High Fivin’ and giving the thumbs-up is alive in Dakar. Most jokes are accented by a high-five between friends, even if one of them is the object of the joke. Sometimes the high-five is a low-five that resembles a failed handshake. There can be up to ten consecutive high-fives in one sitting. I wonder if people get tired of slapping hands or if it’s just the pulse of the conversation. The slapping is never hard and both parties always laugh. It is a nice flare to a joke that I have become accustom, yet am afraid to practice. I think it’s because many of my jokes don’t work in French, so I am left laughing to myself.
Anyway, the thumbs-up is a little cheekier because it can be used with sincerity and with sarcasm. If a taxi driver is making an illegal turn and the police see him and don’t pull him over, he will give a thumbs-up as a silent thank you. However, if a car rapid cuts off a driver, he will also give the thumbs-up punctuated by cursing and fist shaking. It’s a way to communicate, “f you,” without saying it.If you ask for the check at a restaurant or you want the waiter’s attention, you can give him or her the thumbs up sign as a way to call attention to yourself. Other methods are whistling, snapping, and pssting; therefore, thumbs-up is less obtrusive and rude. It’s a kind non-verbal “thank you,” with a little bit of sass.
What is important is that the thumb, while in the up position, generally rests on the curled index finger. It does not protrude and waggle around, but lifts itself up to the first joint, like an unfurling snake resting on the rest of it’s body.
Those are today’s observations in non-verbal communication in Dakar.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Muhammed and Anne's wedding
Last Saturday, I attended Otman’s friend, Muhammed’s, wedding. Muhammed, who is Lebanese, married a French woman, Anne, who has been living in Dakar for three years. Muhammed has lived here for about eight years. What struck me about the wedding was the utter lack of Senegalese guests. There was only one Senegalese couple in attendance who sat with the Anne’s family. The other Senegalese folks present were either cameramen or waiters.
The lack of Senegalese present illustrates the insularity of the expatriate community, especially the Lebanese community. There is a huge Lebanese community in Dakar. They own much of the industry and big restaurants in the region. The company that Otman works for, P..., is owned by Lebanese men and they make up the majority of the supervisors. It is very difficult for Senegalese people to gain management positions, even if they are overqualified for the job. I often find myself wondering if this is an opaque form of colonialism, where racism and other methods of discrimination rule the job market.
Aside from the lack of Senegalese guests, other interesting aspects of the wedding were the dancing, the presence of a mangy wandering dog, the photographers, and the enormous bug that got stuck in my shawl. This wedding was a typical Lebanaese wedding regardless of Anne’s origins. The dancing, traditional Lebanese dancing, resembles the horah, done in Jewish celebrations. Everyone holds hands and dances in a circle. There are certain steps that must be performed in order to propel the motion of the circle. Everyone takes two steps to the right and on the third step, they cross their right foot over their left in a stomping motion. As simple as this sounds, I stepped on the foot of the person next to me twice. Quickly recognizing my ineptitude, I assumed my usual role of photographer and stayed out of the way.
The dog, a typical Saharan wild dog with a nasty skin disease kept circling the pool, around which the dinner tables were placed. During the meal, the dog parked itself under the table next to mine and scratched itself silly. In addition, the dog barked a few times during the course of the party, only once at an inappropriate time, during Anne’s entrance.
The bride’s entrance is very important. Generally for Muslim weddings, the couple signs wedding papers stipulating the terms of their marriage (much like a pre-nuptial) in the presence of a religious leader, a mufti. Later on, days later or hours later, the couple celebrates their marriage at a reception. The groom and his family arrive before the bride to greet the guests (in this case, we waited two hours for the bride to arrive). The guests mill about drinking juice and eating hors d’oeuvres until they are told to take a seat in preparation for the bride’s arrival. When the bride enters, she makes a grand entrance that felt like a beauty pageant contestant walking across a stage. What was interesting about the bride’s entrance was that she was wearing a white wedding gown, a veil, and gloves and was accompanied by two women who acted the role of flower girls. There was music and the bride strolled in, careful not to fall into the pool or slip on the flower petals. The groom took her arm and they walked in front of the tables where the guests were sitting. They did a complete tour of the tables, while people clapped and chanted (and the dog barked). It was not like the somber procession of brides in a church, although the white dress and flower girls were clearly borrowed from that tradition; this was a celebration of a union. A cross-cultural and multi-faith union at that.
