The Truth

In all of my blogs I have pointed out the quirks about Dakar. I have talked about the poverty, the transportation woes, the horrible men, etc but I never talk about how living in Dakar is just like living in any other city. For a “toubab” it is a comfortable life. I have everything I need and pretty nice amenities. I don’t have a washing machine, hot water, or dishwasher in my house but they do exist in Dakar. I do have my own room with my own blue bathroom with a toilet that flushes, most of the time, and running water. I eat three enormous meals a day and most of the time I feel like I am getting nutrients. There are very wealthy people in Dakar who drive around in big SUVs, spend time at the Almadies section of Dakar (home to Club Med), go to the Hotel Meridien’s over-priced nightclub (Serna Williams’ hangout spot), and have very privileged lives. I have had a middle of the road experience. I will never live like a poor Dakaroise without electricity, running water, or three meals a day but I don’t like going to the wealthy milieus either.

In any case, if you go to downtown Dakar there is a huge market, Marche Sandaga, that has everything you can imagine from cotton swabs to televisions to clothing. From there the main drag Pompidou/ Ponty has modern shops like a faux IKEA called IDEA, a sports shop, Moroccan variety stores, luggage shops, restaurants, bars, and boutiques. If you go to that road at night when most of the vendors are gone and the homeless people are covered up by blankets under glaring neon lights, it is easy to imagine being somewhere in the US. Dakar is very different than the rest of Senegal. In truth I cannot fairly say that I stayed in Senegal but rather that I spent 9 months in Dakar.

I think when it comes to Africa we tend to “other” it too much. It becomes “the place over there with all the destruction, disease, and famine.’ Nobody wants to say that there are cities that are developing or that one could live comfortably and modernly in such a city. Instead, Africa becomes a scary, unknown land full of safaris, huts, and tribal people. That is NOT the Africa I am living in and that is not the idea I want people to take away from my experience. There were certainly different things I had to get used to like horse and buggies sharing the highway with cars, the omnipresent physically disabled people, the large pockets of poverty, squishing onto a bus with 25 people over the capacity, waiting and then waiting some more, and of course sand, sand, and more sand. Yet my experience was formative. I learned an incredible amount about the “developing’ world, Islam, and myself. While this time in Dakar was occasionally difficult, trying, and unbelievably frustrating; on the other hand, it was completely worthwhile, interesting, and rich in many so many things that I never would have learned or seen if I had studied abroad elsewhere.
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Now that I am home I think I am able to see Dakar in a different, perhaps clearer light. I think the distance has given me perspective on how much I had gotten used to and how much things like the poverty still bother me. All in all I am thankful for my experience and proud that I did it.

yalla

Allaha akbar, Allahu akba
Ashadu an la Ilah ila Allah
Ashadu an Mohammmedan rasul Allah
Haya ala as-sala
Haya ala as-sala

(God is great, God is great
There is no god but Allah
Mohamed is His prophet
Come to prayer
Come to prayer)


Before coming to Senegal I thought of praying as an intimate thing one does when they are alone, in a quiet room, before bed. In Senegal it is nowhere near that. The country is 90% Muslim, and I would assume that 95% of that percentage practices the religion. Before Senegal I knew very little about Islam and now after 2 university classes, a very religious host mother, and a believing but not-so-religious boyfriend, I have learned a thing or two. Among the things I have learned what I have noticed is that Americans have very misguided views about Islam and Muslims. “Political Islam” or Fundamentalists are very very different from regular practicing Muslims. Praying is a large part of the religion as it is done five times a day: around 5am, 2 pm, 5pm, 7pm, and 8:30pm. The call to prayer blasts from every mosque a bit before prayer time and everyone finishes what they are doing to begin their ablutions.

There is a very strict procedure to doing ablutions, which is carefully followed. Senegalese people who work in the streets, meaning they are vendors, taxi drivers, guards, etc do their ablutions on the street. They crouch with their bottle of water and start washing away. First are genitals, which are usually done in a private place (when on the street private means turning their back to the road), then are hands up until their wrists. Next is the head- mouth, nose, ears, general facial area, and hair. Followed by head are feet then lastly hands and arms until the elbow. Each part of the body is washed three times. In my house my host mom does her ablutions in our sink, reaching her legs into the basin so she can wash her feet. Once ablutions are over they align their prayer mat so it faces East towards Mecca and begin to pray.
It is preferred that prayer is done together so many people will come together to pray even if it’s on the street taking up the sidewalk. At mosques, especially on Fridays, the number of people, mostly men, who come to pray is incredible. Little boys wearing their Friday best and their mini prayer mats look proud and confident. Women must prayer behind the men. How that manifest outside on the sidewalk always baffles me. In any case, everyone prays together almost synchronized. While in Morocco, outside of mosques, I realized that in Senegal more emphasis is placed on praying simultaneously. The fluid motion of standing, bending, kneeling, kneeling with their head on the mat is always astounding. Watching my host mother pray was at first awkward. All of a sudden she would appear next to me on the balcony with her mat and would begin. I would sit rigidly for the duration of her prayers (she prays for longer than anyone else I have ever seen) until she would start up a conversation. I always felt as if I was invading her space or that I was intruding on a personal moment but in fact in makes no difference if there is someone nearby watching as long as they don’t walk in front of the person praying, which would “block” the prayer.

