Buckeye Bound

My stay in Senegal ended in a frenzy of last-minute shopping. I normally only buy one or two souvenirs on a long trip, but for some reason, I opened my wallet a little wider this time.

I started the day with a trip to Sandaga. I went to see whether Cherif, the 17-year old vendor who showed me the market three days earlier, could serve as my shopping guide. I went to a small stand at the entrance of the market and asked a young man to find Cherif. About 10 minutes later, Cherif arrived, happy to see me.

I explained to Cherif that I wanted his assistance for a few hours. I said that I would pay him 7,000 francs (about $14) for three hours of work. He made a counteroffer — in French — which I did not understand. I asked him to write an amount on a piece of paper. He wrote 50,000 francs (about $100). I was a little shocked. The typical person in Senegal earns about $560 a year and Cherif wanted to earn $100 for three hours work. I should have taken his proposal as a typical opening bid, divided by 5, and offered him 10,000 francs. Instead, I said that I needed to go the bank and would “try” to return in an hour.

I never returned. Instead, I began walking back to my hotel, hoping to find a vendor selling large, soft-shell suitcases along the way. I didn’t find anyone, but I spotted a peddler’s carrying case in an alley. I asked a man standing nearby, where I could find such a suitcase. “Follow me,” he said.

The man took me on a long walk, through the neighborhood around Sandaga, into a shop where he sold a variety of textiles, including large, cloth bags. I explained that I needed a piece of luggage. He went away for a few minutes and then reappeared with two large gym bags. One of the bags — a Nike knockoff — was large enough, though cheaply made. “How much money for this,” I asked.

He said 25,000 francs ($50). I offered 8,000. He laughed. We spoke a bit more. I got up to leave…the man ran after me… and I gave him a 10,000 franc note.

Walking toward the less intense Kermel market, I spotted another man selling similar bags. The largest bag was about 2/3 the size of mine. I asked him “How much money for this?” He said “6,000 francs.” Six thousands francs! His starting price was 40 percent less than the final price I had negotiated moments before.

I realized that I had forgotten the golden rule: Take the starting price and divide by 5. If you have to budge, divide by 4. If you really like the product, you can pay more, but you will be overpaying.

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In two days, I had been “taken” about four times while buying goods or services in Senegal. I became determined to take a harder line in future negotiations. I walked down to the Kermel market to buy jewelry for some family members. Before I got there, a street peddler intercepted me and began hawking his line of lightweight, African style pants. (An American might wear them as pajama bottoms.) I was mildly interested in the product. He wanted 7,000 francs for each pair; I paid 5,000 for 3 pair. I still overpaid.

I dropped into the Score grocery store and bought a bottle of water. When I left the store, the street peddler was waiting for me. He wanted — he insisted — that I visit his shop to see some of his other wares. Against my better judgment, I followed him. It took 20 minutes to reach his shop. I didn’t see anything that interested me. I tried to leave, the peddler tried to make me stay. Somehow, I managed to extricate myself without opening my wallet.

I really didn’t know what to pay for the jewelry. I chose five necklaces from the first shop, divided the owner’s asking price by five, and didn’t get anywhere. He let me walk. I tried a couple other shops and they let me walk. Each negotiation took 10-15 minutes and though I didn’t buy anything, I did gain an insight into the value of the product.

I decided to try my luck in the shops near the train station. I got a little lost on the way there and stumbled upon a group of elementary school students attending Koranic school outside. I asked the teacher if I could take some pictures and he agreed.

There are several large jewelry stands at the train station. I didn’t have any luck at the first stand, but I purchased five necklaces at the second. I paid more than I wanted to spend, but I still got a decent price.

I walked over to a basket shop, selected some items, and asked for a price. I divided the owner’s price by five and the old lady practically tossed me out of her shop. I walked to the other end of the market and to another basket shop. There, a young girl, about 12 years old, handled the negotiations. (Several adults were present, but the little girl ran the show.) We reached an agreement and I stuff some hand woven baskets into my new gym bag.

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I walked back to my hotel and dropped off my souvenirs. There was a notice from the post office waiting for me at the reception desk. A letter from my father had arrived — on my last day in Senegal. One of the vendors who hangs around the Al Afifa lobby volunteered to guide me to the post office. I said “OK” knowing that I would have to visit his shop, as well.

(A lot of vendors hang out around the hotels. To be polite, you will promise to visit all of their shops. This will haunt you the last day of your visit. They will be in the hotel lobby and expect you to visit their shops. After all, “you promised.”)

I paid $6 to take possession of the letter from my father. He spent $6 to send it. (TIP: The mail system in Senegal is slow, unreliable and expensive. You should avoid using it if possible. If you absolutely must ship goods outside the country, you should try using an international parcel carrier.)

We walked to my guide’s shop. To my surprise, it was the same shop I had visited earlier in the day. I explained to the man that I had visited the shop that very morning and purchased three pair of pants from the man (apparently) running the shop. The vendor tried to convince me that I needed to buy more. I tried to convince him that I did not.

Our conversation degenerated into an argument. I ran out of the shop and into the street. One of the workers in the shop ran after me. Under duress, I bought three pair of pants and a children’s ensemble for 10,000 francs.

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I stopped at a restaurant for lunch. Outside the restaurant, I spotted an older man wearing a Burkina Faso ensemble that I thought might make a nice gift. (A Burkina Faso ensemble features loose paints and a matching shirt. The shirt is also loose fitting and drops down close to the knees.) I asked the man where I could find something similar to what he was wearing. He walked me to a store a few blocks away. Vacant. He walked me to a friend’s apartment. The friend told the old man about a nearby shop. We went to the shop and it was closed. We stopped at a couple other places without success.
I asked the man what a BF ensemble should cost and he said 15,000 francs to 20,000 francs. We looked for a ready to wear store (prêt a porter) in an effort to avoid difficult negotiations in the market. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a ready to wear store, so we headed back toward Sandaga. The old man asked a passerby where we could find a Burkina Faso ensemble. The man said, “Follow me.”

We followed the man to his shop and sure enough, he had a Burkina Faso ensemble. It wasn’t quite what I wanted, but I was buying it for a friend, so I asked his price. “45,000 francs,” came the answer. My new friend immediately protested, a loud discussion ensued — in Wolof — and I bought the outfit for 17,000 francs.

As we left the shop, another man approached us and insisted that we visit his shop, where he had an even nicer BF ensemble. I said, “same price?” and he said “yes.”

We followed the man to his shop and he showed us the outfit. I actually liked it a bit better than the last one. The man said I could have it — for 25,000 francs. My friend protested that the man had already agreed to a lower price. I walked out of the shop. The shop owner followed me down the street. He said he could sell it for 22,000 francs. I said “same price” and he agreed. I began opening my money pouch and he said “20,000 francs.” I pulled out 17,000 and he took it.

My friend walked me back to Jules Ferry and pointed me in the direction of the Hotel Al Afifa. I tried to pay him for his time and he refused, so I took him to a small restaurant for a beer. (Incidentally, The Gourmet sells fantastic hot dogs and hamburgers at bargain prices.) It turns out that man is a film director — he had worked with some of the people I had studied while in Senegal.

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I left The Gourmet at around 7 p.m. I needed to be back at the hotel to leave for the airport at 9 p.m. I dashed through the business district on one last shopping foray. This time I went to a store near Sandaga. I had visited this store before and liked many of the items for sale.

(“Stores” are different from market “stands.” Inside a store, every item will be priced. You can negotiate a slight discount. At a market stand, nothing will be priced. You will be quoted an outrageous price and can negotiate a huge discount.)

I purchased several items and then ran to Pope and Poko’s mask stand near the Kermel market. I purchased several bronze figurines and a small mask. I must have over paid because Poko threw in an extra figurine as a gift. Or maybe he was just thankful for the business.

I ran back to the hotel, entering the lobby at 8:15 p.m. I had spent the entire day wandering the shops of Dakar. I had walked several miles and was drenched in sweat. I took the stairs to the second floor and knocked on my door. My roommate let me in. He was all packed but couldn’t find his plane tickets.

I took a quick shower and then ran to a nearby Internet café to check my e-mail one last time before leaving the country.

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We loaded our bags onto the bus and left for the airport around 9:30 p.m. The neighborhood near the airport seemed quite lively and fairly affluent — more interesting that I remembered it from our arrival a month before. I regretted not visiting any of the beaches out this way, since they are reputedly the best in Dakar.

We arrived at the South Africa Airways counter before any of the airline employees. (Our plane was scheduled to leave at 2:50 a.m. We were told to be at the airport by 10 p.m.) We waited an hour for the ticket counter to open. During the wait, our host tried to convince South Africa Airlines to reissue a ticket for my roommate. The station manager said that my roommate should have gone to the airline office in Dakar. Our host explained that they had gone to the Dakar office and were told to go to the airport. The station manager said he couldn’t reissue the ticket without hearing from company officials in Johannesburg and that they had gone home for the day.

After about an hour, the ticket counter opened. Security guards screened most of the luggage — opening the luggage and checking the contents by hand — but not all of it. No one ever checked my luggage. And I’m confident that it was never X-rayed. I said goodbye to my host and roommate and to Senegal.

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Senegal isn’t for everyone. You have to be adventurous and adaptable. You must accept that you are in a different country, with different standards. Of course, you could drive out to a resort on the Little Coast, spend all day on the beach, and avoid many of the hassles. But you’d also miss out on all the things that make Senegal interesting. It’s a unique place. I’d return in a heartbeat.

Pieces d’ Identites
By Ngangura Mweze
(Congo/France/Belgium, 1998)
♥♥♥1/2 (out of four – loved it!)

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FILM REVIEW / PERSPECTIVE

Pieces d’Identites is an unusual film: It has serious things to say, but doesn’t take itself seriously. It poses the question of whether people can — or should — assimilate into new cultures while maintaining their own sense of identity. It’s an interesting question framed in a lighthearted story.

