Final Post

While preparing to leave Dakar, I was convinced that I would not miss the city or my life there. My move out was crazy, I had many separate issues to contend with such as dealing with a lying landlord from hell, handling the phone and electric companies disorganization, selling my furniture, quitting my jobs, plus living with the uncertainty of what my time in Morocco would be like. Now four months have passed since I boarded the Air Alergie flight to Casablanca and I miss Dakar daily.

Mamadou the boutiquer

In Dakar, I now realized, I was liberated. I had a nice apartment, good jobs, and could easily communicate. I often think about the lifestyle Otman and I were able to maintain. It was a privilege that we both acknowledge. We were living the good life. In Morocco, we had a great time but our life was very different. I was dependent on him to communicate most of the time. In Senegal, my Wolof “plateaued” at a certain level but it was enough to conduct simple conversations and get to where I needed to go. I used French as a crutch and therefore it improved immensely.

There are many aspects of life in Dakar that I long for regularly. I miss hearing the chants outside my living room window every Friday evening. I miss the smell of incense which pervades the streets, especially at night. I miss catching my neighbors in their secret rendezvous in the dark alley by my house. I miss knowing for certain that if I ever needed help, a band of people would come to my rescue. I miss my tailor, Alioune. I miss the sound of drumming. I miss being able to buy whatever I need, whenever I need it, from a corner store or a person selling goods. I miss knowing what the weather will be like since it rarely changes. Few sights compare to a Dakar sunset on the ocean or spending a day at the beach at Ile Ngor. I miss my friend Fabrice, who lives in Dakar, because without him, I am not sure how long I would have been able to stay.

Alioune the tailor

This is not to that living in Dakar was heaven. I had to live with frequent power outages and feeling that I was constantly being cheated. Towards the end of my stint, I felt that everything was an uphill battle. The realities of living in a poor country began to wear me down. I do not miss waiting in line for six hours to pay a bill or being told to be patient. I don’t miss bargaining for taxis or the smell of exhaust fumes. I do not miss hearing rams bleat all day long or seeing them get washed in the ocean with household garbage floating about. I do not miss being hassle and hustled. I do not miss being conspicuous. Nor do I miss seeing talibes and abandoned women because they broke my heart each and everyday.

Now back in the US, I walk around NYC pointing out to myself which one of the street vendors are Senegalese. I made a music mix on my ipod that plays West African songs on loop. While listening to the mix on a recent trip into NYC, I felt an incredible urge to dance. Now, I am not one to dance, ever. I am very conscious of my body and hate to look like a fool. But here I was on Broadway feeling an incredible urge to mimic my host sisters from Yoff, which I suppressed. If I wasn’t in NYC, this dance would cause a bit of a scandal since it requires lifting up your shirt in a circular motion and jumping up and down like a Leprechaun.

I learned an incredible amount from living in Dakar. I labeled these lessons “Senegalese sensibilities”. Much of my Senegalese sensibilities are centered on interactions with people and general street smarts. Aspects of my Senegalese sensibilities have turned me hard and untrusting from daily dealings with hustlers. But other aspects have made me kinder and more patient from living around people who always share and take care of others. Because of my time in Dakar, I have garnered strong views on non-governmental organizations, expatriates, Islam, social welfare structures, polygamy, and African unity. I am thankful for all that I have learned and been able to witness. To me, Dakar has always been a place of dichotomies: rich and poor, happy and sad, political and apathetic, greedy and modest, hope and hopelessness, “authentic” and fake, humble and ostentatious, “traditional” and “modern”, etc. For me, these dichotomies have lent to a broader understanding of Dakar, Senegal, West Africa, Africa, and the world.

In sum, my experience in Senegal is and always will be a part of who I am.

Jamm ak jamm.

Expat-Dakar vendor

I am selling my living room set, dining room table, and television. They are posted on the equivalent of Craig’s list in Senegal, called Expat-Dakar. Anyone with Internet connection can access the site and most of the people who have contacted me are not expatriates. I have posted pictures online of the items for sale with their prices. The descriptions are as thorough as possible and are in French and English. On the Expat-Dakar website posting I have asked that people call me between certain hours. Do they respect those hours? No. Do they call me at all hours of the night? Yes.

