8 Missed Calls

Today was the second day of classes. I spent the entire day absorbed in scheduling, being on time and having the right books and catching up with people I hadn't seen in almost a year. Mondays and Wednesdays all my classes are in the theater building anyway- I thought of nothing else. After class I went straight to rehearsal, and was singing for three or four hours. The day ended at about nine-thirty.

On the way home, I looked at my phone and saw that I had eight missed calls. The same number tried to call me five times. My phone didn't recognize it, the "221" country code gave it away. Senegal.

I went through my notebook, the back pages where I wrote down everyone's phone numbers, promising to call. It only reminded me of how many people I haven't spoken to since then. The number that called my phone is not in my notebook. Someone must have gotten a new phone. Maybe my Dakar family called- I didn't write down Raissa's number, or Papa Anicet's. I dont' know who called me, and it's too late at night to call them back. I should try sometime soon, though. I don't want to be rude. And I really want to know who's spending the money and effort to call me.

I took a shower tonight, and instead of singing I realized I was talking. Speaking, in French and Wolof and a little tiny bit of Mandinka, imagining conversations. I pretend I'm sitting at "chez les 4 freres" with the guys, listening to macho drummers bicker about how to make the perfect cup of tea. I tease Mamadou about his Belgian girlfriend and Ibou about Martine, the French tourist who wouldn't leave him alone. (She called me the other day. Twice, during class. Then texted me, said Ibou gave her my number. Such a friendly talkative woman, and just as unwilling as I am to let go of Toubacouta.)

I make crazy plans with Sw and Maimouna about going on tour all over the states, dancing. I show Samba how much better I've gotten. I come up with countless ways of laughing off sai-sai boys on the street who ask why I don't want a boyfriend. I barter taxi fares and have in-depth conversations with friends about what it means to be an artist.

I can't stop thinking about my 150 children at Garderie Baobab, and how to earn their respect. If I can get them all to learn my name in just one week, why couldn't I get them to learn their ABC's? I can't stop thinking about Ndeye Sirra, my five-year-old helper, who used her recess time identifying letters, smudging sticky bissap-fingers over the pages of my notebook. I keep coming back to the question of HOW can I teach them, how can I help them, I have to come up with a system that works.

I've read "Give with Gratitude" and "Nine Hills to Nambonkaha". I've decided that the Peace Corps isn't for me, not right now, but am starting to look into different scholarships. I'm a "student consultant" here at the U, I'm going to advise students who are looking at MSID Senegal, email suggested packing lists and homestay advice. I can't let it go. I can't stop thinking about it.

And even when I do stop thinking about it- like today, when I went a good twelve hours totally absorbed in not just American culture, but the tiny West Bank Minneapolis Theater culture- they call and remind me that they're still thinking of me.

I keep coming back to what I told everyone before I left. D'abord, j'étudie. Aprés, je travaille. Quand j'ai assez travaillé, je vais retourner. I'm coming back, c'est sure. It's just going to take some work. And it's comforting to know that the people I'm longing to see again are far more patient than I am.

Remember me?

It's been about two months since my last blog post. I'd been writing like crazy, trying not to forget a thing from Toubacouta, since I couldn't do blog posts there. Two months since my last blog post, four months since I left Senegal. My hair, when it's braided, takes two elastics, not fifty. It was chilly today- the coldest I've been since January. Four months in Senegal, and I still feel the need to count time like this.

I still talk nonstop about last semester, and only just stopped wearing my "petit afrique" necklace Abdoulaye gave me. I have yet to play my djembe, but only just stopped my twice-a-week dance classes. It was Raissa's birthday a few days ago- we talked on facebook. I've called my families and friends several times- and they've called me. I haven't talked to any MSID friends, not face to face yet. I'm sitting alone in my apartment, my new room, with colorful pagnes hung over the windows as curtains, my drum propped up against the bed. My teapot on the shelf, but still only one cup that survived the plane ride. The cups that always come in two, to share. You can't make the frothy tea without pouring it from cup to cup, so I need two, I need someone to share with.

I just re-read some early blog posts. About my first few days in Dakar. There's one from January 18th, "Skilna∂artàra", in which I wrote about a song I sing, "who can sail without the wind?". I wrote about it the day before leaving.

Here's a story from Toubacouta:

It was my second or third day in town, in my new family. I missed Mama Binta and Liberté 3, my neighborhood and friends and family in Dakar. I missed my family and friends in the states, and was still shy around my new Toubacouta family. I didn't know what to do with myself, there wasn't any work to be done that I knew how to do, no schoolwork, no salsa. And my nephew Petit (his name is Ansou. We call him "junior") comes in, who can barely speak French, and sits down on the floor in my room (The living room, remember) and starts singing,

Qui peut faire de la voile sans vent?
Qui peut rammer sans ramme
Et qui peut quitter son ami
sans verser de larme?

I am the farthest I have ever been from home, and can't imagine being in a place farther. I have never been so far away from anyone I know. And the song most dear to me, that I have learned and sung with those most close to me, is coming out of the mouth of a boy whose family I have just been welcomed into.

I start singing along, of course, fighting back tears of relief and joy and tension all at once dispelled. I wasn't looking for a sign, but here it is; I'm home. As far from home as I can possibly be, and I'm home. I recorded him on my computer. He figured out pretty quickly that singing that song gets a rise out of me, so he invited some of his friends in one night so they could all sing it for me. Petit was correcting their pronunciation even though he didn't know what the French words meant himself. Of course, I do that when we sing in Icelandic or Swedish. He couldn't understand when I tried to tell him that I sang that song with my friends. Of course I did. It's what every Senegalese kid learns in school, in an educational system inherited (or abandoned) by the French.

I miss them.

I'll keep writing occasionally, though, just for the sake of writing and remembering and getting it all out so I don't annoy everyone around me with these stories like I already feel like I'm doing.

Letters

Dear Samba, and Abdoulaye, and Salif, and Maimouna, and Ibou, and Mamadou, and everyone in Allah Laké,

I'm sorry I haven't been able to call recently. Abdoulaye's beeped me a few times but Skype isn't working the way it should so I can't get credit to call him back. And besides that, I've been busy.

I want to tell you that I just finished teaching my friend all the steps to Zowlin, and I can even sing the beat while we dance. Two days a week I teach her, or I said she could just call whenever and we'd walk to campus and dance. It's the closest thing I've got to taking two djembes down to the beach after a hotel show.

(I'm typing like a crab, it sounds like, scurrying across the keyboard. No wonder emails are only a few sentences long, and misspelled. You all hunt and peck it takes hours. Another reason I never email. You'll have to get to the internet café and it'll take the full hour slot just to open a browser window. Doesnt' help that some of the keyboards are english and some are french, so the keys are always switched around. If you all saw how much I write on this blog you wouldn't believe it was all me)

And these last two weeks I've been busy, what I'll tell you on the phone is that I'm helping with a program of interns who are younger than I am, where I learn dancing from older artists in the morning and teach the younger ones in the evening. I won't try to explain that I'm taking west african dance steps from all different ballets and mixing them together to represent a scene from the play Romeo and Juliet. I won't tell you that I was effectively a T.A. for a high school summer intensive program where we introduced twenty high school juniors and seniors to college life, and I got to sit in on all their sessions and try to create a piece on my own. I'll tell you the important part- I'm learning from other artists and teachers with much more experience, and also teaching my friends what i learned from you.

And in the evenings I write songs. That's what I'll say. I have rehearsal every night, and I won't need to mention how sometimes rehearsal gets canceled, you'll understand that as part of the deal. Maybe when I visit again I'll try and translate the epic of Gilgamesh into French or Wolof, I may have some songs to sing you, but what you want to hear is that I'm part of a theater troupe and I'm creating songs to perform during shows.

And of course, my family is here, my mother and father and sister are all here, all doing well, they say hello to you all and your families of course. Aisha is doing fine, and Marie says hello, and all my friends do too. I'll remind you that I haven't been living with my family, I've been living with some friends at the university, my family is far away, and no it isn't sad. I'm going to see them soon, and I'll tell them all you say hello. And you tell everyone in Toubacouta I say hello back. Yes I'm going to live at home with my family for another two months before I go back to the university.

My friend is arriving tomorrow, you'll already assume she's staying with me, the one I told you all about, who can walk on stilts. The one who I'm teaching all the songs. And some dances, too, hopefully. She will be my guest for a few days, and then we're going to a Grand Fete, a huge festival where I will teach more classes in singing and learn from many many artists, it's at a cultural center like the one you're trying to raise money to build. It'll be the closest I'll have come to seeing stars like i know them now. I'm going to teach them "un elephant", the children's handclapping rhyme all the kids know- my two year old niece could have taught it to me. Yes, when you have a cultural center built in Toubacouta, that's when I'll come back. I'll come with an American troupe, and perform there. I'll teach you all my own songs and dances, and come back for another internship with you. When you've got it built. Just let me know.

It's been raining here, very hard. I waited three hours for the rain to stop before I took a bus home yesterday. You won't think anything of it, besides maybe the fact that I counted the hours. I'd love to show you around our bus system, how they arrive faithfully every fifteen minutes. But as I was waiting I was talking to this museum guard, he was from Ghana, his name is Anthony. An entire wedding party walked by into their air conditioned catered party room, and Anthony talked to me about his family and how hard it is to find a job. We talked about how weddings are so fancy here, and you have to be invited to come, and you have to order food in advance and everyone gets just the food they ordered. And how the band is told not to play too loud, not to disturb the neighbors that no one knows and aren't invited. The last wedding I was at I was performing. It was nice, I wasn't alone while I waited for the rain to stop, and his accent reminded me of this girl from WARC.

