I finally met my mailman one windy evening around 6:00 pm. I was leaving my house to go to the boutique to buy bread and he was delivering mail. We introduced ourselves his name is Mr. Fall and is very nice. What is remarkable about Mr. Fall was that he had five pairs of glasses on his body. I don’t know why this image has stuck with me for so long but it was so striking that I had to write it down.
Mr. Fall was wearing one pair, a standard large gold-rimmed pair that magnified his eyes. Another pair of sleeker wire rimmed glasses was on top of his head. Another gold pair was prominently clipped to his button-down shirt. And then the jewels peeking out of his jacket pocket, two more pairs, both were tortoise shell and slim. In the middle of our introductions he took a phone call. As Mr. Fall was gabbing away, I took the opportunity to stare at him and recount the glasses on his person. I wonder if they served different purposes or if he changes them depending on his mood. Senegal never ceases to make me wonder about the craziest things.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
stairs to nowhere
Everyday to get to my office I must climb over a cement barrier in order to cross the Route d'Aeroport highway. These barriers were constructed during the political push to make the (main) roads in Dakar more presentable. The road reconstruction was done for the 2008 Islamic Summit held in Dakar, where various leaders from Islamic nations came to a weeklong conference to talk about the issues plaguing Islam and predominately Islamic countries.
What came out of this conference was a lot of money from the visiting leaders, which has since disappeared into the pockets of various government officials. This is common knowledge, not a conspiracy theory. After the Summit work was stopped on the roads leaving the one in front of my office in limbo. This road, as I mentioned, is a highway with two lanes in each direction, making it a “big road” by Dakar standards.
The barriers that I must climb over everyday were built to prevent cars from making illegal turns, driving on the wrong side of the road, and to give order to the general chaos. It worked and traffic is much more orderly. The current problem is the pedestrians. Pedestrians are not going to walk five minutes out of their way to an intersection sans barrier. No, pedestrians are going to go through an obstacle course to cross the street. Mind you, the majority of the pedestrians are women wearing long skirts with babies on their backs. The barrier reaches my hip so most people have to do a mount-jump move or a swing-the leg-over maneuver. Either way is not easy. I once saw a woman with a baby on her back and butane burner on her head climbing over the cement obstacle. A new Olympic event…
Did I mention that stairs were built to provide a covered passageway over the highway? Yes, stairs were built but not the passageway. Apparently, there won’t be enough money for that construction for another year and a half. Pairs of stairs stick out of the ground like random sculptures dotting the highway landscape.
Street children like to climb and sit on those stairs that lead to nowhere. Sometimes after having climbed over the barrier about ten times in one day, that image becomes exemplary of Senegal’s future if changes aren’t made.
What came out of this conference was a lot of money from the visiting leaders, which has since disappeared into the pockets of various government officials. This is common knowledge, not a conspiracy theory. After the Summit work was stopped on the roads leaving the one in front of my office in limbo. This road, as I mentioned, is a highway with two lanes in each direction, making it a “big road” by Dakar standards.
The barriers that I must climb over everyday were built to prevent cars from making illegal turns, driving on the wrong side of the road, and to give order to the general chaos. It worked and traffic is much more orderly. The current problem is the pedestrians. Pedestrians are not going to walk five minutes out of their way to an intersection sans barrier. No, pedestrians are going to go through an obstacle course to cross the street. Mind you, the majority of the pedestrians are women wearing long skirts with babies on their backs. The barrier reaches my hip so most people have to do a mount-jump move or a swing-the leg-over maneuver. Either way is not easy. I once saw a woman with a baby on her back and butane burner on her head climbing over the cement obstacle. A new Olympic event…
Did I mention that stairs were built to provide a covered passageway over the highway? Yes, stairs were built but not the passageway. Apparently, there won’t be enough money for that construction for another year and a half. Pairs of stairs stick out of the ground like random sculptures dotting the highway landscape.
Street children like to climb and sit on those stairs that lead to nowhere. Sometimes after having climbed over the barrier about ten times in one day, that image becomes exemplary of Senegal’s future if changes aren’t made.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sans-elec Senelec
We call Senelec, the electric company, Sans-elec (without electricity) since the hot season (my terminology, not official) the power goes out on a regular basis for hours at a time. Now that I have my own place, I am faced with the realities of bill paying, especially to the horrible Senelec.
Houses in Dakar do no exactly have addresses. To clarify, street names don’t necessarily exist in all places. My street, for example, has neither a name nor a number. My house has a number and my neighborhood has a name so technically my address is villa number 7622 Mermoz Pyrotechnique Dakar, Senegal. There are streets in Dakar that have names or numbers making mail delivery much easier. My mail (all bills) takes forever to arrive at my doorstep. By the time the mailperson decides to head to my sandy street, I have about 3 days to pay the bills.
I wrote this blog in a notebook while in Senelec waiting to pay my electrical bill. I arrived an hour and 15 minutes ago and took a ticket. The ticket reads 303 and the number being called was 239. I anticipate being here for a long time. My other waiting comrades look at me strangely since I am the only toubab in this office. Most toubabs send their maids to wait it out or drop off a check in a drop box. Since I feel that my maid has better things to do than pay bills and I don have a bank account in Senegal, I am obliged to sit here and reread the newspaper a million times.
