Dakar is changing. I have felt it since I returned from Morocco. There are flashier cars, more toubabs, and a greater disparity between the rich and the poor. However, these are just ideas of what I think is changing. I can't actually nail down what has shifted.
Hotels are being put up on the Corniche but who will they serve? Construction is everywhere. Houses are left empty and half-built. At night if you walk around classier areas, there are actually very few lights on. People aren't home because people don't live there. They live in North America or Europe.
Vendors have made it impossible for buses to pass through Marche Sandaga because they have doubled-up the tables in front of the shanty boutiques. There isn't enough space in teh cramped market for vendors, pedestrians, and buses. I was on a bus yesterday taht went through the market and it tapped two people. How can this be allowed to happen?
I have also been made aware of the increase in thefts in the city. Within the past 3 days, I know three people who had money stolen from them. Two of the people had about $1,000 in the bags that were taken. Is the increase in crime a reaction to wealth disparity? Probably.
I know it's useless to write a post about the subtle changes in a country. While changes may happen slowly over time, I felt that in the ten days that I was away, the country had been altered significantly. Whether it's true or not, is unclear.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
embassy juxtapositions
While it was always obvious, the difference between the US embassy and other embassies in Dakar, it was recently made apparent by a trip I made to the Moroccan embassy on Otman’s behalf. Let me give some back-story and explain that I recently visited the US embassy to get a document notarized.
The US Embassy is an imposing structure in the center of Dakar. The streets around the building are blocked off by hand-operated barricades and guarded by several men at all times. The security precautions are not uncommon; in fact they are general procedure. What is comical is that as a pedestrian you can walk as close to the building as you want without being questioned, yet cars are stopped and their occupants grilled.
Approaching the building, the most striking aspect is the long line of non-citizens waiting to be seen by the consulate officials. Sometimes this line can grow as long to wrap around the entire building. Each person waits his or her turn to speak to a person behind a plexi-glass window. They present their documents by sliding them through a slit in the window and then, if all is in order, they are allowed to pass through the doors. Through the doors, they must go through a metal detector, have their belongings subject to search and x-ray, and have any electronic item confiscated and put in a drawer. Once inside and past security, people must take a number and wait for it to be called. This can take several hours. Waiting is done on brightly colored wooden benches that lack cushions or ample legroom.
As an American citizen, I flashed my passport to the person behind the window, regretfully cutting in front of the patiently waiting people, as is procedure and was allowed into the security room. I past through security, had my cell phone and ipod taken and then picked my way through the crowded waiting room for non-citizens to the citizen’s waiting room. What a difference! I found a room with plush chairs, air conditioning, and boring business magazines. I also encountered a racist man who thought he deserved to cut in front of people because he is white. That is a whole other story. Anyway, the notarization process took very little time but forced me to walk from one waiting room to the other, each time squeezing by the bored, tired, and frustrated people waiting to hear about their status. After I paid for the document, I was sent outside to wait to be let inside to recuperate my electronic devices. This was the first time that citizens and non-citizens mingled and waited together. The racist man got angry that it took so long to get his cell phone back, while the Senegalese and women from Cape Verde waited patiently talking about their visa troubles.
The Moroccan embassy was another world. I went there as a favor to Otman to get his birth date corrected on his proof of birth certificate, essentially a birth certificate for those not born in a hospital. He had requested and received one a week before in preparation for our trip to Morocco and his new business ventures. Anticipating questioning, I took his passport and his ID card along with copies of his original proof of birth that was hard to read and blurry.
The Moroccan embassy looks like an expansive Senegalese housing compound. There are no barriers between the public and the embassy except for a gate, which is left open. I spoke to the one guard on duty about whom I needed to see. The secretary of the official I was directed to see, came outside to indicate the proper office I had to visit. She escorted me through the building (nicely decorated with couches, carpets, and pictures of the king) to the head official’s office. He greeted me warmly in Arabic and when I told that I am not Moroccan but American, he was just as friendly. I showed him the copy of Otman’s proof of birth that had the wrong birth date. He asked me for Otman’s correct birthday, looked at the distorted and fuzzy scanned copy of the original, and decided that they had made an error. He asked the secretary to write up a new document and make several copies. This was done in no time and notarized in seconds.