Prayer beads are also fascinating to me. My host mom is a big fan of prayer beads and has them all around the house. She sits in the kitchen or on the balcony saying her prayers going around and around the prayer bead circle until she feels ready to move on. One is supposed do the prayer beads 1,000 or 10,000 times. Each strand of beads contains either 100 or 1,000 beads, which are rubbed in a continuous movement around and around the strand. While praying there is a standard prayer to be said which involves “awesome god” and “Allaha akbar.” A person praying with the beads should not be interrupted. It is difficult since the person looks like they are just sitting down minding their business but when you ask them a question and they hold up the beads to indicate that they are in the middle of praying. It is also a big activity done on the bus which at first gone me nervous that people were praying that we wouldn’t crash. Now that I am a seasoned prayer bead and regular praying connoisseur I am no longer freaked out about interrupting a personal moment. I have also gotten good at walking behind praying people discreetly.

baggage

Baggage. In English we use it as a word to describe luggage or anything we use to travel. However in Senegal the French word baggage, which means the same as it does in English, takes on a whole new meaning. Baggage can be construction material, junk stored away, a jacket, shopping bags, cans of soda, etc. In Senegal is becomes a word that commands an action: getting rid of it, putting it somewhere, taking it, is how it is normally used. The plethora of uses for the word amuses me every day.
One day a man at a national park office was apologizing for the confusion caused by the office’s new location. He went on to tell me about all the baggage they were currently organizing. After we were done talking I watched movers lug huge televisions around the sparse office space. Another time my host mom was telling me about her big plans to convert the terrace on the roof into an apartment “but first we need to get rid of the baggage” she confided to me. That baggage consists of random pieces of tile, iron rods, two-by-fours, broken clothespins, and grilled ram legs. Then the letherous Alpha from Yoff told me on Bob Marley’s birthday that if I wanted to have a good time he has some baggage at his house that we could enjoy. I declined the offer of testing out his baggage and avoid him at all costs. My host dad was talking to my host mom about unloading his baggage, which consists of eggs and chickens from his farm from the car. “Khady needs to unload the baggage so I can examine it and get it ready for the client.” When I did some research at UNIFEM the office assistant there asked me to move my baggage: some books, a notebook, and a pen, into the library so I could have more room. When we had a funeral ceremony at my house I as asked to load up the refrigerator with the baggage “x” person brought. The baggage was soda cans and plastic water sachets of course.
What makes the ever-useful word baggage so funny is the way it is pronounced. Senegalese-French accents are unique. Senegalese French contrary to popular belief is the purest and the best spoken French on the planet. Educated Senegalese speak better French than the French it is a commonly known thing on the continent of Africa. In any case the accent is weird. For some reason the “s” sounds gets thrown in a lot making words like “carateristique” or characteristic in English sound ridiculous and leave you with a face full of spit. “Changer” is also a classic Senegalese spit inducer. With baggage the “g” in “age” gets a “s” sound making the word really sound like “baggass.”

STYLE WATCH

Besides sequins and hideous embellishments like enormous embroidery, Senegalese style usually consists of large bell sleeves, satin outfits, and lots of ruffles and lace. The new trend hitting the streets is Senegalese men wearing fake glasses. These glasses are usually funky colored thick frames with clear glass as the lenses. Some guys buy several pairs to coordinate with their outfits. I heard many a man receiving many a compliment about his new look. The glasses are ridiculous in my opinion right up their with purple eye brows. Determining the real glasses from the fake glasses has become my new obsession.

xaalis bu bare

In Senegal if you do something nice for someone or give him or her a gift they usually bless you in Wolof. It always baffles me when such poor people like my maid Khady, bless me and wish me “xaalis bu bare,” or “lots of money”. She shold be blessing herself and let me fend for myself. Anyway, in addition to money most often “xale bu bare” or “many children” are also part of the blessing. It’s at that point almost every time I say my dutiful “amen” and run away hoping I will not be like Senegalese women with five or more children.

On a completely unrelated note if you tell someone you like what they are wearing they will either offer to give it to you or they will offer to name it after you. I have been offered many items from a necklace to a skirt but have always declined. I have several items named after me, a tee shirt, Khady’s pagne, a blanket on the extra bed, and most recently my host dad’s grand boubou.

This is Dakar

This is my typical experience on my walk to University.

I leave my house with the wind blowing it is Harmattan season. The Harmattan is a strong wind that blows across the Sahara going right through Dakar. Sand nicks my ankles and if exposed calves. I begin my 45 minute walk through sand and on uneven pavement. On the VDN, the street or highway that I live on I try to avoid deep sand, garbage, stray dogs, and cars who think that the walking space is really a road. As I walk car rapide apprentis yell there destinations, “Fann Fann” or “ Dakar Dakar.” They bang on the side of the tin automobile altering the driver that he should not stop or that he should stop to let someone off. I walk past the Mobil station where early morning traffic loves to cut through and make schoolchildren jump out of the way. There is usually a car rapid filled with passengers filling up its tank. Right after the station are the bushes where I got into a fight with a car rapid apprenti. Those same bushes are where men urinate and squat to do their abolutions. Sidewalk appears made out of stone slabs and is uneven and missing pieces. I pass the group of large women sitting on the corner of the huge intersection. They have many buckets and bowls wrapped in fabric. While sitting they resemble a sea of brightly colored garden with different prints and materials mixing.

