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Published: June 12th 2006
Jungle
Abuko national parkThe crossing at
Rosso was less intimidating than expected. Our friends crossing a day earlier faced a tenacious guard stripping them on their money. I even got a good exchange rate for my last Ouguiya.
The camels and goats seen high and low in Mauritania, are now transformed into horses and mules. The less strictly dressed women walk around the streets with heavy, bulky loads on their heads to a never ending beat of music booming out from telecentres and coiffeurs. The wonderfully gnarled Baobabtrees are scattered around the landscape adding an alien touch to the scenery.
This is easy-going. At least compared to Mauritania.
First we went to
St-Lois, the former capital from the time of french colonial rule, and colonial is the most accurate epithet to its building.
The city center is build on an island; on one side connected to the mainland with a long steel bridge an on its other side linked with two bridges to the most far reaching peninsula I've ever seen. Not more than 200m wide, it stretches over 20 km from the Mauritanian border to its southern most tip. With the Atlantic oceans aquamarine, windy waves
Market
Serrekunda on its western side and the calm, beige Senegal river floating along its eastern shore.
Our first day we spent trying to get rid of a Nigerian stalker and a snoop-doggy-dogg wannabe hustler that bothered us big time. The Nigerian has since kept on sending me an email a day trying to get money with hostile threats.
What caught our attention was the Muslim cemetery on the peninsula. Graves painted in red, green and yellow, draped in fishing nets and with the westerly breeze of sand and saltwater adding a poignant attribute.
Left for
Mboro-sur-mer . No hotels, no tourist, no hustle. A tranquil, sedate fishermens village with pointy thatched huts. We sejoured with some Muslim rastafaris on the beach, eating from the communal bowl, drinking homemade palm wine, having a bit of Jamba and playing djembe.
Reading books, taking long solitary strand walks and getting a cold.
Sneezing our way down to
Dakar . The westernmost point of mainland Africa and the capital of Senegal.
Stayed out in the suburbs with an old french woman, adoring her beautiful papaya garden and discussing the expansion of the Islamic sects of Senegal.
Bamba
Touba French influence is still very prevalent as well as old traditional values. This is getting changed by American cultural imperialism with "50 cent" and other carriers of Gangsta-rap-attitude as its evangelists.
Nevertheless. The succeeding influence comes from the five most powerful Muslim brotherhoods.
Instead of the original Arabic islam which says everyone has a direct relationship with god, the leaders of the Muslim brotherhoods ( called Marabouts) are given divine status, with the mere majority of the population worshipping one Marabout ore the other.
Probably not divine but still authoritative. Senegal is a multiparty democracy on the paper, but it's the Marabouts that blows the whistle.
They also control the countrys second biggest export, groundnuts. The clever sects have proclaimed labour to be a virtue. So the people work for the sects, toiling in the groundnut fields while the Marabouts pray for them. Fasting during ramadan or praying five times a day are of less importance.
This we had to see for yourself, so after a couple of Flag and Gazelles (the local beer companies ), we packed our bags and left for
Touba. The nucleus of Mouridism and Baye Fall (the
Abba
In the compound two most powerful sects). What for 100 years ago was an empty valley now is a massive swelling city of devotees and their families.
In the epicenter of it all lies an immense, ever-expanding mosque. Most citizens have close to nothing while the mosque and its 87m high minaret lack of nothing in luxuriousness.
We stayed with a family in the outskirts of this dogmatic city. No alcohol nor tobacco is allowed and the teaching is quranic (for boys that is, since girls shall stay in the compounds to learn how to cook, clean and cater for their men).
The family that lodged us had given away their oldest son to the marabou. The Marabou (being given thousands of kids) send them out as "holy"beggars. So you'll see hollow eyed boys begging for money while reciting the quran throughout Senegal.
If the boy doesn't manage to gather the expected amount of money, he's punished at the end of the day.
On the other side of the scale; the Marabout, good for countless of billion USD.
Childlabour in its nastiest pretext.
Still, the people seem to be more than happy with this arrangement
Baboon
In the Abuko and the sweet family that we stayed with for three nights - keeping us awake all nights by constantly chanting the quran aloud - did this in such a compassionate yet unquestioning way; that we couldn't be angry nor feel pity for them.
Finally, what must be the loudest minarets outside Mecca, gave us a last outcry as we departed for
Kaolack. The center of the most fundamental Islamic sect of Senegal with another massive mosque; this one partly paid for by Saddam Hussein.
Visited the villages of
Foundioune,
Passi,
Sokone and
Toubacouta looking for some local fishermen to take us out into the
Sine Saloum delta.
This said to be "off the beaten track", turned out to be the most touristic part of Senegal. The so called local fishermen where illusory. Instead there was a pricey tourist industry charging unrealistic amounts for speedboat excursions.
Two months ago; in an act of unmatched swiftness, I turned my brand new digital camera into a meagre piece of plastic, by dropping it on the cobblestoned streets of Fes, Morocco. At its best it could have doubled as a maracas, since if you gave
Birdie
In the Compound it a shake, the whole interior moved causing a not to unpleasant sound.
I had to send it back to Sweden for repair. Not trusting the 'Poste restante' service anywhere outside Europe I was in need of some sort of safe address to where I could receive it when it was repaired.
Just before we left Sweden, my mother told us that she had a cousin living in The Gambia since the seventies. She hadn't met nor spoken to her in ages and was not sure if she was still there (read alive). She managed to contact her cousin and sent the camera to Africa leaving me with no more than a faceless phone number to call, when to pick up the camera.
This made me even more curious.
I knew that it would take about two weeks before the parcel would arrive but the delta grew boring and I grew impatient. So with only an hours journey to the border feeling that we where ready with the northern part of Senegal we went to The Gambia.
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Maria Larsson
non-member comment
Wow!
hej Bobbi, Maria fran Taplow och Academy om du kommer ihag. Har last din blog sen du borjade skicka den till mig. Later som en helt fantastisk resa. Sjalv har jag just flyttat till San Francisco Bay Area fran Seoul, South Korea. Du kan val maila nar du kommer tillbaka till Sverige och har lite tid over. Vill garna hora vad du gor, hur du har det, var du haller hus osv. Be safe. Kramar Maria