We first meet Mani Kongo, played by Gerard Essomba (the actual grandson of a king), the King of the Bakongo. He is visiting Brussels, Belgium, to find his long-lost daughter Mwana-Mwata (Dominique Mesa). We observe the dignified old man as he struggles to find her. The King is robbed of his wallet and must pawn his royal ornaments (a headdress, necklace and cane) to earn money. The ornaments —more than his missing passport — are symbols of the King’s African identity.

The King’s daughter has just been released from prison — she was unwittingly used as a drug mule — and is still living in Brussels. To earn money, she reluctantly agrees to work as an “African dancer” at a local club and to serve as a police informer. If she refuses, she risks being deported back to the Congo.

The daughter becomes romantically involved with a mixed-race taxi driver named Chaka-Jo (composer Jean-Louis Daulne) who robs bars at night disguised in traditional Congolese clothing. (Is this payback for the Belgians who robbed the Congolese of so much of their heritage?)

The daughter’s best friend Safi (Cecilia Kandonda) is fully assimilated and is studying to become a doctor. She becomes involved with the King’s nephew Mayele (Thilombo Lubambu) who lives in the Congo but is fully westernized.

The King’s search and the two romances are woven together in an intricate plot turning on chance and coincidence. The plot is improbable but does not offend the viewer’s sensibilities.

All five characters are connected with one another, but they do not all know each other for most of the film. All five have assimilated to one degree or the other. The King has assimilated the least. His daughter and the taxi drive have assimilated a bit more, yet they ultimately return to the Congo. The King’s nephew and the nephew’s new girlfriend, we assume, have a future together in the Belgium.

The theme of identity runs throughout the film, in obvious and subtle ways. Mweze puts the identity question in context through the use of flashbacks —flashbacks of the King’s childhood, as well as documentary footage of the colonial period in Congo. The viewer will have to decide whether it is possible to preserve one’s identity in a foreign culture.

—Michael Gormley

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CREDITS

Cast
Gerard Essomba - Mani Kongo
Herbert Flack - Jefke Schengen
Jean-Louis Daulne - Chaka-Jo
Dominique Mesa - Mwana-Mwata
David Steegen - Van Loo
Cecilia Kankonda - Safi
Thilombo Lubambu - Mayele
Muanza Goutier - Viva-Wa-Viva
Nicola Donato
Estelle Marion
Dieudonne Kabongo
Kis Keya
Aline Bosuma
Alice Toen
Suzanne Wauters

Crew
Ngangura Mweze - Director
Ingrid Ralet - Editor
Mweze Ngangura - Screenwriter, Producer, Director
Isabelle Mathy - Executive Producer
Manu Kamanda - First Assistant Director
Andre Fonsny - Art Director
Agnes Dubois - Costume Designer
Jean-Louis Daulne - Composer (Music Score)
Jacques Besse - Cinematographer
France Duez - Editor
Papa Wemba - Composer (Music Score)
Frank Struys - Sound/Sound Designer

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FILM SUMMARY AND REVIEW

More than a decade ago Mweze Ngangura delighted the cinema world with one of the most accessible and entertaining African films ever made, La vie est belle, the rags to riches story of a Congolese musician played by soukous super star Papa Wemba. Now he returns with a modern fairy tale set in the vibrant African emigré demi-monde of contemporary Europe. It was the winner of the most prestigious award in African cinema the Etalon de Yennenga at FESPACO ‘99. At first glance Pièces d’Identités is the timeless story of an old king, his beautiful if wayward daughter, a dragon of sorts and the prince charming who rescues them; it even has a happy ending. At the same time, Ngangura’s simple fable raises some of the most troubling issues of identity facing people of African descent in the ever-widening Diaspora of the late 20th century.

Mani Kongo, the venerable king of the Bakongo, sets out alone on a quest for his long-lost daughter, Mwana, whom he sent to Belgium to study medicine many years before. As soon as he leaves his village and enters the Westernized world he finds his identity challenged. At the travel agency in Kinshasa, young urban trend-setters mistake the king’s royal fetishes as the latest fashion statement while customs officials try to confiscate them as imported art objects. Eventually, robbed, homeless and penniless, Mani Kongo is tricked into pawning his royal regalia, literally his “pieces of identity,” to an unscrupulous art dealer. (Ironically the authentic headdress used in the film had to be borrowed from a Belgian antique shop.)

The villain of this tale will be Europe itself, an economic and cultural dragon grasping Africa’s children, art and spiritual vitality. Europe is represented by a group of recrudescent white mercenaries and freebooters who meet at the Katanga Bar to reminisce about the good old days of colonial exploitation. Their leader Jefke, a former colonial administrator in the Bakongo district, now a police commissioner, continues to harass Africans politically and sexually in Matongue, the Congolese district of Brussels. The film is unflinching in showing the daily indignities Africans face at the hands of racist police and ordinary citizens. But it is also nuanced enough to show some decent white people in the working class boarding house where Mani Kongo finally finds refuge.

If Mani Kongo, symbolizing Africa itself, is ever to recover his ID he must first free himself from that uncritical trust of the West which led him to send his daughter there in the first place. The old king continually contrasts his fond recollections of participating in a delegation of Congolese notables to the Belgium king in 1958 with the shabby treatment he receives there now. Ngangura cleverly represents Mani Kongo’s memories of Belgium through ’50s newsreel footage so that the only non-fiction footage in the film is actually shown to be propaganda or at least as misleading.

While Mani Kongo has only temporarily lost his ID, the younger generation in the film finds itself adrift in Europe without ever having had one. Mwana (aka Amanda) has just been released from jail for drug-running and is forced to take a job in a strip club where Africans act out Europeans’ lurid fantasies of the other. She was seduced and is still pursued by a small-time, designer-clad hustler or sapeur, Viva wa Viva, whose motto is “the brand makes the man.” Mwana’s eventual rescuer, Chaka-Jo is a mulatto cabdriver, trapped between white and black, the son of an unknown Belgian father abducted from his Congolese mother and placed in a Belgian orphanage. In his frustration, he holds up white bars like a Robin Hood dressed as a Congolese warrior proclaiming himself the “Savior of Humanity.” He is played by Jean-Louis Daulne, composer of the film’s infectious soundtrack which includes a cameo by Papa Wemba. All these young African characters share a confusion about identity reflected in the fact that each has invented or been given additional names.

This generation is symbolized by a young woman who appears to Mani Kongo in the midst of his despair, not so much a character as an apparition. She tells him her name is Noubia and she was born in Belgium though her heart is in Africa and she represents an African Renaissance. She shows Mani Kongo what Europe really does to Africans by taking him to the forgotten graves of Congolese brought to Belgium a century ago to amuse the King. She raps (an urban idiom with African roots) about her need for the “true African vibration,” and she sees Mani Kongo as a “messenger” calling not just Mwana but all of Africa’s prodigal children back to their father’s house.

Ngangura seems to be suggesting here that an African Renaissance could be catalyzed through the return of educated young Africans, disillusioned with the West yet equipped with modern skills, who would rebuild the continent. Indeed, it is primarily through the know-how and daring of Chaka-Jo that Mani Kongo, representing traditional Africa, survives his stay in Brussels, recovers his regalia and is reunited with his daughter. In return Chaka-Jo avoids becoming the stereotype of the “tragic mulatto” by discovering in Mani Kongo a friend, a father figure, a new identity and a concrete mission for himself in Africa.

As the film draws to a close, Ngangura ingeniously ties together his colorful cast or characters through a series of outlandish coincidences. These coincidences do not reflect blind chance or narrative desperation, but, as in any myth, an ineluctable underlying moral force restoring the characters to their proper identities. This gravity is Africa, an invisible actor throughout the film drawing the characters back to itself - and themselves - from the powerful centrifugal forces of the West. As director Ngangura has said: “I am a modern African. But I still believe in my culture and my ancestors. So I am very interested in making popular African films.”

Africanists might feel compelled to note that the Africa represented in Pièces d’Identités is more an ideal than a reality, a place of purely constructive traditions and supportive, welcoming communities. (The film does genuflect in the direction of feminism by suggesting these traditions might need to be broadened to include women.) The path toward development is presented as clear; the characters unhesitatingly leave a decadent Europe to set up their self-reliant clinic in the village. The disagreeable truth is that in many places like the Congo young Africans are fleeing brutal civil wars and economic collapse not returning to their countries. Although critics might label Pièces d’Identités as “escapist” entertainment, we might ask why Africans should have to see only “militant” political films? More importantly, can’t “escapist” films hold open the possibility of escape from seemingly intractable social realities by imagining a more hopeful vision of Africa’s future?

—California Newsreel

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FILM CONTEXT

It may be useful to provide a little background information on Congo before viewers screen the film. When the European powers carved up the African continent in the late 19th century, the Belgian King, Leopold I, and other Belgian notables claimed the vast, mineral rich lands of the Congo River basin as their own. Even by the abysmal standards of colonial rule, the Belgian regime was unusually callous and brutal; thousands of Congolese died working under slave-like conditions in Belgian mines and plantations.

Belgium abruptly granted independence to Congo in 1960 and Patrice Lumumba was elected its first president. He was felt to be too independent or “pro-Soviet” for Belgium or U.S interests. After just a few months, Lumumba was deposed in a coup led by Joseph Mobutu and murdered, possibly with CIA involvement, in January 1961. For the next 30 years, Mobutu, a steadfast ally of the U.S., pillaged the country which he renamed Zaire. During his rule, he accumulated several billion dollars in personal wealth, a sum equal perhaps not coincidentally to the entire national debt of Zaire.

