Diamonds on the Soles of Our Shoes
Bit of a longer form essay on my Village Stay -- Enjoy!
The road to Kedougou is a long one, and sitting on the bus as we passed the brush and the baobabs for 13 hours gave me plenty of time for reflection – not just about the trip as a whole, but about how I have changed since embarking on my semester here. Though it has been said before, and it will be said again, no one travels to another country without a set of well-ingrained preconceptions about their destination. Perhaps this is no truer than when traveling to Africa. Of course, these cultural biases are often incorrect, or at least paint a wildly incomplete picture of the country, and this has predictably been the case about my time in Dakar.
Yet Kedougou presented a completely different conundrum: on the surface, it actually does match many of the clichés and ideas a Toubab might bring with him to Africa. The sandy, prickly brush extends off into hundred degree heat as far as the eye can see, the houses are huts, and little gray monkeys scatter from underneath our wheels on the cracked highway. I would be lying if I said I was not in love with it; there is a secret sort of pleasure when you realize that your Hollywood-style expectations are actually somewhat true, after all. And when I made it to my little Peuhl Bande village, Bounda Kodi, I was in heaven.
There are two sides to the same coin, however, and as excited as I was, I was almost equally nervous. After all, not all of my preconceptions of “the real Africa” (as relatives back home have somewhat simple-mindedly dubbed Kedougou) are positive. There is an expectation of poverty, simplicity, and lacking of basic amenities. Life, it is supposed, is hard. Nothing I encountered during my three nights in Bounda Kodi quiet contradicted that, but just like Dakar, I realized that my preconceptions of village life had grossly over-simplified things.
Because it would be very easy to look at the basic facts of the village stay, just like when I looked out the windows of our bus, and come away with nothing more than a reinforcement of the popular stereotypes. Each morning we would eat a basic breakfast or rice or corn porridge and enjoy the brief hours before the unbearable heat, playing with what kids were already awake in our compound or speaking with the few brothers who knew French while chickens and goats roamed the courtyard. Almost immediately, the women would get to work making food, grinding peanuts and cleaning rice outside or in sweltering and smoky huts while the men went out to look for work. Lunch was communal and simple – other than Mafe with a bit of goat meat on the first day we ate only rice with okra or couscous with leafy gravy – and afterwards everyone retired from the heat to nap through the mid-afternoon. Then it was off to the garden, carrying water on our heads while kids in tattered American style clothes laughed and played at the well. As the sun set, the young men set out to play the day’s soccer match while the women continued preparing dinner, which was often a repeat of lunch, and afterwards the family would settle under the moonlight and drift to sleep. Wake up the next day, rinse, and repeat.
Like usual though, it was the little things that made all of the difference. Despite the routineness and simplicity, and despite the lack of running water or electricity, people in Bounda Kodi seem profoundly and genuinely happy. Maybe it is not in spite of those things, because of them. Because in my short few days living with the Peuhl Bande, I started to see that people in the village approach life in an entirely different way than most people do in America. The more I think about it the less I believe that the simplicity of life in Bounda Kodi acts like a set of shackles. Instead, it was provided a few of the most liberating days of my entire semester.
Why though was it so refreshing, and how exactly did it manifest itself? The easy response is perhaps a bit too Marxist for my liking – that the lack of material culture allows people to focus on more humanistic pursuits of happiness. I think that this is partially true, to be fair, and when people are not so worried about careers or the next great toy they can sit and enjoy life a little more. Nowhere was this more apparent than with the chief, who, like the chief in Mouit, lived a very simple and modest life. With a big smile on his face, he would ride off each morning on his bike to Bounda Fassi to act as the regional council, a weighty and important position. Yet, despite his status, he often seemed less well off than any of the many men who came through our doors to talk to him. His bike seemed like nothing compared to the motorcycles parked outside; his robes frayed compared to leather jackets and clean jeans. We rarely even had ataaya, and when we did he did not often take his first, as there was only a limited amount. But I don’t suspect that this was an accident. Rather, I think these sorts of things simply were not a huge priority. One evening, when I couldn’t sleep in my hut due to the heat, I went out for a walk to the well to cool off. As I passed the chief on his bed in the middle of the courtyard, I accidentally woke him. Immediately, he sprung off the bed and gestured for me to lie down, despite there being nowhere else he could have slept had I taken his place. The bed wasn’t that important, I was.
