Neighborhood Watch

Now that I am at home full time to study for the LSAT, I have the time to notice my surroundings more carefully than I had before. This has led to several quirky discoveries about my neighborhood.

For example, I always knew that a few odd folks show up at the Friday night prayer chanting gatherings outside my living room/ dinning room window; however, last Friday I was sitting at the dinning room table trying to study when I heard a strange noise that stood out from the chanting. I thought that it was someone trying to start their dying scooter but after it persisted for a minute I went to the window to inspect. Lying face down on one of the prayer mats was a man semi-convulsing who upon further inspection sounded like he was choking. Everyone else was sitting and chanting, not paying any attention to him. In a panic, I ran to get my inhaler, left over from my bout with the whooping cough, and flew out of my apartment. When I got to the entrance on the ground floor I realized that I did not have the key. Rushing back up the stairs I looked out of the window to witness the man stand up and proceed to hurtle himself on top of the other people. Obviously people do not like to be stepped on so some pushing ensued. He seemed to be heading to an old man in the far left corner of the prayer mat, who I assumed was the marabout. The man ended up collapsing onto some praying people not far from the marabout. He crawled to the marabout and put his head near the marabouts’ feet. This is a huge sign of respect and submission. A few people tried to pull the man away but he just stayed there in a trance. I walked back to my apartment and put the inhaler away.

Another quirk is the house two doors down. Most middle-class houses in Dakar are one or two stories with tin roofs and cement walls. There is a courtyard somewhere on the premises that is generally open and is the location where families spend time together, like a living room or a den. Courtyards are center meeting places. My apartment doesn’t have a courtyard, obviously, but it does have a large roof-top terrace. This is mildly creepy, but from the terrace I can see into people’s courtyards. This creepy fact matters for the explanation of the quirk. I know that the house two doors down has a courtyard and that it is not used for its innate purpose, instead the garage is used.

After eight months of living two doors down from these folks, I have observed their penchant for the garage. The doors of the garage are left open even when the old Renault car is parked there, so I have a good idea about the activities in the garage. I first noticed the love of the garage after walking by it and hearing an old man reciting the Quran. From then on, I began to notice a trend that most afternoons and for long stretches on the weekends the old man sits on the left-hand-side of the garage against the middle of the wall and prays. The left-hand-side makes sense because it is the eastern-most point but the choice to be in the middle seemed off. So I began to look for this man every time I walked by the house. Then I noticed that the ironing is done in the garage in the exact place where the man prays. That is odd because ironing is usually done in the courtyard or an open space since most of the irons used in Senegal have hot coals in them that need air. I observed the ironing a few times and then when I became a full-time LSAT studier and was home during the afternoons, I noticed another trend. A group of girls and young women, I am assuming the household help and the young girls of the house, eat their lunch in the same place as the praying and ironing takes place. They spread their mat out near the wall and sit in a circle around the bowl laughing and talking in the dark garage. The last and final use for the garage I noticed not too long ago. I happened to walk by when the family was entertaining guests. I don’t think they were guests very close to the family because they were standing and talking, but the guests were nonetheless in the garage. It was astounding. I pointed out my observations to Otman and he confirmed it. All activities that usually happen in the courtyard have been transferred to the garage and those activities all happen in the exact same space within the garage.

The final quirk is coupled with the bizarre music played on the television and radio stations in Dakar. Much of the music that gets airtime is from a decade ago or this horrendous Christmas song that is played all year round, other popular hits are from Shania Twain, Celine Dion, and Kenny G. Kenny G is played on the television everyday around 10am and 10 pm. Without fail, my neighbors, who have a television in their open courtyard, turn up the volume to serenade the neighborhood with some light jazz. These folks are the only people in the neighborhood who have a generator, even if the rest of us have no electricity Kenny G is there, playing away while I burn my fingers lighting candles. How romantic.

In Mermoz with Otman

Living with Otman in Mermoz has been wonderful. I have the freedom to do as I please in a place that I like with a person that I like. Mermoz is a quiet residential neighborhood with prayer-chanting soirees only once a week. We have a large terrace where the laundry is hung out to dry and where we BBQ and host gatherings.

