Car rapides, ndambe, and SANDAGA

“Mr. Philen.”

“What up!”

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“This morning for breakfast I had Café Touba and it was sooooo good. I really like it.”

Christine is one of my many international kids. She’s half Cameroonian and half Canadian. She’s also a talker. In class, I constantly have to give her the look; you know that stern teacher look that somehow tells the kids to shut it. Yeah, well, that look, apparently, I don’t have. I try to give her the look, but she keeps talking. She’s a talker.



Jorge, who introduces himself as “Jorge Che”, is a revolutionary ____________ in the making. He’s not sure what he is going to revolutionize, but, well, those are just minor details. However, he may have found his true calling in the car rapide business.



Here are some pictures from our field trip last Thursday (May 28). We toured sites less visited by some of my students. My friend Almamy was our tour guide. This curriculum of observation, examination, explanation, understanding, and listening beats classroom curriculum any day of the week. My colleague and friend Tod accompanied us and took some photos as well. Check out his blog (to the right "Lariam Dreams") for more pictures.















We had a pretty good day. The primary purpose was to get them out of the sheltered environments in which they live. They are essentially aware of the disparities in life that exist in Senegal, but I wanted to throw as much evidence at them as I could. My most memorable moment was our walk-through of Fass. I'm more interested (personally) in how kids observe these differences and either adjust, adapt, or struggle. When we arrived to the buroom butig to order the ndambe one student warned me that she was a picky eater. I told her to try it and if she didn't like it, I would eat it. She ended up eating two servings. Maybe little was learned here other than she found a new desire for beans and bread in the morning, but perhaps her perception of what she thought she knew was altered.

Here are some quotes from some kids' writing assessment they completed after the field trip:


"Fas neighborhood was my favorite place...the neighborhood is full of life. People are always moving and they all know each other."


"I enjoyed seeing a neighborhood that was largely untouched by a ridiculously high standard of living...Fas allowed me to see how normal people in Dakar live, and that Dakar can be an interesting place to live. It was also nice meeting local people, seeing the houses because it showed me that even people that are not poor live far below western standards, but that this is not always a bad thing. It makes families support each other more. Communities are friendlier and more lively."


"I found that the standard Senegalese lifestyle and way of addressing foreigners is very friendly and kind. They treat you as they were your best friends..."


"I know that people tend to think that if you have less money then life is harder and you can't be as happy, but I could see there that they were all pretty happy with what they had and did what they could to have a rather normal life."


"Struggle is the word I will use to describe their life. They fight everyday to survive, but they still have their happiness. They all kept smiling like if they were taking everything in a positive way..."


"Life in Fas is very different from life in Almadies for example. It's way poorer and dirtier, but at the same time there's way more life in Fas. People are really nice and even though they are poor, they seemed very happy. I really enjoyed their food, because it made me feel like I was more 'accepted' by the people there, I guess. It made me come out of my expat 'shell' for a bit."


In the classroom, I could never have exposed the students to what it felt like to walk the streets of Fas or to taste ndambe or to sit in a 20+ person house and share a story with a mother of many.

Déébaadééb (the rituals)

Some of my 9th graders are currently reading Leslie Silko’s Ceremony. This is a pretty difficult book for any 9th grader to tackle. I even taught this book to my 11/12 graders in World Literature a few months back, but a handful of my 9th graders are seriously sharp and I thought they deserved a challenge.

I don’t want to talk shop too much (talk shop = teacher talk) as I know that can be seriously boring to listen to and more so to read. Anyways, they’ve been having some trouble relating the struggles the protagonist experiences with their own life. To a high schooler this translates to mean that the book is dumb/mad boring. Long summary short: Ceremony is about a Native American WWII veteran who returns to life on the reservation. He struggles to exist with a secure peace of mind from his experiences in the Philippine-Japanese war and yearns to find a true sense of identity from his Laguna Pueblo heritage. Tayo finds he is able to get his life back on track by revisiting the ceremonies, the rituals that are important to his people.

I pressed my kids to think about ceremonies, rituals that may exist in their cultures and what they truly mean. The group is composed of a Malian, a Senegalese, a Senegalese-American, and an American of Indian decent. After some prodding and probing they discovered they had more in common with Tayo than they thought. One student told the group of how his mother kills a lamb before every time he (or any family member) travels out of town. Another talked of marabouts and seetkats whom some believe hold mysterious powers. I found their discussions intriguing as these kids are well traveled, highly bright, but a bit tainted as well by our American Western World of thought. None of them openly expressed belief or disbelief in these ceremonies or rituals, but all could agree that they were significant in some way, shape, or form.

A few weeks back I visited a Seetkat. Her name is Awa and she is of the Baye Fall brotherhood of the Mouride sect of Sufi Islam. Brothers (and sisters) of the Mouride sect follow the teachings of Cheikh Amadou Bamba. Awa throws sacred ocean shells and from the pattern in which they fall she is able to give insight to one’s life. Many Senegalese (and West Africans) regard highly the abilities and advice of these Seetkats, which is the Wolof word meaning, “person who can see the future”.

