had an opportunity to exchange commentary on this latest experience, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge market (the biggest I had seen thus far), literally on the mosque's doorstep. It was truly enormous and it occurred to me at that moment that half the people who had oozed out of Dakar in the previous days had not gone for the mosque, but for the market. As much as I didn't want to be in the market right now (the novelty had worn off days before, while in Dakar) there was no avoiding it as it was in the middle of the best route back to where we were staying. Had it not been for the streets packed with merchants and consumers alike, I would have turned to Cisco and said something like, "Well, we wanted an experience and we got a full one." But the debriefing would have to wait until we got through the packed crowds, which fortunately, didn't take more than 20 minutes. My lasting image of Touba will, unfortunately, not be of the beautiful and ornate mosque; rather it will be the fading of the mosque's call to prayer, drowned out by the dozens of bullhorns weilded by the street vendors, their cramped stalls on the mosque's doorstep a reminder that even on the holiest of days, commerce reigns supreme in Senegal.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Touba and the Magal: A bit of history
As fate would have it, I found myself in Senegal for the annual Magal, perhaps the biggest event in a single year for the vast majority of Senegalese. Specifically, the pilgrimmage is a holy one for Mourides, an order of Sufi Islam that was founded in Senegal at the end of the 19th century. For me, this was an incredible opportunity, primarily because it allowed me to gain a better understanding of the Senegal's history, culture and traditions. To give the reader a bit of background, I will give a brief breakdown of said history, though I would encourage everyone reading to follow-up independly as my perspective and account, quite obviously, cannot capture history in its proper fullness.
The Magal is an annual pilgrimmage to the tomb of the most holy prophet and founder of the Mouride Islam, Sheik Amadou Bamba. According to history and legend, Sheik Bamba gained particular recognition and reknown not as much with the founding of the Mouride branch of Islam, which emphasizes exercising one's spirituality through dedicated work, but when French colonization in Senegal took root. As religious cheifs and clerics were either overpowered or bought by France's brand of colonialism, Bamba held fast. His steadfastness in the face of the colonizing power impressed and inspired many Senegalese, winning Bamba and his new brand of Islam many followers. The French, recognizing his sway over the people, as well as the vast number of followers he had accumulated (some say, enough to raise a formidable army against the French forces), chose to exile Bamba, as they figured removing the religion's figurehead would diminish the threat and crush his influence.
According to legend (as well as individual accounts) in the 10 years that he was in exile, the French made several attempts to break Bamba, both spiritually , as well as physically; in one particular instance that is well known by almost all Senegalese, the French tried to break prayer tradition by shackling Bamba aboard a ship to Gabon. However, when it came time to pray, Bamba broke free from his shackles, flung his prayer rug upon the ocean's top--where it stayed afloat-- and then prayed upon it. In another well-cited occurrence, Bamba's captors placed him in a cell with a lion who had not eaten for days and when they checked his cell moments later, the lion was content at Bamba's feet. There are many more examples and accounts along these same lines.
Eventually, the French realized that Bamba could not be broken and returned him to his people, where his reputation (and the religion's influence) continued to grow, now faster than ever. While it was clear that Bamba's will was unshakable, the French realized that he could be won over by other means; it may be more accurate to say that the French realized that there was room for compromise. Bamba's resistance (and preaching of such) was not against the physical and economic yoke of colonialism as much as it was a spiritual resistance. In one of my friends' words, recognizing that the most important thing in life is one's relationship with God, Bamba's concern was not so much physical, economic or political as it was spiritual. The greatest and most important form of resistance according to this belief, was a spiritual resistance; beyond this, the importance of everything else was marginal. As such, the French agreed to give Bamba and his followers a piece of land (Touba) adjacent to his place of birth (Mbacke) that would be dedicated to his religion and in exchange, Bamba would not expressly work against the French cause. This pact manifested itself in many ways, most notably (at least in my research) in Bamba's call to followers and Senegalese to fight for Allied forces in World War I. When he eventually died, Bamba was laid to rest in his mosque in Touba, today the largest Mosque in West Africa. During the annual Magal, Mourides (and muslims from all over the world) come together to pray at Bamba's tomb.
A little slice of history for some context.
The Magal is an annual pilgrimmage to the tomb of the most holy prophet and founder of the Mouride Islam, Sheik Amadou Bamba. According to history and legend, Sheik Bamba gained particular recognition and reknown not as much with the founding of the Mouride branch of Islam, which emphasizes exercising one's spirituality through dedicated work, but when French colonization in Senegal took root. As religious cheifs and clerics were either overpowered or bought by France's brand of colonialism, Bamba held fast. His steadfastness in the face of the colonizing power impressed and inspired many Senegalese, winning Bamba and his new brand of Islam many followers. The French, recognizing his sway over the people, as well as the vast number of followers he had accumulated (some say, enough to raise a formidable army against the French forces), chose to exile Bamba, as they figured removing the religion's figurehead would diminish the threat and crush his influence.
According to legend (as well as individual accounts) in the 10 years that he was in exile, the French made several attempts to break Bamba, both spiritually , as well as physically; in one particular instance that is well known by almost all Senegalese, the French tried to break prayer tradition by shackling Bamba aboard a ship to Gabon. However, when it came time to pray, Bamba broke free from his shackles, flung his prayer rug upon the ocean's top--where it stayed afloat-- and then prayed upon it. In another well-cited occurrence, Bamba's captors placed him in a cell with a lion who had not eaten for days and when they checked his cell moments later, the lion was content at Bamba's feet. There are many more examples and accounts along these same lines.
Eventually, the French realized that Bamba could not be broken and returned him to his people, where his reputation (and the religion's influence) continued to grow, now faster than ever. While it was clear that Bamba's will was unshakable, the French realized that he could be won over by other means; it may be more accurate to say that the French realized that there was room for compromise. Bamba's resistance (and preaching of such) was not against the physical and economic yoke of colonialism as much as it was a spiritual resistance. In one of my friends' words, recognizing that the most important thing in life is one's relationship with God, Bamba's concern was not so much physical, economic or political as it was spiritual. The greatest and most important form of resistance according to this belief, was a spiritual resistance; beyond this, the importance of everything else was marginal. As such, the French agreed to give Bamba and his followers a piece of land (Touba) adjacent to his place of birth (Mbacke) that would be dedicated to his religion and in exchange, Bamba would not expressly work against the French cause. This pact manifested itself in many ways, most notably (at least in my research) in Bamba's call to followers and Senegalese to fight for Allied forces in World War I. When he eventually died, Bamba was laid to rest in his mosque in Touba, today the largest Mosque in West Africa. During the annual Magal, Mourides (and muslims from all over the world) come together to pray at Bamba's tomb.
A little slice of history for some context.
Friday, April 18, 2008
He Lives!
I'm sure none of you worried too much, but I just wanted to let you all know that I have made it to South Africa safely and, thanks to the hospitality of one James (Jimmy) Collins, I have a roof over my head in Johannesburg.
I won't say I'm "back with a vengeance," as those have proven to be the famous last words before a long hiatus, but I'm once again inspired to write a bit about what I've done and seen over the past month.
Definitely check out the "Perspectives on Senegalese Education" (right before this one) as well as upcoming posts on Touba, my odyssey (shared with Dam Ogunnaike) to Timbuktu and for those who are tired of reading, "30 Days in Pictures."
Some pretty incredible things have gone down over the past month or so. I don't think you will be disappointed.
Much love,
Chas
A Poorly Fitting Shirt: Perspectives on Senegalese Primary Education, Volume 1
I learned a lot from my research experience in Salvador (Brasil) and arriving in Senegal, my second research destination, I was very much looking forward to an early start on school visits, observations and teacher interviews. As my good luck would have it (and thanks to Godbrother Sam), bright and early, the day after I arrived (by night), I was visiting schools.
As you may or not remember from previous posts on Senegal (it has been a little while), Dakar is dusty, close to being the dustiest place on earth (maybe I'm exaggerating a bit) and your typical school is not immune to this affliction. The typical primary school in Dakar will have a wall surrounding its premises (and depending where you are, this wall will be in varying stages of disrepair) with an interior courtyard of dust and a school building which is most often a single-story, sprawling, open-air structure. With Sam's help both in finding teachers (his YMCA membership card operated like the key to the city...or school) as well as translating (in the cases where teachers did not speak English), I was able to conduct 3 interviews at 3 different schools on my first full day in Dakar. Not bad, if I do say so myself.
Perhaps the most interesting conversation of that first day was with the Director of the Infants' School at the YMCA. A former teacher for many years before being appointed to her current position, she offered a very interesting perspective as someone who had seen changes and improvements to Senegal's system of primary education, both as a teacher and as an administrator. The most interesting comment that she made was one for which I was ill-prepared as she introduced the issue of Senegal's continued use of the French (former colonizers) model of education. Prior to the conversation, I was aware of the French influence in many things Senegalese, though I did not do a great deal of research on the impact of this influence.
"Let's say," she began, "that you want to give me a nice shirt from the U.S." She paused and smiled, wanting to be sure that I understood what she was saying (though accented, her English was very good. I remember thinking to myself at that moment whether her reference to this "gift" was some sort of ploy for me to give her something in exchange for the interview). I smiled back and let her continue.
"But you see, our sizes and shapes are different." With this she sat up straight in her seat, as if to be make clear the difference in our sizes. "But it's no matter. You give me the shirt and I wear it, though it is clear that it does not fit me." She emphasized the last word with a thumb pointing at her chest. "This is what our system of education is like, currently. The French style of education is great, but it does not fit us nor does it fit our culture. We are Senegalese, not French."
The close to the analogy was a powerful one and over the next few minutes she explained the ways in which the French model of education made education (beginning in the primary stages) inaccessible to many Senegalese youth, particularly as a result of language (food for another post) and curricular organization. In specific reference to the latter impediment to education, the Director admitted that as much as she understood the importance of a broad curriculum, she believed it important for the breadth to be narrowed (as well as more focused), greater depth emphasized in certain areas (particular in language and mathematics) and for vocational skills to be included as part of a more holistic educational "package."
"As I said before," she continued, wrapping up the subject, "there are many great things about the French model of education. But we are not French and for many of these children, the French reality will not be their reality."
Monday, March 31, 2008
Goree Island (Race Matters, Volume 3)
Preparing myself for Goree, I kenw that my sentiments would be far from "happily ever after," though I hoped some sort of internal reconciliation would be possible.
We arrived at the port and I immediately I took notice of the usual suspects. In one group I saw the crunchy white people, dreadlocked and rugged, drawn to the attraction of Goree in an effort to connect with and understand the island, a symbol of historical oppression and human suffering. In another, white European tourists, in Dakar no doubt to see the major tourist sites and it just so happened that one of them is a famous slave port. Africans, (mostly Senegalese) for many of whom the trip is kind of like my elementary and highschool trips to Ellis Island. OK, not quite. More like Gettysburg or Jamestown, perhaps. Anyway, you get my drift. The token Asian tourists made an appearance as well, of course. And then there was me.
Looking around, I gathered that I was the only Black American around (an unfair assessment for all of the reasons that I am sometimes discounted from the consideration of others) and without realizing it (and somewhat involuntarily), my curiosity of the others turned into an almost despising scrutiny. Boarding the vessel that would be commandeered the short distance to Goree, all around me were smiles, laughing and picture taking. My mind began to rage.
What are you all smiling and laughing about? I wanted to walk around and ask people if they thought that this was going to be a fun trip. I wanted to ask them if they understood that to thousands and perhaps millions, the short trip that we were about to make meant for them either death or that they would never see home again. I held back (those of you who know me know that I am not that confrontational), though my mind was spinning. Looking around, I saw Senegalese, entertaining different groups of tourists with maraca-sounding instruments (two baseball sized orbs with beads inside of them). The tourists loved it, asking for more. I turned to Sam, who I hoped could be my outlet. But he was in a world of his own, fully enjoying his new iPod (he had done this trip many times before).
With no one to talk to you I fumed, silently, peering over the rails and into the green-blue water. Had I had my way, the boat would be silent. Well, maybe not silent, but not so damn festive. Shit, they even could have had a guide on the boat giving all of the tourists some history and perspective so that we could better understand the global significance of the slave trade in West Africa, and Goree's place in the grander scheme. I would have appreciated that. Instead, it felt like we were on our way to a theme park.
My difficulty (which I recognized better when we arrived and had spent some time in Goree) was not understanding that Goree had moved on. Though in actuality, I knew only outlines of the history of Goree Island (particularly it's significance in the trans-atlantic slave trade), I was not prepared for it to have moved on, for it to be a place of its own (not completely defined by the slave trade) in 2008. Like the open wound that it was as a keystone in the transatlantic slave trade for several centuries, I wanted it to remain as such, so that people (particularly Europeans) would not able to forget and would look upon it and feel shame. This is the closest that I can come to really articulating my thoughts and feelings at the time.
Understandably, to a handful of Senegalese (particularly those who live on the island) the business of tourism to Goree reigns supreme. That said, I found myself becoming gradually more annoyed and frustrated as Senegalese approached me, talking first of the signficance of Goree and then trying to sell some item, or asking a favor, usually prefaced with "my brother" or "can you help your brother/sister by..."
