Barutabana ba simolola go bua le go bina

I took the bus to Maun. It was six hour drive filled with people heading as far as Francistown. I placed my headphones in my ear and listened to one of my eclectic playlists filled with Childish Gambino, Mitski, and Chappell Roan. I looked out the window as the sun descended.

When I arrived in Maun, it was dark. I got off at the wrong stop. I frantically called my mentor and friend, N, to direct her to my location. N finally found me after about twenty minutes. In the meantime, one of the local boys stood with me, protected me from the things that go bump in the night. I gave him my bag of chips as a token of my appreciation.

I inhaled Nando’s down my throat like it was air as I sat at N’s dining room table. I was starving. My fingers were coated in sauce. N’s house was gorgeously decorated with plants and furniture. It was perhaps more homey than my place. After dinner, I showered and slept soundlessly on a sofa in N’s extra room.

The next day was chaos. I had to figure out my visa before my travel visa expired. Visitors from the U.S. automatically get a three-month visa. I was two and a half weeks from that day, so I was on a bit of a time crunch. The woman behind the counter told me that I need to fix three things: get smaller passport photos, get a new letter from my school head, and get my documents certified. The last request was the most difficult, and N and I ran around the town trying to find a notary. All of them were somehow out of town. So, eventually, I had to find one online. I finally submitted the application on Friday, right before they closed. It was the most stressful stretch of time since I’ve been here.

Afterwards, to celebrate and relax, N proposed that we get hot stone massages. I had never gotten a massage before, but I figured it was the perfect place and time to do it. The spa was gorgeous, covered in greenery, and the wind blew through the trees. It was so peaceful. They gave us iced tea that had the perfect blend of fruit and syrup. The massage was lovely as well, although I got quite a shock from the hot stones.

Maun is quite different from Shakawe. It was a much-needed escape, as I was able to go out to restaurants, buy items that I couldn’t find in Shakawe, or enjoy different forms of entertainment like museums or spas. The town is also a bit more diverse than Shakawe, with people coming from all over Botswana and tourists rolling through from many different countries. Although I absolutely adore Shakawe, there are definitely some comforts that I miss when I am there.

———————

On Saturday around noon, N and I headed to the Maun airport. We were going to Dakar, Senegal for a seminar with all of the other English Teaching Assistants in Sub-Saharan Africa. Our flights and hotel were completely paid for by the Fulbright program. It was absolutely surreal.

Our first layover was two hours in Johannesburg. Then, two hours in Dubai. The flight to Dubai was eight hours on a double-decker Emirates plane. When we arrived in Dubai, it did feel a bit strange. There was a MacDonalds and a Starbucks. It felt like I was reentering a Western space. It didn’t feel quite right. The airport was gorgeous, but I was happy to get on the next flight. When we descended into Senegal after eleven hours, I was buzzing in my seat. I had never been to West Africa, but there had always been some semblance of ancestral ties with the countries there. Stepping on the soil, it felt like returning to a homeland.

It was also an important moment for Senegal. The first reason being that it was Ramadan, an important month of fasting and reflection which a majority of the country partakes in. The second reason was that on the day that we landed, Senegal had just had their majorly contested presidential election. It had been delayed by the former president, which led to intense protests by young people throughout the country. As the people voted and waited for the results, it was as if the whole country was holding its breath. And just as we arrived at our hotel, they began to announce the results. From my hotel room, I could hear the cheers as people went into the streets to celebrate the win of Bassirou Diomaye Faye, Senegal’s youngest elected president. It was an exciting moment for the young people of Senegal.

MONDAY

At eight in the morning on Monday morning, the English Teaching Assistants all hopped into vans to go to the West African Research Center (WARC) where the entire seminar was held. As we drove through the city, I looked outside at the architecture, the Islamic and French influences which created beautiful motifs and patterns across the building facades. The city was obviously older than Gaborone, and it was amazing to be immersed in a culture that was so different than Botswana’s.

Once we arrived at WARC, we spent the day listening to keynote speakers and introducing ourselves to each other. I also joined a panel of other Fulbrighters to talk about my blog and documenting my experience. I also read one of my poems aloud, and everyone was so kind and curious about my poetry afterwards. It warmed my poet heart.

That night, I got dinner with some people at a Thai restaurant. We don’t have any Thai restaurants near me in Botswana, and I absolutely adore it, so I was so happy to get to eat some that night. And I was also able to speak French again. While I hadn’t studied it in five years, it was almost like it was hidden in the recesses of my mind, waiting to be accessed again.