What is frustrating about Senelec is that there are about 100 people waiting to pay their bill and there is only one cashier open. It kills me not only because I have to wait here but also because there are so many unemployed people in this city and it would not be too difficult to train them to train them in the ways of Senelec. This problem is omnipresent in institutions like the post office, phone company, and at the banks.
I lost my temper at the phone company a couple of months ago when I waited for a hour and a half to be treated terribly by the woman taking down my information. Not only did she insult me personally but she blamed me for screwing up my address. I went to speak to a supervisor who was surprisingly receptive to my criticisms. Did it change anything? No, but I felt better.
So I am sitting here waiting to pay a bill. The idea of waiting to give a mega company that has a monopoly on the electricity more money disgusts me. Senelec doesn’t care whether they make people wait because in the end people have to pay. If you refuse to pay, they cut off your electricity and you still lose. Thankfully my bill is only about $14 for the month of January. I know people that pay $180 for 2 months.
So it’s been an hour and a half and we are on number 240. A man has started complain loudly and provoke a mutiny. He said something to the effect of, “why are you people not speaking up, you are sitting there like idiots.” He got up and left in a huff. This grain of truth motivated me seek out a supervisor. To get to the supervisor I had to speak to two security guards who thought I was telling them a joke when I said I wanted to complain. After being shown to the supervisor’s office, I waited for 20 minutes to see him and he never emerged I asked for another supervisor and was sent to where the “old people”, over the age of 55 in Senegal, go to pay their bills. Their line was considerably shorter. Nobody in that section of the office understood why I was there so I was obliged to retreat to the young people waiting area.
After 3 hours of waiting and 45 people still ahead of me I decided to leave without paying. They were going to close for lunch and prayer since it was Friday and the lunch/prayer break lasts about 2 hours. Additionally, I did not want to wait any longer without the minor satisfaction of watching the numbers increase.
Update, I returned to Senelec the following day, set on paying my bill and acting in a strategic manner. I took a number and left the office to visit my friend Awa. An hour later I returned and realized that there were still 40 people ahead of me. Since I was better equipped to wait, I whipped out a book and read 200 pages (not joking) and played about 17 games of Tetris on my cell phone. In the end, I waited 4 hours in the young people waiting room, through the lunch break, to pay the bill. The woman at the cashier was not friendly and neither was I. She tried to pretend that she didn’t have the change I needed from my bill. I almost lost my temper and screamed but opted for a snarky comment about how I’ve watched her take people’s money for the past four hours and am convinced she has the 3, 750 CFA that I am owed. After taking my money and leaving I was in a terrible mood but was content that I had paid my bill. Unfortunately, this exercise will be repeated until I leave this country or find an old person to pay my bills.
Houses in Dakar do no exactly have addresses. To clarify, street names don’t necessarily exist in all places. My street, for example, has neither a name nor a number. My house has a number and my neighborhood has a name so technically my address is villa number 7622 Mermoz Pyrotechnique Dakar, Senegal. There are streets in Dakar that have names or numbers making mail delivery much easier. My mail (all bills) takes forever to arrive at my doorstep. By the time the mailperson decides to head to my sandy street, I have about 3 days to pay the bills.
I wrote this blog in a notebook while in Senelec waiting to pay my electrical bill. I arrived an hour and 15 minutes ago and took a ticket. The ticket reads 303 and the number being called was 239. I anticipate being here for a long time. My other waiting comrades look at me strangely since I am the only toubab in this office. Most toubabs send their maids to wait it out or drop off a check in a drop box. Since I feel that my maid has better things to do than pay bills and I don have a bank account in Senegal, I am obliged to sit here and reread the newspaper a million times.
What is frustrating about Senelec is that there are about 100 people waiting to pay their bill and there is only one cashier open. It kills me not only because I have to wait here but also because there are so many unemployed people in this city and it would not be too difficult to train them to train them in the ways of Senelec. This problem is omnipresent in institutions like the post office, phone company, and at the banks.
I lost my temper at the phone company a couple of months ago when I waited for a hour and a half to be treated terribly by the woman taking down my information. Not only did she insult me personally but she blamed me for screwing up my address. I went to speak to a supervisor who was surprisingly receptive to my criticisms. Did it change anything? No, but I felt better.
So I am sitting here waiting to pay a bill. The idea of waiting to give a mega company that has a monopoly on the electricity more money disgusts me. Senelec doesn’t care whether they make people wait because in the end people have to pay. If you refuse to pay, they cut off your electricity and you still lose. Thankfully my bill is only about $14 for the month of January. I know people that pay $180 for 2 months.
