The elusive ferry

On our way from Toubacouta to Djilor we finally got to experience the ferry. The wait was 4 hours. We sort of strolled around, lolled in the shade, and shopped in the little dusty town on the Toubacouta side. The line was long. The boat could only transport 10-15 vehicles at a time. We were behind what seemed like a van with pilgrims that blasted Muslim hymnals the whole time---it actually wasn't that bad. The actual ride takes about 20 minutes. Long lines on both sides. Some of us started thinking about opening a ferry business.

 

 

A pig in Djilor. This Seereer town is quite Catholic---as was President Senghor. He was elected in a country that is 95% Muslim. Senegalese constantly remind you that religion never divides them.

 

 

 

This a cashew apple. The red part is sweet and delicious. The bottom had a little vestige that is basically roasted in a fire. When you knock off the ashes you have a tasty cashew nut. we ate these as appetizers beofre lunch in Sokone.

 

 

 

Mosque. There are hundreds everywhere. all of them cool.

 

 

 

Mosque from the road to Sokone.

 

 

 

Our driver. Professional, always smiling, loads and unloads luggage. I'll give his name later. Here he is loading bags to the top of the bus.

 

 

 

On the road in Senegal

It is probably time to describe some of what we've been experiencing as we travel from town to town here in Senegal, trying to experience some of the culture and to soak in some of what makes Senegal such an inclusive and tolerant place.

We left on Friday, June 3rd for Toubacouta and what is called the Saloum Delta....I've previously describing the aborted ferry attempt on our way to Sokone for lunch. This was to take place in the home of WARC director Ousmane Senn. As we proceeded to take the "long" way to Sokone, about 6 hours in, we encounter the Senegalese version of road work. First there is a crime tape ribbon stretched across the road. This indicates we are to leave the blacktop---which has been stellar up until now---the speed bumps in EVERY town are excessive and actually amount to what is likely a tax in the form of suspension repair. Our bus is already a little bouncy in the back end and our driver who is simply awesome is beginning to temper his slowing down for them. From time to time people in the back go airborne. Our off the blacktop detour basically has us following the road, but from a seemingly random dirt track through village after village. There is deep sand in places---I after a childhood traversing the mud of Catron County New Mexico in a Volkswagen van(My Dad and I once dug for a whole day to get unstuck)---have a deep aversion to getting stuck. Our driver does not succumb to the sand ever---there is not even a moment of trepidation on his part. The route is rarely obviously marked and he never seems to miss a turn. We see the usual African rural town sights outside our window. Scores of horse or donkey drawn carts. Herds of goats and cows. A camel at one point. A troop of monkeys runs across the road. Children scream, smile, and wave all the time. It seems as if every woman in Senegal has a mango stand. There are furniture makers fashioning huge armoires and beautiful headboards---hand carved---from a variety of hardwoods. Mechanics cobble together vehicles using anvils, welding torches, and hacksaws. Every young man under 30 seems to have a 200 cc motorbike---I think of Indonesian origin----they are everywhere. The ironworkers do amazing things, all manner of doors, gates, window coverings etc.---the designs are just wonderful. Almost every house has a walled compound in the towns---with an intricate gate of metal. We go through town after town deep into the afternoon---most of it on this weaving dirt alternative track. From time to time we can see our road----sometimes just the gravel base, sometimes with brand new blacktop. what is unique is that every 20 yards or so, someone has laid down a line of rocks across it. Apparently without this drivers will cheat and use the road. Someone says that they are in full throttle because the rainy season is almost here. I cannot imagine that what we are on now will be traversable when it is mud. Late in the day we get to Professor Senn's home, are ushered into the compound, served cold drinks and cashews, and then a feast. Everyone takes off their shoes(I have this habit now having lived in Russia) and sits on mats. The house has what seems like a half dozen bathrooms. The women who cook are real characters. Ousmane's family is exceptionally warm and generous. after a couple of hours we leave for Toubacouta and the most beautiful of settings on the delta. We get little bungalows that have some plumbing challenges---but there is a pool, good food, and a bar with a charming, crabby little bartender. The beer is cold. The view is sublime. We stay here for 3 nights. 

Senghor's beloved delta near Djilor

 

 

 

The delta near Djilor. The view from the house where Leopold Senghor was born.

 

Senghor

Yesterday(Tuesday) our group focused on the life of Leopold Sedar Senghor, the first President of independent Senegal and a towering figure in the history of the country. An intellectual, a fierce proponent of all that is African, a shrewd politician, a hero of WWII, a seminal leader, and lastly perhaps more importantly, a poet of incomparable abilities. We visited the place of his birth in Djilor and then later, where he grew up in Joal. Both places near riverine and wetland environments which are featured prominently in his work.

He wrote a poem for Martin Luther King after his death and was a confidant/friend of many 20th century African American cultural giants....W.E.B. DuBois, Louis Armstrong, Richard Wright and many others.

Here is the elegy:

 It was the fourth of April, nineteen hundred and sixty-eight,
A spring evening in a grey neighborhood, a district smelling
Of garbage mud where children played in the streets in
spring,
And spring blossomed in the dark courtyards where blue
murmuring
Streams played, a song of nightingales in the ghetto night of
hearts.
Martin Luther King chose them, the motel, the district,
The garbage and the street sweepers, with the eyes of his heart
in those
Spring days, those days of passion wherever the mud of flesh
Would have been glorified in the light of Christ.
It was the evening when light is clearest and air sweetest,
Dusk at the heart's hour, and its flowering of secrets
Mouth to mouth, of organ and of hymns and incense.
On the balcony now haloed in crimson where the air
Is more limpid, Martin Luther stands speaking pastor to
pastor:
"My Brother, do not forget to praise Christ in his
resurrection
And let his name be praised!"
And now opposite him, in a house of prostitution,
profanation,
And perdition, yes, in the Lorraine Motel - Ah, Lorraine, ah
Joan, the white and blue woman, let our mouths purify you
Like rising incense!--In that evil house of tomcats and
pimps
A man stands up, a Remington rifle in his hands.
James Earl Ray sees the Reverend Martin Luther King,
Through his telescopic sight, sees the death of Christ: "My
brother,
Do not forget to magnify Christ in his resurrection this
evening!"
Sent by Judas, he watches him, for we have made the poor
into wolves
Of the poor. He looks through his telescopic sight, sees only
the tender
Neck so black and beautiful. He hates that golden voice
modulating
The angels' flutes, the voice of bronze trombone that
thunders on terrible
Sodom and on Adama. Martin looks ahead at the house in
front, he sees
The skyscrapers of light and glass, He sees curly, blond heads, dark,
Kinky heads full of dreams like mysterious orchids, and the
blue lips
And the roses sing in a chorus like a harmonious organ.
The white man looks hard and precise as steel. James Earl
aims
And hits the mark, shoots Martin, who withers like a
fragrant flower
And falls. "My brother, praise His Name clearly, may our
bones
Exult in the Resurrection!"of the country.

Quite an individual. Without him, this beautiful place might likely have never taken the peaceful political trajectory held up as a model for all fledgling post-colonial constructions. I know this is slightly lazy, but I shall let Wikipedia in all it's glory document his life here. Suffice to say this man was impressive beyond imagination.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%C3%A9opold_S%C3%A9dar_Senghor




 

Kingfisher, Toubacouta delta.