Monday, April 21, 2008
Initiative and help from the Ultimate Inertia
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Hanging around Le Baol this morning, I met an Iranian engineer. He is one of seven working on electrical projects in Theis, Koacola and Touba. Nice fellow. He wanted to get a picture, just as I did. So we exchanged shots and handshakes. It would be interesting to try to put together a U.S.-Iranian project in Senegal…
When Mamemor finally sent a taxi for lunch, I started meeting more of his relatives at Soda’s. “Roots,” in French, was on the television while we talked. Mamemor harangued his young nephews Mustapha and Abdul about how they were dictators and how they just wanted to use other people, while unwilling to work themselves. They had long discussions about self-reliance and the original Mourides values of work, equality and solidarity. Mamemor is very anti-clerical, anti-marabout. He feels many Mourides have strayed far from Bamba’s original teachings. When we went to the market, he complained about all the men sitting around “in their pajamas” all day.
…With all the free time I’ve been having it feels like I’m going native myself. I’m forced to spend time just sitting and looking around. It makes me realize the degree of inertia we Americans push against every day. We cut through it so naturally, most of us don’t even realize we are doing it… Here in Senegal you feel the weight of a motionless force. There is no plan that can be laid, no foundation placed, nothing that can be done about anything outside you—except to pay a constant fealty to the Ultimate Inertia. That seems to be much of the worship here; they praise with a concession to hopelessness… Americans pray with a belief in the Great Plan; faith that we can strive to the image of perfection. One God certainly; but two fashions of devotion…
Hanging around Le Baol this morning, I met an Iranian engineer. He is one of seven working on electrical projects in Theis, Koacola and Touba. Nice fellow. He wanted to get a picture, just as I did. So we exchanged shots and handshakes. It would be interesting to try to put together a U.S.-Iranian project in Senegal…
When Mamemor finally sent a taxi for lunch, I started meeting more of his relatives at Soda’s. “Roots,” in French, was on the television while we talked. Mamemor harangued his young nephews Mustapha and Abdul about how they were dictators and how they just wanted to use other people, while unwilling to work themselves. They had long discussions about self-reliance and the original Mourides values of work, equality and solidarity. Mamemor is very anti-clerical, anti-marabout. He feels many Mourides have strayed far from Bamba’s original teachings. When we went to the market, he complained about all the men sitting around “in their pajamas” all day.
…With all the free time I’ve been having it feels like I’m going native myself. I’m forced to spend time just sitting and looking around. It makes me realize the degree of inertia we Americans push against every day. We cut through it so naturally, most of us don’t even realize we are doing it… Here in Senegal you feel the weight of a motionless force. There is no plan that can be laid, no foundation placed, nothing that can be done about anything outside you—except to pay a constant fealty to the Ultimate Inertia. That seems to be much of the worship here; they praise with a concession to hopelessness… Americans pray with a belief in the Great Plan; faith that we can strive to the image of perfection. One God certainly; but two fashions of devotion…
Sunday, April 20, 2008
My "Visit Senegal" recommendations
Friday, April 18, 2008
We sat tonight under a full moon in the courtyard of Mamemor’s mother’s compound. Later we walked by the Mbacke family mosque, the towers glowing under the moonlight. A side street along the way was filled with drum-driven singing, and I could see the people filling the street dancing in the Senegalese fashion, wide aggressive stepping punctuated with wild rhythmic arm waving and body movements. At one point much of the group danced in loose unison in a single direction to the beat… It’s Friday and drumming, loudspeakers and crowds were fairly commonplace, although I have avoided the gatherings. But when Mamemor mentioned that the group dancing in the street was Baye Fall, I asked excitedly about going over to watch. “No, you don’t want to do that,” he said. “Those kids can get crazy.”
