“When you go to Dakar, we will go together. We will take Abou’s bus and will get off in Tivaouane to visit Baaba Anne. We will spend the night there, going to Mbour (city by the beach) in the morning to visit more relatives. Then, after spending the day there, we will head to Kaolack to visit Penda Anne. Then, the next morning, we will go to Dakar in time for your doctor’s appointment. When you go to the airport, I will go with you until I cannot go any further.”
Such a wonderful idea! What an endearing plan. The thought of it warmed my heart, but behind the warmth my heart was sinking with the feeling of doom. There was no way this could work out perfectly, there were just too many variables there… Too many opportunities for disaster. Keeping my hopes up, I packed my bags and said my goodbyes. “Yes, I’m leaving for vacation tomorrow, inshallah (God willing),” I told people. Nothing is ever certain in Senegal, and my plans were no exception.
Sure enough, disaster struck early on. Was it my fault I had planned the day of my departure to coincide with the pilgrimage the city of Touba, a religious Mecca for the major Islamic group, the Mourides. ? This happens to also be the major Islamic group of the governing body of public transportation. Not only are most people in the country going to Touba, but also so are all of the drivers of busses, sept place vehicles, and mini cars (that is all the transportation available, with exception to private cars, which also are either traveling there or being rented out to groups). My travel plans placed me traveling towards Dakar on the day in which everybody else had already arrived in Touba and were not leaving for days/weeks, depending. My tokara (namesake/godmother) assured me that, surely, there would be at least a few busses that had not gone to Touba or were planning on bringing stragglers that day. I have faith in this woman, she knows the country much more than I do. She also knows many bus drivers. She called Abou, our friend the bus driver (‘Beese Abou’ – Abou’s Bus).
Abou, unfortunately, was planning on leaving much earlier in order to get to Touba, and would not be returning until the event was over. His bus would make a lot of money by increasing the prices and transporting people home from the event. We called his brother Bas, who also owns a bus (‘Beese Bas’- Bas’s bus). He said he could take us on that day, but called back the next day saying he decided to go immediately and was on his way without us. It’s possible a group rented his bus out at the last minute. No driver would pass up that opportunity. We decide to risk it and wait for a bus. “A bus will come,” says Coumba Demba Anne (my namesake), assuredly. “Inshallah (God willing),” I whisper under my breath. 4:30am I wake up… we wait, sitting on the gnarled log in the dark, for a bus, my multitude of baggage piled on itself across the street from us, looking as forlorn and ragged as I felt. The longer I sat, the colder it felt. I have never been so cold in my entire 15 months in Senegal. I wrapped my large scarf around my sweater, pulling on my hood, but still I shivered, my flip-flop toes losing feeling. Checking the weather app on my phone, I scoffed at the mere number 62F staring me in the face yelling ‘Wus!’. A bus passes going the opposite direction and Coumba Demba recognizes it! She explains, that is Asfall (Beese Ass) who is returning from Dakar. He will sleep through the day and then leave again this evening to Dakar.
No bus came in our direction. We watched the open road until the women of the village began shopping for the day’s lunch. We resign to take Beese Ass later that evening, delaying our plans a day. We would rather not take the night bus (and it is against the rules to do so), but it seems we may have no other choice. The next morning could heed the same results. I dragged my bags home, dejected. Upon entering my compound, I exclaimed, “I’m back from America!! Turns out America is not good, so I’m back now,” to uproarious laughter and curious looks. I put my bags in my room and laid down for a few more winks.
That evening, we return to the side of the road and, sure enough, Beese Ass charges towards us, stops barely long enough for us to get both feet on board, my baggage still being flung on top, the second apprantee catching it and strapping it down as the bus charges on towards Galoya.
We anticipated arriving at Tivaouane around 6am, but we underestimated the fearless speed of Asfall, and we arrive around 3am, again waiting on the side of the road in the dark. Baaba Anne, bleary eyed, trudges towards us, grabbing my bags with hardly a word and we are ushered to his house.
We stay in Tivaouane 3 days. We do not go to Mbour, we do not go to Kaolack. That is just the way things go. We stay in a room in the middle of Baaba Anne’s house. We barely see him the whole time, but his wife tends to our every need and beyond!
My tokara and I have all the time in the world to chat and bond, lounging in this room in someone else’s house, far away from where we live, free to speak our minds. We talk about everything… mostly boys/men. We have girl talk. This is when I realize; I am having girl talk in a foreign language. Not only in a foreign language, but an African dialect that I have only relatively recently learned. I feel like this moment is so fragile. I embrace it carefully, not wanting to shatter the thin shell of trust I have somehow created. At this moment, everything is perfect. Life, at the moment, is comfortable. Stressless. All that exists is this room, the two of us, and the secrets that pass between us, hang for seconds in the air before disappearing. All that lingers is that understanding smile, the glint of agreement in her eye, my concurring giggle. At this moment, I feel like I understand everything. So many secrets of Senegalese culture have been unveiled for me. So much about this beautifully strong, confident woman has been shown to me, and I love her all the more for it. ‘Enen dendii,’ we (inclusive) are together.
Then, suddenly, all that I thought I understood rushes away. I am caught in a sandstorm of confusion. My tokara asked me where I stay in Dakar. I had been under the impression that we would go to her relatives’ house. “I don’t have any relatives in Dakar,” she said. ‘Shoot,’ I thought, I could stay at the Peace Corps regional house but she wouldn’t be allowed to. Having not spent much time in Dakar, I don’t know many people with whom to stay. Coumba Demba and I parted ways; I went to Thies to visit my friend Ian and she headed to Dakar a day early to meet up with her friend Demba Samba. We agreed to meet up the next day in Dakar. My friend and Senegalese hip-hop star Maxi Krezy had rented us an apartment because his place was not big enough to accommodate three visitors (we had told him it would be me, Coumba Demba, and Demba Samba visiting). She had wanted me to come to where she was to pick her up before going to the apartment, but she was on the complete opposite side of Dakar from where I was, so I figured it would be easier, logistically, for her to meet me there instead of me travelling twice the distance just to meet her and bring her back. This turned out to be the wrong thing to do. She refused to get in a taxi, saying that she didn’t know the area where I was. She demanded I come to her. Unable to do so, she said she would rather stay where she was. When asked where she was, she replied, “at my relative’s house, of course.” Did I misunderstand her pulaar when she said she had no relatives in Dakar? Not wanting to stay at this random apartment alone, I opted to call up a friend last-minute and stay with them. They agreed, thankfully.
I went about my business in Dakar, making it to my dentist appointments and meeting up with friends, but all the while feeling guilty that our meeting up in Dakar hadn’t worked out. I had told her, however, that if she still wanted to see me off at the airport, I would be heading there around 10pm. At 5pm she called saying she was waiting for me at the airport. I was downtown, trying to figure out the bus system to make it back towards the regional house to meet up for dinner with friends, with only 2,000CFA in my pocket. In the end, not able to make it to her, she said she was going home and left, back to her relatives’ house. I left later that evening for America.
How did that go so wrong? That fragile state of understanding broke so quickly. One moment, I had everything figured out, the world made sense to me. The next moment, I had ceased to understand a language, or so it felt.
Nervously, upon return to Senegal, I called her to say hello. She answered, delighted, exclaiming how much she missed me and couldn’t wait to see me! Something Americans can learn from the Senegalese: never hold grudges.