St. Louis to Dakar

Monday's trip to Dakar from Podor took 12 hours, door-to-door, and we had to amuse ourselves along the trip. The leg from St. Louis-to-Dakar seemed particularly long.

John wasn't feeling that great, but did manage at some point to regale us with his imitation of Jimmy Stewart.



First one to identify the movie wins bragging rights.

The brooms in the photo above were the first ones we had seen all week that actually had handles. The excitement over that discovery gives you a sense of the overall level of excitement inside the van that day. Here are a few more pictures of the trip scenery.

Fishing Boat in the Water in St. Louis

On our way through St. Louis, Senegal, Massamba suggested we stop by and see the Roger Ludlowe Middle School boat we had seen the previous week (see blog entry here.). By an odd twist of fate, this was the boat that had been painted in honor of my kids' American middle school.

We didn't think we had much chance of seeing it -- it was the middle of the day, and it would likely be out working the coast for fish. But as we drove up along the river, there it was. It was great to see it in the water -- it had made its maiden voyage the day after we visited it.

See more images of the SS RLMS in the water here.

On the Road back to Dakar

When the Baaba Maal concert finished around 6:30 a.m. Monday morning, we hit the road. To get back to Dakar from Podor, Senegal, we needed to retrace our route through St. Louis.

During a quick stop in St. Louis, Massamba directed us to a beautiful beach where we could stretch our legs. It was the kind of place that makes you think about the phrase, "it's not the destination, it's the journey."

See more images of the Podor-St. Louis leg here.

Baaba Maal in Concert

Sunday night showcased the best music of the Blues du Fleuve Festival, including, of course, the festival's host, Baaba Maal. His set kicked off in the wee hours of the morning -- around 5 a.m., if I remember correctly. The crowd had grown ever larger during the night, as people anticipated his set.

Baaba Maal did not disappoint. He brought his full band -- with tama drums, hodu, guitar, keyboards, backup singers, etc. -- as well as his regular two dancers. Special guests included a young local boy, who sang with an amazing degree of stage presence. That child owned the stage during his song. The energy level reached a zenith as Maal called onstage more and more perfomers, including our buddies Tony and John.

See more images of Sunday's Baaba Maal 2008 Blues du Fleuve concert in Podor, Senegal here.
License the above image for editorial use here.

The show wrapped around 6:30 a.m., just before daybreak.

Watch out for Horses...

Ya gotta understand that my friend Jean loves horses. She knows 'em, she rides 'em, she loves 'em. So when she and I continued down the parade route in downtown Podor, Senegal together and found horseback riders, she was thrilled.

I'm not talking a few people, or even a few dozen. I'm talking, literally, hundreds of people on horseback, lining both sides of the narrow street. The horses were all stopped, flank to flank, and facing toward the center of the street, making it easy to see the beautiful traditional costumes the riders wore. We stopped at one horse, then the next, admiring the horse and talking with the rider, who invariably wanted their picture taken. I was happy to oblige.

But then all of a sudden, all the horses started to move toward the center of the street -- where we were. I guess the parade had started up again, and the riders wanted to continue. For a brief moment, it struck me that there were hundreds of horses heading toward Jean and I, and we were in the way. I grabbed her arm in fear and said something inane, and she just laughed and realized she'd have something to tease me about for a long time.

See more photos of the horses at the West African cultural parade here.

License (for editorial use) photos from the West Afican cultural parade here.

West African Culture Parade

I mentioned yesterday that lots of people stopped by our rental house during the day. Podor's a small and friendly town, and the festival seemed to attract outgoing, friendly people. One woman who dropped in was a Fulbright scholar teaching in Dakar, and she and her husband tipped us off to a parade that was planned for later in the day.

We headed into town, figuring we'd find the parade, and it worked. Hundreds of people were gathered along each side of the main drag. As we walked along the parade route, looking for an opening in the crowd, I kept wondering if people would be comfortable with me taking pictures. Many had asked me not to take pictures in the market the day before, and I thought that might happen again. I had brought a tiny lens -- 20mm -- to not only capture a wide angle, but to keep my camera small and less intimidating.

The event was hard to resist for a photographer -- hundreds of people were dressed in traditional clothing, celebrating their culture. Bright flowing scarves, headdresses, and robes adorned participants. All of a sudden, I saw a familiar face in the midst of the parade. It was an older gentleman who I'd met and chatted with in the market the day before, and when he recognized me, he flashed a big smile and motioned for me to come to him. I squeezed through the crowd, he gave me a big hug, and from then on, I was accepted, and welcome to take photos.

See more photos of the West African cultural parade here.

