I returned to Ndioum
early one morning when a chill was carried into town by the harmattan, the wind of
the Moors that raises a golden-yellow dust in the rising sun, shrouding houses, wheelbarrows
and animals in the mist, and making silhouettes appear to emerge as if they were
stepping out from behind a curtain. Even the tar seemed to be born with each step
I took.
The paved road now runs across Ndioum from one end to the other. But the “avenue,”
as it is called, has stirred up many controversies… The thoroughfare has enabled
motorists to drive across the Fouta region in any season. It has also brought large
machines that have dug holes in the forest separating the great river from the diéry,
the dry savannah. Their work has dried up the water’s ceaseless rise and fall that
fertilized the land, making sure everybody had enough to eat, and set the pace for
the season’s labours. And now the river opens out onto wide areas developed by Italians,
broad stretches of treeless land where Sérères, Diolas and Wolofs dwell
alongside the indigenous people–their cousins, the Torobés. It is a place
where cultures and many peoples have mingled.
The
paved road now runs across Ndioum from one end to the other. But the “avenue,” as
it is called, has stirred up many controversies…
Tar has turned Ndioum into a crossroads of commerce. Tradespeople from Mauritania
and former military staff and civil servants have built all the shops, lined up next
to each other like a row of boxes, jam-packed with all kinds of goods. The entrances
are encumbered by wheelbarrows and the small stalls of vendors selling fritters who
rush up to travellers when they stop their cars.
I walked across the village looking for my neighbourhood. Everyone has brought their
own style to this land. The regional hospital, the pride of Ndioum, the “semi-stories”
with their wide colour strips of emigrants belonging to France, the cushy, gated
villas of executives from Dakar that are as uncomfortable as they are ill-suited
to the climate; the large mosque on the hill; the small farmers’ bank and its grain
storehouse; the two service stations at the beginning and end of the avenue. The
space between the avenue and the houses shrinks; the windows looking out onto the
road are still shuttered when the shops begin to thrive. At the end of the month,
the post office is always crowded with parents picking up money orders sent by their
children who have emigrated abroad.
Where
are the large concessions surrounded by medium-high stockade fences through which
you could catch glimpses of life’s dramas?
Where are the buildings made of stuccoed earth with their dark, cool inner verandahs
that protected the occupants from the windblown ochre dust? Where are the large concessions
surrounded by medium-high stockade fences through which you could catch glimpses
of life’s dramas–the letter announcing a daughter’s engagement to an expatriate;
the neighbour who brought back a disease from central Africa that is taking a terrible
toll? But the tiny El Hadj Oumar Tal mosque is still standing, with its roof tiles
from Marseilles, its palm trees and around it, the lush gardens of the former chief
of police, which look like an oasis in this huge plain turned upside-down by construction
work.
Ndioum and the myth that followed the taming of the river captured the imaginations
of only those who came from far away to answer the call of its endless spaces, criss-crossed
by a grid of irrigation canals. The villagers received their plots, lost in the immensity
of the big development projects, on which the women persist in digging furrows with
their hoes, planting rice by hand, shunning modern paddies with a self-confident
gesture. They, and the young people, are the ones who spurred on the changes. They
are moving forward gradually, occupying the places left behind, the fields that are
too hard to work, which belonged to the heads of households who have left for distant
countries. The impatient young people, whether or not they have gone to school or
have paying jobs, are bursting into the traditional hierarchical circles. They are
in a strong position because they have banded together, challenging the old order,
confiscating, taking action when the elders hesitate and endlessly drag out the negotiations.
Electricity
has become expensive; water used to be free but now it must be paid for; the mayor
is selfish. He built a town hall but lives in Dakar and never keeps his promises
I greeted the nostalgic, retired old men conversing beneath a tree, hashing over
their memories. They’re talking about their monthly trip to Dakar to pick up their
pensions and see their grown children. Politics works its way into the conversation.
“The government doesn’t give our children jobs, the schools no longer train them,
and anybody can get away with anything. There’s a fine hospital, but I’d rather go
to Dakar because here they send us students who change so often that we don’t have
the time to get to know them. The Diola doctor from Kédougou was the best,
but he left. They’ve developed 2,000 hectares and already had six harvests in two
years.”
“Nobody’s happy with these projects,” they say. “They give us bilharziasis, people
go blind from planting seeds in the water under the blazing sun. The development
company takes nine-tenths of our harvests away from us to pay for the water, the
pumps and the equipment. They come and tell us that in their air-conditioned cars,
while it’s 35° celcius in the shade. We would have cultivated millet and rice
for more than a hundred years with the money they take away from us… There are no
more fish in the river and the animals cannot graze any longer. Our daughters and
nieces marry Wolofs, Diolas and Sérères, if not foreign Catholics.”
I tried changing the subject and started talking about the local elections. The last
ones were hard-fought. The current mayor, an administrative and financial officer
elected to the national assembly, is running against a teacher, the son of a great
family of marabouts (Muslim holy men). Electricity has become expensive; water used
to be free but now it must be paid for; the mayor is selfish. He built a town hall
but lives in Dakar and never keeps his promises.
But soon the 72 hours of Ndioum, a major annual cultural event, will be here, luring
all the errant sons and daughters back home. The festival is three days of indescribable
chaos, an exuberant celebration of Fouta’s culture with traditional wrestling matches,
fantasias on horseback, ballah rock and its most accomplished ambassadors, Youssou
N’Dour and Baba Maal. Tar has worked wonders here, if only by bonding Ndioum to the
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Senegal
Developing
the Senegal River
The
three countries past which the Senegal River flows–Mali, Mauritania and Senegal–began
work to open the river up for trade at the start of the 1970s, leading to the inauguration
of dams at Diama and Manantali in 1985 and 1987 respectively. Primary goals of the
development project were to regulate the river flow to improve its accessibility
to river traffic, supply urban centres with clean drinking water, stop saltwater
reaching beyond the mouth of the river, and above all protect the region from its
fickle climate by ensuring regular irrigation. The total irrigated area is due to
reach 375,000 hectares, 190,000 of which will be in Senegal. Some 30,000 hectares
in that country are already being irrigated. The scheme’s main funding bodies, including
the European Union and various national development agencies, have so far lent over
$500 million, while 60 percent of Senegal’s agricultural investment is thought to
have been devoted to implementing the plan. Crop yields, however, remain low, at
four tonnes per hectare of paddy field twice a year. The soil is getting saline.
A lack of interest from the state, neo-liberal policies, the devaluation of the African
franc, rising prices for materials, water bills and a string of poor yields have
only s
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