There is a general protocol, though unspoken and unacknowledged, for buying and selling items from this website. First, the potential buyer contacts the seller through phone calls or emails to express interest. In that call or email, the buyer asks any pertinent questions they have. Many questions are about when the item was purchased, where it was purchased, was it purchased new, how large or small it is, and whether all of its parts function and present. The seller answers truthfully and openly. If the buyer is still interested, he or she makes an appointment to visit the goods. The price is negotiated and agreed upon as well as a pick up time and date. If all goes well, the potential buyer will become the owner of the goods and the seller gets the money. Everyone wins.

My announcement online states that I am leaving Dakar so I get many requests for objects that a person typically has in a house, especially a toubab household. I just got a phone call about a dryer, I had no idea people owned dryers in Dakar since the sun is always out. I have been asked if I am selling my microwave, I don’t own a microwave. Someone else asked about my dishes and my bed, which I am giving to Otman’s brothers. Another person asked about my armoire, I explained that my armoire not only has a broken shelf but has a hole in the door, and he still tried to buy it. That same man bought my television and walked around my apartment asking if things were for sale. I explained that only the television, living room set, and table are for sale. It didn’t deter him for trying to buy my mirror, bed, fridge, and decorations.

The seven-seat living room set in particular gets many requests. Living rooms sets are crucial pieces of furniture in Senegal. Guests spend a lot of time in living rooms; therefore, the set must be presentable and comfortable. Couches are usually overstuffed and covered in velvet, leather, or simple cloth. Many sets are enhanced with doilies and fake flowers. Mine is boring and plain brown/burgundy faux-leather that Otman bought over a year ago. I had the local carpenter reinforce the arms and fix three of the feet. It is in good condition but probably not flashy enough for the average buyer.

Without even seeing the set in person, I had two people try to bargain the price down over text messages. This not only violates the unwritten rules but also is highly annoying. The person tried to buy the set for half of what I was offering. He or she was aggressive and would not heed to my requests to see the furniture before bargaining. After a total of fourteen messages back and forth, the potential buyer lost interest. Another woman, called me from Kolda, about 250 kilometers away, inquiring about the living room set and dining room table. She said that her husband who would be arriving from France in five days could swing by to check out the goods before heading to Kolda. To get to Kolda, may I add, one must pass through the Gambia. I agreed to this arrangement but said that if someone comes in the meantime and expresses interest, I cannot promise to reserve the furniture until her husband’s arrival.

Reservations get complicated. People express interest and then never make it to my house. They tell me to reserve the furniture for them but then do not call me back. I have decided to prohibit reservation. If a potential buyer wants something, he or she must come to my house, put a deposit down, and we can discuss a pick up date. The fear is that they won’t pay the rest of the money on the pick up date or that they will retract the offer leaving me with a superfluous living room set. That is why I get as many identifying details as possible in case I have to hunt them down.

Admittedly, when it comes to my belongings, I am not the best salesperson. I prefer to sell to customers who are polite and kind and who seem genuinely interested. I sold the cable box for a cheaper price just because the man who bought it was nice, asked many questions, and came quickly to my house. I dislike watching people evaluate my belongings. I will only sell something that is in great condition or else I am too embarrassed. I will not sell the horrid armoire for that reason.

Selling my furniture has provided great insight into the workings of Dakar. I see how people treat vendors, respect requests, follow directions, make appointments and do not show up, etc. It’s a good way to end my time in Dakar.

Living room set for sale!

Dining room table and chairs for sale!

Adventures to, from, and in the Sine Saloum

My trip to Toubakouta with my friend Fatiha was quite the adventure. First, Fatiha came to my house at 4 am to get a taxi to the gare routier. We wanted to leave early to avoid holiday traffic. We got to the gare in hopes of getting a 7 places or bush taxi (a station wagon that sits seven) to Kaolack where we would transfer to another 7 places to go to Toubakouta. However, we were promptly informed that because of Tabaski (festival of sheep) there were no 7 places going to Kaolack, instead we could take a mini-bus. At 4:15 am we boarded the mini-bus. We were told to sit on the seats that face each other instead of the rows of people. Our seats, actually benches, hold three people like the back seat of a car. You are pressed against the other passengers. Our driver wanted four people on our benches. I got stuck on the bench with a very large woman and two men. Needless to say, it was an uncomfortable ride. I realized that the man next to me had two kids awkwardly placed on his lap so I offered to hold one of the boys on my lap. As soon as he settled on my legs, I could feel his body heaving. Fatiha, seeing the heaving, whipped out a plastic bag and the little boy vomited. The trip to Kaolack took four hours. The boy and his brother next to me threw up four times between them.

