Humour must be one of those untranslatable things that make travelling interesting, puzzling, and sometimes not that funny at all. Oh, yes. Have you ever tried translating that super funny joke where Jaimito asks Pepita to go up the tree to see her underwear, but she has anticipated him and thus wears no panties at all? Funny for dirty (young) Spanish minds, totally absurd for Canadians, and I don't dare trying it with Senegalese people.

That uncomfortable post-joke silence inevitably happens when traveling in other countries, when hosts and friends tell stories ... and the foreigner doesn't know if s/he should laugh and when! Thus the art of telling a story to an audience that speaks another sense of humour.

BTW, I just found a site packed with stories in different languages spoken in Senegal: leebone!

This is one of my favourites: Never ... or not?? (and it IS funny!!)

Now, in this one you can hear my post-joke uncertainty (in French) ...

Most of the entries in this blog are about Senegal and myself: what I have seen there, what I have learnt there, what I have heard when talking with people from there here, in Spain. This entry won't be an exception, but it will be about what happens when you bring "there" "here".

Last January, I walked into a public library with a project that included a photo exhibit on the migration of Senegalese women to Spain. My plan was to organize other related activities to show a tiny bit of the cultural wealth of Senegal, a place I've learnt to love and where I became Madame Toubab. These activities were a concert, the projection of Senegalese movies, and a couple of story telling sessions. The other day a very wise and generous man said: you should write down your experiences and impressions, and keep them in a safe place. That is what I am doing now.

One day I walked into the exhibition room. There was a young guy looking at the picture at the top of this entry. Other people were in the room, but he was still as a statue. 15 minutes passed and he hadn't moved. I'd say he hadn't even blinked! The next day I went back, and he was there. The third day I saw him standing in front of the picture, I approached him and asked: "you really like it, do you?" He turned around, surprised, and only said: "she looks so much like my mum ..." I left him there, scrutinizing the eyes of this woman who made him think of home.

There was another day when there wasn't room for a single person in the photo exhibit: it was packed!! It touched me that so many of them were Senegalese -- they had told me, in fact warned me, that this was not "the audience" of this public library. But there were about 20 young Senegalese people looking at the pictures, talking and ... explaining to every White person who cared to listen that this was their neighbourhood, or that their house was just a couple of blocks away from where that picture was taken. Besides the pictures we had several items on display in large showcases. We hadn't included notes on purpose: we wanted people to wonder. These "voluntary guides" found special pleasure on pointing at the items and asking White people: "do you know what that is?" And, oh boy, did they ever laugh with the bin-bin that was on display! They kept saying to the women: "you know, it is a thing that makes your husband think only of you when you're alone in a room and you don't have many clothes on" before breaking up in laughter. That was fun.

It was also fun to see some guys get up on stage during a concert to dance mbalax. The Spaniards in the audience were mystified.

But I have to confess that the most gratifying moments happened with the several groups of kids, 300 in total, who came for a guided tour of the exhibit. No, they weren't Senegalese, they were Spanish, aged between 7 and 13. Their eyes were wide open and their ears ready to catch anything that I said. Before entering the room, I asked: "what do you know about Senegal?" The answers were slow to come and always tentative. "I think it is in Southern Africa" "maybe the coast is on the Pacific ocean?" "Are they jewish?" "They are poor" "My dad said they live on a tree down there."

Some may say that is a bad beginning. But honest to truth, hearing them say those things made me want to roll up my sleeves and start working. Not that I know all about Senegal, but at least I know a little.

I guess it helps that I am a short woman and look way younger than I am. Or maybe that I have worked with children this age for a long time. Or maybe they were genuinely interested. Whatever the reason, by the time these children left they were very excited about all they had learnt about Senegal. "What do you know about Senegal now?" I asked in front of the screen showing Binta and the Great Idea.

"Me, me!! It is in Western Africa!"

"There are many Muslims there!"

"They speak French because they were colonized by France long time ago, but they have other languages like ... hum .... esto ... many languages whose names I can't remember..."

"Teacher, teacher! They don't live on trees, they have houses with walls like ours!!"

"And they have cellphones and know how to use the internet!"

"95 % of them come by plane with proper documents, I'm going to tell my dad the news are wrong!"

"Do you know any girl my age in Senegal, so that she can write me and tell me other things about Senegal?"

etc.

Maybe for some people this sounds stupid, but man, was I ever happy to hear them!!