When Mobutu’s health deteriorated in 1996, the country erupted into a brutal civil war pitting central government forces against a number of guerrilla groups. The situation threatened to flare up into a regional conflict since each group received support from a different neighboring African state. Eventually rebel commander, Laurent Kabila, triumphed and installed himself as the new president. He has proven undemocratic and unpopular himself so civil war continues to smolder throughout the country. As an example, the African portions of this film had to be shot in Cameroon because it was too dangerous to take a crew into Congo.

Filmmaker Mweze Ngangura made this film to speak to those whose families, migrated from Africa to Europe and now find themselves with questions about their origins. He hoped that this film would help them with these concerns.

—California Newsreel

A Fling with Saly

July 4, 2005

I was walking back to the hotel a week or so ago and old man grabbed by the arm. “You,” he said in broken English. “You Senegalese now. You know how to get around.” I was surprised both by his English and his observation. How did he know? Has he been watching me? He might have been. Or at least he noticed me. I think that all tourists have a presence in Dakar. After a month here, I’m a known quantity to many people on the street.

In any event, I have grown increasingly comfortable negotiating the asphalt jungle. I’m confident enough to venture alone on a trip outside Dakar.

I wanted to visit a large national park in the southwest part of the country — the lushest part of the country — but the park is only open November through May. As an alternative, I decided to visit a smaller reserve, Bandia, about two hours south of Dakar on the “Petite Cote” (the little coast). I planned to stay at a beach resort in the village of Saly and then catch a tour of the park.

I awakened early Saturday ready to begin my adventure. I packed everything except my money. I couldn’t find my money. I looked everywhere. I had been keeping it in a small children’s book and it wasn’t there. Strange. I tore the room apart, quietly, as my roommate slept.

I decided to take a break, clear my head, and renew my search later. I headed to Sandaga, the largest market in the city. There are so many peddlers and kiosks surrounding Sandaga that it’s easy to miss the food market itself.

The food market is located in a formidable, tan building, made of concrete. I had attempted to access the indoor market before without success. There layers of shops surrounding it and I didn’t know how to get through. I’d enter the maze, walk for a while, then retreat.

I approached the market with a bit more confidence Saturday morning. I could see right away that it wasn’t as crowded at 8:30 a.m. as it was on most afternoon. Indeed, as I reached the market, I saw a clear path leading inside and forged ahead.

Sandaga Market is a dark, dank place. There are a few large windows but not much lighting. There are, however, plenty of people. You can buy just about any kind of meat or produce on the first floor. (Most American wouldn’t feel comfortable buying meat at a place like Sandaga. There’s no refrigeration whatsoever — and plenty of flies.)

Sandaga caters to a local crowd and many of the vendors were a bit more nervous about my camera than the vendors at Kermel, which caters to a more upscale crowd. In any event, I took a few discrete photos while searching for a stairwell. (A peddler had told me that I could take a picture of the surrounding neighborhood from the roof of Sandaga.) I circled the market twice but couldn’t find a stairwell.

I stood at an exit, pondering my problem, when a young man (”Cherif”) came up the steps. He asked if I needed help and I explained that I wanted to go to the roof. (I couldn’t remember the French word for “roof” and had difficulty explaining what I wanted. Often, it’s just one word that screws up a conversation.) The boy said that I should follow him.

Within just a few moments, I was standing in a stairwell, making my way to the roof. (You’ve seen this stairwell before in the prison scene of Les Miserable. It’s almost scary. There are gaping holes in the concrete. One false move and….)

There’s actually not a lot to see on the roof and the views aren’t so great. Some of the market workers live on the roof in tin roof shanties. I felt that I had entered their home without permission and didn’t linger too long.

Cherif took me on a tour of the first floor and asked if I wanted to see the fish. “Sure,” I said. We found another stairwell and walked to the basement. It was just as crowded as the first floor, with men and women preparing every kind of fish imaginable. Cherif ran interference, so I got a few nice pictures.

When I left Sandaga, I paid Cherif 2,000 francs for his time ($4). He didn’t ask for payment and tried to refuse, but I gave it anyway and arranged for him to take me on a shopping tour on my last day — Tuesday. I’ll let him lead the way and handle the negotiations. Cherif is a vendor in the market. At just 17 years of age, he’s very sure-footed in the chaotic world (to an outsider, at least) of the market. He’s very mature for his age and I was impressed.

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I went back to the hotel and found my money in a DVD box where I had put it. I grabbed my things and went down to the hotel lobby. I asked the front desk attendant to arrange a taxi for me. He went outside and spoke to a taxi driver. The driver said, yes, he would be happy to drive me to Saly — a 90-minute drive. I said that I only wanted to go to the bus station. He said that he understood and would drive me to Saly. After about 15 minutes of multi-lateral talks involving a number of hotel workers and one young, English speaking street peddler, the taxi driver agreed to take me to the bus station.

He drove me to Pompei, a different bus station than the one I expected. As soon as we arrived at the station, before I even got out of the taxi, several men started yelling at me asking where I wanted to go. I said “Mbour,” the name of the largest city near Saly, and one man grabbed me and began leading me through the market.

This was a very different market from the ones I had seen before. There were no African masks. No crafts of any kind. I didn’t see any tourists.

We walked through a large parking lot with dozens of half-size buses. We then walked into an area with hundreds of run-down cars — taxis — and the man spoke to a driver in Wolof. He then spoke to me and said that the man would drive me to Mbour. The cars looked really rough and the drivers looked even rougher. I turned around announcing that I wanted to take one of the buses.

My “guide” followed and said that he would find the bus, asking if there would be anything for him if he did. I said “Yes, a thousand francs.” ($2). He took me to the bus and I bought a ticket for 1200 francs. The bus driver gave me a ticket, wrote 800 francs on it, and gave my guide at least some of the difference.

I boarded the bus, which might have been as long as a 14-person van, but also a bit narrower. The driver’s cabin was separated from the passenger cabin by a metal divider. The passenger’s cabin featured three rows of seats, benches along the walls of the bus, and a bench in the middle. There were no windows on the bus — just wide-open window spaces — and a back door for passengers.

I knew that the schedule was quite flexible. We would leave when the bus was full. After about ten minutes, we had 29 people in the back of the bus, and I imagined that we were ready to go. Wrong. A few more people got on. We waited for a few more.

We pulled out of the station with 38 people in the bus, including 3 people in the driver’s compartment and 35 people in the passengers’ compartment, including two small children. I imagine that the bus could safely hold 20 passengers.

I recognized many of the places we saw as we made our way out of the city and down the coast. Saly is located on the Little Coast, a bit beyond Popenguine. We made just two stops during our trip and on each occasion peddlers swarmed the bus offering mangos, nuts and hard-boiled eggs. An 18 month old boy sat across from me and we kept ourselves entertained much of the trip. I also met a man who knew some English and was very interested in the United States.

I won’t hesitate to say that this was an interesting but uncomfortable trip. I couldn’t move at all. This is a common travel experience in Senegal and all of the passengers endured the ordeal with grace and good humor.

I expected to land in Mbour, but before we arrived the bus stopped and a passenger told me that we had arrived “in” Saly. I got off the bus. I knew right away that I wasn’t “in” Saly or “in” anywhere else, for that matter. I was standing alone along the highway.

I noticed a sign that read “Saly, 2 km.” A taxi driver offered to take me into the village, but I decided to walk. That way, I could take pictures. Besides, it was only two kilometers and just how hot could it be outside, anyway? (Tip: It can be very, very hot in AFRICA in the middle of the summer.)

I walked for about 15 minutes, playing cat and mouse with the coast, off in the distance. I walked a little closer, the coast moved a little further. A little closer, a little further. I never seemed to close the gap. I became confused (delirious?). Had that sign said “2” kilometers or “20”? I wasn’t sure. And just where was that water bottle, anyway? (Answer: In my hotel room, along with my bag of toiletries.)

I continued walking, taking in the scenery and the sun, my sun block lotion tucked safely in my bag, unused and unopened. Carrying my backpack and computer bag reminded me of when I had traveled through Europe as a student. It also reminded me that I was TWENTY YEARS YOUNGER then.

I eventually happened upon a pizza place and stopped to eat. I talked to the workers about a place to stay and they made a suggestion, which I accepted. One of the workers spoke English and we talked for about thirty minutes. He was 29 years old and single, grew up in Dakar but lived in Saly because it was the only place he could find a job.

I asked him why he hadn’t married — it’s pretty much a given that he will — and he said that he didn’t have enough money. I said that money wasn’t everything. He agreed but said that he didn’t have enough money to pay the bride’s dowry. He said that his predicament was not that unusual and that there were plenty of men unable to marry in Senegal.

The pizza guy wanted to know how to get to the United States. I really couldn’t tell him, but I tried to be encouraging. This wasn’t the first — or last — time that I would have this conversation. He insisted that I take a taxi into the village and flagged one down for me.

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Saly of Portugal is a small fishing village, 40 kilometers south of Dakar. It is situated on the “little coast,” along with Popenguine, Mbour and the Saloum Islands. The village itself is quite small, though a couple dozen large resorts have sprouted both to the north and south of the village.

The little coast is quite beautiful and these resorts are pretty much what you would expect to find at any exclusive destination.

The Hotel Filaos (fee-lous) is the first large hotel on the south side of the village. It is a modern, full-service resort. It has 110 rooms, a large restaurant and bar, a nightclub, a large pool, two performance areas, and recreational facilities (volleyball, ping pong, a swing set). The rooms are divided among two separate “villages” with different landscaping and architecture. I’m in “Les Calois” part of the resort which features one-story, and occasionally two-story, buildings arranged town-home style.

This hotel caters primarily to French families and there are lots of organized activities for children. I’ve seen an African drum class, a kayaking class, a horse riding class, water aerobics, etc. In addition, the hotel can arrange a number of excursions off site. (Incidentally, it’s true that French women will sunbathe topless. But not as many as you might think — or hope, depending on your perspective.)

