Tour de Senegal/Kedougou: Celebration of Christmas With the Bassari in Salamata

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Photos (top to bottom): photo1: hand-pumping fuel in Kedougou; photo2: Samba-the-Lion posing with a traditional Bassari Inititiation Ceremony mask; photo3: the village mosque; photo4: sacred drums used in the Initiation Ceremony; photo5: dinner of cornmeal and peanut butter.

This was a charmed day, and it nearly ended before it began. It was Sunday morning, and we were in Kedougou, en route to the Bassari village of Salamata.

Our driver, Samba, announced that we were low on fuel, but on early Sunday morning Kedougou was sleeping-in and the petrol stations were closed. What's more, there was a power outage, and so we wouldn't be able to fill-up even if fuel were available. Almamy asked me what I wanted to do. I thought, well, what can be done, the trip would have to be postponed, an unfortunate surprise.

Ah, but this is Africa! Where there's a will . . .

Samba drove through town, and stopped to talk with the first passerby we met. Yes, fuel was in fact available. Such and such a station could hand pump it if necessary. We headed there, but the station was closed up tight, windows barred. What to do? Of course, wake up the attendants who were, naturally, sleeping inside! So it happened that two guys were roused, stumbled outside half-dressed, one carrying a 12-volt battery, an emergency power source in the event of an outage, but, of course, that battery was dead, so a fuel pump was opened, a crank handle detached, and our tank was filled in short order.

Did I mention that Samba is a former truck driver/Dakar taxi driver?

We were on our way.

It was a very, very long, bumpy three-hour drive to Salamata. There we met, by happenstance, Ibrahima, who explained that the Bassari were celebrating Christmas that very evening, and that we might be able to attend. Ibrahima guided us up a steep, narrow track to what we later learned was the center of Bassari culture, where we were introduced to the village chief, Labatake Bangar.

Let's backtrack a step: We began the day with an empty fuel tank, scrounging for gas, only to end up three hours later in the center of the Bassari community, meeting the chief, who guided us to the local mosque, a grass hut located not far down a trail. We were welcome to stay in the village and attend the evening's celebration, which would begin at eight in the evening, and run until about one in the morning.

So we hung out, napped, took a walk, and wandered past the compound of Urban Bindia, who invited us in for a sit and a visit. Serendipity strikes again. Urban works with the young initiates during the annual Initiation Ceremony, and his role has been to interpret cultural events for visitors. He seemed to much appreciate our interest in Bassari culture, and recommended that we return in March to attend the Initiation Ceremony. That evening Urban brought dinner for us, including chicken, a very generous expression of welcome.

There was no program for the celebration. Perhaps it began in the early afternoon, when testosterone-saturated teens arrived with bundles of bound straw, roofing material, traditional gifts for the chief, wearing simple palm-frond headdresses in the Bassari-style, singing in recitation, jeering each other.

I gently prodded for permission to video the celebration, or to audiotape, but dropped it immediately when it evoked complications, a change of mood, away from the light, convivial feeling of mutual regard. Note the following Bassari-related clips from You Tube clip1, clip2.

At around 11 in the evening, as the festival was ramping-up, we were summoned to a hut for a meeting with the chief. There we sat in the round, on elevated tree limbs, and the chief expressed his appreciation for our coming and staying for the celebration. Locally-produced wines of various kinds, stored in large plastic containers, as those used for carrying fuel, were stored in the hut, and, as a gesture of appreciation, the chief offered us a sampling of whatever we preferred. For me, the whole thing was absolutely surreal.

Samba, the driver, who would have to make the effort to get us home in one piece along three hours of rough road pulled the plug at 12:30 AM, announcing that he was ready to go. No argument. In other circumstances, I would have pitched my tent in a field and spent the night, but we were a group, and traveling with city kids.

It was an excruciatingly long ride home, three of us in the back seat, my head banging against the hard plastic door molding whenever we bounced across a pothole, which was often enough to make sleep difficult.

Oh, the longing for a bed, and the sheer ecstatic pleasure of stepping away from the vehicle, onto solid ground. Sleep, only sleep.

It was an absolutely charmed day. Now, how to get the time away from school to attend the Initiation Ceremony in March . . .

For media, see clip1.