As I was waiting (in a comfortable leather chair) I noticed signs on the wall asking people to shut off their cell phones. Another sign below that one said that business must be handled by the person needing the attention, not on behalf of someone, like what I was doing. While I was waiting, a man came in and asked about divorce procedures in Senegal. Another man, with several student identification cards came in to ask another question. There was no set order or procedure in place. I was able to leave after staying only about 10 minutes in total with a corrected proof of birth. I never showed identification nor did I show Otman’s identification. People were polite, kind, and competent. There was none of the gruff and clinical attitude found at the US embassy.
The embassies represent the juxtapositions commonly found in Dakar. The gap between what is considered “developed” countries and “under-developed” countries are, I find, played out in the bureaucratic arenas, such as security or adherence to regulations. What is acceptable in one place is not in another. Bribing officials is the most illustrative example I can conjure. It would never be acceptable in the US, but in Senegal or Morocco, it is a commonplace everyday affair.
The US Embassy is an imposing structure in the center of Dakar. The streets around the building are blocked off by hand-operated barricades and guarded by several men at all times. The security precautions are not uncommon; in fact they are general procedure. What is comical is that as a pedestrian you can walk as close to the building as you want without being questioned, yet cars are stopped and their occupants grilled.
Approaching the building, the most striking aspect is the long line of non-citizens waiting to be seen by the consulate officials. Sometimes this line can grow as long to wrap around the entire building. Each person waits his or her turn to speak to a person behind a plexi-glass window. They present their documents by sliding them through a slit in the window and then, if all is in order, they are allowed to pass through the doors. Through the doors, they must go through a metal detector, have their belongings subject to search and x-ray, and have any electronic item confiscated and put in a drawer. Once inside and past security, people must take a number and wait for it to be called. This can take several hours. Waiting is done on brightly colored wooden benches that lack cushions or ample legroom.
As an American citizen, I flashed my passport to the person behind the window, regretfully cutting in front of the patiently waiting people, as is procedure and was allowed into the security room. I past through security, had my cell phone and ipod taken and then picked my way through the crowded waiting room for non-citizens to the citizen’s waiting room. What a difference! I found a room with plush chairs, air conditioning, and boring business magazines. I also encountered a racist man who thought he deserved to cut in front of people because he is white. That is a whole other story. Anyway, the notarization process took very little time but forced me to walk from one waiting room to the other, each time squeezing by the bored, tired, and frustrated people waiting to hear about their status. After I paid for the document, I was sent outside to wait to be let inside to recuperate my electronic devices. This was the first time that citizens and non-citizens mingled and waited together. The racist man got angry that it took so long to get his cell phone back, while the Senegalese and women from Cape Verde waited patiently talking about their visa troubles.
The Moroccan embassy was another world. I went there as a favor to Otman to get his birth date corrected on his proof of birth certificate, essentially a birth certificate for those not born in a hospital. He had requested and received one a week before in preparation for our trip to Morocco and his new business ventures. Anticipating questioning, I took his passport and his ID card along with copies of his original proof of birth that was hard to read and blurry.
The Moroccan embassy looks like an expansive Senegalese housing compound. There are no barriers between the public and the embassy except for a gate, which is left open. I spoke to the one guard on duty about whom I needed to see. The secretary of the official I was directed to see, came outside to indicate the proper office I had to visit. She escorted me through the building (nicely decorated with couches, carpets, and pictures of the king) to the head official’s office. He greeted me warmly in Arabic and when I told that I am not Moroccan but American, he was just as friendly. I showed him the copy of Otman’s proof of birth that had the wrong birth date. He asked me for Otman’s correct birthday, looked at the distorted and fuzzy scanned copy of the original, and decided that they had made an error. He asked the secretary to write up a new document and make several copies. This was done in no time and notarized in seconds.
As I was waiting (in a comfortable leather chair) I noticed signs on the wall asking people to shut off their cell phones. Another sign below that one said that business must be handled by the person needing the attention, not on behalf of someone, like what I was doing. While I was waiting, a man came in and asked about divorce procedures in Senegal. Another man, with several student identification cards came in to ask another question. There was no set order or procedure in place. I was able to leave after staying only about 10 minutes in total with a corrected proof of birth. I never showed identification nor did I show Otman’s identification. People were polite, kind, and competent. There was none of the gruff and clinical attitude found at the US embassy.
The embassies represent the juxtapositions commonly found in Dakar. The gap between what is considered “developed” countries and “under-developed” countries are, I find, played out in the bureaucratic arenas, such as security or adherence to regulations. What is acceptable in one place is not in another. Bribing officials is the most illustrative example I can conjure. It would never be acceptable in the US, but in Senegal or Morocco, it is a commonplace everyday affair.
