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.