nuul ag weex

Men in Uniform!

There is something about ex-colonies
Take a man
any man
dress him in uniform
any uniform
and he becomes a boy
No matter what you call him
police or clergyman
fireman or army man
officer
sergeant
admiral
major
or general
take a man
any man
and he remains a boy

Today as I sat in early evening traffic on the way from my hosts home to my friends host family, I recognised the second guard from the home where I stay. Just like my encounter with the first guard while off duty in his neighbourhood. There was no reason for him to stand out in the crowd. He was rather unremarkable, just another face in the hustle and bustle of garbage day Usine Niary Tally. There was absolutely no need to even notice him pass by, except for the fact that at that very moment some of the bystanders at the corner eatery where I stood awaiting the arrival of my friend and tour guide for the day became a little too welcoming for my liking. His face became a welcomed respite, a reason to ignore the swarm of men who chose to harass me and my partner and establish some form of rootedness or at the very least familiarity with the place to further dissuade the requests and bellows to help us get acquainted with our ‘new’ found environment. Our welcomed visitor took a minute out of what seemed to be a very determined course of action. He engaged in some small talk, seemed genuinely interested and impressed by the fact that we had actually ventured into his little patch of heaven like he had suggested, and not shrugged him off as overbearing and perhaps even per cautious. So off duty guard number one, clad in plain clothes like everyone else around him, greeted us as though we were equals (which the absence of the uniform allows us all to feel) inquired about the days plans, and we made no mention of who it is that we are acquainted, except in greeting each other farewell we acknowledged that our impending meeting would be sooner, rather than later.
Now this other gentleman, off duty guard number two, is a much older man, old enough maybe to even be my grandfather. He was rather unremarkable because the absence of his uniform also meant the absence of the surly, and somewhat forlorn expression that adorns his face at every of time we have encountered one another. He simply looked alive, there was a striking spring in his step, and he looked to be enjoying the sunlight, instead of hiding from it because of the way the uniform top hat heats his bald head almost to roasting. As I stretched my hand outside the taxi window to acknowledge him, a Colgate smile tore across his face, his eyes sparkled. Like off duty guard number one, he inquired about my day, and wished me well for the rest of it. He too looked interested in the interaction, the look on his face spelt more than uh oh yes I do know you; he looked genuinely pleased to have encountered me as a man, and not as a boy dressed in uniform.

Uniforms suck the soul out of a man and turn him into the UNIform = BOY.

A bright spark birthed in the pits of my stomach

As I await the interview and filming of the Griotte in the Market and at her home. I think it would be interesting to have a double interview, Ndeye Fall and the Griotte together. Since it is said that Griottes are the keepers of culture, in this case Ceebu jen it would be very profitable to see the meeting of the minds. Both Ndeye Fall and the Griotte perpare this revered national emblem and yet one is said to prepare it purely for commercial means and is passed up for the Griotte when Cheb is desired for ceremonial purposes. A conversation between these two parties would unearth many questions about Cheb's true purpose and place in the Senegalese cultural landscape and if you like developmental psychology. This interview would occur purely in Wolof because both women are most able to communicate via this linguistic medium. I would employ the help of my friend Awa Yomb, a historian and Masters Student at the local University to serve as an intermediary. I have explained thee purpose of my project and in fact she partially birthed this 'controversy' in my mind, because I mentioned that I was going to interview a market seller and she exclaimed. She asked why I would even bother when the Griottes are the keepers of Cheb secrets? She emphasised that people turn to Griottes for their Cheb needs, for weddings, funerals, birthdays and all forms of ceremony, Griottes are the experts who prepare the culinary delights. So, I am confident that Awa is an able interlocutor and will be able to help me unearth this roff in the history of Ceebu jen.

Notes:
roff is the special spice masala used in preparing Cheb
Ceebu jen/Thiebou dien are 2 of many spellings of the dish
Awa Yomb is Sereer not Wolof

Keur Ndeye Fall a Parselles Unit cinq

A few pictures from my 1st shoot. Words will come later still processing thought....

Slight frustration...