Symbolically, the visit to the slave quarters and dungeon was the most significant part of the experience (if anyone who reads this will be going to Dakar/Goree in the forseeable future, do let me know as I can put you in touch with a really good English-speaking guide). This was my first encounter with a slave port on the African continent, and as such it was a powerful moment. "The door of no return" was particularly haunting, as the ocean comes almost directly up to the door, where (according to our guide) smaller rowboats boats would briefly dock to pick up slaves to be transported to the larger ships to begin the Middle Passage. Those slaves who had died in the Goree dungeon or were perceived too weak or sick to make the trip to the Americas (and be productive) were frequently thrown out of this door to drown. The light emanating through the door and illuminating the otherwise dark slave chambers will be one of the most haunting images of this entire fellowship experience.
Exiting through the front entrance of the slave quarters, we left behind the only recognition of Goree's significance in the transatlantic slave trade, aside from a statue that stands right outside of the structure. The rest of the island is sparsely populated and business goes on as usual. Goree had moved on. I had to move on as well.
Sam and I explored the rest of the small island, snapping a few pictures (coming soon-ish) where appropriate and taking-in the experience. With the opportunity to stay on the island for several hours (we were meeting some friends who were coming on a later ferry) we split up and chilled a bit. Sandals in hand, I headed down to the water to collect a bit of the sea glass (quite plentiful on Goree) which littered the small beach. After a while I sat down. Burrowing my bare feet in the wet sand, I gazed at the island's coast, trying to sort my thoughts and wondering how many bodies had been thrown into the hungry and tireless ocean.
We arrived at the port and I immediately I took notice of the usual suspects. In one group I saw the crunchy white people, dreadlocked and rugged, drawn to the attraction of Goree in an effort to connect with and understand the island, a symbol of historical oppression and human suffering. In another, white European tourists, in Dakar no doubt to see the major tourist sites and it just so happened that one of them is a famous slave port. Africans, (mostly Senegalese) for many of whom the trip is kind of like my elementary and highschool trips to Ellis Island. OK, not quite. More like Gettysburg or Jamestown, perhaps. Anyway, you get my drift. The token Asian tourists made an appearance as well, of course. And then there was me.
Looking around, I gathered that I was the only Black American around (an unfair assessment for all of the reasons that I am sometimes discounted from the consideration of others) and without realizing it (and somewhat involuntarily), my curiosity of the others turned into an almost despising scrutiny. Boarding the vessel that would be commandeered the short distance to Goree, all around me were smiles, laughing and picture taking. My mind began to rage.
What are you all smiling and laughing about? I wanted to walk around and ask people if they thought that this was going to be a fun trip. I wanted to ask them if they understood that to thousands and perhaps millions, the short trip that we were about to make meant for them either death or that they would never see home again. I held back (those of you who know me know that I am not that confrontational), though my mind was spinning. Looking around, I saw Senegalese, entertaining different groups of tourists with maraca-sounding instruments (two baseball sized orbs with beads inside of them). The tourists loved it, asking for more. I turned to Sam, who I hoped could be my outlet. But he was in a world of his own, fully enjoying his new iPod (he had done this trip many times before).
With no one to talk to you I fumed, silently, peering over the rails and into the green-blue water. Had I had my way, the boat would be silent. Well, maybe not silent, but not so damn festive. Shit, they even could have had a guide on the boat giving all of the tourists some history and perspective so that we could better understand the global significance of the slave trade in West Africa, and Goree's place in the grander scheme. I would have appreciated that. Instead, it felt like we were on our way to a theme park.
My difficulty (which I recognized better when we arrived and had spent some time in Goree) was not understanding that Goree had moved on. Though in actuality, I knew only outlines of the history of Goree Island (particularly it's significance in the trans-atlantic slave trade), I was not prepared for it to have moved on, for it to be a place of its own (not completely defined by the slave trade) in 2008. Like the open wound that it was as a keystone in the transatlantic slave trade for several centuries, I wanted it to remain as such, so that people (particularly Europeans) would not able to forget and would look upon it and feel shame. This is the closest that I can come to really articulating my thoughts and feelings at the time.
Understandably, to a handful of Senegalese (particularly those who live on the island) the business of tourism to Goree reigns supreme. That said, I found myself becoming gradually more annoyed and frustrated as Senegalese approached me, talking first of the signficance of Goree and then trying to sell some item, or asking a favor, usually prefaced with "my brother" or "can you help your brother/sister by..."
Symbolically, the visit to the slave quarters and dungeon was the most significant part of the experience (if anyone who reads this will be going to Dakar/Goree in the forseeable future, do let me know as I can put you in touch with a really good English-speaking guide). This was my first encounter with a slave port on the African continent, and as such it was a powerful moment. "The door of no return" was particularly haunting, as the ocean comes almost directly up to the door, where (according to our guide) smaller rowboats boats would briefly dock to pick up slaves to be transported to the larger ships to begin the Middle Passage. Those slaves who had died in the Goree dungeon or were perceived too weak or sick to make the trip to the Americas (and be productive) were frequently thrown out of this door to drown. The light emanating through the door and illuminating the otherwise dark slave chambers will be one of the most haunting images of this entire fellowship experience.
Exiting through the front entrance of the slave quarters, we left behind the only recognition of Goree's significance in the transatlantic slave trade, aside from a statue that stands right outside of the structure. The rest of the island is sparsely populated and business goes on as usual. Goree had moved on. I had to move on as well.
Sam and I explored the rest of the small island, snapping a few pictures (coming soon-ish) where appropriate and taking-in the experience. With the opportunity to stay on the island for several hours (we were meeting some friends who were coming on a later ferry) we split up and chilled a bit. Sandals in hand, I headed down to the water to collect a bit of the sea glass (quite plentiful on Goree) which littered the small beach. After a while I sat down. Burrowing my bare feet in the wet sand, I gazed at the island's coast, trying to sort my thoughts and wondering how many bodies had been thrown into the hungry and tireless ocean.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Race Matters, Volume 2: My Whiteness
February 25th, 2008:
For the first time in my 23 year short life, I am white.
Let me explain.
Prior to my travel in Sub-Saharan Africa, I was warned by many friends (Black American and African alike) that on some level I would be stripped of my black identity. At the time, I acknowledged their caution intellectually, understanding that many Black Africans would see me as American before (or opposed to) "Black." Furthermore, I knew that in my case--as racially I have been an anomaly to many with whom I have interacted over the past 6 months--I would be particularly scrutinized, if not completely stripped. I was prepared, at least in my mind, for my romanticized vision of a Sub-Saharan Africa waiting for me with open arms to not exactly be the reality. All that said, I still held out hope for a connection.
Perhaps it was because I held out this hope that being called "white" blindsided me with such force.
To be fair, I was never actually referred to as "white," though language and attitudes in my direction suggested as much. The word I hear most frequently is "toubab," which is used for any different-looking foreigner, though there is a general understanding of it in reference to white people. (As a side note, this experience prepared me quite well for travel through other parts of West Africa such as Ghana, where the comparable word is "Obruni") Once I learned the meaning of this word that I heard so frequently around me I couldn't help but bristle. Sam quickly understood my dislike for the word and (at least from an American perspective) its implication and as a result stopped using it around me (though he never referred to me as such).
Having the opportunity to share my frustration with a friend (Francisco) who had similar experiences gave me a much needed outlet for my feelings, though it could only do so much. Having spent significantly more time in Senegal he had come to grips with--and come to understand--the word and gave his perspective, though we agreed on the irony of coming to Africa to be called "white."
Though for the most part it was kids who would point and shout "Toubab!" as I walked down the street (I would listen attentively in conversations amongst adults, waiting to hear the word (in reference to me) so I could give a dirty/sarcastic look) I found myself unable to just shake it off. Like being called "rich" in 5th grade by a white friend (which to me was synonymous with being called "white" as society as I knew it showed few examples of "black" and "wealth" going together), to being called "oreo" in 7th grade by a black friend (no explanation necessary) to being called "jewish" by my high school basketball coach (though I think that was more a term of endearment), "toubab" brings me back to the terrible days of my adolescence when I felt like my own racial identity was constantly being mistreated and violated.
But maybe I'm being overly sensitive.
After all, the word points out my difference from Senegalese and I am different. Moreover, I find that oftentimes, I am the one drawing the line of distinction, not the Senegalese whom I interact with on a daily basis. I find myself more and more frequently distinguishing myself from Senegalese (and in my mind, much of Sub-Saharan Africa) by embracing my Black American identity, an identity which they cannot share. On a superficial level, Senegalese hip- hop culture and other US cultural exports allow me to revel in this identity as in this context, these exports belong to me, not the Senegalese. I would wrap myself in a blanket, a feeling of cultural superiority; and though I knew it was wrong--on a number of levels really--it made me feel good.
And all the while I wanted to be embraced by Senegalese as "one of us." I wanted to have my cake and eat it too in a major way, and it took me a bit of time to realize how unreasonable this desire was as I was not prepared to make any steps of my own towards embracing Senegal (or Sub-Saharan Africa) as a part of my Diaspora.
If there is a turning point in the story (and I'm not sure if there actually is one) I would say that it came in the days leading up to my visit to Goree Island (Dakar's--and one of West Africa's-- most terrible and famous slave ports) talking to Alun, a friend of Sam's.
"This visit is important for you...it is important for us too, but it is very important for you." (He said it all in Wolof, but I have no idea how to write all that). I was moved by the statement because it captured both what we shared and didn't share. It acknowledged that slavery is a terrible part of our shared history, but at a certain point, we have to embrace our differences in order to figure out who we are. I will never have the legacy of direct African family or colonialism as a part of my personal history and many Africans will not have the legacy of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and American slavery as a part of theirs. But understanding our shared starting point, as Alun alluded to, is important for us both.
So I still separate myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, though in a different (and healthier) way than before, believing in my heart that there is something, deeper than I may ever be able to understand or articulate that we share. And I still hate to be called Toubab, though I am doing a better job to humor the kids with a smile, a wink or some English, hoping (though not holding my breath) that one day their eyes too will be opened to what we share, even if it is beyond either of our tangible conceptions.
For the first time in my 23 year short life, I am white.
Let me explain.
Prior to my travel in Sub-Saharan Africa, I was warned by many friends (Black American and African alike) that on some level I would be stripped of my black identity. At the time, I acknowledged their caution intellectually, understanding that many Black Africans would see me as American before (or opposed to) "Black." Furthermore, I knew that in my case--as racially I have been an anomaly to many with whom I have interacted over the past 6 months--I would be particularly scrutinized, if not completely stripped. I was prepared, at least in my mind, for my romanticized vision of a Sub-Saharan Africa waiting for me with open arms to not exactly be the reality. All that said, I still held out hope for a connection.
Perhaps it was because I held out this hope that being called "white" blindsided me with such force.
To be fair, I was never actually referred to as "white," though language and attitudes in my direction suggested as much. The word I hear most frequently is "toubab," which is used for any different-looking foreigner, though there is a general understanding of it in reference to white people. (As a side note, this experience prepared me quite well for travel through other parts of West Africa such as Ghana, where the comparable word is "Obruni") Once I learned the meaning of this word that I heard so frequently around me I couldn't help but bristle. Sam quickly understood my dislike for the word and (at least from an American perspective) its implication and as a result stopped using it around me (though he never referred to me as such).
Having the opportunity to share my frustration with a friend (Francisco) who had similar experiences gave me a much needed outlet for my feelings, though it could only do so much. Having spent significantly more time in Senegal he had come to grips with--and come to understand--the word and gave his perspective, though we agreed on the irony of coming to Africa to be called "white."
Though for the most part it was kids who would point and shout "Toubab!" as I walked down the street (I would listen attentively in conversations amongst adults, waiting to hear the word (in reference to me) so I could give a dirty/sarcastic look) I found myself unable to just shake it off. Like being called "rich" in 5th grade by a white friend (which to me was synonymous with being called "white" as society as I knew it showed few examples of "black" and "wealth" going together), to being called "oreo" in 7th grade by a black friend (no explanation necessary) to being called "jewish" by my high school basketball coach (though I think that was more a term of endearment), "toubab" brings me back to the terrible days of my adolescence when I felt like my own racial identity was constantly being mistreated and violated.
But maybe I'm being overly sensitive.
After all, the word points out my difference from Senegalese and I am different. Moreover, I find that oftentimes, I am the one drawing the line of distinction, not the Senegalese whom I interact with on a daily basis. I find myself more and more frequently distinguishing myself from Senegalese (and in my mind, much of Sub-Saharan Africa) by embracing my Black American identity, an identity which they cannot share. On a superficial level, Senegalese hip- hop culture and other US cultural exports allow me to revel in this identity as in this context, these exports belong to me, not the Senegalese. I would wrap myself in a blanket, a feeling of cultural superiority; and though I knew it was wrong--on a number of levels really--it made me feel good.
And all the while I wanted to be embraced by Senegalese as "one of us." I wanted to have my cake and eat it too in a major way, and it took me a bit of time to realize how unreasonable this desire was as I was not prepared to make any steps of my own towards embracing Senegal (or Sub-Saharan Africa) as a part of my Diaspora.
If there is a turning point in the story (and I'm not sure if there actually is one) I would say that it came in the days leading up to my visit to Goree Island (Dakar's--and one of West Africa's-- most terrible and famous slave ports) talking to Alun, a friend of Sam's.
"This visit is important for you...it is important for us too, but it is very important for you." (He said it all in Wolof, but I have no idea how to write all that). I was moved by the statement because it captured both what we shared and didn't share. It acknowledged that slavery is a terrible part of our shared history, but at a certain point, we have to embrace our differences in order to figure out who we are. I will never have the legacy of direct African family or colonialism as a part of my personal history and many Africans will not have the legacy of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and American slavery as a part of theirs. But understanding our shared starting point, as Alun alluded to, is important for us both.
