Tuesday, November 27, 2012

The Kankouran, a Casamance special

Of all the Senegalese festivities I've experienced - the religious holidays, the weddings, the baptisms - you want to know what the absolute most fun is? Circumcision.

Unlike in America, boys are not circumcised at birth but sometime around the age of 8 and simultaneously with other boys around the same age in a village-wide, multi-day celebration. After talking to other volunteers I've concluded that my village is particularly enthusiastic about their boys' transitions into manhood. This might be a Mandinka thing, especially since I'm told that the star of the show, the Kankouran, is originally a Mandinka tradition that has since been adopted by other ethnic groups in the Casamance region of Senegal (This includes the regions of Kolda, Sedhiou and Ziguenchor). Whatever the reason, I spent Thanksgiving running around with the women of my compound, buzzing with the energy of the festivities and being thankful that my Mandinka villagers are so wild for circumcision.

 I had seen the Kankouran before, in passing through Kolda and my road town, but never in SPB. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. "We're going to circumcise some boys! The Kankouran is coming! Nafi, are you afraid of the Kankouran?" I told them I wasn't afraid, but this was a lie. Driving past the Kankouran is one thing, anticipating his arrival in the midst of all the excited, gleeful terror he inspires is quite another.

A man puts on a costume of bark and becomes the Kankouran. He dances, clanks machetes together, hits kids and animals with the flat sides of them and generally wreaks havoc. You can't see any part of his body under the bark and he moves in such prescribed ways that you forget there is a human in there, which is terrifying. Women are not supposed to see him and so the village divides along gender lines into a huge game of hide-and-seek with women and girls sneaking glances from behind fences and doors and boys running around in the Kankouran's entourage seeking the peekers. This was day one of the festivities - wild drumming and dancing all morning and then hiding from the Kankouran in the afternoon. When he showed up after lunch you could hear the drumming and yelling all across the village. Women congregated in compounds, trying to get an advantageous position for the best possible viewing and hiding combination. I stood on the edge of my neighbors compound, trying to watch the progress of the boys while Filijee yelled from the door of a hut for me to have some sense and hide. The fear was contagious and my heart started pounding as soon as the first boys rounded the corner. I huddled with the neighbors, peeking through chinks around the door of the hut until he moved on to the next compound and I could make a break for it. I hurried back to my own hut, boys hot on my tail and did the rest of my Kankouran viewing from my own backyard with Fili, Seyni and Sajo.

It felt very much like when you play hide-and-seek as a kid: you know, rationally, that you're safe from any real danger and yet your adrenaline kicks in and convinces you that you are hiding for you life, your heart rate picks up and you feel giddy with the fun of being afraid. But, this is the daytime Kankouran. When it was all over for the afternoon and Fili and I were debriefing she told me that when Mandinkas do the Kankouran you never see any part of his body, that he can dance and chase kids all day and never get tired, but the Kankouran that comes at night... he is not human! In hushed tones she told me about how he runs through the village at night and will attack anyone who tries to shine a light on him, that he can be in more than one place at once and will make scary growling, heavy-breathing noises. I still wasn't sure what to make of all this, but just as adrenaline in the daytime makes you giddy, there is something about not being able to see your opponent that increases the fear ten-fold.

The dancing went on late, how late I can't be sure because I must have fallen asleep not long after 10:30 or so. I woke up just before one to what I thought was a child screaming near Dumfaa kounda, but then a minute later I heard the same shrieks from behind Faty kounda, followed by the clang of machetes... the nighttime Kankouran! For at least an hour I could hear the Aaaaaa-aaaaaaaiii.... clang! first from one side and then at an improbable interval from the other. I thought, he couldn't be moving that fast, there must be two of them. But then it was the same shrill, womanly shriek whirling around the village. It wasn't until later that another voice joined in the screams. I stayed up thinking about what Fili said, about it not being human and trying to make sense of its progress around the village, but it was too haphazard. The whole village was quiet, doing the same as me, hiding in silence, hushed in place by this reckless animist spirit. Through bleary eyes I looked up at the stars, bright in a clear sky, the evening fog gone by this late at night and listened to the dogs barking in the intervals between screams. But every time I thought I had heard the last, another bang, shriek, clang! Eventually they became quieter as the Kankouran seemed to retreat towards the east, until finally I could barely hear him and slipped back into sleep. But even there the Kankouran haunted. I dreamed that he came right up next to the fence, just on the other side of my bed and knowing I was there huffed and puffed and pressed against the fence. It was so real that even now I'm not entirely sure if it was purely a dream or delirium combined with the late night activities of a cow or donkey. Either way I decided the best course of action was to lie still and be glad to have a dog, however small, sleeping in my room.

