Saturday, June 4, 2016
Hello. I apologize for the scattered nature of the content here. I'll try to go back and discuss some of what we are learning in lectures and things we've seen.
Yesterday we hit the highway for some different environs---something many of us had been looking forward to after the hustle and bustle of Dakar. One practical note: as I checked out of our room on Thursday evening---I wanted to make sure incidental costs weren't added to the Fulbright bill for the room. My roommate and I had both had a few laundry items done earlier in the week. That set us back a cool $75. Note---ask the price before doing laundry---our hotel was a modest one and this was a bit unexpected.
Around 7:30am we all loaded on our pleasant little bus. Luggage was passed from strong to tall and placed above. There are 20 of us now. We are joined on this trip by the intrepid Ablei, Maria, and another wonderfully cheerful young fellow from WARC, Waly Faye. Just to be perfectly clear, these three essential individuals do all the "heavy lifting"---translating, negotiating, educating(us). They are scholars of the highest order and we all appreciate them. As I do these educational "junkets"(as I sarcastically refer to them due to some lack of interest and support back home), I am often in awe and extremely grateful at the kindness, optimism, enthusiasm, and professionalism exhibited by our partners in other countries. Our leaders here, Dr.Tim Longman and Dr. Fallou Ngom from BU, who work tirelessly to challenge us intellectually, deserve a ton of credit as well. Fallou must on a daily basis jump from culture to culture, managing the expectations of a diverse group of American academics, yet immersing himself within his beloved Senegalese melting pot at a moment's notice. We also have a driver whose name now escapes me and he may be the most important of all for reasons that I hope are obvious.
We roll through the seemingly endless suburbs of Dakar on the way out of town. Despite what you may have heard about African roads---these are in better shape than what many of you will see at home(at least until you get pretty far into the country). Smooth and traffic is flowing relatively easily.
In Dakar the wide shoulder of the highways somehow function as gardening centers. For miles and miles, what appear to be the tropical equivalent of Lowes or Behnke's gardening section, lines the road. There appear to be individuals tending these tracts---perhaps even sleeping there. As you move you notice that Senegal seems to be undergoing a massive amount of building. Everywhere there are individual homes going up, the concrete building blocks piled, rebar snaking up, sand, earth, gravel. The blocks are being made by hand with rudimentary molds and concrete. The whole process seems a bit low tech but the progress is very apparent. You also see huge buildings going up, much of it rumored to be Chinese. Guys in hard hats are everywhere, digging, lifting, dragging, mortaring, climbing. There is heavy machinery but not on the level you'd see in the US. Africa is being built with the muscles and backs of men. My sense is that this country is seeing capital infusion or creation of some kind---down to the micro level. You are told that families build a compound---one story at a time. Each level added as can be afforded. Dakar has miles and miles of suburbs radiating out from the sea, filling the peninsula first but now extending into the hinterland east. The architecture is nice....a wall first, reminding me of the New Mexico adobe walls of my younger years, then a modest floor with several rooms, then a second and maybe a third story. Nice little balconies, often with beautifully simple decorative tile above windows and entryways. As we roll through the suburbs we stop several times attempting to allow some of our colleagues to use ATMs. Many of us are experiencing weird arbitrary withdrawal limits or the inability to get $ at all. After about 6 tries, we have success in the dusty town of Kaolack.
The country begins to change. It is dry. The road narrows. Big, heavily loaded trucks clog things up. Lots of passing but without the white knuckle behavior you see in other places. Sometimes horns blare but their is a refreshing lack of aggression and risk-taking behavior. You begin to see a cart or two with a donkey. Thatched roofs now instead of corrugated metal or tile. Villages and or compounds are walled or fenced with natural materials----woven sticks, thorns, sometimes a patchwork of recycled roofing material. There are goats everywhere. I like goats---and have since I was very young. Last week in Goree/Dakar, some of us watched as a young ram was dragged down to the ferry, transported to Dakar, then trundled into the trunk of a cab. I know I am a softy, but along with some of my fellow travelers, I felt like I wanted to cry. He knew where he was going and it was heartbreaking. Still I continue to consume meat both here and at home and we all know that this is a life but it is also food.
Cattle now too. Big, white beasts with huge horns. usually someone minding them but sometimes not. They and the goats and donkeys wander across the road with aplomb. All seek the shade which saves them. The trees and shrubs extend to infinity in the distance....the leaves of them all perfectly coiffed to the point where the eaters cannot eat due to physical limitations.
We stop to refuel at one point. Bathroom breaks for all. Fallou as he always does, begins to engage his country. He takes every opportunity he can to laugh, to make friends, to chat with other Senegalese---and they always respond warmly. There are small boys who attend Muslim religious schools begging in most places---as part of their lesson in humility, but also rumored to be somewhat taken advantage of. There are some at this stop. I look over and he is testing their writing skills. Asking each one to write his name in Ajami script---more on this later---but quickly, this is Fallou's area of expertise---the use of Arabic script to write in an African local language---in this case the predominant language of Senegal, Wolof. They all do this. He is encouraging, but honest about their skills. He singles out the smallest as the one who writes best. Some small coins are divided out by him---the tall professor in the hat---still teaching, even is a dusty town by the side of the road. The boys smile. They all pray at the end and then wander off, arms around each other.
