Last night was the first in a month that you couldn’t see the waning moon, so today was officially Korite, the Muslim holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. The day is spent visiting as many neighbors and friends as possible to wish them well and to ask their forgiveness for any harm you might have caused them during the past year. There was a palpable sense of relief among everyone because people can finally return to normal routines and eat on a regular schedule after fasting from sunrise to sunset for an entire month. My neighbors were very happy and greeted each other in the street with smiles and extra long salutations, even for the Senegalese.
Everyone from little kids to grandparents wears brand new outfits and I didn’t want to be left out, so Monday night I went to see Jahsee, the local tailor my mom recommended to me and had a nice boubou made for Korite. Jahsee is well known in our cartier for being an excellent craftsmen and for having an identical twin who was seated at the sewing machine across from him when I stopped by. The shop was cluttered with beautifully patterned material that shimmered beneath the one fluorescent light overhead.
After picking out what I wanted, I did my best to waxtan, or negotiate the price in my broken Wolof and French. I told Jahsee that I wasn’t really a toubab, but a white Senegalese, which made him and everyone else at the shop crack up but he stuck to a price of 8000 cfa. I told him that I was a Peace Corps volunteer and that unlike other foreigners here I didn’t have a lot of money. I told him that I was the organizer of our group and that if he gave me a good deal I would bring other PCVs to his shop to have clothing made. As I bantered I tried not to be distracted by the picture of Osama Bin Laden hanging over Jahsee’s head, which is not a rare sight in many shops and restaurants in Senegal. While I wondered to myself how Bin Laden fits into what is obviously a very tolerant and peaceful Muslim society, Jahsee lowered the price to 6000cfa, or just under $12. The infidel just saved four bucks. What do think about that Osama?
Once decked out in my new outfit on the morning of Korite, my dad Mamadou took me to the juma or big mosque where everyone—all the men that is-- pray together on Fridays and on holidays. I asked him if he thought it was okay for me to go along, not wanting to offend anyone. He laughed at me, coughing between his giggles.
“The local imam you are going to see, this is a man who will go on and on about God says you must do this, God commands you must do that, but last year our community discovered this same man, this holy man, drinking beer and sleeping with a woman that wasn’t his wife! You tell me if you think it is wrong for you to go and bear witness at the mosque today.”
With that, Mamadou, my little brother Dou-Dou, and I were on our way to the mosque with our prayer mat that I normally use in my room as a place to sit at the computer. A couple hundred men and boys were gathered outside the entrance to the mosque, seated on prayer mats and rugs in the shade of several beautiful neem trees, many with prayer beads in their hands. A younger man was speaking to the crowd, a small microphone attached to his boubou. The crackling, often piercing sound of his voice over the loudspeaker in mosque’s central tower added an interesting element to a speech that sounded more like a lecture than a sermon.
We found a spot, removed our sandals and sat quietly on our mat. I sensed scores of eyes looking my way now and then, getting a glimpse of the one toubab in the crowd, probably the only non-Muslim among them. I saw Jahsee a few rows behind us. The poor guy was struggling to stay awake after probably staying up all night to finish everyone’s new clothes for the day.
The mosque photographer came our way and got a couple shots of me sitting with Mamadou and my neighbors. Getting your photo taken or appearing on television at public events seems to be a common occurrence in Senegal according to other Peace Corps volunteers, just by virtue of being a toubab. I tried to compare the feel of my surroundings with going to church in the US, and the first thing I noticed was that not unlike home, the kids were restless and squirmed until being quietly scolded by their dads or brothers.
After about twenty minutes, the imam arrived, a stout older man with 1/4 inch thick glasses, and a white flowing boubou with yellow embroidery on his chest. He was accompanied by two assistants that draped a vale over the back of his head as he addressed the crowd, and held it there in the wind. The imam directed the crowd to prayer, and I took a deep breath. Mamadou had prepared me for this moment and said to simply follow his gestures. I asked him if it would be strange for me to take part in the prayer, especially since I couldn’t say the verses themselves, but he reassured me that simply mumbling and moving my lips like him would be fine.
We all rose with our arms relaxed at our sides. The prayer began and I followed the crowd as they raised their arms from the elbow until their palms were facing forward, level with their head. We repeated this a few times, and then kneeled, seated on our calves. Next we rocked forward until our foreheads were against the ground.
For the few seconds that I stared at the dirt an inch from my face I wondered what my family and friends would think of me taking part in this Muslim prayer. I wondered what Jesus would think, or even Buddha, and in the periphery of my vision, I saw the white of Mamadou’s right eye, and realized that it didn’t matter; that I was a student of life and that my curiosity wouldn’t be the subject of shame or sin in any religion or group I would ever be a part of. The prayer concluded and we sat for a while longer to listen more.
