Wo soxla bind apropro kam ndaxar ke

"You should write about the inside of trees"

A subject I know about from only two short experiences, yet still a subject I treasure.

Easily one of the most incredible pieces of West African landscape, the great Baobab tree has been revered, researched, and written about for centuries. Countless tales have been passed down through the generations about the origins and many uses of the baobab. In Senegal I experienced first hand the breathtaking view of the largest trees I had ever seen. But even beyond the delicious and unique taste of its fruit, and the heavenly cool drink it makes, was the incredible experience of actually getting inside a baobab tree.

After kayaking through the serene mangroves of Palmarin, our tour guide Pierre leads us to a small island where he shows us the "surprise" part of our adventure. We mount a hill made of coquillage (clam shells), where the people of that land had been piling them for centuries... though no one quite knows why. Here Pierre sets forth (in French, so I really only pick up 1/3 of the narrative) a little story of the three Baobabs in front of us. It is a classic tale of a male who left his wife for a younger, thinner... tree. We approach the poor female baobab who'd been left alone, only to find a hole in her trunk! A hole I assume is only large enough for small animals to climb through. It seems I was wrong.

As those of us new to Palmarin look on with nervous smiles and glances of disbelief - Pierre begins to climb INSIDE the Baobab tree!! It's our turn next, and one by one we shimmy our way into the enormous trunk (which has a record of holding 11 people at one time)! "Why is there a hole in the tree to begin with?" I wonder aloud. Chris takes over the narration...

A griot, or djeli, is a West African historian who delivers their information by poem or song. They worked as wandering musicians, singing praises of the kings and gods, delivering history to the people of the land and preserving ancient tales. The Serer believed that because the Griots were not farmers, burying them in the ground would contaminate the land. It is for this reason that many griots buried their dead in the hollow area of a baobab trunk. I look down, and under my bare feet I feel a rough mixture of clam shell and sand that is most assuredly an ancient Serer burial ground. Cool. As I stand in wonder at the history, I let my imagination wander into the art of it all. I close my eyes and hear old songs being chanted as women cook the clams over a crackling fire. I hear the beat of traditional tam tams as children dance and play with one another. I smell the familiar scent of salty sea air and... Nescafe? I open my eyes to see Pierre's perfect white-toothed smile and a precariously balanced white teacup full of (oh so very) sweet coffee. Thanking him (in French!), I accept my warm drink (which is only welcome in the cool shade of the baobab belly) and begin to sip. "I love my life," I exclaim, just loudly enough to elicit a laugh from Chris, who is undoubtedly exhausted of hearing this phrase.

Climbing out is a bit less daunting than climbing in - and as we depart for home I marvel in the majesty of the great tree, and the beauty of the experience I've just shared with (what were once) complete strangers. I really truly love my life.

Pierre makes it look easy!

My turn!

Cafe avec nos amis dans le baobab!