Harmatan
I understand it’s X-mas-time at home. The merchandise must have been out for months. Fall finally came here, but it’s been subtle. Instead of sweater weather and glorious color, we had a slight shift in the wind at the end of Ramadan- around the first of November. These southwesterlies have increased to become a continuous blow. The harmatan brings with it fine red desert sand that coats everything, inside and out, like the finest dusting of snow. Like the Brooklyn Bridge’s paint crew, Astou reaches the far end of the house only to begin again on the piles of dust on the far shore. Evenings are delightful. Finally, I can sleep with the windows wide open, the rickety ceiling fans wobbling. The sound of the wind in the palm trees at night is as dramatic as a late summer storm at home. As morning approaches, the crickets’ refrain is harmonized with the entrance of morning birds and later still with the first distant call to prayer. En fin, the serenade is broken by Quincy’s yapping at the stirring night guard. I hope they had as good a night’s sleep as I did.

Le retour du Kinkeliba
It’s not a pillow, it’s not a medicine, it’s not something to start a fire with.
It’s not a really large broom head, a delicious addition to any salad, home insulation, something religious, something sexual, or something for smoking- all very good guesses.

It is something of a….. tea bag.

It is the tender new branches with leaves attached of the kinkeliba tree. They are then bound together into this ubiquitous form. Hungry for tea? Start unwinding, grab a handful of leaves, throw them in a pot of boiling water. One kinkeliba can last quite a long time and is one of the real bargains available here. It is very popular in Dakar- reported to be something of a tonic, not caffeinated. Many Muslims look forward to breaking a day’s fast with a cup o’ kinkeliba and a few dates. Senegalese abroad pine for them, but find them difficult to pass through customs.

Ramadan
We are surrounded by the faithful. Every muselman… Astou, the night guards, my French teacher, the Club Atlantique lifeguards, the construction workers, the fish ladies, the fruit vendors, tout le monde is observing Ramadan. Fasting begins with sunrise and continues to sunset. Those observing give up food and water for a long hot day. The wet of the rainy season combine with the heat of the hot season to make a thick soup. Day after day the fasting continues for a lunar month. Astou shifts slightly during the day from prayer, to ironing, to prayer, to mopping, to napping, to prayer. The Dakaroise become more and more in repose, napping under cars, in the dust next to the telecenters, on the low benches where they usually sit waiting for customers. Bronwyn wonders why it takes 20 minutes to buy a cucumber. They joke with us and ask us if we are fasting. “C’est dur, n’est pas?”, we empathize. The test of faith continues on.
Allison and I began the month getting up early each day to scurry outside under the scented plumeria, We paused briefly to “ca va?” Cisse as he pounded down his last meal of the night. Our mission was to see the moon, big and full and clear, upstaging the stars and planets. The frogs, the crickets, the praying mantises amused us, but the moon called our name. As the month continued, our moon watch interest waned, until we were just letting things celestial go on without us.
The end of Ramadan approaches, with a Tuesday Tout Saint and then the big holiday, Korite, on Thursday, or maybe Friday. Korite…n’est pas fixe. Not only is it’s date based on the lunar calendar, but it is also based on whether your confrerite of muslman actually sees the thin sliver of the new moon rising. A city full of fasting faithful wait, like news photographers wait on Groundhog Day, for the word. See the moon, and you eat tomorrow, Allison gets a holiday from school and Astou doesn’t show. Can’t quite find the moon, and you’ve got another day to fast and life goes on until the sliver appears. Allison and I eagerly search the evening sky for a sign. “Ou est la lune?” we ask Cisse. We don’t see a moon, but our vote doesn’t count. We go to bed without knowing the official results.

Qu'est que c'est?
C'est une kinkileba.
But really- try to guess what it is. They're for sale along the road out of Dakar.
I'll tell you the answer next week.