Wreckognize this?

Perhaps you've seen this painting in photos (it hangs in the Louvre), but do you know the story behind it? "The Raft of the Medusa," by Theodore Gericault, depicts an historical event, one of the tragedies of Franco-Senegalese colonial history.

In July of 1816, the Medusa, a French frigate, was en route to the capital of French West Africa, St. Louis (san-loo-EE). It carried over 400 people, including the crew. Among its passengers were the new colonial governor and his family.

The captain, who had been granted his position as a political reward, hadn't sailed in 20 years, and was profoundly incompetent. He ran the ship aground on a sandbar some 60 miles off the coast of West Africa, where it broke up.

Lacking sufficient lifeboats, 146 travellers were forced to flee on a makeshift raft tethered to the lifeboats. This arrangement proved ungainly, and the lifeboat's passengers cut the raft loose, abandoning it to the elements.

Thirteen days later, the raft was discovered with only 15 passengers, the rest having died of deyhydration (they had only wine to drink), starvation (despite resorting to cannibalism), or literally raving madness.

The political ramfications of the event were also severe, greatly embarrassing France's post-Napoleonic, newly restored monarchy.

Gericault thoroughly researched his subject, reading first-hand accounts of the tragedy, and even interviewing some of the survivors, one of whom he portrayed in the painting. Begun in 1818, just two years after the incident, and completed in 1819, when the artist was only 28 years old, the painting is considered a seminal work of the Romantic era and perhaps Gericault's masterpiece (he died of tuberculosis just three years later).

The tale is as interesting as it is horrific. It's all the more interesting to me given its geographic and historical connection to my current home. Two recent books on the topic are readily available if you want to pursue the story in more detail.

words from The Word about THE WORD

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet:

"The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son,
and they will call him Immanuel"—
which means, "God with us."

from the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 1

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God sent the angel Gabriel to a virgin named Mary. The angel went to her and said,

You will be with child and give birth to a son. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. His kingdom will never end.

Mary, gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

selections from the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 2

*******

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.

Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

selections from the Gospel of John, Chapter 1

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Putting the Horse Before the Cart

I won't trouble with daily updates on the construction, but I just got a good shot (admittedly blurry--I took it through my window screen) of something I wanted to show earlier.

Around here, when we refer to a workhorse, we mean it literally. This horse has been on campus for several days, carting sand across the soccer field to the site where it is used to make cinder-blocks. Here he is leaving to get another load of sand.

Horse carts like this are common in Dakar, sharing the roads with the thousands of cars and trucks, though usually, they stay off of the divided highways.

Saharacide

For years I have been puzzled by the enormous number of discoveries of the remnants of older civilizations deep underground. How did they get buried?

Pompei I can understand. But most of the buried cities are far from volcanic activity. If there were only one or two non-volcanic cases, it would be a curiosity with several plausible theories. But city after city after city?

After living in Dakar for nearly six years, I begin, perhaps, to understand. Every year from December through June, harmattan [HAHR-mah-tahn] winds carry vast quantities of sandy dust from the Sahara, across West Africa, and out into the Atlantic (see photo--Dakar is the tiny, hooked peninsula near the bottom). Some days it's as thick as fog. At night, you can see it drift past the street lights.

At Dakar Academy, the maintenance staff frequently have to sweep the dust and sand off of our sidewalks, steps, and basketball court to keep them from being buried. But could this account for all of it? How high did the world's mountains used to be if cities are hidden beneath cities beneath cities beneath meters of sand? It baffles me.

(Satellite photo in public domain, from http://www.nasa.gov)

What a Difference a Day Makes

OK, it’s been more than a day. But not much more than a week since I first posted the first picture, above. I took the second one yesterday.

Why the difference? Because, about a week ago, work began on an addition to our on-campus dormitory. (In my 5-1/2 years here, every year has included a major change on campus.) You can see where the old staircase has been torn down, where sand is being dug out to make way for the foundation, and where a temporary worker’s shack has been built off to the left.

The end product is to be three stories tall, with the bottom floor left open for now, and the dorm parent apartment and students’ rooms on the top two, enclosed floors. After we’ve saved money for a few years by not renting as much dorm space off campus, we may enclose the bottom floor for a staff apartment.

This is how the work is being done.



No backhoes, earth-movers or other heavy equipment is anywhere to be seen. Everything is by manual labor. To bend re-bar, they use a simple contraption in which the stump of one of the trees dug up last week is used as the counterweight.

As the building goes up, perhaps I’ll be able to take video of teams of men shoveling wet cement, in unison, up to the next floor while singing a work song to keep the rhythm going. Does that sound like another century? No, just a part of the world where relatively few manual labor jobs have been surrendered to technology, unemployment is high, and labor is cheap.

Films Worth Seeing--or Seeing Again

Don't miss the new reviews of three old films, Searching for Bobby Fischer, Spanglish, and The Truman Show, just posted in the column to the right!