During the entire wedding, cameramen were snapping pictures, paparazzi-style. Since I do not know the couple well, I felt awkward being photographed. The cameramen, who must have assumed that I was close to the bride because of my skin color, took many pictures of my table. I felt extremely conspicuous and embarrassed. Toward the end of the wedding, the photographers displayed their photographs on a table for the guests to purchase. I was impressed with the speed of which the pictures were developed and their subsequent quality. Otman bought a bunch of them, one of us is very funny, since it looks like I am scolding him by waggling by finger. He has placed another picture (not very flattering) of us and the bride and groom in his living room for all of his visitors to see.
Then, to end the night, there was the big nasty bug. I am not someone who is afraid of bugs. At Chez Alpha, Awa alerts me to the presence of an unusually large cockroach, grasshopper, or unidentifiable flying creature, for me to dispose of. Bugs do not bother me at all. However, this monster was caught between my shawl and my back and began to climb all over me, digging its prickly legs into my flesh. As I began to wiggle around trying to free myself from it’s grasp, the photographers began thrusting new pictures at me to buy. They mustn’t have noticed that I was under a covert attack or else they just assumed that I was just a crazy toubab swatting at herself and trying to undress in public. Finally Otman realized my distress and freed me of my shawl. What emerged was a yellow and black flying insect that was approximately four inches by two inches. I flung it into the bushes and asked Otman to take me home.
Below is a video I took of the dancing. You can see the bride, Anne, in her wedding dress. The groom, Muhammed, is the fourth person in line wearing a suit and a blue tie.
The lack of Senegalese present illustrates the insularity of the expatriate community, especially the Lebanese community. There is a huge Lebanese community in Dakar. They own much of the industry and big restaurants in the region. The company that Otman works for, P..., is owned by Lebanese men and they make up the majority of the supervisors. It is very difficult for Senegalese people to gain management positions, even if they are overqualified for the job. I often find myself wondering if this is an opaque form of colonialism, where racism and other methods of discrimination rule the job market.
Aside from the lack of Senegalese guests, other interesting aspects of the wedding were the dancing, the presence of a mangy wandering dog, the photographers, and the enormous bug that got stuck in my shawl. This wedding was a typical Lebanaese wedding regardless of Anne’s origins. The dancing, traditional Lebanese dancing, resembles the horah, done in Jewish celebrations. Everyone holds hands and dances in a circle. There are certain steps that must be performed in order to propel the motion of the circle. Everyone takes two steps to the right and on the third step, they cross their right foot over their left in a stomping motion. As simple as this sounds, I stepped on the foot of the person next to me twice. Quickly recognizing my ineptitude, I assumed my usual role of photographer and stayed out of the way.
The dog, a typical Saharan wild dog with a nasty skin disease kept circling the pool, around which the dinner tables were placed. During the meal, the dog parked itself under the table next to mine and scratched itself silly. In addition, the dog barked a few times during the course of the party, only once at an inappropriate time, during Anne’s entrance.
The bride’s entrance is very important. Generally for Muslim weddings, the couple signs wedding papers stipulating the terms of their marriage (much like a pre-nuptial) in the presence of a religious leader, a mufti. Later on, days later or hours later, the couple celebrates their marriage at a reception. The groom and his family arrive before the bride to greet the guests (in this case, we waited two hours for the bride to arrive). The guests mill about drinking juice and eating hors d’oeuvres until they are told to take a seat in preparation for the bride’s arrival. When the bride enters, she makes a grand entrance that felt like a beauty pageant contestant walking across a stage. What was interesting about the bride’s entrance was that she was wearing a white wedding gown, a veil, and gloves and was accompanied by two women who acted the role of flower girls. There was music and the bride strolled in, careful not to fall into the pool or slip on the flower petals. The groom took her arm and they walked in front of the tables where the guests were sitting. They did a complete tour of the tables, while people clapped and chanted (and the dog barked). It was not like the somber procession of brides in a church, although the white dress and flower girls were clearly borrowed from that tradition; this was a celebration of a union. A cross-cultural and multi-faith union at that.
