Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Observations
After a little reflection, I've decided it is time to discuss some of the tribulations observed(experienced by my fellow seminar participants). We are a diverse group, both geographically and professionally---anthropologists, artists, musicians, scholars, educators of educators, writers, theologians, geographers, political scientists, and I---the ethically challenged, teacher of commerce.
One of us is a photographer---whose talents are somewhat beyond description. He teaches at a community college like me and is a master at photographing humans in their various and sundry forms. For a while here he's focused on the Baye Fall, a sub-group of the Mouradiyya the unique order of Sufi Muslims who revere Ahmadou Bamba---whose picture is everywhere throughout Senegal. The Baye Fall do not fast for Ramadan, nor do they pray the 5 times a day. They do good deeds to announce their piety and are a strange parallel to the Protestant work ethic we have here in the West. They also dress quite uniquely, making for a great compositional subject matter if you are a photographer. My colleague has taken some masterpieces of these people and has worked very hard in doing so. The Senegalese as a rule do not aspire to being photographed. If you have noticed, my photos rarely include any sort of sitting or posed portrait---it is too fraught with uncertainty. No Senegalese "faces" on this trip for me---and that is OK. My Russian project shall therefore remain unique and have special meaning for me. Many of the Senegalese feel a mystical connection to images. They are on the walls of every home---faded, revered. They are also very proud---bringing any sort of shame to your family and community is an anathema. And they know the narrative of seeing your picture on a postcard somewhere in Paris, sans compensation or more importantly permission and notification. There is also the matter of what Dr. Tim Longman, our esteemed leader, BU political science professor, and author, refers to as the "colonial gaze".
Most often referring to how westerners view or have viewed non-Western cultures, and encompassing a sense of superiority and entitlement. The "colonial gaze" is often evident in period photographs (from the 19th and early 20th centuries) and with tourist images, including contemporary ones. The concept is based on the fact that images cannot be objective--any photograph contains evidence of the culture and personal history of its maker. "Colonial gaze" may also have a sexual connotation, referring to the objectification of women, particularly by westerners in colonial or post-colonial environments.
My colleague, understandably, after witnessing the previously described wrestling extravaganza in Toubacouta a few weeks ago, expressed an interest in photographing some wrestlers. Our Senegalese partners with WARC were happy to try to set up an appointment with a couple of local Seereer wrestlers and mentioned that perhaps a small fee of maybe $10-20 might be appropriate if the entreaty was accepted. An appointment was made and a couple of guys showed up in a cab at the time agreed upon. I did not witness this as I was going on a bird watching trip down the river that afternoon. So, while our fellow educator was beginning the photo process just outside against the hotel compound wall, the "event" began to attract some attention from the surrounding village. Unlike our country, where old people are ignored often, in Senegal, age signifies great gravitas. A village dignitary of some kind wandered over as our photographer began to widen his request---he wanted perhaps to photograph inside their own makeshift training facility/gym. Initially there was tacit acceptance on the part of the subjects. Soon the village guy began to berate them for giving up their dignity----and appealed to them to save their community the disgrace of bowing to the "colonial gaze". Attitudes swiftly changed. There was request to delete all photos which was initially refused. Our photographer then made the mistake of thinking that money was the issue and offered some money. This infuriated them. One showed a wad of cash from a recently sold cow, expressing his disdain for the attempted buying of his quite (now sacred) images. They'd been shamed by someone in their community for accepting this arrangement and now there was some real anger. Our photographer incidentally had been left on his own after initial introductions and was admittedly in quite over his head. Eventually, our Senegalese partners showed back up--having been hurriedly called to calm things down. They admitted afterwards that violence was certainly on the table---that there might have been a camera destruction and a beating. Our Fallou and Ablei, the diplomats, yet also subject to being Senegalese as well---with all of the deep cultural meaning this entails--were somehow able to appeal to the wrestlers to offer the photos taken so far as a gift. To take the high road. To save face through a perhaps ritual kindness. Crisis averted. But feelings bruised all around. I sat in on a discussion between my colleague---who understandably felt abandoned and confused---and my Senegalese friends---who tried to convey the complicated dance that they themselves were doing. The offering of money after the disagreement, the last minute change of venue, the unexpected ire of the village dignitary----the complicated view of photography here---all of this put them in a difficult and somewhat embarrassing position. For weeks afterwards our artist felt stifled and our leaders felt they needed to be overly protective. All valid emotions. My view is that to feel these things are why we are here. It is not a stroll in the park. This is a complicated place. We learn from being challenged in these ways. All of us do. I will say that it is due to the professional expertise of those of us from Senegal, as well as the openness to experience that we all share, that we have avoided any sort of lingering tension and resentment. We are all still partners in this journey and that is a testament to all of us.