With our plans for Saint Louis abandoned due to delays leaving, I settled back comfortably in Le Baol, attended to very well by the hotel manager “C.D.”. The baol are fashioned after the thatch bungalows inhabited by the rural, pastoral Senegalese…
Tourism came up repeatedly today. The hotel’s owner, M. Mbaye, is a friend of Mamemor’s. I was introduced and caught pieces of their conversation about M. Mbaye’s efforts to promote Senegal tourism. Mamemor’s concerns about the conflicts between the religious population here and the values of tourists came up. Later, this evening, while sitting with Mamemor’s family under the moon, with a perfect cooling breeze keeping away the mosquitoes, while drinking the delicious, milkshake-like juice of the baobab tree, the conversation turned to what-should-be Senegal’s appeal to tourists—the beaches, the welcoming, smiling people, the culture. The main obstacles, I commented, seem to be two: promotion and garbage. Some Americans, well-traveled or curious like my friend Ron, know of Senegal and its culture, usually through the music. But a mass-media Senegal tourism promotion campaign in the States is needed to change the common American misperceptions of Africa, especially of Muslim Africa. I think African-Americans would especially enjoy Senegal. Mamemor doesn’t think so; he thinks they are even more wary of Africa than most Americans—“they want to go to Europe like everybody else.” Maybe, maybe not…
The garbage is another matter. The beauty of the beaches is utterly ruined by the garbage. A person’s first impression of the town of Diourbel is the sea of garbage strewn at its gateway. The Dakar golf course at Technopol will never be what it could when ringed by a wall of garbage. If American tourists came here, the garbage would unfortunately confirm the pre-impressions of backwardness and poor services.
So—a “visit Senegal” ad campaign, clean up the garbage—viola, a multi-million-dollar tourism industry. And one more thing: wireless modems. The tourism ministry would do well to ship in a few containers of Linksys wireless modems to distribute and install in all the hotels. And keep the DSL up!
We sat tonight under a full moon in the courtyard of Mamemor’s mother’s compound. Later we walked by the Mbacke family mosque, the towers glowing under the moonlight. A side street along the way was filled with drum-driven singing, and I could see the people filling the street dancing in the Senegalese fashion, wide aggressive stepping punctuated with wild rhythmic arm waving and body movements. At one point much of the group danced in loose unison in a single direction to the beat… It’s Friday and drumming, loudspeakers and crowds were fairly commonplace, although I have avoided the gatherings. But when Mamemor mentioned that the group dancing in the street was Baye Fall, I asked excitedly about going over to watch. “No, you don’t want to do that,” he said. “Those kids can get crazy.”
With our plans for Saint Louis abandoned due to delays leaving, I settled back comfortably in Le Baol, attended to very well by the hotel manager “C.D.”. The baol are fashioned after the thatch bungalows inhabited by the rural, pastoral Senegalese…
Tourism came up repeatedly today. The hotel’s owner, M. Mbaye, is a friend of Mamemor’s. I was introduced and caught pieces of their conversation about M. Mbaye’s efforts to promote Senegal tourism. Mamemor’s concerns about the conflicts between the religious population here and the values of tourists came up. Later, this evening, while sitting with Mamemor’s family under the moon, with a perfect cooling breeze keeping away the mosquitoes, while drinking the delicious, milkshake-like juice of the baobab tree, the conversation turned to what-should-be Senegal’s appeal to tourists—the beaches, the welcoming, smiling people, the culture. The main obstacles, I commented, seem to be two: promotion and garbage. Some Americans, well-traveled or curious like my friend Ron, know of Senegal and its culture, usually through the music. But a mass-media Senegal tourism promotion campaign in the States is needed to change the common American misperceptions of Africa, especially of Muslim Africa. I think African-Americans would especially enjoy Senegal. Mamemor doesn’t think so; he thinks they are even more wary of Africa than most Americans—“they want to go to Europe like everybody else.” Maybe, maybe not…
The garbage is another matter. The beauty of the beaches is utterly ruined by the garbage. A person’s first impression of the town of Diourbel is the sea of garbage strewn at its gateway. The Dakar golf course at Technopol will never be what it could when ringed by a wall of garbage. If American tourists came here, the garbage would unfortunately confirm the pre-impressions of backwardness and poor services.
So—a “visit Senegal” ad campaign, clean up the garbage—viola, a multi-million-dollar tourism industry. And one more thing: wireless modems. The tourism ministry would do well to ship in a few containers of Linksys wireless modems to distribute and install in all the hotels. And keep the DSL up!
