La lutte

The womens’ incessant wails are distorted by the ancient amplifiers and the haze over the dirty battleground. The warriors, lit by oil lamps and scattered spotlights, dance to the furious drums as they pray to Allah for victory. The Marabouts, the divine incarnation between God and the Serer tribe, pour blood from a freshly sacrificed goat on to the hands of their chosen warriors. Into this sacred battle, I enter; not as a Toubab—white man—observer, but as a warrior: a Lutteur.

Tafaa does not believe me when I say I want to fight. When I push the point, he lights with excitement. The other warriors—some twenty-five bulky tribesmen—have already begun praying and dancing so we hurry out of the arena. I trip over some of the ubiquitous animal dung as we enter his home—a mud brick hut with thatch roofing. His brother, Al Hassan, sleeps. Tafaa tells me to strip as he grabs the sheet off his now awake brother. Standing in my only article of clothing, I cling to my ‘alpha male’ boxer-briefs from K-mart as one does a sacred talisman. Taffa wraps me as a mother roughly sets a diaper on an infant.

Al Hassan grabs a flowery apron off the drying line to serve as my fearsome cape. Taffa excitedly throws two leather necklaces over my head and curls my hand around two sticks, which will serve as my talismans. I leave on my seemingly gargantuan Asics to avoid parasites, although the running shoes seem strikingly incongruous with my attire—or lack there of. I worry about being hurt in the fight, but realize the biggest danger is aerial; I haven’t taken my anti-malaria medication today and the mosquitoes are descending in droves.

Al Hassan shows me how to walk with my chest puffed and my head high. Warrior I will be.

As I enter the dirt arena, the crowd, made up of at least two hundred villagers, erupts in laughter. A Toubab dressed in warrior’s gear. I hold my head high and begin to feel the drums penetrate my bones. Tafaa serves as my Marabout as we say a prayer in the center of the arena. Tafaa shows me that I must eat the dirt. I thrust a finger into the mud and raise my hand to my mouth, switching fingers to avoid angering my Marbout or acquiring God knows what from the trodden filth.

My adrenaline blazes as I begin to circle the arena, dancing and stepping like the other warriors. I puff my chest and throw my flower apron over my shoulder to look fiercer. I feel ridiculous. The old and young alike point and laugh at me. Although I want to laugh at myself, I suppress my smile with a more forceful dance in order to respect the sacred tradition in which I am grateful to participate. As I walk the arena over and over again, I study the current fight in order to learn how to defeat my future opponent. The other warriors pass me and size me up. We don’t know who I will face in battle.

Daria and Beth, my Toubab friends on the sidelines, watch us warriors circle each other. Daria sees a warrior walk in with a dart sticking out of his chest. “Oh my God, Philip is going to die!” she tells Beth. When the warrior turns the corner, it becomes clear the dart is actually part of his talisman, but he is no less ferocious. Beth asks in Wolof if there are any doctors in the village. The old man next to her thinks before saying, “Sort of.” I do not want to discover traditional tribal medicine tonight.

An hour after entering the arena, I have to urinate. I leave with my head still held high. Many jeer as they think I am leaving from fear. With no flushing toilets in the entire village, my options are the tree or the bush. I chose the bush. With the tight warrior’s sheet (aka diaper) tied around my loins, I have some difficulties which result in a very large—and very visible—wet spot on my boxers. Determined to not let embarrassment from self-urination deter my aspirations, I march back into the arena. I immediately grab a bottle of water, and in a heroic fashion, pour the liquid over my head and chest, soaking my boxers and hiding my childish mistake.

I begin to tire after two hours of dancing to the hypnotic drumming and waiting for my turn to fight, so my Marabout approaches me to give encouragement: “The winner of the lutte receives one hundred Euros, cash.” I quickly calculate that with the current exchange rate, winning tonight will pay for one day of my future medical school education. I’d say that’s reason enough to fight.

Finally, the old speakers crack with my name. I am called to take my place. The warrior who stands opposite me is a bit shorter, but far more muscular than I. I push away my fear with more adrenaline. Thinking that a slippery body will somehow help me, I pour water over myself. The warrior shows me how I must rub dirt on my chest. I follow his example, which results in me being covered in mud. I am afraid of hurting myself, so stretch thoroughly before the fight. This small African village had never seen yoga moves. Although I may not look fearsome, I am ready.

We shake hands and take our positions. I stay low and begin to bat my hands, much like a cat, as I have seen the other warriors start. My opponent calls for a time out, which I learned later won me two points. We restart and soon lock ourselves together. I reach for his knee in order to unbalance him, but my hands slip off. Around we twirl until he thrusts me to the side, causing me to fall hard, ear first onto the dirt. I have lost.

Slightly dazed and with my blood rushing, I stand. My Marabout runs to greet me with a huge grin. Although I have lost, I am only the second Toubab in the history of the village to fight. The first was a marine, who apparently lost within seconds of beginning. My ear would cauliflower over the next couple days, but I appreciated the sign of battle.

The best part of the experience for me was not the fight itself, but its impact on the people in the village. When I first entered the arena, an old man—at least eighty years old—saw me in my warrior’s garb and shook with laughter as a child would. To see his intense joy made me smile.

I am in Senegal on a Rotary Cultural Ambassadorial Scholarship, for which I am extremely grateful. I have never had such an intense cultural experience as I had that night. The sacrificed goat, the chanting, the drums, the warriors, the wailing, and the fighting will never leave me. Nor do I think the villages will soon forget the Toubab who threw himself into the arena and fought like one of them. My hope is that they will see that Toubabs—particularly Americans—can understand and even participate in their culture—however different it is from their own. With that understanding and cultural sensitivity comes goodwill, which I believe is often translated into fewer conflicts between groups of different cultures; in other words, cultural understanding creates peace. The next time an opportunity for a cultural experience presents itself, I hope to again throw myself into the arena—although I would like to not be quite so naked.