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.