Gammou
Hello all,
I went to Tivaouane for Gamou, the religious pilgrimage there. For those of you who read my posts religiously, Tivaouane was the not so friendly religious city that I visited some months ago. Once a year there is a large religious pilgrimage there to visit the marabout of the Tidjians, one of the numerous Islamic brotherhoods in the country. The brotherhoods resemble sects much as marabouts resemble imams- they are all culturall-influenced offshoots of Islam. Brotherhoods and marabouts, religous leaders with special powers, stem from the mixing of Islamic practices and doctrine with animist practices and tendencies. One may call them cultural creations, so much as one may call evangelism an American cultural creation.
A few weeks ago was Maggal, the grand pigrimage of the Mourid brotherhood to Touba. Gamou is a lesser version of it, to the extent that two million people, not three, pour into a city of fifty thousand. Myself and a fellow volunteer decided to take up the open invitation of the volunteer stationed in town. The house that housed the volunteer there, besides having to put up with an additional two American, hosted over a hundred and fifty Senegalese. The cow that was slaughtered for the occasion barely made do for a single dinner. Food was served in gigantic mixing bowls, a dozen or so to each. People slept huddled together on the concrete floor- the lucky ones, at least, who werent relegated to the big tent in the front yard. There were babies everywhere, children everywhere, old women yelling in the usual tone of conversation of Wolof women. The single outdoor bathroom reached capacity early, and the drop-down toilet remained filled to the brim. The man of the house, taking stock of the situation, decided it best to spend the night with the neighbors. That left the run of the house to the women and the sugar-saturated children.
Stepping out into the city was more of a spectacle. Tivaouane during normal times resembles a fully equipped city lacking a sufficient number of residents. During Gamou it resembles an ill equipped city lacking a single square inch of breathing space. The streets were filled to the brim with pilgrims and the sidewalks with faithful merchants of commerce. Sandwich stalls, fruit sellers, and t-shirt, jewelery and sunglass stands all kept the moving throng glued to the edges of the streets, preventing it from moving at a reasonable pace. VIP cars had to be ushered to the mosque by gendarmes- rifle-toting escorts who slowly dispersed crowds with whistles and authority.
The normally-empty mosque square, a sandy open space between the two main mosques that could fit a small airport, was equally filled to capacity, lined with pilgrims off to see the marabout. Seeing the marabout is much like seeing the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz. The marabout sits behind a curtain and revelers come to pray, ask that wishes be granted, and generally revel in the marabouts presence. Whether or not hes really there you never know, and I would be loathe to speculate on the authenticity of his powers. Nevertheless, the crowds stretched long and far in hopes of such a conference.
The city noticeably filled with each passing hour. The afternoon of our arrival had the atmostphere of a carnival. By that evening walking the streets felt like being a crowd leaving a baseball stadium after a game. The next day, the whole city felt like being trapped in the New York subway during rush hour on a busy day. It was a great thing to see, but after one day the fellow visiting volunteer and myself had had enough sensory overload. Even having a private space, being three to a room, wasnt enough to stave off the impending feeling of claustrophobia. And so, one day into the pilgrimage, before the crowd had even reached critical mass, before the big night of religious chanting in every house and tent and stadium in town, the other visiting volunteer and I packed our bags and left . After being forced to sit down to a hearty dinner, we headed off to the garage. We weaved through the haphazard rows of empty car rapides and the waves of newly-arriving pilgrims, and just before dusk we hit the road on a short trip back to reality.
I went to Tivaouane for Gamou, the religious pilgrimage there. For those of you who read my posts religiously, Tivaouane was the not so friendly religious city that I visited some months ago. Once a year there is a large religious pilgrimage there to visit the marabout of the Tidjians, one of the numerous Islamic brotherhoods in the country. The brotherhoods resemble sects much as marabouts resemble imams- they are all culturall-influenced offshoots of Islam. Brotherhoods and marabouts, religous leaders with special powers, stem from the mixing of Islamic practices and doctrine with animist practices and tendencies. One may call them cultural creations, so much as one may call evangelism an American cultural creation.
A few weeks ago was Maggal, the grand pigrimage of the Mourid brotherhood to Touba. Gamou is a lesser version of it, to the extent that two million people, not three, pour into a city of fifty thousand. Myself and a fellow volunteer decided to take up the open invitation of the volunteer stationed in town. The house that housed the volunteer there, besides having to put up with an additional two American, hosted over a hundred and fifty Senegalese. The cow that was slaughtered for the occasion barely made do for a single dinner. Food was served in gigantic mixing bowls, a dozen or so to each. People slept huddled together on the concrete floor- the lucky ones, at least, who werent relegated to the big tent in the front yard. There were babies everywhere, children everywhere, old women yelling in the usual tone of conversation of Wolof women. The single outdoor bathroom reached capacity early, and the drop-down toilet remained filled to the brim. The man of the house, taking stock of the situation, decided it best to spend the night with the neighbors. That left the run of the house to the women and the sugar-saturated children.
Stepping out into the city was more of a spectacle. Tivaouane during normal times resembles a fully equipped city lacking a sufficient number of residents. During Gamou it resembles an ill equipped city lacking a single square inch of breathing space. The streets were filled to the brim with pilgrims and the sidewalks with faithful merchants of commerce. Sandwich stalls, fruit sellers, and t-shirt, jewelery and sunglass stands all kept the moving throng glued to the edges of the streets, preventing it from moving at a reasonable pace. VIP cars had to be ushered to the mosque by gendarmes- rifle-toting escorts who slowly dispersed crowds with whistles and authority.
The normally-empty mosque square, a sandy open space between the two main mosques that could fit a small airport, was equally filled to capacity, lined with pilgrims off to see the marabout. Seeing the marabout is much like seeing the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz. The marabout sits behind a curtain and revelers come to pray, ask that wishes be granted, and generally revel in the marabouts presence. Whether or not hes really there you never know, and I would be loathe to speculate on the authenticity of his powers. Nevertheless, the crowds stretched long and far in hopes of such a conference.
The city noticeably filled with each passing hour. The afternoon of our arrival had the atmostphere of a carnival. By that evening walking the streets felt like being a crowd leaving a baseball stadium after a game. The next day, the whole city felt like being trapped in the New York subway during rush hour on a busy day. It was a great thing to see, but after one day the fellow visiting volunteer and myself had had enough sensory overload. Even having a private space, being three to a room, wasnt enough to stave off the impending feeling of claustrophobia. And so, one day into the pilgrimage, before the crowd had even reached critical mass, before the big night of religious chanting in every house and tent and stadium in town, the other visiting volunteer and I packed our bags and left . After being forced to sit down to a hearty dinner, we headed off to the garage. We weaved through the haphazard rows of empty car rapides and the waves of newly-arriving pilgrims, and just before dusk we hit the road on a short trip back to reality.
posted by Unknown at 5:42 AM
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