When in Touba, Do Not as the Toubabs Do

I made it to Touba! For a while I thought this would never happen - the distance from Dakar is just too long for a reasonable day trip, and there are no hotels in the city.

But from Saint-Louis, the ride in a sept place took only three hours. I rode with Bamba and an assortment of other visitors, one of whom was a Brazilian visiting professor of anthropology. Since Touba has very strict rules of conduct (no smoking or drinking or dancing or games or music are allowed in the city and women must wear long skirts and cover their heads at all times - this is enforced by independent, local authorities since the city enjoys special status in Senegal), Bamba retrieved some appropriate clothing for me from his aunt and helped me arrange it before we set out that morning. On the way, I attempted to read a bit of the biography of Shaykh Aamadu Bamba Mbakke that my guide carried in his bag, but the combination of French and motion didn’t serve me very well. Here is what I gathered: Aamadu Bamba’s platform is predicated upon the idea that non-violence and Islam are, in fact, entirely compatible. He preaches peace between all denominations. And he wrote acres and acres of poetry which is now housed in Touba across several libraries.

We arrived in Touba at midday and headed straight for the Great Mosque, which is among the largest in Africa. This is the holy center of Mouridism, a Sufi order with adherents across West Africa. The Mouride bortherhood was founded by Aamadou Bamba in 1883; the mosque that honors him was completed in 1963. Its looming minarets are visible from a distance and create an imposing sillhouette over what is otherwise a small, bustling city center.

The Brazilian shared a cab with Bamba and I, then he shared the mosque guide as well. This man gave us an impressive tour of the place, made all the more impressive by the fact that he narrated the story in both fluent English and Spanish (the Brazilian spoke at least Spanish, French, English and Italian in addition to his native Portuguese, perhaps more - oh how woeful are my measly few languages!). We were informed, for instance, that the building materials are all imported - the reddish marble is Portuguese, the white marble floors outside the mosque and its surrounds are Italian. These are miracle marbles, in fact, which don’t get overheated even under the afternoon sun (a key asset since all visitors to the mosque are barefoot)!

Once a year, millions of pilgrims descend upon Touba and fill every crack and crevice with their prayers and devotion. When I visited, the place was rather empty but my guide related that, on Fridays, the mosque fills with crowds of people dressed exclusively in white. I did encounter a fair number of worshippers, however, who prayed in a manner completely new to me. Men closed their ears with their fingers and proceeded to call out “La allahu illa Allah!” (“there is no god but God”) at the very top of their lungs. They paced around, repeating this phrase until their voices cracked. At one point, a worshipper joined my little group where we sat by the tomb of a saint and we all placed our hands in a circle, palm-up. After a few moments of silent reflection, we all swept our palms over our heads as if splashing water onto our scalps. Thus were we blessed.

After visiting the mosque and cemetery, we parted ways with the Brazilian. Bamba and I headed for his marabout’s house, where we were given lunch (a marabout is a Islamic teacher and leader). I was introduced to the marabout, who is the holy man at the head of Bamba’s particular flock, and took pains to be respectful, not look in his face and generally to purport myself as Bamba did. In this way, I answered the normal questions about myself, and then the marabout requested that I show him the pictures I’d taken that day. He paused a few times to answer calls on his cell phone, and then we were wisked away to lunch.

I ate in the women’s room and encountered quite a lot of difficulty in communicating. This didn’t diminish the others’ amusement, although it made me rather confused. First I was offered a spoon to eat with - all the other ladies ate from the giant, communal bowl with their hands. The meal was couscous with fish and vegetables, and the ladies scruntched it up in their hands before eating so that the consistency was more pastey, or at least that’s how I imagine it. I ate with my spoon, which several folks found entertaining until they were chided (by the den mother who was clearly in charge) that this is how toubabs eat. This is also how toubabs look, although this didn’t stop one woman from comparing the skin on her arm to mine and then laughing uproarously. Another woman took it upon herself to insist that I keep eating whenever I stopped, so I adopted the tactic of chewing as slowly as possible and taking only small spoonfuls of food at a time.

After I had eaten what was deemed a satisfactory amount, the mother dismissed me and I went to rest with Bamba and his friends, one of whom I found so charming that I gave him my Giants cap. Although I was invited to stay the night, I pushed on to Dakar that night and suffered through five more hours wedged into the back of yet another sept place. So I got home by 9 pm, exhausted, filthy, happy to have visited Touba, and ready for bed.