Friday, April 18, 2008
I meet the Khalif
Thursday, April 17, 2008
We saw the Khalif today—what an intense experience! …For the second day, there has been no ADSL to connect to the internet throughout the area. Apparently the problem is with the phone system Sonatel—not a good reflection on the infrastructure. While going into town to check the connection at the cybercafé I had the good luck to find one of the commune’s garbage trucks and to speak with its crew. I found out that the commune operates four trucks, one of them apparently a packer. The small donkey carts bring much of the waste to the trucks. They then go to a dump. Mustafa found out from them where the dump is and we will go there another time… But first we had to get to Touba because, as I found, seeing the Khalif is not just making an appointment… I had thought to wear the grand bou-bou that I had purchased from Soda’s nephew yesterday. But Mamemor said that I might look too much like one of the hippies that hang out around the Grand Mosque smoking pot, and often wearing Baye Fall bou-bous. His general thought was that if I was there as an American businessman, I should look like one. Thus attired, we headed for Touba…
Touba is much as I expected—sprawling with many newer improvements, as much of the growth of the city has occurred in recent years. The City Hall looked new and modern. There is plenty of capital sent here from abroad, both from ex-patriot Mourides and foreign governments, especially the Chinese. There are a noticeably higher proportion of Mercedes cars in Touba… We only had time to drive around the Grand Mosque before heading to the Khalif’s compound.
Once at the Khalif’s compound it was apparent that I wasn’t the only one wanting to see the Khalif… The Khalif is like the Pope to the Mourides, and so, like Saint Peter’s Square in Rome, you will find crowds of the faithful there to see the Khalif, staged in various rooms, with the place permeated by the constant sing-shouting of Islamic praying. One of the main rooms was full of women and children. There was a courtyard with classes of schoolchildren. At one point we were staged in a room full of men of some apparent significance sitting around on the floor. As we wound our way here and there, various people would come to bring us another step closer. Mamemor’s friend the albino seemed to have quite a bit of pull, and he had others working the system to advance me. The maneuvering became much more intense once we got in the room where the Khalif was sitting. I moved seat-by-seat closer to the end of the room where he sat. The closer I got, the more intense was the jostling. The room was not large, maybe 20 feet by 40 feet, if that. The seats were along one side. As a Westerner I think it was expected that I sat in the seats. I was waved to one of the seats closest to those pushing and shoving to see the Khalif. I had to be careful; one man stumbling back clipped me in the throat with his hand. I started to worry about banging my still-vulnerable jaw. A noisy anxious babble was constant. I couldn’t see the Khalif from where I was sitting… This was actually a quiet day; the weekends are much worse… Soon we got the wave from somebody up by the Khalif. As I now know there are plenty of plain-clothes soldiers, government informants and watchful, if not envious, eyes around always. A little more jostling and I was put in the one chair next to the Khalif. He gave some recognition that I was there but still had to heed those others in front of him clawing for blessing and recognition. Every so often he would give a blessing, writing something with his finger in the palms placed up before him, and (as I found out later) spraying a little spittle which the believers immediately wiped on their forehead. This went on for awhile and then Mamemor got his attention. The Khalif is elderly, wearing a blue knit hat. We had a pleasant exchange with the Khalif about what I could do for Senegal and what he could do to help. I remember at one point it got very quiet—the whole place. I’m not sure why; the discussion wasn’t especially significant at that point. It was sort of eerie. The commotion renewed shortly… The Khalif will review my information and indicated that we would talk again soon, with less distraction…
At the conclusion of our talk, I asked for the Khalif’s blessing. He gave the very slightest smile of surprise, but readily wrote on my palm with his finger; Mamemor quickly translated: “May you find God in Touba. There is only one God, not two.” I felt the faint spray of the spittle and wiped it on my forehead…
It looks like I am at the hotel here in Mbacke again tonight. The toilet in the other room didn’t work, so I have another room. The toilet works fine. We had lunch at Mamemor’s mom’s. Café Touba at Soda’s and I will go back to mom’s for dinner soon… I am somewhat homesick; halfway through my trip. I think it best to hang out here for tomorrow. Maybe head back to Dakar via Petit Cote Saturday to get ready for the business week next…
We saw the Khalif today—what an intense experience! …For the second day, there has been no ADSL to connect to the internet throughout the area. Apparently the problem is with the phone system Sonatel—not a good reflection on the infrastructure. While going into town to check the connection at the cybercafé I had the good luck to find one of the commune’s garbage trucks and to speak with its crew. I found out that the commune operates four trucks, one of them apparently a packer. The small donkey carts bring much of the waste to the trucks. They then go to a dump. Mustafa found out from them where the dump is and we will go there another time… But first we had to get to Touba because, as I found, seeing the Khalif is not just making an appointment… I had thought to wear the grand bou-bou that I had purchased from Soda’s nephew yesterday. But Mamemor said that I might look too much like one of the hippies that hang out around the Grand Mosque smoking pot, and often wearing Baye Fall bou-bous. His general thought was that if I was there as an American businessman, I should look like one. Thus attired, we headed for Touba…
Touba is much as I expected—sprawling with many newer improvements, as much of the growth of the city has occurred in recent years. The City Hall looked new and modern. There is plenty of capital sent here from abroad, both from ex-patriot Mourides and foreign governments, especially the Chinese. There are a noticeably higher proportion of Mercedes cars in Touba… We only had time to drive around the Grand Mosque before heading to the Khalif’s compound.