During the entire wedding, cameramen were snapping pictures, paparazzi-style. Since I do not know the couple well, I felt awkward being photographed. The cameramen, who must have assumed that I was close to the bride because of my skin color, took many pictures of my table. I felt extremely conspicuous and embarrassed. Toward the end of the wedding, the photographers displayed their photographs on a table for the guests to purchase. I was impressed with the speed of which the pictures were developed and their subsequent quality. Otman bought a bunch of them, one of us is very funny, since it looks like I am scolding him by waggling by finger. He has placed another picture (not very flattering) of us and the bride and groom in his living room for all of his visitors to see.
Then, to end the night, there was the big nasty bug. I am not someone who is afraid of bugs. At Chez Alpha, Awa alerts me to the presence of an unusually large cockroach, grasshopper, or unidentifiable flying creature, for me to dispose of. Bugs do not bother me at all. However, this monster was caught between my shawl and my back and began to climb all over me, digging its prickly legs into my flesh. As I began to wiggle around trying to free myself from it’s grasp, the photographers began thrusting new pictures at me to buy. They mustn’t have noticed that I was under a covert attack or else they just assumed that I was just a crazy toubab swatting at herself and trying to undress in public. Finally Otman realized my distress and freed me of my shawl. What emerged was a yellow and black flying insect that was approximately four inches by two inches. I flung it into the bushes and asked Otman to take me home.
Below is a video I took of the dancing. You can see the bride, Anne, in her wedding dress. The groom, Muhammed, is the fourth person in line wearing a suit and a blue tie.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
degg nga wolof bu bare
I know I am gloating, but I must admit that it makes me incredibly happy to hear, “Yow, degg nga Wolof bu bare.” (You speak Wolof very well) from people I don’t know. It makes me even happier when Awa tells people that I speak Wolof well, or at least that I understand it. It takes me awhile to construct complicated sentences properly without using French as a crutch, but I am trying to use Wolof as much as I can. It always fun to get a rise out of people when they greet me in Wolof, with the expectation that I don’t understand, then we have a conversation about our day, our lives, etc. It makes my philosophy that I should maintain a good sense of humor while here possible. It also, obviously helps me build relationships with people in my neighborhood and my clients.
Lisa, my dear housemate and close friend from MHC, who is a Peace Corps volunteer in Niger, explained to me that people in her village tell her all the time that she can’t speak Hausa properly. It is the most demoralizing experience to be in a country where you are trying very hard to speak the local language and to have people chastise you for your speaking skills. I am confident that Lisa speaks Hausa better than I speak Wolof. It goes to show how different cultures are and how they impact a situation immensely. I am lauded for trying, while Lisa is put down.
Lisa, my dear housemate and close friend from MHC, who is a Peace Corps volunteer in Niger, explained to me that people in her village tell her all the time that she can’t speak Hausa properly. It is the most demoralizing experience to be in a country where you are trying very hard to speak the local language and to have people chastise you for your speaking skills. I am confident that Lisa speaks Hausa better than I speak Wolof. It goes to show how different cultures are and how they impact a situation immensely. I am lauded for trying, while Lisa is put down.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Amul Xaalis
I asked Awa why, when I was in Dakar last time, people always asked during the obligatory greetings, “Yangi lekk sa xaalis?” (Are you eating your money?) The phrase is really a way of asking whether you are making money and living well. Awa thought about it and then at the same time we both said, “Fii amul xaalis,” meaning, “there is no money here.”
Awa thinks this is the funniest thing ever and tells everyone about my not-so-keen observation that there is no money in Senegal.
Awa thinks this is the funniest thing ever and tells everyone about my not-so-keen observation that there is no money in Senegal.
Seydou
“You look like an Arabic,” Seydou told me.
“ No I don’t,” I responded.
“Yes, you look like an Arabic. I know Arabics, and you look like one.”
“Well, you look like a Senegalese man,” was my intelligent reply.
“I am not Senegalese, I was born in Mauritania,” Seydou explain.
