I Found Europe in Dakar

Europe, and its supposed mid-life crisis has been a popular press topic as of late. I have observed in-depth features and lengthy articles in the output of as widely disparate media as the BBC, the Economist, and Al-Jazeera. Where is Europe heading? and What does it mean to be European? seem to be the questions of the day, and with the French elections around the corner, the debate is unlikely to quiet down anytime soon.

Leaning out of the window as the Bamako-Dakar Express clattered into the capital of Senegal, my eyes resting on crudely built shanties one minute and tall, clean colonial houses the next, I did not expect Dakar to provide me with new perspectives on the meaning of European.

Once in central Dakar, after bargaining dutifully for a taxi fare outside a dark train station, dragging my bag through deep sand, and avoiding the looks of long-legged prostitutes at my hotel, I wandered the streets. I assumed that a block or two in either direction would take me to something edible, since Mali has a little coal-grill and a lady selling friti or brochetti on every corner. The city quickly made me feel deeply uneasy and strangely at home at the same time, but I couldn't figure out why.

I came across groupings of young white people, stumbling noisily out of bars, laughing. They would disperse, or move on to another bar, and I would keep following the sidewalk, scouting for food. After ten minutes, I realized that I had come across only toubabs during my walk, and thought maybe that was what felt so out of place, yet familiar. The bar-life felt somewhat Mediterranean, and the architecture distinctly French, so that must be it, then. Both the place and the people I had met looked European. Mystery solved. But why did I feel so uncomfortable?

I stopped by a lamp post and looked around. The streets were clean, paved, and -- wow! street lights... I hadn't even thought about the fact that I could see where I was walking. No sewage streams in the street, either, and street lights make streets safer, right, so what was perturbing me?

It didn't take me long to give up, both on figuring out what bothered me and on filling my belly. I turned around and turned a corner, walking quickly to try and shake the unease, and almost stepped on an old man lying curled up on a sheet of plastic, sleeping between a road sign and a white-painted fence. And there it was.

The impersonality of it all placed the city in a European mental compartment in my head. Traffic lights and straight, clean streets where only homeless people spend time are European. Sterile and individualistic, they invite you to pass through, but not to dwell. In Bamako, any hour of the day will find tea-making fathers and bare-bottomed babies and football-kicking youngsters in the streets, mingling and talking and being together. And although most people are poor, they are rarely poor alone. Under a plastic sheet or a piece of cardboard and with a streetlight as your sole friend, poverty seems so much deeper, so much more inhumane, so much more like a one-way street.

In many ways, this is not a uniquely European characteristic, but a label that can be placed on most Western cities and societies. Lately, however, Europe seems to be moving rapidly towards an every-man-for-himself value system, and therefore, in my opinion, has earned the dunce-hat.


In Europe recently, every man to and for himself

The newly elected conservative government in Sweden is rapidly undermining long-standing social safety nets by, among other things, insane tax-cuts that benefit a wealthy minority in the Stockholm region and deprive the welfare budget of much-needed funds; most EU countries have placed severe restrictions on the newest members to the union, not wanting to let too many "others" into "our" countries; last I checked, populist, racist, frightening Le Pen had overtaken the centrist Bayrou in the polls, and Sarkozy who also panders to anti-immigrant prejudice looks poised to take the lead in today's first round...

Whatever the French choose, I'm afraid they won't surprise me. Because I've seen Europe; she's sleeping, alone, under a sheet of plastic in Dakar.

Third Watson Report

How Did I Get Here, Encouraging Endings, and A Sluggish Start

Walking Backwards

About two weeks ago, I sat on the ground next to Ngerengishu's cows, and as my eyes moved from the crouching huts to the tall grass to the lush, distant mountains, lazily turning their faces to the afternoon sun, I was struck by the immensity of it all.

The beauty of the landscape grabbed me; the rolling hills, the tall swaying corn, the infinite shades of green and blue in the trees and the sky overwhelmed me. Then the fact that I was sitting there hit me -- sitting there, talking to a beautiful, elderly Maasai woman about her life and her family and her cows. A thought made my head spin -- "How did I get here?"

As though I had never previously thought about it.

My brain, being the simple machine that it is, pressed rewind, and I saw myself walking backwards across a field, through sharp African grass, along narrow muddy paths, and past ant-infested patches of red earth.

In front of me, or behind me as it were, since everything filed by in reverse, tripped Mr. Donkeys, a teacher at a local secondary school, in an olive-green suit and nice loafers, badly suited for bush-whacking. Harifa, a local man and impromptu guide steadily led the way as the last person in out procession, trodding barefoot, backwards, through the thicket.

We paused at an abandoned house, where a Maasai family had set up camp before, rested in the shade for a bit and walked backwards up a dusty path, under thick branches, past Harifa's house. We left him there, but not before he had greeted us and walked, with his back first, into his house together with his entire family and the neighbors' children who all skipped and jumped, smiling and waving, away from us.