The cheapest room here costs about $80 a night, which is plenty for me, but a bargain for a small family. My room features a queen size bed, plus a “sectional bed” which would be suitable for two or even three small children.

My room is nice, but it is lacking in a few minor respects. It has no TV, refrigerator, or iron. You must pay to use the safe. I couldn’t check in right away and asked for a beach towel and they charged it to my bill. I found that a little surprising.

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You can visit Saly and never leave your resort. For some people, it’s a way of visiting Africa, without actually experiencing Africa. They just want to spend time with their families at the beach. However, you can also have the best of both worlds: enjoying the peace and tranquility of the beach, while absorbing a bit of African culture.

Once I was able to check into my room, I called my English-speaking friend from the bus to see whether he would like to go to dinner. His English didn’t seem quite as good, now. It took about ten minutes to decide on a time and a restaurant. When I left the telephone booth, I owed about $5 for a local call.

(There’s another tip for the traveler: There are very few “public” pay phones in Senegal, though many people have established Telecentre businesses. You use one of their phones and pay a set rate for every “unit” that you use. A unit lasts about 30 seconds. Sending a fax can be extremely expensive, as can making photocopies.)

We agreed to eat at a restaurant in the Saly’s business center a short walk from my hotel, I arrived, but my bus companion did not. I ate anyway. The restaurant was expensive. I was the only person there the entire time that I ate. I explained that I was visiting Senegal with a group of 30 Americans … that I had a free weekend … we were returning soon to America. The restaurant manager asked me to bring the group to dinner. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to explain that it wasn’t possible.

After dinner, I ventured into the village to buy some bottled water. (The “business center” is a self-contained area separate from the village itself. It’s located near all the resorts.) A man immediately grabbed me and invited me to eat at his restaurant. I explained that I had just eaten. He said that he wanted to show it to me anyway. I asked why he wasn’t working at the restaurant and he said that he was looking for customers.

“Paco” took me down the main street, past Saly’s dirt courtyard with its five baobab trees. He took me near the unlit beach where I — for about the fourth or fifth time since arriving in Senegal — became a little nervous. I said that I understood where the restaurant was located and began to walk in the other direction. “Paco” said there was no need to be frightened, but that he understood. I purchased my water at a store and returned to the hotel.

The next morning my English-speaking companion from the bus showed up at the hotel, full of apologies for missing dinner. He had had a problem with a friend’s car. He immediately engaged me in a conversation about America and asked if I would write a letter inviting me for a vacation in the United States. He said that he couldn’t get a visa without such a letter. Obviously, I couldn’t provide one, but I took his address anyway.

The bus parked outside the hotel departed while I talked to this man. I almost panicked when I noticed that it was gone. I spoke to the concierge and she said that bus was going to the airport in Dakar. My bus hadn’t arrived yet.

It cost about $38 to visit the Bandia nature preserve and was well worth the money. The preserve features giraffes, buffalos, two rhinos, crocodiles, boars, antelope, impala, and lots of birds. You won’t see lions, elephants, zebras or hippos. I don’t think they’re native to Senegal, anyway.

We drove through the park in a pickup truck, a French family of four, our guide and me. Our guide spoke excellent French — I couldn’t understand a lot of it — and much less English. But I didn’t mind. The animals were quite interesting. It was exciting to see them up-close as they roamed the preserve.

When I returned to the hotel, the driver of the pickup truck gave me his name and phone number and invited me to visit the fishing pier at Mbour later in the afternoon. I went swimming for a couple hours and then decided to go to Mbour. The event planner at the hotel called the taxi (pickup truck) driver and he arrived in just a couple minutes. I asked the hotel worker what I should pay for this excursion and he said 7,000 francs ($14).

I jumped into the pickup truck and greeted my guide. He was thrilled to see me. (Earlier in the day, he was working for the hotel. This afternoon, he was working for himself.) He handed me a piece of paper with “10,000” written on it and he explained that this would be the cost of the trip. Was it OK? I said that it was more than I expected. He said that he would arrange and pay for other guides and that it would be OK. “OK?” he asked.

“OK,”I responded. (I have spent a lot of money in Saly. I’ve just decided not to worry about it.)

My guide, Pape Mamadou Faye, was an exuberant traveling companion, eager to share what he knew, despite my limited understanding of his French. He had poor teeth but a great smile, which he flashed constantly. Pape seemed to know a lot of people in the streets and constantly yelled out to greet people.

We took the back roads — dirt roads — into Mboar, which was more interesting than the highway. We drove through a large, outdoor market. It’s hard to describe the congestion, the energy, the dubious sanitation. Photos don’t capture the scene. There are just an amazing number of people, especially young people. Pedestrians, peddlers, farm animals, horse drawn taxis, cars, all move together in harmony. You have to see it to believe it.

We stopped at the “artisan’s village” in Mboar. (Every village has a place where tourists can buy native crafts and see them being made). Pape introduced me to a friend who showed his shop. I painfully explained that I had purchased many souvenirs and didn’t really need anymore … that my cash was running low. He understood and said that it didn’t matter.

Pape’s friend gave me a nice tour of the artisan’s village and I saw quite a few craftsmen at work. Toward the end of the tour, the guide said, “Please buy a small mask from me. You know, I have to eat.” I sat down on a bench inside the man’s small shop and looked at his collection of hand crafted figurines and statues.

I had no idea what the items were worth. I knew what I had paid for the masks in Dakar, which were older and larger, and felt that I should pay less for the figurines. The owner of the shop explained that the figurines were, indeed, smaller and that smaller items were more difficult to carve. After the usual tortuous negotiations, I purchased a number of small items. (I apparently got a good deal. When I returned to the hotel, a worker asked to see my things. He then asked what I spent. I asked what they were worth. He said 15 -20,000 francs. I paid 5,000 francs.)

Pape then took me to the port to watch fishermen unload their boats and sort their fish. When we arrived, several men immediately approached Pape and began competing loudly for his attention. But Pape had already decided which man he would hire as our guide, a man he knew from previous jobs who spoke a little English.

Our guide took Pape and me to the docks. This was an amazing scene, the most interesting thing I’d seen in Senegal. Thousands of people work on the docks, preparing every type of fish imaginable for delivery to restaurants and markets throughout the country — and the world.

The fishermen work in large wooden canoes, which are crafted by hand. They stay at sea for days at time and return when their boats are full. When they return, people wade out to the boats, pick up the fish, carry them to shore, and load them onto small horse drawn carts. The fish are then transported to the open-air fish market, covered by a large roof, located on-site. The fish are sorted and packed in Styrofoam containers to keep them fresh. I didn’t see any mechanized equipment.

After visiting the docks, we entered a large, indoor market. Unlike Sandaga in Dakar, it was mostly closed on Sunday. Our guide took me to his family shop and asked if I would like to make a purchase. He showed me a variety of textile products. I begged off.

When we finally made our way back to Pape’s truck, Pape paid the guide with some change. It might have amounted to 1,000 francs. The guide — who had worked hard and done an excellent job — looked crestfallen, but Pape explained that he would return the next day after I had paid him. (I had a 10,000 franc note in my pocket for Pape.)

On the way back to the hotel, Pape let me hear a few words of English that he had learned. “Mother,’ “Father,” “brother.” He kept saying them over and over. He asked if I would send him an English dictionary. I said that I would. He stopped at a couple houses to find someone who could write me a note in English with his contact information. He eventually found a friend walking the street and the friend wrote the information on a piece of paper. Pape made me promise to send the dictionary.

He dropped me off at the hotel and asked for money to give the guide at the dock (so much for the all-inclusive tour). He also asked for a tip. I ended up giving him 13,000 francs ($26) for a three-hour excursion. I feel that it was well worth the money and I’m sure that he feels the same way. (Remember, the typical resident of Senegal earns $1.50 a day.) Pape is a deceptively ordinary man, but I imagine that he’s fairly prominent in his own way. On Sunday, he earned good money from himself, found work for a friend (I trust that he’ll pay our guide at the pier), and steered a customer to another friend. He accomplished all this by driving a truck, speaking a little English, and offering to take me on a tour of Mbour.

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I arrived back at the hotel at 7 p.m. and set out for dinner. The night before I had promised a man that I would eat at his restaurant, so I went looking for him. I didn’t go far, before he found me. I went into the Restaurant du Port. It is a ramshackle place furnished with a few rustic looking tables and some cheap plastic chairs. The owner had one tattered menu to give me. It featured just two wildly overpriced items: a lobster dinner and a fish/shrimp dinner.

I chose the fish and shrimp dinner which cost about 9,000 francs ($18). I then realized that I didn’t have enough money to cover the bill. I showed the owner that I only had 7,000 francs. He quickly took the money from my hands and said, “No problem. We can go to the hotel when you have finished eating.”

I was the only customer in the restaurant the entire time that I was there. I’m not sure how to explain the lack of customers. It may have been the high prices, the sparse menu, or the fact that a stormed seemed to be brewing. (It passed over.) The restaurant next door seemed fairly busy and I asked the owner of my restaurant why. He said that my hotel had an arrangement with the other restaurant to provide free drinks. (Now he tells me!) I suggested that he might consider offering one free drink with dinner to compete.

I waited quite a while for dinner. At one point, I went into the kitchen and took a picture of a young man cooking it over coals. When I returned, the owner was on a mat saying his prayers. He got up after a few minutes and engaged me in conversation. He talked about his desire to visit the United States and asked if I would like to buy something “not too expensive” at his craft shop. I said that I would consider visiting the shop the next day. He asked when. I said that I couldn’t be certain. I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to do the next day. He showed me his mobile telephone. He said that it was broken and he needed just 15,000 francs ($30) to have it repaired (or replaced — I’m not clear which.) I said that I would try and visit the next day.

My food eventually arrived. I was prepared to be disappointed — even irritated given the price — but it was absolutely delicious. I ate rice and yassa (grilled onions), fish, shrimp and a banana. It couldn’t have been better.