I cross the street and sometimes the man with a gray hollow pipe for a leg is in the area. He always wears a red knit hat and a green jacket. When he’s not walking around with his wooden cane he sprawls out on the sidewalk giving the people going by a look into his pipe. The canal near where he sits is filled with garbage- cardboard boxes, plastic bottles, scraps of fabric, wrappers, and car parts. Everything is sodden with water and sewage. A bit further down there is a man who has a deformity that impairs him from standing upright. He walks by using his hands that are padded with flip-flops. He uses his legs to propel forward with his butt sticking up. He “walks” around for awhile then sits down sticking his hand out to the passing cars and pedestrians. The bar in front of where he frequents, shelters the North African families who sit on the sidewalk and send their small children out to beg. These kids have a totally different method of asking for money which is to hang onto the pedestrian making them stop or slow down or running up to someone and cling to them for a block or two. I could write a dissertation on begging techniques in Dakar. Before I cross the street to either walk near the other Mobil station that houses On The Run or the Post Office I look at the huge baobab tree on the corner that stands tall and majestic among the chaos of Dakar.

Just as a reminder to understand what it feels like to walk down the street, there are constantly people staring and usually there will be a person or two who will scream “toubab.” From this point in my walk until the University the sidewalk is packed with people. Many people have physical deformities or handicaps that impair their ability to walk. There are talibes everywhere sticking their washed-out tomato sauce can hoping for coins or cookies. If I do not have anything edible to give the talibes I say “ba baneen” which means, “next time.” Encroaching onto the sidewalk are vendors selling: electronics, school supplies, or decorations for cars or car rapids like window decorations of a hand making the peace sign or a picture of Madonna. Before Michael bought me new ipod headphones I would buy cheap ones for 20 cents every few weeks at these tables. There are also people who have set up a table with benches around it where they sell meals for very cheap. Women selling peanuts: raw, grilled, sweet, and brittle have tables every few feet sometimes they also sell little forest berries found in Senegal. I prefer the grilled or sugar ones and buy them as quick snacks.

The street the University is on is called Avenue Cheikh Anta Diop. It is the most direct road that goes downtown. Many buses and car rapids have their routes on the road and share the road with bikes, motorcycles, cars, and taxies. The road, which probably is traveled on by at least thousands of people daily only has three lanes in total. One goes north, one goes south, and one is for passing. It is incredibly crowded especially around the University. Some motorcyclists decide to drive on the sidewalk to avoid the traffic jams on the road. I usually see an accident or altercation on my way to or from school.

The notable people I pass on my way from the Post Office to UCAD’s gates are more interesting than the other side of the road, the Mobil Station side. The first person whom I usually see begging for money is one of the most desperate cases. He does not have legs and has limited use of his spine so he can barely sit up straight. He lays face down, arms outstretched, wearing a prayer cap and earphones. He just lies there all morning staring at people’s shoes. I think he makes a lot of money because so many people feel sorry for him, as they should since he would never be able to work to make money in the condition he is in. The next highlight is the crazy woman that recently moved onto the block. She sprawls out on a straw mat on the sidewalk. Most of the time she sleeps covering herself in a red tattered blanket. In front of her she places a deteriorating woven bag that people throw coins onto. I am planning to give her the warm fleece blanket I “borrowed” from Royal Air Maroc as well as some soap. Today I saw her awake sitting on her mat holding a braided wig combing out the knots with her fingers. She was laughing to herself displaying her beautiful white teeth and bright eyes. After her there is just table after table selling a variety of goods.
After I pass the University gates things begin to peak up. The buildings are disgusting and in need of a paint job but the members of the community seem content and fed. Talibes and women with young children do sit on the sidewalk and ask for money but it far less intense than it is outside of the gates.
That is Dakar.

sure are a lot of rocks in morocco

A few weeks ago I met my dad and Linda in Morocco. We traveled all over the North of the country seeing amazing sights. We went to many places in our short week including Rabat, Meknes, Fez, Marrakech, Essaouria, and Casablanca. We were chauffeured around by a hot-headed Moroccan man named Abdellah. He gave us his opinions on the wonders of having a king to Algerians being lazy. He was a very kind guy who wanted us to love Morocco as much as he does. Speaking for myself, I think he succeeded, I now see Morocco in a different light not solely as an exotic travel destination. It like any place has it’s positives and negatives as well as it’s scandals and little secrets.

