Thursday, June 2, 2016
Goree
Those of you who have watched Professor Louis Gates on PBS may be familiar with Goree Island. He's the Harvard professor that got arrested on his own porch in Cambridge, Massachusetts for breaking into his own home---culminating in an excruciating reconciliation farce in which he, the President, and the cop had a beer in the Rose Garden. The country danced around the real issue which for me centered around the obvious conclusion that this happened to a black man because he was black. Anyway....
This place was a trading zone. precariously controlled by the Portuguese, then the Dutch, followed by the British, the Dutch again, then French/British/French/British/French until the passing of legal slavery in the mid 19th century. Experts estimate that between 100,000 and 1,000,000 Africans were imprisoned here to be shipped to the Americas between 1450 and 1850. It is a place that has soaked in a narrative of unspeakable tragedy. You can feel it. As we toured the Miason des Esclaves and heard the story, the reactions varied from muted silence to tears. Everyone has their own reaction to this place and the best we can likely do is to allow ourselves to deal with it in our own way. The inhumanity is unbelievable and when considering it was accomplished by those who believe in the grace of a merciful God---it rocks you. The door to the middle passage, where 30% died enroute---to be thrown unceremoniously into the ocean, the survivors enduring hellish conditions, is the symbol of all repressive symbols. I noticed that we all got a little quiet for a good spell.
Then back out on the street to see other sites. You are suddenly and jarringly descended upon by vendors of all kinds. Friendly, pushy, employing a kind of psychological warfare....asking your name, pushing for your promise, cajoling, hounding, begging. There are several fellows with these rattles on cords, singing to a skillful rhythm, combining the wonder of song with the fatiguing wear and tear of negotiation and refusal. It wears you out. I know it is petty and not much on the scale of possible miseries, but.....I am a person who feels compelled to be kind, to respect other humans, to engage, but after a time even I have had my fill. We all buy things...some of the artwork is superb, some of the trinkets gaudy and useless in an aesthetic sense. Lunch is good---chicken or fish--and takes 2+ hours, whereupon we straggle out into the sunshine---more cajoling to buy---and the ferry home. There are literally 100+ elementary school kids on the ferry return and somehow they make us all feel a little better despite the cacophony.
This place was a trading zone. precariously controlled by the Portuguese, then the Dutch, followed by the British, the Dutch again, then French/British/French/British/French until the passing of legal slavery in the mid 19th century. Experts estimate that between 100,000 and 1,000,000 Africans were imprisoned here to be shipped to the Americas between 1450 and 1850. It is a place that has soaked in a narrative of unspeakable tragedy. You can feel it. As we toured the Miason des Esclaves and heard the story, the reactions varied from muted silence to tears. Everyone has their own reaction to this place and the best we can likely do is to allow ourselves to deal with it in our own way. The inhumanity is unbelievable and when considering it was accomplished by those who believe in the grace of a merciful God---it rocks you. The door to the middle passage, where 30% died enroute---to be thrown unceremoniously into the ocean, the survivors enduring hellish conditions, is the symbol of all repressive symbols. I noticed that we all got a little quiet for a good spell.
Then back out on the street to see other sites. You are suddenly and jarringly descended upon by vendors of all kinds. Friendly, pushy, employing a kind of psychological warfare....asking your name, pushing for your promise, cajoling, hounding, begging. There are several fellows with these rattles on cords, singing to a skillful rhythm, combining the wonder of song with the fatiguing wear and tear of negotiation and refusal. It wears you out. I know it is petty and not much on the scale of possible miseries, but.....I am a person who feels compelled to be kind, to respect other humans, to engage, but after a time even I have had my fill. We all buy things...some of the artwork is superb, some of the trinkets gaudy and useless in an aesthetic sense. Lunch is good---chicken or fish--and takes 2+ hours, whereupon we straggle out into the sunshine---more cajoling to buy---and the ferry home. There are literally 100+ elementary school kids on the ferry return and somehow they make us all feel a little better despite the cacophony.
Goree Island
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.
Lunch today at the West African Research Center
This was my "Mafe" lunch yesterday at WARC. Lamb with peanut sauce, some Kaani, rice. Two helpings. Now I wish I had my bicycle.
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