The real Senegal

I finally took my long-awaited trek outside Dakar on Thursday. The plan originally had been to spend 2-3 days on the road with my uncle visiting various Peace Corps sites around the country. That got changed to a planned overnighter in Kaolack, about 225 km southeast of Dakar. That eventually was nixed, too.

Instead, I settled for a day trip to Thiès, some 70 km due east of Dakar, and to a very rural site near the town of Mboro, 100 km northeast of Dakar.

OK, I take that back. I didn't have to settle. It was fabulous.

The itinerary came about because Peace Corps officials had a chance to meet with an expert on plant science at his property on a dirt road in the general vicinity of Mboro. Specifically, this man teaches rural Senegalese how to select fruit trees and other food-producing plants for grafting and how to make the grafts without transmitting diseases that threaten large swaths of forests, orchards and groves across Africa. The Peace Corps was checking the place out as a potential site for training volunteers.

I know, it sounds boring, but it's actually quite fascinating to see up close, especially when you're struggling to follow conversations in French. My uncle, who has a master's in agricultural economics, has spent the better part of his adult life helping improve food production and quality in underdeveloped countries.

We were accompanied by Mamadou, the assistant Peace Corps country director for environmental projects, and by a forestry expert from Thiès named Youssou, who often consults with the Peace Corps in Senegal. We made the trip in a brand-spanking-new Toyota Land Cruiser, which made the Dakar-area gridlock and the harrowing ride along what passes for national highways somewhat bearable. This is what large SUVs are supposed to be used for, not shuttling suburban brats to and from soccer practice.

Actually, the 2-hour trip was quite scenic, as we passed through fields of baobab and rônier trees. The majestic baobab, which, to me, looks like the Joshua Tree of the American Southwest, is a national symbol of Senegal. The rônier sort resembles a palm tree and is remarkably versatile, used for oil, clothing, basket-weaving, animal feed and a bunch of other things I can't quite recall at the moment. If I had a digital camera, I would have posted pictures of both kinds of trees, but that will have to wait until I get home to my scanner.

Also along the route were some enormous phosphate mines and a town called Tibouane, a Muslim holy city. Thibouane is in the process of replacing its tiny, original mosque, which is about 200 years old—actually very young, considering that the Berbers came through West Africa in the 9th Century to convert the natives.

Our destination was a rural house well off the beaten path, among a vast area of rolling sand dunes and bush known as Niaye (pronounced "jai"). There was no way we would have ever found the place without the help of Youssou, nor would we have reached very easily without the Land Cruiser.

Down a hill from the house, past a pen where the owner kept two sheep who apparently were unaware of their impending slaughter for Tabaski next week, was a collection of saplings, newly grafted plants and immature citrus and palm trees barely three feet high, certainly less than two years old. (It takes about six years for orange, lemon and grapefruit plants to start bearing fruit.)

The man demonstrated how to sterilize branch-cutting tools in bleach to prevent the transmission of diseases during the grafting process and how to wrap grafted areas with clean plastic. His goal—and that of the Peace Corps—is to teach that technique to farmers and villagers across Senegal in order to create sustainable agricultural enterprises.

The field, which probably was on state-owned land, was more than a laboratory, though. It had plenty of fully matured plants, which afforded me the opportunity to see age-old skills and truly experience what my uncle described as the "real Senegal," since he said that this site was typical of about 80% of farmland in the country.

(In a remarkable reminder of how small the world truly is, cell phones actually worked out there.)

Not far from where I stood, two young men were harvesting coconuts. One climbed up a coconut palm like it was second nature, scaling the 100-foot tree in about two minutes. It appeared that he left his rubber safety harness at the bottom.

Meanwhile, another local, whom the plant scientist apparently knew, approached with a machete. He was prepared to inflict harm only on coconuts. And hack away he did, taking perhaps half a dozen strokes to cut each fruit open so we could drink the sweet milk inside. He then split the coconut open and chopped away enough of the shell so that we could use a sliver as a spoon to scoop out the meat. Yes, he kept the machete in one hand even as he handed over the coconuts with the other.

We did have to pay the man, seeing that he had a machete and all. Total cost: 150 CFA francs for 6 coconuts, or approximately 30 U.S. cents.