TUESDAY

Tuesday morning was filled with ETA presentations, and I was absolutely blown away by how impressive everyone was. Some had been teaching for years, some had already gone through the Peace Corp, and one had even worked as a researcher in foreign policy think tanks studying conspiracies. To be considered on the same level as any of them was mind-blowing and incredible.

In the afternoon, we got to choose a cultural excursion, and I chose to go to La Musee des Civilisations Noires (The Museum of Black Civilisations). The building was a gorgeously constructed building with a circular design inspired by the traditional architecture of dwellings in Southern Senegal. As one walks into the museum, there is a circular space in the center, and in the middle, a baobab tree rises up to the sky. This tree is found throughout Africa, and it is an incredibly important cultural symbol.

*A list of artists featured in the “Maintenent L’Afrique” modern art exhibit*

Around the tree, the permanent exhibits tell the story of Africa as the cradle of humanity and as a place of invention. While it was meant to focus more generally on Africa, a lot of the exhibit was focused on Egypt’s languages and cultures. There was little to no mentions of Botswana or other places in Southern Africa. This may be because a lot of the research had come from Cheikh Anta Diop, a scientist and anthropologist from Senegal who focused a lot on Egypt’s contributions to African advancement and invention as a way to appeal to Western audiences.

Upstairs, there were rotating exhibits showcasing modern African politics, religion, and art. Seeing an entire exhibit of African diasporic artists was so incredible, and the art styles and mediums were all so diverse. One of the pieces beautifully combined African textiles and recycled plastic products. It reached all the way up to the ceiling. Other pieces were drawn, painted or sculpted by artists as far as Haiti and the United States.

After the museum, my cohort went to dinner at a rooftop restaurant called Le Djoloff. My cohort was made up of ETA’s from Botswana, Kenya, and Mauritius. Among all eleven of us, there were only two French speakers… and I was one of them. So I spent a lot of the meal translating or racking my brain about how to say certain things in French. Luckily, I still remembered haricots verts haha. But I loved speaking French again. It was nice to put all of those years of work to use even if only for a week. And the food was incredible. We got ten different types of tapas to share, and there were different types of fish, steak, and vegetables as well as some kefta.

WEDNESDAY

*Fish in a tank at the ferry station to go to Goree*

*Disclaimer: this part of the post contains references to slavery, sexual violence, and suicide. If you need to skip it, head down to where it says “Collines des Mamelles.”

Gorée Island is an island that was constantly fought over. The Portuguese arrived first. Then the Dutch took over. Then the English. Then, finally, the French. For these colonial powers, the island was extremely important because from the fifteenth to the nineteenth century, it was the largest slave-trading centre on the African coast.

Bright and early on Wednesday morning, the ETA’s who chose to participate got on a crowded ferry to go to Gorée. I was feeling apprehensive. I didn’t know how I would feel when I got onto the island. As someone who had enslaved ancestors and who had studied the darkest underbellies of the slave trade, I knew that it would be an emotional and intense day. But I was also enlivened by the idea that I would get to see the history in front of me. And while the slave house was the main attraction, Gorée also had a marketplace full of shops where visitors could buy Senegalese textiles and gifts, so I was looking forward to getting gifts for the teachers back in Shakawe and for myself as well.

On the ferry, the wind and waves slapped against my face. I had missed the ocean, I realized. We passed cargo ships and fishing boats, and soon, the island came into view. The architecture was distinctly Portuguese and French, with vibrant colors and high stone walls. And as we were led through the island by our tour guide, we first got to see a stature given to the island by another francophone island across the Atlantic, Guadeloupe. The statue depicts two freed slaves atop a djembe drum, which was the instrument used to pass messages to other enslaved people throughout slavery. It was a powerful image to start with even before we reached the slave house, about Black resistance and ways that Black people strive towards freedom.

When we reached the slave house, la maison des esclaves, it was an unassuming, pink building. I had expected it to be more menacing somehow. I was one of the first people in the tour group to walk into the space, and the first thing that I saw were the stairs climbing up to the second floor on either side of a long corridor. “If you want to take pictures of the door of no return,” our tour guide said, “take them now before the next ferry comes.” I looked down the corridor, and I felt almost dizzy. There, at the end of the hall, was the door of no return. I couldn’t bring myself to take a picture in that moment. I looked away, and soon, the tour guide was leading us into a room.

*The small windows in the slave house to encourage air flow but to stop any escapes*

I knew immediately from the barren walls and small windows that it was where they had kept some of the slaves. “This is where they kept the virgin women,” the tour guide said, and I wondered how he told these horrible facts every single day, multiple times per day. He must be numb to it by now, I thought. He went on, talking about how the white men would come downstairs to assault these women because they were “clean.” How they checked whether the women were virgins. How this was the only cell with a toilet. How the women who were not pregnant got sold and remained in captivity.