Fatiha and I then ate breakfast, bread filled with spaghetti, and hopped into a taxi to take us to another 7 places gare in Kaolack. We found a car going to Gambia that would drop us off on the way. We were told to sit in the back row, which is elevated and uncomfortable. With no other choice we got in. After waiting for the car to fill, we watched the market surge around us. People were buying sheep, knives, and fancy clothes for the holiday. Bags of onions, suitcases, and other large items were being tied to the tops of cars. Our 7 places had a sheep on the roof and was filled with suitcases.

The road between Kaolack and Sokone is unpaved, dusty, and filled with holes. The trip, although not long in kilometers, took over two hours. The bumpy road smashed my head against the windows and filled my mouth and nose with dust. Our driver stopped several times to allow the car to cool down and to add oil. Between Sokone and Toubakouta the road was smooth and paved. Once out of the car in Toubakouta a little boy showed us to our hotel.

We stayed in Keur Youssou, a hotel owned by a nice couple. We were given a hut with two beds and a bathroom. The hut was impeccably clean. The only problem was that there was no door to the bathroom and so one had to announce when using the bathroom. It was one of the most comfortable places I have stayed in while in Senegal.

That evening we took a boat ride on the river. It was a trip I had done three years earlier when my study aboard group stayed in Sokone. We went to a man-made island made of shells and hiked around. Boarding the boat we sailed around the river until getting to a mangrove in the middle of the river teaming with egrets. There must have been hundreds of birds. Our guide explained that at sundown everyday these birds come to sleep for the evening. It was an incredible sight.

During breakfast of our second day we met a French couple and their adorable son staying in our hotel. They also live in Dakar and happen to work at the Catholic school where I work. They had rented a car and offered to take us to Missirah, a village near Toubakouta. Getting to Missirah was an adventure. First, we took the wrong road and got stuck in sand. We had to push the car out and turn around. Sand flies infiltrated the car and we had to get them out and keep the windows shut. Then we took the right road but got stuck in sand about seven more times. When we finally arrived in Missirah we were exhausted. Then villagers harassed us for money. They made us pay to walk on a bridge that led to nowhere. Many men came up to us to be our guide. The village is small and easy to navigate so a guide is not necessary. Granted, it does bring in money but it is not as productive as proving other activities for guests or tourists. After walking around the village an old man accosted us and extorted some money for taking pictures of a large old tree. Fed up and tired, we returned to Toubakouta.

After being kept wake during the night by an outdoor nightclub that raged from 1-4am, Fatiha and I walked to the main road at 7 am. We waited an hour for a car to pass either going to the Gambian border, 17 kilometers away or heading toward Kaolack. Finally a 7 places came and charged us double the normal price to go to the border. We got out in another small village that has 7 places and waited for it to fill up. This time we had excellent seats in the middle row with windows. The dusty road to Kaloack took a long time because our car was dying. We had to switch 7 places in Kaloack. Fearing terrible traffic, caused by people returning to Dakar from their holiday weekend, we prepared for the usual traffic jam in Rufisque. To our surprise we sailed right through. The trip only took eight hours from start to finish. We made good time and had a nice adventure.

A boat on the river

Egrets in the mangrove. Not the best quality but all the white dots are birds.

The old kopak tree in Missirah.

Thanksgiving and Tabaski

At the private school where I work three days a week, I have been teaching my students about Thanksgiving. Each of my students made a "thankful turkey," by assembling cut-outs of turkey parts using glue and markers. On the “feathers” they wrote what they are thankful for. Many students wrote “I am thankful for my dogs” and “I am thankful for my games”. I hung all of the turkeys on a bulletin board in the entrance to the school. Picture below.

At the Catholic school, where I teach twice a week, we discussed the past and present of Thanksgiving. When I asked the class what happens on Thanksgiving I was told, “it’s when you kill many animals and then eat them” and “It’s when you get a lot of presents from your family.” To set the record straight I gave the Montclair public schools version of Thanksgiving. There was much talk of sharing, food, and being thankful.

When discussing what is currently eaten at Thanksgiving meals, I asked the students where they think people get their turkeys. “The slaughterhouse,” “the laboratory,” “the farm,” and “the chicken coop” were all shouted at me at once. When I talked of buying frozen turkeys at the supermarket the kids were stunned and disgusted. They asked many questions regarding the quality of meat, the freshness, and the size. They could not believe that for a holiday Americans do not kill their own meat and that they would actually purchase frozen meat from a supermarket.