Suddenly the deep voice of the imam was interrupted by the strangest song. It took me a second to recognize it, but sure enough, the electronic notes of Old MacDonald Had a Farm were ringing on the cell phone of the man in front of me. I thought this must have been a big faux pas for him, but to my surprise the guy actually answered the call right there in the middle of the crowd and for his thirty second conversation I was positive that I couldn’t have been the only person in the crowd who felt caught between two very distant, yet simultaneous realities. Traces of the modern world and what I imagine to be the ancient world seem to keep colliding in front of me.
After visiting the mosque, we went home to eat lunch. My mom Alice and my sister Ndeye had prepared a chicken feast- roast chicken with cous-cous, carrots, raisins, olives, and onions, with the magic maggi spice, otherwise known as MSG. I bought a big bottle of Coke and Fanta for desert and we toasted the day.
I danced with my mom and sisters to American hip hop—50 Cent, Acorn, and Puff Daddy before going out again with Mamadou to visit our neighbors the Diops to ask their forgiveness and drink attaya, the super strong, super sweet, just all around super tea famous in Senegal.
We took our place on the couch at the Diop’s house and took the first of our three glasses of attaya. The first glass is the strongest, a powerfully minty and exceedingly sweet brew with a distinct foam on the top. You slurp the tea so as not to burn yourself and then pass the glass back for the next cup. Mr. Diop pours the attaya from one glass to the next and back again, mixing the tea from a height to create the foam.
By glass number three I think my ability to understand the Wolof Mamadou and the Diops were speaking had improved. In fact, the subject of the conversation had turned to American politics and George Bush’s poll numbers, which according to my hosts had fallen into the low 40s. Mamadou and the Diops said that even Americans were beginning to see the casualties in Iraq as unacceptable would go on to talk about the irony of Mr. Bush’s choice of African Americans like Colin Powell and Condoleeza Rice for high profile cabinet positions in his administration while his no-response blunder to hurricane Katrina left poor black Americans to die.
“This is something you would expect to hear in Africa Matar, not in the most advanced country in the world,” steamed Mr. Diop. My sugar high was surpassed when he went on to tell me that in Cuba, they were able to evacuate over 60,000 people in buses from danger zones as the hurricane approached. Fidel Castro the dictator had succeeded where Bush failed. A cool slice of watermelon from Madame Diop brought me back to the ground and soon Mamadou and I were on our way back home.
Korite has brought me a day closer to learning not how different Senegal is from the US, but how people are people no matter where you go. Add technology, and the world has become a smaller place no matter how you pray, what type of tea you drink, or where you call home.
Everyone from little kids to grandparents wears brand new outfits and I didn’t want to be left out, so Monday night I went to see Jahsee, the local tailor my mom recommended to me and had a nice boubou made for Korite. Jahsee is well known in our cartier for being an excellent craftsmen and for having an identical twin who was seated at the sewing machine across from him when I stopped by. The shop was cluttered with beautifully patterned material that shimmered beneath the one fluorescent light overhead.
After picking out what I wanted, I did my best to waxtan, or negotiate the price in my broken Wolof and French. I told Jahsee that I wasn’t really a toubab, but a white Senegalese, which made him and everyone else at the shop crack up but he stuck to a price of 8000 cfa. I told him that I was a Peace Corps volunteer and that unlike other foreigners here I didn’t have a lot of money. I told him that I was the organizer of our group and that if he gave me a good deal I would bring other PCVs to his shop to have clothing made. As I bantered I tried not to be distracted by the picture of Osama Bin Laden hanging over Jahsee’s head, which is not a rare sight in many shops and restaurants in Senegal. While I wondered to myself how Bin Laden fits into what is obviously a very tolerant and peaceful Muslim society, Jahsee lowered the price to 6000cfa, or just under $12. The infidel just saved four bucks. What do think about that Osama?
Once decked out in my new outfit on the morning of Korite, my dad Mamadou took me to the juma or big mosque where everyone—all the men that is-- pray together on Fridays and on holidays. I asked him if he thought it was okay for me to go along, not wanting to offend anyone. He laughed at me, coughing between his giggles.
“The local imam you are going to see, this is a man who will go on and on about God says you must do this, God commands you must do that, but last year our community discovered this same man, this holy man, drinking beer and sleeping with a woman that wasn’t his wife! You tell me if you think it is wrong for you to go and bear witness at the mosque today.”
With that, Mamadou, my little brother Dou-Dou, and I were on our way to the mosque with our prayer mat that I normally use in my room as a place to sit at the computer. A couple hundred men and boys were gathered outside the entrance to the mosque, seated on prayer mats and rugs in the shade of several beautiful neem trees, many with prayer beads in their hands. A younger man was speaking to the crowd, a small microphone attached to his boubou. The crackling, often piercing sound of his voice over the loudspeaker in mosque’s central tower added an interesting element to a speech that sounded more like a lecture than a sermon.