License (for editorial use) the above photo and others from the West Afican cultural parade here.

Tama Drums on Sunday Morning

Musicians from around Africa had come for the Blues du Fleuve Festival, and quite a few stopped by our rented house over the weekend. The big draw, I'm sure, were the musicians staying with us: Tony on balafon, John and his electric guitar, and of course world-famous Massamba on tama drums. That's Massamba's cousin in the picture above playing a tama drum.
Visitors included musicians from Burkina Faso, the Congo, and other countries; they'd stop by, chat, have some tea, and jam a bit. It was a very relaxed, low-key atmosphere.
See more images of the Podor, Senegal foyer jam and chat sessions here.

Sunday Morning Music

Throughout the weekend, quite a few visitors popped in to the house where we were staying to say hello. Some were in Podor for the Blues du Fleuve festival, others lived there. Among the latter was a musician named Benjamin who had joined in an impromptu jam session in our living room. If I remember right, it was Benjamin who had brought the akonting, similar to an enormous three-stringed banjo.

Turns out Benjamin is not only the caretaker for our house, but he's also the music director for the local Catholic church. He invited us to stop in for services on Sunday morning. After a late night Saturday night, Robin and I were the only ones who made it there. As a product of 12 years of Catholic school, I'd feel obligated to say yes, you'd figure. But truth is, if I had been lucky enough to be invited to a mosque or a synagogue I'd have been happy to go, too.

Because Senegal is 99% Muslim, Catholic churches are fairly rare there. This one has about 40 regular parishoners. After services, Benjamin showed Robin and I the community center they were building (see photo above).

More pictures of the Catholic church in Senegal are here.

The a.m. burro

You think an alarm clock is jarring after a late night out? How about hearing a half-dozen "HEE-HAWS" resonating around your cement block room? I don't know the difference between donkeys, burros, mules, or whatever. But I do know that these two guys lived in our front yard and woke us up early every morning. I just had to laugh. It was a pretty funny way to start the day.

Baaba Maal Greets His Fans

Baaba Maal didn't play a set during Saturday night's Blues du Fleuve festival, but he did come out to greet his fans.

See more images of Saturday night's Blues du Fleuve concert here, including images of buddies John, Tony, and Massamba playing a set.

Start the Music

Darkness had enveloped the stadium well before the music began. It was a good thing, since the temperature cooled down, too. I divided my time between sitting in a plastic lawn chair in the VIP section (I’m not sure I merited such treatment) and hugging the stage with my camera in hand.
Katie and I were intrigued by the inflatable video screen (above).

Saturday Blues du Fleuve

Saturday night we headed out to the first night of music at Baaba Maal's Blues du Fleuve concert. The stage, in the middle of a large soccer stadium in Senegal, was raised and well lit. We settled into some seats maybe 400 yards from the stage, but I wanted to get closer to photograph. I hadn't brought my longest lenses, figuring I'd let my legs do the zoom work.

I had a pass allowing good access, but I know from experience that's not always a lock. In this case, the security guy pictured above started looking at me kind of in the way he's looking in the picture. I was near a few other photographers, but it was me he started to approach. I thought he was coming over to ask me to go back to my seat. Instead, he asked if I'd take his picture. No problem, I replied in French, and smiled.

Lessons from Senegal

Senegal's history goes back a long way. I figured if I took the time to listen, watch, and absorb, I could learn something. That had happened on my trip to Senegal last year, and it played a large part in my decision to return.

One example of this came my way during the weekend in Podor. On Friday night, during the opening ceremonies, I wrenched my back. One minute I was happily photographing the festivities, the next moment I was in terrible pain. No jokes about age catching up to me -- I'm not that old yet. My friends helped me to a chair and I took some pain killers.

Saturday morning found me a bit better -- thanks to the help of caring friends -- but I was still in considerable pain. I applied and/or ingested whatever medicines I could find in my suitcase, and was able to hobble around town and photograph.

So after we visited Max's family, Massamba took me to a healer he knew. We walked through her front yard (see photo above), passing several goats before I gingerly eased myself up her single cement front step. The front door, actually a piece of fabric hung over an opening, lead into a small square room with a couch, a plastic lawn chair, and a rug. The cement block walls were decorated with decades-old awards and grade-school diplomas.

After a few moments, the healer arrived. Her slim five-foot frame seemed smaller, since advanced age caused her to walk hunched over. She leaned heavily on a dark wooden walking stick, taller than she, and dragged one foot behind. Max was there to interpret, but there was no mistaking the international sign for "have a seat in the lawn chair." I did, and she sat on the floor. After Max relayed to her my issue, she began applying some kind of ointment to the affected area, poking her fingers through the slats of the back of the lawn chair.