Friday, January 02, 2009
step aerobics
I have decided that it is possible to draw parallels between walking around downtown Dakar and step-aerobics. While walking, one must step up, step down, step to the side, walk against resistance, jump, increase speed, and do upper body pivots. Why all of these things? Let me explain.
Sidewalks, firstly, are poorly maintained and therefore are riddled with divots and cracks. There is no continuity to the material used, sometimes it’s cement, others slippery tile, or stone. On tile, sliding is key. If you lift your foot, it is likely that you will fall. To prevent slippage, I do what I call, “the Senegalese shuffle,” which entails walking without picking up my feet. This maneuver is named after the old men and women shuffling around Dakar in their slippers causing a constant “shh shh” noise.
Another consideration when talking about sidewalks are that they are not just for the pedestrians. Merchants, formal and informal, use the ground as their store or workspace making the sliver of sidewalk available for foot traffic very small. You have to squeeze by rows of people hawking items in your face. Vendors hawk shoes, agendas, decorations, underwear, etc from blankets or palettes, which are plopped down haphazardly. One of my favorite displays are locally made sandals that are hung on strings from the supports of a large parasol umbrella. When it’s windy, they blow around smacking people in the face. People crave out spaces on the sidewalk and return daily to sell their items. Many of these vendors use large wooden tables and cram them on the edge of the sidewalk (or even in the street) where shoes, faux pharmaceuticals, fabric, and fruit are sold. Stores that have four-walls and a roof also spill out onto the sidewalk. Merchants display their goods such as children’s bikes, mattresses, and jewelry outside of their physical store to attract potential buyers. Mechanics also do much of their work on the sidewalk leaving almost no room for pedestrians. Walking through a mechanics area has ripped one of my skirts and stained another.
Back to step aerobics, since some sections of the sidewalk are higher than others, therefore the step up movement is imperative. If you are not paying attention you can easily trip over the raised area. The same goes for stepping down. I cannot begin to count how many times I have been walking along and “boom” the sidewalk has disappeared from beneath my feet. It’s a jarring feeling that makes my teeth smash together. Despite the million or so handicap people living in Dakar, there are no accommodations for wheelchairs or crutches. The sidewalks do not have cutouts for the crosswalk areas, instead one must take a big step down. Most people in wheelchairs use the street instead of the sidewalk.
Being forced off the sidewalk is another reason to do the step down movement. In the crowded streets of Dakar, where people do not make room for others on the sidewalk, this is a crucial maneuver. If you don’t anticipate moving over, you will either slam into the on-coming person or topple over. Recently I was in a foul mood and did not feel like being the one to constantly step into the street when someone was approaching me from the other direction. Instead of stepping into the street or doing an upper body pivot. I continued walking and a man carrying a roll of linoleum crashed into my right arm. I swore that the impact of the linoleum smacking my arm shattered my bones to pieces. Actually, it only left a bruise. My lesson was learned. The problem is that stepping down into the street means that you are no longer contending with people and their goods but cars, buses, car rapides, scooters, bicycles, horse-drawn chariots, and wheelbarrows. Essentially, the road is a messy “anything goes” world.
Walking against resistance takes place when all of a sudden a huge pile of sand appears on the sidewalk. The sand is used in construction sites for making cement. Dakar is a city always under construction therefore these sand piles are everywhere. Walking through deep sand isn’t easy even in sandals. Generally, when met with resistance, I walk like a penguin. Awa has scolded me on several occasions for my inability to walk through sand. She cannot understand why I don’t pick up my feet, instead the tip of my shoes flick sand left and right.
The jumping aspect of walking the streets of Dakar is a bit gross. Jumping usually occurs when mysterious muddy water appears on the sidewalk or in the cross walks. Since it hasn’t rained since October, either an open sewer or an overflowing sewer can explain the water. I like to jump over these nasty smelling puddles to avoid dragging the stench home with me on my shoes and pants.
Lastly, increase speed happens when a man decides the best method of getting my attention is to follow me. I don’t find it assuming so I have perfected a swerving zig-zag pattern when walking. Sometimes, I criss-cross the street and ducking into stores or stalls, which sometimes backfires because I accrue more attention. All this said, walking in Dakar, even f I is just four blocks, feels like walking several miles because of the obstacles and constant workout.