I looked at Morocco from a Senegalese perspective while my dad and Linda must have seen it from an American one. To me Morocco was nicely developed with clean and smooth roads, infrastructure, organization, and a vibrant culture. I think my dad and Linda saw much less development and organization. In Senegal the roads are overcrowded, filled with garbage and holes, and are not well planned. Horse drawn carts, taxis, buses, motorcycles, scooters, wheelchairs, bikes, and cars share the biggest roads in Dakar, which are only two lanes. People either stay at home with their families or sit under trees talking the day away. In the cities we visited people seemed to be out and about strolling along. Like in Senegal, the majority of people walking around are young men. Women are expected to stay at home and keep house. Women’s place as inferior beings, while not formally stated, is felt. Many more women veil and wear full-length garments than in Senegal. It was surprising to me since Morocco, while an Arab Muslim country, it is the most lenient by far.

Some highlights from the trip were visiting Otman’s family in Fez. His family was incredibly hospitable and kind. They made us a delicious lunch, made tea, chatted through our guide who acted as the interpreter. His mother gave me gifts including a carpet she made and a djeballah, which my dad has decided, looks like Obi1Konobi’s robe in Star Wars. His family made us feel at home and welcomed. It was a wonderful experience.

Another exciting part of the trip was the Sahara Desert experience. We stayed in a little auberge in the Sahara. We slept in Berber tents with heavy (and smelly) woolen blankets to keep out the cold and sand. We also took a memorable camel ride to the dunes and climbed up a small one to watch the sunset. Riding a camel is much like riding a horse except it moves at a far slower pace and getting off is very jerky.

Essaouria was an all-around cool city. After the sunset shop owners broke out their guitars and had a jam session while people walked unhurriedly around the medina. The seascape looks much like Dakar. I think it was the rocks on the beach and small islands off the coast. Linda and I did the hammam at our hotel. A hammam is usually a public bath where you chose hot or cold water then proceed to dump buckets of water all over your almost naked body. Since it was in the hotel Linda and I were the only ones in the hammam and that was fine with modest me. A woman at the hotel scrubbed us down with black soap and an exfoliating mitt that aptly took off layers of my skin. I was horrified to see how disgustingly dirty I was thanks to the pollution and grime of Dakar. I have not felt that clean in a long time. These Dakar cold-water showers are not doing their job.

In Fez we visited a tile and pottery cooperative. We got to see the many steps of making tile mosaics and painted pottery. I think, personally love both objects made from tiles and ceramics so I was in heaven. To make the elaborate shapes used in mosaics people chip away with a heavy hammer at square tiles until they make the desired shape. Pottery is painstakingly painted with horsehair and bamboo brushes in complicated designs. How some painted pottery comes out almost identical is mind blowing. Everything was created by hand without using molds or machines. In the United States we rarely see objects made by hand without the use of heavy machinery. There slight difference between objects is accepted and people’s handicraft skills are valued. I bought a few items to give as gifts and in retrospect I should have purchased more. A la prochaine fois as we say in French. Until next time..

As a complete and utter sidenote, Morocco is covered in rocks. They look like as if they were sprinkled on the ground by chance. Also, I have never seen as many sattilite dishes as I did in Morocco. Even little shacks that probably lacked running water had a dish.

What's your name?

Senegalese people seem to have a knack for remembering names. I have been introduced to people once or twice and in passing they will call out to me by name. I usually have no idea who they are or how I know them. It’s pitiful. In Senegal, I seem to have a mental block on Senegalese names. No matter how many times I am told names I seem to forget them quickly. Perhaps it can be attributed to my unfamiliarity with the pronunciation. It would be a faux pas to call Boubacar, Babacar or Halib, Habib. My name retention problem is especially embarrassing with the people in my class with whom I chat with on a daily basis. In order to remember people in my head Alisa and I, (we have all of our classes together), have begun to refer to people by nicknames. I can remember the nicknames but never their names. So far we have Versace whom we call Versach because the first time we bonded with him he was wearing a brown bootleg Versace tee shirt (and a faux Dolce and Gabana belt). This guy has invited us to tea and a sociological discussion yet we have no idea what his name is. Then there is “rasta hat man” who is a bit of a rubble rouser and once argued with students who interrupted our class to announce a strike. There is the woman who looks like a “Fatou Gaye” offspring. Fatou Gaye was Mari’s host mom and most recently Julie’s host mother in Yoff. All of her children have very similar looking faces. We have succeeded in remembering one student’s name because he is a god-sent. His name is Vieux, which in French means “old” (it’s helpful to note quirks). He also gave Alisa his phone number which helps. There is a student in about four of my six classes who knows my name, where I live, the classes I take and probably my social security number and I for the life of me cannot pronounce his name. I tried to play the trick of having someone in our group ask him his name while being introduced to him but nobody could not understand what he said.

The reason that this is such a big deal is that names in Senegal are very important. Firstly, children are usually named after a close relative or even a co-spouse. Naming someone after another person demonstrates the respect you have for them. This means that there are about five people per extended family with the same name. In my host mom’s family there are about four Abys, which is the name of her mother.

Secondly, when you are introduced to someone in Wolof you, as part of the greeting, are supposed to repeat their name. Sometimes the repetition gets so intense that one person is saying the other’ name while the other is trying to talk to them. My host dad has a habit of repeating the persons name as they are talking. It makes my listening comprehension impossible.