I am suppose to be walking through a local market right now with the Griotte, purchasing ingredients in preparation for our session. However, last night I received a phone call from my friend Awa to inform me that the Griotte is no longer available. There was no specific reason given for why she is unable to meet as planned today. She instead proposes that we meet on Sunday, the day I have an appointment with the market seller! This setback simply reminds me of my experiences last year when, and this is very disconcerting. The laisse faire attitude that consumes people here in Dakar is very troubling because it means they have very little regard for other peoples time (and indeed money). Now I am left with the task of either having a fully loaded Sunday with two shootings and thus dealing with poor lighting. So now I have to navigate a conversation with a Griotte who speaks no French and a market seller whose only day off work is Sunday. I know I have my work cut out for me, these are two pieces of footage that I cannot afford to forfeit so I will get to communicating.

Check back for updates and hopefully short clips.

Faithful Inquirer

Pictures of Theibou dien

Sont les griottes qui font le Cheb!

I was talking Awa, a Masters Student and teacher at the University, and I told her that I met a woman downtown who makes Cheb for a living. I told her that I wanted to spend some time with said woman, film her preparing Cheb and just basically have her tell me what she does and why she does it. Then I would have her tell me all that she knows about Cheb. Awa interrupted very abruptly and said NO! if you want to know about Cheb you have to talk to a griotte! She insisted that griottes are the keepers of Cheb especially those from St Louis the birthplace of Cheb (this I knew from my thesis, although I had no idea where to find a griotte and I didn't want to make and assumptions. Yes I have done the research but I want the place and the people to tell me for real). Awa speaks English quite well but most of this she said in French and even some in Wolof (my Wolof comprehension has VASTLY improved). And as though it was all ready made just for me (kind of like a movie set) she said my neighbour is a griotte & she is St Louisienne!!!! I was in HEAVEN! So after watching a bit of the Rapatack (basketball game accompanied by a hiphop dj on the turntables organised for the local youth) that was going on in the neighbourhood we went to visit the griotte. (sidenote I must have a very dedicated guardian angel somewhere, because this was just too coincidental) oh and Awa is the first Senegalese person I have met who does NOT like Cheb, so I will definitely be interviewing her!

Respectfully I took off my shoes, greeted (the courtsey, handshake and the mangui fi [I am fine]). The griotte so full of life and stories, seated on a plactic mat on the floor directed us to sit on the sofa. Awa then explained to her in Wolof (because she speaks no French) that I am doing research on Cheb & Senegalese identity and would essentially like to pick her brain. It was as though I brough candy to a child, her face light up, her already vibrant and viviacious disposition became more alive. She sat up straight, and I could tell her mind began to wonder at all the things she could tell me because she went on a whole tangent about all the wonders of St Louis, then came back to Cheb and could not stop talking. Awa even stopped paying attention, turned to me and signalled, blah, blah, blah... :) Long and short of the whole interaction is that I have a date with teh griotte this weekend. Friday morning we are going to the market to buy all the ingredients, she is very excited about that. In fact I heard her say that she will be the star of the market on Friday morning!! (she spoke in Wolof!!) Then on Saturday I will again go to her home and she will cook, and talk and then we will partake in a delicious meal. I asked her about Penda Mbaye, the first woman to prepare Cheb with rice and well she again went on a tangent so next time I will roll film and let her talk. Too bad I will have to edit and translate ALL that she says!!!

A bientot!!

comment comment comment...

C'est pas discret!!