I’ve visited several psychics in the past – never for reassurance or a true fortune telling, but more so for the experience. I usually walk away with feelings of excitement, doubt, curiosity, and suspicion. There was something different about Awa, however. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the room in which we sat. There were neither dreamweavers hanging from the wall nor was there strong incense burning. Maybe it was the unassuming manner in which she interpreted and read the shells. She was not trying to convince me of her abilities; she merely used her abilities the way in which she understood them. Maybe even, it was her tone, her movements, her facial expressions, or a certain look that struck me as intense and very aware of the people in her presence.

After Awa finished, she advised me to make a sacrifice to acknowledge the powers that be and to fulfill the prophecy – as was explained to me through a translator. I was to give one red kola nut and one white kola nut to two different older women. I trekked to a local market with a friend and bought the most beautiful kola nuts I could find. I kept them in the fridge over night so that they would remain firm and not spoiled.

The following morning I delivered the red kola nut – wrapped in a small piece of newspaper – to the woman who runs a sheebeen just below our apartment. I took the wrapped nut and placed it in her two hands and said Yalla am na jox la Amen, which means something along the lines of, “from Allah this is a gift to you, Amen.” Sama Yaay graciously accepted the kola nut and repeated her own prayer, which I did not quite understand.

Next, I delivered the white kola nut to another Boroom butig, side street shopkeeper, who sells ndambe, a local bean-and-bread breakfast. She is a heavy-set woman with a loud voice. I approached her the same, gave her the wrapped white kola nut and said the same prayer. Again, she was very gracious and she repeated the same prayer that the first woman uttered.

What intrigued me about this was how they revered the gift and the process, the ritiaul of the giving of the sacrifice. This is a meaningful ritual in their lives, even if it is given to them from someone outside of their religion and their culture. While I wasn’t obligated to follow through with this sacrifice, I felt I needed to as respect to Awa, to her beliefs, to her abilities, and to her cultural rituals.

Ceremony
I will tell you something about stories,
[he said]
They aren’t just entertainment.
Don’t be fooled.
They are all we have, you see,
All we have to fight off
Illness and death.

You don’t have anything
If you don’t have the stories.

Their evil is mighty
But it can’t stand up to our stories.
So they try to destroy the stories
Let the stories be confused or forgotten.
They would like that
They would be happy
Because we would be defenseless then.

He rubbed his belly.
I keep them here
[he said]
Here, put your hand on it
See, it is moving.
There is life here
For the people.

And in the belly of this story
The rituals and ceremony
Are still growing.

What she said:

The only cure
I know
Is a good ceremony,
That’s what she said.

-Leslie Silko

Popenguine 5.22-5.24

Popenguine lies just a few hours south of Dakar. It is predominately a Serer community, which is a different ethnic group from the majority (Wolof) in Dakar. Serers speak a different language – Serer – and are predominately Christian (while most Wolof are of the Muslim faith). At the center of the serene and modest village of Popenguine is a beautiful and quaint church.






click on the photo for a closer look at the map of Senegal


On Saturday morning I walked out on the beach in time to catch some photos of a pirogue that just hit shore. First, the men worked to pull in the fish nets. Once they pulled them up to shore it was almost a free-for-all to retrieve the fish. Men, women, and children came to take their portion of the fish. It seemed a bit chaotic, but I’m sure there is some type of order to it. I didn’t quite understand the routine or rules of the distribution of the catch, but my best hunch is that this is a family/community deal. There are particular fish that are off-limits and will probably be sold for the best offer, while other fish, which hold less value, are for the families to eat (or sell). This may, in fact, be off, but if they are subsistence fishermen that would be my best guess.

Spike doin' work

Spike Lee came out with a new joint. It's called Kobe Doin' Work. He sets up 30 different cameras all projected on Kobe during a game between LA and San Antonio - just before the start of last year's playoffs. As the viewer watches the footage of the game, Kobe offers voice-over commentary that was recorded the same night he dropped 61 at the Garden (against my team, the Knicks, who have been struggling ever since Patrick Ewing retired).



This movie is vintage Spike - work that he doesn't necessarily control as a director, but he allows the movie to transform itself as it plays out. The music isn't hip-hop as one might expect with b-ball. There's a bit of jazz and music by Bruce Hornsby. This is an original way to depict a day in the life of a NBA superstar.

This isn't nearly as compelling as the Tyson movie that just came out, which is a must see, but this is pretty entertaining...I guess...if you like Spike Lee and/or basketball. I fall victim to both categories, so I purchased it on iTunes for $9.99...I'm such a sucker.

Jappalé = learning to be aware

Moving to the private school sector of education has been a change of pace and of personal insight and experience. In the Bronx, many of my students were often challenged inside the classroom because of factors affecting them outside the classroom. Factors, such as poor diet, lack of parental guidance, economic struggles in the home, drug/alcohol abuse, homelessness were some of the issues prevailing in the lives of the Stephanies, the Carolyns, the Argenises, the Ishmaels, the Sheilas. The same can be said of the students who taught me so much from the bush village of Okamukwa in Namibia.