After ten minutes she was done, and I slowly got up. Much to my surprise, I felt MUCH better! I was truly shocked. I thanked her profusely, of course, and gladly paid her for her services. At the healer's insistence, I promised to return for a second treatment later that day. I walked out the door and down her front step with no trouble, and a big smile.

It is true that Senegal does have a lot to offer. The profound wisdom, embedded in a culture over centuries, runs deep. I was lucky enough to benefit from it that day.

At Max's House

It's fun to wander around the small African village of Podor, but mid-day, it's also pretty hot. So when we stopped by Max's family home, she was kind enough to offer us guava juice with ice. Quite a treat on a hot day.

A friend of Massamba's, Max is a woman we picked up on the way to St. Louis. Massamba had hired her to cook for our little group in Podor. She splits her time between Dakar and Podor, so it worked out for her to get a ride back to Podor and have a job for the weekend. Her family welcomed us into their home this day, and we enjoyed meeting everyone.


Click here for more images of Podor, Senegal as well as images of Max's family.


Speaking of Max, she cooked some wonderful meals. Most involved either fish or beef, surrounded by rice or potatoes and some vegetables. Meals are served on a big tray -- kind of like a pizza pan -- and everyone sits on the floor around the tray and digs in. Nobody has their own plate; everyone just eats off the pizza tray. The customary way to eat is to pick up the food with your right hand, although those of us a bit less adventurous used spoons.

Senegal River, Podor

Saturday was another hot day in Podor -- likely more than 100 degrees F during the day. We came across these boys cooling off in the Senegal River. The river forms the border with Mauritania.

See more image of these boys playing in the Senegal River here.

Market in Podor, Senegal

On Saturday we thought we'd explore downtown Podor and we dropped into an outdoor covered food market. Dozens of vendors were selling meat, fish, vegetables and spices. Most of the older people asked me to not take their photo, and I always respected their wishes. I appreciated those who did allow me to make photos.

It sure helped to be able to speak French. Who knew high school could be so useful? Senegal is a land with many languages -- Wolof, Pulaar, Serrer, to name a few -- but most people also speak French. The country is a former French colony, and the language stuck. It's not unusual in Senegal to run into someone who may speak three or four languages.

Here are a few more images of the food market in Podor, Senegal.

Blues du Fleuve Opening Night

Friday night, after dark, revelers were out in full force to celebrate the kick off of the third annual Blues du Fleuve festival in Podor, Senegal. Thousands packed an outdoor venue, and many more hovered just outside the gate, hoping to listen in on the proceedings.

I felt decidedly underdressed as I was surrounded by people outfitted in gorgeous flowing robes and beautiful head scarves. A succession of speakers -- French, Wolof, and I'd guess Pulaar -- extolled the generosity and talent of the festival's host, Baaba Maal. The man himself sat in a place of honor, flanked by Senegalese, Mauritanian, and other west African dignitaries, on benches facing the stage.

A wide aisle traversed the distance between the stage and the VIP seating, and down this aisle paraded various groups representing different aspects of west African culture. These included fishing, agriculture, and representatives of various tribes in the area in colorful garb.

For much of the ceremony, I hovered down near the VIP seating to take photos. I crouched down to make sure I wasn't blocking anyone's view. That was certainly the polite thing to do, and it did afford me a good vantage point, as I could take pictures just inches from the paraders headed towards the VIPs.

But perhaps I got too close, as all of a sudden I felt a gush of something warm and wet drip down my head, right arm, and onto my camera. Puzzled, I stood up, only to feel someone remove the bandana from my neck and use it to wipe off my arm. I made eye contact with the Goood Samaritan who explained that one of the women paraders had been carrying a vat of goat milk, and had accidentally stumbled and lost her grip on the container. Relieved that that's all it was, I started to laugh and thanked the kind gentleman, who turned out to be a bodyguard for Baaba Maal.

And the camera still worked.

To see images of the opening ceremony of Baaba Maal's Blues du Fleuve festival in Podor, Senegal, click here.

Welcome to Podor

We woke up early in St. Louis, Senegal, and headed straight to Podor, home of Baaba Maal's Blues de Fleuve festival. It's about a 3 or 4 hour ride due east on a nicely flat paved road, hugging the coast of Mauritania. Along the route the landscape is fairly bare and dusty, dotted with baobab trees that were just starting to get their leaves. The wide-open road was a welcome relief from the congestion of Dakar and St. Louis.

