I recently posted to facebook the
following: “Gamou-ed. In Tivaoune. Now I know I can survive anything.” And ya
know, it was certainly trying at times. Overwhelming and at times extremely
uncomfortable to say the least. But considering the fact that I spent all day
yesterday smiling about it, it must not have been that bad. In fact, it was
pretty crazy awesome. Perhaps at least in part for the fact that I pushed
through all those challenges without giving up or even searching for respite by
calling the volunteer that some crazy admin process placed in that city. Of
course, when it isn’t Gamou it’s probably pretty much like any other medium
sized city. So Gamou, what is that, and where is Tivaoune?
Tivaoune
is a city just outside of Thies on the way to St. Louis, right at the point on
the national highway where you would turn to go to by training homestay site of
Mboro. It is the religious center of the Tidian brotherhood (one of two major
Islam groups here), and the home of their Serigne (big leader dude) and graves
of lots of past Serignes. It’s a mid-size city with several mosques, one of
which is still under construction. Gamou is a holiday of pilgrimage. In other words, if you can, you’re supposed
to go to Tivaoune and visit the Serignes. What exactly the date signifies is
unclear to me. Something about Mohammad and the awesome creation of the world
by Allah, or perhaps the bringing of Mohammad into it. When religious things
are explained to me I get thrown off by the amount of Arabic mixed in, though I
think probably most of it consists of things like special additions to the
names Mohammad and Allah to mark their sanctity.
So I
got invited to go by Modou, and couldn’t pass up the chance for a number of
reasons. Though I’m fairly sure that if anyone else had invited me the doubts
and concerns I had about accessible privacy and comfortable sleeping quarters
would have overwhelmed my anthropological curiosity. Anyway, the time came, and
after a bit of stress and confusion, there I was on a normal little beat up bus
like I always take from St. Louis to Fass, on my way to Gamou. See
whatshouldpcvscallme.tumblr.com for gifs that might explain some of my
thoughts, particularly “I immediately regret this decision” and “That is a
crazy thing to do.” But I was sitting next to a good friend, Modou was directly
in front of me, and so we went. When we got off in Tivaoune it was already after
11PM, and the streets were absolutely packed. This was the night before the
actually day of Gamou, so everyone was still arriving. On a normal two lane
road, at least one edge was lined with Buses and “cars”, both sides were snaked
with lines of people, charettes were rolling by with shocking frequency while
two directions of traffic still tried to pass through. At about midnight we got
to a house. Turns out it was the house for my host sister (who lives far away
and I hardly know)’s husbands family. Large compound, lots of room, and about
100 people sleeping on mats in the sand under plastic tarps. I knew Modou’s
father’s family had a house somewhere else, so I hesitantly thought “surely
this is not where I’m sleeping.” … Wrong. Of course, if I’d know I would have
brought a blanket, but… I didn’t and a packed in a hurry. The under-the-tarp
space was full so me and a girl from my family who came with us to see her
boyfriend got a mat and a sheet right at the edge of the puddle of bodies fully
moured in sheets. When the two men left to go find their sleeping quarters I
was too exhausted to do anything but lay down. I tried to mimic those around me
hoping that magically I wouldn’t be too cold to sleep. Surely it was about 62
degrees, but for me… that’s really freaking cold. I had on full length exercise
leggings, my shin-length yoga pants, a light cotton wrap skirt, a tank-top, a
t-shirt, and a thin sweater. I wrapped in the sheet, even pulling it over my
face hoping my breath would warm me. Not enough. I got out both skirts I’d
packed, parts of my absolute nicest outfits, to use as extra sheets. I used the
cape I’m crocheting for my mom as a pillow (in a zip-lock bag) but couldn’t
chance ruining or soiling it by using it as a blanket. Last I looked at my
phone it was 2:40, and I dozed. Only to be woken by RAIN. … RAIN!!!... Like I said, there wasn’t room
left under the tarp. Fortunately it was only a sprinkle, and since there was
LITERALLY nothing I could do but wait it out, that’s what I did. After the sun
rose and I heard the mosque call the morning prayer I actually slept a bit. Of
course, then I woke up at about 9 to lots of people asking “Who’s the toubab?