Always be nice to the guy with the machete. 

After that eventful meeting and a delicious plate of thiébou djenn for a late lunch, we stopped at a permanent Peace Corps training site near Thiès, where newly arrived volunteers are schooled in huts. Upon using the toilets there—actual running water despite the conspicuous absence of cushy seats—I pictured my parents visiting a place like this. I then burst out laughing.

(Before you all run to tell my mommy on me, understand that I'm the first person from the Versel side of the family to visit my uncle in Africa in 20 years.)

We also had a brief encounter with the same Peace Corps volunteer I met at lunch the day after I arrived in Senegal last week—an intelligent, single Jewish woman in her 30s who's going back to the States in April. Is my uncle trying to set me up? Am I delusional yet again? Wait, don't answer that!

If Thursday's adventure was the real deal, Wednesday was more touristy, but no less enjoyable.

The outing du jour was to l'Ile de Gorée, this time during the daytime and not for a catered party at a chi-chi restaurant. With my uncle at work, I went with my aunt (it's still hard for me to think of her as my aunt since I was 20 when they got married) and a South African friend of hers who brought along her mother, visiting from Cape Town.

We hooked up with an English-speaking tour guide known as El-Hajj who apparently is a regular for the Versel family. The going rate for good Gorée guides is up to 8,000 francs, or about $16, but most other things on the island are inexpensive, including admission to the Slave House, which features the Door of No Return.

The South Africans in my party said that Gorée reminded them a bit of Robben Island, the prison which held Nelson Mandela and Stephen Biko, among others, during apartheid. The major difference, of course, is that Robben Island held prisoners up until 1990.

Not to diminish the atrocities that took place on the island centuries ago, but I understand that Senegal has done a great job marketing Gorée, which now is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Contrary to popular belief, only about 100 to 150 slaves were on Gorée at any given time, and it was far from the busiest slave-trading site in Africa. I believe that that dubious distinction belongs to Ghana, though I could be wrong.

Gorée actually was a slave auction site, rather than a main port, since captives had to be transported there from the African mainland before being forced onto transatlantic ships.

(Senegal also has been successful siphoning off large amounts of commercial and tourist traffic from Ivory Coast, which has been experiencing political unrest for a couple of years now. Senegal has had a stable government pretty much since it gained independence from France in 1960.)

A couple of people have mentioned to me that the CBS show "The Amazing Race" visited Dakar and Gorée during two episodes that aired last month. I didn't see any of it, but here's the link if you're interested: http://www.cbs.com/primetime/amazing_race6/route/index.shtml.

But I digress. Again.

Gorée, which has no roads or cars, is its own municipality, with some 1,500 full-time residents. I briefly was in the house of one Gorée couple, thanks to another family connection I didn't know I had.

The island really is terrific for hiking, as there is a hill in the middle that served as a lookout for various colonial powers during the early part of the last century, including for Vichy France during World War II. The British, Dutch and Portuguese also had a presence during the colonial period. I had my picture taken with a cannon I think the French put at the very top of the hill.


Bringing out the big guns on Gorée. 

After fending off a bunch of vendors obviously desperate to sell something—anything—so they can afford a sheep for Tabaski and not have to settle for a less-prestigious goat, we sat down for a great lunch at an outdoor cafe near the ferry dock.

Seriously, Senegalese vendors will chase you for blocks, wave things in your face, rap on car windows and do all but insult your mother if they even have an inkling that you might perhaps be interested in possibly considering looking at whatever it is they're selling. They'll try language after language until they get something they think you understand. I've heard "Hola, amigo," more in Dakar than I did in Madrid.

Some lady with a basket full of dolls balanced precariously on her head followed me for two blocks earlier this week, and I didn't even make eye contact with her.

I can't sign off without mentioning one more thing: a beautiful musical instrument from Mali called a kora. Made from a hollowed-out, leather-covered half of a gourd with a wooden neck like a guitar that supports 21 strings made of fishing line, the kora sounds like a harp when played correctly. On both trips to Gorée, it was played very correctly, and it was unlike anything I had ever heard.

The kora players got something rare from me: a donation for a street musician. Let's see the guy belting out the "Flintstones" theme on the sax at the underground entrance to Terminal 3 at O'Hare say that!