Along the way we passed town after town. They all looked fairly similar: Collections of mostly unpainted small cinderblock buildings, goats, and people near the road selling bananas, peanuts, and other provisions. But when we got to Podor, we knew it was Podor. From the road, Podor is larger and more developed than the other towns, located just east of the big cell phone tower. The big tip off, though, is that in Podor, everywhere we looked, we saw Baaba Maal's name, mostly in large handwritten letters. Later in the weekend, I even saw horses painted with his name on them.

Baaba Maal grew up here. He was born into a family of fishermen, so the story goes, and was blessed with an unusually clear singing voice. In a land rich in tradition, it is difficult to turn your back on your family metier. Even more difficult is getting accepted into a profession you weren't born into. In Baaba Maal's case, becoming a singer meant joining the class of griots. He worked long and hard to become accepted, studying in Dakar and in Europe.

His big breakthrough had come, though, when an influential griot, Mansour Seck, took him under his wing. As a young man, Maal toured west Africa with Seck, absorbing rich musical traditions and learning how to perform. The rest is history, as Podor's favorite son has become an international singing powerhouse. All around the globe, people now flock to his concerts, buy his CDs, and enjoy his distinctive musical stylings on the soundtracks to blockbuster movies.

To understand Maal, you need to know Podor. Conversely, to understand this area of Africa, Maal is a good ambassador. Our small group of American and Senegalese friends had finally made it to his hometown, to revel in the festival that Maal would host.

See images of our group in our lodgings in Podor, Senegal here.

Fishing Boats in St. Louis, Senegal

Thursday evening, we had about an hour of daylight left in St. Louis. Massamba, who grew up in St. Louis, suggested we swing by the waterfront and check out the fishing boats. He had taken visiting students there the week before; they were from a public school in my town in America, and I had helped them a bit to prepare for their visit.

As we crossed a small bridge spanning the water, I squinted as I thought I saw something familiar. But it couldn't be what I thought I had seen. We turned left after the bridge and drove along the bumpy road that parallels the water, passing shacks, goats, fishermen, boats, and barefoot children. The long wooden boats were lined up on shore, and as we approached the spot where Massamba had taken the students, I had to blink. Twice. The fisherman had emblazoned the name of the American school on their boat!

We were soon surrounded by about a hundred people welcoming us, and talking -- in French and Wolof -- about how they were so happy to have met the student group. They were apparently the first "tourists" to ever visit them, and by all accounts were ideal ambassadors. The fishermen and their families were happy to know that I was part of that same group. As I took many pictures, the scene turned into an impromptu festival.

So today, off the west coast of Africa, a 40-50 foot wooden boat skims the Atlantic in search of fish, emblazoned with the words " Roger Ludlowe Middle School USA " in letters probably 2 feet high.

You can see more -- a lot more -- images of the St. Louis, Senegal fishermen and their boat here

Women's Collective in St. Louis, Senegal

On Thursday afternoon we rolled into St. Louis. It's on an island just off the coast, sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the Senegal River. That helps make the temperature a bit cooler than in Dakar.

It's a beautiful town, and the first place we stopped -- after settling into our hotel -- was at a shop run by a women's collective. The women there had made colorful dresses and handbags that they sold at the shop, but the organization runs deeper than that. It's managed by a Senegalese woman who was educated in the U.S., and the collective offers classes for women in entrepreneurship, computer use, and money management.

Here are some photos of the shop and its contents.

The shop is located in what I'd call a St. Louis version of a strip mall: About six or eight shops in a row, located in a dirt courtyard off the main road. Goats were involved.

Riding to St. Louis, Senegal

On Thursday morning, we drove north in our rented van to Senegal's second largest city, St. Louis. The trip took about 4 or 5 hours, and we only had to stop once to recover a part of the van that had fallen off along the way. Fortunately, a gentleman was riding near the back door of the van just in case that happened, and he was able to hop out and retrieve the errant door handle. His other job was to keep vendors from jumping in the back of the van during traffic jams.

Vendors? As we drove through different towns along the route, invariably traffic would slow to a crawl and out would come people selling all sorts of goods: peanuts, bananas, bags of water, cell phone cards, etc. Mostly they were young men, but sometimes there'd be a woman or child, too. In that case, all I could see from my window would be the tops of their heads and their hands held high with the goods, poking them in our open van windows. If the van started to move with traffic, they'd just run alongside. That's how we got snacks along the way. Very convenient, I must say. I never did work up the courage to buy a bag of water, although it did make me think of the water balloons we used to chuck out our dorm rooms on slow study nights...