Today I got all my equipment ready and headed to the port to film Mme Mbaye Fall prepare her days supply of Ceebu jen for her hungry customers. I arrived just 30mins late because this mornings taxi man decided to take the longest and most congested possible route from the house to town. To my disappointment my slight delay meant that she had just completed thhe final stage of preparation and the rice was steaming to perfection. Although I wa disheartened, having set up the camera etc ready for day 1 of shooting, I resolved that I would roll film and just have her talk about her work. Yet again I would be disappointed as one of the other women was still at the midpoint of her prep process and thus did not want the camera to linger on her for even a second. At that Mme Fall immediately changed her mind about having the camera on her at her workplace. She took us outside of the communal 'kitchen' and began to explain that she preferred not being filmed at work afterall. She spoke first in Wolof her language of comfort and then in French to ensure that I understood completely. Mme Fall explained that it was not a good idea to film at her place of work because there were too many people around (although for me that would have been AWESOME), she then said and I quote "c'est pas discret filmer ici!" So eloquently put, I began to survey my surrounding area and caught a hint, perhaps its not safe for her to be the centre of attention like that, perhaps she already has a lot of attention from her customers etc. The more I think about it the more questions I have.
Through the work in my senior thesis at Barnard, I argue that Cheb is a uniquely female tool (culinary culture/ritual) that women continue to use to feed, mould, contribute & develop the nation, more specifically the national character. So in relation to my thesis work my questions birth greater potential for exploration. Why did the woman at midpoint in her process so vehemently refuse to cook in the background while Mme Fall spoke? Why did she choose to voice her concerns in terms of what the film would be used for in the future? Who has she encountered in the past that has made her question the intentions of someone interested in this 'female, Senegalese, culture'? What potential threat/danger did the presence of my camera pose to Mme Fall? And the questions continue to form in my mind.
What is good is that Mme Fall invited me to her home on Sunday to film her preparing Cheb. She emphasised that because she does not work on Sunday she would be more at ease to take time in her preparation, as oppose to the mass production she does at work. She also ensured me that she would be more able to fully answer all questions I may have. Also before preparation we will go to the market and she will show me how to pick the vegetables and fish etc. So in short, all is not lost. I am looking for a way to get some footage of her work place though, because I think that image is very poignant.


[SHORT CLIP COMING SOON]

Mme Fall

I just met the woman whom I will be spending most of next week with filming. Her name is Mme Fall, and she is a cook at the Port of Dakar. She prepares the meals for all teh drivers at my friends car dealership. She is very excited about the whole thing, which I find interesting because one of her apprentices was convinced that she would not want to be filmed. Check back on Tuesday for news of the progress.

GET OUT and STAY OUT!

Some part of me wants to write some poetry about this experience, colour it beautiful instead of the ugliness that it truly was. (and I have…) Jamais dans ma vie a quel que chose comme ca passé, pour moi c’est tres bizarree et I am so angry. And to think this was just a few hours out of a day in my life, and some people live a whole lifetime and don’t get that amount of time off from this thing they call the burden of womanhood. Today for the first time I was made to feel the brunt of my biological sex/chosen gender. Today for the first time I fully appreciate the negative connotations a male dominated world would attached to what I normally consider the blessing of my womanhood. Today I am made to question why indeed I was sent to occupy space in this world as a member of the community of woman; and yet I despise not my womanhood. I simply see the ignorance and peril of those who would seek to strike this woman, whether in word, thought or deed. I realise that the work is much and the labourers are few, just after meeting with a beautiful woman Aminata Dieye, who is one of the few labourers, toiling aimlessly to ensure that other women live a better life. Today I encountered he who would scorn my womanhood, and instead of stand tall defiantly I could not because there seemed to be an impervious wall between him and me. A wall guarded by the laws of the land, a wall clad with the religious, social and cultural practices/beliefs that would seek to also scorn my womanhood, and so now I resort to the one weapon I have. The weapon that the scrawny man, neither le patron, nor the institution that is the state can take from me. I strike back with a clenched fist and pen in hand and I write for all who care to read about the small man who guarded the big ‘small’ mans house. LES FILLES SONT INTERDIT

They say the appreciate women, or at least the beauty of the woman and yet the shut us out. We entered the compound like I had many times before, only this time the guard came up behind me, a little scrawny looking man and he yelled eh, LES FILLES SONT INTERDIT! Even though I am quite competent in French at that moment I could not quite comprehend the words being yelled at me, perhaps because of the distance between him and me, or perhaps even because of the muffled volume of said yell, (the ocean in background drowned out some of the fury he attempted to convey.) I think most of all I was unable to understand his wolof-ised French (for just a moment) because of the lunacy of the message and the tone through which he conveyed it. Not only was this the first time in my not so short life that my biological sex/chosen gender barred me from entry into a place, yet it was that the little man exuded such incredulous power in uttering those words. He had the guts to scream that I, a woman was not allowed into a place, which by the way I had already entered at a previous time, and would have gained complete and successful entry had his scrawny behind continued to laze under the tree away from his actual ‘post’.