One of us is a photographer---whose talents are somewhat beyond description. He teaches at a community college like me and is a master at photographing humans in their various and sundry forms. For a while here he's focused on the Baye Fall, a sub-group of the Mouradiyya the unique order of Sufi Muslims who revere Ahmadou Bamba---whose picture is everywhere throughout Senegal. The Baye Fall do not fast for Ramadan, nor do they pray the 5 times a day. They do good deeds to announce their piety and are a strange parallel to the Protestant work ethic we have here in the West. They also dress quite uniquely, making for a great compositional subject matter if you are a photographer. My colleague has taken some masterpieces of these people and has worked very hard in doing so. The Senegalese as a rule do not aspire to being photographed. If you have noticed, my photos rarely include any sort of sitting or posed portrait---it is too fraught with uncertainty. No Senegalese "faces" on this trip for me---and that is OK. My Russian project shall therefore remain unique and have special meaning for me. Many of the Senegalese feel a mystical connection to images. They are on the walls of every home---faded, revered. They are also very proud---bringing any sort of shame to your family and community is an anathema. And they know the narrative of seeing your picture on a postcard somewhere in Paris, sans compensation or more importantly permission and notification. There is also the matter of what Dr. Tim Longman, our esteemed leader, BU political science professor, and author, refers to as the "colonial gaze".
Most often referring to how westerners view or have viewed non-Western cultures, and encompassing a sense of superiority and entitlement. The "colonial gaze" is often evident in period photographs (from the 19th and early 20th centuries) and with tourist images, including contemporary ones. The concept is based on the fact that images cannot be objective--any photograph contains evidence of the culture and personal history of its maker. "Colonial gaze" may also have a sexual connotation, referring to the objectification of women, particularly by westerners in colonial or post-colonial environments.
My colleague, understandably, after witnessing the previously described wrestling extravaganza in Toubacouta a few weeks ago, expressed an interest in photographing some wrestlers. Our Senegalese partners with WARC were happy to try to set up an appointment with a couple of local Seereer wrestlers and mentioned that perhaps a small fee of maybe $10-20 might be appropriate if the entreaty was accepted. An appointment was made and a couple of guys showed up in a cab at the time agreed upon. I did not witness this as I was going on a bird watching trip down the river that afternoon. So, while our fellow educator was beginning the photo process just outside against the hotel compound wall, the "event" began to attract some attention from the surrounding village. Unlike our country, where old people are ignored often, in Senegal, age signifies great gravitas. A village dignitary of some kind wandered over as our photographer began to widen his request---he wanted perhaps to photograph inside their own makeshift training facility/gym. Initially there was tacit acceptance on the part of the subjects. Soon the village guy began to berate them for giving up their dignity----and appealed to them to save their community the disgrace of bowing to the "colonial gaze". Attitudes swiftly changed. There was request to delete all photos which was initially refused. Our photographer then made the mistake of thinking that money was the issue and offered some money. This infuriated them. One showed a wad of cash from a recently sold cow, expressing his disdain for the attempted buying of his quite (now sacred) images. They'd been shamed by someone in their community for accepting this arrangement and now there was some real anger. Our photographer incidentally had been left on his own after initial introductions and was admittedly in quite over his head. Eventually, our Senegalese partners showed back up--having been hurriedly called to calm things down. They admitted afterwards that violence was certainly on the table---that there might have been a camera destruction and a beating. Our Fallou and Ablei, the diplomats, yet also subject to being Senegalese as well---with all of the deep cultural meaning this entails--were somehow able to appeal to the wrestlers to offer the photos taken so far as a gift. To take the high road. To save face through a perhaps ritual kindness. Crisis averted. But feelings bruised all around. I sat in on a discussion between my colleague---who understandably felt abandoned and confused---and my Senegalese friends---who tried to convey the complicated dance that they themselves were doing. The offering of money after the disagreement, the last minute change of venue, the unexpected ire of the village dignitary----the complicated view of photography here---all of this put them in a difficult and somewhat embarrassing position. For weeks afterwards our artist felt stifled and our leaders felt they needed to be overly protective. All valid emotions. My view is that to feel these things are why we are here. It is not a stroll in the park. This is a complicated place. We learn from being challenged in these ways. All of us do. I will say that it is due to the professional expertise of those of us from Senegal, as well as the openness to experience that we all share, that we have avoided any sort of lingering tension and resentment. We are all still partners in this journey and that is a testament to all of us.