So I still separate myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, though in a different (and healthier) way than before, believing in my heart that there is something, deeper than I may ever be able to understand or articulate that we share. And I still hate to be called Toubab, though I am doing a better job to humor the kids with a smile, a wink or some English, hoping (though not holding my breath) that one day their eyes too will be opened to what we share, even if it is beyond either of our tangible conceptions.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Exhausted...
I will make no excuses for my absence of late...if you are still checking the blog somewhat regularly then you must already be used to the herky-jerkiness of my posting. It goes without saying that you should have no fear: many updates (and there are a lot of them as I've got three countries to cover) are already recorded (longhand) and it's just a matter of getting enough time at a computer to actually to transfer the ink to the keyboard. (Sounds like excuses to me, Hamilton)
Also, so as not to continue apologizing for my lack of photos, since leaving Senegal, it has been impossible to find a computer that can handle my wonderful/monster mobile external hard drive (propse to LaCie...but only in the developed world where a 40G+ USB key can be handled) where all of my photos (aside from those taken the past two weeks) are housed. That said, to all the photo cravers...I think you will have to wait for the viewing en masse when I get back to the States in May. Trust me...it will be worth the wait.
In the meantime, I hustled for a card reader which (wait for it...) actually works! So in the coming weeks there will be both POSTS and PICTURES. I'm actually a bit excited myself...
I arrived in Gabarone (pronounced gHabaronEE) yesterday morning after traveling through the night from Accra to Jo'burg and boarding a flight here about an hour later. Thanks to God I am the same Chas with the exception of some longer hair, a beard and a few fewer pounds (or kilos, depending where you are; don't worry, the babay has been protected). I'm just a bit exhausted and think that all this movement is finally getting to me. There is so much more that I could (and should) write about life 'on the road' but exhausted is all I can come up with right now. I find that this exhaustion even infiltrates my daydreaming as thoughts of 'retirement,' 'settling down' and my 'golden years' have become quite romanticized for me. Boo hoo, Chas. Yes, I know. If you were here with me you would slap me across the face with the backhand (twice)and tell me to savour every second of these next two months because there is no telling if I'll ever get an opportunity like this again.
Trust me, I am and I know.
And before you feel the need to reprimand me further (two backhands were sufficient), let me say that the word exhaustion is coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. My journey thus far has been incredible and though much of it (as one might expect) has not gone according to my plan, I feel a supreme sense of satisfaction and happiness knowing that these things that I have done and seen, combined with the people that I have met (and gotten to re-meet) over these 6 months have so uniquely and positively impacted my life and I am a much better person for all of it.
So before I start to get nostalgic, I'm going to get some sleep. Because I am exhausted, but I've got a lot to do, see and write before it's all over.
Also, so as not to continue apologizing for my lack of photos, since leaving Senegal, it has been impossible to find a computer that can handle my wonderful/monster mobile external hard drive (propse to LaCie...but only in the developed world where a 40G+ USB key can be handled) where all of my photos (aside from those taken the past two weeks) are housed. That said, to all the photo cravers...I think you will have to wait for the viewing en masse when I get back to the States in May. Trust me...it will be worth the wait.
In the meantime, I hustled for a card reader which (wait for it...) actually works! So in the coming weeks there will be both POSTS and PICTURES. I'm actually a bit excited myself...
I arrived in Gabarone (pronounced gHabaronEE) yesterday morning after traveling through the night from Accra to Jo'burg and boarding a flight here about an hour later. Thanks to God I am the same Chas with the exception of some longer hair, a beard and a few fewer pounds (or kilos, depending where you are; don't worry, the babay has been protected). I'm just a bit exhausted and think that all this movement is finally getting to me. There is so much more that I could (and should) write about life 'on the road' but exhausted is all I can come up with right now. I find that this exhaustion even infiltrates my daydreaming as thoughts of 'retirement,' 'settling down' and my 'golden years' have become quite romanticized for me. Boo hoo, Chas. Yes, I know. If you were here with me you would slap me across the face with the backhand (twice)and tell me to savour every second of these next two months because there is no telling if I'll ever get an opportunity like this again.
Trust me, I am and I know.
And before you feel the need to reprimand me further (two backhands were sufficient), let me say that the word exhaustion is coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. My journey thus far has been incredible and though much of it (as one might expect) has not gone according to my plan, I feel a supreme sense of satisfaction and happiness knowing that these things that I have done and seen, combined with the people that I have met (and gotten to re-meet) over these 6 months have so uniquely and positively impacted my life and I am a much better person for all of it.
So before I start to get nostalgic, I'm going to get some sleep. Because I am exhausted, but I've got a lot to do, see and write before it's all over.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Race Matters, Volume 1: "Pour les femmes comment nous"
(Actual photo coming soon...)
The name of the product is 'Fair and Light' and is marketed with the french slogan, 'Pour les femmes comment nous' or in English, 'For girls like us.'
Even with all of the cultural adaptation that I've had to do here in Dakar--squat toilets, no toilet paper and all--this has been the most shocking aspect of my experience here. A couple of days after I saw the first billboard (and these billboards are all over the city, second only to the ads for Winston cigarettes...more on that later), I saw the 'Fair and Light' commercial which showed a pouting woman who magically turned into a smiling (lighter-skinned) beauty as soon as she applied the cream.
My first reaction was shock, followed by a moment of tolerance, and finally outrage and disgust.
I felt like I was in some sort of time warp as (perhaps I've been living under a rock) I haven't heard about skin lightening/bleaching products since the Jim Crow days.
(In fact, I can't even remember skin-bleaching products being around the US then, though I'm sure they were. My mind keeps on returning to the part in the Autobiography of Malcolm X where the 'conk' is referenced and the connection between a caucasian-inspired hairstyle and 'cool' is established).
Granted that's US culture (and there probably are skin lightening and bleaching products still out there), but I figured the same principle--that history had left skin-bleaching behind--would apply for Africa, perhaps even more so because, well, because it's Africa. Yes, I know that I cannot legitimately make such a broad statement about such a large and diverse continent; that said, in my romanticized picture of Dakar, Senegal and Africa, skin bleaching just did not seem to make sense. Afterall, (sub-Saharan) Africa was supposed to be the place where color was different because everyone is black and that's what makes black beautiful. I knew that in the US, colorisms (the paperbag, lightskinned, darkskinned etc.) were alive and well. My naive self had no idea that a color hierarchy existed in Africa.
I realized that perhaps my initial sentiments needed a history lesson. Afterall, Africa was only recently released from the shackles of formal colonization, and how coud I, a black American, really understand the emotional and psychological impact of another group of people owning and controlling the affairs of my nation, especially (in specific reference to the current discussion) if the major unifying characteristic of those people was their lighter skin? Somewhere in my head, processing this commercial, I struggled to understand the people (both men and women use this skin-bleaching cream, though it is used much more openly by women) who wanted their skin to be lighter.
Among the many things that globalization and colonization has brought is that lighter, brighter and whiter is actually more beautiful than what is dark. (Making this statement, I have the image of all of the US-based TV shows, citcoms and movies that are hugely popular here in Dakar and, I imagine, other parts of the continent). In the commercial, this principle is reinforced as the newly 'lightened' woman gets more attention from guys as well as is more successful at her job. The message that the commercial (which is about 2 minutes long) sends is quite clear: not only is lighter more beautiful; it is superior.
It was about at that point in the commercial that my attempt at understanding, turned to frustration and a quiet outrage (I was alone so I couldn't exactly voice my feelings to anyone). There is a lot of talk about why African countries have trouble dealing with social, economic and political problems, but how often is the focus on the psychological damage that has been done as a result of centuries of physical, social, economic and political oppression at the hands of the rest of the world (namely Europe)? To me, the presence, popularity and public advertising of skin-bleaching cream speaks to a problem deeper than what most forms of aid can touch.
There is so much more to be said, but I am afraid that if I continue further I will soon be talking out of my ass, so I will leave you with that. I would love to hear your perspective, though I imagine that this thread for me is nowhere near its end.
My first reaction was shock, followed by a moment of tolerance, and finally outrage and disgust.
I felt like I was in some sort of time warp as (perhaps I've been living under a rock) I haven't heard about skin lightening/bleaching products since the Jim Crow days.
(In fact, I can't even remember skin-bleaching products being around the US then, though I'm sure they were. My mind keeps on returning to the part in the Autobiography of Malcolm X where the 'conk' is referenced and the connection between a caucasian-inspired hairstyle and 'cool' is established).
Granted that's US culture (and there probably are skin lightening and bleaching products still out there), but I figured the same principle--that history had left skin-bleaching behind--would apply for Africa, perhaps even more so because, well, because it's Africa. Yes, I know that I cannot legitimately make such a broad statement about such a large and diverse continent; that said, in my romanticized picture of Dakar, Senegal and Africa, skin bleaching just did not seem to make sense. Afterall, (sub-Saharan) Africa was supposed to be the place where color was different because everyone is black and that's what makes black beautiful. I knew that in the US, colorisms (the paperbag, lightskinned, darkskinned etc.) were alive and well. My naive self had no idea that a color hierarchy existed in Africa.
I realized that perhaps my initial sentiments needed a history lesson. Afterall, Africa was only recently released from the shackles of formal colonization, and how coud I, a black American, really understand the emotional and psychological impact of another group of people owning and controlling the affairs of my nation, especially (in specific reference to the current discussion) if the major unifying characteristic of those people was their lighter skin? Somewhere in my head, processing this commercial, I struggled to understand the people (both men and women use this skin-bleaching cream, though it is used much more openly by women) who wanted their skin to be lighter.
Among the many things that globalization and colonization has brought is that lighter, brighter and whiter is actually more beautiful than what is dark. (Making this statement, I have the image of all of the US-based TV shows, citcoms and movies that are hugely popular here in Dakar and, I imagine, other parts of the continent). In the commercial, this principle is reinforced as the newly 'lightened' woman gets more attention from guys as well as is more successful at her job. The message that the commercial (which is about 2 minutes long) sends is quite clear: not only is lighter more beautiful; it is superior.
It was about at that point in the commercial that my attempt at understanding, turned to frustration and a quiet outrage (I was alone so I couldn't exactly voice my feelings to anyone). There is a lot of talk about why African countries have trouble dealing with social, economic and political problems, but how often is the focus on the psychological damage that has been done as a result of centuries of physical, social, economic and political oppression at the hands of the rest of the world (namely Europe)? To me, the presence, popularity and public advertising of skin-bleaching cream speaks to a problem deeper than what most forms of aid can touch.
There is so much more to be said, but I am afraid that if I continue further I will soon be talking out of my ass, so I will leave you with that. I would love to hear your perspective, though I imagine that this thread for me is nowhere near its end.
A Few Things You Should Know About Dakar...
A list I put together for anyone traveling or thinking about traveling to Dakar:
1. NO TOILET PAPER: This is some general information on traveling in Sub-Saharan Africa, though if Dakar is your first stop, here is where you will learn. Instead of t.p. people use water. Definitely something to adjust to, though it will get you clean if you do the work. If you are going to be adventurous and not be handicapped with a roll of t.p. everywhere you go, rolling with some hand sanitizer may not be a bad idea.
2. NO LEFT HAND: This may not apply to many of you, but it is relevant to me as I am one of the special ones, aka, lefthanded. Here in Senegal, lefthandedness does not exist. It took me a little while to figure out why, and then I used the bathroom for the first time with no toilet paper (cue moment of clarity...ahhhaaaa). So basically, the lefthand is only good enough for wiping, which I found hugely offensive. That said, eating and any other social activity is done with the righthand. Use of the lefthand will be greeted with stares and maybe a couple of giggles.
3. THE SQUAT TOILET: Just don't miss.
4. DON'T FEAR THE HUSTLE MAN: One of the funnier things out here is seeing (usually white) tourists downtown struggling with the hustlers and hawkers downtown. Now don't get me wrong, I get it too, though I have figured out how to deal with it. Hustlers and hawkers are people too...not just some drones out to sell you knockoff Coach bags and Diesel Jeans; as soon as you realize that, dealing with them becomes much easier. If you are interested in buying something, be clear and direct (this will give you the upperhand in any negotiating that goes down). On the other hand, if you're not interested, keep it moving, though you should know that if you show any sign of doubt, they will be on you in a heartbeat. My preference, especially if you've got a bit of time, is to engage them a little bit, which will help them to see you as more than a walking ATM. You never know...you may find yourself a friend.
5. DON'T PULL IT; IT'S PROBABLY NOT REAL: Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful that I have seen in my 6 months of travel. That said, Dakar is, in the words of a good friend, 'the fake hair capital of the world.' I have never seen more variations on the weave, wig or braids than here in Dakar. It gets to the point where when you see a woman walking down the street with just her hair, you notice. (On a funny sidenote, I developed a bit of a crush on the *married* woman who runs the breakfast eatery by Sam's office at the YMCA. When I finally revealed this to Sam and he asked me what I liked about her I explained that it was her amazing cooking and her natural hair. Needless to say he got a good laugh out of that.) The sad truth of the matter is that many women out here will doing something absolutely ridiculous (in my opinion) with their hair before they wear it naturally. The issue, above all, is psychological and is one of the things that bothers me most about being here, though it is, on some level, relatable, unlike the advertisements I regularly see for skin bleaching cream (the topic of a later post).