Once at the Khalif’s compound it was apparent that I wasn’t the only one wanting to see the Khalif… The Khalif is like the Pope to the Mourides, and so, like Saint Peter’s Square in Rome, you will find crowds of the faithful there to see the Khalif, staged in various rooms, with the place permeated by the constant sing-shouting of Islamic praying. One of the main rooms was full of women and children. There was a courtyard with classes of schoolchildren. At one point we were staged in a room full of men of some apparent significance sitting around on the floor. As we wound our way here and there, various people would come to bring us another step closer. Mamemor’s friend the albino seemed to have quite a bit of pull, and he had others working the system to advance me. The maneuvering became much more intense once we got in the room where the Khalif was sitting. I moved seat-by-seat closer to the end of the room where he sat. The closer I got, the more intense was the jostling. The room was not large, maybe 20 feet by 40 feet, if that. The seats were along one side. As a Westerner I think it was expected that I sat in the seats. I was waved to one of the seats closest to those pushing and shoving to see the Khalif. I had to be careful; one man stumbling back clipped me in the throat with his hand. I started to worry about banging my still-vulnerable jaw. A noisy anxious babble was constant. I couldn’t see the Khalif from where I was sitting… This was actually a quiet day; the weekends are much worse… Soon we got the wave from somebody up by the Khalif. As I now know there are plenty of plain-clothes soldiers, government informants and watchful, if not envious, eyes around always. A little more jostling and I was put in the one chair next to the Khalif. He gave some recognition that I was there but still had to heed those others in front of him clawing for blessing and recognition. Every so often he would give a blessing, writing something with his finger in the palms placed up before him, and (as I found out later) spraying a little spittle which the believers immediately wiped on their forehead. This went on for awhile and then Mamemor got his attention. The Khalif is elderly, wearing a blue knit hat. We had a pleasant exchange with the Khalif about what I could do for Senegal and what he could do to help. I remember at one point it got very quiet—the whole place. I’m not sure why; the discussion wasn’t especially significant at that point. It was sort of eerie. The commotion renewed shortly… The Khalif will review my information and indicated that we would talk again soon, with less distraction…
At the conclusion of our talk, I asked for the Khalif’s blessing. He gave the very slightest smile of surprise, but readily wrote on my palm with his finger; Mamemor quickly translated: “May you find God in Touba. There is only one God, not two.” I felt the faint spray of the spittle and wiped it on my forehead…
It looks like I am at the hotel here in Mbacke again tonight. The toilet in the other room didn’t work, so I have another room. The toilet works fine. We had lunch at Mamemor’s mom’s. Café Touba at Soda’s and I will go back to mom’s for dinner soon… I am somewhat homesick; halfway through my trip. I think it best to hang out here for tomorrow. Maybe head back to Dakar via Petit Cote Saturday to get ready for the business week next…
Inland via the massive Mbeubeus dump
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Early start to beat the traffic out of Dakar; headed straight for the Mbeubeus (“m-boob-us”) dump/landfill, we decided to skip Saint Louis and head for Touba direct therefrom…
Mbeubeus was all that I had heard—a smoking hell hole, with those making a hellish existence from its dregs. The fellow working his smouldering hole to screen out the metal was a disturbing image, then again maybe it’s just a black-and-white version of Voltaire’s garden. Maybe that’s why they have resisted the government’s attempts to relocate their livelihood. But the reasons why it just can’t work are growing all around the dump. We cruised the area a little and I saw gardeners carrying their metal watering cans up from the groundwater springs to water beautifully green gardens. Maybe the gardens will need to be closed instead of the dump?
I still have quite a few questions about the dump that will require follow up. I didn’t get any means to conduct even an eyeball survey of what was coming in and where it came from. The only trucks I saw on the road in or out were a couple very, very full top load trucks, a hundred or more cubic yards each. I had understood that Canadian or some other researchers were at the landfill but we didn’t try any advance contact and couldn’t find visual directions once there.