I had read about all of these things, the atrocities committed and the unbelievable levels of violence during slavery. But I had never touched the walls that held them, had never heard the footsteps which creaked above the cells, had never watched the ocean waves into which some of the slaves jumped towards freedom.

The door of no return was the hardest to process. People lined up in a row to step up to the entrance. One of the other Black ETA’s and I stepped up together, and she stepped away at the last minute, feeling all of the emotions of the moment. We cried together. We hugged each other. I think we both needed it, some kind of community in that moment. We had to know that we weren’t alone. Or maybe that was just what I needed. Eventually, we both stepped up to the door. I did film myself walking into the door for some strange reason. Maybe as a kind of record for some unknown ancestor. Or just for myself. I’m not really sure.

Afterwards, my cohort got lunch and debriefed on what we saw and heard, and then, we headed to the marketplace. Everywhere I turned, people (most of them women) were asking the visitors to come to their shop, to look at their jewelry or their clothing, to just buy one thing, to pay a little more. It was absolutely overwhelming. I have never been good at bargaining. I get too flustered. I ended up getting what I needed, but a lot of the women knew exactly how to guilt someone into buying something. I respected their drive, but I was emotionally exhausted as we headed back on the ferry.

Collines des Mamelles

When we got back to WARC around three in the afternoon, we did mindfulness activities, which really helped to center me again. Then, because we were heading to dinner nearby, some of us headed to the African Renaissance Monument. The colossal bronze statue rises high above Dakar’s skyline on top of one of the volcanic hills called les Collines des Mamelles (the direct translation I think is “hills of breasts”).

A group of us walked up a bunch of steps to get to the top, and once we were up at the top, the views were spectacular. The monument is taller than the Statue of Liberty, and it depicts a man and a woman emerging from a rock and holding up a child. It is dedicated to the African Renaissance Movement, and it is thought to represent the African diaspora’s future and the Pan-African movement.

After we took a bunch of photos, we headed to dinner on top of the other Mamelle. While the hill contains a lighthouse, an elegant restaurant also stands at the top of the hill. With Senegalese-fusion cuisine and live music, Le Phare des Mamelles restaurant was the perfect way to end a long day. I got thiof with fried plantain and attieke, a cassava dish similar to couscous. With our admission into the restaurant, we also got a free drink, which turned into a couple of drinks. And after a while, a bunch of the ETA’s, in classic American fashion, got up to dance in front of the band and the DJ. We stayed out late, and it was past midnight when I got into bed, but dancing in that carefree way with some of my new friends was one of my favorite moments of the trip.

THURSDAY

Our last day in Dakar was stained by a strange, foreboding reality. We were all heading back to our different countries. Some of the Sub-Saharan ETA’s were about to finish their journey while others, like me, were just starting. Back in the U.S., we lived in states across the country. There was a chance that we would never see each other again. It was a short amount of time to develop any new relationships with people.

*A picture of me in Dakar, taken by JoyceLyn Bentley*

At WARC, we talked about education and societal concerns in Sub-Saharan Africa and beyond. We also heard from alumni who talked about their lives during and after Fulbright. Then, that night, WARC hosted a farewell dinner for us. There was live music and good food. We danced the electric slide. It all went by in a blur. We took pictures and asked each other random, silly questions, and then, we went back to the hotel and played Uno and exchanged gifts. I was so tired, though, and I had to be up at four the next morning for my flight, so I had to go to sleep eventually. I hugged everyone goodbye and promised to visit a few people. It honestly feels strange to say, but I miss being around everyone, their chaotic and brilliant energy. Our whole group clicked in a really fun and exciting way. But we only had those four days.

*The Sub-Saharan Africa Fulbright ETA’s*

Overall, the trip was absolutely incredible. I learned so much from the other ETA’s. They gave me career advice or just enthusiastically asked me to share this website with them (hello if you’re reading this!). We are all different ages from very different walks of life, but we have similar goals while we are doing our teaching assistantships. Almost all of us, I think, have a passion for service or teaching in some way. A lot of us also want to show the world that our vision of Sub-Saharan Africa is different from what is shown. And that fact tied us together. I’ll never forget those experiences in Senegal: the deep and emotional connections, the way I nerded out over the architecture, the entertaining stories, the wild dancing, and so much more.

And to put the cherry on top of this lovely sundae, when I got back, I discovered that five of my poems had been published in Sixfold Journal’s Winter 2023 poetry issue. I’m published, baby!

You can check out a PDF version on their website.

Thank you for all of your support. And thank you for reading this staggeringly long post.

xo,

H.M.Y.