The Power of a Laugh
If smiles are the universal language, then laughter extrudes fluency. There is nothing like laughter to bring together people, families, nations. And so here, in the small fishing village of Niodior, smiles and laughter are key to center the cacophony of languages misunderstood.
In the vibrant whirlwind that is our home, at least for a handful of days more, every individual has been able to grab on to wisps of all that Senegal has to offer. For some it is language or music or new friendships. Others have learned about culture, religion, or even themselves. But we all, without fail, have perfected the “I don’t know what you’re saying but I hope it’s not a question” smile and laugh.
These moments are horribly confusing at their worst and just plain awkward at their best. Fortunately for us, young and old Senegalese are at the very least understanding and so often willing to help. Be it an answer prompt and then a chance to repeat the interaction or the use of animated gestures to express points, if both parties are determined, conversations will occur. And occur they have. Even on such a small island, interesting people and conversations are abundant if you just look. And yet, perhaps my most meaningful conversations have not been the ones with my host brother on interesting global issues or the quiet interactions with the elders in my host family, but the ones based purely on laughter.
On Niodior I live in a compound full of families not even all related. I have ten host moms. Yes ten. Between them they speak French, Wolof, and Sereer. I speak English and some French. Conversations are always choppy. But honestly, that’s probably for the best. It makes even simple requests difficult, but provides so many hilarious misunderstandings.
Take the day I fasted with my family. As night fell, an older man handed me a few dates. Without thinking, I took a bite. The man starts laughing, as does my host brother. Slowly everyone in the compound is at least giggling. Someone pulls out his phone. Sept minutes he says. Seven minutes. There is nothing to do but laugh. I pretend to be mad at the man who handed me dates. The grandfather of the compound hands me a mint as a joke. In fractured French I thank him, then jokingly ask if he has any more food I can eat before the sun goes down. When it is truly time to break fast, the same man hands me another date. Chaotic peace falls over the compound. I am at home.The routine at each is fairly uniform. You sit at one of the benches where some regulars eye you with vague curiosity before returning to their bowl of beans and potatoes. The proprietor sits behind a table, piled high with eggs, spices, tapa lapa and various twisted and worn cooking implements. She smiles and the creases all over her face fold into each other. She motions for you to sit as she quickly assembles her ingredients. You watch her cut the onions with speed and dexterity, dicing them completely in 20 seconds without putting them down once. She cracks the eggs and beats in the dirt colored Adja spices that she sprinkles in from each small recycled container of chocolate spread. When she reaches for the homemade mayonnaise that has likely been sitting in the stall for a few hours, you interject ‘tutti rekk’ attempting to control the ratio of mayo to filling.
You can choose your own ingredients: nebe, beans slowly simmered in tomato sauce and spices, often leftover from last night’s dinner: potatoes cut chunky and cooked til golden: the omelette itself, usually more fried than sauteed in the generous helping of oil heated on the furno’s glowing coals. She roughly flips the rapidly cooking eggs with with one hand as she reaches for the thick short loaves of doughy tapa lapa. A deft slice and the whole loaf is ready to absorb the excess oil leftover from her ministrations. The slightly crispy and salty eggs go in first followed by spoonfuls of beans packed alongside. She rips a piece of butcher paper or foreign language newspaper off the crackling pile and wraps the middle to alleviate the oily fingers, which the average toubab cannot avoid. ‘Am’ she says ‘take this.’ The question of beverage soon follows and you will inevitably consume a significant amount of spicy sweet Cafe Touba or kinkeleba tea. The first bite is to be savored, then you quickly chow down on the rest in order to make it back to the campement for morning check in.
The woman (Awa, Fatou, Ramata) continues the dance of the tangana (the name of these stalls, literally ‘it is hot’) as you munch the sandwich. You sip the thick coffee while her hands dart around the table. She can converse freely, accustomed to these motions from years of experience. She has seen the success of the gold mining rise and fall, the somber men who visit her benches coming and going with their fluctuations. She sees the new arrivals to her hometown, from the Malian migrants to the foreign companies to the Nigerian prostitutes, and continues frying and pouring. There’s peace in the routine, a beautiful choreography of clicking and stirring and greeting all at once. And then you pay your 400 CFA (maybe 300 if you have the same last name as she does) and draw aside the Spongebob sheets, back onto the dusty red laterite roads of Kedougou.
Anastasia Maranto Senegal: In the Shade of the Baobab Tree
