Circles

by Ananya Sriram (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Senegal

I hear the quiet thrumming of mosquitoes swirling around the lamp above me, casting tiny black specks of shadow across the length of the pagoda walls. Each member of the family I am staying with is sat austerely in a wide circle, every face fixed on me with a tentative, welcoming smile. It is my first night in Kolda, Senegal, and already I am struck by the warmth I have received here – both from the people, and from the place itself. Though a far cry from the bustle and energy of the capital, Dakar, what Kolda makes up for in spades is its heat. It’s a heat that creeps up on you, lingers at the edges of the day, in a way that makes the mint tea you readily gulp down in the morning turn tantamount to torture by noon. The people here are similar; their greetings somewhat reserved – surprised, even – as they try to place me. My brown skin, getting darker each day in the sun, places me closer to the locals in a way, a closeness compromised by my British accent as soon as I open my mouth. I try to claw this closeness back, petit à petit, throwing questions at my new friend Ibrahim faster than he can even answer. Though we seem worlds apart, through the friction of our encounters comes warmth, and soon we enter each other’s orbit, laughing and joking like old friends. The longer I am here, the more I am aware of just how much is being given up to make me feel welcome. Generosity is given without a second thought, people giving me seats, food, clothes, in a way that soon becomes as unstoppable as the heat. Though I’m grateful, I am painfully aware of how much it is costing my new family to make me feel at home. Looking down at my plate, the contrast of the traditional rice, yassa and a whole fish (head, tail, bones and all) being served with Western-style chips and salad only serves as a reminder that my otherness is being accommodated. Soon, the dinnertime circle starts to coalesce, and like a turning cog, I become part of the machinery of everyday life. Walking down the busy main road to my French lessons in the morning, I take care to greet everyone I see with a ‘Bonjour, ça va?’ as per Senegalese custom. The difference this makes is incredible; I watch expressions of curiosity and bewilderment transform into open, wide-eyed joy. The real magic happens in the evenings, when I am sitting with family, talking, laughing and learning about their lives here. I now eat out of a communal bowl with everyone else, the circle drawing ever closer as we share more of ourselves with each other. It soon feels as though I have woven myself into the fabric of the place, and I cannot imagine ever having to leave. That day comes eventually though, and a bit too soon for my liking. Before I know it, it’s my last night, and everyone is gathered around in the pagoda. Proximity has brought us closer together, but the cavernous difference in our experiences still keeps us apart. Amidst all the promises to keep in touch, there is a niggling doubt at the back of my mind. How strong is my place in the circle? Will these people still remember me in a year, or will I be just another Westerner who came into their lives for a brief, fleeting moment, only to return to my world of wealth and privilege? The cruelty of travel lies in its temporary nature. I’d like to think I stayed long enough to make a lasting impression, but I cannot ever truly become part of the community unless I stay here. For now, I will have to hope that memory keeps the circle alive.