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).