The next morning the dancing started early. Women put on their funky beaded, sashed cross-dressing outfits that are reserved for the most festive occasions. In each participating compound the boys to be circumcised sat on mats, all in a row to have their heads shaved by young men while drummers drummed and women danced and threw rice. Then they wrapped their heads in new cloth, pinned money to their foreheads, hoisted them on their shoulders and paraded the around the village, from one participating compound to the next, increasing their numbers as they went until everyone ended up in my compound. I've never seen so many Mandinkas all in one place!
That's my hut on the right and I'm pretty sure the entire population of Sare Pathe in front of it.

They lined up the boys on mats again - 27 of them in all - and the old men of the village circled around them, chanting prayers. Then everyone joined in the blessing and once again hoisted the boys on their shoulders, this time to be carried to the woods to the beating of drums. The whole village followed in parade, but when they reached the edge of town the women turned and ran home out of fear of the Kankouran. The dancing and drumming continued until around 11 a.m. and then resumed in the afternoon. At least the Kankouran respects meal times... I wonder what he eats...
A glimpse of the Kankouran from the first day

The Kankouran didn't come back that night, as far as I know; I was told he was in the woods too, but he made some brief appearances the next afternoon and then resumed his nighttime haunting. The second haunting was different from the first - it started earlier, lasted longer and was far more energetic. There were definitely two people shrieking and probably a few others clanking and banging things, giving the impression of the Kankouran being everywhere at once. Multiple times I heard him running through the middle of my compound and once again the village was silent but for the barking dogs that punctuated his screams.

After three days of fun and hauntings SPB was exhausted. Taani had lost her voice, the drumming had slowed, guests started heading back to their villages and I started looking forward to a belated Thanksgiving and much-needed sleep. But, when all was said and done the Kankouran had showed me a good time and left me wishing that boys were circumcised more often around here.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Nafi hosts

A few weeks ago I had the immense pleasure of hosting two CIEE students (the same program I did when I studied abroad in Dakar) on their rural visit. The idea is to give them a chance to see Senegal beyond Dakar, in at least one of its many vibrant shades, and in this case to give them a taste of what it's like to be a Peace Corps volunteer. I had a great time playing host as it gave me a chance to see my life in SPB from a new perspective and remind my host family, and the rest of the village for that matter, that Nafi was not built in a day. Imagine! a Toubab that doesn't speak Mandinka or Pulaar! Plus, they were wonderful guests - as easy-going and engaged as I could have ever hoped for. AND, added bonus, one of them was a fellow Barnard woman! Read what she had to say about the experience by clicking here and then here.


Sunday, November 4, 2012

Abe said, "Man you must be puttin' me on"

I wonder what my host family would think about these irreverent lyrics. Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son is no joke to devotees of the religions that claim him as a founding prophet. And yet, in Senegal, as in other Muslim countries I'm sure, the solemnity of the sacrifice is far overshadowed by merriment, mirth and feasting. Tabaski is Senegalese Christmas, the most anticipated holiday of the year and certainly the most expensive. Every family must sacrifice at least one ram to prove their faith, the largest and fanciest (the ones with necklaces and decked out horns) costing hundreds even thousands of dollars. In the weeks leading up to the holiday seasonal ram markets pop up around the cities like Christmas tree lots and you can't travel anywhere without sharing your ride with sheep in rice sacks, hog-tied and hanging over the side of the mini-bus. There's nothing quite like livestock on public transportation to remind me that I live in the third world. The key is to get a seat away from the open windows, unless you prefer a shower of sheep pee to your own sweat.

For most families the ram is just a fraction of the holiday expenditures. Most other expenses have to do with looking good: new clothes, new shoes, new hair! I finally relented. Here is what $12, at least 10 hours of braiding and a year and a half of Mandinka pestering get you:

  This is a favored Senegalese photo pose, but also I am not terribly happy about how heavy and hot all this fake hair is. I took it all out the day after the holiday. Looking this fly comes at a high price.

It was a pretty lean Tabaski this year though, my hair being one of the biggest extravagances. A compound my size should have probably slaughtered 3 or 4 rams; we only had one little one, which was great news for me since I generally hate holiday food... so many good ingredients ruined by bad cuts of badly prepared bad meat. My family thinks I'm crazy, but I'll take leaf sauce over sheep intestines any day of the week. Considering the family financial situation everyone looked really good and seemed to have fun. Here is the highlight of the day (ram gore!):

 Happy Holidays! Or as we say in SPB "Allah maa saloo diyala!"


Click here for some new pictures.