Thirdly, culturally it is important that when you know someone’s name or in my case should know someone’s name that you throw it into conversation as often as possible. You can state someone’s name a several times in a simple greeting conversation. It is as if saying the word for “you“ is impolite.

I have found that Senegalese with “Western” names, usually denoting that they are Catholic are easier to remember. I had no problem remembering Patrick’s, the man who sells English study guides outside of my Medical Anthropology class, name or Francois who is in several of my classes. This confirms my hypothesis that my horrible memory for Senegalese names is attributed to my unfamiliarity with the sounds of the words.

Fake Threads

As briefly mentioned in “What’s your name” inhabitants of Dakar have a penchant for counterfeit clothing. I would argue that bootleg goods are helping to kill the vibrant sense of fashion and people’s individuality in terms their dress. The popularity of “ready-to-wear” or “prêt-a-porter” clothing has taken a hold of Senegal. While many people still buy fabric and visit a local tailor, many people, especially young people, are beginning to turn to the easier and cheaper way to purchase clothing. With tailors you bring the fabric and any amenity you would like added to your piece, lace, piping, jewels, etc. The tailor, almost all of whom are men, takes your measurements and evaluates whether you have enough fabric for your design. Most of the time you provide the design of the desired clothing. It is a lot of fun and can be a nice creative outlet. If you are not the imaginative type the you can tell the tailor what you want (dress, pants, outfit) made from the fabric and he or she will design it for you or you can look at a book of photos the tailor has of his of her work. I personally take great pleasure in designing my own outfits or “borrowing” my friend’s ideas.

Anyway, prêt-a-porter is significantly cheaper both monetarily and in quality. It is also omnipresent in Dakar. Vendors selling fake Channel tank tops or faux Lacoste belts walk around the neighborhoods hawking their goods. The markets, even the market that sells fabric, has many counterfeit goods from fake Louis V wallets to Prada shoes (that say Gucci on the inside, I swear) to fake Diesel jeans. Counterfeit is ubiquitous. This not just a Senegalese thing, at the clubs Arab men sporting faux Polo shirts sip their Cokes and talk to their girlfriends who have the faux Longchamp bags. At university every other person is wearing at least one item of prêt-a-porter. Caitlin bought “real Gucci sunglasses” for a very small price. Gucci is written across the bridge and is on crooked. On one side the silver medallion that should say Gucci is missing. They are the most ridiculous sunglasses but emblematic of “prêt-a-porter” and the new wave of Senegalese fashion.

I don’t think many people believe their knock-off goods are real. Otman, who I think has amassed a huge quantity of bootleg clothing, says he picks it out because it because it is accessible or he likes the way it looks. I don’t think he has any idea the price or the reputation of the real goods. He wears it because it was a gift from someone or he likes the color. I have noticed that friends oftentimes buy their friends the knock-off clothing as presents. While we in the US would be offended to receive a fake bag or pair of jeans, here these gifts are welcomed.

Senegalese style clothing- boubous, batiks, taille-basses, etc do come in prêt-a-porter but usually in an enormous size made for big mamas or for little children. If they do come in a more fitted size, usually batik dresses, it is not acceptable to wear them out of the house since they are considered house dresses. “Traditional” wear is not supposed to be fitted so the size doesn’t matter. Men wear their clothing huge so that it hangs off of their bodies. It is all the rage to wear tight clothing so young women will rarely wear huge boubous. It is far more common to see her wearing a taille-basse, which consists of a top and long skirt that when made at the tailor is usually fitted. All of the prêt-a-porter taille-basses I have seen come with enormous tops and fitted skirts. Not cute. The hugeness of the clothing sometimes makes it inappropriate for young women to wear because the armpit holes expose their breasts. For older women it’s fine because they do what they want and you end up seeing their breasts on a daily basis through the armpit hole of their boubou (I kid you not). It is far more attractive and wise just to go to the tailor and get measured.

One of my favorite pastimes is checking out counterfeit shirts. I enjoy picking out all of the grammar and spelling errors. One of Otman’s favorite Diesel shirts has establishment spelled wrong. His friend’s mother just sent him a gift of bootleg jeans and a tee shirt. The Dolce and Gabana tee said, “The best place for avantre is here.” It doesn’t make sense that Italian brand would write on their clothing in English. It makes less sense that the clothing is counterfeited to begin with.

A shirt is a shirt, a belt just a belt so it shouldn’t matter that they are fake. I think it does since it says something about what is being dumped into Senegal. Senegalese society is not materialistic nor brand obsessed as we are in North American and Europe. People buy the prêt-a-porter because it’s cheap. Those Channel tank tops are sold everywhere in a variety of colors for about $3. The bootleg clothing gives off the appearance that Senegalese culture is turning into a consumer haven. It also demonstrates to the outside that Senegalese people do not care about quality or that they can be easily fooled. I think the connotations are bogus. Already tailors are feeling the effects. Some have closed up shop while others have to raise their prices in order to make money. It is another example of something being introduced from the outside that is messing up the culture and the country.

Dakar versus DC

If I could compare Dakar to any city in the United States I would say it is most comparable to Washington DC. The fact that they are both the capital city does play a role in my comparison as does use of space.