After dinner we walked the beach back to my hotel. He stopped on the beach and I invited him to follow me to the hotel. He said that he couldn’t and I said that he was my guest. He hesitated and then followed me. He took just a few stops when two security guards appeared out of the darkness and let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t allowed on hotel property. I explained that I owed him money. They said that he could wait. I went to my room and got him the money. When I gave it to him, he asked me to come to his shop the next day. Wow! What a hard-scrabble existence.

Before turning in, I walked to the village and bought some bottled water. When I walked back through the front gate of the hotel, a guard explained to me that it wasn’t necessary to buy water. The hotel provided free drinks for its guests. I walked into the hotel lobby and notice a large, painted sign that explained the hotel’s “free drink” policy. I probably glanced at it when I arrived but hadn’t read it carefully because it was in French and I didn’t understand all of it. C’ est la vie.

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I awakened early on the fourth of July and downloaded some pictures onto my computer. I lost track of time and missed the bird watching expedition. I walked along the access road behind the resorts and looked for another tour van parked outside another hotel. They had all left, so I decided to take a walk along the coast. The resorts are quite beautiful. It reminded me of Kiawah Island in South Carolina.

I began collecting sea-snail shells and a man fell into step with me, collecting the same shells and handing them to me. I had acquired another “guide.” We walked and talked, collecting shells all the while. He stopped and spoke to a fisherman who had just returned from the sea. He reached into the man’s canoe and showed me several shells with living sea snails inside. He then picked up a lobster and I took his picture.

My guide then walked me to his house, showed me around, and took me inside his craft shop. Would I be interested in buying some handcrafted souvenirs? I said “no” but paid the man 1,000 francs ($2) for his time. He walked me to a store to get me a bag for my shells and we said goodbye.

(Senegalese men are always offering to be your guide. They are usually unemployed and are just trying to make a little money. I haven’t taken advantage of them, but they provide a real service at very little cost. You should use your best judgment in paying them.)

I returned to a path along the coast and a man cried out to me in English. “Mike,” he said. “Remember me?” I didn’t. He said that he had written a note for me the day before for his friend Pape. “Do you remember?” he asked. He said that Pape wanted to learn English and had asked me to mail him a book. My fog lifted. He said that he himself had never attended a day of school and yet still managed to learn some French, English and Italian. (I was duly impressed. I’ve had plenty of schooling and can’t say as much.)

The man said that he worked at the hotel (located just behind us) as a Jet Ski operator but also ran a craft shop a few meters away. He invited me over to his craft shop — insisting that I visit, really — and showed me his sand paintings. He said that I could have one — at a reduced price for Pape’s friend — for $200. I explained that I had no money but promised to return. He asked when. I said tomorrow.

I dragged myself to the hotel bar and had a free coke.

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I surprised even myself by taking a taxi back to Dakar. I asked the concierge how much it would cost and he said 40,000 francs. I spoke to the taxi driver and he agreed to do it for 30,000 francs ($60), including a few stops along the way.

I spent the early afternoon on the beach, which reminded me how much I enjoy the ocean. I’ll probably never have enough money for a beach house, but it would certainly be nice!

I checked out of the hotel at 4:10 p.m. and boarded my taxi – actually a large, 12- person van. After spending Saturday packed on a van with 37 other people, I now had one to myself. It seemed a little decadent.

We left Saly and I reminded the driver that I wanted to stop at Popenguine Beach to see the famous church. He said, “for 40,000 francs, it’s no problem.” Hmmm. I thought you said 30,000 francs. “Well, yes, I did. But you spoke to my boss and he said 40,000. I have to go by what he says.” I told him that I had 35,000 francs on me and that’s what I would pay. He said “no problem.” (I caved more often and much earlier than usual in these negotiations, but I kind of decided that I wasn’t going to worry about the money. Until I return home to the United States.)

We stopped at Popenguine. The church was simple, but quite lovely with beautiful stained glass windows. I took a picture of the Black Virgin in the sanctuary and left.

I wanted to stop at the Kerr Monastery, as well, but the driver said it was too far. We stopped at a few places along the highway so that I could take pictures, but we basically concentrated on getting it back to Dakar. We got stuck in a construction related traffic jam inside the city and that cost us about an hour of time.

I returned to my hotel room shortly before 7 p.m., ate a bowl of cereal, and went to the bank to withdraw more money. Tomorrow is my last day in Senegal.

I don’t obsess about money, but I’ve tried to include useful information with this blog on the cost over traveling in Senegal. To give you an idea of what a weekend in Saly costs, here’s what I spent.

$80 :: Room
$40 :: Food
$38 :: Bandia Preserve
$26 :: Mbourg Fishing
$75 :: Round Trip Travel
$10 :: Souvenirs

“How much is that doggy in the window?”

June 30, 2005

I have now begun the most challenging part of this journey: bargain hunting. I have been dreading this experience because I hate negotiating with vendors. However, I know that negotiating is both essential and expected. Peddlers always charge more for a product than it is worth, especially to foreigners, especially to white foreigners whom they assume have lots of money. (I don’t!). I was told at the start of this fellowship that I should divide any price a vendor suggests by 4 or 5.

(TIP: I missed an opportunity to save some money in St. Louis the other day. Craft goods are less expensive in the outlying areas, but unfortunately, I only brought enough money for lunch. I actually meant to bring more money, but I left it in my hotel room. I’m not too disappointed, though. Without any shopping money, I was able to concentrate on the island itself. Many tourists are so focused on shopping, they miss the local culture.)

The other problem with shopping — aside from negotiating — is the sheer volume and variety of goods for sale in Dakar. You can find thousands of handcrafted masks from all over West Africa. (Most African countries don’t attract a large tourist trade. Dakar, however, is a tourist destination, so craft goods from throughout the region make their way to the city’s markets.)

I am constantly amazed at the quality of the masks, textiles, and jewelry in the markets. At least, I like what I see. It’s interesting how similar “traditional” African masks and sculptures are to “modern” art. (I am also reminded of the women of Gee’s Bend, Alabama. For generations, these impoverished African American women have been creating quilts featuring the most amazing, abstract designs. An art historian discovered their work around 1995 and it is now shown in museums across the country.) African art was “primitive” until Picasso put it on canvas.

I told myself at the start of this process that I wouldn’t buy anything in the Sandaga market. It is simply too crowded, the pressure to buy too intense. So I am focusing on the craft shops near the Kermel food market and the train station. There are fewer vendors — though they are just as intent on making a sale.

I purchased a mask and wall decoration for 20,000 francs ($40) at a stand Wednesday just before closing time. The vendor initially offered me his “best price” of 115,000 francs ($230). I divided by 5 and held my ground. I feel guilty being “stingy,” but I’m not obligated to overpay. To put this sale in perspective, the average resident of Senegal earns about $1.50 a day. I paid $40 for the masks. Even considering his expenses, I think the vendor had a good day.

As I left, another man grabbed me and tried to sell me a bracelet and necklace. I didn’t have much money left and I didn’t want the bracelets, but he pleaded and pleaded with me. So I bought them.

On Thursday afternoon, I again went shopping. This time I went to a stand on Avenue Albert Sarraut, across from the hospitality school where I ate lunch the day before. Two brothers, Poko and Popo, own the stand. I had spoken to Poko once before and promised to return.

I spent a long time looking at the masks, took a deep breath, and started negotiating. This time, I tried a different tactic. I simply told Poko that I had purchased two masks just down the street the day before for 20,000 francs and that I would pay the same here. He said that I should choose a mask. I chose one. He said it cost 30,000 francs. I explained that I would pay 20,000 for two masks. I said that he could choose the masks and if I liked them, I would buy them — for 20,000 francs. He then showed me a group of masks in my price range. (The mask I initially selected was in a group of larger masks). I chose two masks.

Poko invited me to buy another. I said that I would buy two masks for 20,000 francs or three masks for 25,000. We went back and forth and I bought three masks for 25,000 francs. I gave Poko 30,000 francs. He wrapped the masks. After about five minutes of conversation, I gently reminded him that he owed me some change. He suggested that I buy one of his beautiful statues. I bought the statue.

I took a few pictures of my new friends and turned to make my retreat. A man in a wheelchair blocked my way. Poko introduced me to the man, a friend, and suggested that I visit the man’s shop. The man in the wheelchair pleaded and I agreed to go. We walked down the street. As we went, other shop owners called out to me, hoping that I would abandon my guide, and visit their craft stands.

The man took me to his textile stand. He sold fabric, tapestries, blankets, and some clothing. I looked at this. I looked at that. I took a deep breath and asked the price of a tapestry. He suggested that I buy two or three to get a price break. I selected three and asked the price. He said 115,000 or 150,000 francs. I wasn’t sure exactly what the price was, but I knew that I wouldn’t pay it. I offered 20,000 francs. He countered. I stood firm. He countered. I stood firm.

I found myself in a very stressful situation, sitting on a stool in a tiny shop with three very frustrated market workers. We threw out a blanket and replaced it with a (less expensive) tapestry. The workers suggest two small tapestries and one medium. I suggest two large tapestries and a medium. We negotiate for about 20 minutes. I get up and start to leave twice. After some very stressful bargaining, I walk away with two large tapestries and one small one. Whew!

I manage to walk just a few steps when a woman grabs me by the arm. She has a baby on her back and is balancing a bowl on her head, which holds, I’d guess, about 20 dolls. She wants me to buy a doll. Unfortunately, I am exhausted by my last ordeal and I am not interested in buying anything. I say “Non, merci.” She persists, but this time — unlike the day before — I am not to be swayed. We begin an intense back and forth dialogue as I march determinedly down the street. After about a block and a half, I lose her.

I duck behind the Score grocery store to sort my purchases. I hear a familiar voice, look up, and see the doll lady. She approaches. I retreat. We renew our back and forth dialogue. I am beginning to feel like Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction. Can I ever escape this woman?