But it's still hot. Not *as* hot, no. But I'm sitting in my pagne, the one I got my first day in Dakar for orientation, when they tried to teach us to dance on Honorine's roof, and my roommate is wearing a pagne too, she's wearing the one I gave her with the fabric I bought at the market. It's too hot to wear anything else. And I still wear the pendant, my "gris gris" that I always wore in Senegal, and now most days I wear my "petite afrique" on the silver chain that you gave me. It's easy to point out where I was when people ask about Senegal. Some days I wear the bracelet I bought in St. Louis, and some days the bracelet Maimouna gave me before my very first performance at Hotel Paletuviers.

I talked to Salif's family, to his father in Atlanta, Georgia. It's very far away to visit, but I hope one day I can meet him and his family. If he ever comes to the midwest to perform, he said he'd give me a call.

I've made ceeb u jenn once, and attaya a few times. Of course I can do that! I had good teachers. My friends all prefer the third cup. I still prefer the second. Sweet like life. Love is too sugary for me, in the third cup of attaya.

I haven't forgotten Wolof. Or the songs. Or the dances. I go over the steps in the shower, on my bike to the west bank, as I fall asleep. Of course I'm coming back to learn more. Awww, no, it's me who misses all of you. Yes, it is nice to hear your voice again. I'm very happy to talk to you. Yes, of course I'll continue dancing and teaching. No, how could you even think I'd forget? I'll keep practicing Wolof and dancing and singing. And you say hello to Ibou for me, and Ice-T, and Khadi, and Maimouna. And your sisters, and mother, and grandmother- are you still teasing her? Shouldn't do that. And Maimouna, how's your son? And clever Ndeye Sirra? And your mother all the women at Garderie Baobab? Yes, next time you take a group of toubabs to visit say hello to Sonko and the rest. And don't let my cousin Mamadou grow his hair too long, or Fatou will throw a fit. There's a reason Croco doesn't have rastas like the rest of the drummers. And Ibou, take care of your fingers! Don't stain another drum. And Mamadou, give my regards to la princesse, I hope she's not still jealous. No, I haven't told Aisha about her.

yes. I'm coming back. When I finish university and find a good job, and make enough money to come back and share it with you all. When the cultural center's finished, I'll be there for the grand opening. When Fatou's new house is finished, I'll come and stay in the guest room. Or if you come on tour here to America, I'll find you places to perform. I'll be host and guide then, how about that? We'll drink attaya and play djembe. And yeah, Ibou, I'll tell Alicia Keyes you said hi.

Spring Break! (Part Four)

Part Four
We also ate dinner at the campement the second night- a tiny hostel-like place in teh village I’d walked to the day before. We got directions from the guys at the visitor’s center- they said to basically follow the road until we got to the trees, and it’d be there. The village was pretty small anyway, we’d be sure to find it. We let them know ahead of time how many of us there were so they could prepare for eleven hungry tourists- they said to show up around eight or nine.

“Eight or nine” is after dark, a detail that had been worrying me but not too much until we actually started walking down the road. The same dark road without any light at all that allowed us to see the stars so beautifully the night before. We used our cell phones as flashlights to see the ground. The problem is that when the road is made of sand and the ground is made of sand, you can’t tell where to turn off- we’d almost passed the village entirely before a man caught up with us with a flashlight lamp-torche telling us toubabs we’d missed the road. We thanked him and started walking straight across what could have been someone’s yard, aiming for what few lights we could see before the same man and his friend caught up to us and said they’d show us the way. It was kind of embarrassing, but we were all frustrated from a long day at the bird park and then arguing about prices and then trying to find our way to this campement, so we ended up just following the men. The same few girls who had been the “coordinators” of this entire trip went first, politely chatting with our guides.
I could barely see when we finally made it to the campement- the pale flourescent lights were so harsh it took a while for our eyes to adjust. We ended up in what looked to me like a grey concrete room with two long tables- the first table was occupied by a bunch of French people who might as well have been on a picnic in a park- next to their table was a cooler which contained I assumed some wine because already consumed what looked like most of a bottle and were being raucous and jolly. It threw us off. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a group of French seniors having a picnic. As we sat and waited for our dinner, one of the guys picked up a shell from the table and pretended it was a telephone to call me, and as we had a conversation his friend pretended to remonte-control drive the cockroach that was crawling across the floor. The two women were taking lots of flash photos. It was very surreal. Dinner was good too- I don’t think any of us had eaten lunch, and only a few had paid the overexpensive hotel breakfast, a few others I know had eaten fruit from St. Louis, so we were able to all finish our dinners. And our guide came back to lead us to the main road where we stargazed our way back to the hotel.


The next morning we played the Celebrities Game on the way to the Dunes.

Hair (or, Mayday Part One)

I took out my braids yesterday. Fifty tiny little braids, each with its own yellow or red or blue or green elastic- or one of my sister's braces elastics- or without since they'd been breaking recently. After all, I'd had them in since May first. A month and almost two weeks later I tried not to think too hard about the day I got my hair braided. Snipping off each one right above the elastic, my hair's all nice and layered now, hopefully less split ends, and after a shower and some shampoo it's back to normal.

Good timing, too, another week and I would've had rasta dreads. It was getting manky and matting together but I'd gotten so used to the braids, so attached to them (haha). It was something else I was holding onto for no reason, but when am I ever gonna get my hair done like that again? I'm not just referring to the braids. I'm referring to the experience.

May day was they day I was looking forward to the least, right from the start. I thought I'd get super homesick, since it's the only holiday during spring semester that I really get into. It's funny how holidays line up, though- I called my family to say "happy independence day" and had forgotten they'd be celebrating Easter on April 4th. When I was thinking about my Minneapolis family and the May Day parade this year, my Toubacouta family was planning for the Labor Day parade. Samba told me the night before that there'd be a huge gathering right in front of the school where I worked (or had just finished working the day before) and then there'd be a parade, and the whole town would be there. I couldn't wait! We hadn't had rehearsal or a show since that Wednesday for the troupe, so Saturday would be a good chance to see everyone and say goodbye since I was leaving Sunday morning. He said the parade would start around eight in the morning.

So I wake up at seven as usual. And I eat breakfast as usual, and I'm humming Hal-An-Tow and my family laughs at me for singing in English and asks me to sing the Mandinka songs I learned instead, they want to hear *this* one or *that* one and then they want to see me dance, because it's oh-so-funny to hear me sing and watch me dance, never mind that it's seven in the morning, I must want to entertain them, why wouldn't I? And because it's my last day I pretend to be so elated to sing for them right after waking up, do they notice I'm still wearing my pajama top no of course not. Concentrate on how much you'll miss them tomorrow not on how you feel like a performing dog in a circus. And when they get tired of requesting songs and dance moves, Fatou asks me to help her fold laundry. No, not the clean laundry that just came off the line. The laundry from the closet- ALL of the clothes my family owns, apparently needed to be re-folded and re-organized, right away. And since I can fold laundry, I was goign to help. And I did. I figured since Samba told me the parade would start at 8, I could wait a few hours and go at 9. I told Fatou I'd help with the clothes. She said "Good" and went to go give Grand-mère her breakfast, leaving me alone in the house, feeling like I was about to try and spin straw into gold.


Luckily Fatou came back after about an hour. I asked her if there was going to be a parade. She said "oh, yeah, I think I hear music from that side of town... I guess there must be" and after an awkward silence I asked if I could go. She said yes of course I could go if I wanted to. After another awkward silence I asked if I could go *now*. She said yes, of course, why wouldn't I? (the huge house-cleaning thing for one... but I didn't argue) So I take my camera and rush (okay, walk.) down to the Garderie where there's a HUGE sound system all set up playing bad pop music that you can hear all over town (literally). Sitting directly in front of the speakers is Khadi and Maimouna and this guy from the troupe who I assume is Khadi's husband but I never can tell 'cause they don't really talk but she's always sitting next to him and I'm always too shy to ask in case they're siblings or something. No one else is there. I ask what's going on and they shrug. I wait for a bit, but then leave to take one more picture-tour of the neighborhood, snapping pictures of all the places I see/saw every day. Almost no one's around, it's weird. I finally see Samba talking to Ice-T, and as I get closer Ibou shows up too. Samba asks if I'm on my way to the "manifestation" so I guess it's a protest parade, and Ibou offers to walk me there, and since I've been fighting off tears since I woke up and realized that it was gonna be a long day of "lasts", there is nothing I'd rather do.

So we walk back to the school, and sit and wait. By this time though I'm used to sitting and waiting. It's what this town does- it's what this country does. Sit and wait. And at this point I can do that too. It's hot out, and I'm with my friends. We don't talk, hardly even look at each other, but we're sitting near each other which here counts as hanging out. The music's too loud anyway. Abdoulaye Sarr shows up, and some kids run through who were in my class. It's my last day in Toubacouta and I'm sitting and waiting for something to happen. As people start to gather though I see my cousin Sali standing at the edge of the road, just sort of staring at me. Which would be odd, if I weren't used to odd by now. I get the feeling though, that I should go over and see what's up.

So I walk over and she asks why I'm there. Which I don't answer. And she asks when I want her to do my hair. I say whenever she wants to, I'm free. After another awkward pause, I say "so would now work?" and she says no, she's got to go to a neighbor's to see if they're ready to start cooking the huge lunch for the manifestation. But she doesn't move. After another awkward pause I ask if I could go with her. She shrugs and turns and walks away, which I know means I should follow. We walk to a compound I recognize as Salif's , where she pulls up a chair on the porch of one of the houses and tells me to sit down. I do. She then tells me to tilt my head forward. As soon as I do, she starts RIPPING my hair into sections and braiding it. Just like that.

So I'm sitting on a stranger's porch getting my hair done because Sali's waiting to hear news of when she's supposed to help cook lunch for the protest/parade that is of now four hours late in happening, and my hair which hasn't really been brushed that day is getting ripped all sorts of directions because she's used to dealing with FAKE hair that doesn't hurt when you pull it. Also, they start from the back of your head, which happens to be the most painful, as I found out. My head is down so I can't see anything and they can't see the faces I'm making, and I can hear people gathering about thirty feet away by the school where I'd much rather be but I get the feeling Sali wanted to do my hair today and didn't have any other time to do it. She acted like she was bored out of her mind, but that's how she always is. She's fifteen, I kept forgetting, and the classic teenager.