Blues in the (African) Night

A Welsh friend and I attended an open-air, blues concert in downtown Dakar last night. Now, blues is not my favorite type of music. I prefer bluegrass; or "classical" music in many of it's varieties--renaissance, baroque, classical, etc. Or folk and “world” music (klezmer; mariachi, etc.); or hymns, especially early American shape-note hymnody, and contemporary “re-hymns” (old hymn texts set to new tunes); or jazz, especially bebop, Dixieland, and swing; or Western swing, ragtime, reggae, stride piano, zydeco, or even Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Nevertheless, seeking a little bit of home at a cost less than round trip airfare, I took in a concert by the Chicago Blues Quintet. As it turns out, sixty percent of the Chicago Blues Quintet is not from Chicago, but from France. The Americans, Maurice John Vaughn and B. J. Emory, have been performing together in Chicago for nearly 20 years. On their European tours, they team up with a band led by Frederic Brousse, and brought them with them to Senegal for this, their first-ever African gig.

Vaughn is the musical and personality leader of the group, the happiest blues singer you ever did see, with an unexpectedly light, even zany stage presence. A roly-poly, joking, fella-next-door suburban family man, he is also a world class blues guitarist (we didn’t get to hear enough of it), and a more than serviceable backup blues keyboardist. I can’t comment on his ability on sax, as he inexplicably never played it. He’s had a successful career as a concert and recording side-man, but has also made a mark as a soloist. According to one bio I’ve read online, Guitar World magazine called his debut solo CD, humorously titled Generic Blues Album (Alligator/AL 4763), blues album of the year.

Emory is a gutsy vocalist and a bland trombonist, both skills benefiting from great tone, pitch and presence, and both suffering from lack of melodic and improvisational interest.

For me, the musical revelation of the evening came from Fred Brousse, the leader of the act’s talented French contingent. Though an above average lead guitarist, and a decent singer, Brousse deserves worldwide fame as a harmonica player. Seriously. Brousse’s performance-opening, 5-minute, unaccompanied solo was no less than extraordinary, and was alone worth the price of admission. It was Ella Fitzgerald, Chicago, Ravel, a train, James Brown, and Billie Holliday all wrapped into one. I’ve heard excellent harmonica before, but I have never heard harmonica with such nuance, variety, depth, guts, emotion, and virtuosity. In fact, I never could have imagined it was capable of such nuance, variety, depth, guts, emotion, and virtuosity.

An enjoyable evening overall, a welcome and, at $6, affordable taste of home, clearly appreciated by the initially staid French crowd, and receiving rave reviews from my Welsh friend, for whom it was anything but a taste of home. I'd like to hear more Vaughn, especially his stellar guitar work, though I'd recommend he steer clear of doo-wop in the future.

But I would go well out of my way, and gladly pay more, to hear Fred Brousse on the harmonica again, with or without other performers.

The Sound and the Fury

Senegal has no noise ordinances. Anyone can broadcast music or speech--or other sounds, for that matter--anywhere, at any volume, at any time. As I write this, my clock has just silently reached the 2:00 A.M. mark, and piercing the darkness is music so loud that, though it is coming from a high school stadium a few blocks away, sounds (and feels) like it's coming from the apartment next door. This is the third straight day (and night) of virtually uninterrupted music and shouting and what I take to be preaching to youth.

Other common sources of air-saturating sounds are (a) calls to prayer, broadcast from speakers in mosque towers, (b) garbage trucks driving through neighborhoods during the day, honking their horns loudly and repeatedly for 5-10 seconds at a blast (c) youth organization parties, which, like the current stadium event, include singing and dancing into the early morning hours, and (d) all-night religious gatherings, with preaching, chanting, and singing--some of which is quite beautiful, and some of which does not please the western ear.

OK, I guess I should admit that our students are sometimes culprits. During student-run carnivals and afternoon (and late-night) sports tournaments, our kids join in the freedom, and play CDs at bone-vibrating volumes.

Oh, one more example, for which I suppose I can share partial blame, since I paid for it. I attended Chicago Blues Quintet concert tonight. It was held in an open-air amphitheater in the heart of downtown Dakar. From 9:00 to 11:00 P.M., the neighborhood and beyond were treated to keyboard, drums, trombone, bass guitar, rhythm guitar, harmonica, and gutsy voices, all generously amplified. I wonder if it was worth paying for admission. I could have sat on a nearby street corner for free and heard just as much music. (More on the concert in an upcoming post.)

There's something to having the freedom to make noise or, more often, music at any time. But it sure can be hard to get to sleep! Speaking of which, good night.

Letting it All Hang Out

One of the small things that surprised me when I moved to Senegal was the ubiquitous presence of laundry drying outside--hanging out of windows, lying on bushes,

stretched across clothes lines. Very few people, even in the city, own electric or gas dryers. Rain is so infrequent as to be inconsequential. (Dust is more of a problem in the dry season than rain in the rainy season.)

