On Monday, our seminar group visited Goree, a small island just off the coast of Dakar that has an outsized presence in the history of the African diaspora. We bundled into cabs around 9:30am and headed to the port of Dakar. The city is always a little hazy in the morning; things have been relatively cool here---the last gasp of temperate West Africa before the rains, heat, and Ramadan envelope the continent.
We have "handlers" with us; scholars with WARC, Marie---a sweet young woman with a beautiful smile who calmly organizes and negotiates all sorts of logistical machinations, and Ableye---the linguist consultant I've described before. This morning, Marie is hailing cabs and is in possession of the transportation budget for the day. She leans in each cab, negotiates a price, then calls for 4 of us at a time to jump in and head to the port. This takes a little while. Sometimes they do not accept her terms and drive away. After 15 minutes or so, we are down to three. Myself, Fallou our intrepid leader/scholar/teacher, and Marie. It is not that far, but the ferry is leaving on a schedule. As we are traversing one of the narrow streets, packed with pedestrians, vendors, commuters, our cab driver recognizes a fellow cabbie going the opposite way on the street. We are stopped in traffic and they start a conversation. When traffic starts up, he continues chatting. Fallou, a somewhat imposing 6'6" man with northern Sereer and southern Mandinka heritage is in the back seat with me and the delay does not please him. He prods the driver verbally to get going. What follows is a heated, animated, amplified discourse in Wolof----the common language of Senegal---that lasts until we arrive at the port. What little I understand revolves around respect. People here are very proud and do not tolerate what might be perceived as disrespect. As I look back on the argument, I remember feeling remarkably unconcerned, despite the amplitude. It didn't seem threatening in the least and looking back on it I wonder if I am becoming less anxious in my middle age. I think there must have been some point in my life where this exchange would have put me on edge, triggering my bouncer hyper-awareness. Not today and not now.
We bundle out of the vehicle and begin to go through a couple of stages of security. We were all warned to bring passports for the ferry and the first stage involves passports being checked by the blue uniformed port security. The process is orderly, the officers courteous. One of our group has forgotten hers. No problem. Fallou tells her to stay close and they fall behind the group. After a few minutes in the next line we see them catching up. No money exchanged hands---according to Fallou he appealed to one of the fellows as a cousin----a member of his mother's home ethnic group in the south---and she was easily waved through.We now go through metal detectors, Marie buys everyone tickets, and soon we are boarding. On the ground floor is a bewildering mix of women in brightly colored dresses carrying fruit, crafts, fabric, eggs, construction materials etc. People live on the island and are resupplying, but others come here to work and to hawk their wares(more on this soon). The trip is refreshing, gives us a nice view of Dakar from the ocean, and takes only a few minutes. The island has a very pleasant appearance----palm trees, ancient brick buildings, a small beach, wheeling birds, brightly colored clothing in the distance, and fishing boats. There is a small fort with guns facing Dakar. In West Africa, all the cannons face Africa for these island forts were precarious occupiers. As one of our lecturers will say this week, there was no colonization here, but a dangerous dance with a dangerous dark continent. We unload along with the women previously mentioned hoisting their cargo onto the dock. There is a guide to meet us and off we go. The island is on the small side--- about a football field wide and 4 fields long. Our group is now going to hear the long sordid history of this little ocean rock, "discovered" by the Portuguese sailor, Dinis Dias in 1444.
We have "handlers" with us; scholars with WARC, Marie---a sweet young woman with a beautiful smile who calmly organizes and negotiates all sorts of logistical machinations, and Ableye---the linguist consultant I've described before. This morning, Marie is hailing cabs and is in possession of the transportation budget for the day. She leans in each cab, negotiates a price, then calls for 4 of us at a time to jump in and head to the port. This takes a little while. Sometimes they do not accept her terms and drive away. After 15 minutes or so, we are down to three. Myself, Fallou our intrepid leader/scholar/teacher, and Marie. It is not that far, but the ferry is leaving on a schedule. As we are traversing one of the narrow streets, packed with pedestrians, vendors, commuters, our cab driver recognizes a fellow cabbie going the opposite way on the street. We are stopped in traffic and they start a conversation. When traffic starts up, he continues chatting. Fallou, a somewhat imposing 6'6" man with northern Sereer and southern Mandinka heritage is in the back seat with me and the delay does not please him. He prods the driver verbally to get going. What follows is a heated, animated, amplified discourse in Wolof----the common language of Senegal---that lasts until we arrive at the port. What little I understand revolves around respect. People here are very proud and do not tolerate what might be perceived as disrespect. As I look back on the argument, I remember feeling remarkably unconcerned, despite the amplitude. It didn't seem threatening in the least and looking back on it I wonder if I am becoming less anxious in my middle age. I think there must have been some point in my life where this exchange would have put me on edge, triggering my bouncer hyper-awareness. Not today and not now.
We bundle out of the vehicle and begin to go through a couple of stages of security. We were all warned to bring passports for the ferry and the first stage involves passports being checked by the blue uniformed port security. The process is orderly, the officers courteous. One of our group has forgotten hers. No problem. Fallou tells her to stay close and they fall behind the group. After a few minutes in the next line we see them catching up. No money exchanged hands---according to Fallou he appealed to one of the fellows as a cousin----a member of his mother's home ethnic group in the south---and she was easily waved through.We now go through metal detectors, Marie buys everyone tickets, and soon we are boarding. On the ground floor is a bewildering mix of women in brightly colored dresses carrying fruit, crafts, fabric, eggs, construction materials etc. People live on the island and are resupplying, but others come here to work and to hawk their wares(more on this soon). The trip is refreshing, gives us a nice view of Dakar from the ocean, and takes only a few minutes. The island has a very pleasant appearance----palm trees, ancient brick buildings, a small beach, wheeling birds, brightly colored clothing in the distance, and fishing boats. There is a small fort with guns facing Dakar. In West Africa, all the cannons face Africa for these island forts were precarious occupiers. As one of our lecturers will say this week, there was no colonization here, but a dangerous dance with a dangerous dark continent. We unload along with the women previously mentioned hoisting their cargo onto the dock. There is a guide to meet us and off we go. The island is on the small side--- about a football field wide and 4 fields long. Our group is now going to hear the long sordid history of this little ocean rock, "discovered" by the Portuguese sailor, Dinis Dias in 1444.
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