1. NO TOILET PAPER: This is some general information on traveling in Sub-Saharan Africa, though if Dakar is your first stop, here is where you will learn. Instead of t.p. people use water. Definitely something to adjust to, though it will get you clean if you do the work. If you are going to be adventurous and not be handicapped with a roll of t.p. everywhere you go, rolling with some hand sanitizer may not be a bad idea.
2. NO LEFT HAND: This may not apply to many of you, but it is relevant to me as I am one of the special ones, aka, lefthanded. Here in Senegal, lefthandedness does not exist. It took me a little while to figure out why, and then I used the bathroom for the first time with no toilet paper (cue moment of clarity...ahhhaaaa). So basically, the lefthand is only good enough for wiping, which I found hugely offensive. That said, eating and any other social activity is done with the righthand. Use of the lefthand will be greeted with stares and maybe a couple of giggles.
3. THE SQUAT TOILET: Just don't miss.
4. DON'T FEAR THE HUSTLE MAN: One of the funnier things out here is seeing (usually white) tourists downtown struggling with the hustlers and hawkers downtown. Now don't get me wrong, I get it too, though I have figured out how to deal with it. Hustlers and hawkers are people too...not just some drones out to sell you knockoff Coach bags and Diesel Jeans; as soon as you realize that, dealing with them becomes much easier. If you are interested in buying something, be clear and direct (this will give you the upperhand in any negotiating that goes down). On the other hand, if you're not interested, keep it moving, though you should know that if you show any sign of doubt, they will be on you in a heartbeat. My preference, especially if you've got a bit of time, is to engage them a little bit, which will help them to see you as more than a walking ATM. You never know...you may find yourself a friend.
5. DON'T PULL IT; IT'S PROBABLY NOT REAL: Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful that I have seen in my 6 months of travel. That said, Dakar is, in the words of a good friend, 'the fake hair capital of the world.' I have never seen more variations on the weave, wig or braids than here in Dakar. It gets to the point where when you see a woman walking down the street with just her hair, you notice. (On a funny sidenote, I developed a bit of a crush on the *married* woman who runs the breakfast eatery by Sam's office at the YMCA. When I finally revealed this to Sam and he asked me what I liked about her I explained that it was her amazing cooking and her natural hair. Needless to say he got a good laugh out of that.) The sad truth of the matter is that many women out here will doing something absolutely ridiculous (in my opinion) with their hair before they wear it naturally. The issue, above all, is psychological and is one of the things that bothers me most about being here, though it is, on some level, relatable, unlike the advertisements I regularly see for skin bleaching cream (the topic of a later post).
Past the Policy...
As the title suggests, I have found ways to turn off my 'policy mind' from time to time :-).
While a lot of Dakar's problems lie in the environment and it's maintenance (or better put, lack thereof), its beauty (in a very human way) lies in its people the many contradictions present in their relations with one another. In this way it is not too different from anywhere else on earth; you can count on people to be people. I will explain.
On the surface, there is a level of respect between people that is unlike any other place I have visited. From what I have seen, this has a lot do with the fact that Senegal is essentially a Muslim state (there is a Christian minority), and thus there is a significant emphasis on custom and respect, especially in interactions between individuals. But this custom also has elements that are not so appealing, at least to those of us--particularly women-- in the more progressive world. There is a strict understanding between the role of women and that of men which has made for several semi-awkward interactions as I have learned my way around here. (Growing up in a household and family made up of very strong women, essentially 'renaissance women', adapting to the more traditional views/positions of women has been, at times, challenging). Young girls and women are encouraged to pursue education (topic of a later post), though there is an understanding that no matter how successful you are, you are the woman of the house and must be able to perform the tasks associated with that position. A cute/hilarious/sad example of this has been watching Anta, Sam's 2 year-old niece, who is FULL of attitude but is already being prepared to be a 'woman of the house.' Waddling around with a huge smile on her face, her mother an aunts fitted her with a headwrap, strapped her up with a melon tied to her back (to simulate the way in which Senegalese women carry infants) and giggled as she moved around the house, a small broom in hand.
That Islam is such a (stated) significant part of life here is not always the most accurate of facts, however, particularly among the younger generations, some of whom do not pray 5 times a day, drink, smoke and engage in premarital sex, all things that are forbidden or frowned upon by the Koran. I will save the religious investigation to someone with a bit more knowlege and experience, though there is certainly a question to be explored there.
Beyond the surface level, the hospitality here is second to none, though it is difficult to gauge how widespread this actually is because I am getting the foreigner/guest treatment. That said, what I have gathered is that while my case lies outside of the norm, from the very top of the hierarchy (patriarch/matriarch) to the bottom (errand boys/ girls), everyone is accounted for and taken care of. Out here, family truly takes care of its own (which includes, sometimes, fixed marriages between cousins to 'keep the family strong').
While a lot of Dakar's problems lie in the environment and it's maintenance (or better put, lack thereof), its beauty (in a very human way) lies in its people the many contradictions present in their relations with one another. In this way it is not too different from anywhere else on earth; you can count on people to be people. I will explain.
On the surface, there is a level of respect between people that is unlike any other place I have visited. From what I have seen, this has a lot do with the fact that Senegal is essentially a Muslim state (there is a Christian minority), and thus there is a significant emphasis on custom and respect, especially in interactions between individuals. But this custom also has elements that are not so appealing, at least to those of us--particularly women-- in the more progressive world. There is a strict understanding between the role of women and that of men which has made for several semi-awkward interactions as I have learned my way around here. (Growing up in a household and family made up of very strong women, essentially 'renaissance women', adapting to the more traditional views/positions of women has been, at times, challenging). Young girls and women are encouraged to pursue education (topic of a later post), though there is an understanding that no matter how successful you are, you are the woman of the house and must be able to perform the tasks associated with that position. A cute/hilarious/sad example of this has been watching Anta, Sam's 2 year-old niece, who is FULL of attitude but is already being prepared to be a 'woman of the house.' Waddling around with a huge smile on her face, her mother an aunts fitted her with a headwrap, strapped her up with a melon tied to her back (to simulate the way in which Senegalese women carry infants) and giggled as she moved around the house, a small broom in hand.
That Islam is such a (stated) significant part of life here is not always the most accurate of facts, however, particularly among the younger generations, some of whom do not pray 5 times a day, drink, smoke and engage in premarital sex, all things that are forbidden or frowned upon by the Koran. I will save the religious investigation to someone with a bit more knowlege and experience, though there is certainly a question to be explored there.
Beyond the surface level, the hospitality here is second to none, though it is difficult to gauge how widespread this actually is because I am getting the foreigner/guest treatment. That said, what I have gathered is that while my case lies outside of the norm, from the very top of the hierarchy (patriarch/matriarch) to the bottom (errand boys/ girls), everyone is accounted for and taken care of. Out here, family truly takes care of its own (which includes, sometimes, fixed marriages between cousins to 'keep the family strong').
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Dakar Arrival
For those interested enough to be disappointed by this latest hiatus (I'm looking at you Birt C), thank you for your concern. Along with laziness and general fatigue, one of the major reasons that I have held off writing about my time in Dakar is that it has honestly taken me this long to wrap my mind around it (and yes, even though I am leaving in a couple of days, it is a work in progress). My writing is not nearly good enough, though even if it was, it would be very difficult to give you an accurate and complete picture of Dakar.
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Dakar is the dustiest place in my world (well, at this point, it is running a stiff competition against Bamako, Mali). Within my first couple of days in the city, I jokingly asked my god-brother, Sam , how they got all the sand here and he explained that this is how Dakar has been since he's known it. 'It starts with sand and ends with sand,' a reference he made to the fact that it didn't matter that certain parts of Dakar are paved, because it is only a matter of time before they become covered by the omnipresent sand and dust. For some background, Sam lives with his family in HLM Grand Yoff, which is one of several of Dakar's lower-income renting districts. This being my first stop in sub-Saharan Africa, my first few days I assumed that all of Dakar looked like Grand Yoff; it was only after my first week here that we made a trip downtown (where, among other landmarks, the President's mansion is located) and I saw that Dakar follows the 'normal' model of urban socio-economic stratisfication. More or less.
For better or worse, I have discovered over the past 5 1/2 months that I have a 'policy-oriented' mind which often sees a place from the perspective of what works and what doesn't. My time in Dakar has been no different. Spending the vast majority of my time in and around Grand Yoff (I've been renting an apartment not too far away from where Sam lives) I am struck by the stark contrast between the higher and lower income areas of Dakar. Now before you call me naive (I will admit that I am very much an idealist), let me explain. I have seen (both inside and outside of the U.S.) greater disparity between rich and poor than what seems to be present in Dakar, however, never have I seen a case that, in my opinion, could be so easily (relatively speaking) improved. The greatest noticeable difference that I see between Dakar's high and low ends is overall cleanliness. Many parts of Grand Yoff are littered/covered in trash while downtown is, for the most part, paved and pristine. On the surface, Dakar's major problem is its system of public waste management.
In my mind, the cleanliness of a particular environment has a major psychological impact on the people living in that area. A clean environment promotes cleanliness, upkeep and positive community development. On the flipside, a dirty, unkept environment is antithetical to those things (though that is not an absolute principle). In many parts of Grand Yoff, you will find yourself tripping over/shuffling through trash, amid the lingering and acrid aroma of burning trash (don't get me started on that). In my entire time here , I have seen a single garbage truck and perhaps a dozen trash collectors. By comparison, I have spent much less time in the downtown area, but have seen many more garbage trucks and have seen perhaps a handful of small piles of trash.
As I noted before, it is not so much the gravity of the problem (though I do believe strongly in cause and effect, especially when you are talking about a highly populated urban environment) as much as how easy I believe the solution to be which really frustrates me. Dakar has a SEVERE shortage of jobs (the subject of another post), from top to bottom. Why not create more jobs in the area of waste management from top (engineer) to bottom (garbage collector), placing an emphasis on improved/advanced methods of waste management and destruction and recycling.
Unfortunately, the x-factor (as always) is money and Dakar does not have a lot to spend. Thus there are the obvious questions of how these new workers will be paid and how this advanced system of waste management will be funded. These are valid points that I cannot (yet) counter, though trust, my mind, whether I like it or not, will be on it. To anyone who has some experience in urban planning and development (particularly in the area of waste management), I would love to hear your opinion.
But then again, who am I? Just a toubab passing through at the end of the day.
And afterall, there are more pressing issues, I'm sure.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Resurrected: My one kiss of Carnaval...(O Atrevido)
There are not enough words to describe the intensity of the six day party that is Carnaval in Salvador. It is loud, it is intense, it is sexy, it is tiring, it is violent, it is fun, it is crazy, it is amazing and now that it is March 1st, it is officially over.....I have never been so tired in my life...literally.
One of the things you hear about Carnaval before you actually participate in it is that everyone kisses everyone and that women and men snatch each other up for a week long makeout session. The reality: Women walk on constant alert as men (mostly Brazilian) try and grab them from all angles trying to steal kisses and if they are lucky convince the woman to submit to a makeout session. Needless to say, snatching up women with force to steal a kiss is not my style, but I did get my kiss.
Saturday (the third night of Carnaval) O Chefao, two girls in our program named Shireen and Rebby and I left the main street of Carnaval to rest our feet on the beach. As we sat on the beach resting and watching the 20 or so people swimming in the ocean at around midnight, one of the girls noted that a man was pulling a girl out of the ocean in his arms. As soon as I saw that she wasn´t moving in his arms I sprinted as fast as I could down to the beach....
I got there only to find the man who pulled her out of the ocean in a complete panic. She was no longer breathing and upon checking her pulse I realized that her heart was no longer beating either. With all the crazy things i´ve done and seen, realizing that the young lady´s heart was no longer beating was the scariest moment of my life....
I yelled at the man who brought the woman out of the water to calm down and move from off of her and I quickly began to start CPR. I gave her chest compressions and performed mouth to mouth for a few seconds, which seemed like minutes only to realize that a crowd began forming and no one was calling for help. Trying to remember as much portuguese as I could I yelled to the group to get help, a doctor, a policeman, a lifeguard anything....They simply stared in disbelief at what was going on.
Luckily, Shireen and Rebby who sat up on the hill with O Chefao, heard my pleas for help and went to get police officers who were on duty on the streets above. As I sat there pumping, now scared that she might die if she didnt begin to breathe or have a pulse within the next few seconds, I put my mouth down yet again to give the girl air and she spit up into my mouth (talk about getting intimate...) which was a great sign. Much to my relief, upon my next check her pulse had returned signalling that her heart was now again beating...I put my finger in her mouth to straighten her tongue and thank god, she began to breathe.....
Within about another minute the police and a lifeguard had arrived to assist the young lady and they began calling an ambulance to escort her off. With her now breathing and with her heart now beating again, I simply walked away toward my three friends who stood on the rocks looking in the direction of the crowd which had now formed around the girl. They asked me how she was and I told them she was going to make it, and then they asked me how I was doing and I wasn´t so sure...
If you read alot of comic books or watch alot of movies you think that when someone is involved in an experience where someone´s life hangs in the balance, that when it is all over you simply feel great about yourself and walk off into the sunset. The truth of it was when it was all over I wasn´t sure if I should smile or cry, as I had never been involved in something so scary in my life. For the duration of the evening I think I was somewhere in between the two having been glad to save someone, but so scared of what would have happened if I couldn´t have. Thank goodness Shireeen and Rebby were on their feet and got help, who knows what would have happened if they didn´t get extended medical assistance.....
If mouth to mouth counts then I did get a kiss during Carnaval....one that was simultaneously the scariest and most rewarding I have ever had. That being said a kiss is a kiss...I don´t take it personal that a girl´s heart has to be stopped in order to give me one.