I sat down in the low uncomfortable wooden chair to hear his life story. He told me that when he was little his father was a politician in Mauritania. In 1989, when Senegal and Mauritania started a border dispute, his father was arrested. At the time of his father’s imprisonment, he and his mother, brother, and sister, were sent to live just over the border in Senegal in a refugee camp. His family was given a little plot of land, on which they built a small house. His father was released from jail three years later in 1991 when the war ended. His father died soon after he was released.
Seydou excelled in school and was energized to learn English. He confided that he was terrible at first but then was motivated to learn and worked very hard to master his lessons. He did well enough on his BAC (the exam taken to pass high school) to qualify to attend Universite Cheikh Anta Diop in Dakar. He moved in with his cousins in Mamelles and began to take classes at the university. During breaks, he visits his family, who still live in the refugee camp in the North of Senegal. With aspirations to become a professor, he privileged his studies and worked hard. He talks of going to the United States for school as his dream. Despite his grammatical error above, he actually speaks English very well and does so with unparalleled confidence.
Seydou helps out around Chez Alpha Books whenever he is needed. For some time he worked as the guardian but he felt it interfered with his studies so he gave it up. Now he comes by to check out books from the library, practice his English, and lift heavy boxes for us.
While the details of Seydou’s story are unique, the general theme is not, in Senegal. Students work hard, are motivated, and have a desire to learn, but their degrees if issued in Senegal are not valued as much as those from Europe or America. This fosters a desire to leave the country. While the rich students can leave, the poor ones can only dream. They sit at the public university squished in a classroom with hundreds of other students crammed into a room to hear a professor lecture. Students sit on the floor, windowsills, and hallways, just to cop down what the professor dictates.
Seydou is lucky that he was given the opportunity to study. Countless other children, mainly girls, never even get the option to go to school because of school fees and other costs associated with education. This creates a complicated web of privilege, which permeates Senegalese society.
“ No I don’t,” I responded.
“Yes, you look like an Arabic. I know Arabics, and you look like one.”
“Well, you look like a Senegalese man,” was my intelligent reply.
“I am not Senegalese, I was born in Mauritania,” Seydou explain.
I sat down in the low uncomfortable wooden chair to hear his life story. He told me that when he was little his father was a politician in Mauritania. In 1989, when Senegal and Mauritania started a border dispute, his father was arrested. At the time of his father’s imprisonment, he and his mother, brother, and sister, were sent to live just over the border in Senegal in a refugee camp. His family was given a little plot of land, on which they built a small house. His father was released from jail three years later in 1991 when the war ended. His father died soon after he was released.
Seydou excelled in school and was energized to learn English. He confided that he was terrible at first but then was motivated to learn and worked very hard to master his lessons. He did well enough on his BAC (the exam taken to pass high school) to qualify to attend Universite Cheikh Anta Diop in Dakar. He moved in with his cousins in Mamelles and began to take classes at the university. During breaks, he visits his family, who still live in the refugee camp in the North of Senegal. With aspirations to become a professor, he privileged his studies and worked hard. He talks of going to the United States for school as his dream. Despite his grammatical error above, he actually speaks English very well and does so with unparalleled confidence.
Seydou helps out around Chez Alpha Books whenever he is needed. For some time he worked as the guardian but he felt it interfered with his studies so he gave it up. Now he comes by to check out books from the library, practice his English, and lift heavy boxes for us.
While the details of Seydou’s story are unique, the general theme is not, in Senegal. Students work hard, are motivated, and have a desire to learn, but their degrees if issued in Senegal are not valued as much as those from Europe or America. This fosters a desire to leave the country. While the rich students can leave, the poor ones can only dream. They sit at the public university squished in a classroom with hundreds of other students crammed into a room to hear a professor lecture. Students sit on the floor, windowsills, and hallways, just to cop down what the professor dictates.
Seydou is lucky that he was given the opportunity to study. Countless other children, mainly girls, never even get the option to go to school because of school fees and other costs associated with education. This creates a complicated web of privilege, which permeates Senegalese society.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Buses- P3
As part of my job, I spend a lot of time on buses. I enjoy riding in buses because it gives me ample time to observe the mannerisms of Dakaroise and different areas of Dakar. To get into and out of the city I take the same bus, the P3, which is a small white bus with about 20 seats. Of course, about 50 people try to pile into the bus at any given time. We all squish in, bodies pressed against each other, while some people hang out of the door on the stairs in order to fit. The P3 bus travels on major roads except in the area of Ouakam where it turns onto an unpaved road and makes a U around a central market.
