Gis gna mercure bi?

              On Friday, it was finally time to travel to the mines.  We’d spent all day on Thursday meeting with officials in Kedougou city (Direction of the Environment, Direction of Mines, Water and Forestry Division, Police, Governor in a town 7 km away) to inform them of our activities; they were all glad to be informed and repeated that it’s important that we came to them.  This all relates to the Senegalese system of everyone wanting to be a part of a project by being informed, even if they will play no part in it.

              Friday morning, we set off with our overnight bags and cooler of empty sample bottles and bags.  After a breakfast of a bean sandwich, we went to the garage to find a car going to Saraya, where we’d be based for the next few days as we visited the large mining town of Kharakhenna.  Fortunately, the van filled quickly, and we were all set to go.  But, the car had to stop first at a few houses to retrieve some baggage.  There were some complaints from passengers (particularly from one well-dressed man who insisted he was in a rush to make a meeting in Saraya), but the driver declared he had only one stop left.  He then proceeded to enter a tire mechanic shop to fill the rear tire with air.  However, after several minutes of failed attempts to fill the tire, it turned out that the tire wasn’t just lacking air – it also had a hole.  All 14 of us passengers filed out of the car to wait as the tire was removed, patched, and placed back on the van.  During the wait, over the sparks of a nearby metal working and the pounding of three carpenters building a bed, I was able to sit and examine the other passengers.  I was particularly struck by one woman (not much older than a teenager) and her 3-year old child.  I had noticed them in the car as she stroked his head, an affection not often shown here.  I had also noticed large bumps across his scalp earlier, but now I noticed that he was unable to hold his head up, and it kept flopping to the side while the woman tried to help him sit up in her lap.  When she went for a walk and swung him onto her back, she had to place his arms around her neck and legs around her waist, while leaning over so that he would not slide off, as he was incapable of these maneuvers himself.  She then had to hold his body while his head flopped at a dangerous angle.  When she turned toward me, I saw his eyes rolling into his sockets, teeth black and wasting, mouth turned in pain, and legs and arms too skinny for a child.  He was starving, sick, and likely didn’t have many days left.  It was an incredibly sad sight.

              Eventually, the tire was rolled back into place on the car, and we set off.  The road to Sarya was recently paved and beautiful as a result of the gold mining industry – though there are some potholes, these don’t take up the entire width of the road, and driving is easy.  The 60 km trip only took an hour, and I was eager to continue to the gold mines in Kharakhenna after dropping off our bags, but that is not the Senegalese protocol.  First we had to stop by the governor and police stations to alert them of our presence and our activities.  Then we had to walk around Sarya to greet Falaye’s friends and acquaintances.  By that time, it was rude to leave without waiting for lunch (around 2:00 in Senegal) and then too hot to travel until 4:00.  (Nothing happens in Senegal between 1:00 and 4:00.)  But eventually we did find a car, waited for it to fill, and traveled an additional 30 km on the beautifully paved road to Kharakhenna, where I was completely unprepared for what I saw.

              I had been told that mining villages are transient communities whose populations have swelled with the gold rush.  People from Senegal, Burkina Faso, Mali, Mauritania, Ghana, and Nigeria flock to the mines for a chance at striking rich.  And not just miners come, but also people selling wares and prostitutes.  Kharakhenna was once a small village, but it’s population now likely exceeds 15,000.  As the population boomed, people didn’t have time or space to build compounds (a series of huts surrounding an open area where a family lives together), but instead constructed just a single room.  In fact, the rooms weren’t even constructed of mud as in villages or cement as in cities; instead, they were created by weaving dried weeds together and then using plastic sheets to cover any holes.  These rooms extended for several kilometers in every direction.  On the road, lines of people sold every possible item from food to containers to gasoline, similar to what you’d see in a city but all based out of weed huts.  Interestingly, there were a lot of people selling solar panels (the first time I’ve seen this in Senegal), and many were placed on top of the weed roofs to provide power for the rooms.  There were also a few places selling new motorcycles, a big attraction for people who strike it rich in the mines.