Tuesday 6/21 Dakar
Out to do some shopping this morning. Dreamt last night I was in a huge car accident that lasted for what seemed like 10 minutes---no gore or tragedy, just an assortment of vehicles involved that seemed to be floating around like bumper cars. Previously I was in a hotel where some sort of teacher convention was going on and got pranked by mistake---fellow that didn't know me knocked on my door, blocked it shut and ran. After chasing him to a casino table and castigating, I observed the beginning of the debacle---a station wagon parking break failure precipitates the whole thing. Woke up no worse for wear. Just a dream. Now the real nightmare begins. Shopping.
We leave the Hotel Al Afifa, now a familiar old haunt---our faces are familiar to the staff---and take a right at the bank machine. There is a 24 hour security guard at this one---he knows me now as well. We meander down the one way street headed toward the ocean and a sprawling urban market with infinite stalls and storefronts selling virtually everything. Used shoes. Used soccer uniforms. Bangles. Electronics. A whole booth full of cassettes(cassettes!!) Fabrics of every possible design---most of these are now made in China. The entire in country fabric/clothing market is in a state of disruption and decline due to Chinese imports and used American donated and now baled-sold-in-bulk clothing. if you think your donations stay in the US, think again. There appears to be an entire warehouse somewhere with Emirates Airlines soccer jerseys. Fake watches. Sunglasses. Bracelets. Hats. T-shirts that say Senegal. Flags. Leather goods. Not much arty stuff but we find a little shop with real authentic handmade/woven Malian, Guinea Bissau, and Seereer Senegalese cloth. Got some good stuff. My tactic is to ask for their price. Give my absolute price--they say no---I then walk. Usually works and I don't try to flay them with a ridiculous offer. The biggest hassle is the wandering touts. They really won't let you go and follow you for blocks trying to get you in a a specific shop or two. I am usually very good natured until someone gets too loud/cramps my space and then I do a good imitation of a mad Irishman. Around 10am it gets hot. Brandon does some shopping for his family. We get a little lost which in Dakar can be a bit terrifying, but going by the principle that we should be headed back uphill from the ocean, we are soon seeing familiar landmarks and get back to the hotel.
Did I mention that this is the first day we have had completely to ourselves since May 23? I am at the pool finally acting like I am on vacation. Beer at 11. Peanuts. Olives. Then this somewhat trifling blog. Hello to my Mom, my sisters, my colleagues, my students, my Russians, my wife, my friends. Now I shall add Senegal to this mélange of those who influence my existence.
Today I am also thinking about my dear father, Bernard Corrigan, and how he would have enjoyed the Senegal story.
We leave the Hotel Al Afifa, now a familiar old haunt---our faces are familiar to the staff---and take a right at the bank machine. There is a 24 hour security guard at this one---he knows me now as well. We meander down the one way street headed toward the ocean and a sprawling urban market with infinite stalls and storefronts selling virtually everything. Used shoes. Used soccer uniforms. Bangles. Electronics. A whole booth full of cassettes(cassettes!!) Fabrics of every possible design---most of these are now made in China. The entire in country fabric/clothing market is in a state of disruption and decline due to Chinese imports and used American donated and now baled-sold-in-bulk clothing. if you think your donations stay in the US, think again. There appears to be an entire warehouse somewhere with Emirates Airlines soccer jerseys. Fake watches. Sunglasses. Bracelets. Hats. T-shirts that say Senegal. Flags. Leather goods. Not much arty stuff but we find a little shop with real authentic handmade/woven Malian, Guinea Bissau, and Seereer Senegalese cloth. Got some good stuff. My tactic is to ask for their price. Give my absolute price--they say no---I then walk. Usually works and I don't try to flay them with a ridiculous offer. The biggest hassle is the wandering touts. They really won't let you go and follow you for blocks trying to get you in a a specific shop or two. I am usually very good natured until someone gets too loud/cramps my space and then I do a good imitation of a mad Irishman. Around 10am it gets hot. Brandon does some shopping for his family. We get a little lost which in Dakar can be a bit terrifying, but going by the principle that we should be headed back uphill from the ocean, we are soon seeing familiar landmarks and get back to the hotel.
Did I mention that this is the first day we have had completely to ourselves since May 23? I am at the pool finally acting like I am on vacation. Beer at 11. Peanuts. Olives. Then this somewhat trifling blog. Hello to my Mom, my sisters, my colleagues, my students, my Russians, my wife, my friends. Now I shall add Senegal to this mélange of those who influence my existence.
Today I am also thinking about my dear father, Bernard Corrigan, and how he would have enjoyed the Senegal story.
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