Either Friday or Saturday is Tabaski, depending on the Muslim brotherhood one is affiliated with and trusts. Tabaski is the “festival of sheep” or the great slaughter, depending on your views. Every Muslim family is supposed to have at least one sheep, sacrifice it, and then distribute the meat to those without. Families come together to share a meal and have a good time, like Thanksgiving.

In Dakar, people sacrifice their sheep either in front of their houses, near the street, on their terraces, or in parking areas making it difficult to avoid. I have participated in two Tabaskis and that was enough. My friend F.B. and I are escaping the slaughter to a village south of Dakar called Toubakouta. We hope to avoid participating in the festivities and instead eat fresh fruit and go bird watching.

Epic hunts

Dakar is the kind of place that when you are in search of an object or item to purchase, you will never find it. Sellers constantly harass people to buy he most random objects that you don’t need. Once you do need the object, you will not be able to find it no matter where you look. I have had many of these experiences during my time in Dakar. I refer to them as the “epic hunts.” There have been several epic hunts that stand out in my mind. One, from my student days, was searching for scissors to cut my hair. I scoured my neighborhood going to every store and boutique that could possibly sell scissors. I visited about fifteen places and could not find them. The hardware stores only had old rusty pairs, the boutiques only carried child size dull ones, and the shops that furnish the tailors only had shears the length of my arm. Since these were going to be used to cut my hair I wanted to minimize split-ends and lopped off ears. Finally I ended up borrowing a pair from my host mom. Another time, I went on an epic hunt for Dove soap, which is usually an easy task. However after visiting three supermarkets that usually sell it, I was told that the boat that was carrying the soap for all of Senegal was stuck in customs and so it would be awhile until the stores would stock it. This also happened two weeks ago with eggs. The entire city was out of eggs for quite some time.

My most recent epic hunt was for aluminum cups. These cups are everywhere. I think every person in Senegal no matter how rich or poor owns one of these cups. The cups are communal, passed around when sharing water and used in restaurants. They are one of the most ubiquitous items in town. Yet finding them for sale was difficult.

When Otman and I moved into the Mermoz apartment we arrived with three glasses in Otman’s collection of flatware and cutlery. We quickly bought more glasses, a set of six, for daily use and entertaining. After approximately six months, I noticed that of the nine glasses we had, only three remained, one from the original set and two from the new set. So, I went to the market to buy more glasses, I decided to purchase six taller sturdier looking ones. However, now, only three months later, only one of those remains along with one original glass, and one from the first purchased set. I have three pitiful glasses in total.

Why so many broken glasses? I blame it on my kitchen’s design. Whoever designed the kitchen should have their license revoked. There are three drawers in front of the sink’s plumbing and then one huge cupboard with no shelves. Essentially the design is backwards. We keep the flatware in the drawers, because that is the only place they can go. However, the drawers are difficult to close and stick frequently meaning there is a lot of shoving involved. The shoving leads to glasses slamming against each other and thus breaking. Admittedly I have broken two by dropping them and Tarik broke several while I was away.

I reasoned that the only way to combat the broken glass issue was to buy these aluminum cups. They aren’t very pretty but they won’t break in the drawer. I decided to go to Marche Tilene, a local market in the Medina neighborhood, where Otman bought the gaudy jewelry. I did not choose the best time of day to go to the market because it was hot and there were typical Dakar traffic jams caused by cars reversing into oncoming traffic and buses stopped in the middle of the road. When I finally arrived, I found the cups and bargained for them. When I went to take out my wallet, I discovered it was not there. Panicking, I left in a hurry sans cups. Tarik later located the wallet in the garlic and onion container. Anyway, I decided not to return to the market but instead look for these cups in my neighborhood. I could not find them. All of the kitchenware stores did not sell them. Instead, they tried to convince me of the wonders of glasses. One person had the aluminum ones for sale but only as a collection with a huge ugly teapot and tray, which I don’t need.

I happened to be in Yoff on Tuesday. Most neighborhoods have markets where fruit, vegetables, and other goods are sold everyday but then one day a week vendors set up outside of the produce market with other goods. In Yoff the market is on Tuesdays. Knowing that I could find the cups there, I decided to pay the market a visit. It was hot, there were tons of pushy people, and I was in a bad mood. The market smelled like a combination of bad breath, wet cardboard, and meat. It was gross. I walked around trying to find these cups. I found a place that sold them, a regular store not affiliated with the market but they wouldn’t bring down the price so I left. Sure that in the big market, someone else would be selling them. I wandered through the rows of second-hand clothing. Vendors purchase these clothes in bales, clean them, iron them, and then sell them. Some of the clothing still has their thrift store tags on them. A lot of clothing from Savers ends up in Dakar. Walking through the tarp-covered market, I noticed that the woman selling bras was not wearing one and those perusing for new ones, were not considering their size when selecting.