I was struck recently by the rainbow of colors hanging on a line outside my bedroom window. I took this photo through the screen, so it lacks the brilliance of the actual sight. Still, I like the image. There is nothing on the other two lines that stretch parallel to this one, making this an uncharacteristically artistic arrangement.

This view out this window began to change this week. Soon I will be posting photos of the construction work that has begun. An extension is going to be built on this end of the on-campus dormitory (the building in the upper right corner).

Tightening Our Chaaya Genyo

Friends of mine who live in rural Senegal sent me an email last week that provides an excellent glimpse of some of the major contrasts between life for the average Senegalese and the average American. With their permission, I am printing excerpts from it below. I have removed all identifying information to protect them and those they minister to from reprisals.

"We've watched from a distance as financial markets convulsed this fall. These headline events haven’t raised a single question or comment from our village friends who’ve never heard of Wall Street or a mutual fund.

"Villagers don’t even have bank accounts in this cash economy. They don’t speak or read French so bank documents are unintelligible to them. Plus, banks charge so many fees that small accounts are not feasible financially.

"A different economy operates here. “Savings accounts” are the sheep and goats owned by every family. An emergency medical bill or a need to visit to a distant sick relative may prompt the sale of one or more male goats.

"Females are prized for increasing the size of the herd. The availability of grass and hay causes fluctuations in value with selling prices lowest during the rainy season when free grass is abundant. Prices are highest near the end of the dry season when all the grass has been eaten and the hay supply is at a minimum.

"The highest prices for large male sheep are just before Tabaski when each family deems it almost obligatory to kill and eat a sheep during the holiday that commemorates Abraham’s offering of Ishmael—according to the Koran. Tabaski takes place this year the second week of December so the supply of sheep in towns is growing daily.

"We are aware that the current economic challenges are affecting many of you...We also are tightening our chaaya genyo (pants tie-strings, as in our sweat pants)."

21st Century Christmas Carols

In case you haven't heard of them before, here are a few Christmas Carols, chosen or updated for singers with particular diagnoses:

Schizophrenia
Do You Hear What I Hear?

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells...

Narcissism
Hark, the Herald Angels Sing About Me!

Manic Disorder
Deck the halls and walls and house and lawn and streets and stores and offices and town and cars and busses and trucks and trees and fire hydrants and...

Paranoia
Santa Claus is Coming to Get Me

Mulitple Personality Disorder
We Three Kings Disoriented Are

May you have happier songs to sing!

Tabaski

For the last half hour or so, songs and chants have been wafting into my apartment from all sides, broadcast from minarets around the city. It is one of the Islamic required hours of prayer, and today is the most important day on the Muslim calendar. Even as I write, goats are being sacrificed around the city and around the country to atone for sin. It's a national holiday.

Eid al-Adha, or Tabaski, as it is known here, is a commemoration of Abraham's near-sacrifice of his own son, at God's commaned--stopped at the last moment by an angel who told Abraham to sacrifice a goat that was caught in a nearby patch of thorns instead.

In the days leading up to the holiday here in Dakar, thousands and thousands of goats appear at impromptu roadside markets, like so many Christmas tree stands in the US. (I saw fewer of them this year, apparently due to a tightening in the enforcement of laws governing such things.)

For the rest of the day, families will celebrate, with relatives visiting relatives, friends visiting friends, adults giving gifts to children, children playing games, and everyone dressing in their finest new clothes to eat elaborate holiday meals, and many families spending beyond their means.

Sound familiar? I wonder if every culture has a day celebrated in this manner.

East Side, West Side

All Around the Town
or
And Never the Twain Shall Meet

Despite living in Dakar for over 5 years, I have a hard time remembering that the US is to the West of me. I finally figured out why. It's because, growing up on the East coast of the US, the Atlantic Ocean has for me always been the equivalent of East. When I looked out over the Atlantic, I was always looking East. Since I have no magnetic needle in my brain telling me which way is East, when I look out over the Atlantic Ocean now, I automatically imagine I'm looking East. I have to actively work to correct this mental perspective.

In other cultural news, did you know that the French don't capitalize North, South, East, or West? Or French, American, Korean, etc. That is apropos of nothing, but it gave me an excuse to write this sentence using a word we stole from French.

Sparky has a Sibling

As I touch-type, I am watching one of the newest members of my household explore my bedroom. I hope he's foraging for food, because there are certainly enough bugs here to keep him happy and healthy and for a long time.

This little guy, who I'm naming Squiggle because of the amusing way his body twists when he walks, is presumably Sparky's baby brother. At two inches head to tail, and about the width of a pencil, he's the same size Sparky was when I wrote about him (see my October 25 post), but Sparky should be much bigger by now. I've also seen an even smaller sibling several times in the past few days. I haven't named that one, who is perhaps only an inch and a quarter long, and half a pencil-width across. I'm accepting suggestions.

Since I grew up on the East Coast (of the US), having lizards living with me is a bit of a lark.