              We were met by one of Falaye’s friends who acted as our guide in the village.  I was introduced to many people, the first of which was wearing a Syracuse t-shirt.  There is truly a sense of community in the village, despite its strange construction, and people were welcoming and kind.  As it was a Friday, no one was working in the mines.  This originates from the Western African belief in genies, who they say are active on Fridays and Mondays.  As a result, if people try to work in the mines on these days, they are likely to be injured, and it is best to either process mined dirt or to relax for the day.  We walked up to the mines, where it is ok to look at them, as long as we don’t try to dig.  Thousands of holes dotted the hillslope; each hole was tens of meters deep and then continued horizontally.  Men descend via rope tied to a wooden pole over the hole, and a fan keeps the air circulating.  Sometimes they descend for multiple days at a time, bringing food and tea into the hole with them.  Dirt is lifted back up from the team at the top of the hole.  The process is extremely dangerous, and many holes collapse due to lack of structure; theoretically, every 10 meters is supported by wooden poles (leading to deforestation as people chop down trees for these support systems), but in reality, people often don’t reinforce the walls as often as they should.  There is also the danger of reaching the water table, whereby water begins to fill the hole and needs to be pumped out before the digging can continue.

              Once the dirt is removed from the hole, it is brought into the village, where it is ground into a sand, mixed with water, sieved on an angled wooden plank covered by a mat.  The dirt on the mat is then dunked in water, and the water is checked for flakes of gold (which it usually contains).  At this point, mercury is added to the solution since it selectively binds to mercury, which one man demonstrated to me in his hand, while asking, “Gis nga mercure bi?” (Do you see the mercury?).  The mixture is then taken to huts and burned by the women, releasing large amounts of mercury into the atmosphere and leaving the gold behind.  Additionally, some of the tailings are then bought by men from Burkina Faso, who move it to the bush and add cyanide to remove even more of the gold.  They know that cyanide is prohibited by the government, and this process thus occurs very secretively.  In fact, people are generally loathe to mention that they use either mercury or cyanide, for fear of repercussions by the police or Senegalese government.

              Traditionally, Senegalese people had mined for gold using just water, and no chemicals.  However, as more people from Mali and Burkina Faso learned of the Senegalese gold deposit in the 1990s, they immigrated to Senegal bringing not just themselves, but also the technique of using mercury to extract more gold.  And thus, the black market trade of mercury (originating from mercury mines in Ghana) began.

              When people are not working in the mines or processing the dirt, they behave like other Senegalese (or West Africans) – they sit, talk, drink tea, and smoke cigarettes (another sign of their wealth – nearly everyone I saw smoked a pack a day, at a cost of $4).  They also played checkers and engaged in promiscuous activity.  Fortunately, I was unaware of most of the prostitution occurring in the village, though the unnaturally light-colored skin (caused by chemical skin lightening creams) and heavy amounts of make-up on many of the women alerted me of their presence.  And, since men far outnumber the women, the men even engaged in tasks outside their gender norm; I noticed men cooking, washing clothes, and cleaning.  I was also interested to note that French was fairly common among many of the people; with such a high amount of foreigners, local languages were not shared by all present, and French was often the first language utilized among strangers and even amongst friends from different localities.

              Aided by Falaye and his friend, I was able to collect my first few water and soil samples.  I collected soil samples along a transect from a hut where mercury is burned toward the river.  We were also aided by a man from Burkina Faso, who took soil samples for us from the bush where cyanide is used after the mercury processing.  My project is officially on its way!

(I apologize for the lack of pictures.  My connection is too slow now, but hopefully I'll be able to post some when I head back to Dakar.)

Huh, Toubab degge na Wolof?

