12/23/2023 Bikepacking Senegal Day 137 : Of Women and Men

Just a few miles out of Tamba, the smiles returned. If there is one thing I can say about this journey, culture flips quickly in very short distances. That may be because the primary mode of transportation is foot - so people don’t move far and mix as much. Once you escape the cities, people have a brilliant exuberance.

Similarly, the tiny villages mostly have very little trash, and my unscientific estimate says that there is a relationship between the amount of trash I see around a village, and the size of the smiles. Each part of Senegal is a little different, but I loved everything I saw today.

I only told you the bad parts of Tamba yesterday; the begging boys and the World Vision SUVs, but there were some good things too. For example, I’ve been impressed by the relative equality between men and women. As I wandered the streets, I saw several men sewing gowns in the street. At home, I associate sewing more with women. Also, you may remember I mentioned seeing men and women equally sharing cooking tasks. My observations may be biased considering where I just came from; if you read online, Senegal isn’t exactly famous for gender equality. To my eyes, though, it looks good. It’s still patriarchal; the oldest men seem to be the “leaders” so-to-speak…. On the ground, though, the women don’t seem to be inhibited.

It was 10:30 AM when I got my first invitation to stay the night in the village. As usual, a crowd was gathered. Since we are discussing genders today, I’ll point out that several of the women who formed the cluster were taller (and probably stronger) than me. Unabashedly, they ask questions in French; they are neither overbearing nor shy. You get the sense that women are very empowered in Senegal.

Starting today, my new “treat” to bring into the remote areas is dates. I had to get water from 5 wells today, and I don’t quite know well-etiquette yet. As Kevin Shaw pointed out the other day, this water DOES have a cost. The practice of handing out gifts still seems like an immoral act to me, but as you read in previous posts, I’m giving it a little experiment.

The women were busy hoisting up the bucket, and I didn’t just want to be a mooch, so I started chatting with them and asked it was OK if I gave the surrounding kids some dates. They obliged and the kids put out their hands and I would place a single date in each little hand, one-by-one. I decided that dates are better than cookies or candy because there is no associated trash, and the packing is minimal. My hands were grubby. You can see the reaction on some Stateside moms’ faces right now. But here, everything is simple and easy. Besides, some of the kids were already waddling naked in the mud and had upper lips crusted with boogers. These unclean dates were only going to be a small fraction of the bacterial load. I carefully paid attention to who had already received - because I didn’t want to run out and leave any kid hanging. No kid put their hand back in for a second. It has struck me many times how the kids are good about self regulating, taking only their share. I’ve seen this several times now. They don’t fight either; it’s endearing. (Though they do clamor over each other in some mobs). I think the Fulani parents are strict, because any slight misbehavior gets instantly shut down. If a kid starts crying for some reason, it never lasts more than 5 seconds.

I’m very grateful for Megan contributing a list of Pulaar phrases the other day. I wrote them down on a piece of paper with the intention of memorizing them during the day… but at the very first village I tried some, and people looked at me with the WTF face. I showed them the paper, and they said that this is not Pulaar. I said, “but my friend…” At each subsequent village, the paper was noticed and discussed. It added a whole new dimension to the day, which is why I’m so grateful to Megan. Finally, an older guy who acted like a teacher (he wasn’t, but he had the knack) started trying to teach me Pulaar phrases. Megan’s cheat sheet WAS correct! It’s just that the pronunciation is WAY out there. He understood this, and we studied the sheet carefully for a long time; the crowd never grew bored. He even added to the sheet with a pen. I suspect he was one of the few people today who could really read well.

You may be getting bored with all these little stories, so feel free to stop reading if this is boring. The differences in culture constantly fascinate me, which is why these posts get so long.

At another well, I had just jumped back on the bike after filling the bottles. The village and I were conducting the regular procession back to the road, which is me riding slowly, kids running alongside, cheering or singing. All of a sudden, the kids slowed down and pointed down a side path that we had just passed.

By their expressions, It looked important.

There was an old man wearing a gown, and the kids all knew that I must meet him. I turned back and went to shake hands with the deaf man. He did a number of hand signs, and guess what; we communicated at least as well (if not better) than I communicate with most of the villagers! Ha!

All smiles, he had come out to greet and welcome the stranger in the village. Again, they invited me to stay, but it was too early.

When it finally WAS near stopping time, I came to a village with a good vibe. By now, it was obvious they would invite me to stay, and I was getting ready to say yes as we hoisted the well water. But there was the first drunk guy I’ve seen since Spain. He looked to be about 19, and he had strings of dried vomit dangling from his chin. The others were obviously trying to keep him away from me, but he kept close - closer than anyone.

I’ve come to kind of like all the physical contact and closeness I’ve had in Senegal. People will touch my skin over and over, and then examine their hands as if some of my whiteness might rub off on them. It doesn’t, so they try again.

They inspect their hands after handshakes too. If it were the old me, I’d be inspecting my hands too : Looking for boogers to wash off. What are they looking for?

Anyway, the drunk teen kept close, his yellow demon eyes giving me the creeps. Finally, when he saw an opportunity where the guardians had slipped away a little, he leaned in and asked if I could give him money. He would be the one and only person who asked for anything today out of the several hundred people who I had met.

I bolted out of there, not wanting to stick around to fill the other two bottles. Luckily, in just a few miles, there was another well with just two toddlers and two women beside it.

Good, this will be quick, I thought.

I rode up and said hello, pulling out my bottles. To the woman who was busy retrieving the bucket, I offered to help. These wells are extremely deep, so it’s a lot of work. She obliged, maybe a little reluctantly. That was when I noticed the other woman was topless and had been bathing. “Oh, crap,” I thought. Maybe in the evening, there is a time when women go to the well to bathe privately. My instincts had me avert my eyes for her privacy. Both women acted normally and the topless one was asking questions that I didn’t understand. A teen boy who I had just been talking to in the road sauntered over and told the ladies where I had come from/where I was going. So I guess it is OK for guys to hang out with naked ladies here too. With such a big change from Morocco and Mauritania, it’s hard to believe these countries share a border!