First and foremost in both cities the president lives in a big white house. In the US it’s the white house in Senegal it is called the Palais Presidentiel. In Dakar one of the few places you can find grass is in front of the Palais.

One of my favorite activities is watching the presidential motorcade leave the Palais. It is by far the most absurd thing. First there are a few police officers on motorcycles that lead the way, followed by huge Ford Expeditions with tinted windows and flashing blue lights, the is the presidents Mercedes with hearse-like curtains in the backseat, usually there is another Mercedes or two near his car, then there is always a not-as-nice car, followed by more Expeditions, and the bringing-up-the-back police officers on motorcycles. As he and his crew pass the gendarmerie who are called in to block traffic salute him. What makes the whole motorcade such a charade is that guns barely exist in Senegal so for anyone to do harm to the President they would have to knife him probably with a machete, which means entering his ‘Benz.

Since it is a capital city it, like DC, it is overrun with administrative buildings. Dakar is home to more ministers’ offices than you can imagine. There are also legislative buildings, as well as many government run institutions. The United Nations has a large presence in Dakar. Similarly to DC, Dakar is host to many embassies and ambassadors houses. They tend to stick out among the regular folks houses, as they are typically quite large and well manicured. Many of them are in a “suburb” called Fann near the university. Fann reminds me of the area near American University except that one part of the suburb borders the Atlantic Ocean.

The proximity to water is another similarities between the two cities. Dakar is as cosmopolitan as it is because of the presence of a port. DC has a nice port for people to park their yachts. In both cities because of the water you can find good seafood. I must say that DC is missing out on the fisherman culture. Typically Dakar fisherman fish at night from 8pm to 7am in pirogues (the boats that are also used to bring Senegalese to the Canary Islands), Watching the fishermen come back to shore in the morning is one of the most impressive sights (and smells) around. But to be fair, DC has a one-up on Dakar since it has the Smithsonians, Dakar is host to one official museum that my mother would refer to as “dinky” if she ever visited.

The people who live in Dakar have a similar pace as the people who live in DC. It is not the face pace always on the move pace of New York while it is not as laid back as other cities. You understand that people are the move but are willing to stop and talk if you engage them in conversation. Also, like in DC not many people call Dakar their home. Most people live on the outskirts of the city and commute in to work.

The traffic is comparably horrible in both places. You can easily be stuck on a crowded bus for an hour and a half when the trip should only take about ten minutes. Dakar has a serious pollution and over population problem so the commute is far more unpleasant. There have been times where I have noticed that I have arrived at my destination faster than a bus that traveled the same route. Urban planning for Dakar was minimal outside of the fact that the French administrators wanted to house all of the Africans in Dakar in an a township called Medina. Most roads have three lanes: one going, one coming, and one passing. This is supposed to be sufficient for 4 million people.

How can I write about Dakar with writing about poverty? Dakar has rough neighborhoods like DC does but I think that Dakar has more. In Dakar these neighborhoods are prime examples of abject poverty. However, I think that the poor parts of Dakar are much safer than those in DC. On the other hand there are middle-class and upper-middle-class neighborhoods nearby but farther from the city comparable to Alexandria. I live in one such neighborhood. Farther away from the city is where the huge mansions and Club Med is located. Paradoxically, Yoff, the village I lived in during October is also near there. Dakar is a city of extremes which is why it is so fascinating. In order to get to the chic areas you have to pass by shack villages and hundreds of begging children. I do not know how people could morally live in such enormous houses while their domestic help can barely afford a sack of rice.

Now if only Dakar could construct a metro system many of the urban planning traffic problems would be alleviated and I wouldn’t die of black lung from car pollution.

10,000 girls

I spent five days in Kaolack working at the NGO (non-governmental organization) 10,000 girls (www.10000girls.org). It is by far the best NGO or project I have visited in Senegal, bar none. It is the only NGO that I have visited that is run by Senegalese people. In addition, they are not getting stuck in the rut of micro-finance. It is also not being administered from a faraway European or American. It is the only place that I can confidently say helps people. In addition, their whole premise, helping girls stay in school and succeed is amazing. The project was started when a little nine or ten year old girl knocked on an American woman, Viola Vaughn’s, door. She begged Viola to help her stay in school. At first Viola was hesitant to immerse herself in such an undertaking but she relented. She was able to teach the girl and her two friends how to teach themselves the information they are given in school. Six years later there are 1,700 girls in the program. The project is hoping to increase the number to 2,400 this year. The project has several compartments. One is an after-school program in Kaolack as well in five other zones of villages. The project also supports in-school programs targeted to help girls. The project runs with the help of five businesses. These businesses are run by women who have been excluded from school. Some never went to school and are illiterate while other only went up until middle school. The businesses that they run exceptionally well are: a bakery that caters and makes pancakes and other American delights, a local rice and high-end cashew selling project, a trucking/ transit business for their cashews and for local farmers, a sewing shop that makes quilts, sheets, tablecloths, etc, and a guest house in Kaolack. All of these projects are completely overseen by the women with a little bit of organizational help from Viola. The proceeds are split in half one half goes to the women and the other half goes to the school.
My job while there was to help with organizing ways to thank people who donated to the project. I created a newsletter with updates about the project and the businesses. As well as other little organizational tasks did at the school and in the bakery. I accompanied Viola to a village south of Kaolack where they want to create an after-school program. The village is a bit dysfunctional because they have electricity but no hook-ups and noThe most rewarding experience I had, other than talking to Viola, was

