Kedegou: The slow, sweet temperament of Senegal’s southern capital seduced me almost immediately. A few of us sauntered into the town’s center the next morning and took our breakfast at a tagana (literal translation: ‘it’s hot!” but commonly known as a mini restaurant sometimes consisting of just an outdoor table). Breakfast was the normal fare, but the milky saccharine Nescafe was served in clear glasses washed in a soapy bucket at the Tagana operator’s bare feet and I tasted pain nebé (bread with a spicy bean spread) for the first time. We then wandered a bit, purchasing the compulsory kilo of mangos to be split amongst us. Kendall, Shannon, and I quickly became ensconced in the market. I hate the word, but Kedegou’s market was, for me, truly….magical. As we wandered the maze of bamboo stalls with thatched roofs, bags of frozen bissap affixed to the corners or our mouths, I couldn’t stop saying, “I love this.” Much as I hate to make generalizations, the disposition of the Pular (ethnic group of the South) is notably different from that of the Wolof (ethnic group of the North and Dakar). Except for a band of little boys who kept asking me to buy them a soccer ball, people barely seemed to notice us. No catcalls. No vendors grabbing my arm: “sister, sister just look.” And somehow it all felt so clean, and fresh…innocent. Those who I did buy from were not harsh and demanding, but modest and grateful. The southern markets are known for their lepis (or perhaps lapis like the stone?) or indigo fabrics. Some of them woven cotton—a welcome change from the synthetic “wax” fabrics. I went a bit wild in that department but, overall, practiced a good amount of self-restraint. We met up with a Peace Corps volunteer, Travis, who disclosed some of the region’s most treasured spots and arranged for a local guide to take us into the “bush.”

Segou and Dindefelo:
I still marvel at the Alham’s conquest of the bush roads. As the Alham traversed the banks of dried out riverbeds, I watched all of our heads bobble in unison and lazily swatted at tsetse flies with Anna Karenina, producing more noise than results. And then, mountains! Hills, technically. But they may as well have been mountains. With our guide’s help, we hiked alongside a small river in search of Segou’s waterfall. The vegetation and climate may have been a bit different, but hopping from stone to stone, I was reminded of hikes in The White Mountains. We reached our destination, a sheer rock face glistening with water. The water fell like a light rain. We returned to Segou and lunched beneath large leafy mango trees. Segou’s accreditation meeting was held, but most of us opted to siesta.

Dindefelo, our next stop, was perhaps the highlight of the trip. Fatou, our lovely hostess, put us up in two of the nicest huts in her family compound. Between the two huts was a tall open-air shelter and in the afternoons, after lunch, a large mat was laid out and we would lie idly, reading and dozing. Just outside of the shelter’s shade was a tall bamboo sleeping palette on which rested a thick foam mattress. Loren, Kendall, Shannon and I figured that if we lay across the width of the mattress, we could all fit (somewhat) comfortably. Nights, our compound within the compound became a congregation spot
(the Quebecois couple joined us once again!) and we would spread out on the mat and sip ataaya (strong Arab-style tea), gazelle (Senegalese beer), and of course, Fanta. I tended to crawl up onto our mattress before the rest of the group retired for the evening. The infamous White Nights of northern Europe aside, I had never seen the moon look quite so bright. The mountains and mango trees were not so much silhouetted as clearly visible. Lying in the fresh open air, I would meditate on the remote beauty of the place before falling into a deep sleep.

While in Dindefelo, we hiked to the mountaintop/hilltop village of Dandé where our guide hailed from and our Peace Corps pal was staying for a few weeks. There, we met with the village chief and were presented with a live rooster, le coq!, a gift from the village of Dandé. The rooster became just another member of our now sizable entourage (Pap, the insanely goofy driver, accompanied us on all of our excursions and somehow in Dindefelo we picked up a couple of extra tour guides…). We hiked to the source of Dindefelo’s magnificent waterfall, and strained our eyes to see the glistening pool some bazillion meters below. Past women doing laundry and bathing babies in the river and clean clothes drying across small shrubs, we made our way down to the waterfall itself. “Breathtaking,” is the only word that comes to mind when contemplating the Dindefelo waterfall. Before I left for Africa, I promised my mom that I would not swim in fresh water. But the Dindefelo waterfall could not be resisted. So help me God if I get bilharzias, but that water felt so good.

After lunch one day, I found myself the sole toubab remaining at the compound; everyone else was off accrediting the village or buying woodcarvings. I curled up in a plastic chair, looking forward to a quiet afternoon. I was vaguely aware that the small children living at the compound had gathered around the water bucket, not far from where I was sitting. But I paid them no heed. Until I stretched, almost falling off my chair, and giggles erupted from my side. I glanced over to the children and was surprised to find them practically at my feet, all of their tiny eyes watching me expectantly. What ensued is best described in a journal entry I wrote later that afternoon:

Am hiding from a band of dusty, lanky 5-8 year olds. A forceful opposition, they attacked, leaving me sweaty and dehydrated. A mother hen and her six chicks just clucked past me where I am perched on the stoop of a hut and they marched right on into the hut itself. One of many families crammed into these tiny cement/mud huts. I find something very comforting about their presence. All of the many presences around me. Even the dusty, tireless children. I finally let all inhibitions go—I must have sweated them out of my gaping pores. The snotty-nosed children were in my hair, crawling all over my lap, wrapping their scabby arms around me…at first I thought I was going to suffocate, unable to breath with so very many personal boundaries invaded (two little girls seemed particularly keen on cupping my breasts then stretching their own tattered dresses to reveal flat chests). But then the air cleared. And I was singing and dancing and laughing and sprinting even in this most oppressive (but dry, n’challah) heat. In an attempt to escape them after a good thirty minutes of intense dancing, I walked to the school to deliver some papers to the accreditation group. Fat chance, Em. A screech broke the dusty calm just as I crossed the compound’s threshold and the whole herd of them came stampeding after me. And I was almost happy to see them again. We skipped and galloped and spun and drop kicked imaginary soccer balls. Admittedly, my face flushed when they all decided to hang on me as we walked…but I took control of the situation. Suddenly stern, I demanded that they all remove their hands from my body. I then stuck my arms straight out at my sides and vrrooooommmed my way from one side of the red dirt road to the other, swooping low over their heads and jumping over anything that crossed my path—rocks, cow pies, children…But then I stopped. Clever ones that they are, they counted “un, deux, trois…” and to reward their flawless French, I revved my motor and started up again. Soon enough I was vrooming vrooming all the way back to the compound, engaging in mock races with those who made their way to the front of the pack. At the time, I thought the energy had been sent from on high. But now barely able to lift my legs, I know it came from within.