So two hours later after I was getting a crick in my neck and ready to scream from the pain, she casually mentioned "so anytime you want to go, we should". As if she was waiting for me. As if we were there because I wanted to stay. We just spent at least two hours sitting on someone's porch for no reason other than both of us thought the other one wanted to be there. Story of my life. Cousin Sali in a nutshell. So I suggested we go back to our house where I could BRUSH MY HAIR so it wouldn't hurt as much. As we leave, though, she mentions that the parade just left, if I "wanted to go see it". I didn't think anyone would be there, so I said it was okay if she just wanted to go home. She stood there and pointed out lazily that all my friends would be in the parade by now, we could hear the drums from there.

So with half my hair (the underside) in braids and the other (top) half down over it, we walked to catch up with the parade. For the comedy of this situation to really hit home, you need to understand the speed at which most people here walk. Imagine you're late for the bus but have to walk behind a very sleepy three-year-old. And it's hot out. And the roads are made of sand. The parade was three blocks ahead of us, and Sali kept saying things like "don't you want to see your friends" one minute and "Why are you in a hurry? they're right over there" the next. She has a way of making me feel like I'm dragging her along everywhere, even though usually she's the one who tells me to get up and go (though she doesn't say "where") or insists on coming along. But I do my best to walk as quickly as is polite to catch up with my friends. Good thing I brought along my camera.

There's a pickup truck with speakers in teh back, and a microphone, and some of the drummers are chanting "Respectez, les artistes, respectez, les contracts!" it's a protest march, there are all these women in brilliantly colored dresses holding big signs (that I only see the back of) and the truck's got at least ten guys standing/sitting/clinging to it, and there are drums and people are waving from their houses as we make a tour of the town. As soon as I reach the tail end of parade, Sali pulls at my arm and informs me that we're caught up now, and I shouldn't rush, I should stay with my family (a few cousins, some ten-year-old girls, have found me). I'm literally two yards from Ibou and Abdoulaye and they couldn't hear me if I shouted. But this is my last day as Aminata Sylla, and Sali's being so nice to braid my hair and it's family and she doesn't realize how frustrating she's being. I need to spend time with my family. So I stay with her. Until she points to Fatou and Khadi and says "look, your friends, the girls from the troupe. They'll miss you when you're gone. Go say hi to them" So with the permission of my fifteen year old cousin I go say hi to the two girls.

I realize how little my family knows about my troupe. Everyone assumes that I'd be friends with the female dancers and have no connection to any of the guys. Even the guys in the troupe assume I'll only be friends with the girls. And I am, I really am friends with Maimouna and Khadi and Fatou and Sw and Maimouna. But for some reason it's less stressful to hang out with Mamadou and Ibou. And Abdoulaye's the one who teaches me dancing and drumming. And I realized that my family knows none of that when we passed by Abdoulaye's house and Sali mentioned "someone from your troupe lives there. You know Abdoulaye Ndong? (she points to him, three feet away, who I've been trying to catch up to this whole time) He lives here. He's not married, though."

Thanks for the info, Sali. I've been there at least once every day for the last three weeks. It's where everyone hangs out after a show. Or before a show. I waved at his sister.

We kept moving, and eventually I got to say hi to more people. I took photos, too. Salif made funny faces, and Wayne tried to get me to jump on the truck with them, but I knew Sali wouldn't like that. For some reason my family gets weird around the troupe. Eventually though she pulled me aside to go talk to her friends who were sitting by the side of the main road. I stood while she chatted for a while, then told her I was going home. "Then when am I going to finish your hair?" I said whenever she wanted, since I'd be home. She got up and walked with me then back to the house.

It was a little after one in the afternoon.

Amazing Grace

It's been one month since I left Senegal. A little over a month since I left Toubacouta. A little under a month since I left Dakar. In one month I have changed cities, houses, and families four times. I've been packing, unpacking, saying hello and goodbye and promising to keep in touch and promising to meet soon for tea or coffee or attaya. From small town to big city to small town to big city. Three different pairs of flip flops, two different ways to cook ceeb u jenn. Two five-hour drives and one eight-hour plane ride. Three or four languages. Two dance troupes, several songs.

I still haven't taken out my braids, that Sali and Roky gave me on May 1st, my last full day in Toubacouta. I'm still finishing up the bright blue pills that keep away malaria, and while I'm at it the vitamin supplements because let's face it, a college student's diet is probably just as healthy is four months of maffé and fried-egg-cheeseburgers. I still say "am ul solo" and walk down the street singing in Mandinka. I walk a lot slower now, too.

Abdoulaye called me today- I said I'd call him back. It's cheaper for me to call Senegal than it is for any of them to call me, and even if it weren't I'm the one that can afford it. It's still hard to understand phone French. I was shopping when he called, at Target. In the middle of the office supplies, picking out pens. Bic's. Said I was at the market because I don't know the word for "department store" in french. Picked up some froot loops and hot dogs, blank CDs, a notebook, a toothbrush. Walking down Nicollet all the people asking for money had written their own signs and didn't talk to anyone. It was drizzling. The busses that went by were nearly empty.

At Target I also bought this book "Boundless Grace", because it was the sequel to one of my favorite books when I was little- "Amazing Grace", all about this little girl who loves stories and wants to be Peter Pan in the class play even though she's a girl and she's black. The year I got that book I was Peter Pan for Halloween, and I remember feeling distinctly superior and more liberated than all the Tinkerbells I saw. I still remember some of the illustrations in that picture book, so seeing my favorite character, Grace, years later at Target pulled me up short. In this book, though, Grace likes stories about fathers because her dad left when she was a baby. Turns out Grace goes to visit him where he lives with his new family in the Gambia. The watercolor illustrations are gorgeous. She goes to the airport and is greeted by this costumed guy on stilts (http://www.biantouo.com/pic6.jpg) and then goes to her father's compound where she meets her Papa and his new wife and her kids, they go to the market where people carry their shopping on their heads. She goes to a fabric store and gets measured for a traditional Gambian outfit.

And this is how I know that the illustrator had to at least know someone who had been to west Africa. Because how else would Caroline Binch know that the green glass Sprite bottles have a different shape from the clear glass Fanta bottles when she paints Grace having a Fanta and her Nana having a Sprite, right in front of a hibiscus/bissap plant. And how the family's dog would wander through the yard licking out the calabash bowl stacked next to the big metal bowls under the mango tree. And in the meantime Mary Hoffman writes about how Grace realizes that her family isn't like the one in stories. It isn't a mom and a dad and a sister and a brother and a cat and a dog. Grace learns that her family includes a Nana, and a stepmother who isn't mean, and two younger siblings named Bakary and Jatou who have never even heard of Cinderella.

"Sometimes Ma called from home and her voice made Grace feel homesick. 'I feel like gum, stretched out all thin in a bubble,' she told Nana. 'As if there isn't enough of me to go around. I can't manage two families. What if I burst?' 'Seems to me there IS enough of you, Grace,' said Nana. 'Plenty to go around. And remember, families are what you make them."


I was ready to leave Senegal by the time I left. It was just enough time to be there, and I am glad to be back. I really am. It just doesn't seem like it. But I promise, I'm here. I missed being here and yes this is my home and yes this is my family and I love you all more than anything. If anything, I appreciate what I have here a hundred times more than I ever did. It just doens't seem like it.


I didn't really get culture shock when I got back. I didn't really get culture shock when I left. See, when you hear the term "culture shock" what you expect is just that- a shock. The instant surprise of something being different, more different than you expected. No one says that sometimes it takes longer than that. That it isn't the fact that things are different, or that things are the same, it's the fact that you have two ideas of what "market" means now. It's that when you say "family" you always feel the need to be more specific. That even though you spent four months craving English slang words and someone who would Just Understand What I Effing Mean When I Talk, it's a good thing you got used to it over there 'cause being back is just as frustrating. I forget who I told what about my trip and feel almost guilty talking about it.

See, I'm used to call and response now. "Nangadeff" is always followed by "Maangi fii rekk". You hear "Assalaam Malekum" and you say "Malekum Salaam". I get back and I say "hey how are you?" and they say "good, how've you been?" and I say "good" and it's just fine. But what's the culturally appropriate response, how do I answer according to social normal expectation, to the question, "So, how was Senegal?"

I miss the shooting stars.

Spring Break! (Part Three) - The Stars

Part Three
How could I possibly forget to mention the stars? It was the night before we went on the tour of the bird park, we were at the hotel. So it was the first day we were at the hotel that was on the bird part property but not at the park itself. The hotel was part of a group of buildings looked like a giant child picked up a toy house and set it down in the middle of a dried-up mud puddle. Small collection of buildings, an old faded room that was an ecological museum, the tourist center that sold necklaces made by women from the nearby village, and a small neighborhood of sleepy looking houses. A wall separated the estuary of the Fleuve Senegal from the buildings. I went on a walk with a friend, there was a nice little road or a big path out to the horizon, we followed it. West there was what looked like a marsh, reeds and birds and water. The road was on an artificial ridge, maybe something like a barrier between the rushes and on the other side was dust. A dried up mud puddle with cracks in the ground and maybe some sticks that used to be a bush clinging to the ground to stay upright. We even found some dry bones and animal footprints, and tracks fro horse carts that don’t use the road up on the ridge. Walking barefoot it feels like you’re walking on the soft top of a perfectly-cooked brownie, with a soft brittle top-crust that feels like it could flake off, and you leave footprints on the sandy soil underneath. It’s warmed by the sun like the whole earth just came out of the oven.