When there is a baptism, wedding, or funeral, people who live in that “quartier” erect large white tents in the middle of the road. Under these huge tents are hundreds of plastic chairs in various colors and a bunch of plastic tables. When the party is not raging, the chairs are stacked in the middle of the tent surrounded by the tables. Therefore, when the tents are up, the bus cannot pass. Sometimes this means the bus has to turn around on a busy street, which takes several minutes, or it can mean completely changing the normal bus route. I imagine that there are people who don’t realize that the bus won’t stop at the usual bus stop and they wait and wait for a longtime for a phantom bus. When the bus just turns around and goes back down the street, it causes confusion since people logically assume that it’s the return bus instead of a bus blocked by a funeral, wedding, etc, so they board only to discover that they are headed in the wrong direction. Screaming and insulting ensues.
Also in Senegal, a news and politics obsessed country, people will hold up the bus in order to purchase a newspaper out of the window. The scene goes as follows: a person will spot someone selling newspapers. He or she will flag down the vendor and name the paper they desire. The vendor will quickly search in his or her stack of newspapers to find the right one. Then the buyer will riffle through his or her pockets or bag to find money. Following an awkward exchange, the transaction is complete. However, most of the time, when this occurs downtown or in a crowded area, the bus won’t stop, making the vendor chase after the bus, arms outstretched in preparation for the exchange. It becomes dangerous when there is a lot of traffic (no one stays in their lane) and the chase lasts several seconds.
What baffles me is that if the bus is in a residential area or there is little traffic, the bus will stop in order for the newspaper to be purchased. The entire bus has to wait for the transaction to be complete. As an aside, these buses also stop for gas while full of passengers. Anyway, paradoxically, many times the bus driver does not wait long enough for people to get off of the bus at any given stop. Many people end up jumping from the bus in order to get out. This excludes when there is an elderly person or someone who cannot physically jump, since the bus will wait for them to properly descend. I have watched many an old (or very large) woman with a million plastic bags and buckets filed with goods to sell, take her sweet time getting off the bus. Everyone pitches in to help her gather her packages (baggage) and get off the bus. Yet, when a strapping young man wants to leave, he has to jump. I have had to jump on several occasions and it was exhilarating. One time I jumped at an inappropriate time because I missed my stop. The person who collects the bus fare screamed, “Madame! Madame! Arret!”
Don’t get me started on bus etiquette or the seating arrangements on these buses because this post will never end. Basically, on a bus in Dakar you have to be aggressive. You have to fight to get on, fight to get a seat, fight to get off. In the end you probably elbow, step on, or hit someone in order to get a little room. Fin bref.
When there is a baptism, wedding, or funeral, people who live in that “quartier” erect large white tents in the middle of the road. Under these huge tents are hundreds of plastic chairs in various colors and a bunch of plastic tables. When the party is not raging, the chairs are stacked in the middle of the tent surrounded by the tables. Therefore, when the tents are up, the bus cannot pass. Sometimes this means the bus has to turn around on a busy street, which takes several minutes, or it can mean completely changing the normal bus route. I imagine that there are people who don’t realize that the bus won’t stop at the usual bus stop and they wait and wait for a longtime for a phantom bus. When the bus just turns around and goes back down the street, it causes confusion since people logically assume that it’s the return bus instead of a bus blocked by a funeral, wedding, etc, so they board only to discover that they are headed in the wrong direction. Screaming and insulting ensues.
Also in Senegal, a news and politics obsessed country, people will hold up the bus in order to purchase a newspaper out of the window. The scene goes as follows: a person will spot someone selling newspapers. He or she will flag down the vendor and name the paper they desire. The vendor will quickly search in his or her stack of newspapers to find the right one. Then the buyer will riffle through his or her pockets or bag to find money. Following an awkward exchange, the transaction is complete. However, most of the time, when this occurs downtown or in a crowded area, the bus won’t stop, making the vendor chase after the bus, arms outstretched in preparation for the exchange. It becomes dangerous when there is a lot of traffic (no one stays in their lane) and the chase lasts several seconds.