Who’s guest is she?” And no one actually knew the answer. So—Thank GOD I
managed to not be completely wrecked with grouchiness—I told them who I was and
what connection I had to the house that I would be staying there. Thanks to my
experience here thus far I knew the best place for me was with the women who
were cooking breakfast. First, they had a fire. Second, if I was with them, I’d
get the first taste of coffee. I had survived the night, and new that things
could only get better from there. And if it came to it, I could always leave
before nightfall.
Modou
called pretty soon thereafter to explain that he’d left me there because he
wasn’t sure of having a better place for me that late. He slept in the back of
a friend’s car. He was going to check out his dad’s family’s place and come get
me in a bit. Good, cool. Warm, coffee. Mind you, I’m still in this house with a
hundred strangers, and this one woman just decides she’s going to sort-of sponsor
me. Thank God for her. I got breakfast, got a shower, laid down for about 30
minutes to meditate. Then we went out to walk around a bit, and when we got
back Modou was already there. We sat and talked on a mat, I met his cousin, and
then we all went over to his Dad’s house.
As soon
as we got there, I was instructed to get in the back of a truck and sit and
talk to people… okay, Senegal. The people there were great and this became my
home base for the rest of Gamou. Turns out his Uncle and his wife drive this
truck down for Gamou every year so they can have their own room to sleep in and
sit in all day drinking attaya and soda and eating yummy stuff. I don’t
remember them calling me a toubab once
in that truck, and we just talked and talked for several comfortable hours.
After meeting one of his sisters, she took me into the house and I met a few
other people, but there were, again, about a hundred people there. So, man,
Thank God for that truck, and Thank God for those wonderful people. We ate
stupid amounts of meat in onion sauce with friend potatoes, only later did I
learn that I was eating camel… We drank stupid amounts of attaya, of which I
was given (Every Time) the first cup, despite my protests. And in the evening
we went back to the other house where I had left my clothes and such so I could
put on my second nice outfit, only to sit in the truck for dinner and tea and
then go to sleep. But, it was just so much Fun! The guys left at about midnight
to go Siarra ji (walk around through the mosques praying and “gnaning” (asking
for…) Allah) and go to jangs (those loud things in tents where griots eat the
microphones and people in boubous sit around swaying and clapping). So, it was
just me and the older folks in the truck, and we joked and laughed a bit before
lying down to go to sleep.
Buuuuttt…
Gamou is strangely like a music festival in America. You have your home base,
and your place to sleep, but there is never a moment where it’s silent. There
is constant music in the distance, constant coming and going of people doing who
know’s what. You fall asleep to these sounds and wake to the same.
The
second day we sat around for until lunch ended, and the women told me they were
going to Siarra ji, if I wanted to come along. This was the whole point of the
holiday, so Yeah, I wanted to go. But, midday, the truck full of people, I had
to do a quick change. The night before with only three people in the truck I
had pulled on my sleeping pants under my skirt, and changed my shirt while no
one was looking. This time though, there were a dozen people milling about. I
wrapped my nice skirt over the dingy one I had been wearing all day, then moved
to the back corner of the vehicle with my top. After awkwardly trying to get
someone to hold up a sheet for me to change my shirt with no luck, I just took
my top off. It’s integration, right? When we got back from Siarra-ji-ing, everyone
was impatient to leave and the truck was already pulling away. But there was no
way I was traveling in my fancy clothes. So, right there on the side of a busy
street in Tivaoune, I did a Senegalese change. This time I wrapped my dingy
skirt over my nice one and pulled the nice one off, then, again, I just had to
take my top off. … Writing it makes it sound like no big deal, but this means
that for just a moment I was on a busy street in one of the religious capitals
of my host country in a skirt and a bra. But this is Senegal, and no one I was
with even flinched. … Integration complete.
I guess
that’s the end of the story. As with all celebrations here, the actual event is
enfolded in hours of sitting around talking, drinking tea, and eating meat.
There’s the basic fact. But as for the experience, I was amazed how comfortable
and NON-displaced I felt. After my first painful night, once I got to that
truck, I felt like I was just a part of the family. No one even called me
toubab! Well, none of the people I was actually sitting with. There was plenty
of that on the streets. Although I had no private space, struggled with the
basic comforts of going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and taking a shower,
I felt comfortable and looked-out for. So,… the end. Onward.
Check the pictures.