We kept walking and got to the village and the road turns into sand and there’s more trees and tiny houses and everyone stares at us but surely they must be used to tourists, we walk past a football soccer field and in the middle of a group of houses there are men and boys with fishing nets drinking tea, they invite us to stay but the sun will set soon and we don’t even have our cell phones to light the way back. Two very young girls are washing dishes in the little bit of river that touches the edge of the village, and I approach them and have my very first unaided basic conversation in Wolof, just asking their names and how is their family and what are they doing. I don’t really understand their responses but I’m communicating without being in a classroom without having any French mixed in and then we walk back to the hotel.

The sun sets quickly and those who buy overpriced dinner go eat it at the surly empty-but-for-us restaurant and I sit on the floor in our hotel room and eat apples and bread that’s already starting to go stale with Chocoleca and write in my journal. Then Kenta comes in from the next room and asks does anyone want to go with him to see the stars. I was the only one who felt like it at first. We walk out of the hotel and out the gate of our little encampment until we reach the road and there’s nothing.

And then we look up. And I feel like I just fell off the face of the earth. I can’t feel the ground under me and because it’s so flat there’s nothing to either side of me, I’m standing on a tabletop and I’m surrounded by a blanket of stars so thick you can see dimension and texture in them, the milky way is a highway of clear light and Kenta and I look at each other then go running back to the hotel, banging on doors getting everyone out there. We’re so excited and people are so reluctant and we get outside and they say yes they see the stars and we say no wait until we’re out on the road and the group of us go back and there is a collective loss of breath. Now I’m one of then people on a tabletop but we’re all alone looking up, I can’t see anything else. The generators turn off at midnight. No streetlights, no cars, no cities, no towns. The village might have lights inside the houses but there’s a tree-wall between us and them and if you don’t turn around it’s dark and the stars and taht’s it.

It’s a religious experience. That was a moment when I wanted to reach out to whatever was in between all those points of light, just like later I would find it between beats of a drum. The Thing That Holds the Stars Together, I was fascinated, and kept looking harder and harder to see something there, something farther away, I was on my tiptoes and not breathing, and when I did breathe it was deep and respectful and I would exhale in laughs and I was grinning like an idiot and my jaw was hanging open and I wanted to tip off the edge of the earth and fall up, the stars looked so soft and dense and they’d catch me and if not I didn’t care. And then whenever I found myself saying Alhamdoulilah, thank god, Inshallah, god willing, Mashallah, knock-on-wood, la illaha illa la, in god we trust, I’d think back to that night and how I felt so small but so important and so excited but so calm....

Kaela and I stayed outside after the others left. I think Kenta might have too but he was farther off. Tiana did too, but she was on the phone with her entire family, talking and giggling by the gate. She’d been pointing out constellations and planets earlier on, ones that we’d never had the chance to see before. I was almost ready to go back inside when I realized something and started laughing. Kaela asked me what it was. I looked at her- “we lost the moon!” I couldn’t stop giggling about it. Here it felt like hours I was staring at the sky and didn’t even notice that the moon was missing.

Then I heard a sound that sounded like a not-a-dog. It couldn’t have been an actual dog, it didn’t sound like a dog, but it sounded enough like a dog for me to think of coyotes, but there weren’t any coyotes, and after the third time I heard it I realized it might be a hyena. And we hurried inside rather than contemplate how possible that was.

The News

(Details to follow, maybe)


SOULEYMANE DIOP ACTUALLY RESIDES IN ATLANTA, NOT CHICAGO
Artist Souleymane Diop, father of Salif from Allah Lake in Toubacouta, was reportedly living in Chicago, according to reports from his son. Johanna was given an address and two phone numbers, along with an enveloppe of letters and photos to send or deliver to his family back in the states. Upon investigation, the address did not exist, the land line was cut, and the cell phone was on voicemail. All area codes and zip codes, however, are from Atlanta. After leaving a message on an unpersonalized answering machine, Johanna recieved a call the next day from Mr. Diop, who is living in Atlanta, is her friend Salif's father, is still performing and teaching at festivals with his wife and son, and is a very nice man.




WADOMA DANCE IN MADISON IS AWESOME
Johanna and partner-in-crime Disa, after spending a lovely time drinking tea and busking in Madison, dropped in at Dance Fabulous Tuesday night for a last-minute decision to attend a class in West African djembe dancing. Not only was the class spot-on awesome, but afterwords the girls spent a while discussing Mandinka songs and culture with two other women (one of which was the teacher), concluding that sometime they should all hang out and sing.

(Classes are Tuesdays and Thursdays in Madison: http://www.wadoma.com/events.html)


EVERYONE IN TOUBACOUTA SAYS HI TO EVERYONE HERE
It's true. Practically.


NEW YOUTUBE VIDEO ROCKS JOHANNA'S WORLD
This just in: A Connecticut high school teacher who had been visiting Senegal in April just emailed Johanna with a link. As of two hours ago, there IS video footage of the internship! You can watch the clip here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVq3R1o14Jk


Hooray!

Spring Break! (Part Two)

The first megafauna we saw were the two horses, that were attached to the two carts that we had hired through the community. Basically a platform and two wheels and a harness and a horse, and a driver. Five on one cart and six on the other, sitting around the edges with our feet hanging off, my toes clinging as best they could to our flipflops as we bumped and jostled not on the road, that’s not smooth enough, but next to the road, and luckily I was facing the right way and the whole time got a wonderful view of fields of cracked dry earth and evaporated salt and what during the wet season is rice but now just sort of mud, dried scrubby brush and the occasional bird too far away to recognize besides the hawks. Gradually the ground got less dry and by the time we arrived at the park the landscape had completely changed. Halfway there the other cart got a flat tire, they kept stopping and trying this old bicycle pump but eventually coming up over a ridge the horse kind of stumbled and the cart since it was balanced on just one axle kind of tipped and the horse looked like it fell over and we decided to go on ahead and then our cart and driver would come back for the others.
When we got there, then, it was still going to be a while until the tour-thing started, so we just sort of sat in the shade and waited for the hottest part of the day to pass.

That being said, we sat in the shade in front of what can only be described as your classic idea of the Great African Watering Hole. Think, Lion King. No lions, actually, but the landscape, etc. Also, boars. Lots and lots of warthog boar animals, I’m not sure of the exact terminology but we started singing (quietly) Hakuna Matata because when you’re surrounded by pelicans (who, by the way, are freakin’ HUGE and look like old airplanes when they fly and all dive in groups so it looks like synchronized swimming) and tiny long legged waterbirds that run around and you’re scanning the water for crocodiles that the French tourists from this morning said they saw... it’s not really priority to be politically correct.

It was a very very long boat ride to be sitting on the same seat, but it was worth it- we saw a crocodile. And a baby crocodile? Or a smaller lizard-thing. I forgot what he called it- the guide, I mean. We also passed by the island where all the pelicans raise their young. I posted pictures on facebook, if you’re interested. Heading back to the hotel it was the same two horse carts, this time with a fixed tire.

There was some confusion, though, when it came time to pay the drivers. See, we thought we had paid for transportation before we left- we paid that at the same time and to the same people that we paid our park entry fee. It was at a tiny building next to the tourist information center, right at the edge of the park. We had paid, and then the horse carts had showed up from the community/village, and off we went. However, what we were told on the way back was that what we had paid for was a car to take us there. We had chosen on our own to hire the horse carts which were not officially offered by the park, just the community. So we needed to pay them now. What we had paid the park for was a car. We asked, where then was the car. They said that since we left before it arrived, they cancelled it. We asked why then had they had us pay for the car. They said that when we paid they asked if we would also like to “pay for transportation” so we said yes- how were they to know we meant that we were hiring from the community and not from the park? We replied how were we to know that the carts that the park had arranged to pick us up weren’t actually connected to the park?
We paid the carts so they could leave. A few in our group stayed to argue the case. Why couldn’t they refund us the money since it had already been a misunderstanding? No. Why? Because it was already on the records that we paid such-and-such an amount. If that amount wasn’t in the till, it would look like they had pocketed the money. It’s the government’s fault for making them do so much paperwork and keeping track of the funds. Of course, pocketing the money is exactly what happened there, just by the government and not by the individuals. I decided not to worry about it, it just amounted to three dollars more per person tops, am ul solo. Instead, I went back to the hotel and ate one of the apples and some of the coconut and peanuts we’d bought in St.Louis- all the hotel food was expensive, and they got grumpy if you didn’t tell them a day in advance if you’d be ordering dinner. So I sat by the pool eating coconut and let others get worked up over the impossible beaurocracy of a developing country.

The minibus came again to pick us up and take us to the dunes. It was a long, dusty ride- Kelsey, Laura and I played the “Celebrities game” the whole time. The Whole Time. (this is where you think up one celebrity, like Donald Trump. Then you take the first letter of the last name, and make that the first letter of the first name of another celebrity- Tina Fey. The next person starts with F. If you say a double letter- Tina Turner- the order reverses and you switch direction.)

Re: When Harry Met Sally

Okay, so back in February I wrote a post called "When Harry met Sally", that was essentially a rant on "why I can't have Senegalese friends, especially guys". I feel the need now to expand on that.

I'm not taking it back. I'm making it more specific. That's how I felt in Dakar. Toubacouta was different.

I mean yeah, there were still plenty of guys that would talk to me, and not stop talking to me, about how they wanted to marry a white woman. In fact, one guy asked me to find him an American woman who spoke french and had lots of money- he gave me his email, in fact. I also met someone who wouldn't leave me alone until I bet him ten bucks I wouldn't end up as his girlfriend by the end of my six week internship.

