When I walk around downtown Dakar by myself I am usually accosted throughout my entire walk. Someone will come up to me and ask me if I want to buy phone credit, another guy will ask me to buy an ugly t-shirt, a woman will ask me for money, someone else will wave bootleg perfume in my face, etc. It is all done in the most presumptuous manner, since I am white and therefore have money, why wouldn’t I buy a large picture of a marabout or some flip-flops.
Then there are the African fabric guys. These men wait on corners of busy intersections waiting for a toubab to walk by so that he can pounce. The conversation always starts, “What are you looking for?” I always reply in Wolof, “Dara” or nothing. Then they tell you about the wonderful and cheap African fabric they have in their boutique, which is always not far from where you are standing. Don’t want African fabric, well then this guy also sells masks or “beautiful necklaces” which are also not expensive. Sometimes, a “my sistah” gets thrown in to spice up the conversation. After about three of these men with the same schepel, I generally lose my temper and become quite rude.
This weekend I was walking to the bus stop at the bottom of Marche Sandaga, the largest market in Senegal, when after being asked twice if I wanted African fabric, I was met at the top of the market by a man in a red shirt. He did the African fabric schepel and I just kept on walking, which I acknowledge is very rude. Then he called out, “madame, tu es une raciste,” labeling me a racist. Shocked and disgusted, I sharply turned around and spit out a pitiful and sarcastic comeback, “If I am a racist then why do I live in Senegal?” Terrible, I know.
Angrily, I walked down the road racking my brain for a better comeback. It is hurtful to be called something you are not and then defend yourself in a useless way. I decided on a better comeback, “No, sir, I am not a racist; however, I think it is you who has a race problem since out of the people walking by you, I am the only one you spoke to and you call me the racist.” It sounds much better in French. I can admit to be rude and purposefully culturally insensitive. I am incredibly tired of being badgered for money every three seconds while walking alone downtown.
This little anecdote points to a larger issue, once again, of the role foreigners play in Dakar and how Dakaroise treats them. There is a stark difference in how toubabs are treated outside of Dakar and within the confines of the city. That said, in my neighborhood, I am almost always left alone. It is a tiresome and false assumption to battle that all foreign folks have money. However, it falls into a historical and modern context.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Modern-day Fable
A little girl was selling peanuts and papayas for her mother. The sparse goods were arranged in piles on a rickety wooden table in the sun. The girl sat in a plastic chair in the shade facing the table waiting for a customer.
Along came a man dressed in the Senegalese flag. His hair matted, his clothes dirty, and his sandals broken. He hobbled as he walked, with a cane fashioned out of a metal rod. As he approached the table, he spoke to himself in Wolof, gesturing this way and that way. Audaciously he picked up a bag or two of peanuts and hobbled slowly away without paying. A group of boy beggars who had seen the man steal, started chasing the man, beating on their tins calling the man a thief.
The man hobbled past a stranger who had also observed him steal. He looked at her, shook his fist and carried on walking with the chanting boys trailing cautiously but aggressively behind him. The stranger looked at the girl, who looked incredibly sad and cheated watching the man make his way down the road. In her head, the stranger, or toubab as she is called knew that she had enough money in her pocket to reimburse the stolen goods. However, she thought, this is the way that people of this city handle their problems, who am I to interfere. Perhaps it is better to let this be a lesson.
This modern day story is something I recently experienced in my neighborhood. After much thought, I think I made the right decision when I did not run to the rescue and plop down the 50 CFA worth of stolen goods. It was a matter of morals and principles about the relationship between toubabs and the locals and the roles toubabs tend to play.
I say this often but I will write this once again. This time around in Dakar has completely altered the way I think about the world, about Senegal, about Dakar, about rich and poor, about development, about NGOs, and about who should be solving whose problems.
I encourage response, if one feels so inclined.
Along came a man dressed in the Senegalese flag. His hair matted, his clothes dirty, and his sandals broken. He hobbled as he walked, with a cane fashioned out of a metal rod. As he approached the table, he spoke to himself in Wolof, gesturing this way and that way. Audaciously he picked up a bag or two of peanuts and hobbled slowly away without paying. A group of boy beggars who had seen the man steal, started chasing the man, beating on their tins calling the man a thief.
The man hobbled past a stranger who had also observed him steal. He looked at her, shook his fist and carried on walking with the chanting boys trailing cautiously but aggressively behind him. The stranger looked at the girl, who looked incredibly sad and cheated watching the man make his way down the road. In her head, the stranger, or toubab as she is called knew that she had enough money in her pocket to reimburse the stolen goods. However, she thought, this is the way that people of this city handle their problems, who am I to interfere. Perhaps it is better to let this be a lesson.
This modern day story is something I recently experienced in my neighborhood. After much thought, I think I made the right decision when I did not run to the rescue and plop down the 50 CFA worth of stolen goods. It was a matter of morals and principles about the relationship between toubabs and the locals and the roles toubabs tend to play.
I say this often but I will write this once again. This time around in Dakar has completely altered the way I think about the world, about Senegal, about Dakar, about rich and poor, about development, about NGOs, and about who should be solving whose problems.