              Every region of Senegal is drastically different from the rest – in terms of geography, culture, agriculture, etc.  Dakar, on the coast (and containing the most westerly point on the African continent) has the highest density of people, a variety of Senegalese ethnic groups as well as non-Senegalese immigrants, and also a mild climate.  When I was there earlier this week, I even wore a sweater at night, though that was partially to acclimate myself for the hotter temperatures I knew I would soon endure.  Kaolack, where I lived in the Peace Corps, is located toward the center of the country and on the border with the Gambia.  It is dominated by the Wolof culture, with some Sereer and Mandinka peppered in the mix.  Kaolack is hot, known to have a lot of flies, has a fairly barren landscape, but is still capable of hosting fruit trees (mostly mango and cashew-which produces a fruit before the nut ripens).  The eastern part of the Kaolack region (Fatick) is also home to enormous biodiversity in the mangrove swamps, which supports a fishing industry.  Further east is Tambacounda, where I have spent the past 2 days with Falaye, who will be working with me to collect samples.  Tambacounda is more barren than Kaolack, home to a variety of cultures (Wolof, Mandinka, Bambara, Pulaar), contains the largest banana farms in Senegal, and also boasts the country’s national park (where one of my friends once spotted a lion from the national highway that runs through it).  Kedougou, where I’ll be headed for my research, is in the far southeast of the country (about a 13 hour car-ride from Dakar, if the car doesn’t malfunction on the way).  Kedougou is one of the most culturally diverse regions of Senegal, with Pulaar, Mandinka, Bambara, Jaxanke, Jalinke, Malinke, and Bassari cultures; the latter is an animist society that has maintained much of its culture, compared to the others that have adopted Islam to replace many aspects of their traditional religion (though some animist traditions do still persist in all of the Senegalese cultures).  Kedougou is the “mountainous” region, home to primates (and the Jane Goodale Institute that studies them), boasts large amounts of heavily forested land, waterfalls, supports avocados in addition to other fruit trees (mango, cashew, soursop, sweetsop), and of course contains a large deposit of gold ore – the purpose of my trip to Senegal.  Moving back toward the coast of Senegal from Kedougou (along the southern strip below the Gambia) is Kolda and Ziguinchor, both of which are forested, contain may fruit trees (and pineapple), support large amounts of tourism, and are home to Pulaar, Sereer, Mankine, Bambara, and Djola cultures.  In the very north of the country is St. Louis and Matam; these regions are in the Sahel (the strip of land directly below the Sahara) and are known for their extremely hot temperatures, conservative culture (people are generally more religious in this region – in terms of respecting all 5 Muslim prayer times, skirts reaching to the ankles, and women more likely to wear hijabs, etc.), dominant Pulaar culture, and predominance of cow herding over agricultural farming.

              Though I lived in Senegal for 2 years and traveled to 10 of the 14 regions, the majority of my knowledge of culture is derived from the village I lived in.  There, Wolof are boisterous, loud, sassy, and continuously joking with each other.  There is rarely a silent moment in a compound: animals (goats, sheep, chickens, cows, horses, ducks, dogs, and cats) wander across the shared open space or through huts, babies cry, children scream and play, adults yell at each other or their children.  Their yelling is just part of who they are; nothing is done quietly, and harsh-sounding tones of voice often contain completely docile messages.  People are constantly visiting each other’s compounds to greet them, stop and talk, help with any chores currently being conducted, share local gossip, and ask favors of each other.  If I entered someone’s compound to visit, I would be constantly entertained by all the goings-on.  Interestingly, I am learning that not all Wolof are the same.  I’ve been staying with Falaye’s family in Tambacounda for the past 2 days and have visited with many of his friends.  They are a mix of several cultures, though of course I can only communicate with those that speak Wolof.  I have found that Tambacounda Wolof are much milder than those in the Kaolack region.  Conversations contain lowered voices, children quietly entertain themselves without much screaming or squealing, and jokes are less physical.  To make a comparison, in my village, often people would visit a compound, pick up the bucket into which a girl was cracking open peanuts, and pretend to run away the bucket, while simultaneously pushing away anyone who tried to stop them and insulting the girl’s cooking or the family’s peanut harvest.  This was all done in jest, with no ill-intentions and lots of laughing and joking from both parties.  But here, jokes are merely spoken, such as comments about last names, carry on for less than a minute, and then the conversation continues.  But, what prevails here and in all regions where I’ve spent time, is the look of surprise followed by the comment “Huh, Toubab degge na Wolof?” (Huh, the foreigner understands Wolof) whenever I open my mouth to speak.

              Next stop, tomorrow, is Kedougou.  I’ll be in the city for 2 days meeting with government officials there to explain my research (any potentially related governmental branch needs to be aware of my work to ensure that no one feels slighted) and receive any formal authorization papers that are deemed “necessary.”  Then, I’ll finally be ready to travel to mining villages to begin collecting samples.

Maay ma xaalis bi

              Dakar is a typical African city, blending modernization and traditionalism.  A view from above shows a dense population; in fact, 2.5 million people (20% of the population) live in this metropolitan area.  In the downtown and surrounding area, the streets are well-paved, new buildings are constantly springing up, and restaurants abound.  People stroll the streets with iphones and androids in their hands, wearing jeans and other westernized clothes.  The two “peaks” in the city (called by the French name of “les mamelles”) each contain a large structure: one an enormous controversial statue of a couple holding a child and the other a light house.  From a quick, narrow glance, you can almost forget that you are in west Africa.

