Feccal!

Dancing is a big part of Senegalese culture.  This I learned a few weekends ago, on our trip to Toubacouta.  After driving the familiar trail of potholes and cow-crossing delays, we arrived at the familiar village of Sokone (this is where we spent the vacances citoyennes).  Welcomed, once again, by the mayor and his family (the mayor is the older brother of Professor Sène, the director of the WARC), we were led into the luxurious living/dining room that we suspect is used only by guests.  After a delicious and filling meal of, what else, ceb u jën, we were reminded of the séance de danse scheduled for after lunch. Laying on the floor, desperately trying to speed up my digestion in preparation for public humiliation I was relieved to discover that, due to our tight schedule, we would have to skip the dancing.  Little did we know that our luck would quickly run out.

After eating a delicious meal of steak and potatoes (our hotel was owned by some rich French guy and his wife - who looked like Bill Nighy and had the highest voice I may have ever heard in my life), we were lead to the pool and divided into groups for what would become So You Think You Can Dance: Senegal!  Luckily, in our company of 26 Americans, three Senegalese, and our 5 staff members (Waly, Adji, Korka, Honorine, and Professor Sène), we were only privately humiliated.  However, after sufficiently embarrassing ourselves, we demanded that the 5 staffers enter the competition, regaining a smidgeon of dignity.

Photo credit: Lauren Ries

Of course that dignity was quickly stolen again the very next day.  We started with a dance in Sokone.  One by one (or two if we were lucky), we were pulled into the colorful center of the circle, led by the women of the family enthusiastically flaunting their practiced and passionate dance skills.  Although we paled in comparison (no racial pun intended), we were encouraged and welcomed just as much as the previously secret star danser, Idy, one of our 4 Senegalese companions.

Next, we went to Keur Alioue Guèye, a small village about 45 minutes to the south of Sokone.  After a very interesting meeting with the people of the village (Q & A type format, enhanced by the humorous interjections of the woman in front of us - translated to me by Idy), we were, naturally, invited - or forced - to dance.  This time a tight circle was formed, the center of which became a sort of battle ground for two or three dancers at a time.  This time only the women danced.  Later on, I asked Idy why he hadn't taken part this time and he responded, frankly, that he doesn't know this kind of dance.  Needless to say I let him know that this was a pretty lame excuse considering my situation. 

That night, we left the western comforts of our air-conditioned hotel rooms and over-chlorinated pool to attend - I'll give you one guess - why yes, in fact it was another séance de danse.  This time, however, we were observers.  This dance was performed by a group of professional dancers.  They performed a dance whose purpose is to prove who the strongest man is.  There were drums, stilts, unearthly singing, scary costumes that sent the children running from the inside of the circle, choreographed dances, battles - dancer v. dancer and dancer v. drummer - and fire.  It was quite a show.  I even got hit on by a 10 year old.  Of course, as we gathered our things and started toward the bus, we were pulled back to finish the night by dancing with the performers.  This time we had an audience made up by a solid 80% of Toubacouta (probably about 100 - 200 people).  Again, I questioned Idy's absence on the dance floor, and again was dissatisfied by his frank response that he doesn't know this dance. 

*Just to clarify the irony here, I'd like to point out that I barely know the Macarena, much less the various regional dances of the Senegalese countryside. 

Other, less embarrassing dancing throughout the weekend included the dancing that took place during the lutte we attended and the dancing and singing that we resorted to due to our incompetence in Wolof on the boat on the way to plant mangroves (unfortunately there are no pictures of this dancing and singing).  Lutte is a form of wrestling uniaue to Senegal, and is easily the country's most popular sport.  We attended a lutte at a nearby village one night, and in between matches boys and men would take the floor for a few short minutes before the next lutte started.  

            What struck me this weekend was not so much the lifestyle out of Dakar or the problems faced by the people, but the comportment of Idy and the other Students in the villages that were not their own.  Here, they too were strangers; they too were not at ease, despite their much superior knowledge and understanding of Senegalese customs.  The role of dance in Senegalese society is both paradoxical and completely logical.  Although it can be used to welcome strangers, as it was for us, it is more than anything a tool of identification.  Dance is one way that the people of a certain place define themselves as being unique to that place, unique to that style of dance.