A Kingdom by the Sea

The song of tropical birds.  Giant waves thundering against rocks dramatic enough to be straight out of The Little Mermaid.  Exotic buildings with seashell ensconced walls.  Multicolored mosquito nets that look more like princess canopies than functional insect-trappers.  We spent a dreamlike weekend at Toubab Dialaw, an artist commune, and none of us ever wanted to leave!

Three weeks into the semester, and I think we were all in need of a break.  The first week with my family, I was somewhat of the American novelty—neighboring host families would come to visit, and I could only imagine the ensuing Wolof conversations: “You’ll never believe what my toubab did this time!”  And then the second week came around, and it was if they all begin to realize at once, “Oh. She really lives here now!”  Making the transition from entertaining visitor to actual daughter and sister has been an interesting process—especially as the family has gone through its own changes, what with Korité over and people heading back to homes in France, Mauritania, and northern Senegal.  Last week, I shared a home with mothering albeit bossy older sisters along with their passel of children; now it’s just me and my parents, my 30 year-old brother Max, and two newly arrived cousins my age from Mauritania, Baba and Ibrahima. 

One of the towers of our hotel

After an idyllic weekend of swimming in the Atlantic, taking Batik painting lessons, and following up a spectacle of drumming and dance with a moonlit stroll on the beach, it was a little hard to imagine going back to the dusty, bustling chaos of Dakar.  I had thought Dakar was the ultimate “mélange” of life, but now I am seeing Senegal itself as one of those puzzles from a Highlights magazine (remember those from elementary school?) where you have to find the images that do not belong in the scene.  Except here the incredible thing is that it all does belong.  This remote, serene beachside kingdom of artists and expats; Dakar with its Mercedes and horse-and-buggies alike—they’re both Senegal, and I absolutely love it!

Saturday morning before I left the city, I made some joke to Papy Jo about how I was sure to enjoy Toubab Dialaw as I myself am a toubab (the Wolof word for foreigner).  Immediately Papy Jo shook his head, insisting, “No, my daughter, you are not a toubab!”  Thinking he meant that because I was part of his family, I was pretty touched.  That is, until he continued by explaining that historically only the French are toubabs and I am actually a “Caine,” short for the French word americaine.  So it looks like I have just traded one slur for another—but hey, at least now I can properly correct all the street vendors that hiss, “toubab, toubab, toubab” as I walk by…or maybe not!

Till Next Time,

Janelle—the Caine

The view from our porch at Touabab Dialaw