What baffles me is that if the bus is in a residential area or there is little traffic, the bus will stop in order for the newspaper to be purchased. The entire bus has to wait for the transaction to be complete. As an aside, these buses also stop for gas while full of passengers. Anyway, paradoxically, many times the bus driver does not wait long enough for people to get off of the bus at any given stop. Many people end up jumping from the bus in order to get out. This excludes when there is an elderly person or someone who cannot physically jump, since the bus will wait for them to properly descend. I have watched many an old (or very large) woman with a million plastic bags and buckets filed with goods to sell, take her sweet time getting off the bus. Everyone pitches in to help her gather her packages (baggage) and get off the bus. Yet, when a strapping young man wants to leave, he has to jump. I have had to jump on several occasions and it was exhilarating. One time I jumped at an inappropriate time because I missed my stop. The person who collects the bus fare screamed, “Madame! Madame! Arret!”
Don’t get me started on bus etiquette or the seating arrangements on these buses because this post will never end. Basically, on a bus in Dakar you have to be aggressive. You have to fight to get on, fight to get a seat, fight to get off. In the end you probably elbow, step on, or hit someone in order to get a little room. Fin bref.
Whistle
In a New York Times article about Cairo written last year, the author wrote something to the effect of, “ In Cairo anyone can own a gun, but not everyone has a walkie-talkie,” meaning that those with walkie-talkies hold power. Regarding Dakar the sentence can be altered to, “ In Dakar, anyone can own a machete, but not everyone has a whistle.” Recently Inoticed the respect given to those with whistles while walking downtown. Cars were speeding around in every direction making it difficult for me to cross the street. At one corner stood a man in a navy blue over-shirt, whistle in hand, directing traffic. He stopped traffic to allow a car to back out of a parking space, which allowed me room to cross the street. Since that miraculous incident I have been on the look-out for whistleblowers. I noticed that those with whistles, mainly men, rarely blow into them. Instead, they wind the straps attached to the whistle around their hands, ensuring that the whistle faces outwards for everyone to see. It’s their badge of honor, so to speak.
Several of these whistle men were standing together, talking and gesturing for their whistles to be seen by all during another terrible Dakar traffic jam caused by a truck carrying rocks that hit a school bus, that hit a motorcycle. I noticed that everyone passing the accident, stopped for a few seconds to check out the damage to the bus and the truck. It is as if rubbernecking is a right given to drives upon completion of their driving test. I have never seen such systematic rubbernecking in my life. Each car pulls up to the accident slowly, stops, looks, shakes their head, sucks their teeth, and then continues to drive. This observation even happened from the cars in the same lane as the accident, which had to pull up onto the sidewalk to pass the accident. Once on the sidewalk, they stopped to look before maneuvering back onto the road. I would like to add that this applied to everyone from toubab, to Arab, to Senegalese. II just stood on the side of the road, waiting for the bus, laughing to myself, like the crazy toubab I am.
Several of these whistle men were standing together, talking and gesturing for their whistles to be seen by all during another terrible Dakar traffic jam caused by a truck carrying rocks that hit a school bus, that hit a motorcycle. I noticed that everyone passing the accident, stopped for a few seconds to check out the damage to the bus and the truck. It is as if rubbernecking is a right given to drives upon completion of their driving test. I have never seen such systematic rubbernecking in my life. Each car pulls up to the accident slowly, stops, looks, shakes their head, sucks their teeth, and then continues to drive. This observation even happened from the cars in the same lane as the accident, which had to pull up onto the sidewalk to pass the accident. Once on the sidewalk, they stopped to look before maneuvering back onto the road. I would like to add that this applied to everyone from toubab, to Arab, to Senegalese. II just stood on the side of the road, waiting for the bus, laughing to myself, like the crazy toubab I am.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
I'm back
I'm back in Dakar after being away for about a year and a half. I work for Chez Alpha Books, an English Language Service organization. I teach English and do publicity for the organization. Since the office is in a residential neighborhood, advertisement is essential to obtaining clients, so I do a lot of work on the ground. Additionally, Chez Alpha has a library and a bookstore, which I help organize. I work with Awa, the executive assistant, who does a ton of work. She is incredibly kind and knowledgeable. Fortunately we work well together since we spend all day side-by-side strategizing. I will be at Chez Alpha until January 2009.