my digs in Kaolack

I spent five days in Kaolack working at an NGO (non-governmental organization). Kaolack is a small dirty city Southeast of Dakar. It was incredibly hot and infested with tons mosquitoes (that is saying a lot for Senegal). In Kaolack I lived in a house with 30 or more people. We had running water only at certain times and the rest of the times we used water from a well on the compound. The well water was actually warmers than the running water so it was a treat for me. Some of the people who lived in the house were from nearby villages who came to Kaolack for their education. Other people who lived in the house were bakers who made thick country bread in a wood-burning stove. The actual members of the family were only about seven of the inhabitants. In addition, there were many women there who helped with the cooking and cleaning but who were clearly not maids, bakers, or students. I never figured out what they did and why they lived in the house. One of the mystery women taught me how to make fataayas, which are pockets of dough filled with tuna and spiced onions. Before learning how to make them I was convinced the filling was gross mystery meat. It was nice to know that I was wrong. In any case, I had the pleasure of sharing a bed with the woman I worked with at the NGO. Occasionally I would wake up to find that one of the toddlers in the house had nestled between us sleeping peacefully and deeply. I soon found out that my room also doubled as an armoire for about ten of the houses’ inhabitants. During all hours of the day and night people would enter and take what they needed out of the enormous armoire and leave. Some of the women would undress or get dressed in the room. I, on several occasions, walked in on half naked women getting their toiletries and bathrobe for the shower. I, as the resident awkward American, averted my eyes and grabbed what I needed and left. At night I frequently awoke to people shuffling in and out. To me this constant movement of people in what I considered to be my bedroom was incredibly mind-blowing for two reasons. One, in my house in Dakar my room is my own. I lock it when I leave and people only enter if invited. I leave my door open when I am present in the room but close it if I leave it. Two, as an American I have a very particular sense of space. I need a lot of it. Whether it manifests while talking to people, driving, or a physical space to go call my own. Americans tend to use their rooms as havens for places to go to be alone, to think, to escape, to pout, to read, etc. In Senegal this is not the case. People are more community based. Old men are the only ones given the freedom to retreat to their room whenever they like. Others stay in the living room or courtyard as a large group talking and eating. Senegalese tend to share the belongings freely and generously; therefore, my preoccupation with the security of my belongings was not far off except that this family understood that toubabs do not share like Senegalese share. My things were untouched and stayed near where the extra television and DVD player was stored. Regarding bedrooms, it is common for parents with a kid or two to share a room or several siblings to share a bed. Rooms are hangout spots for younger people but the door must be kept open. Most of the time they use their rooms as a place to listen to music and make tea. Kaolack was without a doubt a true cultural experience. I am thankful that I had it.

my digs in Kaolack

I spent five days in Kaolack working at an NGO (non-governmental organization). Kaolack is a small dirty city Southeast of Dakar. It was incredibly hot and infested with tons mosquitoes (that is saying a lot for Senegal). In Kaolack I lived in a house with 30 or more people. We had running water only at certain times and the rest of the times we used water from a well on the compound. The well water was actually warmers than the running water so it was a treat for me. Some of the people who lived in the house were from nearby villages who came to Kaolack for their education. Other people who lived in the house were bakers who made thick country bread in a wood-burning stove. The actual members of the family were only about seven of the inhabitants. In addition, there were many women there who helped with the cooking and cleaning but who were clearly not maids, bakers, or students. I never figured out what they did and why they lived in the house. One of the mystery women taught me how to make fataayas, which are pockets of dough filled with tuna and spiced onions. Before learning how to make them I was convinced the filling was gross mystery meat. It was nice to know that I was wrong. In any case, I had the pleasure of sharing a bed with the woman I worked with at the NGO. Occasionally I would wake up to find that one of the toddlers in the house had nestled between us sleeping peacefully and deeply. I soon found out that my room also doubled as an armoire for about ten of the houses’ inhabitants. During all hours of the day and night people would enter and take what they needed out of the enormous armoire and leave. Some of the women would undress or get dressed in the room. I, on several occasions, walked in on half naked women getting their toiletries and bathrobe for the shower. I, as the resident awkward American, averted my eyes and grabbed what I needed and left. At night I frequently awoke to people shuffling in and out. To me this constant movement of people in what I considered to be my bedroom was incredibly mind-blowing for two reasons. One, in my house in Dakar my room is my own. I lock it when I leave and people only enter if invited. I leave my door open when I am present in the room but close it if I leave it. Two, as an American I have a very particular sense of space. I need a lot of it. Whether it manifests while talking to people, driving, or a physical space to go call my own. Americans tend to use their rooms as havens for places to go to be alone, to think, to escape, to pout, to read, etc. In Senegal this is not the case. People are more community based. Old men are the only ones given the freedom to retreat to their room whenever they like. Others stay in the living room or courtyard as a large group talking and eating. Senegalese tend to share the belongings freely and generously; therefore, my preoccupation with the security of my belongings was not far off except that this family understood that toubabs do not share like Senegalese share. My things were untouched and stayed near where the extra television and DVD player was stored. Regarding bedrooms, it is common for parents with a kid or two to share a room or several siblings to share a bed. Rooms are hangout spots for younger people but the door must be kept open. Most of the time they use their rooms as a place to listen to music and make tea. Kaolack was without a doubt a true cultural experience. I am thankful that I had it.