We found a spot, removed our sandals and sat quietly on our mat. I sensed scores of eyes looking my way now and then, getting a glimpse of the one toubab in the crowd, probably the only non-Muslim among them. I saw Jahsee a few rows behind us. The poor guy was struggling to stay awake after probably staying up all night to finish everyone’s new clothes for the day.
The mosque photographer came our way and got a couple shots of me sitting with Mamadou and my neighbors. Getting your photo taken or appearing on television at public events seems to be a common occurrence in Senegal according to other Peace Corps volunteers, just by virtue of being a toubab. I tried to compare the feel of my surroundings with going to church in the US, and the first thing I noticed was that not unlike home, the kids were restless and squirmed until being quietly scolded by their dads or brothers.
After about twenty minutes, the imam arrived, a stout older man with 1/4 inch thick glasses, and a white flowing boubou with yellow embroidery on his chest. He was accompanied by two assistants that draped a vale over the back of his head as he addressed the crowd, and held it there in the wind. The imam directed the crowd to prayer, and I took a deep breath. Mamadou had prepared me for this moment and said to simply follow his gestures. I asked him if it would be strange for me to take part in the prayer, especially since I couldn’t say the verses themselves, but he reassured me that simply mumbling and moving my lips like him would be fine.
We all rose with our arms relaxed at our sides. The prayer began and I followed the crowd as they raised their arms from the elbow until their palms were facing forward, level with their head. We repeated this a few times, and then kneeled, seated on our calves. Next we rocked forward until our foreheads were against the ground.
For the few seconds that I stared at the dirt an inch from my face I wondered what my family and friends would think of me taking part in this Muslim prayer. I wondered what Jesus would think, or even Buddha, and in the periphery of my vision, I saw the white of Mamadou’s right eye, and realized that it didn’t matter; that I was a student of life and that my curiosity wouldn’t be the subject of shame or sin in any religion or group I would ever be a part of. The prayer concluded and we sat for a while longer to listen more.
Suddenly the deep voice of the imam was interrupted by the strangest song. It took me a second to recognize it, but sure enough, the electronic notes of Old MacDonald Had a Farm were ringing on the cell phone of the man in front of me. I thought this must have been a big faux pas for him, but to my surprise the guy actually answered the call right there in the middle of the crowd and for his thirty second conversation I was positive that I couldn’t have been the only person in the crowd who felt caught between two very distant, yet simultaneous realities. Traces of the modern world and what I imagine to be the ancient world seem to keep colliding in front of me.
After visiting the mosque, we went home to eat lunch. My mom Alice and my sister Ndeye had prepared a chicken feast- roast chicken with cous-cous, carrots, raisins, olives, and onions, with the magic maggi spice, otherwise known as MSG. I bought a big bottle of Coke and Fanta for desert and we toasted the day.
I danced with my mom and sisters to American hip hop—50 Cent, Acorn, and Puff Daddy before going out again with Mamadou to visit our neighbors the Diops to ask their forgiveness and drink attaya, the super strong, super sweet, just all around super tea famous in Senegal.
We took our place on the couch at the Diop’s house and took the first of our three glasses of attaya. The first glass is the strongest, a powerfully minty and exceedingly sweet brew with a distinct foam on the top. You slurp the tea so as not to burn yourself and then pass the glass back for the next cup. Mr. Diop pours the attaya from one glass to the next and back again, mixing the tea from a height to create the foam.
By glass number three I think my ability to understand the Wolof Mamadou and the Diops were speaking had improved. In fact, the subject of the conversation had turned to American politics and George Bush’s poll numbers, which according to my hosts had fallen into the low 40s. Mamadou and the Diops said that even Americans were beginning to see the casualties in Iraq as unacceptable would go on to talk about the irony of Mr. Bush’s choice of African Americans like Colin Powell and Condoleeza Rice for high profile cabinet positions in his administration while his no-response blunder to hurricane Katrina left poor black Americans to die.
“This is something you would expect to hear in Africa Matar, not in the most advanced country in the world,” steamed Mr. Diop. My sugar high was surpassed when he went on to tell me that in Cuba, they were able to evacuate over 60,000 people in buses from danger zones as the hurricane approached. Fidel Castro the dictator had succeeded where Bush failed. A cool slice of watermelon from Madame Diop brought me back to the ground and soon Mamadou and I were on our way back home.
Korite has brought me a day closer to learning not how different Senegal is from the US, but how people are people no matter where you go. Add technology, and the world has become a smaller place no matter how you pray, what type of tea you drink, or where you call home.
posted by Nat Parker | 5:33 AM
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