Living with Otman has been easier and more agreeable than I had ever imagined. We complement each other in expected and unexpected ways:

He kills cockroaches; I kill flies

He takes the garbage out; I fold the laundry

He teaches me Moroccan Arabic; I teach him American English

He has a weird chronic sneezing disorder; I have a weird chronic stomach disorder

He annoys me; I nag him to death

He rarely washes his dishes; I rarely mop up the water in the bathroom

He fixes the sink when it is clogged; I dump out the nasty gray water with the clogging culprits

He repairs any electrical item when it breaks (with lots of tape); I provide the tape and the broken items

He can see in the dark; I cannot see in the dark

He likes dark meat; I like light meat

He makes friends with everyone; I talk to everyone

He goes to the fresh fish and meat markets that make me gag; I go to the boutiques and supermarkets for the prepackaged goods

He makes Moroccan dishes; I bake cakes and cookies

He watches inordinate amounts of soccer; I use my computer for inordinate amounts of time

I buy fabric and gifts; he bargains for me

I have to ask him a million times to bring things home, but when he does it is in quantities that rival Costco. For example he has brought home 15 kilos of soap, a cardboard box full of sponges, 65 clothespins, and about 20 rolls of fancy toilet paper.

And the list goes on and on…

However, Tarik, Otman’s younger brother recently moved in with us. He had supposedly moved back to Morocco for good to pursue his studies; however, twenty days after leaving, he returned to Senegal to continue working. Apparently, everyone he spoke to in Morocco thought that he was an idiot for leaving his good paying job in Dakar. Getting a university degree does not mean that he will have access to a good job in Morocco since it is more important that you know someone in your field than your training. The unemployment rate for young people is unbelievably high. So homesick and lovesick Tarik is back in Dakar and inhabiting my house.

Tarik sleeps in our living room or in the room on the terrace. He eats with us, clears the dishes from the table, and goes to our local mosque. He also goes to the cyber café very often to talk to his girlfriend, Saida, in Morocco.

I like Tarik a lot. In fact, I consider him like a younger brother and we get along very well. He confides in me things that he could never tell his brothers and asks me advice. However, he is selfish and inconsiderate of Otman’s future plans, and sucks him dry of both energy and money.

I am worried that my little sunny apartment and the harmony it has produced will be blown away by the gel wearing, MSN messenger chatter, mosque going, hookah smoking, little Lahlimi.

War with Sonatel

I am currently in a war with Sonatel, the major French communications company that has a monopoly on the Internet services in Senegal. Although, I am losing this war big time.

This is not the first time that I have engaged in a war with the big bureaucracies of Senegal, nor is it Sonatel’s first time. The first time was over installing the Internet in my house. This time it’s about “moving a phone line” which really means turning on the phone jack. It’s a ridiculous procedure that will take about ten minutes to do and has cost me about $18 so far. This needs to be done because my neighbor, FZ, moved out and although the Internet connection is in my name, it as installed in FZ’s apartment. FZ recently returned to Morocco, not only leaving me with two months of bills to pay on my own but with the Internet hooked up in her apartment. This is a problem for several reasons including the importance of unplugging electronics during power outages, which I can’t do if her door is locked. This led to the great break-in expedition discovery in which Otman and I found that our key to the front door of the building opens our neighbor’s apartment. Good thing we recently changed our locks. Phew.

To rectify my Internet situation, meaning to get a phone line that connects to the Internet in my apartment, has led me to make fifteen calls (and counting) to Sonatel and a visit to their office. The visit was to pay them for their services, required before the service is rendered, which is theft. I have been told at least four different versions of how this installation is supposed to happen. The solution all lies in the mysterious technicians who work for Sonatel. There don’t seem to be enough of them and apparently their work is backed up.

While at the Sonatel office I was told that a technician would come to my house within 24 hours, which is reasonable given the simplicity of the job and my proximity to their office. I was informed that he/she would call before he/she came. However, no dice, the technician never called. Confused, I called the Sonatel help line after the 24 hours expired to make sure they had my cell phone number, only to hear that I apparently “misunderstood”, that the technician would be there within 72 hours. Yes, it is always easy to blame the customer. Yet, after four days past and still no technician, I called the help line again and was told there is a ten-day deadline on the type of service I need known as the “deplacement de prise”. I was naively hopeful that this was the truth that the technician would come to my house in ten days. I figured that ten days is ample time, right? However, to make sure that this information was correct, I called the Sonatel helpline twice more and they confirmed told the ten-day story.

Tante pis pour moi. The ten days have past, in fact fourteen days have past, and I am told to be patient. I just got off the phone with Sonatel, for the third time in two days. A very rude customer service agent, Maimouna, informed me that I need to be patient. So I did the screaming, “let me talk to your supervisor” bit and Maimouna responded that the only way to speak to a supervisor is by going to their office and that I should be patient until Friday.

Therefore, tomorrow morning, I will wage my war in person with the “Chef de Service” at Sonatel on Rue Cheikh Anta Diop. I will probably be told to be patient and that the technicians are very busy. I will demand a refund and they will laugh in my face. Silly toubab.

This is a world where accountability is non-existent and it is acceptable to force people to wait an inordinate amount of time for services, make empty promises, and charge exorbitant prices. I wage war against the big bureaucracies of Senegal because no one else will since “this is how it is in Senegal.” Jamm ak jamm.