Suddenly, miraculously, my injured knee is healed. And I begin to run. I run fast. Very fast. Faster than I have run in many, many years. “Non, merci. Non!” I yell as I run.

It’s a very close contest, but she’s carrying a baby and balancing a bowl on her head and I manage to elude her. (Coincidentally, this is the first day that I have worn my jogging shoes since I arrived in Senegal.)

By the time, I reach my street. It’s rush hour and there’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. I walk in the street, moving with the traffic, on the passenger side of the cars. Peddlers are walking against the traffic on the driver’s side selling various products to the commuters. I see a man selling ironing boards. Another man is selling mops. Large fluorescent lights. Basketballs. Electric fans. You can buy just about anything in the streets of Senegal, a bargain hunter’s paradise where every day is the day after Thanksgiving.

“Attention K-Mart shoppers!”

Ndeysaan/The Price of Forgiveness
(Le Prix du Pardon)
By Mansour Sora Wade (Senegal, 2001)
♥♥♥♥ (out of four — loved it!)
Images courtesy: www.filmfestivalrotterdam.com

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FILM REVIEW/PERSPECTIVE

Love, jealousy, violence; friendship, forgiveness and vengeance. The Price of Forgiveness has it all. It’s a story as old as time: A love triangle that results in tragedy.

Yatma and Mbanik both love Maxoye. Yatma kills Mbanik in a fit of jealousy and is then forced to marry and care for Maxoye. When Maxoye gives birth to Mbanik’s child, Yatma must raise him — the price of forgiveness — with the boy serving as a daily reminder of Yatma’s crime.
With this film, Senegalese director Mansour Wade captures the full complexity and unpredictable quality of human emotion. “What interested me above all in this story is the fact that it shows that personalities are not fixed and determined once and for all,” Wade said. “They evolve and can be often contradictory or ambiguous. My characters express themselves through their weakness and qualities, which are essential, I believe, to show their humanity.“

Wade shot the film in a neighborhood of Dakar, Senegal, among Lebu fishermen. (The Lebu constitute a unique ethnic group within the larger Wolof community. Wade himself is Lebu.) Visually, the film is quite stunning. The opening sequence, showing the fishing village shrouded in fog, is memorable. The Lion Dance, during which Yatma finally wins Maxoye’s forgiveness, is wonderful.

Wade paid particularly close attention to color in crafting his film. “I wanted visual style that shied away from folklore or local colors,” Wade said. “Where costumes and fabrics were concerned, for instance, I used single colors and not the bright fabrics that usually typify African textiles. If a color appears in a scene, it’s there to reflect a particular emotion. For example, for the section in the mist, the colors are duller before becoming brighter in the sunny scenes. In this way, the color provides additional support for the action.” Likewise, during a wedding scene, Wade’s palette is white.

The Price of Freedom is based on a short story of the same name by Mbissane Ngom, a Senegalese writer and schoolteacher. Ngom’s story is based on oral tradition. As is often the case with oral tradition in Africa, there is a mystical quality running through The Price of Forgiveness — the lifting of the mysterious fog, the reincarnated spirit of Mbanik, etc.

“My concern was to show the supernatural and the ordinary existing together without ostentation in a very simple manner, as was the case in my childhood,” Wade said. ”The shark is seen as the reincarnation of Mbanik but above all remains a shark. This shows that believe and pragmatism co-exists in naturally.”

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ABOUT THE DIRECTOR

Mansour Sora Wade was born in Senegal in 1952. He earned a Film Masters degree at university in Paris, and from 1977 to 1985 he was in charge of the audiovisual archive at the Senegalese Ministry of Culture with an emphasis on traditional.

Wade subsequently directed two short films which aspired to be “film folktales” Picc Mi (Little Bird) and Fary, l’anesse (Fary, the Donkey) both of which are available from the Library of African Cinema’s Three Tales from Senegal.

The Price of Forgiveness is his first full-length feature. It has gained several accolades including the jury’s special prize at the Amiens film festival, the Public prize at Fribourg in Switzerland, first prize at the African film festival in Milan Italy and again at the Vues d’Afrique festival in Montreal Canada.

—BBC World Service
—California Newsreel

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DIRECTOR’S CREDITS

Ndeysaan (The Price of Forgiveness) [Film, 2002]
Les Laveurs du Banco [Documentary, 1996]
Les Plasticiennes de Ouakam [Documentary, 1996]
Iso Lo [Documentary, 1994]
Aida Souka [Short film, 1992]
Picc Mi [Short film, Kaany Productions, 1992]
Taal Peex [Documentary, 1990]
Fary L’Anesse [Short film, 1989]
Contrastes [Short film, 1983]
Bi Beggel [Short film, 1979]
L’Avare et L’Etranger [Short film, 1979]
Lambju Mag II [Short film, 1979]

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OTHER VIEWS

Ndeysaan (The Price of Forgiveness) can be appreciated simply as a deeply moving, beautifully acted, visually stunning story of love, betrayal and redemption. But it can also be read as an attempt, conscious or unconscious, to reconcile or negotiate traditional and modern sensibilities, a film whose ambiguities are often as fascinating as its certainties.

Ndeysaan’s ambivalence stems from the artistic aspirations of the novelist who wrote it and the filmmaker who adapted it to the screen. Novelist Mbissane Ngom was educated in French colonial schools and wrote his novel Le Prix du Pardon in French; at the same time he wanted to preserve some memory of his own culture, the Lébou ethnic group of fishermen on the Southern coast of Senegal.

Director Mansour Sora Wade (also a Lébou) worked for eight years as an archivist on traditional culture for the Senegalese Ministry of Culture. He subsequently directed two short films which aspired to be “film folktales” Picc Mi (Little Bird) and Fary, l’anesse (Fary, the Donkey) both of which are available from the Library of African Cinema’s Three Tales from Senegal

In Ndeysaan, Wade moves beyond the folklore developing an epic style which resembles in spirit the storytelling techniques of a traditional griot. This does not prevent the film from experimenting with puppetry to recount mythic events, employing special visual effects and using a soundtrack by Youssou N’Dour and Wasis Diop. Still, the filmmaker deliberately shied away from using the uncharacteristically flamboyant costumes which have become cliches in some African films for the more authentic muted tones which everyday African fishermen would wear. “I privileged unified colors: white symbolizes purity, wisdom, red is a sign of blood and passion, black represents guilt and death.”

At the same time, Wade brings to the story inevitably modernist attitudes. He writes:” What interested me most in this story is the fact that it shows that personalities are not fixed and determined once and for all. They evolve and can often be contradictory or ambiguous.” Similarly, the film’s opening epigram emphasizes, in contrast to the traditionalist’s commitment to repetition and stasis, a more contemporary focus on progress and mutability. “Price of forgiveness, oh life! The world moves on and people change; yesterday is not today.” As a result of the film’s belief in the possibility of change, the initial villain turns into a kind of hero, while the original hero ends up almost as a villain.

Wade makes his characters ambivalent too, torn between their traditional roles and their own desires. For example, Mbanick is the son of the village of Timberling’s marabout, Baay Sogi; they are descendants of a man who fought so courageously against a shark, “the lord of the sea,” that his line inherited the power of transformation, of the ocean’s fluidity and mutability. Although his father lies dying, Mbanick does not want to have his secret knowledge passed on to him. Timberling urgently needs a marabout because it is engulfed in a dense fog making it impossible for the fishermen to pursue their livelihood; this is perhaps symbolic of the ignorance and superstition of the villagers. Mbanick suggests sarcastically that people would do better relying on themselves than on their ancestors.

Nonetheless, after Baay Sogi’s death Mbanick is overtaken by a violent and mysterious illness as his father’s spirit enters him. He then makes a pirogue out of the tree under which his father is buried and sails fearlessly into the fog returning with a boatload of fish. The fog mysteriously lifts, the film’s palette lightens and Mbanick becomes a hero to the villagers. He is especially admired by a young boy, Amul, who like Mbanick, has resisted his father’s desire that he carry on his own caste role as a griot, signified by his party-colored patchwork clothes.

Mbanick’s best friend, Yatma, is the son of Peer, whose wealthy family derives its power from an ancestor who outwitted a lion, the “king of the savanna.” Yatma also is in love with Moxoye and, when he sees Mbanick and her making love, he is driven mad with jealousy. He follows Mbanick into the brush and bludgeons him to death with a rock. Although he tries to cover-up his crime by dumping the mortally wounded Mbanick at sea, everyone in the village knows who the real culprit is but they are too afraid of Peer’s authority to demand retribution.

Maxoye then agrees to marry Yatma, but she does so only to make life miserable for him; she will not let him touch her and he must bring up the child she conceived and named after Mbanick. Yatma is plagued by regret and does everything to win Maxoye’s respect; he showers her with gifts, which she disdainfully rejects, and is a good step father to Mbanick’s son . He even participates in a ritual where he plays a fierce lion tamed by the villagers. With the passage of time Timberling pardons Yatma and he and Maxoye have a child of their own. Nonetheless when Yatma visits a marabout to see how he can expiate his act, he is told that he can never be forgiven and will die if he goes out to sea during the coming year.

When Amul takes the young Mbanick out to sea to meet his father, Yatma, despite the earlier warning, rows out to save them. Yatma leaps into the water, challenging the shark, Mbanick’s embodiment, to exact his revenge and he is killed. For many viewers the price of pardon may seem very high indeed; in fact there has been no pardon at all. In the end it is ironically the “lord of the sea” who seems unable to change. We are told, however, that as the result of Yatma’s sacrifice and example even the “sea learned to forgive.” Here the film resonates unexpectedly with contemporary debates over the death penalty and punishment versus rehabilitation. In a final irony, the film is summarized by an aged griot, presumably Amul, who has despite his youthful reservations followed in his father’s footsteps. He says that Timberling has vanished and the story of Yatma, Mbanick and Maxoye has been washed away to the farthest corner of the oceans. The medium of film, of course, has fixed the oral story and made it possible to give it continued life around the world.