So it’s been an hour and a half and we are on number 240. A man has started complain loudly and provoke a mutiny. He said something to the effect of, “why are you people not speaking up, you are sitting there like idiots.” He got up and left in a huff. This grain of truth motivated me seek out a supervisor. To get to the supervisor I had to speak to two security guards who thought I was telling them a joke when I said I wanted to complain. After being shown to the supervisor’s office, I waited for 20 minutes to see him and he never emerged I asked for another supervisor and was sent to where the “old people”, over the age of 55 in Senegal, go to pay their bills. Their line was considerably shorter. Nobody in that section of the office understood why I was there so I was obliged to retreat to the young people waiting area.
After 3 hours of waiting and 45 people still ahead of me I decided to leave without paying. They were going to close for lunch and prayer since it was Friday and the lunch/prayer break lasts about 2 hours. Additionally, I did not want to wait any longer without the minor satisfaction of watching the numbers increase.
Update, I returned to Senelec the following day, set on paying my bill and acting in a strategic manner. I took a number and left the office to visit my friend Awa. An hour later I returned and realized that there were still 40 people ahead of me. Since I was better equipped to wait, I whipped out a book and read 200 pages (not joking) and played about 17 games of Tetris on my cell phone. In the end, I waited 4 hours in the young people waiting room, through the lunch break, to pay the bill. The woman at the cashier was not friendly and neither was I. She tried to pretend that she didn’t have the change I needed from my bill. I almost lost my temper and screamed but opted for a snarky comment about how I’ve watched her take people’s money for the past four hours and am convinced she has the 3, 750 CFA that I am owed. After taking my money and leaving I was in a terrible mood but was content that I had paid my bill. Unfortunately, this exercise will be repeated until I leave this country or find an old person to pay my bills.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
wigs, fakes, and gas
As I have previously mentioned, I encounter what I consider “absurdities” on a regular basis. Recently, meaning within the past two days, I have experienced three gems.
The first was during a serious conversation I had with someone I hired for the opening of the cultural center I now work for. We were sitting in her living room talking when she stood up to get a piece of paper. As she stood, she left the wig that she had been wearing on the chair where her head had been. First, what made the situation awkward was that I wasn’t sure if she knew that she was no longer wearing her wig. I had no idea how to handle the situation and I am not sure Mrs. Manners would know either. I decided, in true Senegalese form, to ignore it and let her realize her lack of hairpiece on her own. Second, what was also astounding was how she looked sans wig. I know this woman very well and realized that I have never seen her real hair. It was shocking.
The second event took place at the only “cinema” in Dakar. I use quotation marks because the cinema is also an overpriced restaurant and they get their films from dubious sources. Otman and I went there for the first time to see “Entre les Murs” or “The Class” as it is called in English. My mom recommended the film and I was happy to see that it was playing in Dakar. However, we never got to see the film because the cinema had downloaded a copy of the film from the internet that repeats a ten-minute segment for about two hours. I spoke to the projectionist who admitted to have downloaded the film (it’s not illegal in Senegal) and to have neglected to check its quality. Although, Otman and I got a free drink out of it, I am disappointed that I have not been able to watch this movie.
The last absurd event happened on route home from the movie when Otman needed to put gas in his scooter. At the gas station, we were alerted to the fact that gas pump for the kind of gas Otman gets, a mix of petrol and oil, had a problem. The clever men at the gas station solved the problem by putting the mix into old one-liter juice containers. Using a crude funnel made of a plastic soda bottle, the man filled the tanks one juice container at a time. The process was messy but effective.
These are some of the reasons why I enjoy living in Dakar. These types of events happen often and keep me on my toes and keep me laughing.
The first was during a serious conversation I had with someone I hired for the opening of the cultural center I now work for. We were sitting in her living room talking when she stood up to get a piece of paper. As she stood, she left the wig that she had been wearing on the chair where her head had been. First, what made the situation awkward was that I wasn’t sure if she knew that she was no longer wearing her wig. I had no idea how to handle the situation and I am not sure Mrs. Manners would know either. I decided, in true Senegalese form, to ignore it and let her realize her lack of hairpiece on her own. Second, what was also astounding was how she looked sans wig. I know this woman very well and realized that I have never seen her real hair. It was shocking.
The second event took place at the only “cinema” in Dakar. I use quotation marks because the cinema is also an overpriced restaurant and they get their films from dubious sources. Otman and I went there for the first time to see “Entre les Murs” or “The Class” as it is called in English. My mom recommended the film and I was happy to see that it was playing in Dakar. However, we never got to see the film because the cinema had downloaded a copy of the film from the internet that repeats a ten-minute segment for about two hours. I spoke to the projectionist who admitted to have downloaded the film (it’s not illegal in Senegal) and to have neglected to check its quality. Although, Otman and I got a free drink out of it, I am disappointed that I have not been able to watch this movie.
The last absurd event happened on route home from the movie when Otman needed to put gas in his scooter. At the gas station, we were alerted to the fact that gas pump for the kind of gas Otman gets, a mix of petrol and oil, had a problem. The clever men at the gas station solved the problem by putting the mix into old one-liter juice containers. Using a crude funnel made of a plastic soda bottle, the man filled the tanks one juice container at a time. The process was messy but effective.
These are some of the reasons why I enjoy living in Dakar. These types of events happen often and keep me on my toes and keep me laughing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
