From Christmas to Gamou: Transition Back to Senegal

It was harder than I had expected to come back to Senegal after our vacation in France.  I was actually kind of disappointed in myself for how un-excited I felt on the plane to Dakar.  There wasn’t the excitement of the unknown from the first time we flew into that airport, and it’s amazing how quickly someone who was raised in the developed world can get re-accustomed to modern amenities.   I have to admit that I spent the first few days back at site feeling pretty sorry for myself.   I got back to find that there had been no water in town for three weeks (people had been going to small villages in the area to bring back water) and that hundreds of Senegalese troops were in town in an effort to secure the border with Mali.  My personal pity party continued as I was unpacking.  While putting some items in a suitcase a use for storage, I found a desiccated toad carcass with no head.  (I unpacked the whole suitcase and never did find the toad head).  The water did come on at the public tap the next day, and as I was filling my bucket, the women had a lively conversation about how I couldn’t carry water on my head when I first got there, but now I had become a Malinke woman.  As luck would have it, I slipped on my way home, and the bucket fell off my head split open, spilling the water everywhere.  Since people are observant of our every move, it’s safe to say that a lot of people saw, and then they saw when I started crying (which I was then informed that Malinke women do not do). 

Fortunately, those days passed, and the craziness of carrying out a project that has been in the works since July forced me to snap out of it.  Pat came back from Dakar with a new bucket and 600 surveys about mercury exposure to be distributed the next day.   I had been worried that when he got back that I would have to live his transition vicariously and thus do it twice, but he had spent enough time doing prep work for the project in Dakar that he was glad to be home. 

As the intersection of the Gregorian and Muslim calendars would have it, the timing of our transition led us from the celebration of the birth of Jesus in France to the celebration of Mohammed’s birthday (the Gamou) in Senegal.   Our dear friend Ian is serving in a Jaxanke village to the south of us that happens to be one of the big sites for the Senegalese to celebrate the Gamou.  His village is much more religious than ours and is primarily inhabited by people with the last name of Tanjan.  According to the Senegalese caste system, Tanjans are marabouts, the religious leaders of West African Sufi Islam.  It is partly because of this large concentration of marabouts that people from all over come to this small village that is deep in the bush of Kedougou.  (I’m pretty sure that it is the Peace Corps-inhabited village that is the furthest from Dakar.)   A little while ago, the mayor of Dakar came to the village with bags upon bags of fancy rice and new solar panels for the mosque.  The radio for the past few weeks has been playing announcements of personal invitations to the chiefs and imams of all of the villages in this part of Senegal (and the villages in Guinea and Mali that pick up our radio station).  The volunteers were personally invited by one of the chief’s sons, Cheikh, who is Ian’s counterpart and one of my favorite Senegalese people.

And so, Wednesday morning, six of us left Saraya on our bikes to make our own Gamou pilgrimage—48 kilometers of dusty road and swarms of tsetse flies.  As we were leaving, people asked us to pray for them, as there is apparently the belief that prayers are more powerful coming from Misira Dantila on Gamou.   

When we got there, the village was bustling with preparatory activities.  We stayed out of their way and headed to the river. 

Preparing the mosque

Piles of kola nuts, which are given as a sign of respect.  Old people loooove them.  They taste terrible and have a crazy amount of caffeine,

Ian and Pat are adventuring buddies so of course had to test out this raft they found on the river bank.  They also recently had a boat built by a welder in Kedougou...the maiden voyage is coming up this spring.

The morning of Gamou, Cheikh explained that things would begin with some readings and speeches from honored guests.   We weren’t sure if this was a men only thing, so the guys ventured there first.  A while later, I got the following text from Pat: “You guys can come.  Bring a hat.”  After some deliberation, we determined that this was because the event was taking place at the mosque, where women typically cover their hair.  Not having thought of this when packing for the trip, this is what we came up with:

Marielle's airplane blanket headwrap was by far the best.

My headwrap was the wrap skirt I was planning on wearing later that day.

When we got there, Pat said, “That’s a funny hat.”  It turns out he was just worried about my nose getting sunburned.   In the rigmarole of finding suitable headwear, we missed most of the speeches and introductions of the VIPs that had come.  We got there right in time, however, for the killing of six cows.  That is a lot of meat in these parts, let me tell you, and it shows what a big deal this was.  In our site, which is probably 5 times bigger than Misira Dantila, they only killed two cows.

Every family gets some meat.  Here's Cheikh taking his home.  They actually used a village census Ian did for a malaria project to distribute food.

Pat got some meat from a joking cousin.  The Tanjans and the Cissokhos are joking cousins, so he got a lot of  "You are not good", but at least he got a pile of meat as well!

After eating an amazing beefy lunch (and feeling a little guilty after having seen several surviving cows standing over the places where their comrades had been butchered and moo-wailing), we headed back to the mosque.  Pat was summoned to a group of men who went to the house of the founder of the village and escorted him to a small room behind the mosque while chanting.  Everyone went to pray the standard five times a day prayers in the mosque and then came out for the big event.  A flag that was a homage to the prophet was raised up in a mango tree.  At that point, special people were invited to go into the room with the village founder and pray.  The flag will stay in the tree for one week, and when it comes down, there will be a mad scramble to touch it for the power it is said to hold.  Yesterday, I was shocked to feel a raindrop on my face.  It was astonishing to feel that in the middle of the dry season, but we are told that it happens every year while the flag is up.

It was funny to see fancily dressed grown men climb trees to raise up the flag.

We had one of the best meals we’ve had in Senegal that night: slow cooked beef over a bed of salad.  No rice!  People went back to the mosque around 1 am and read the Koran and chanted until about 7.  I didn’t personally attend, but thanks to the new speakers from the Mayor of Dakar, we were able to hear it all night long.

As we were having breakfast before biking out the next morning, Cheikh cleared his throat and expressed his deep thankfulness that we had accepted his invitation and come to his village to celebrate this special day with them.  He went on to talk about how thankful he is for Peace Corps and general, and it actually made me tear up—I’m terribly sad that Ian will be leaving for America this Spring, and was really moved by Cheikh’s words.  I sometimes get really caught up in the development work side of Peace Corps and get stressed out with work and don’t put as much energy as I’d like into the relational aspect of Peace Corps.  This was a great reminder as we transition into a new year in Senegal.