Mansour Sora Wade writes about his film “My concern was to show that ordinary life and the supernatural can exist together without ostentation as was the case in my childhood, showing that belief and pragmatism co-exist naturally.” Whether he has merely embodied these tensions or resolved them, viewers will have to decide for themselves. But all will agree that he has made a film of exceptional beauty exploring the uneasy co-existence of past and present that many Africans feel in the 21st century.

—California Newsreel

A Walk in the Night
By Mickey Mododa Dube (South Africa, 1998)
♥♥1/2 (out of four – I could have loved this a little more.)

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FILM REVIEW/PERSPECTIVE

It’s been a while since I’ve seen the “Irish Drunk” in a film, but Mickey Mododa Dube revives this stock character to ill effect in A Walk in the Night, a film about a “colored” man’s experience in post-apartheid South Africa.

“Mikey” is a popular, handsome mixed-race “Adonis” living in Johannesburg. Seething with resentment over racial discrimination (though exhibiting a few of his own racial biases), Mickey enters a downward spiral after loosing his job — unjustly — at a local steel mill.

Mikey is intended as a kind of Hamlet figure. The movie takes its name from the ghost-walking scene in Act 1 of Shakespeare’s tragedy. “I am the father’s spirit doomed for a certain time to walk the night.” Like Hamlet, Mikey’s position has been usurped (in Mikey’s case by the white minority in South Africa), his “uncle” has had an affair with his mother, and Mikey reacts violently.

The best thing about Mickey is that he’s a fully realized, three-dimensional character. He’s a good man, but he has flaws. He’s a victim but no saint.

There are a number of problems with Dube’s movie, though. It’s longer than it needs to be. The Irish character is overdrawn to the point of caricature. The references to Hamlet are unnecessary, distracting, and poorly done. (In the Alex La Guma novella of the same name, Shakespeare is quoted once, yet he’s all over this film.) Dube also has a weird habit of injecting bebop music every time he cuts to a chase scene. It’s like he’s signaling the viewer: Ok, this is the action stuff.

It’s interesting to note that La Guma, himself a colored South African, wrote his novella in 1962, yet the film is set in post-apartheid South Africa. It’s sad to think — though not necessarily surprising given the brief passage of time —that racial attitudes haven’t changed much since 1994. It’s also interesting to note that director Mickey Dube exhibits much of same bitterness in his own life as “Mikey” did in the movie. (See “about the director” below.)

A Walk in the Night is sometimes overcooked, but it’s still a treat.

—Mike Gormley

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FILM CONTEXT

A. Hamlet

Although you don’t need to know Hamlet to appreciate this film, it helps to recall a few facts about the play. After all, La Guma took his title from Shakespeare’s play and clearly conceives Mike as a tormented Hamlet figure.

The film’s title and the scene Uncle Doughty performs are from the play’s first act, where Hamlet encounters his father’s ghost on the battlements of Elsinore. His father tells him he is forced “to walk the night” and burn in fire all day to purge his sins. He tells Hamlet that he was murdered by his brother, Claudius, who poured poison in his ear and who has now ascended the throne and married his wife, Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude. The ghost begs Hamlet to take revenge upon the usurper so that his soul can be at ease. Something indeed was “rotten in the state of Denmark,” only here it’s South Africa and the usurpers are the white settlers who have taken the land away from its indigenous owners.

Gormley Note: The ‘Mikey’ character doesn’t technically qualify as part of South africa’s indegenous population.

Uncle Doughty is also in some ways parallel to Hamlet’s Uncle Claudius, even down to having had an affair with Mike’s late mother. On the other hand, Mike’s attack on Uncle Doughty sets nothing right and results only in the old man’s unintentional death and that of Joey, the boy who Mike had tried to protect. Hamlet/Mike does not die heroically but has to live on with the consequences of his acts.

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B. Race terms

It may be useful to clarify the meaning of “Colored” in South Africa’s very elaborate former racial nomenclature. Viewers may notice that at the beginning of the film Mike is outraged that the white worker calls him a “kaffir,” the South African equivalent of “nigger,” not so much because he used a racial slur but an inaccurate one.

In South Africa “kaffir” was generally applied to black South African descendants of the bantu-speaking people of the region. Coloured was a category referring to people of mixed race, specifically the products of mixing between the early Dutch settlers and the indigenous Khoikhoi or San people (and later with enslaved peoples from the East).

Colored people in South Africa speak primarily Afrikaans and for hundreds of years have constituted a lower caste within Afrikaaner society.

During the first presidential election with universal suffrage in 1994, the Western Cape province, where much of the Colored population resides, actually voted for the Nationalist Party rather than for Nelson Mandela’s ANC. At the same time, as “grand apartheid” was implemented during the 1950s and ’60s, the Colored population increasingly found themselves subject to the repressive policies of forced removals, job restrictions, and disenfranchisement similar to that of black South Africans. Many Colored played a vigorous role in the anti-apartheid movement.

C. The novelist

Alex La Guma (1925-1986), the son of a leading early anti-apartheid activist and a Colored South African, was imprisoned twice for his political activities - in 1956 as part of the Treason Trials and in 1962 for progressive journalism. He wrote A Walk in the Night while under house arrest and it was originally published outside the country in Nigeria. In 1967 he fled South Africa for Britain, dying in exile in 1986 while the ANC’s representative in Cuba.

Duma’s original story was set in the 1950s in Cape Town’s multi-racial District Six, which was ultimately razed by apartheid authorities. Although the protagonists are still from the Colored community, the film version transports the story to post-apartheid Johannesburg.

— adapted from California Newsreel

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ABOUT THE DIRECTOR

The filmmaker, Mickey Madoda Dube, was born in Soweto in 1960 and studied drama at the University of Witswatersrand and film on a Fulbright at the University of Southern California. Since returning to South Africa, he has collaborated in a series of short story adaptations as well as produced eight dramas and a five part series on the Truth and Justice Commission for the South African Broadcasting Corporation.

Before leaving Los Angeles to return to South Africa, Mickey Dube hoped to make films. Feature films. A few months before returning to Johannesburg, he presented Imbazo (The Axe) at the 1995 Ouagadougou Pan-African Cinema and Television Festival (Fespaco). This short film went on to win many prizes in a range of festivals but was never shown in South Africa.

Now aged 40, Mickey Dube feels that he has achieved nothing over the last six years. He (denounces the) SABC. “This service is nepotistic, corrupt, and racist,” he now says. “90 to 98% of the work is given to whites, and over half to friends, including a travesty of a production company: It is supposedly black … but is run by whites. The outcome is that no black producer has ever signed a single contract. It’s disgusting.”

He set up his own company, Waapiti Productions, and then invested his own money to produce A Walk in the Night in 1997. This television drama, based on a short story by the South African author Alex La Guma, tells the story of a mixed-race man who is so frustrated by his environment that he kills his white neighbor. Even though co-financed by the Ministry of Arts and Culture and the SABC, it has never been programmed. “Its broadcast has been cancelled three times without me being told why,” explains the director.

In 1998, at the request of an independent production company, Mickey Dube directed an episode of the (this time broadcasted) television series Saints, Sinners and Settlers, which dramatized the imaginary testimonies of great figures of the past before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. That same year, Dube’s first — and only — feature film, A Walk in the Night, was released. In 2000, he directed the South African version of the children’s program Sesame Street, broadcast by the SABC. He resorts to making advertising and promotional films to earn his living. And admits that he is terribly disillusioned. To the point of wondering whether or not he would have been better off staying in Los Angeles.

— www.africultures.com/anglais/ articles_anglais/40dube.htm
— California Newsreel

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FILM SUMMARY

A Walk in the Night is one of the first films from a new generation of talented young black South African filmmakers who have become active since the overthrow of apartheid in 1994. Mickey Madoda Dube’s debut feature adapts Alex La Guma’s celebrated 1962 novella of the same name into a fast-paced crime thriller set in present day Johannesburg. The fact that this story could be so convincingly updated to the present indicates how little racial power dynamics in South Africa have changed. The fact that this program was produced and broadcast by the government owned South African Broadcasting Corporation shows how much they have.

Dube’s film adaptation shifts the emphasis of La Guma’s story in several significant ways. For example, by moving the location from Capetown’s vibrant District 6 in the 1950s to a drab, working class Johannesburg neighborhood today, the original story’s Colored flavor has become more generic, non-white South Africans. In fact, the milieu of police brutality, frustrated young men and omnipresent crime which Dube so powerfully evokes, will be immediately recognizable to anyone familiar with our own inner cities. Dube’s script also tightens the personal ties between the major characters, condensing the drama and heightening the ultimate sense of tragedy. In so doing, he is perhaps suggesting that the fate of all South Africans has become more closely intertwined than ever before.

Dube frames his film with references to the ghost-walking scene in Act 1 of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In La Guma’s original, the bard is quoted only once, although, significantly, the novella takes its title from this passage: “I am thy father’s spirit doomed for a certain term to walk the night.” The central character, Mikey, is clearly intended to have parallels with Hamlet. His patrimony has also been unjustly usurped, in this case, by South Africa’s white supremacist regime. Mikey’s “Uncle” Doughty, like Hamlet’s uncle Claudius, has had an affair with his mother and Mikey ends up killing him, though this brings not resolution but further tragedy. The sordid nightscape of Johannesburg and the flashing sparks of the steel mill where Mikey worked evoke the Hell from which the ghost seeks release through his son’s revenge.