So I guess for some reading this, you may wonder, why is she kicking up such a storm, surely she is aware that she currently inhabits an Islamic nation, or even for the more ignorant, a patriarchal sub-Saharan African nation. Well, I too am African, and I have lived in the region before. And no I do not by any means at all believe that either my biological sex/chosen gender or my continental identity or current geographical location should predispose me to such blatant prejudice. In fact none of my identities should. I am truly aghast at this interaction, the other men around me many of whom frequent this location and have seen me there before were taken aback by this interaction as such I am confident that this is not the way Kungakona lana. And yet I am made to wonder about this little man, what gave him such audacity (other than the ‘order’ from his patron), what made him so confident when he uttered those words? Some part of me wanted to ask DO you know who I am? Not meaning to demean him in any way, but more to stand my ground and assert myself, and yet all I could think to do was retreat, like a lost puppy with my tail between my legs. It was so infuriating because I was with my younger sister who has never been here before, so for her this experience taints her impressions of this unknown place. A place that will remain unknowable because this man has now constructed a palatable wall, he has created the divided between US and THEM

Then the deeper I look, the more I realise that this happens a lot, perhaps not quite as vivid, but it happens all the same. So I look a little more closely at the many interactions I have with the local taxi man, and I begin to see that our interactions are more than that of local and foreigner. They are more profound than the banal thief and victim, they are in fact rooted in a tangible and perhaps more rigorous power structure that exists and functions within this setting. I am grappling with trying to make sense of this all. I do not want this one experience to cast a shadow over how I tell my story, or even to create a biased sensitivity to such interactions.

and it was all over a basketball game...

I will leave you to work through this for yourselves. Do leave questions comments etc…

A tout a l’heure

The Faithful Inquirer

Les filles sont interdit

They tell me they love me
but i am barred entry
they tell me that i can rise and soar
but only to the level of a billboard image
they tell me i can be anything i want to be
but not president only prime minister
and even then they chase me out of office

nous sommes interdit
mais tu veux que je faire tout le chose pour vous
nous sommes interdit
mais tu veux que je vous donnes les enfant

you deny me access, yet i grant you access
it is my face that is plasted across your brochures and websites

les filles sont interdit
las chicas son prohibidas
girls are not allowed

a woman is always just a girl

Work begins...

A little disclaimer, apologies for the mispellings etc, the French keyboard at the net cafe get the better of me. Now I am back to my laptop, so those problems should be few and far between.

After much discussion, I have decided to stop speaking and to just LISTEN. Tomorrow I begin my day bright and early at the neighbourhood cook at the port, I am going to sit with her while she prepares the days Cheb and then watch her first few customers come for the day. I don't know exactly what I am looking for, but I know I want to hear more than the average we just eat it (being Cheb), there is no deeper meaning. There must be some reason it has risen to be such a definitive part of local culture other than the availablility of rice and fish. How come this is the culinary tradition that has survived and is able to overcome the deep traditions of the interior?

These are some of my many questions...and there is much to do to get to the bottom of them and indeed develop new questions. This is all very exciting stuff and I love the learning curve. I should be heading out of Dakar at some point to St Louis the birthplace of Cheb (or at least so they say) and beyond.

Je suis la

We are in Dakar, safe, sound and rested. Work has begun rather unofficially in between adjusting to the weather and the local scheduling. I had no idea that people could be as excited about this project as I am. I have people telling me how important it is for development both economic and social for people to know this history of food. So I guess I should say I have decided to focus on Ceebu jen, because it is what I know. I have an entire Barnard thesis worth of research under my belt so its natural to continue to develop the work. I have also commited myself to work on the history of food in West Africa, whether that be in text or film no one knows as yet. The history and development of Cheb and the culture around it seem like a very good start.
I will soon begin to post pictures of the many variations of Cheb that we encounter: I am hoping Cheb will be an avenue into the lives of local women.

a bientot