Safara, safara!

It was a typical evening.  I had just finished cooking dinner (sweet potato fries - in honor of my host brother Mussa who absolutely loves when I make them) and was sharing it with my family.  My host dad and siblings had all tasted some, and I was holding the bowl out for my host mom to taste some.  We were standing in the backyard when we heard a loud commotion of people running.  Usually, when people run and scream loudly, they are heading toward the scene of a fight.  But today, these screams sounded more frantic than excited.  We rushed out front and saw smoke billowing from a nearby compound.  Women and girls rushed by, racing with buckets of water balanced on their heads.  I stood, gaping, bowl still in my hand.

"Safara, safara!" (Fire, fire) my host aunt shouted at me as she joined the throng carrying water.  I stared, aghast.  What could my village do to prevent the spread of a fire when all the huts were made of straw roofs and the dry ground was perfect fuel?  I turned to my host mother for direction, but she was standing next to me, shoveling potatoes into her mouth.  I yelled at her to stop eating and go help, but she just continued.  I had to literally remove the bowl from her vicinity before she went inside to get more water.

I was soon left standing alone in my compound, unsure of how I could help.  I had half a bucket of water in my backyard; I could bring it to help put the fire out (and just skip showering that night).  Would half a bucket make a difference though?  I decided that every drop of water would help, grabbed the bucket, and walked slowly (I cannot yet run with a bucket of water balanced on my head, even when it's only half-full) toward the fire.  My host aunt saw me approaching, frantically grabbed the bucket from my head, and handed me her empty bucket.  I returned home, saw my host mom armed with another bucket, traded her, and headed back toward the fire.  My host aunt once again saw me, and traded my now empty bucket for the full bucket on my head.  I returned home once more, but my family was out of water, and my host mom instructed me to just sit down.

But I was too hyped up from the event to sit, so I walked with the children toward the fire.  People were running frantically in all directions.  Heading toward the fire were men, women, and children carrying full buckets of water, sloshing onto the ground as they raced down the path.  In the other direction, buckets swinging in their hands, were those who had already emptied their buckets and were now running to refill them.  And gathered around the scene were those too young or too old to carry water as well as those who had already exhausted their supply of water.  The fire was still raging strong, and I was still worried.  I turned to a woman and asked if perhaps I could help by getting water from the tap.  Certainly, the women who operated the 3 water faucets in my village had unlocked them and were using them to put the fire out.  The woman just laughed at me; who would pay for this water (each bucket costs $0.02)?  No, the taps were not being used right now, only the well.  Men were frantically at the well (measuring 45 meters deep - we have a very low water table) pulling water as fast as they could.  The situation seemed helpless to me, and I returned home to wait a bit.

As I approached my house, my host dad called out to me to bring my flashlight.  We then proceeded to read all the phone numbers written on chalk on my hut.  At some point, someone had written the phone number for the Gambian Fire Department (located only a few kilomenters away as opposed to the Senegalese Fire Department over an hour's drive away) on my wall.  We gazed at each number, looking for a 7-digit phone number that would signify a Gambian number as opposed to a Senegalese one.  Only one Gambian number was on my wall, and it was identified as a friend's number, not the fire department.  So now what?  My instincts told me that they should call a friend who'd know the number and then proceed from there.  I knew my phone would be needed, so I reentered my room to put more phone credit on my phone in anticipation of the amount of phone time they'd need.  When I came back outside though, they were still searching for the number, rereading the numbers over and over again.  I suggested they call a friend, but in all the commotion and franticness, my suggestion was passed off as not understanding the situation or Senegal.  So instead, I watched them look for a phone number that clearly had been wiped off the wall during the rainy season.

Feeling frustrated by this lack of action, I handed my host dad my cell phone and returned to the fire.  It was much smaller now, somehow.  All the women and children were now standing back as the men worked.  My upbringing told me to remain quiet while this was all occurring; after all, it was a grave situation.  But all the women standing around me began joking with me, talking loudly and telling me to dance.  I cautioned them that now was not the time, but they laughed and began to sing and dance.  In Senegal, it is always time to dance or joke, regardless of the place, company, or situation.  After resisting for a bit, I finally gave in and joined the group enjoying themselves.

Eventually, somehow, the fire was put out and only billows of smoke remained.  Everyone began to head toward them compounds to finish preparing their dinners that had been put on hold.  (The fire had started by a wind spreading a cooking fire.)  Three huts had been burnt badly, leaving just one hut in the compound in good shape.  It was the topic of conversation for the night.

In the morning, when I bike rode past the hut, I saw a large group of men at work in making mud bricks to replace those that had been destroyed, putting up new straw fencing, and gathering material to remake the thatched roof.  I was impressed by the community spirit (though it was not unexpected in this community-oriented society) and how quickly they all came to the family's aid.  This work continued for the next few days with a group of men blasting the radio and working on the compound.  Unfortunately, no one followed up about the missing fire department number, and despite my advice to discover and record it (on a piece of paper in several people's possession), no one has taken the initiative.  I'm just relieved that only one compound was affected; if the fire had spread to multiple compounds, there would've been no way to retain it, and the entire village could easily have burned.  But fire is accepted as part of life here, brought by the dry weather and strong winds.  After a few days, no one discussed it, and the only reminder is the blackened ground and straw lying scattered around the compound.