Later, I gave him a picture of me and my family to remember me by, and despite giving him a soccer ball, ataaya, sugar, coloring books, and crayons the day before, he treated the photo more preciously than anything else I had gifted. To say that no one valued material goods would be a lie – I talked to plenty of young men who headed into town whenever they could to watch soccer on a TV or dreamed of going to the big city where everyone has phones and a radio – but the prevailing sentiment, every time, was that they would always return to their little village. Family comes first, and family has much broader connotations there than in America. Children from ages four to fourteen, for example, spent the days roaming in giant, laughing packs without adult supervision, jumping off of ledges, catching and cooking rodents, and convincing us to have sing-alongs. If one got hurt, the oldest would clean off the wound and take care of it. They had no toys, no games, no music, and an infinite number of ways to hurt themselves, yet they were given complete freedom to enjoy and protect themselves. Case in point: the day before we arrived, a young boy was stung to death throwing rocks at a beehive and yet the next day there were no parents holding their kids close to home or forbidding them to go out and play. A large part of being a family is trust, and it was refreshing to see it being given so readily.
This spirit of openness and honesty is reflected in everything, right down to the physical layout of the village. My particular compound consisted of twelve huts, each with their own little back porch for showering, and a large open space in the middle with several shady lean-tos. Chairs were scattered around, and the families animals wandered in and out at will. During the day, the only people around were the children, as it was Easter break and they didn’t have school, and the women. But at night, everyone came back, and the feeling of love and closeness was astounding. Sometimes a radio would be playing mbalax softly from one of the huts, and sometimes the glow of the ataaya burner would light up the face of a brother or mother. The real action though, was within the family. Conversation stretched casually across the compound for hours as people drifted in and out of sleep, laughing and sharing gossip. There was no need for a TV, no need even for a kitchen table. People just enjoyed each other’s company.
The sentiment was prevalent throughout the entire village – people would invite me in for tea, children I had never met before would hold my hand, and I was even involved in preparing mortar and helping to build a bit of a new hut. The community garden typified the spirit better than any other location, as everyone helped care for everyone else’s plants, and profit was spilt 50-50, with half going back to the community, and half going to the family who sold the vegetables. What was so inspiring was that it was never really a question of fairness. In fact it was never really treated as a question at all. This was just how things were done; it would be ridiculous not to share. There is an American cliché that says, “sharing is caring,” and despite hearing it all my life, I am not so sure I believe it anymore. If you care about someone, as the people of Bounda Kodi clearly do, sharing with them is about as natural as breathing.
Before dinner every evening we would head to the field on the other side of town for exercise. The afternoon soccer game was always a hit, and anyone could play if they wanted, though the young girls and many of boys sat and formed the spectator section. Teams were divided up randomly, and most of it was self-officiated. Other men often exercised on the side as well, but even if they didn’t take place in the actual game, the sentiment was the same—the afternoon is the time to come together and enjoy some time as a community. Sport just happened to be the easiest common denominator. And on the last day, we found out why. As they finished their final workout, Catherine and Julia sat talking to Julia’s brother Moktar, who had been our unofficial guide of sorts throughout the village stay. He thanked them for exercising with them, and told them he hoped they liked his gift – the gift of sport. There was not much, he lamented, that he could give them, but he could always give them company, and exercises, and hoped that they would do the same for him.
I would if I could, and I’ll try my best to repay him should he ever come to the states, but I think it will be difficult. Despite what he thinks, he gave us a lot more than the gift of sport those afternoons in Kedougou. He gave us a glimpse into happiness as it should be – simple, unassuming, and surrounded by the ones you love. It will be hard sentiment to shake, and I hope I never do.