I encourage response, if one feels so inclined.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Hamptons of Senegal: Cap Skirring
Last weekend Otman and I took a trip to Cap Skirring in the region of Casamance. The inhabitants of Casamance have staged several separatist movements throughout the past decades; however, now it is calm. Casamance is very different than the Dakar region, it is more green with fruit trees galore. Much to my delight I was able to see a cashew tree, a quest of mine for some time, and learned that cashews grow on the end of a fruit. The fruit, when squeezed, produces a delicious sweet juice. Apparently, if allowed to ferment, the juice can be alcoholic.
Cap Skirring was way too touristy for my liking. There is a direct flight from Paris to the Cap, so many French folks willing to pay very high prices populate the city. Everything was triple the price paid in Dakar. Dakar is expensive as it is, so this was incredible. Also, the quality of service was not great. If Dakar can be equated to New York City, Cap Skirring is like the Hamptons.
The highlights from day one were visiting Dioula (an ethnic group) villages, being told, “it’s sacred” when someone didn’t know the answer to our questions, having a delightful meal and a lively conversation with a radio DJ, and the cashew trees.
Day two, the final day, Otman and I went on a pirogue tour with three French nationals. They asked funny questions and Otman and I laughed privately. I know it is haughty to write that their questions were funny, but it made me realized how adapted I have become to the crazy country. Sample questions were about how to tell if a Senegalese person is rich and whether religious people mix “animism” into their practices. For the latter, our chain-smoking guide declared, “Of course not, for example I am Muslim and I don’t believe in any of that animism stuff. We respect each other’s beliefs completely but I don’t believe in animism.” I asked him if he wears gris-gris for protection and he lifted up his shirt to display several bands of gris-gris wrapped around his stomach. Gris-gris are definitely not “by the book” Islam, but are emblematic of the Islam practiced in Senegal, which is very much a fusion.
Unfortunately, on the trip with the French folks, I got a glimpse at how tourism has affected certain villages on the pirogue tour circuit. There is an utter lack of sustainability. If the separatist movement was to start up and the tourist industry died, I am not sure what would happen. An example of the pervasiveness of tourism is that kids constantly badgered tourists for candy. They attacked in swarms on the unsuspecting tourists, “bon-bon, bon-bon” was chanted until someone relented and purchased some candy. Bad for their teeth and bad for the village.
Since Casamance is a launching point for irregular migration to Spain via pirogues, the Spanish Embassy has invested in public programs to stem the flow. Health centers sponsored by the Spanish Embassy were in most of the villages we visited. Signs stating in French, “I want to go to school and succeed” were sprinkled on the main roads. I am sure a sign with such a proclamation is really helping kids from poor families stay in school.
Some pictures from the trip are below:
A scared kapok tree in M'Lomp featuring Otman.
Mangrove on Ile de Karabane
Walking in the mangroves (the boardwalk)
Cliche but appropriate village shot of Elinkine
Cap Skirring was way too touristy for my liking. There is a direct flight from Paris to the Cap, so many French folks willing to pay very high prices populate the city. Everything was triple the price paid in Dakar. Dakar is expensive as it is, so this was incredible. Also, the quality of service was not great. If Dakar can be equated to New York City, Cap Skirring is like the Hamptons.
The highlights from day one were visiting Dioula (an ethnic group) villages, being told, “it’s sacred” when someone didn’t know the answer to our questions, having a delightful meal and a lively conversation with a radio DJ, and the cashew trees.
Day two, the final day, Otman and I went on a pirogue tour with three French nationals. They asked funny questions and Otman and I laughed privately. I know it is haughty to write that their questions were funny, but it made me realized how adapted I have become to the crazy country. Sample questions were about how to tell if a Senegalese person is rich and whether religious people mix “animism” into their practices. For the latter, our chain-smoking guide declared, “Of course not, for example I am Muslim and I don’t believe in any of that animism stuff. We respect each other’s beliefs completely but I don’t believe in animism.” I asked him if he wears gris-gris for protection and he lifted up his shirt to display several bands of gris-gris wrapped around his stomach. Gris-gris are definitely not “by the book” Islam, but are emblematic of the Islam practiced in Senegal, which is very much a fusion.
Unfortunately, on the trip with the French folks, I got a glimpse at how tourism has affected certain villages on the pirogue tour circuit. There is an utter lack of sustainability. If the separatist movement was to start up and the tourist industry died, I am not sure what would happen. An example of the pervasiveness of tourism is that kids constantly badgered tourists for candy. They attacked in swarms on the unsuspecting tourists, “bon-bon, bon-bon” was chanted until someone relented and purchased some candy. Bad for their teeth and bad for the village.
Since Casamance is a launching point for irregular migration to Spain via pirogues, the Spanish Embassy has invested in public programs to stem the flow. Health centers sponsored by the Spanish Embassy were in most of the villages we visited. Signs stating in French, “I want to go to school and succeed” were sprinkled on the main roads. I am sure a sign with such a proclamation is really helping kids from poor families stay in school.
Some pictures from the trip are below:
A scared kapok tree in M'Lomp featuring Otman.
Mangrove on Ile de Karabane
Walking in the mangroves (the boardwalk)
Cliche but appropriate village shot of Elinkine
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