However, I also had Troupe Allah Lake. That means about thirty musicians and dancers who all from day one individually told me "if you need anything, just ask". That means Maimouna, Maimouna, Fatou, Sw, Khadi (the women), Abdoulaye, Abdoulaye, Abdoulaye, Ibou, Ibou, Mamadou, Salif, Bakary, Samba, Alfonso, Ice-T/Moustafa, Pape, Omar, Davide, Djite, YaYa, and other guys whose names I never learned, were all automatically, from day one, my friends.

Of course I was closer with some than with others. But the important part is that I could trust all of them, instantly. Because at the meeting Samba told them all that I was to be treated like any other girl in the troupe. And that I'd be spending the next six weeks with them. And yeah, a few were flirty. But in a friendly way. It was clear I wasn't just another tourist, and it became clear I was there to work. I was shocked at how comfortable I felt- it could never have been like that in Dakar.

And when I got bored and wanted to leave the house, I could go hang out with them. I'd walk down to the little shops in front of the hotel Paletuviers. It's on the other side of town, on the way to the beach where we rehearse. Stop by Samba's on the way, ask if we've got rehearsal that day. Usually the answer is no, but I head that direction anyway, it's better than sitting in the yard under a tree with all the kids in my family. It's about four, so after lunch and naptime, it's starting to cool off at least. If we do have rehearsal that won't start for another hour and a half at least. There's a row of about six small thatched-roof huts, filled with wood carvings and djembes and Africa-print shirts and bags. They're tiny and kitchy, all along the road opposite the hotel. There's about twenty or thirty more further down, on the way to Hotel Keur Saloum, but I don't know anyone that way, so they all try to sell me things. I stay to the left outside Paletuviers, where it's understood I'm not shopping.

The one on the far end close to the cybercafe belongs to Mamadou and Ice-T (his real name is Moustafa. But everyone calls him by his "artist" name, Ice-T. Even his family calls him that. Mamadou's artist name is "Johnny" but he hates it. It's just the tourists that use that name- I guess it's easier to pronounce than Mamadou). Sometimes they'll be sitting outside on those low wooden chairs, chatting with the other vendors. Usually though everyone's over at "Chez les 4 Freres". (I never found out who the actual "4 brothers" were that owned the place. There was always at least six guys there...) They're sitting on low chairs, a bench that always threatens to tip over, and whatever unfinished djembes are lying around. There's a guy who's not in the troupe off to the side, he's working on a wood carving of a pirogue boat. Ibou's sitting on one of the low chairs, folded up like a spider, he's so tall his knees are almost at his chin anyway. Wayne (his name is Ibou, but there's already an Ibou, so I call him Wayne. It's a long story. Sort of.) is bumming cigarettes off Djité, who's too distracted by his Dutch girlfriend to care.

Of course when I walk up everyone goes through the shake-hands-fist-bump with a vague "asalaam maleikum/makleikum salaam-nangadeff/maangi fii-yaangi si jamm/jamm rekk-ya mon/nice" they all blend together when you're talking to a group of people, everyone just mixes and matches and mutters all the different versions of "howzitgoin/good" and of course they tell me to take a seat. So I take Mamadou's seat, to avoid taking up more space on the bench that I'm absolutely sure will break or fall over since there's already four guys sitting there, one of which has a crowbar up against a djembe, he's pulling the top taught which let me tell you is an impressive feat for several reasons the last of which is how the bench is threatening to tip over. If I'm lucky, they'll be just about to make attaya.

Attaya is the tea that while I was there I had probably at least three times a day- people make it after meals, and in between meals, and sometimes during meals. It's also the reason I now get headaches from lack of caffeine. There's a very specific way of making it, and every single time I was there at "4 frères" it'd go the same way. First Ibou mentions how it's time for attaya, and Mamadou (who's standing since I took his chair) volunteers to go get the ingredients from the boutique. Wayne'll slip a coin to Abdoulaye Sarr, who's the youngest, who'll go get it while Ibou and Mamadou bicker over whether or not Mamadou ever helps make the tea, or whether he just stands around talking all day while everyone else does all the work. It's all in good fun, so when Abdoulaye Sarr gets back with the charcoal and little metal burner, Mamadou takes them and sets them right at Ibou's feet, dodging his long arm that halfheartedly tries to swat him away. While the two of them decide who's actually going to start boiling the water, it's Abdoulaye (the third Abdoulaye. I call him the Hairless Wonder- he's got a shaved head and I swear he's got no eyebrows. The guy looks amphibious.) who asks me if I know about the 3 cups of tea.

The first cup is bitter, like death. It takes most of the bag of tea (about half a cup), three or four cups of water (by "cup" I mean the teacup, which is actually more like a shotglass), and just under a cup of sugar. The second cup is sweet, like life. That's another four cups of water and a little more than a cup of sugar. And some mint leaves, if he got mint. The third cup is sugary, like love. And just like I can't really see the difference between "sweet" and "sugary", I also cant' really tell what's different in the taste or ingredients between the second and third cup, besides maybe more mint and the tea's weaker. Same amount of water, same amount of sugar. I've got a friend who calls it "diabetes in a cup".

They explain all this to me as if I didn't just learn it yesterday, or the day before. Someone will always ask which one's my favorite, and they all listen as if my answer would give them deeper insight into who I am as a person. It's a big deal, which cup is your favorite, I guess. (I can just imagine the facebook quiz "which cup of attaya are you?") I always say the second. It's my favorite- not too bitter, but strong enough to cut the sweetness. Mamadou grins at me. "Oh no, Aminata. You should choose the third cup- sugary like love. All the other toubabs prefer that one." Ibou tells him to shut up and let me have my own opinion. I smile sweetly and point out that I'm not like the other toubabs. They all laugh and heartily agree, and tell Mamadou to sit down. He doesn't. He plays around at helping Ibou pour the tea, usually managing to spill it. They have Abdoulaye Sarr (again, because he's the youngest, even if only by a few months or years) pass around the cups- there are only two, so we drink two at a time. I'm usually the second or third to drink- even though I'm one of the youngest ones there, it's a nice gesture (always with the "teranga"/hospitality).

Between sharing two cups between about six people, and making three separate pots of tea, and all the bickering and joking that goes on, it could be an hour or two before it's all done. And I'm the only toubab, and the only girl, in a group of Senegalese drummers, and I feel perfectly relaxed and at home. More so than at my house, sitting with the girls my age, listening to them chat in mandinka as they do each other's hair and shut at the kids. Even if most of what the guys say is in Wolof, I can at least understand half of it. And if I don't talk or contribute to the conversation, they don't really think anything of it. I'm not being ignored at all, but I'm not under surveillance. Whenever I got really fed up with how things were going and needed a break, that's where I'd want to be.

That's what I miss the very most about Senegal. Sitting at "4 frères" with Wayne making a drum, Ibou making tea, and Mamadou goofing off. And the other four or five guys who'd be there, just hanging out. Tranquille.





Mamadou and Ibou can be perfectly summed up into this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6MSc-A7ko5g (Mamadou's the shortest guy in the troupe. Ibou's the tallest.)

.....now what?

I am not experiencing culture shock. It isn't hard to come back to the states, for me anyway, and start speaking English and using forks and washing machines and paying three dollars for a cup of coffee. I miss my families and friends from Senegal, but I'm not homesick. I'm not even too terribly jetlagged. In fact, it's been a very easy transition slipping back into life in the U.S. of A.

And that's what I can't handle.

It's not that I can't adjust back to "normal" life. It's that it's too easy. It's that I just spent four months of my life having what ended up being a Big African Experience, and when it was over I bought a latte and checked my email and signed up for classes for next semester. I planned a summer vacation. Watched a movie. I checked the mail and Heifer International had sent me an envelope with the big bold words across the front: "Could you live on less than $1 a day?"

I don't feel guilty, or priveleged, or depressed. Nor do I feel inspired. I know people who would study abroad, so something exciting and life-altering because they are having an identity crisis, and need to "find themselves". Those people could come back inspired, start charity programs, change their major, write a book. About how they found themselves, got a new set of priorities or values, learned to appreciate life.

I came back and for the last three days have been asking myself "now what?"

Not in an identity-crisis kind of way. I know what to do next. Always did. Sign up for classes, find a job, finish school, etc. Or, in the more immediate sense, take a shower, make lunch, do the dishes, etc. Or, in the broader sense, try and find work that makes me happy. (There's a man tuning the piano in the next room. It's distracting.) It's just very hard to come to terms with the fact that after the last four months, I go right back to life as usual. I feel like I shouldn't do that. But I should.

It's just going to take a while to get over this weirdness, is all. And if I've learned anything, it's patience.

Last Post In Senegal

Okay, guys. Now I know my last what, four posts were not only cop-outs, but were also very very long and probably not the greatest. Sorry bout that.

I'll make up for it when I'm in the states and have loads of time (hahahaha!) to sit and write, and I really will keep writing about the last few months probably for the next few months or so. But I can't write now because after our LAST class (re-orientation session, I think we're just gonna talk about how weird it's gonna be to go back to the States) I'm going to take my computer home, and then pack it, and then spend today (Friday) buying souvenirs at the Sandagas Market (bring it on. I can bargain in Wolof now!) and then I'm gonna go to one last Salsa party tonight, and then tomorrow I'm just spending the whole day hanging out with my family and packing, and then at 11pm on Saturday night I'm taking a taxi to the airport. From 11pm Saturday night to 2pm Sunday afternoon (US time. which means 7pm Dakar time) I'll be in airports and airplanes. That's 20 hours of transit time. WHEEEEEEE!


Sunday afternoon, then, I'll be a wreck. My family (my REAL family) is meeting me at the airport, etc. Monday morning I need to sign a sublease and figure out exactly what I'm doing next semester and sign up for classes since I can't from here (fun times). And then Monday afternoon I'm going to Madison. That's the plan.



So yeah. See you Stateside.

Done with my Internship Report!