One of the things you hear about Carnaval before you actually participate in it is that everyone kisses everyone and that women and men snatch each other up for a week long makeout session. The reality: Women walk on constant alert as men (mostly Brazilian) try and grab them from all angles trying to steal kisses and if they are lucky convince the woman to submit to a makeout session. Needless to say, snatching up women with force to steal a kiss is not my style, but I did get my kiss.
Saturday (the third night of Carnaval) O Chefao, two girls in our program named Shireen and Rebby and I left the main street of Carnaval to rest our feet on the beach. As we sat on the beach resting and watching the 20 or so people swimming in the ocean at around midnight, one of the girls noted that a man was pulling a girl out of the ocean in his arms. As soon as I saw that she wasn´t moving in his arms I sprinted as fast as I could down to the beach....
I got there only to find the man who pulled her out of the ocean in a complete panic. She was no longer breathing and upon checking her pulse I realized that her heart was no longer beating either. With all the crazy things i´ve done and seen, realizing that the young lady´s heart was no longer beating was the scariest moment of my life....
I yelled at the man who brought the woman out of the water to calm down and move from off of her and I quickly began to start CPR. I gave her chest compressions and performed mouth to mouth for a few seconds, which seemed like minutes only to realize that a crowd began forming and no one was calling for help. Trying to remember as much portuguese as I could I yelled to the group to get help, a doctor, a policeman, a lifeguard anything....They simply stared in disbelief at what was going on.
Luckily, Shireen and Rebby who sat up on the hill with O Chefao, heard my pleas for help and went to get police officers who were on duty on the streets above. As I sat there pumping, now scared that she might die if she didnt begin to breathe or have a pulse within the next few seconds, I put my mouth down yet again to give the girl air and she spit up into my mouth (talk about getting intimate...) which was a great sign. Much to my relief, upon my next check her pulse had returned signalling that her heart was now again beating...I put my finger in her mouth to straighten her tongue and thank god, she began to breathe.....
Within about another minute the police and a lifeguard had arrived to assist the young lady and they began calling an ambulance to escort her off. With her now breathing and with her heart now beating again, I simply walked away toward my three friends who stood on the rocks looking in the direction of the crowd which had now formed around the girl. They asked me how she was and I told them she was going to make it, and then they asked me how I was doing and I wasn´t so sure...
If you read alot of comic books or watch alot of movies you think that when someone is involved in an experience where someone´s life hangs in the balance, that when it is all over you simply feel great about yourself and walk off into the sunset. The truth of it was when it was all over I wasn´t sure if I should smile or cry, as I had never been involved in something so scary in my life. For the duration of the evening I think I was somewhere in between the two having been glad to save someone, but so scared of what would have happened if I couldn´t have. Thank goodness Shireeen and Rebby were on their feet and got help, who knows what would have happened if they didn´t get extended medical assistance.....
If mouth to mouth counts then I did get a kiss during Carnaval....one that was simultaneously the scariest and most rewarding I have ever had. That being said a kiss is a kiss...I don´t take it personal that a girl´s heart has to be stopped in order to give me one.
Resurrected: Carnaval 101 (O Chefao)
For an entire week, a city of well over 2 million stops. Droves of people from Salvador, the state of Bahia, and all throughout Brazil flock to the city's center ready to party and/or profit off of the festivities. It is nothing like Rio de Janeiro or Sao Paulo, known for their famous parading Samba schools. Carnaval in Salvador is an entirely participatory event. It is a popular music fest, a true seven day street party that brings in all Bahia's most popular performers. It is really something that cannot be described by words - but what kind of blogger would I be if I didn't atleast try.
Just to try and give my American audience a more informed perspective, lets imagine that due to odd historical circumstances and cultural machinations, Carnaval was actually an American phenomenon, and imagine it centered in Atlanta. And lets just say that instead of Axe (Bahian pop music), samba reggae, and other Brazilian music, Atlanta's Carnaval was all about rap from the dirty south (Carnaval here is a celebration of local, homegrown music). What you would end up with is seven days of non-stop musical parades, known in Brazil as folias. Twenty or so trucks rigged with incredibly enormous speakers would travel slowly down the largest boulevards in the city. And, on top of each truck would be a performer or band. Here in Salvador, these trucks are referred to as trio-electricos. Imagine one truck being dedicated to Outkast, and thirty minutes later he would be followed by Li'l John, and then Three Six Mafia, then Ludacris. Gucci Mane or Young Geezy might roll through later on in the afternoon along with anybody else currently popular.
But this is not just any normal parade. Like I said, Carnaval here is not just a spectator sport. Some people do stay perched above the streets in the buildings that look over the Avenidas on which Carnaval passes. These arrangements are called camarotes, and are mostly limited to bourgeois folks who aren't really down to party in true Brazilian fashion. A lot of people, for a fair, but significant fee, pay to be in blocos. Around every trio-electrico is a designated space roped off for bloco-members, partiers that travel along with the trucks on the street for the entire circuit, which lasts for a couple hours. The blocos are crazy and extremely fun, and after a day or two, exhausting.
For the adventurous tourist, and for those that just don't have the money to spend (the majority of people in Salvador), there is the pipoca. The pipoca is simply the street and consists of everyone else in the city who is enjoying the music, and partying, but just doing so outside of the ropes (and security) of the bloco. Pipoca is fun, but it's also home to a good deal of pickpocketers, can get rowdy (especially in stretches of the road where the Avenidas get narrow), and is kinda tough for girls who aren't accustomed to hordes of men constantly grabbing and trying to makeout with them.
Now,Carnaval is not in Atlanta, so there's no Li'l Jon and the Eastside Boys. The vast majority of the trios carry Axe singers. Axe is nice, but not particularly complex. Fortunately, if you spend a bit of time in Salvador, you hear it all the time and it definitely grows on you. It is percussion heavy and very high energy, and all the performers sing the most successful songs of the past few years, so everyone catches on to the rhythms and lyrics of the popular songs pretty quickly. Fortunately though, there are alternatives to the regular trios. Salvador here has afro-blocos which were created to create and raise African/black consciousness and cultural awareness in the region and bring a totally different feel to the table. They are trios as well but play different types of music and the members of the blocos are usually dressed up particular themes and are accompanied by african drumss, and other performers. There are also blocos that consist entirely of men dressed as wonderwoman, predominately gay blocos, and basically anything else you could think of.
Anyways, this post has been long enough. I just wanted to provide a brief intro to put all of our subsequent Carnaval stories in context. Because of course, the Bahia Boys, being as adventurous as we are, tried out all the aspects of Carnaval; blocos, camarote, and pipoca and had a great time/almost died/are now involved in weird love triangles.
You really don't want to miss the next few posts.
Just to try and give my American audience a more informed perspective, lets imagine that due to odd historical circumstances and cultural machinations, Carnaval was actually an American phenomenon, and imagine it centered in Atlanta. And lets just say that instead of Axe (Bahian pop music), samba reggae, and other Brazilian music, Atlanta's Carnaval was all about rap from the dirty south (Carnaval here is a celebration of local, homegrown music). What you would end up with is seven days of non-stop musical parades, known in Brazil as folias. Twenty or so trucks rigged with incredibly enormous speakers would travel slowly down the largest boulevards in the city. And, on top of each truck would be a performer or band. Here in Salvador, these trucks are referred to as trio-electricos. Imagine one truck being dedicated to Outkast, and thirty minutes later he would be followed by Li'l John, and then Three Six Mafia, then Ludacris. Gucci Mane or Young Geezy might roll through later on in the afternoon along with anybody else currently popular.
But this is not just any normal parade. Like I said, Carnaval here is not just a spectator sport. Some people do stay perched above the streets in the buildings that look over the Avenidas on which Carnaval passes. These arrangements are called camarotes, and are mostly limited to bourgeois folks who aren't really down to party in true Brazilian fashion. A lot of people, for a fair, but significant fee, pay to be in blocos. Around every trio-electrico is a designated space roped off for bloco-members, partiers that travel along with the trucks on the street for the entire circuit, which lasts for a couple hours. The blocos are crazy and extremely fun, and after a day or two, exhausting.
For the adventurous tourist, and for those that just don't have the money to spend (the majority of people in Salvador), there is the pipoca. The pipoca is simply the street and consists of everyone else in the city who is enjoying the music, and partying, but just doing so outside of the ropes (and security) of the bloco. Pipoca is fun, but it's also home to a good deal of pickpocketers, can get rowdy (especially in stretches of the road where the Avenidas get narrow), and is kinda tough for girls who aren't accustomed to hordes of men constantly grabbing and trying to makeout with them.
Now,Carnaval is not in Atlanta, so there's no Li'l Jon and the Eastside Boys. The vast majority of the trios carry Axe singers. Axe is nice, but not particularly complex. Fortunately, if you spend a bit of time in Salvador, you hear it all the time and it definitely grows on you. It is percussion heavy and very high energy, and all the performers sing the most successful songs of the past few years, so everyone catches on to the rhythms and lyrics of the popular songs pretty quickly. Fortunately though, there are alternatives to the regular trios. Salvador here has afro-blocos which were created to create and raise African/black consciousness and cultural awareness in the region and bring a totally different feel to the table. They are trios as well but play different types of music and the members of the blocos are usually dressed up particular themes and are accompanied by african drumss, and other performers. There are also blocos that consist entirely of men dressed as wonderwoman, predominately gay blocos, and basically anything else you could think of.
Anyways, this post has been long enough. I just wanted to provide a brief intro to put all of our subsequent Carnaval stories in context. Because of course, the Bahia Boys, being as adventurous as we are, tried out all the aspects of Carnaval; blocos, camarote, and pipoca and had a great time/almost died/are now involved in weird love triangles.
You really don't want to miss the next few posts.
In the meantime...
While many in the U.S. (and rest of the world, for that matter) are going about their business completely unawares, only a couple of weeks ago, the worlds biggest party took place: Carnaval. For those who don't know (and you can thank me later), Carnaval is a weeklong party which a friend described, quite appropriately as 'the only party i've ever been to that has lived up to the hype.' And for the record, the hype for Carnaval in Brazil is enormous; from the day the festivities end, people are talking about next year's Carnaval. It is unlike anything else on earth.
Now if you are just a novice, you might book your ticket directly to Rio de Janeiro and enjoy a week of elaborate costumes and a lot of samba. I can't knock that. I love samba and I love elaborate costumes, particularly on Brazilian women. However, if you've got an inside source, or maybe you're just the type of person who likes to go the extra mile in your research, you will most likely be headed to Salvador.
Normally I would spend the next hour detailing all of the wild aspects and stories of Carnaval in Salvador (for the festivities, the city's population doubles), but unfortunately, I don't have that kind of time. Therefore, I am going to recycle the experiences of my two compatriots at the time (and the other 2/3 of the Bahia Boys Coalition); O Chefao (David 'Silkk' Williams) and O Atrevido (James 'I don't want girlfriends, I just want girls to be my friends' Hairston). I think you will find their observations clear and insightful (and at times, perhaps a bit surreal), and before you know it, you may find yourself on www.expedia.com, trying to book your tickets for next year's Carnaval.
Enjoy!
Now if you are just a novice, you might book your ticket directly to Rio de Janeiro and enjoy a week of elaborate costumes and a lot of samba. I can't knock that. I love samba and I love elaborate costumes, particularly on Brazilian women. However, if you've got an inside source, or maybe you're just the type of person who likes to go the extra mile in your research, you will most likely be headed to Salvador.
Normally I would spend the next hour detailing all of the wild aspects and stories of Carnaval in Salvador (for the festivities, the city's population doubles), but unfortunately, I don't have that kind of time. Therefore, I am going to recycle the experiences of my two compatriots at the time (and the other 2/3 of the Bahia Boys Coalition); O Chefao (David 'Silkk' Williams) and O Atrevido (James 'I don't want girlfriends, I just want girls to be my friends' Hairston). I think you will find their observations clear and insightful (and at times, perhaps a bit surreal), and before you know it, you may find yourself on www.expedia.com, trying to book your tickets for next year's Carnaval.
Enjoy!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Brazil Interview Analysis Vol II: It's About the Parents
(Yes, it's a big jump from arm-wrestling in Morocco, but I told you I would fill in the blanks.)