Sand on the sidewalk in a residential neighborhood.
Cement on the sidewalk in a residential neighborhood.
Street scene in Yoff. If you look closely there are cows in the street.
Sidewalks, firstly, are poorly maintained and therefore are riddled with divots and cracks. There is no continuity to the material used, sometimes it’s cement, others slippery tile, or stone. On tile, sliding is key. If you lift your foot, it is likely that you will fall. To prevent slippage, I do what I call, “the Senegalese shuffle,” which entails walking without picking up my feet. This maneuver is named after the old men and women shuffling around Dakar in their slippers causing a constant “shh shh” noise.
Another consideration when talking about sidewalks are that they are not just for the pedestrians. Merchants, formal and informal, use the ground as their store or workspace making the sliver of sidewalk available for foot traffic very small. You have to squeeze by rows of people hawking items in your face. Vendors hawk shoes, agendas, decorations, underwear, etc from blankets or palettes, which are plopped down haphazardly. One of my favorite displays are locally made sandals that are hung on strings from the supports of a large parasol umbrella. When it’s windy, they blow around smacking people in the face. People crave out spaces on the sidewalk and return daily to sell their items. Many of these vendors use large wooden tables and cram them on the edge of the sidewalk (or even in the street) where shoes, faux pharmaceuticals, fabric, and fruit are sold. Stores that have four-walls and a roof also spill out onto the sidewalk. Merchants display their goods such as children’s bikes, mattresses, and jewelry outside of their physical store to attract potential buyers. Mechanics also do much of their work on the sidewalk leaving almost no room for pedestrians. Walking through a mechanics area has ripped one of my skirts and stained another.
Back to step aerobics, since some sections of the sidewalk are higher than others, therefore the step up movement is imperative. If you are not paying attention you can easily trip over the raised area. The same goes for stepping down. I cannot begin to count how many times I have been walking along and “boom” the sidewalk has disappeared from beneath my feet. It’s a jarring feeling that makes my teeth smash together. Despite the million or so handicap people living in Dakar, there are no accommodations for wheelchairs or crutches. The sidewalks do not have cutouts for the crosswalk areas, instead one must take a big step down. Most people in wheelchairs use the street instead of the sidewalk.
Being forced off the sidewalk is another reason to do the step down movement. In the crowded streets of Dakar, where people do not make room for others on the sidewalk, this is a crucial maneuver. If you don’t anticipate moving over, you will either slam into the on-coming person or topple over. Recently I was in a foul mood and did not feel like being the one to constantly step into the street when someone was approaching me from the other direction. Instead of stepping into the street or doing an upper body pivot. I continued walking and a man carrying a roll of linoleum crashed into my right arm. I swore that the impact of the linoleum smacking my arm shattered my bones to pieces. Actually, it only left a bruise. My lesson was learned. The problem is that stepping down into the street means that you are no longer contending with people and their goods but cars, buses, car rapides, scooters, bicycles, horse-drawn chariots, and wheelbarrows. Essentially, the road is a messy “anything goes” world.
Walking against resistance takes place when all of a sudden a huge pile of sand appears on the sidewalk. The sand is used in construction sites for making cement. Dakar is a city always under construction therefore these sand piles are everywhere. Walking through deep sand isn’t easy even in sandals. Generally, when met with resistance, I walk like a penguin. Awa has scolded me on several occasions for my inability to walk through sand. She cannot understand why I don’t pick up my feet, instead the tip of my shoes flick sand left and right.
The jumping aspect of walking the streets of Dakar is a bit gross. Jumping usually occurs when mysterious muddy water appears on the sidewalk or in the cross walks. Since it hasn’t rained since October, either an open sewer or an overflowing sewer can explain the water. I like to jump over these nasty smelling puddles to avoid dragging the stench home with me on my shoes and pants.
Lastly, increase speed happens when a man decides the best method of getting my attention is to follow me. I don’t find it assuming so I have perfected a swerving zig-zag pattern when walking. Sometimes, I criss-cross the street and ducking into stores or stalls, which sometimes backfires because I accrue more attention. All this said, walking in Dakar, even f I is just four blocks, feels like walking several miles because of the obstacles and constant workout.
Sand on the sidewalk in a residential neighborhood.
Cement on the sidewalk in a residential neighborhood.
Street scene in Yoff. If you look closely there are cows in the street.
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