Other times we'd get stopped by the police, who must have wondered what a van full of toubabs (white people) and local residents -- plus one Guatemalan three-year-old -- was doing. M. and the bus driver always handled the stern questions with an aura of calm, and after a few moments, we'd be given the go-ahead to continue on our way. I think it helped when M. told him his name -- he's a world-famous Senegalese drummer -- and that we were headed for a popular music festival, where he was scheduled to perform with the headliner.

At one such police stop, a particularly gruff-looking officer went through the usual line of questioning, in, of course, Wolof with a few French words. M. answered the questions, and, as seemed to be the custom, the officer then walked around the van and gave all of us passengers the once-over. I would have tried to affect a look of calm and innocence, but it occurred to me I didn't know what that actually looked like. He was standing right outside my open window, staring into the van, both eyebrows kind of knitted together in a rather menacing (to me, anyway) way. Then he spoke to us, in a low, serious voice, in perfect English, "You know, it's my birthday."

We sat, stunned, for a few moments. There was nothing else to do but spontaneously launch into a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday." When we came to the part where you're supposed to say the person's name, there was only the slightest hesitation before we settled on "....happy birthday Mr. Policeman, happy birthday to you." He lifted one corner of his lips to a barely perceptible grin, turned on his heels, and walked back to his post alongside the road, and we drove off.

Spice Market in Dakar

Wednesday afternoon: We left Goree Island, then headed to a neighborhood market in Dakar. I was still dragging from having just arrived that morning, but the energy of the market perked me up quickly.

The streets were teeming with shoppers. This was no tourist destination -- the shoppers moved from shop to shop with purpose, selecting items presumably for that night's dinner.

We ducked into a small opening in a wall off the main street. It opened up into a beautiful indoor market selling cooking ingredients -- vegetables as well as bags of spices. It was dark inside as we squeezed our way past exotic-looking goods displayed on perhaps two dozen tables and held in burlap sacks on the ground. The only light was from a few overhead flourescent fixtures, glowing green, plus a few openings in the fabric ceiling that let in the bright sunlight in spots. I recognized monkey bread -- from the fruit of the baobab tree -- as well as a blue powder used for food coloring. Vendors measured out powders and spices using coffee cans, then poured the goods into plastic bags and tied them tightly at the top.

We came outside again, dodging cars, shoppers, and motorbikes, long enough to find our way to another hole in the wall. This shop belonged to Tony's friend, and was stacked floor to ceiling with beautiful patterned cloths. The cloths -- mudcloths -- were made of heavy material, and came in varying sizes to be used as floor coverings, table cloths, item wrappings, or wall decorations. Browns, reds, and yellows filled my eyes as the shopkeeper unfolded one after another so we could see them. I knew better than to buy something in my sleep-deprived state, so I just enjoyed watching others make their selections.

I wanted to stay in that shop for a long time. Although the shopkeeper was busy displaying his wares, inside the shop it was much more quiet than the hustle and bustle outside.

We did eventually leave, then later enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Massamba's house. Was it chebujen? Perhaps. I can't remember. All I remember is that it was wonderful to be among Massamba's family again, sitting on the floor of his beautiful living room, enjoying his wife's spectacular cooking.

See more images of the spice market in Dakar here

License the above image of bags of spices in a Dakar market here

Goree Island

I arrived in Dakar early Wednesday morning, greeted by two good friends. There aren't too many people I know who would pick me up at the airport at 5 a.m., and I sure appreciated it. After a quick rest, I met the rest of our group, and we headed to Goree Island.

Goree Island is a place off the coast of Dakar where people were kept before being forced on ships, destined for a life of slavery. It's a heartbreaking place. The unspoken question resonates: How could people do this to each other?

But there's also a frisson of hope running through the streets and buildings. As we walked through the hallowed halls of the slave house, the sheer effort it has taken to keep this place intact hit me. So many people work here to make sure the world never forgets. So many people visit here to make sure they don't forget themselves. It's a sign of hope.

See more images from Goree Island here.

On this first day for me, a theme emerged that would continue throughout the trip: meeting familiar friendly people. This day, it was on the ferry to Goree Island. My buddy Mary had told me of a vendor she had met the week before on the ferry, who had identified herself as "Cindy Crawford." Mary counseled her to use her real name with visitors, which was Adan. So when I was onboard, and a woman approached me and asked if I would visit her shop on the island. I asked her name, and she said "Adan." I asked her if she used to be called Cindy Crawford, and a knowing smile crept across her face.

Leaving JFK

I left JFK airport for Dakar, Senegal just before evening fell on a Tuesday. I couldn't have known the adventures in store for me.

Back Again

I've been travelling for the past few weeks, so I apologize for the gap in posts. Over the next few days I'll catch up, and post some images from two or three continents....