May 30, 2004

E-mail from Amy

Dear friends and family,

Each day in Belaye seemed to last forever, but in the end, they went by quickly. I tried to go to every house and greet people because otherwise everybody thinks you have bad manners.

It was so hot from noon to 4 p.m. every day that no one felt like moving. We'd usually lay around and drink tea after lunch or I would conduct my interviews with Le Pere with Sidya or Papis Mane translating Jola into French so I wouldn't miss a thing. My Jola is okay for communicating basic stuff, but when it comes to understanding a story, I can easily misinterpret the whole thing.

At one point I realized I hadn't seen someone from the village who I knew before. I asked about him and was told he was in jail in Ziguinchor. The poor guy got caught selling marijuana. An undercover agent went to buy from him and then arrested him.

Le Pere and others had told him to stop dealing on several occasions, but he persisted. Now he's doing two years. I went to see him in jail, which was incredibly relaxed compared to what you find in the U.S.. Of course I've never been to a jail in the U.S., but we all have an idea from TV that it's a pretty violent and scary place to be.

When you visit you have to follow all kinds of rules and are watched all the time. In Ziguinchor, I just walked up to the door and stepped in and said I would like to see the man from Belaye. The guards joked with me and spoke Jola. They told me to leave my purse in the guard's office. When I told them it contained all my money and passport, they said, "Oh, just hold on to it, then."

Just inside the entrance, they put me in a room with cement benches and a mural on the wall depicting village scenes. One of the guards walked around the corner and in a minute he returned with my friend.

Naturally he was happy to have a visitor. We sat unobserved and chatted for about half an hour. He told me it was hard psychologically, but that it was fairly comfortable and they were not at all badly treated. He's been there for seven months and shares a cell with four others.

His daughter sent some money to Senegal to get him a lawyer so he could get out sooner, but the fellow to whom she sent the money ended up "eating" it.

After leaving the prison, Papis Goudiaby's friend Mansour took me to look at some properties in Ziguinchor, one of which I'm contemplating purchasing. It's not very expensive and everybody is of the opinion that it's a good investment. Even if I never build anything on it, the value will increase. It's just like real estate anywhere.

During my last night in Belaye, the village organized a dance. "Ecoumpai," the mystical dancing phallic symbol, made an appearance. It looks like a giant shrubbery with a long stick coming out of the top. It jumps and plants the stick in the ground and then spins around it like a giant whirling dervish. It's kind of hard to explain, but it's quite amazing.

The men all line up on one side and the gals on the other so they're facing each other like they're getting ready to do a square dance. A few men will walk over to the women's' side and then back. The women do the same while ecoumpai jumps around. Every once in awhile a few people start doing the traditional Jola style dancing pounding the ground with their feet.

My sister Famata was dancing up a storm and I was trying to take her picture, but the battery was nearly dead and the flash wouldn't go off, so she kept dancing for me, poised with the camera, until she fell down. Of course she was not injured, but you can imagine her chagrin and mortification.

The next morning some of the older people in the village came to Le Pere's to say goodbye to me and pray for a safe return for me and my traveling companions. We ended up praying for a lot of things: a good rainy season; that everyone in Dakar succeeds in their studies, etc. Le Pere also presented to the group the money Mummsy gave to the village for a project. Le Pere suggested they use the money to complete the new maternity ward. They all thanked Mummsy heartily and said a prayer for her.

Back in Dakar I am never alone. If one of the Goudiabys is not at my side a street vendor or swindler is always next to me chatting up a storm. They call me Madame Dakar. "Oh you speak Wolof. What is your Senegalese name? Do you have a husband? Come see my boutique. It's not expensive. Come look. Just for the pleasure of seeing." I keep up the banter with them and when they realize my destination is not one with theirs, they leave off and another one joins me.

I have to go meet my nephew Yaya now to do a little shopping. I'll check out of the hotel and spend tonight at Famata's at the military camp. Moussa and some others will probably join me.

Tomorrow night (Monday, May 31) I fly to France. I will miss the Goudiabys. They are all so smart and beautiful and kind and they love to laugh. In France I'll be out in the country far from any cyber cafes, so this may be my last installment for some time.

Love to one and all.
Amy

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