The road to Touba was nice. I loved the rural sights, such as the thatched compounds. But there is garbage dumping in large areas blighting that view. Goats can always been seen grazing on a field of garbage. It occurred to me at a point: what would happen if they didn’t have the garbage? Would their livelihood be threatened just like the Mbeubeus scavengers? Almost half of the goats, sheep, and other livestock in Senegal already starve to death.
Theis and Diourbel were nice towns. Diourbel is pretty sleepy; evidently being overshadowed by Mbacke and Touba. Actually Touba is apparently drawing the attention and activity from Mbacke, too… We got to Mbacke about 12:30—it really didn’t take long from Dakar; the road is good. I settled in to a great hotel here with stucco bungalows that look like the circular thatched homes of the rural dwellers. The personnel here are very nice and real. Then we hung out with Mamemor’s extended family. His mom and aunt made lunch. I bought a Baye Fall bou-bou that his nephew made. I met others while we drank lots of café Touba, the strong, sweet dark roast coffee, spiced with diar (“jar”). Before that, while napping at Mamemor’s mom’s place, I caught the Pope’s arrival in the U.S. on CNN; I tried to ignore the silly tired comments that American Catholics are “diverse.” If they were so diverse they wouldn’t be Catholics; nobody is forcing them…
Mustafa and Mamemor’s nephew Mustafa drove me around Mbacke looking at all the garbage around the town… Then back to the hotel. Mamemor brought a fantastic salad, chicken and rice dinner made by his folks before bed. Tomorrow we go into Touba and hopefully meet the Halif (religious leader of the Mourides)…
Early start to beat the traffic out of Dakar; headed straight for the Mbeubeus (“m-boob-us”) dump/landfill, we decided to skip Saint Louis and head for Touba direct therefrom…
Mbeubeus was all that I had heard—a smoking hell hole, with those making a hellish existence from its dregs. The fellow working his smouldering hole to screen out the metal was a disturbing image, then again maybe it’s just a black-and-white version of Voltaire’s garden. Maybe that’s why they have resisted the government’s attempts to relocate their livelihood. But the reasons why it just can’t work are growing all around the dump. We cruised the area a little and I saw gardeners carrying their metal watering cans up from the groundwater springs to water beautifully green gardens. Maybe the gardens will need to be closed instead of the dump?
I still have quite a few questions about the dump that will require follow up. I didn’t get any means to conduct even an eyeball survey of what was coming in and where it came from. The only trucks I saw on the road in or out were a couple very, very full top load trucks, a hundred or more cubic yards each. I had understood that Canadian or some other researchers were at the landfill but we didn’t try any advance contact and couldn’t find visual directions once there.
The road to Touba was nice. I loved the rural sights, such as the thatched compounds. But there is garbage dumping in large areas blighting that view. Goats can always been seen grazing on a field of garbage. It occurred to me at a point: what would happen if they didn’t have the garbage? Would their livelihood be threatened just like the Mbeubeus scavengers? Almost half of the goats, sheep, and other livestock in Senegal already starve to death.
Theis and Diourbel were nice towns. Diourbel is pretty sleepy; evidently being overshadowed by Mbacke and Touba. Actually Touba is apparently drawing the attention and activity from Mbacke, too… We got to Mbacke about 12:30—it really didn’t take long from Dakar; the road is good. I settled in to a great hotel here with stucco bungalows that look like the circular thatched homes of the rural dwellers. The personnel here are very nice and real. Then we hung out with Mamemor’s extended family. His mom and aunt made lunch. I bought a Baye Fall bou-bou that his nephew made. I met others while we drank lots of café Touba, the strong, sweet dark roast coffee, spiced with diar (“jar”). Before that, while napping at Mamemor’s mom’s place, I caught the Pope’s arrival in the U.S. on CNN; I tried to ignore the silly tired comments that American Catholics are “diverse.” If they were so diverse they wouldn’t be Catholics; nobody is forcing them…
Mustafa and Mamemor’s nephew Mustafa drove me around Mbacke looking at all the garbage around the town… Then back to the hotel. Mamemor brought a fantastic salad, chicken and rice dinner made by his folks before bed. Tomorrow we go into Touba and hopefully meet the Halif (religious leader of the Mourides)…
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