While the discussions of race/class and their relationship to educational performance proved to be important (especially as it is a conversation that many of my interviewees did not like to have), discussions of parental influence in education turned out to be of equal, if not greater prominence in my interviews, particularly with teachers. In all honesty, the frequency with which parents were mentioned caught me a bit offguard and compelled me to change the focus of the interviews to be a bit more all-encompassing in the discussion of education and educational influences. The first mention of it came from a teacher in Nordeste who noted 'a lack of parental cooperation' as the most significant difficulty she faced in her career of teaching. She spoke not only of parents (especially those with very few financial means) who would frequently pull their children out of school in order to work, but more precisely of those parents who did not recognize education as a means for their children to improve their lives. 'I am not necessarily talking about parents without education, but those parents who do not recognize the value of education. If the parents do not care about or believe in the necessity of education for their children, then school becomes just another activity, and the parents do not hold children accountable for studying, assignments or even attendance.' This was powerful to hear from a first person perspective. From conversations and background reading, the argument that I am more familiar with has to do with the education level of parents and how that correlates to the child's school performance (granted, there are relationships in between these two, namely, that a parent's educational level is a good gauge of how they will communicate the importance of education to their children). That said, the perspective I was (prior to this conversation) far less familiar with had to do with the fact that uneducated/not highly educated parents can have the same positive impact on their child's educational experience, assuming they recognize and communicate the importance of formal education, and support it with informal education at home. That said, for parents that fall into this category, the figurative 'road to success' for the child is quite a bit steeper and the cost of sitting by idly is much greater (compared to the children of highly educated parents who can perceive, on some level, how education has improved the lives of their parents, without the parents necessarily verbally communicating it). On the 'other side of the tracks' I had the opportunity to visit two much nicer schools in the neighborhood of Victoria (one public, one private) in which both teachers and school administrators spoke glowingly (for the most part) of the positive parental contribution to education, both in their interactions with teachers, as well as holding their children accountable and supporting their education at home. The role of the parents--both positively and negatively--was echoed in almost all of my interviews and though I have not come across any data to support the argument that more positive parental involvement in education is correlated with better academic performance, I was convinced of this relationship's impact. Additionally, it has caused me to take a step in the direction of believing that parental involvement could be a veritable 'x' factor and universal theme further explaining why primary education is such a crucial period in the educational experience of the child (at the very least here in Brazil). On a slightly different note... Sitting in these interviews, I couldn't help but be reminded of the well publicized Bill Cosby 'tirade' in which he criticized poor/uneducated black parents for not instilling good values in their children. At the time of this debate, I chose to stay on the fence (a common Chas practice) as I recognized the legitimacy of both sides of the argument (prof. Michael Dyson became the public and outspoken opposition to Cosby's perspective). That said, through the conversations I had with these teachers, many of whom are parents themselves, I can understand (more intimately) that there is nothing more important and necessary than the positive contribution of 'parents' (whether they be biological parents, relatives or guardians) in the development of the child. Of course there exists a partnership between the parents and the school and without a functional/functioning school, the child can only go so far; that said, the necessary prerequisite is the contribution of the parents. I realize that circumstances of this link are quite different (Brazil vs. U.S. Black community) and that I really did not touch on the meat of the debate between Dyson and Cosby (especially in relation to the historical and well documented oppression of descendants of American slavery and the current effect of this oppression), but I do believe that there is some real value in this cross-cultural comparison.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.
While the discussions of race/class and their relationship to educational performance proved to be important (especially as it is a conversation that many of my interviewees did not like to have), discussions of parental influence in education turned out to be of equal, if not greater prominence in my interviews, particularly with teachers. In all honesty, the frequency with which parents were mentioned caught me a bit offguard and compelled me to change the focus of the interviews to be a bit more all-encompassing in the discussion of education and educational influences. The first mention of it came from a teacher in Nordeste who noted 'a lack of parental cooperation' as the most significant difficulty she faced in her career of teaching. She spoke not only of parents (especially those with very few financial means) who would frequently pull their children out of school in order to work, but more precisely of those parents who did not recognize education as a means for their children to improve their lives. 'I am not necessarily talking about parents without education, but those parents who do not recognize the value of education. If the parents do not care about or believe in the necessity of education for their children, then school becomes just another activity, and the parents do not hold children accountable for studying, assignments or even attendance.' This was powerful to hear from a first person perspective. From conversations and background reading, the argument that I am more familiar with has to do with the education level of parents and how that correlates to the child's school performance (granted, there are relationships in between these two, namely, that a parent's educational level is a good gauge of how they will communicate the importance of education to their children). That said, the perspective I was (prior to this conversation) far less familiar with had to do with the fact that uneducated/not highly educated parents can have the same positive impact on their child's educational experience, assuming they recognize and communicate the importance of formal education, and support it with informal education at home. That said, for parents that fall into this category, the figurative 'road to success' for the child is quite a bit steeper and the cost of sitting by idly is much greater (compared to the children of highly educated parents who can perceive, on some level, how education has improved the lives of their parents, without the parents necessarily verbally communicating it). On the 'other side of the tracks' I had the opportunity to visit two much nicer schools in the neighborhood of Victoria (one public, one private) in which both teachers and school administrators spoke glowingly (for the most part) of the positive parental contribution to education, both in their interactions with teachers, as well as holding their children accountable and supporting their education at home. The role of the parents--both positively and negatively--was echoed in almost all of my interviews and though I have not come across any data to support the argument that more positive parental involvement in education is correlated with better academic performance, I was convinced of this relationship's impact. Additionally, it has caused me to take a step in the direction of believing that parental involvement could be a veritable 'x' factor and universal theme further explaining why primary education is such a crucial period in the educational experience of the child (at the very least here in Brazil). On a slightly different note... Sitting in these interviews, I couldn't help but be reminded of the well publicized Bill Cosby 'tirade' in which he criticized poor/uneducated black parents for not instilling good values in their children. At the time of this debate, I chose to stay on the fence (a common Chas practice) as I recognized the legitimacy of both sides of the argument (prof. Michael Dyson became the public and outspoken opposition to Cosby's perspective). That said, through the conversations I had with these teachers, many of whom are parents themselves, I can understand (more intimately) that there is nothing more important and necessary than the positive contribution of 'parents' (whether they be biological parents, relatives or guardians) in the development of the child. Of course there exists a partnership between the parents and the school and without a functional/functioning school, the child can only go so far; that said, the necessary prerequisite is the contribution of the parents. I realize that circumstances of this link are quite different (Brazil vs. U.S. Black community) and that I really did not touch on the meat of the debate between Dyson and Cosby (especially in relation to the historical and well documented oppression of descendants of American slavery and the current effect of this oppression), but I do believe that there is some real value in this cross-cultural comparison.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Difficult Times in Marrakech
The photos should speak (volumes) for themselves. Though all 3 defeats (my apparent victory in the first photo was, I'm ashamed to say, staged) were quite damaging to my self-esteem, we got some free mint tea afterwards which helped, sorta. Thanks, Rhys, for the photos.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
North African Allegiance
As it has worked out on several occasions in my travels already, I have been well situated to watch some great soccer. Most recently, my arrival in Morocco coincided with the semifinal and final rounds of the 2008 Africa Cup, in which Egypt successfully defended their title as the most dominant soccer team on the continent (thats right, i said it and would love to hear if you disagree). The final, which was played between Egypt and (Samuel Eto'o and) the Cameroon national team, was a pretty uneventful and sloppy match in my opinion, Egypt's lone and winning goal the result of a fatal error committed by two Cameroon defenders.
However, more interesting than the game itself was that virtually all of Morocco (I can only speak specifically of Marrakech and Essouira, though I think it would be safe to extrapolate from there) was supporting Egypt. It was not the most surprising revelation, bit it was very interesting as it offered some perspective into the regional/cultural allegiance that exists in North Africa. When I suggested to a pair of fellow spectators that I was supporting Cameroon, they looked at me as if I was crazy. It was a moment in which I could have spoken Arabic because I could have learned a thing or two more directly from their viewpoint.
But the conclusion at which I arrived after the game was that while it was the Championship of the Africa Cup, perhaps more importantly, it was also a showdown between two very different (and conflicting?) African identities, which sybolically go much deeper than just a soccer match.
I would love to hear your thoughts.
Update: Dakar Arrival
To my beloved few:
I arrived safely in Dakar, Senegal yesterday evening.
Also, you might notice that for all of the description I have given of Morroco, Ive got no pictures to show for it. To explain, like an idiot I left my camera's transfer cable at home during my brief stay there. Additionally, the disposable developments are still negatives, thus there is no way, at the moment to get those to you. Dont you worry; where there is a will, there is most certainly a way.
Your patience is greatly appreciated :-).
Stay tuned...
I arrived safely in Dakar, Senegal yesterday evening.
Also, you might notice that for all of the description I have given of Morroco, Ive got no pictures to show for it. To explain, like an idiot I left my camera's transfer cable at home during my brief stay there. Additionally, the disposable developments are still negatives, thus there is no way, at the moment to get those to you. Dont you worry; where there is a will, there is most certainly a way.
Your patience is greatly appreciated :-).
Stay tuned...
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Marrakech Rythm
I came back to the Riad to take a nap a found I had a roommate, an Aussi by the name of Andre. He is doing a bit of traveling before he starts university in Australia: he seems like a good person.
I awake with the setting sun, the sweet smell of hookah making its way into our room. It has gotten quite a bit cooler, which is what I think caused me to wake up from my short nap.
The plaza by night is a completely different place as, seemingly out of nowhere, dozens of small eateries have opened in the center, offering typical Moroccan cuisine for a decent price, if youre willing to negotiate a bit. The number of people moving about has doubled at least, the majority of them young people, younger than 30.
By night, the snake charmers have gone and in their place you will find several musicians with a circle of listeners around them. Music here in Marrakech, like in Salvador (Bahia, Brazil), is a catalyst for a communal experience. The musicians begin playing as the sun sets and Moroccans gather around at their leisure, drawn to the sounds and rythms amidst the crowded center of the Medina. The hustle, however, is that anytime a tourist draws near the music will stop and an upturned tambourine will appear with an urgent request for a 'donation.'
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
In my short time here in Marrakech, peoplewatching has quickly become an enjoyable activity as the crowded center offers a great opportunity. The dynamics among men, women and between the two is particularly entertaining. The women, many--though far from all--of whom are traditionally clothed--with hair, faces and bodies covered--walk mostly in pairs, usually with an urgency in their gait. They are not all that flirtatious, though ocassionally a quick darting of the eyes or turning of the head will give away their interest in a particular passerby.
As one might expect, this same subtlety is foreign to the men. In contrast to the Moroccan women--whom they seem to greatly outnumber, at least in the street--men generally seem to roam in packs, very aware of their female counterparts. The true moments of comedy are when a group of men will roll up on a pair or group of women, using (I would imagine) some horrible/hilarious pick up line.
But to say that the men are solely fixated on women would be giving a false impression of things. In fact, one of the most interesting observations of Moroccan men is the juxta-position of a certain 'machismo' and very expressive affection for one another (among friends, of course). A typical greeting between two men will consist of a handshake and a kiss on either cheek; additionally, it is not uncommon to see two men holding hands in the street, or one with his arm around the other. As I understand it, there an openness within Moroccan society (at the least in Marrakech) for homosexuality; that said, I believe that this aforementioned affection is a characteristic of relations between many men, both gay and straight.
At the same time, it is by no means uncommon to see two men fighting in the street; sometimes it is clearly in jest, as one will try and humiliate the other in front of friends, while in other moments, it appears more serious. Verbal arguments are common and already I have seen many that have required a mediating third party to separate the two parties before they come to blows.
I awake with the setting sun, the sweet smell of hookah making its way into our room. It has gotten quite a bit cooler, which is what I think caused me to wake up from my short nap.
The plaza by night is a completely different place as, seemingly out of nowhere, dozens of small eateries have opened in the center, offering typical Moroccan cuisine for a decent price, if youre willing to negotiate a bit. The number of people moving about has doubled at least, the majority of them young people, younger than 30.
By night, the snake charmers have gone and in their place you will find several musicians with a circle of listeners around them. Music here in Marrakech, like in Salvador (Bahia, Brazil), is a catalyst for a communal experience. The musicians begin playing as the sun sets and Moroccans gather around at their leisure, drawn to the sounds and rythms amidst the crowded center of the Medina. The hustle, however, is that anytime a tourist draws near the music will stop and an upturned tambourine will appear with an urgent request for a 'donation.'
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
In my short time here in Marrakech, peoplewatching has quickly become an enjoyable activity as the crowded center offers a great opportunity. The dynamics among men, women and between the two is particularly entertaining. The women, many--though far from all--of whom are traditionally clothed--with hair, faces and bodies covered--walk mostly in pairs, usually with an urgency in their gait. They are not all that flirtatious, though ocassionally a quick darting of the eyes or turning of the head will give away their interest in a particular passerby.
As one might expect, this same subtlety is foreign to the men. In contrast to the Moroccan women--whom they seem to greatly outnumber, at least in the street--men generally seem to roam in packs, very aware of their female counterparts. The true moments of comedy are when a group of men will roll up on a pair or group of women, using (I would imagine) some horrible/hilarious pick up line.
But to say that the men are solely fixated on women would be giving a false impression of things. In fact, one of the most interesting observations of Moroccan men is the juxta-position of a certain 'machismo' and very expressive affection for one another (among friends, of course). A typical greeting between two men will consist of a handshake and a kiss on either cheek; additionally, it is not uncommon to see two men holding hands in the street, or one with his arm around the other. As I understand it, there an openness within Moroccan society (at the least in Marrakech) for homosexuality; that said, I believe that this aforementioned affection is a characteristic of relations between many men, both gay and straight.
At the same time, it is by no means uncommon to see two men fighting in the street; sometimes it is clearly in jest, as one will try and humiliate the other in front of friends, while in other moments, it appears more serious. Verbal arguments are common and already I have seen many that have required a mediating third party to separate the two parties before they come to blows.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Day of Days (Continued)
I heard my first call to prayer as I was making my way through Marrakech and it nearly made me jump (I happened to be near a major mosque at the time). My first thought, having never experienced anything like this before, was some massive fire alarm; it only took a moment to adjust my thinking and identify the call for what it actually was. Walking by another mosque moments later I saw dozens of men in single file rows in the structure's interior, bent on all fours, heads pressed to their prayer mats. The moment was a bit surreal as I was enveloped by this new experience ; I observed the surrounding activity, trying not to be conspicuous (though i think my huge backpack just may have given me away) while taking in the centuries old prayer tradition.