I resolve to learn write in Arabic. This Ajami thing intrigues me. Pictures to follow hopefully, but getting them to load here is tedious.
Yesterday we hit the highway for some different environs---something many of us had been looking forward to after the hustle and bustle of Dakar. One practical note: as I checked out of our room on Thursday evening---I wanted to make sure incidental costs weren't added to the Fulbright bill for the room. My roommate and I had both had a few laundry items done earlier in the week. That set us back a cool $75. Note---ask the price before doing laundry---our hotel was a modest one and this was a bit unexpected.
Around 7:30am we all loaded on our pleasant little bus. Luggage was passed from strong to tall and placed above. There are 20 of us now. We are joined on this trip by the intrepid Ablei, Maria, and another wonderfully cheerful young fellow from WARC, Waly Faye. Just to be perfectly clear, these three essential individuals do all the "heavy lifting"---translating, negotiating, educating(us). They are scholars of the highest order and we all appreciate them. As I do these educational "junkets"(as I sarcastically refer to them due to some lack of interest and support back home), I am often in awe and extremely grateful at the kindness, optimism, enthusiasm, and professionalism exhibited by our partners in other countries. Our leaders here, Dr.Tim Longman and Dr. Fallou Ngom from BU, who work tirelessly to challenge us intellectually, deserve a ton of credit as well. Fallou must on a daily basis jump from culture to culture, managing the expectations of a diverse group of American academics, yet immersing himself within his beloved Senegalese melting pot at a moment's notice. We also have a driver whose name now escapes me and he may be the most important of all for reasons that I hope are obvious.
We roll through the seemingly endless suburbs of Dakar on the way out of town. Despite what you may have heard about African roads---these are in better shape than what many of you will see at home(at least until you get pretty far into the country). Smooth and traffic is flowing relatively easily.
In Dakar the wide shoulder of the highways somehow function as gardening centers. For miles and miles, what appear to be the tropical equivalent of Lowes or Behnke's gardening section, lines the road. There appear to be individuals tending these tracts---perhaps even sleeping there. As you move you notice that Senegal seems to be undergoing a massive amount of building. Everywhere there are individual homes going up, the concrete building blocks piled, rebar snaking up, sand, earth, gravel. The blocks are being made by hand with rudimentary molds and concrete. The whole process seems a bit low tech but the progress is very apparent. You also see huge buildings going up, much of it rumored to be Chinese. Guys in hard hats are everywhere, digging, lifting, dragging, mortaring, climbing. There is heavy machinery but not on the level you'd see in the US. Africa is being built with the muscles and backs of men. My sense is that this country is seeing capital infusion or creation of some kind---down to the micro level. You are told that families build a compound---one story at a time. Each level added as can be afforded. Dakar has miles and miles of suburbs radiating out from the sea, filling the peninsula first but now extending into the hinterland east. The architecture is nice....a wall first, reminding me of the New Mexico adobe walls of my younger years, then a modest floor with several rooms, then a second and maybe a third story. Nice little balconies, often with beautifully simple decorative tile above windows and entryways. As we roll through the suburbs we stop several times attempting to allow some of our colleagues to use ATMs. Many of us are experiencing weird arbitrary withdrawal limits or the inability to get $ at all. After about 6 tries, we have success in the dusty town of Kaolack.
The country begins to change. It is dry. The road narrows. Big, heavily loaded trucks clog things up. Lots of passing but without the white knuckle behavior you see in other places. Sometimes horns blare but their is a refreshing lack of aggression and risk-taking behavior. You begin to see a cart or two with a donkey. Thatched roofs now instead of corrugated metal or tile. Villages and or compounds are walled or fenced with natural materials----woven sticks, thorns, sometimes a patchwork of recycled roofing material. There are goats everywhere. I like goats---and have since I was very young. Last week in Goree/Dakar, some of us watched as a young ram was dragged down to the ferry, transported to Dakar, then trundled into the trunk of a cab. I know I am a softy, but along with some of my fellow travelers, I felt like I wanted to cry. He knew where he was going and it was heartbreaking. Still I continue to consume meat both here and at home and we all know that this is a life but it is also food.
Cattle now too. Big, white beasts with huge horns. usually someone minding them but sometimes not. They and the goats and donkeys wander across the road with aplomb. All seek the shade which saves them. The trees and shrubs extend to infinity in the distance....the leaves of them all perfectly coiffed to the point where the eaters cannot eat due to physical limitations.
We stop to refuel at one point. Bathroom breaks for all. Fallou as he always does, begins to engage his country. He takes every opportunity he can to laugh, to make friends, to chat with other Senegalese---and they always respond warmly. There are small boys who attend Muslim religious schools begging in most places---as part of their lesson in humility, but also rumored to be somewhat taken advantage of. There are some at this stop. I look over and he is testing their writing skills. Asking each one to write his name in Ajami script---more on this later---but quickly, this is Fallou's area of expertise---the use of Arabic script to write in an African local language---in this case the predominant language of Senegal, Wolof. They all do this. He is encouraging, but honest about their skills. He singles out the smallest as the one who writes best. Some small coins are divided out by him---the tall professor in the hat---still teaching, even is a dusty town by the side of the road. The boys smile. They all pray at the end and then wander off, arms around each other.
I resolve to learn write in Arabic. This Ajami thing intrigues me. Pictures to follow hopefully, but getting them to load here is tedious.
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.
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