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.)