It was a good thing, too, because that night was the anniversary celebration of the radio company in Soucouta. It was a huge party, and the audience was filled with people from both towns, and our troupe was part of an entire evening of acts and celebrations. The performance space was a little cramped, and they made the mistake of giving us two microphones to sing into (Being used to singing without mechanical help over the musicians, the microphones weren’t necessary and just blasted the audience with sound) but everyone was having fun. I was excited to do the solo dance I’d just learned, but unfortunately we started with Penille, and not Zowlin. This was a classic reason why I need more experience- the first dance was much faster than the other, and I tried to do the steps I’d learned, but it didn’t work as well as I wanted it to. Also, then I didn’t have anything left to do for when we did dance Zowlin, and when I started dancing, my mind blanked. I actually ended up resorting to American Appalachian clogging, a folk dance style that my mother taught me at about the age of ten. In front of the entire community and the troupe, I ended up improvising during an African ballet with American folkdancing.
And it seemed to work just fine. The troupe was confused, but liked it. I couldn’t stop laughing. Later I realized that at first I’d learned how to do the wrong thing, then tried and failed, then tried and succeeded at the wrong thing. That day I’d learned how to do the right thing, then tried and failed. And the next time I’d try and succeed. (Two days later, to be more accurate.) Writing about it now, I realize that to have done that, I needed to have been comfortable enough with the dance to improvise. Essentially, I did what everyone had been telling me to do- I took steps from another dance that worked for this rhythm, and put them in when I wanted to show off. And even though I really confused the musicians, everyone had a smile on their face, and I left the show feeling confident in what I’d learned.
That was also the night that Abdoulaye, Omar, and Maimouna got back from the conference at Fatick. For the past three days they had been at a seminar of different regional performing groups, learning new ballets and other dance styles with representatives from several different regions, in a sort of cultural exchange weekend. It would have been amazing if I could have gone along, and that idea was thrown out, but whoever was in charge of the conference said that since I already was a student I couldn’t go. In hindsight it was much better that experienced members went, since this year only three people instead of five from each region could go. Also, from what they later told me, the weekend was very useful and very difficult. They all came back with aching muscles and didn’t perform the night they got back, and didn’t dance or play for the next few days, to recover. I would still have loved to have gone just to see how they all learned from each other, and to see the variety of styles the regions had to offer.
It was a very exciting time for me to intern with the troupe. There were a lot of ideas floating around about what a Cultural Association should be, and how to help it grow in a town (and a country) that is trying to support itself on performance when the tourism industry is rapidly disappearing. The two troupes had just joined into one, first of all. Also, there was the interest in creating a web site, which I tried to help with but couldn’t get enough information in time. There were also plans forming for a cultural center- a building where the troupe could perform and rehearse. People were constantly talking about the lack of a rehearsal space, and they wanted performance space that would pay more fairly than the hotels, on the troupe’s own terms. We talked also about the need for an office, and storage space for instruments. In fact, while I was there a representative from the Minster of Culture came to discuss some kind of government grant that would go towards building this Cultural Center building. (I would have gone to the meetings, but it was last-minute and I didn’t find out until later what was going on.) It was clear that the artists in the Fatick region were in the middle of re-thinking how to keep traditional arts alive in an increasingly modernized (and globalized) world.

INTERVIEWS
I did several interviews, formal and informal, to get a general idea of the community, the Europeans, and the troupe’s view of Allah Lake and its relationship with the town. I first interviewed some members of the troupe: Bathie, Abdoulaye, Salif, and Ibou. I recorded it on my laptop, but it was still pretty informal. I asked about how and why they had joined the troupe, about how many people were in the troupe, and their personal opinions on art and music. It was very interesting to hear both musicians and dancers, and this group also included some of the older and one of the younger men in the group. I learned about how some of them had gone to Koranic school, some had dropped out of a formal education, and some had finished but not chosen to go to university. It was so cool just sitting and talking about music, and how each of them stressed that they had grown up with it- it was in their blood. They treated performing as an identity, not just a job or “something to do”. And they all stressed the idea of passing on the traditions and teaching others.
One thing that I noticed, though, was that it was the younger troupe members who talked about the need to advertise. Ibou mentioned how Allah Lake was “hidden talent” because no one outside of the area knew it existed. He wanted to make a website so that the troupe could get more performance options. Abdoulaye and Salif added that often when an older artist dies, all of his art goes with him because there’s been no way of recording- it’s all passed from person to person. They all had as a common goal the need to preserve the traditional dances and music, and what differed was how to do that.
I also interviewed two Belgian women who had come for two weeks and had been at every show, who had made friends with some of the troupe members. I tried to interview the Swiss students but they were too busy- I did have a very nice conversation with their teacher though, and learned a lot about that program. I spoke a lot with Didier regarding his experience with taking djembe lessons from Ibou and Samba, but didn’t get a chance to record any official interviews. Judging from the interviews, and speaking with audience members after shows, everyone was amazed not only by the shows themselves but also with how friendly and welcoming the group members are towards guests.
Unofficial interviews worked better for me, for the time I had. I found out quite a lot not only by official interviews or even pointed conversations, but also from paying attention to small comments put in by the people around me. I learned that the oldest girl in the troupe was 23, and she was the only one who wasn’t married with a child. I also learned that the women most likely wouldn’t keep dancing after they’d had a second baby. I learned by watching and listening to my family talk to each other, that my young cousin wasn’t allowed to grow rasta/dreds (he’s fifteen) because he was part of a very respected and religious and honorable family. While no one actually said anything about rasta hair, this was very telling. It also made me think about what that might entail considering most of the men in the troupe had done their hair in dreds.
I tried to interview my sister Fatou about the community’s view on the troupe members. She said very carefully that everyone in the town thought that everyone in the troupe was a perfectly respectful, kind, cultural ambassador and that no one had any problems. She said this, I know, because I was recording her. I know that several of the members of the troupe are seen that way, but I know a few of the younger drummers are seen more as bandits, and judging by the unvoiced opinion of my family on just the way they all wear their hair, I know the general view of the artists is more complicated than a without-exception, universal appreciation for every single person in the almost 30-person troupe. I wish I had had more time, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to pose the right questions in the right settings to find out exactly what the community’s opinion was of the artists as people, rather than just “they give amazing shows”.


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CONCLUSION
The day before I left Toubacouta I spoke to Bathie Ndiaye. He was uncharacteristically sentimental about me leaving, and was sure to invite me to come back as soon as I could. He said I really had become a member of the troupe, and was impressed with how quickly I’d learned the ballets but also how completely I’d thrown myself into the work, not hesitating or holding back. He once again reinforced the idea of cultural exchange, and made me promise I’d teach other people back home what I’d learned. He said that since I’d started learning with the troupe now it would be easy to come back and learn more, and I’d have to keep dancing and drumming in the States in between visits. I tried to respond but couldn’t find the words in French or Wolof to accurately express my feelings. Every single member of Allah Lake had become an older sibling to me, and I really am grateful to all of them for being so welcoming and willing to teach an inexperienced toubab like me.
I have every intention of going back to Toubacouta, and continuing to learn West African dance and drumming. The experience I had was so much more than I could have hoped and the connections and friendships I made were more than I ever expected. Had my internship just been restricted to performances and the official rehearsals, I wouldn’t have learned anything. It was everyone in the troupe that kept teaching me; during rehearsal, during performances, after performances, and during the days where nothing was scheduled. From the first week copying steps behind the other girls before a show to the Wednesday before I left when I learned to eat fire (I decided if I left without even trying, I’d never forgive myself for passing up that chance), it was the individuals who actively included me and welcomed me into What We Do. And I will always be grateful for that.

Workin' on my Internship Report...

Another huge part of what the troupe did was teach. I was the first MSID student to do my internship with them, but before me there was a Swiss woman who had worked with the troupe. She had already had years of experience with West African dance before arriving, though, and had done a three-week intensive internship learning the ballets. Hers was the experience closest to mine- she was on her own, and for three weeks rehearsed and performed with the troupe. However, a few weeks after I arrived, Samba told me we’d be hosting a group of Swiss high school students, teaching a few workshops in drumming and dance. There were about thirty of them- it was a high school program that comes once every few years. One of the troupe’s drummers now lives in Switzerland, and teaches drumming classes. So, whenever the school sends students to Senegal, he acts as their guide and connection to the troupe.
For each workshop, several members of the troupe showed up even though only a few ended up taking charge and teaching. I came along every time, to see how things were going. We gave the students (there were about twenty or thirty of them) a handful of lessons, taught them some dance steps and some rhythms. It was a pretty basic class, considering there were so many of them, all around the age of 15. But they thoroughly enjoyed their time there and the students and teachers alike had nothing but good things to say about their experience. The program the school was involved with was linked to a school on the neighboring island of Sippo, they always came bringing rice and clothing. It was a school program on development; the music was a small part of a very full schedule they had.
There was also a French djembe player who came the last week I was in Toubacouta. He had studied with musicians in France, but had never been to Africa, and it wasn’t until he arrived at the hotel that he found out he could take classes. The first lesson took place at the hotel- Bathie Ndiaye brought over several djembes and did a class for Didier (the French musician) and his friends, also. However, it was instantly clear that he wasn’t a beginner, and after talking to Bathie, moved to the beach for individual lessons. It wasn’t just Samba that taught; often one of the other musicians would help out too. I came along to several of the lessons. They were very informal, and it was fascinating for me to see another toubab learning djembe. (The Swiss students were learning more for amusement- it was a totally different situation.) Granted, Didier already had much more experience than I came with, but it was encouraging for me to watch someone else try and play with Bathie, Ibou and the others. Just like me, his fingers ended up with blisters, and he often got frustrated by how specific the musicians’ ears were to the syncopated rhythms. And through all of it, they used the same teaching style on him that they did on me.
That is to say, while teaching they went quickly and worked hard, and waited until after the lesson was over to ask if his hands hurt, and compliment him on his work. It encouraged me to see that they treated me, a complete beginner and a 20-year-old female student, with the same level of respect they treated a more experienced musician. It wasn’t that I doubted their sincerity or respect, but it was reassuring to know that I was being treated as a professional. I saw from a more removed point of view how the teaching style worked, and also got to recognize from his mistakes how to fix some of the problems I was having, musically. It was incredibly helpful, sitting in on those drumming sessions, and I even got to take some short videos of the rhythms so I don’t forget them. For that week, Didier got to be a friend and an invaluable resource for me, academically.