I have made friends with the people in the neighborhood. Apparently several men have asked Awa whether I am married because they are interested. One of them, the boutique owner, who already has a wife, speaks a little English and uses it to try to reel me in. Another man, a construction worker did not mince his words when he told me that he wanted an American wife so that she could support him so he wouldn’t have to work. He asked me if I was interested and then asked me my name. All this is in jest; no one actually believes I will agree, it’s a way of being friendly. My attitude this time around is to approach everything with a good sense of humor.
The only time my patience began to wear thin was when I went to the post office to mail my absentee ballot. First, it was half a million degrees in the post office. Second, there were half a million people in a small stuffy room. People were lined up in intersecting lines that made no sense, which allowed for people to cut the line and ask their questions. It smelled terrible. The woman next to me who swore she was in front of me had tissue pieces stuck to her face from profusely wiping sweat from her face. After an hour, yes an hour, a woman behind the counter, who had been on the phone and reading her newspaper, gestured for me to approach her window. She took my letter and placed a stamp on it. I paid and then stuck it in a mailbox. That transaction took less than a minute. I was furious, hot, and sweaty. Oh well. I’m glad that’s the only thing that’s been troublesome.
I have noticed that more people, specifically women and young children, sleeping on the streets. It tears my heart apart to see little children lying on cardboard boxes on the busy sidewalk as if it was a quiet bedroom. The first time I witnessed it at night, when it’s tenfold worse than during the day, I cried pitiful tears of helplessness. I questioned why I am here and what I am doing, since it’s not doing anything to alleviate poverty. I had to tell myself that I am gaining skills and experience I need to be able to land jobs that actually help people. Abject poverty is alive and thriving in Dakar. Apparently, the economic crisis will affect Africa much worse than anywhere else in the world. I can’t imagine what that is going to look like.
I will try to post blogs as often as possible; however, there have been serious power outages as of late, lasting hours at a time, making the general working environment difficult. I hope that they will subside in November when it gets cooler.
I have made friends with the people in the neighborhood. Apparently several men have asked Awa whether I am married because they are interested. One of them, the boutique owner, who already has a wife, speaks a little English and uses it to try to reel me in. Another man, a construction worker did not mince his words when he told me that he wanted an American wife so that she could support him so he wouldn’t have to work. He asked me if I was interested and then asked me my name. All this is in jest; no one actually believes I will agree, it’s a way of being friendly. My attitude this time around is to approach everything with a good sense of humor.
The only time my patience began to wear thin was when I went to the post office to mail my absentee ballot. First, it was half a million degrees in the post office. Second, there were half a million people in a small stuffy room. People were lined up in intersecting lines that made no sense, which allowed for people to cut the line and ask their questions. It smelled terrible. The woman next to me who swore she was in front of me had tissue pieces stuck to her face from profusely wiping sweat from her face. After an hour, yes an hour, a woman behind the counter, who had been on the phone and reading her newspaper, gestured for me to approach her window. She took my letter and placed a stamp on it. I paid and then stuck it in a mailbox. That transaction took less than a minute. I was furious, hot, and sweaty. Oh well. I’m glad that’s the only thing that’s been troublesome.
I have noticed that more people, specifically women and young children, sleeping on the streets. It tears my heart apart to see little children lying on cardboard boxes on the busy sidewalk as if it was a quiet bedroom. The first time I witnessed it at night, when it’s tenfold worse than during the day, I cried pitiful tears of helplessness. I questioned why I am here and what I am doing, since it’s not doing anything to alleviate poverty. I had to tell myself that I am gaining skills and experience I need to be able to land jobs that actually help people. Abject poverty is alive and thriving in Dakar. Apparently, the economic crisis will affect Africa much worse than anywhere else in the world. I can’t imagine what that is going to look like.
I will try to post blogs as often as possible; however, there have been serious power outages as of late, lasting hours at a time, making the general working environment difficult. I hope that they will subside in November when it gets cooler.
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