I am staying in a Riad-a beautiful Moroccan home-which has been transformed into a hostel. The experience thus far has been wonderful and I would recommend anyone traveling on a budget-and even if you dont have a budget-to find hostels along your travels (and specifically Riads in Morocco). They are usually cheap/reasonably priced and are a great way to meet fellow travellers, old and young. The Riad is located just off of the center of the Medina-old city-though it was nearly impossible trying to find it my first time as a result of the network of narrow streets and alleyways that led me here. The area is very quiet-especially compared to the city center-and quite safe, though it doesnt look like it; the narrow turns and blind corners look to be perfect places for an ambush (sorry, just the way that I think).
Making your way through the labirynth from the Riad to the city center, you are greeted by the hustle and bustle of what I could only describe to you as Canal Street x 10. Everywhere you look, goods are being sold; from fresh meat to to antiques, leather goods to fruit. The scene, both in the narrow streets leading to the center and the center itself, is quite picturesque; the hustle and bustle of tourists, shopowners and hustlers gives the environment a certain rhythm, as if everyone has a part to play and knows their role. While in the center square, looking up from what is right in front of your face (which can be a bit difficult at times) the eye may catch the snow-dusted Atlas Mountains in the distance, home of the Berber people of the region. Turning in another direction, the enormous tower of the Koutoubia mosque demands attention. Bringing your gaze back to eye level, the real tourist attractions of the large square can be seen: the fabled cobra snake charmers with the accompaniment of the punji (nasal sounding wood instrument used to hypnotise the snake). To the left and right of these daredevils form tight circles of mostly men, as a figure in the circles' center speaks of the power of natural herbs, powders and other remedies.
I am staying in a Riad-a beautiful Moroccan home-which has been transformed into a hostel. The experience thus far has been wonderful and I would recommend anyone traveling on a budget-and even if you dont have a budget-to find hostels along your travels (and specifically Riads in Morocco). They are usually cheap/reasonably priced and are a great way to meet fellow travellers, old and young. The Riad is located just off of the center of the Medina-old city-though it was nearly impossible trying to find it my first time as a result of the network of narrow streets and alleyways that led me here. The area is very quiet-especially compared to the city center-and quite safe, though it doesnt look like it; the narrow turns and blind corners look to be perfect places for an ambush (sorry, just the way that I think).
Making your way through the labirynth from the Riad to the city center, you are greeted by the hustle and bustle of what I could only describe to you as Canal Street x 10. Everywhere you look, goods are being sold; from fresh meat to to antiques, leather goods to fruit. The scene, both in the narrow streets leading to the center and the center itself, is quite picturesque; the hustle and bustle of tourists, shopowners and hustlers gives the environment a certain rhythm, as if everyone has a part to play and knows their role. While in the center square, looking up from what is right in front of your face (which can be a bit difficult at times) the eye may catch the snow-dusted Atlas Mountains in the distance, home of the Berber people of the region. Turning in another direction, the enormous tower of the Koutoubia mosque demands attention. Bringing your gaze back to eye level, the real tourist attractions of the large square can be seen: the fabled cobra snake charmers with the accompaniment of the punji (nasal sounding wood instrument used to hypnotise the snake). To the left and right of these daredevils form tight circles of mostly men, as a figure in the circles' center speaks of the power of natural herbs, powders and other remedies.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Day of Days
Landing on the African Continent brought excitement as well as a good bit of anxiety as I did not know exactly what to expect. Whereas South America was somewhat familiar territory (as a result of time previously spent in Brazil and Costa Rica) the African continent is completely unknown to me, from a first person perspective. On top of that, arriving in Casablanca I have been robbed of my ability to freely communicate as Arabic is a complete mystery, and though I can understand much of it, my beginner's French is basic to say the least. As such my day of arrival (yesterday)was a milestone among the many personal milestones of the past several months.
If you were to take a walk through my thoughts and experiences of Day 1 in Morocco (Casablanca and Marrakech), the first revelation would be the smell. It is as if, stepping off of the plane in Casablanca, I had just rid myself of some nasal congestion; I found myself suddenly bombarded by smells; good, bad and...interesting.
Receiving information from a credible source that there was not a great deal to see in Casablanca, hours after arriving by plane, I was on a train to Marrakech, 3 hours southeast of Morocco's famous city. Entering the train, I was immediately thrust into cultural immersion as I crammed myself into a small cabin with 7 (8 if you include the baby) other people. In between bouts of narcoleptic dozing (in which I was caught, on several occasions, drooling on myself) I took notice of the changing scenary; lush, rolling hills giving way to arid flatlands, which in turn would give way to tilled farmland. From time to time a mosque would reveal itself, far and away the most prominent and ornate structure in the vicinity; more frequently, collections of shacks and mini-stanty villages would seemingly spring out of nowhere, the small clusters looking more rundown than a lot of what I had seen in Brazil.
A line is forming behind me, here at the hostel's lone computer.
To be continued...
If you were to take a walk through my thoughts and experiences of Day 1 in Morocco (Casablanca and Marrakech), the first revelation would be the smell. It is as if, stepping off of the plane in Casablanca, I had just rid myself of some nasal congestion; I found myself suddenly bombarded by smells; good, bad and...interesting.
Receiving information from a credible source that there was not a great deal to see in Casablanca, hours after arriving by plane, I was on a train to Marrakech, 3 hours southeast of Morocco's famous city. Entering the train, I was immediately thrust into cultural immersion as I crammed myself into a small cabin with 7 (8 if you include the baby) other people. In between bouts of narcoleptic dozing (in which I was caught, on several occasions, drooling on myself) I took notice of the changing scenary; lush, rolling hills giving way to arid flatlands, which in turn would give way to tilled farmland. From time to time a mosque would reveal itself, far and away the most prominent and ornate structure in the vicinity; more frequently, collections of shacks and mini-stanty villages would seemingly spring out of nowhere, the small clusters looking more rundown than a lot of what I had seen in Brazil.
A line is forming behind me, here at the hostel's lone computer.
To be continued...
Itinerary: Review
So I am continuing to play the role of irresponsible/delinquent blogger, but I am currently doing my best to reconcile that. Please feel free to let me know how I'm doing. As you can see from the itinerary below, I have made it to Morocco, the first stop on my African tour. That said, I am going to be doing my best to close the gap, switching between what I have thus far left out (rest of Brazil, Argentina and my brief stint in Europe) and what I'm up to currently.
Much love,
Chas
Morocco: 02/06 - 02/11
Senegal: 02/11 – 03/11
Ghana: 03/11 – 03/18
Botswana: 03/18 – 03/30
Mozambique: 03/30 – 04/05
South Africa: 04/05 – 05/15
Much love,
Chas
Morocco: 02/06 - 02/11
Senegal: 02/11 – 03/11
Ghana: 03/11 – 03/18
Botswana: 03/18 – 03/30
Mozambique: 03/30 – 04/05
South Africa: 04/05 – 05/15
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Interview Analysis Vol. I: It's not about what you look like, it's about where you're from
One of the most interesting aspects of my research and interviews in Salvador was the race debate. If you are not familiar with Brazilian racial politics and history, I will give you a very brief overview. Though it is far from everyone, there are a great number of people in Brazil who believe that racism doesn't exist in Brazil. When racism is brought up, it is almost always used to define the racial climate in the United States, but not in Brazil. Many of the Brazilians I have spoken to over time have come up with some pretty creative answers to direct questions. Why are the majority of those who live in Brazil's favelas mostly black? Well according to many, the favelas are “completely” racial diverse and thus race has no part in defining who is there. Why is there so much opposition to racial quotas in University education? Because there shouldn't be any sort of quotas in education because those who deserve to be in the best universities are there because of hard work, and conversely those who aren't haven't worked hard enough to be prepared. Now I don't want oversimplify the issue, but these opinions are out there and strongly felt among many, not too different from what we have in the U.S.
To the relevance of my research, the question of race and student performance was one that I knew was going to be a difficult and interesting one for many of my interviewees because their views on race are very much colored by their experiences and upbringings. Some avoided the question, giving short, one-sentence answers to express how much race depended on the success of the children they taught (as a professor), oversaw (as a school administrator) or observed on paper (as a government official). I found myself frustrated in a few interviews because in my opinion (and particularly in Brazil) race plays a significant role in just about every facet of history and life; however, it is sometimes the most obvious things that are most difficult to openly observe and acknowledge.
The title of this post refers to two of the more vocal interviewees on the issue of race and educational performance; while in my heart and mind I came into each interview with my own opinions about the major issues, I was very much impressed with the clarity and thoughtfulness of each interviewee's argument.
The first is the current Vice-Director of Escola Profesor Bernardino Moreira, a privately funded school in Nordeste, a favela located near Salvador's city center. She graduated from college in the area of Pedagogy and Educational Discipline and has worked at the school for 15 years. Though in describing herself she did not give her age, my guess would be that she is in her early 40s.
On the question of whether she believed that a student's racial background played a role in their performance she responded it may play a role, however she argued that in her experience the most significant variable is the students' socioeconomic background. Put differently, she noted that the students who go through her school have been burdened by the fact that they live in a favela, in particular Nordeste, which has a reputation as one of Salvador's most dangerous. She noted that many students, when completing applications for jobs or schools oftentimes gave their place of residence as Amarlinaha, a neighborhood nearby which has a much better reputation.
“But this prejudice is not racial, it is based on the violence that occurs in Nordeste and as a result the reputation that the neighborhood receieves. Many (outside of the community) believe that to come from Nordeste means that you are some sort of theif and unfortunately, very few come from the outside to get a better perspective. This is hardest for the students to face, and I believe they suffer because of it.”
The essence of her argument was that it is not how the individual is affected prejudice based on race, but rather prejudice based on where they are from. I pressed her a bit in asking more specifically about the determining variable in the students' performance within Bernardino Moreira and she noted that it was a combination of parental involvement and the lack of safety in the community (more on that later). In reference to race, she posited that it could be an issue when the students move to another school—Bernardino Moreira goes until 8th grade—however, it has never been a major factor of the performance of the students currently enrolled.
She rejected race as the determining factor because of the diversity within Nordeste, where a large number of inhabitants self-identify as pardo or mixed. In fairness to her argument, the ability to pinpoint the racial element is made very difficult as a result of Brazil's complex racial history and how many are conditioned to identify as neither black or white, but somewhere in between. That said, it troubled me that the element of race was able to be so easily dismissed. Her argument is not so different from the argument used by many in the U.S.--that class trumps race in dealing with major inequalities—however, the complexity, once again is Brazil's color-based racial hierarchy.
The second interviewee is a school teacher with a doctorate in Anthropology and African Studies. He is 36 and is actively involved—both religiously and as an anthropologist—in Candomble, a religion most popular in the state of Bahia (in comparison to Brazil's other states) which has it's roots in African tribal religion. He is black.
While I conducted the interview in the same way as I had done all others, it was difficult to get away from the issue of race because he believed—in contrast with the previous interviewee—that race has a very large part to play in disparities in student performance. In the interview he drew upon his experience as a teacher and particular as a teacher of History. He began teaching when he was 24 and immediately noticed how History textbooks—as well as set curricula—focused on a Brazilian history that did not include the African influence.
“But my students, who are black, are in their Portuguese class where the teacher continues to talk about Camões or Castro Alves, or any other white poet or author and fails to mention many black poets, black songs, proverbs or national literature. In the history class, they learn of Africa only reference to slavery and there is no discussion of what those people were before slavery; they had nations...they were warriors, kings and priests.”
He noted that he could see the black students in his classes less interested and gaining much less from this education. He also noted that it was most obvious in his History classes, but was a constant theme in all of the classes he taught, whether it was Music, Language Arts or Visual Arts.
His major argument centered on the fact that Brazil has a history of racism and coupled with that racism is avoidance of racial confrontation. Today, this racism is masked by classism, which many use to explain the inequlities that currently exist. Stepping away from my set questions, I asked him his view on Affirmative Action in Brazil's system of higher education (http://education.guardian.co.uk/higher/worldwide/story/0,9959,1012157,00.html)and he quickly responded that he is completely in favor of it, largely because he believed that quotas are emergency measures for the current and growing racial inequality.
“It is not as if this is an ideal means of changing the course of race relations in Brazil, but it has become necessary in order to begin to make change.”
I found myself impressed with his response—I had heard about these quotos and as was troubled by how they would be enacted in Brazil's framework of color-based racial hierarchy—as no one I had spoken with had phrased it in that exact way, though I still had doubts. That said his perspective was a valuable one, and in all honesty, one that I could relate to as a black male living in a society that attempts to avoid the racial component whenever possible.
To the relevance of my research, the question of race and student performance was one that I knew was going to be a difficult and interesting one for many of my interviewees because their views on race are very much colored by their experiences and upbringings. Some avoided the question, giving short, one-sentence answers to express how much race depended on the success of the children they taught (as a professor), oversaw (as a school administrator) or observed on paper (as a government official). I found myself frustrated in a few interviews because in my opinion (and particularly in Brazil) race plays a significant role in just about every facet of history and life; however, it is sometimes the most obvious things that are most difficult to openly observe and acknowledge.
The title of this post refers to two of the more vocal interviewees on the issue of race and educational performance; while in my heart and mind I came into each interview with my own opinions about the major issues, I was very much impressed with the clarity and thoughtfulness of each interviewee's argument.
The first is the current Vice-Director of Escola Profesor Bernardino Moreira, a privately funded school in Nordeste, a favela located near Salvador's city center. She graduated from college in the area of Pedagogy and Educational Discipline and has worked at the school for 15 years. Though in describing herself she did not give her age, my guess would be that she is in her early 40s.