HOW ALLAH LAKE WORKS
All of the interns, workshops, and lessons were arranged on a completely informal basis. Things were always arranged by someone who had previously been in the troupe like with the Swiss group, or by chatting with Bathie directly. The hotel shows weren’t on any specific schedule. Instead, whenever a particularly large group arrives someone lets Samba, Salif, and/or Abdoulaye know, and they pass the word along to the rest of the troupe. The three of them make most of the decisions, for a few reasons. First of all, at least Samba and Salif are two of the older and most experienced members of the troupe. Also, even though many decisions are posed to the group, several members don’t show up to meetings, or voice their opinions. These three are the ones that take an active interest and also take responsibility for the group, which is important when there are so many different people to organize.
Bathie Ndiaye is the official “president” of the troupe. However, after a show whatever is in the donation bowl is split evenly among the troupe members, and each person including him gets the exact same amount. Depending on the night this is between two hundred and two thousand francs CFA. During shows Samba’s the one who gets the members moving, walking around trying to get people to hurry up and get into costume and start playing/singing. He’s the one who introduces the troupe, but after the show starts he stands back to watch. Communication between the musicians and the dancers isn’t always accurate, and often Salif or one of the other male dancers will take charge “backstage”, quickly sketching out on the ground where each person will stand in front of the audience (this is decided seconds before the dance starts, and is often cued by the drummers deciding which ballet they feel like playing). The disorganized nature of the shows and rehearsals frustrated me at first, until I got used to l’heure africaine and realized that sometimes “informal” didn’t necessarily mean “unprofessional”.
This was even more obvious in rehearsal. During my internship of six weeks I had perhaps five or six official repetitions. Whenever there was a show the day’s practice would be cancelled, and rehearsals were also cancelled for reasons like funerals, football (soccer) games (half the troupe was on the team), or if there had been a show the night before and people were tired. Sometimes rehearsal was cancelled just because no one thought to tell people there was one in the first place. It was a while before I figured out that everyone practiced on their own time, and often waited for news from Salif or Bathie, who would call everyone or just walk around the town finding people and telling them if we had rehearsal. I’d always show up to the little row of shops in front of the hotel around 4 or 5pm, and hang out there or walk down to the beach. Someone there would tell me whether or not we had anything that day, and if not I’d take a walk or get one of them to teach me drumming. After all, several of them spent their days in front of the shops making djembes. At least one of them was always playing and often you could hear the jam session all over town.
When there was a rehearsal the official time was 5pm. However, everyone said “four o’clock” because they knew people would show up at least an hour late. Usually I’d show up at five, a few others would trickle down the hill and around six it would be cool enough that we could start. There was no official starting time- usually the musicians would start playing, someone might start singing, and the dancers might decide on some steps or a whole ballet to practice. The only consistent part of rehearsals was at the end, when Samba would have everyone sit down and he would talk for a while about how we did good work that day, but it was important to be on time, start working immediately, and how unprofessional and unacceptable it was that there were people conversing or texting when it was time to start. He would stress the importance of timeliness and professionalism in rehearsal. Everyone would nod and agree, and we all knew the next time would be the same.
The women were often targeted during these speeches for being unwilling to work- and this often was not an exaggeration. Often only one or two out of five girls would show up, and she might have to stop in the middle of a dance to nurse a child. Every day it was the male dancers trying to get the female dancers up to dance and practice. The men would insist it was time to start, and the women would shout back to leave them alone, they were tired. I would try to get up and rehearse the first time I was asked, and often the women would tell me to sit back down, it was too hot. They seemed lazy. The men would start each rehearsal with push-ups and jumping jacks, while the women would start by listening to pop music on their cell phones. I wondered when I would actually get around to learning things.
I stopped minding, though, when rehearsal was cancelled (or inefficient), once I realized how more useful unofficial practices could be. I learned the most one-on-one anyway, and everyone was willing to teach me. Individually, or in small groups, they could explain things better, and I could go at my own pace. I’d go to someone’s house and we’d rehearse in the yard, or go down to the beach if no one was using that space. This was also useful because I could bring along my computer and record songs at one of the girls’ houses, or go over something very specific without wasting everyone’s time in rehearsal. For example, when I was sitting in on one of Didier’s drum lessons the last week, Samba saw one of the dancers working out further down the beach. He called him over, and asked him to teach me a solo dance that I could do during one of the faster ballets.
I’d always had trouble with the solo dances. During every single ballet there was a point at which anyone could go out into the middle and show off, and I had nothing to show off. I’d watched everyone like a hawk but couldn’t figure out how or what steps they were doing. I’d asked the girls and guys alike to teach me, but what they always said was, “you take the steps from another dance, figure out which ones will work to the rhythm, and do them, but faster.” And whenever I asked which steps, they’d shrug and reply that I could just choose whatever I wanted to do. The problem was that I lacked the experience to know which steps would work in different dances, and which would look good. Instead, I did what I saw, which was girls shaking their hair. When I did this, they always congratulated me and everyone cheered, so I figured I couldn’t be doing it too terribly wrong, right? On this particular day Samba explained to Abdoulaye (one of the dancers) that I needed to learn some steps. I realized at this point that I had been trying to do the wrong thing. And I had succeeded in doing the wrong thing. I was very good at doing the wrong thing. But it was time to learn how to do the right thing. And finally, I learned three steps I could do to Zowlin for the individual dance part.

More Internship Report

LEARNING THE DANCES
As a grand total, I learned five ballets, fifteen songs, and a handful of rhythms on the djembe. Almost all of this was outside the official rehearsals. In my six-week internship period, we had perhaps six rehearsals, which lasted up to two hours each. Obviously, this was not enough. I had several unofficial rehearsals and the other dancers quickly got to enjoy teaching me on-the-spot moves, testing how fast I could pick something up, or how complicated of steps I could learn just from watching. Even during official rehearsals I spent most of my time off to the side with another one or two dancers, who would be teaching me something separate from the group. It is because of this that I owe so much and am so grateful for the willingness of each and every troupe member to teach me. They would offer, or I would ask, about the steps to a certain dance, or the words to a song. Even right before or after a show late at night I could call someone if I felt like learning how to play djembe or start a new ballet– which was especially useful considering it was too hot during the afternoon to do much dancing. Several times I visited the women’s houses with my computer to record songs so I wouldn’t forget the tunes or pronunciation.
It was frustrating at first to get used to the way the troupe members would teach me. Before a rehearsal, they’d tell me that the ground was full of pebbles and shells, was I sure I could go barefoot? I replied that none of the other dancers wore shoes. They asked if I worked out every day or played sports, assuring me that it was hard work dancing and I would be tired. I knew that, and carefully avoided telling them that the only kind of exercise I ever get is walking to and from school or home. I knew it would be difficult. I was stubborn. I made a point of going barefoot starting the first day and not stopping to take a drink of water until the others did. For the five weeks I was dancing, there were blisters on my feet, and one of the most important things I learned was how to dance anyway. Through all of this, several of the men would tell me constantly how impressed they were, what a good job I was doing, and how quickly I was learning. The others wouldn’t hesitate to point out the slightest fault I was making, insisting that I memorize the steps right away.
There was a complete change that happened between the rehearsal itself and the time immediately before or after. While I was learning the dances, I would get frustrated because if I didn’t remember something they would say it was because I wasn’t concentrating hard enough. They insisted that if I paid attention properly, I would learn it the first time. Even if it was the first time I would do a step, they would point out every single thing I was doing wrong, stopping me after just seconds to correct me. On the walk home, though, they would try comfort me, saying that I was doing a great job, and that learning these dances takes time. After a while, though, I got used to the different teaching styles, and realized that it was just a different vocabulary rather than a lack of patience.
The hardest part for me was figuring out whether to follow the men or the women when we danced as a group. The simplest answer is obvious- I should watch the other girls, which is exactly what everyone told me to do. And for the most part, I did. Several of the ballets had different parts for the men and women, and it was easier to copy the girls’ movements. However, when everyone was doing the same steps, it was always the men that were perfectly sharp and accurate in their movements, while the girls had a hard time staying together. At least one would be on the wrong foot, and each dancer had her own style. Because of this it was easier to pick up the exact steps from the men, even though they would always tell me to watch the women.
I realized this the most after speaking with a British audience member who found me the day after a performance near the beginning of my third week. He told me that watching me, I was a more formal dancer than the others, but because of that he understood the dance. I explained that since I was just learning, I didn’t have my own personal style to put in, and was concentrating on just doing the steps while all the girls felt comfortable enough to improvise. What I didn’t tell him was how they were regularly told to concentrate on being more uniform and staying together during performances. This posed a small problem- to fit in with the women, I’d have to do what they did, which was not put so much effort into doing the steps perfectly. To fit in with the group, I’d have to do what the men were trying to get the women to do. In theory, we were all supposed to be together and uniform. Instead, I often had to choose between fitting in with the men or the women dancers.
This also translated into rehearsal and performances, where long after it was time to start the women would be sitting around while the men were warming up or starting to practice. I wanted to be on time, and work hard, and learn the dances! As soon as Salif or Abdoulaye told me it was time to start, I got to my feet. As soon as Maimouna saw me get to my feet, she’d tell me to sit down, the girls were tired, we’d wait a while before starting to dance. Samba was constantly telling the girls when to get into costume, start singing, start warming up. The girls would shout back that they were tired and he (the leader of the troupe!) should mind his own business. At first I was frustrated. After all, even Samba stressed that I needed to hang out with the girls and learn from them, but it was only the guys that were interested in practicing or teaching me new steps. Even among themselves, the girls sat and played with their phones, not talking, while the men would warm up. It was much easier to talk to the guys at first. After a while though, not only did the women start being more active, but I also realized that sometimes it was worth sacrificing a little work ethic to sit with the girls, even if we didn’t end up doing anything. It was part of “fitting in”- as much as I could, that is.
WHAT THE TROUPE DOES
At this point I would like to further explain exactly what it is that the Troupe Allah Lake does. Primarily, there are shows at 9:30pm at the hotel Paletuviers on average about three times a week. For those shows, the troupe members arrive around 9pm (officially, that is. I was always the first one to arrive, and I’d go over dance steps off to the side while waiting for the others to get there) We performed outside, in a space specifically laid out for us with a flat dusty, sandy dance floor and benches for the audience. The show includes two or three ballets, lots of drumming and dancing and singing, and usually fire. Sometimes a cloth will get put down with a pile of broken glass on it that one of the troupe members can dance on, and sometimes another male dancer sticks nails up his nose and chews razor blades. (It is somewhat difficult to write academically on this topic.) Often the dances we would perform wouldn’t be decided until moments before the drummers started playing, and often the drummers would decide without consulting the dancers, so we would have to listen at first to figure out which ballet we were going to perform and then quickly figure out placement of where we were going to stand before the rhythmic cue to start singing.
I got used to surprises during the shows, like the first time they danced on glass, or walked out on stilts. There was also a wedding ceremony we performed for a couple on their honeymoon, where Samba called himself the village griot and gave speeches, assigned two dancers as the parents of the couple and they also gave speeches about how they had known the husband since he was born, how they had watched the bride grow into a beautiful young woman- all of it improvised. We all shared kola nuts and did the whole traditional ceremony, as part of that night’s show, because the couple had requested it. That gave me a lot to think about regarding the role of the performer and the audience. I was also told that the troupe had done pieces of theatre too, but didn’t perform those very often anymore.
During the hotel shows, often members of the community, friends of the artists, etc would come stand behind the audience and watch too. There were also community performances (for example on the 4th of April and for the anniversary of the radio station in Soucouta) and more private shows (for example, for a party at one of the campements). The same dances we performed for the tourists we performed for the community. There was no façade during a show- the dances and also the extra tricks were exactly what people saw. Even for tricks like eating fire there was no cheating, I later found out. Everyone saw the same show. I’m not sure why that surprised me as much as it did.