But a broader picture shows smaller roads paved with sand, many partially completed structures (as people begin the process of building new homes when they have money and slowly finish over time, afraid to wait until they can fully finance their homes less they spend the money or lend it to a friend or family member), and cows crossing in the middle of the street.  Sitting on a street bench, men and women approach you to sell clothes, mangos, sunglasses, live birds to release while making a wish, etc., or to offer to cut your toe nails or clean your shoes.  There are hundreds of street stalls selling bread with beans, spaghetti, and onions for breakfast; rice with fish and vegetables (coeb u jen), peanut butter sauce (maffe), and onions (yassa) for lunch; and couscous with bean sauce (cere ak bassine) for dinner.  You can identify these stalls by a wooden table, surrounded by wooden plank benches, and covered by colorful streets draped over wooden poles.  And people are constantly interacting with each other; it is rude to walk past anyone without a greeting, and conversations among strangers often result in a common acquaintance or jokes about last names (for example, Thiam is known for enjoying food, Diop for eating lots of beans which results in excess gas).  People are also always ready to help each other and to share.  My taxi driver this morning didn’t want the rest of his coffee.  He pulled over to the nearest person, rolled down the window, handed over the cup, and drove off.

And, a picture of Dakar (or any large town or city in Senegal) would not be complete without the image of the talibe.  These children are sent by their parents to study Koran under the tutelage of a master.  In theory, they are provided with food and shelter, learn the Koran, and learn humility by spending a few hours asking for money on the streets.  In reality, these children spend most of their time begging on the streets for food and money as they repeat “Maay ma xaalis bi” (offer me money), are not treated well by their masters, and learn very little.  They are mistreated by many of their Senegalese peers, learn no technical skills during their childhood, cannot remember the location of their home villages, and are unable to provide for themselves when they reach adulthood.  It is a system unsustainable outside of a small village and a well-intentioned master.

Like all cities, Dakar has its pros and its cons.  You can find anything you need in Dakar, if you ask the right people.  Every village child dreams of living in this city, and all the opportunities it affords.  There is a mix of old and new, affluent and poor, modern and traditional.  But, despite all of these contrasts, it remains a Senegalese city, rich with the vivacity of the culture and the openness of the people.

              Talibe in Dakar

Am na sama benn xarit ki

              I didn’t expect to be back in Senegal so soon after leaving, and it’s surreal to be back here.  My “welcome” back to Senegalese culture began in the Casablanca airport.  As I wandered to find my gate, I immediately identified the location by Wolof being spoken all around me.  I took a seat, and the man beside me greeted me.  As the waiting area began to fill, people didn’t look for isolated seats to sit mindlessly on their computers or ipods; instead, they intentionally selected seats next to strangers and immediately initiated a conversation.  They were all Senegalese, and culture is the common grounds.  I listened to conversations about how Senegal will never progress, how hot Senegal is at this time, and how to cook the best maffe.  And, despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t stop listening and smiling.

              Nothing much has changed here, besides a few new buildings, street sculptures, and (of course) my perspective.  Today, as I traveled from government office to government office in the capital of Dakar in search of a permit to carry and collect soils, I was reminded of 2 important Senegalese lessons.  First, relax and take time as it comes; don’t rush.  Second, the country runs on relationships.  Fortunately, I was accompanied by a Senegalese friend who knows the system and knows the right people; as he continually repeated, “Am na sama benn xarit ki…” (I have a friend who…).  He had spent last night calling a long list of friends and acquaintances in variance positions to initiate meetings today either with them or with their friends and acquaintances.  We began this morning by meeting his friend at the Ministry of the Environment.  After sitting and catching up with her, she introduced us to a man, who then introduced us to another man, who suggested we speak to another man, who made a phone call to an official in the Kedougou office (where I will be collecting my samples) and determined that I wouldn’t need a permit.  Similar situations occurred at the other ministries I visited.  And so, through a list of contacts and meetings (all of which began with long conversations completely unrelated to my research), I eventually gained all the information I needed.  Had I proceeded to enter the various ministries myself, I would’ve been entangled in complexly structured office buildings, running from person to person without gaining much information.  But with patience, schmoozing, a push to remember all the Wolof I’ve forgotten, and a friend with contacts, I was able to accomplish everything (just in time for a delicious street lunch of coeb u jen – rice with fish and vegetables).

View from my hotel window

Dakar