street snacking

My favorite street snacks for under $1-

• Peanut brittle – 2 cents a piece or 10 cents a bag.
• Grilled peanuts- 5 cents a bag
• Sugar peanuts- 5 cents a bag
• Green apples- 50 cents a piece
• Red apples- 60 cents a piece
• Grapefruit- 50 cents a piece
• Bananas- between 25- 40 cents a piece
• Oranges- 25 cents a piece
• Thaickery (cooked millet with curdled milk or yogurt) 60 cents a container
• Omelet sandwich- 55 cents
• Fattaayas (fried dough filled with chopped meat and onions) - 50 cents for 5
• Beignets- 25 cents for 5
• Hibiscus juice- 10 cents a bag
• Ditah juice- 50 cents a bag
• Baobab juice- 50 cents a bag

knives and forks

Morocco is a popular travel destination for many tourists both American and European for its’ mix of exotic culture and sophistication. Unlike black Africans, Moroccans are not seen as backwards or savage. Yet, my Moroccan boyfriend who comes from a middle class family had never used a knife and fork to eat before coming to Senegal. Eating with knives and forks is a sign of social competence. It signals a certain sophistication especially when done in a certain European fashion. Mastery of cutlery is noticed at social functions and is seen my many parents as a skill they must impart on their children. My Moroccan’s awareness of cutlery was used a large knife to open cans or butcher meat. Spoons are used to cook with but not to eat with. Bread becomes both the spoon and fork while the thumb is a knife. He told me about his first day of work in Senegal and how he was given a plate of food accompanied by a knife and fork. He sat their baffled looking at his Senegalese counterparts adeptly cutting the meat and placing it in their mouths. He watched and attempted to imitate getting food all over his lap. The next day he told me about how he shut himself up in his office. He ate lunch by himself trying to get the hang of silverware. While home in Morocco for a visit after having mastered the tools he took his mother out to lunch and asked to be given a knife and fork. She asked him “What are you going to do with those things.” When she watched him eat with them she said, “ What’s wrong with bread and your hands?” Now two years later he is the knife and fork professional and has begun to teach me how to eat with my right hand. Believe me it is a lot harder than it looks.

boy

My host mother fired the maid a few weeks ago for various reasons. She did so at the most inopportune time because all of the eligible maids were beginning to go back to their villages to celebrate Tabaski. I think as soon as she fired her she regretted it because of all the work it gave her. The laundry piled up, she became responsible for the cooking, and had to do most of the cleaning. When either Damien or I offered to help her she refused or let us help just a little bit while all the time complaining about all the work she had to do. Her way of searching for a new maid was to talk to every person she encountered and explained her situation. She visited neighbors’ houses and talked to their maids. The topic of a maid was always on her tongue. I think she became pretty worn down. I left for vacation while she was still maid-less.

When I called to check up on the family she told me with great pleasure that she had found someone to do the housework, “a boy” named Mamadou. I was home for his first day of work. My host mom stayed with him the entire day instructing him about how to clean the house and telling him what to do next. These conversations were conducted in French because Mamadou is Guinean and does not speak Wolof. Our other maid did not speak a lick of French and therefore I was lucky enough not to be able to really understand what was being said to her. I don’t think my host family treats Mamadou poorly I just do not like evident class division and some of the expectations they have for him, like he must work on Tabaski when most “maids” have off.

When my host parents refer to Mamadou they refer to him as “the boy.” It disgusts me because that is what slave owners called their adult male slaves. Mamadou and I are about the same age; yet, I have the privilege of going to school and not having any working commitments. I find it awkward that he has to clean my 27-year-old host brother’s room everyday.

On the other hand, having a male clean the house is a progressive action. Who in the United States would trust a young man clean their house. Most people would be too afraid he would break something or that he would do a terrible job. Other people would not dare leave him alone in the house for fear that he would steal. Here in Senegal, which has very strict gender codes that are in favor of women being the sole responsible for work within the household it is acceptable for a male to clean our house. My family has met some criticism even within the house, mainly from my host brother who thinks that men are incapable of cleaning. He probably thinks that because he is lazy and would not know how to sweep if a broom was attached to his arm. My host mom thinks that Mamadou is excellent and is a good cleaner; although, she is not impressed with his attendance record. I always wonder what he is thinking and how he feels to be one of the only males who cleans’ houses. What goes through his head when he is wiping down our front door and the neighborhood bums are drinking attaaya and watching him or when he brings the garbage to the garbage truck with all of the neighborhood maids. I doubt he will stay at our house for a long time because of both societial pressure and because of some of his expectations.