In Transition

Well, I'm back in Dakar, leaving on a plane at 1:20 AM on Sunday, Inshallah. Unless some Icelandic volcano drifts further south, apparently? But no worries. I kid, I kid.


And I have SO MUCH to say! So much to talk about, so many stories to tell!

Unfortunately, I also have a 20 page paper to write. So it's time for another homework cop-out, as you get the rough draft version of my Internship Report. As I write it. Enjoy. And I'll probably be writing for months after I get back about different things from the village, don't worry.

INTRODUCTION

I did my internship in Toubacouta, a small town in the Fatick region close to the Gambian border. It’s got a fairly large tourist industry because the town is located on the Saloum delta which is covered with mangrove forests. The two main hotels, Keur Saloum and Paletuviers are right on the beach, with piers and boats and plenty of excursions out into the mangroves. There are also countless smaller campements, run partly by the local community and partly by Belgian or French owners. Needless to say, I was not the only toubab in this town, and throughout my stay there I was constantly being mistaken for a tourist- which actually was a very interesting position to be in. Unfortunately, the tourism industry is rapidly declining, at least in this region, and even the most prosperous hotel was going bankrupt.

My stage was with the Troupe Allah Lake, who performs at the hotels. We do traditional ballets africaines (not to be mistaken for classical ballet) with djembes, dum dum (bass) drums, bellaphones, singing and dancing. Originally there were two troupes (CHECK INTERVIEW). However, the other troupe was much smaller and less experienced. Often they would ask members of the other troupe to come play and dance for shows when they didn’t have enough people, and in the end decided to unite to form one large Troupe Allah Lake.

When I arrived in Toubacouta I had never before done any sort of African dance. My background is in traditional American and European dance; I’ve done Appalachain square dancing, Bulgarian dances, Scandanavian and even Indonesian dancing, but no African dance. I had never touched a djembe. I know songs in over twenty different languages including Swahili and even Xhosa, but none in Wolof or Mandinka or Djolla- in short, I was completely new to Senegalese music. Having seen the troupe during the group field trip in February, then, I was slightly worried and incredibly excited at what I could possibly learn. I felt very confident in my ability to learn songs and perform them, but had no idea whether or not I’d have the sheer physical capacity to learn the dances. And I certainly never expected to perform with them.

Mostly though, I wondered how I would get along with the artists and how/what/from who I would learn. Especially considering I hadn’t made any Senegalese friends in Dakar, I didn’t know what my relationships with the troupe members would be. Having seen a few other performing groups, even in a theatre in Centre Ville, it was clear that Allah Lake was highly talented, and better than at least the small amount of performing groups I had seen. The speed and energy I witnessed at the performance in February had left me breathless then, and highly intimidated when I thought of trying to do that. (Not to mention they breathe fire.) I had already made up my mind to learn as much as I could and not hold back- my secret hope ever since deciding to study abroad in Senegal had been to learn as much music as possible. My family and friends back home, knowing my love of the arts, fully expected me to come back singing and dancing, and I certainly wasn’t gong to let my nervousness hold me back: that was certain. However, I fully expected to trip, fall, and be laughed at. I fully expected to be constantly exhausted, sore, and frustrated. And I fully expected to be completely satisfied with whatever I could possibly learn from the troupe, no matter what. But on the bus ride to our internship sites, all day long, I was thinking ‘please let them like me, please let them like me’.

THE FIRST TWO WEEKS

It didn’t help that my supervisor was gone the day I arrived. Of course, being with a new family in a new village kept me distracted and occupied but that afternoon my older sister Fatou Senghor walked me down to the beach where the troupe had a reunion to meet me and talk about what I would be doing for the next six weeks. I sat down on a bench/log with Bathie Ndiaye, the president of the troupe, and slowly others started showing up: a handful of men and one woman, who was nursing a baby. They each introduced themselves, and of course I forgot all of their names instantly. What I do remember is what Samba (Bathie Ndiaye) told the troupe. He explained, (first in Wolof and then French for my benefit) that as of today, I was a member of the troupe. I was to be treated just like any of the other girls (there were several dancers and drummers who weren’t there) and that even though I was a student and just learning the dances, that I was a fellow artist and part of the family. In turn, each of them welcomed me, and each mentioned that if I needed anything, to just ask. If I needed to go somewhere and didn’t know how to get there, I should call one of them. Finding my way to and from rehearsals and shows, one of the men would accompany me, at least until I knew the way (My house was at one edge of the town, and the beach was on the other- I lived the farthest away). I arrived at the meeting thinking ‘please don’t hate me please don’t hate me’ and I left thinking ‘I’m going to hang out with firebreathing djembe players!’

I realized when I got back to the house that Samba didn’t mention rehearsals. He told me that someone would come pick me up that night so I could watch the show at the hotel, and that was it. I ended up spending almost every night the first week sitting in the audience with the other toubabs, watching the shows. The troupe members explained that when there was a show that night, there would be no rehearsal that afternoon so the performers could rest. So before the shows I would sit with the other girls. Then, I’d be told when the show was going to start so I could get a seat to the side where I could watch the dancers- and every night I studied their movement, what they were doing, trying to memorize the steps before anyone had even taught me. And after the show one of the drummers would walk me home. It was good to have so much time to watch the dances, but at the same time I just got more and more anxious, wondering how on earth I was going to learn.

That Friday before the show, one of the dancers called me over to a back corner of the hotel courtyard- the girls were reviewing the steps to Penille- one of the dances- and he wanted me to watch, perhaps try to dance. I kicked off my shoes and placed myself behind them, watching feet and hands and listening to the rhythms. Since this was an unofficial rehearsal there wasn’t time to teach me, they went through fairly quickly, but I tried as best I could. It felt great to have something to concentrate on besides my worries, and after we finished neither they nor I had any worries about how I could learn the ballets. The first rehearsal was the following week, and I started learning Zowlin, a ballet I hadn’t seen before. The second day we worked on the same ballet. The third day, I arrived to find out that rehearsal was cancelled. However, one of the drummers mentioned that if I wanted to I could go to his house, he’d call a few of the dancers and I could learn Penille. As he prepared attaya, he sang the drum part to give us the rhythm, and one of the men and one of the women took me through the steps. It was hard work, but we took breaks and I got to ask about parts that I didn’t understand. At the end of the day, they asked if I felt comfortable with the dance, and I replied that I did. They asked if I could perform it that night, and I said that if I could watch someone and stand in the back, then yes I could.

That night, Maimouna (who had helped teach me the dance) handed me one of the costumes and told me where I would stand. I was shocked. It was the Wednesday night of the second week I was at my internship site. I had had two official rehearsals (learning a different dance) and two unofficial rehearsals, and they were putting me in the show. I trusted my ability to follow along, and I trusted them if they felt I was ready to perform. Of course I made mistakes, but I got through the entire dance without any major problems. They invited me to do the next dance, too: l’animation. What I was told was “follow Maimouna”, and as she entered I followed, copying her steps as best I could. The entire dance I learned on the spot, in front of the audience. It was certainly a more informal ballet, consisting entirely of the men and women taking turns moving forward to try different steps, so it wasn’t a problem that I was watching the other girls. And when they brought out the fire I got to watch the show from a new perspective. The next night was another show at the hotel. By Sunday I was ready to perform for the entire town in the 4^th of April Independence Day parade and performance.