Here, my brain sped up, trying to get to an answer faster, forcing Mr. Mapunda and me and a young guy leading a bicycle to jog speedily backwards around a big field that we were told we had to go around because the grass between the path and the Maasai dwelling was too tall to walk through. We continued like an old silent movie in reverse down a slope and across a river and round a bend and up, where we left the guy with the bike – he was heading in the direction of the Maasai anyway and could show us the way. We asked some people for directions and looked around, confused, before climbing into the car that had dropped us off by the side of the road.

Walking backwards, however, doesn't provide much of an answer, nor much of a perspective on the fact that Ngerengishu, a nomad woman I had never met before, told me stories about her dead husband, explained how she had ended up in southern Tanzania, and let me play with her grandchildren (actually, they were her late husband's second wife's sons' wives' children, but she called them her grandchildren...). There have been many awe-inspiring moments thus far during my journey, but sitting with this woman made me realize that right now, I can probably only begin to grasp how truly fortunate I am to live what I am living. Thank you.

I – Mali

No Matter What the Weaving

My last quarterly report sounded pessimistic about the future of nomadism, but towards the end of my stay in Mali, I had the chance to speak with a number of Tamashek leaders, who provided a different perspective.

One late evening – meetings in the desert occur at peculiar times – in Anefif, a little town that has sprung up around a well, I got to talk to a group of Fraction leaders (the Tamashek political system of families and what used to be “tribes” but are now re-organized into fractions is very complex, but suffice to say these are important men in their community). I asked them towards the third round of tea what they thought was going to happen to nomadism in the future. One thing that had been discouraging me, both in Mongolia and in Mali, was the fact that young people who go off to school don't want to be herders, and young people who don't go to school don't want to be herders, but are forced to, as they are left without other options. Essentially, I feared that coming generations of nomads might consist largely of those individuals who did not succeed in school, those who were left behind, people who do not want to be where they are. Hardly a recipe for a harmonious community.

Alwata Ag-midi, Chef of the fraction Imakoran I, responded cryptically. I was dressed in a colorful traditional toungou, an all-in-one robe and veil, and he said: “If you come en brousse dressed in toungou like that, a man will see you and pull his turban up over his face before he approaches to greet you,” and he covered the lower half of his face with his turban, a gesture Tamashek men do in front of people they respect. “If you come dressed in pants, he will say 'whatever' and leave it,” he added for clarification. It was his way of saying that even if Tamashek values, and nomadic lifestyles, seem to be changing, between Tamashek the values remain.

Tawwad Ag-Haballa, Conseiller of the fraction Idnane, added a saying: “No matter what the weaving, the pieces will always remain straw and strings.” By this he meant that a thing doesn't change it's nature, and those young folks who seemingly leave for towns and cities will always remain nomads. He strongly believes they will come back to help their communities, as veterinaries, teachers, and doctors. They will come back, better equipped and more knowledgeable than they were before, but they will come back nomads.

II – Tanzania

Away from Their Land, Out of Their Element

My first trip into the Tanzanian countryside took me south. Now, this might seem contradictory, since most people would think of the Maasai as living in Kenya and northern Tanzania's seasonal grasslands. There are, however, Maasai as far south as Songea and perhaps further south, due to the increasing encroachment of farms, parks, and towns on their traditional pasture land.

As we trekked towards the Maasai homestead that neighboring farmers had pointed out to us, my translator, Mr. Mapunda, told me that no conflicts existed between the farmers and the Maasai. “There are no problems, they all live together, side by side.” When we arrived to the Maasai 'families', however, only one family remained, as the others had recently moved on. Ngerengishu, the head of the household, said this was because because surrounding families had complained about the cattle eating their corn. She herself had not been able to move, as her husband had recently died, leaving her with some cattle and many mouths to feed.

Since their move south, they had lost all their goats and sheep, and the few donkeys they had for transporting water. I obviously cannot draw any conclusions from this one interview, but her situation confirms things I have read, and mirrors the plight of those Mongolian nomads who are forced to move away from the pastures they know well. Survival is not only a matter of knowing where the best grass is, you also need to know where to find water, how to treat common diseases, and where to take your animals in the case of a drought.

Tourism Troubles

My main problem at this point, paradoxically enough, stems from the fact that Tanzania's tourism industry is so well-developed. Each national park, and each site of cultural interest, has well-equipped lodgings, trained guides, and a set routine for what to do when tourists knock at their door. I thought that this might work in my favor, as it would be easier to find reliable and knowledgeable translators, but it seems to make my life more difficult. “You want to visit a Barbaig family? No problem,” a cultural tourism guide will say, and show me a brochure outlining exactly how my Three Day Special Barbaig Tour will look like, complete with a mock-fight, “to see how the Barbaig got their name,” and “cultural insights” into how their goatskin gowns are made.

I have so far had some troubles getting past the hurdles that the tourism industry is placing in my path, but I remain hopeful. I will try different approaches, talk to different people, and surely find my way off the beaten path.