On Est Ensemble…La Famille Elastique

I’ve been whingeing a lot on here recently, and its not fair, because the fact of the matter is that twice I have bought a ticket to leave Senegal, and twice I have failed to use it. Which says as much for my chronic indecision and fickleness as it does for the simple fact that I have completely fallen in love with this country.

I love the palm lined beaches, and the brightly painted wooden fishing boats. I love the caramalised peanuts you can buy for pennies at little wooden street stalls everywhere.  I love the bright, bold fabrics that the women swathe themselves in, with matching turbans set against straight, dignified backs and beautiful black skin. I love the infectious rhythms that beat themselves out on the streets, and the rich, bright colours that splash out at every opportunity. I love the crumbling colonial buildings, and the bustling markets. I even love Dakar. If Ethiopia is peacefully steeping in the richness of its histories, Senegal is dancing on a bubble bursting with energy.

And all this is due to the people here. Insatiably sociable, inherently peaceful,  “on est ensemble” is the nation’s motto. The best translation I can come up with is “we’re in it together”. The Senegalese feed off shared experiences – I’ve often been told that “in Senegal we share everything, except women” (to which I always point out that in this polygamous society women often have no choice but to share men. Which is sometimes appreciated, sometimes not so much). They delight in any excuse to draw people into their lives – oblivious to whether that other person wants to or not – and it is always, always, humanity before formality.

Food, music, religion – these sit at the heart of Senegalese culture, and community spirit pervades them all. It is almost impossible to be left at the wayside of this society. It is unthinkable for a meal to be prepared, for example, without all and sundry to be invited to join the numerous hungry hoards crouched over the huge plate of food; and ‘terranga’ – hospitality – ensures that very few people go without shelter. And this is regardless of perceived wealth or social status – in my two months here I have been taken into no fewer than six different homes with no expectation of payment.

Fed and sheltered, you will then be swept up into the melodies and rhythms that resonate in concrete suburbs and dusty villages, in palm forests and colonial ghost towns up and down the country. Music and dance are the juice that run through this country’s veins, providing that steady, beating pulse that keeps Senegal fresh. This is a society built around an ancient caste system, and the importance of the griots – musicians and storytellers -  is so ingrained in the consiousness here that to mark an occasion without music is unthinkable. The music here is rich, deep and ancient. From the kora to the djembe to the (irritating) twenty first century rythms of mbalax, the essence of Senegalese music comes from deep deep inside the soul. Any and every occasion – and often none at all – to light a rhythm and dance and its done. And the energy and talent they throw at it can be jaw-dropping: I’ve been to shows in quiet little community centres that easily rival West End productions, and a kora player in a small restaurant in Dakar moved me so much with his playing that I forgot my food. I could live here for the music alone.

And religion -the Senegalese have embraced Islam as fiercely, as peacefully, as joyfully as they embrace their music. They have added their own exotic twists to it, mixing it with traditional beliefs to levetate spiritual leaders, or marabout, to levels akin to divine worship. For all my personal doubts about religion, as in Ethiopia, I have witnessed some remarkable sights that leave me in no doubt that it is capable of inducing enormous good. Unlike their British counterparts, for example, who head out into the world brimming with attitude, self consciousness and, increasingly, their weapon of choice, the cool kids here – teenagers and twentysomethings all – sport dreadlocks and colourful clothes, and meet up on Thursday nights to sing and beat drums and proclaim themselves Baye Fall, an Islamic mystic tradition that advocates peace, love and hard work. Last weekend I accompanied 4 million Senegalese on their pilgrimage to the enormous mosque at Touba, and was bowled over by the deeply meaningful joy and purpose shared by all members of society – women, men, children, teenagers, grandparents, sick, healthy…it was humbling, and something I wish I could have let myself be a part of.

And the end result of all of this is a nation simmering in humanity, full of contented, good-natured, fun-loving, peaceful people, who won’t leave you alone. And who are seemingly impossible to leave behind.