A Walk in the Night recounts a single terrible night when the fragile world of Mikey Adonis, a young Colored steel worker, disintegrates. As the pressures on Mikey build, we see a decent man driven to an act of brutality by a racist society which humiliates him at every turn. The parallels with Richard Wright’s seminal portrait of black rage in Native Son are unavoidable. Mikey has just been fired from his job because he objected when his foreman called him “kaffir,” a racial epithet. Coming out of the factory, he runs into his girlfriend’s brother Joey, an “at risk” youth dabbling in male prostitution and drug running in response to South Africa’s 40% black unemployment rate. Mikey, a respected father figure for the boy, tries to save him from the gangster life-style but realizes that his own recent work experience doesn’t offer a very promising alternative. Next his girlfriend, Zelda, tells him she is pregnant, the day he has lost the job he would need to support a family. Finally, on his way home, a racist cop harasses him for no other reason than to force Mikey to call him “baas,” stripping away whatever dignity Mikey might have left.

Mikey begins a drinking binge with his Uncle Doughty, a harmless neighborhood drunk and broken down Irish actor who was close to his mother and him as a child. As the evening wears on, Mikey becomes more offended by Uncle Doughty’s presumptions of intimacy, telling him he doesn’t have a white uncle. Like many well-meaning white people Uncle Doughty fails to recognize the radical gap between what they experience and the disrespect a black man encounters every day. When Uncle Doughty persists in calling him, “Mikey, my boy,” saying that, “It’s just a manner of speech,” Mikey explodes and in a rage kills him. The film has shown how words can build up incrementally with an almost physical force until the most casual social encounter can seem to encapsulate an entire oppressive social system with devastating consequences.

Joey visits Mikey soon after Uncle Doughty’s murder and is mistakenly accused of the crime; he flees into the night pursued by the police. Mikey chases after him, appalled at what he has done to Uncle Doughty and Joey. But he is too late to prevent the same rogue cop who harassed him earlier from shooting Joey at point blank range. The policeman then turns his gun on Mikey but, in a radical departure from the original novella, he is shot by his white partner before he can shoot Mikey. However improbable this may seem, it suggests that, although racism is still rampant in post-apartheid South Africa, it is now possible for some to see things in terms of basic human rights instead of ethnic loyalty. An angry crowd has gathered around Joey’s shooting and, in the film’s last scene, they march into the dawn out of the long night of apartheid with somber determination.

[ Gormley: This is wrong. They do not march out of the night with “somber determination” They pursue the white police officer in anger, intent on killing him. ]

Mikey is no Hamlet; rather than a dead tragic hero, he is a man living with his deeply flawed actions. In the last scenes, there is little sense of vindication yet a catharsis of sorts has occurred, at least for the viewer, a resolution to stop this tragedy from repeating itself. By updating an apartheid era story into the post-apartheid period, Mickey Dube has squarely confronted the central issue facing South Africa and its cinema: how both to reveal the pentimento of the past persistent in the present and at the same time show that new, non-racialist scenarios are available for the future.

—California Newsreel

Keita: Voice of the Griot
By Dani Kouyate (Burkina Faso/ France, 1994)
♥♥♥ (out of four – loved it)

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FILM REVIEW/PERSPECTIVE

Keita: Voice of the Griot tells two stories: The story of a boy learning his family history and that history itself. Both stories are interesting in their own right.

The boy, Mabo Keita, is a grade school student in contemporary Burkina Faso. One day, an old man from an outlying village — a “griot” — visits Mabo to teach the boy the origin of his name. From that point, director Dani Kouyate pivots between the life of Mabo and of Mabo’s ancestor, Sundjata Keota.

The story of Sundjata, as recounted in this movie, is moving. Sundjata is the son of a village chief and a disabled women. Sundjata is also disabled. He spends much of his childhood dragging himself about with his hands. He cannot stand. He cannot walk. He does not speak. He and his mother are virtual outcasts in their village. Sundjata’s half-brother usurps the throne when Sundjata’s father dies.

Young Mabo’s life isn’t quite as dramatic, though it becomes more complicated as Mabo becomes more absorbed in his family’s history. He begins to ignore his school work, bringing him into conflict with his teacher, mother, and neighbors.

Director Kouyate poses an old age question: What does a child need to know? What knowledge is important to a young person’s development? Kouyate suggests that “traditional” knowledge — such as the knowledge of a person’s family history —is important, though it does not negate the importance of a contemporary education. (Kouyate once told an American academic that he believes children benefit from a synthesis of the old and the new.)

Keita: Voice of the Griot is an interesting, if not riveting, movie. You’ll enjoy the Sundjata Epic and the story of Mabo.

—Michael Gormley

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FILM CONTEXT

A. The Sundjata Epic

The Sundjata Epic tells the story of Sundjat Keoto, the man responsible for the Malian trading empire. Set in the early 13th century, the epic gives the wide-spread Mandé people a legend explaining their common origin and subsequent division into castes or clan families. An oral recitation of the poem with musical accompaniment can last sixty hours. This film recounts only a part of the epic: the events surrounding the birth, boyhood and exile of Sundjata.

— California Newsreel

B. Griotage

While Africans have had written languages for centuries, Africa has historically had a low literacy rate. As a result, oral tradition has been — and remains —important in most African cultures. (Some people in the United States say African Americans are disadvantaged when it comes to standardized tests because their culture is “oral” as opposed to “written.” What do you think?)

“Griots” (gree-ohs) are storytellers who maintain oral traditions in West Africa. You cannot apply to be griot. It is a hereditary position. There are still griots in Africa today, though some of them have gained a bad reputation for offering flattery at any price. There are female griots, though most griots are important.

Griots are important to African cinema in two ways, both illustrated in this movie. First, the griots’ stories can be wonderful source material for films. Second, griot characters often appear in films and in some way drive the action of the film.

It’s worth noting that Director Kouyate calls himself a griot by birth. “I am lucky to live in the century of cinema. The movies are a fabulous instrument for a griot!” Kouyate says.

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FILM SUMMARY

Keita creates a unique world where the West Africa of the 13th Century Sundjata Epic and the West Africa of today co-exist and interpenetrate. Director Dani Kouyaté frames his dramatization of the epic within the story of Mabo Keïta, contemporary boy from Burkina Faso, learning the history of his family. During the film, Mabo and his distant ancestor, Sundjata, engage in parallel quests to understand their destinies, to “know the meaning of their names.” In so doing, Keita makes the case for an “Afrocentric” education, where African tradition, not an imported Western curricula is the necessary starting point for African development.

Both ancient and modern storylines are initiated by the mysterious appearance of a hunter, a passerby representing destiny who intervenes at strategic moments to propel Sundjata and Mabo on their journeys. The hunter both foretells the birth of Sundjata to the Mandé court and, eight centuries later, rouses Djéliba (or Great Griot) Kouyaté to go to the city and initiate young Mabo into the secrets of his origin. The Kouyatés have always served as the Keïtas’ griots, bards (jeli) belonging to a discrete Mandé caste or endogamous occupational group, who alone perform certain types of poetry and divination.

The griot’s arrival creates tension in the Keita household especially between Mabo and his mother and his school-teacher, who stand for a Westernized lifestyle ignorant of African tradition. Mabo becomes so caught up in the griot’s story that he stops studying for exams, day-dreams in class and eventually skips school to tell the story to other boys.

The film pointedly contrasts the moral depth of the griot’s teachings with the sterile, culturally irrelevant facts which constitute Mabo’s “Eurocentric” education. For example, the griot first comes upon Mabo while he is studying the Western “creation myth,” Darwin’s theory of evolution, of a universe ruled only by chance and the “survival of the fittest.” In contrast, Mandé myth holds that human history is suffused with purpose and that every person has a particular destiny within it. By listening to The Sundjata Epic present-day Mandé listeners like Mabo can perceive the working out of destiny in history and see their own lives as part of a continuing narrative flow.

The Sundjata Epic, which Mabo hears recounts the life of Sundjata Keota (sometimes spelled Sundiata or Son-Jara Keyta,) the man responsible for turning his nation into the great Malian trading empire. Set in the early 13th century, the epic provides the wide-spread Mandé people a legend explaining their common origin and subsequent division into castes or clan families. An oral recitation of the complete poem with musical accompaniment can last close to sixty hours. But, this film, like most performances, recounts only a part of the epic, here the events surrounding the birth, boyhood and exile of Sundjata. (This corresponds to lines 356 to 1647 in the standard translation, Johnson, John William. The Epic of Son-Jara: A West African Tradition, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992.)

Sundjata’s quest, like Mabo’s, requires the successful reconciliation or integration of two types of power represented by his paternal and maternal lineages. His father, Maghan Kon Fatta Konati a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed, has brought barika or law and progress to human society. In contrast, Sundjata’s mother, Sogolon, and his grandmother, the Buffalo Woman of Do, rely on pre-Islamic occult powers or nyama. Their potentially disruptive effect on human civilization is symbolized by their habit of turning into ferocious animal “doubles.”

Sundjata himself, hexed at birth by his mother’s co-wife, must crawl across the earth, scorned as a “reptile.” A Mandé proverb explains: “The great tree must first push its roots deep into the earth.” When the climactic moment arrives for Sundjata to walk erect like a man, he tries to lift himself up with a seven-forged iron rod, symbolizing man-made technology. Even this cracks beneath his strength, so the hunter reappears and instructs Sogolon to fetch a supple branch of the sun sun tree which has the nyama to hold Sundjata’s weight. Thus, the hero must harness natural and supernatural powers to fulfill his heroic destiny.

In the film’s final scene, the griot disappears, and for the first time Mabo directly confronts the hunter; after hearing the epic, he is finally in touch with his destiny. At this point, the stories of the two Keotas intersect; history and legend, event and destiny have been brought into alignment. Indeed, in making this film, Dani Kouyaté (who shares the name of the griot) succeeds in fulfilling the “meaning of his name.” He has used a quintessentially 20th century invention, motion pictures, to insure that The Sundjata Epic is passed on as an inspiring force in the lives of young Africans everywhere.