The decision to leave university and volunteer in West Africa was, without a doubt, more the product of a few tropical cocktails and the impending doom of January exams rather than of any deep-set ambition to change lives across the globe. Nevertheless, with my parents’ reluctant consent secured due to the guaranteed acquisition of language skills – though proficiency in ‘Wolof’ was possibility not what they had in mind – I set off to Senegal, dreaming of my return as a tanned, French-speaking goddess with a travelling story to outdo anyone that had followed more conventional tourist trails.
I lived and worked in St Louis, a town characterised by a bizarre fusion of Africa and France. Technological advancements seemed to clash with local attitudes, condemned as spreading ‘white’ culture. For, contrary to my dream, white visitors were often viewed as rich imposters; seducing the less religious of the town’s youths and encouraging drinking and smoking, the hisses and shouts of ‘toubab’ meaning ‘foreigner’, highlighted our imposition. We were perceived as, and we were, impatient and hurried in our way of life compared to the townsfolk with an unhealthy obsession with getting things done and being places for a certain time!
At first I felt affronted by the open distrust from the locals and over dinner one night I asked my host family to explain their thoughts on the arrival of wealthy, idealistic and naïve English students. My host ‘siblings’ seemed to resent the audacity of inexperienced white people imposing themselves in the name of helping a ‘less developed’ nation. Meanwhile the older generation gave the impression that Senegal doesn’t need to change, ‘ca va’, ‘ca roule’ – ‘it goes’, a phase repeated continuously along with the Islamic end to all sentences describing the future, ‘god be willing’.
Then I realised that the problem I was having was that I was continually judging the Senegalese unfairly against how I felt people would react in England if the tables were turned. My host sister asked me whether she would get treated as different from the locals if she were the visit London, the only English city she had heard of. I replied instantaneously saying of course she wouldn’t, that we are accommodating of all cultures, I realised as I said it that I may not have been telling the truth and what’s more that at that very moment I wasn’t accommodating hers in her own country. I resolved to try and immerse myself in Senegalese culture with amazing results.
I realised that the children I cared for at a street centre weren’t just wrestling each other as English kids tend to; they were practising their national sport! As soon as I let them know I was interested they showed me some moves and had me flat on my back in a matter of seconds but with a firm friendship established! I realised that no matter how many times I had given them food, I had never showed an interest in who these little boys were and that for them, getting personal attention was just as valuable as getting their clothes washed or teeth checked.
Its not only wrestling that the Senegalese are great at, everybody loves to dance! My host sisters persuaded me to take some dance classes with the local heartthrob and delighted in watching me fail spectacularly in pulling even the most basic of moves! To further my education, or perhaps to further their entertainment, they took me to their school celebration night, the biggest dance of the year. I was amazed to see how they combined traditional African moves with fashionable western ones to perform outstanding routines whilst I floundered around next to them!
Alongside their love for dancing is a national love for music-making and I was fortunate enough to be in St Louis in time for the annual jazz festival. With a national export like Akon, the Senegalese are very open-minded about music and their culture welcomes influences of modern music combined with more traditional African beats with popular songs sung in Wolof, French and even English.
One of the main obstacles I had to appreciating the Senegalese culture was that they appeared to be so laid back that every task they set out to do seemed to take ten times as long as was necessary. My host mother would leave the house to go the market and not return for three hours! I asked how it could take so long and she invited me along. A dress-maker by trade, she kitted me out in full African dress and we set off, baskets in hand. The market was a maze of activity and colour. Products were laid of the floor, hung from carts or carried around by children. Every item of food was fresh caught, freshly killed or freshly picked; the cloths on sale were ornate and brightly coloured; the tools and ornaments were hand-crafted and original. The most amazing thing was how friendly this community were; everyone hugged and kissed in greeting, laughed kind-heartedly at the sight of a ‘toubab’ dressed in African clothing and offered any service they could. Suddenly the people who I had felt resented the intrusion of white volunteers were welcoming one to join them for tea and fresh pancakes. With everyone to see and have a chat with and so many products to choose from it was hardly surprising that each market trip took so long! It struck me as sad that the consumer driven society of the west has put a stop the this sort of practise occurring in England, with the constant need for efficiency taking the pleasure out of community life. Again my preconceptions of how life should be had prevented me from enjoying the merits of a different way of going about life.
Furthermore, in areas where dedication to the task was required, the Senegalese seemed far harder working than their English counterparts. My host ‘siblings’ were capitalising on all the opportunities they had in life, they were working hard at school and looking to a future, not as housewives but as professionals. I recently learnt that Anta (my eldest host sister) has enrolled in university.
Most inspiring was the loyalty and closeness displayed between family members and friends. I learnt that the youngest of my ‘siblings’ was not in fact the child of my host ‘mother’ but of her sister who had unfortunately been unable to support him so had been forced to find him another home. Not wanted to see him on the streets he had been taken in by my family. The elderly were always cared for by the family, not as a burden but out of love and to honour the care the younger generation had received from them. Generosity of spirit and processions was evident everywhere; those with even just a little to spare gave generously to ensure that those who were worse off profited rather than themselves.
I left St Louis feeling a little ashamed of my privileged roots and wishing I could transpose a little of my newly discovered Senegalese culture onto my friends and family back home. I felt ashamed for embarking on the scheme with such little thought for the community I was visiting and I felt guilty for having gained so much from the experience without seeming to have given enough back. England seemed bland and impersonal when I returned. The airports shops seemed unoriginal and dull. I thought of the idea of the vibrant St Louis market being transformed into this globalised carbon-copy centre and felt fortunate to have experienced a country that still upholds its traditional culture. As for my travelling stories, I never tried to compete. I just listened to others that had followed the tourist route with so many other students and felt lucky to have experienced something different, to have become acquainted with a country that is little known, a country that is so willing to share its secrets if you are willing to listen.