On the question of whether she believed that a student's racial background played a role in their performance she responded it may play a role, however she argued that in her experience the most significant variable is the students' socioeconomic background. Put differently, she noted that the students who go through her school have been burdened by the fact that they live in a favela, in particular Nordeste, which has a reputation as one of Salvador's most dangerous. She noted that many students, when completing applications for jobs or schools oftentimes gave their place of residence as Amarlinaha, a neighborhood nearby which has a much better reputation.
“But this prejudice is not racial, it is based on the violence that occurs in Nordeste and as a result the reputation that the neighborhood receieves. Many (outside of the community) believe that to come from Nordeste means that you are some sort of theif and unfortunately, very few come from the outside to get a better perspective. This is hardest for the students to face, and I believe they suffer because of it.”
The essence of her argument was that it is not how the individual is affected prejudice based on race, but rather prejudice based on where they are from. I pressed her a bit in asking more specifically about the determining variable in the students' performance within Bernardino Moreira and she noted that it was a combination of parental involvement and the lack of safety in the community (more on that later). In reference to race, she posited that it could be an issue when the students move to another school—Bernardino Moreira goes until 8th grade—however, it has never been a major factor of the performance of the students currently enrolled.
She rejected race as the determining factor because of the diversity within Nordeste, where a large number of inhabitants self-identify as pardo or mixed. In fairness to her argument, the ability to pinpoint the racial element is made very difficult as a result of Brazil's complex racial history and how many are conditioned to identify as neither black or white, but somewhere in between. That said, it troubled me that the element of race was able to be so easily dismissed. Her argument is not so different from the argument used by many in the U.S.--that class trumps race in dealing with major inequalities—however, the complexity, once again is Brazil's color-based racial hierarchy.
The second interviewee is a school teacher with a doctorate in Anthropology and African Studies. He is 36 and is actively involved—both religiously and as an anthropologist—in Candomble, a religion most popular in the state of Bahia (in comparison to Brazil's other states) which has it's roots in African tribal religion. He is black.
While I conducted the interview in the same way as I had done all others, it was difficult to get away from the issue of race because he believed—in contrast with the previous interviewee—that race has a very large part to play in disparities in student performance. In the interview he drew upon his experience as a teacher and particular as a teacher of History. He began teaching when he was 24 and immediately noticed how History textbooks—as well as set curricula—focused on a Brazilian history that did not include the African influence.
“But my students, who are black, are in their Portuguese class where the teacher continues to talk about Camões or Castro Alves, or any other white poet or author and fails to mention many black poets, black songs, proverbs or national literature. In the history class, they learn of Africa only reference to slavery and there is no discussion of what those people were before slavery; they had nations...they were warriors, kings and priests.”
He noted that he could see the black students in his classes less interested and gaining much less from this education. He also noted that it was most obvious in his History classes, but was a constant theme in all of the classes he taught, whether it was Music, Language Arts or Visual Arts.
His major argument centered on the fact that Brazil has a history of racism and coupled with that racism is avoidance of racial confrontation. Today, this racism is masked by classism, which many use to explain the inequlities that currently exist. Stepping away from my set questions, I asked him his view on Affirmative Action in Brazil's system of higher education (http://education.guardian.co.uk/higher/worldwide/story/0,9959,1012157,00.html)and he quickly responded that he is completely in favor of it, largely because he believed that quotas are emergency measures for the current and growing racial inequality.
“It is not as if this is an ideal means of changing the course of race relations in Brazil, but it has become necessary in order to begin to make change.”
I found myself impressed with his response—I had heard about these quotos and as was troubled by how they would be enacted in Brazil's framework of color-based racial hierarchy—as no one I had spoken with had phrased it in that exact way, though I still had doubts. That said his perspective was a valuable one, and in all honesty, one that I could relate to as a black male living in a society that attempts to avoid the racial component whenever possible.
Vale Tudo: Up Close and Quite Personal
I went to my first Vale Tudo match in early December, with Junior and his dad, Reginaldo. It was real. Really real. The viewing is a bit difficult as a result of the cage but...check it out:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du33MskG-EA
Real Time Update
To my faithful few:
I wanted to take a moment and give real time update on my travels, as I have gotten into the bad habit of recounting experiences weeks late (at this rate I might as well scrap the blog and just send you all letters...you would get the news in about the same amount of time). After a grueling 11.5 hour flight from Buenos Aires, I have arrived in Madrid. It's 4:30 AM, dark and cold (3 degrees Celsius). I'm smelling a lot better than I thought I would after such a long flight, but I'm far from 100%. The scene is very different from the Buenos Aires airport in many ways, chief among them is the racial diversity. That said, I'm still getting a number of curious looks from both the Africans and the European Spainairds; I supposed even in the midst of this diversity I somehow find a way to stick out.
I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to stay awake until my connecting 3:30 PM flight to London. I probably won't make it...without sleep I mean. Now it's only a matter of finding a good place to rest my eyes for a few moments...
I wanted to take a moment and give real time update on my travels, as I have gotten into the bad habit of recounting experiences weeks late (at this rate I might as well scrap the blog and just send you all letters...you would get the news in about the same amount of time). After a grueling 11.5 hour flight from Buenos Aires, I have arrived in Madrid. It's 4:30 AM, dark and cold (3 degrees Celsius). I'm smelling a lot better than I thought I would after such a long flight, but I'm far from 100%. The scene is very different from the Buenos Aires airport in many ways, chief among them is the racial diversity. That said, I'm still getting a number of curious looks from both the Africans and the European Spainairds; I supposed even in the midst of this diversity I somehow find a way to stick out.
I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to stay awake until my connecting 3:30 PM flight to London. I probably won't make it...without sleep I mean. Now it's only a matter of finding a good place to rest my eyes for a few moments...
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Fight Club
Behind soccer and volleyball, Brazil's fastest growing sport is Vale Tudo, or what is more commonly known in the English-speaking world as MMA (Mixed Martial Arts). For those who are unfamiliar with MMA, it is currently threatening to make boxing, formerly known as the most physically brutal sport, obsolete. Mixed Martial Arts, as the name suggests, requires that fighters are skilled in a number of techniques including jiu-jitsu, wrestling, judo, muay-tai and boxing, to name a few.
Now with that brief introduction taken care of...
Vale Tudo is very strong in Brazil, though this phenomenon is not as new as in other parts of the world such as, for example, the United States. For some time Brazil has been world-reknowned for the quality of jiu-jitsu and judo training and as Vale Tudo/MMA has become more popular as an international sport, Brazil has played a major role. Many of the world's top fighters are Brazilian or have studied in Brazil, which speaks to how this international fighting community views the country that is still more well-known for soccer, samba and beautiful beaches.
During my time in Brazil, and more specifically Salvador, I have had the opportunity to become intimately acquainted with this "fight club" as Junior (the eldest sibling in the household) began taking Jiu-Jitsu in August and claims to have aspirations in the world of ultimate fighting (though no one really believes (or wants) that he will follow through on that). His training everyday brought him a lot of pride as well as a bunch of new friends with whom he trains. During the beginning of my stay in Salvador the "new friends" element was a bit sensitive because there are major differences between Junior's galera and his fight club crew. Fortunately for all of them, as they are all Brazilian, this tension did not last long and I soon found myself hanging out (via Junior) with a group of people that was, on the whole, incredibly diverse in their interests and aspirations.
One of the most interesting aspects of the growing group of friends is getting to understand this fight culture that exists in the world of Vale Tudo and (more generally) martial arts specifically in Brazil. That said, I put together a list, which might be helpful if any of you ever make it to Salvador:
7 Ways to know if your new friend is a part of Brazil's “Fight Culture”
1.They've got some massive tatoo on their back, arm or torso of a dragon, “Jiu Jistsu” or “Vale Tudo” (Yes, it happens...a lot).
2.Short haircut (long hair is a liability in ultimate fighting) and deformed ears (from being hit and placed in different submission holds).
3.You'll be shadowboxing and they'll actually hit you. Or maybe you won't even be shadowboxing, they'll ask if they can show you something and the next thing you know your arm feels like its about to fall off.
4.They walk around in tight shirts that either have their Academia's (Dojo's) name on it, or just “Jiu-Jitsu,” “Judo” or “Vale Tudo” printed across the front.
5.Their handshakes are a little too firm.
6.They've got no leg hair on or around their shinbone (Muay Thai experience).
7.Everytime you go out and start drinking with them, they want to show you the various types of arm and leg locks.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Se Liga Bocao
(I don't know if I can actually get a video link on here, so check out this link for a brief clip from the show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FuQoj0wEoY )
As was the case on a given weekday in Casa Denise (and particularly once vacation began for the kids) the first half of the day consisted of breakfast, lunch and a whole bunch of TV. As I fell into the rhythm with the family, I noticed that the show that was most popular with the family was a news/talk show-esque program called "Se Liga Bocao." Think a mix between the Today Show, Larry King and Jerry Springer. The program's title means "Call Big-Mouth." "Big Mouth" is meant to capture the program's expository nature as it shows what other, more traditional news programs, refuse to.
I'm posting about this particular program because of it's unique nature, not only compared to the more traditional news programs in Brazil, but also compared to any news program that I have seen. The program's host (O Bocao), who apparently was formerly a reporter for Brazil's Globo network, goes to great lengths to show a side of Bahia (the show only airs in Bahia) that you will never see on any other news program. Along with his field reporter (whose name escapes me at the moment) they broadcast stories about police violence, drug trafficking and kidnapping. The program devotes at least twenty minutes to tearful testimonials from interviewees about friends or family members who are missing.
However, there is another side to the program. This other side (the Jerry Springer side) makes the program look like a joke as Bocao's field reporter will at times openly humiliate the interviewee, oftentimes the victim of some crime or malady. Combined with sound effects and music from the main studio, segments of the show will appear to be aired with the sole purpose of ridiculing and humiliating the state's poor (who are nearly always the subject of the episode), either in favelas or the periferia (boonies). This humiliation includes showcasing an abuse victims wounds, rough questioning of alleged criminals at the police station, and openly ridiculing those who seem just happy to be on TV.
I'm conflicted about the program. On one hand, it represents something that many of us aren't used to: news media that doesn't seem to have some sort of obvious ideological lean. It portrays both the good and the bad in a seemingly objective light. The major problem is the way O Bocao goes about presenting aspects of this news. While the program does give a non-sugar-coated look at the darker side of the state of Bahia (if it weren't for the program one might believe every single one of the state sponsored ads about how much better life is for every baiano and baiana) it does so at the expense of the dignity of its subjects (like Jerry Springer, except in this case it's not staged). From an outsider's perspective Baianos look principally poor and ignorant and not a whole lot else.
But maybe that's what is necessary for this form of news to have some sort of effect. It is definitely popular and takes up a significant chunk of airtime in the middle of the day. I guess what remains to be seen (the program is only a few years old) is whether it will spark positive action or will just be something at which viewers point and laugh.
Is objectively informing people as to what is out there--whether or not others are humiliated in the process--enough?
I'm not exactly sure.
As was the case on a given weekday in Casa Denise (and particularly once vacation began for the kids) the first half of the day consisted of breakfast, lunch and a whole bunch of TV. As I fell into the rhythm with the family, I noticed that the show that was most popular with the family was a news/talk show-esque program called "Se Liga Bocao." Think a mix between the Today Show, Larry King and Jerry Springer. The program's title means "Call Big-Mouth." "Big Mouth" is meant to capture the program's expository nature as it shows what other, more traditional news programs, refuse to.
I'm posting about this particular program because of it's unique nature, not only compared to the more traditional news programs in Brazil, but also compared to any news program that I have seen. The program's host (O Bocao), who apparently was formerly a reporter for Brazil's Globo network, goes to great lengths to show a side of Bahia (the show only airs in Bahia) that you will never see on any other news program. Along with his field reporter (whose name escapes me at the moment) they broadcast stories about police violence, drug trafficking and kidnapping. The program devotes at least twenty minutes to tearful testimonials from interviewees about friends or family members who are missing.
However, there is another side to the program. This other side (the Jerry Springer side) makes the program look like a joke as Bocao's field reporter will at times openly humiliate the interviewee, oftentimes the victim of some crime or malady. Combined with sound effects and music from the main studio, segments of the show will appear to be aired with the sole purpose of ridiculing and humiliating the state's poor (who are nearly always the subject of the episode), either in favelas or the periferia (boonies). This humiliation includes showcasing an abuse victims wounds, rough questioning of alleged criminals at the police station, and openly ridiculing those who seem just happy to be on TV.
I'm conflicted about the program. On one hand, it represents something that many of us aren't used to: news media that doesn't seem to have some sort of obvious ideological lean. It portrays both the good and the bad in a seemingly objective light. The major problem is the way O Bocao goes about presenting aspects of this news. While the program does give a non-sugar-coated look at the darker side of the state of Bahia (if it weren't for the program one might believe every single one of the state sponsored ads about how much better life is for every baiano and baiana) it does so at the expense of the dignity of its subjects (like Jerry Springer, except in this case it's not staged). From an outsider's perspective Baianos look principally poor and ignorant and not a whole lot else.
But maybe that's what is necessary for this form of news to have some sort of effect. It is definitely popular and takes up a significant chunk of airtime in the middle of the day. I guess what remains to be seen (the program is only a few years old) is whether it will spark positive action or will just be something at which viewers point and laugh.
Is objectively informing people as to what is out there--whether or not others are humiliated in the process--enough?
I'm not exactly sure.
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