The resources are plentiful in the international private school system - both in the school and in the home. At the beginning of this academic year, my 9th grade English class began a unit on the Renaissance - Macbeth, Marlowe, the Reformation. More than 2/3 of my students had traveled to the Sistine Chapel. Experiences like these are invaluable to a child's foundation for an educational system that seems to cater best to the most exposed, the most "cultured" in Western world terms, the most versed in the language of the educational system. And there is a language.

Here, at my new school, if kids forget their homework, their lunch, or their books many of them call their maids and soon their driver will arrive with the requested items. No questions asked. The students here are privileged. They are privileged, but it is neither their fault nor because of their actions. They are, in a wayward way, reaping the benefits of their parents' privileges.



And, that is okay. But, it becomes problematic and disastrous when we forget to acknowledge our blessings and privileges and assume they are a given or a part of who we are. This is no easy task for a teenager - especially a high schooler. However, a handful of students at my school here in Dakar have chosen to, first, acknowledge that there are economic disparities within our school community that does significantly affect life, as is, in Dakar, and, second, act to better support those in need within our community, within our school-wide family.

Here is a video about the recently formed Jappalé committee at our school here in Dakar. I'm proud to say I teach the kids who have put this together.

Reflections of an African doctor

I felt like he was looking through me. I had an incredibly moving experience in, perhaps, one of the most unlikely of places. Within the mud and cement hut in the village of Combol, I first met Yorro, who is my friend’s doctor. Almamy, a close friend of mine, travels to Yorro from Fas, Dakar every month or so to collect his medicine to aide him with his sickness (that I will not discuss here). Yorro is not a doctor in the Western World sense. He does not perform surgery and does not promise immediate healing.

He is a healer, however.

When I first shook Yorro’s hand I was in awe of his strength and agility. He is undoubtedly in his late 70s and may even be in his 80s. He did not shake or have tremors in his motion. He was very much in control of his limbs, movements, and mind. His warm smile is one that tells me he is by far the favorite parent among his many children and grandchildren.

After he shook my hand he gently felt my sternum. I wasn’t surprised and didn’t flinch as I had seen him do this with Tod, a colleague who accompanied Almamy and I. He nodded in a manner of approval and then told me that I get hot and tired easily and don’t sleep or relax well. This is probably an accurate diagnosis for any Toubab under the African sun, but I felt he meant something deeper. Perhaps he couldn’t explain my condition in a Western World manner, but it took him merely a handshake and a touch of my chest to translate his concern for me.

I was sick, but treatable, Yorro said.

Our visit continued. There were three of us there. We sat in the hand-made, wooden folding chairs that remained in his office, which is also his bedroom. Yorro’s grandkids constantly came in to greet their Papa’s visitors. Every new handshake came from a beautiful smiling and shining African child. If you could zoom forward 50 years, one of these kids will most certainly be practicing in the same or similar manner of Yorro. He is a Marabout, a religious Islamic healer. His title and abilities have been passed to him from past ancestors and generations.



Yorro heals all who are open to his practice, though there are some limitations. He makes no cuts or incisions and can not treat paralysis, among a few others ailments. Yorro has one remedy or treatment: the ritual of prayer, his prayer to Allah, and a concoction composed of water and roots and leaves from a specific plant found in the fields and bush of Senegal. Coincidently, perhaps, garab bi is the Wolof word for both medicine and tree or plant.



Yorro openly collaborates with a western medicine doctor in Kaolack, the closest city and regional capital of Kaolack. He refers his patients to this doctor, as does the doctor to Yorro. He spoke of this without judging or offering his opinion of western medicine, but with a sincere passion for his patients and his practice.

Almamy and Yorro passed the time talking in Wolof. Yorro entertained our questions and talked of things new with the family and the village. Almamy spoke of his family and the life in the metropolitan of Dakar, a place far removed from Combol by time, pace, and day-to-day realities. Yorro continually returned his attention to Tod and I in the honest and welcoming way Africans do. We were in his house, therefore, we were his brothers.

Before gently placing Almamy’s medicine in the plastic bags, Yorro blessed each piece. He was steadfast, pragmatic, and methodical. Slowly he caressed each bundle in his powerful, but gentle hands and recited his prayer. In one movement he softly and silently spat upon the roots and leaves as if sprinkling holy water upon them. Yorro was not fazed or angered by his grandchildren who continued to peek in at the visiting Toubabs or paraded by the mud hut, his medical office, with the latest found toy.





photos of sama garab bi

This experience makes me wonder what healing really means. Is it the recovery itself or is it the process? Is true healing the end feeling or is it the work, the mindset it takes to approach a sense of healing? Perhaps, it is somehow a mixture of the two. Is my friend truly healed by completing the grueling trip to Combol from Dakar or is it the process, the ritual that heals him? I presume, for now, that this was, for me, just one more unique experience, which I shall remember and use to question things I think I already know.