There Actually Is A Place Called Timbuktu

Prior to my arrival in Bamako, Dam and I had spoken about what are plans would be in the 10 days I spent in Mali. Dam had not done much traveling, so we agreed that some traveling would be the right way to spend at least part of those 10 days. After a few more emails back and forth we settled on an overland journey to Timbuktu, located north and east of Bamako, smack dab in the center of the country. Now before I go any further, I will address some questions that a few of you undoubtedly have:

1) Yes, there is actually a place called Timbuktu

2) Yes, that place is on the African continent

I would have included a couple of links that provide some good background information on Timbuktu, though I have learned through all of this traveling that there is something special about being able to tell the history and significance of a place in one's own words, from what one has learned from actually being in that place. That said, if you want to fact-check me, Wikipedia would be a good start :-).

Timbuktu (commonly spelled Tombouctou) can literally be translated into "the well" (Tim/Tom-) "of Bouctou." According to the Tuareg Nomads who currently live in the area, Tombouctou was originally a trading post and place where Tuareg travelers and traders would rest and spend a night. The distinguishing feature of the place was the presence of a well, obviously a special find in the Sahara desert. Those who found/created this well wanted it to be protected and maintained, so they charged a Tuareg woman by the name of Bouctou with its upkeep. Over time, the area became known for the well, as well as the woman who took care of it, hence Tombouctou.

Most of the people I heard speak about the city's history spoke of its founding as early as the 12th century. Over time, with the growing trade of salts, precious metals and slaves Tombouctou grew both in size and prominence. Under Mansa Moussa, king of the empire of Mali during the beginning and middle of the 14th century, the city became a religious and cultural center. King Moussa was a devout muslim (Islam had begun its spread through Mali as early as the 9th century) and during his reign built and expanded several mosques including one of the most famous in Mali, the great Mosque Djingarey Berre, located in Tombouctou.

Tombouctou grew to be one one of the most important cities in the Muslim world and as such scholars flocked to the city. During this time it became an important religious as well as intellectual capital in the Muslim world and in the 15th century the famous Sankore University was established. Over the several centuries that Tombouctou held the reputation of intellectual capital, thousands upon thousands of manuscripts were produced on subjects ranging from Islam (there are currently centuries-old editions of the Koran) to matters of political philosophy and justice.

The city retained its intellectual, religious and cultural prominence until the end of the 16th century when it was conquered by Morocco. This would be the beginning of a steady decline for the city as the Niger River (pictured above) became the strategic focal point for attacks by the Babara, Fulani and Tuareg over three centuries. Eventually the French captured and took control of the city and during this occupation, the city was restored to an extent, though nowhere near the quality of centuries passed. The French occupation of the area (known then as the French Sudan, which consisted of Senegal and Mali) ended in 1960 and Mali gained its official sovereignty in September of that year.

From what I gather, Tombouctou has remained relatively unchanged since this time retaining its religious, cultural and academic significance, though none of this has translated into true economic development. A major reason for this is that the city remains difficult to access (see the next post) and as such largescale commercial and economic development is challenge. The effect of this inaccessiblity is a city (more like a town) that somehow has retained its mysticism in a time and a world in which secret places no longer seem to exist.

I'm in Bamako, where are you?

One of the best pieces of advice I can give to anyone seeking to do a bit globetrotting is to find ways to travel (at least for part of your trip) with a friend.  As I planned my travels in West Africa I kept up with my friend Damini who was in Mali for your a year on a fellowship.  It took a bit of coordination--which is not all that easy when hopping from internet cafe to internet cafe--but we eventually figured out that I would make the short trip from Dakar to Bamako (capital city of Mali) where Dam would meet me and we would travel overland to Timboctou (aka Timbuktu--more on that later).  

Plans made, I woke up in darkness on the morning of February 28th, took a quick bucket shower and headed to the airport with Sam.  I was coming back in a little over a week, so this was not the emotional goodbye that I was sure to come later.  In fact, I was quite excited and looking forward to getting out on my own.  As great as it was to spend time with Sam and his family in Senegal, I felt as if my newly discovered independence was being encroached upon.  I spent a great deal of my time with Sam and his family, largely out of necessity (my French/Wolof has a long way to go) and I could sense that this was wearing on Sam a bit as well.

As the plane took off I couldn't help but notice my excitement to see a new place and meet up with a good friend.  It seemed only a brief moment between settling in my seat and the plane touching down and as I unbuckled my seatbelt I realized that I didn't have Dam's address.  A couple notes.  When you get into the rhythm of traveling a bunch you can take on a "what will be will be" attitude which greatly reduces the stress.  I would recommend everyone who travels try to take that to heart as at a certain point you realize that you cannot be in full control of your movements 100% of the time.  In the same breath, I would strongly recommend doing the little and important things that make traveling a lot easier.  One of these things is writing down the address of wherever you will be staying in your arrival country.

I figured that not knowing Dam's address wouldn't be too much of a problem because I could get it from him as soon as I exited the airport.  I accepted the fact that I would have to let the customs agent hold my passport until I got the address, but I had been through this enough to know that if I was quick, I shouldn't have too much trouble.  I stepped out into the dry Bamako afternoon to a crowd of people, most of whom were cabdrivers trying be the first to nab a customer.  As I scanned the crowd once, then again, but Dam was nowhere to be found.  I sat down on a nearby bench and waited, well-accustomed to the mob of cab drivers trying to get me to the destination I did not yet know for "the lowest price. Guaranteed."  Fifteen, then twenty minutes passed with no sign of Dam.  I called the number he gave me, but to no avail.  I hoped that Dam was alright, though once thirty minutes had passed I knew that I had to look out for myself and my passport.  Taking a quick look around, I noted a well-known hotel and its address, headed inside, filled out the immigration form and collected my passport.  I knew that I could buy some time at a major hotel, hopefully without paying for a room.  I left a message with a security guard at the airport (in case Dam showed up after I left), haggled with a waiting taxi driver until I reached a price which was "completely unreasonable" and headed to the Sofitel hotel, one of the largest and most Western in the city.

Bamako bore some resemblance to Dakar, though a bit more developed (I was informed that Libya's Qaddafi was involved with quite a bit of the development) and a whole lot less dusty.  The Niger river was low, though crossing over it I could easily imagine what it would look like during the rainy season.  I arrived at the Sofitel Hotel in my khakis and beat-up $1 foam sandals looking more than a little out of place.  In the main lobby there was an international conference going on and on more than a couple of occasions I was asked my business.  I had to do a bit of stalling, and verbally commit to staying a night (about $120/night).  Finally, after about an hour of stalling and placing a couple more calls to Dam's number, I began to accept that perhaps I would have to take the L and stay a night in the hotel.  As I gathered my belongings I took one last look towards the entrance.  No Dam.  I walked up to the front desk.  As I got ready to sign the billing statement I heard a voice call my name.  I turned around to see Dam, a sheepish grin on his face.

The Next Step

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

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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').

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.

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.

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.

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!

South of the Sahara

Coming soon...

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.

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.