A massage, a marabou and a monastery (From The Northern Echo)

A massage, a marabou and a monastery

3:26pm Friday 19th November 2010 in Reader Blogs

So just how is a Girl About Town to pull herself out of the unique beast which is the Dakar Doldrums..?

Well, in this jungle of juxtaposition, the world is her oyster...or her pedicure...or indeed her orphan-hugging afternoon. But last month’s power-cut−water-cut−pester-overload−induced ‘coup de blues’ had a particular sting in its tail...so I figured it was time to bring out the Big Guns.

Phase 1 – a spot of girlie self indulgence : the massage. A good gal pal suggested it, so along we trotted to the beauty parlour, four ex-pats from four very different countries, united by our bonds of friendship; Dakar’s answer to the SATC girls (I wish!).

It all felt very Ladies Who Lunch (and thus thrilling yet alien to me) but a treat was in order. I was allocated an enthusiastic masseuse from Cameroon.

Her vigour was certainly laudable, though I have to admit, the thought flitted across my mind that my neck could quite easily be snapped like a stick by the force in her hands.

Luckily this did not come about...and the half hour was heaven. The snag : on stepping out of the parlour, our wonderfully relaxed muscles had once more to face the stares, the shouts, the haggling. Nice while it lasted.

Phase 2 – time to call on the doctor, the witchdoctor, that is! Senegal’s unique blend of spiritual belief means that even if you’re a Muslim or a Christian, the place of traditional spiritual practices is unquestionable.

A friend of mine will go to Mass on Sunday, but never travels without his grigri (a small leather amulet) worn around his waist to ward off evil.

So, I’m taken to a modest part of town, early in the morning – the marabou is highly solicited and there’s often a queue of people willing to wait for hours to see him. A mixed bunch – from smartly dressed women to maids to business men in suits. I await my turn, a little nervous.

The last time I’d come into contact with such a man was in Togo, ten years ago. He’d said I was possessed by the spirit of a merman who was jealous of my relationships with men and thus jeopardized them (aha – that’s why!) and that I shouldn’t swim out to sea too far alone or he’d pull me under to join him.

At last it’s my turn so I take off my sandals and, pushing a curtain aside, I stoop to enter a badly lit outhouse from where the marabou imparts his knowledge for a small fee. A Senegalese friend is with me to translate.

We all sit on the floor in the darkened room. As my eyes adjust I see that the marabou is in his 60s or 70s with thick spectacles covering his myopic eyes.

I’m to hold a bead of his subha (a Muslim rosary) and whisper my intentions into it. What do I want to know? What am I asking for? I do so, citing a mixture of personal, professional and health requests.

My pulse has quickened, I’m hopeful for a few epiphanies. “Have you recently had an operation?” he asks. “Er...no” I reply, almost reluctantly, not wanting him to be wrong. “You’ve just moved house?”

“No-o, about a year ago.” Not a good start.

The conversation continues, through the interpreter, my questions left unsatisfactorily open, in my opinion. I am informed, however, that I will probably have twins and that any problems I have with work/love/family are due to the fact that I am possessed by ‘bad spirits’. Oh dear.

But all is not lost! The marabou says that he can bury some charcoal and nails and other items and pray over them...and all shall be well. It’ll just cost me 70 quid. Hmmm.

Phase 3 – a mini retreat to a Benedictine monastery : stick to what you know, right? I decided to do some praying of my own and left the bustle behind for a weekend of countryside and choral chants.

The community at Keur Moussa is the perfect antidote to Dakar. Pure air and birdsong, mules pulling carts, green fields...and silence.

The monks and nuns who live there offer simple hospitality which warms the heart.

Our little group of friends was free to sample the monks’ homebrew passion fruit wine as we sat under the trees. After a gentle stroll to watch the dramatic sunset, we slept like logs...the only sounds were insects singing and the distant trill of a djembe drum.

Mass next morning was a feast for the senses. The monks’ pure voices sang out Gregorian chants to the accompaniment of the kora (a Senegalese string instrument, rather like a harp) and gentle calebasse drumming.

An enormous fresco painted in red, black and white stretched up to the ceiling behind the altar, depicting scenes from the Bible in Ethiopian Coptic style. Bells rang out to greet the joyful brethren.

I had found my peace. And not even the thought that there was a poor old sheep strapped to the roof of our bus on the way home could shake it. Though I did say a little prayer for him as we jostled along.