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.