Next to the rows of clothing were the men selling cups, plates, silverware, large silver bowls, Tupperware, and trays. None of them had the cups. The closest thing I found were smaller and with ones with a handle generally used for potty training. Resigned and tired, I returned to the first store I visited. I tried my best to lower the price by haggling in Wolof but the vendor was not impressed. He wouldn’t go under 500 CFA a cup ($1). I ended up buying them at this ridiculous inflated price because I would have paid the difference if I went all the way back to Tilene. The epic hunt for aluminum cups is over and so it’s onto the next.

The cups above the drawer

The cups on the counter

Costume Jewelry in Dakar

After five years of living in Dakar, it was time for Otman to return to Morocco. The company that he had been working for was closing down and had cut it's staff from 175 to 15. Therefore, he began searching for work and networking in Dakar to no avail. It was time to go and he left on October 18. I am very sad for obvious reasons.

Before returning to Morocco, Otman decided to buy his mother some costume jewelry for her business. Otman’s mother is a negafa, a wedding planner of sorts. A negafa provides the wedding throne, the decorations, the elaborate seat that the couple gets hoisted up in, all of the dresses (women change clothing many times during the course of their wedding), the accessories, the henna, and sometimes does the hair and make-up. She also provides contacts for the DJ, caterer, and photographer. It’s a big and exciting job. Otman’s mother has been doing it for several years and her business is expanding. Even Otman’s grandmother has become involved in the trade. She owns three of the dresses and whenever someone uses them she gets some money. We are making her business a website that I will post later. This is a website of a negafa in France. Click on "robes" to see what women wear: http://www.laplumedargent.fr/html/negafa-toulouse.php

The last time I was in Morocco, Otman’s mother persuaded me try on the dresses and loaded me up with jewelry. I felt like I was playing an adult version of dress-up. The jewelry was colorful and bountiful: a crown, a necklace, earrings, a bracelet, a belt clip, and two clips of jewels that got attached to the dress near the necklace. For some reason I chose a pink dress, a bad idea when you have pink tinted skin and blush frequently. The horrific pictures are below. Please ignore the stripped tee shirt, the make-up less face, and the undone hair, which would not be acceptable if this was for real.

The cost of costume jewelry in Morocco is very high and the quality is also pretty high. In Senegal, imported jewelry it is cheaper than in Morocco but the quality is not great. Senegal has a thriving jewelry industry of well-made locally produced baubles. Everyone in Senegal wears jewelry in copious amounts so there is a large market for jewelry makers. There is also a large market for the fake stuff, since appearance is of the utmost importance. There are local jewelry makers who make costume jewelry which they tend to be in plated gold and enormous. On general, costume jewelry in Dakar both imported and local is the gaudiest stuff I have ever seen and is evidently fake. Regardless of the quality, we embarked on a journey to find colorful costume jewelry for Otman’s mother in Marche Tillene.

Costume jewelry is not sold with “real” jewelry, they are sold in very different environments. The costume jewelry is sold in tiny boutiques where the glass cases aren’t locked. The real goods are in more stately stores where one must request to see the pieces and there is weighing involved in the pricing. For the fake goods, imagine walking into a little boutique that is blaring religious chants and behind the glass cases are rows of busts with carefully placed glittering jewelry. In the front of the shop tends to be the locally produced gold plated jewelry and in the back is the imported jewelry. On these busts are gold plated chains weighed down by weightless plastic jewels in a variety of colors and shapes. Most of the necklaces have rows of colored jewels with a larger centerpiece. The earrings were a smaller version of the necklace and shine from their position on the bust. Otman liked one piece that had huge blue jewels. The jewels were so fake that instead of trying to look like sapphires, they looked like blue traffic cones that doubled as reflective gear. Some stores did not even bother to take the jewelry out of the made in China plastic wrap displays. Otman ended up buying his sets from such a boutique while I scoffed at the quality in my snobby American way.

I had the pleasure of trying these pieces on. I could see where the plastic setting detached from its mold and the glue drips left around the setting. However, I tried to convince Otman to buy a faux gold serpent set. The head of the serpent was eating its tail to form the piece. Some serpents were decorated in colorful faux diamonds, except some of the diamonds had fallen off and one serpent was cross-eyed. I then became drawn to the Senegalese made costume jewelry. The pieces were huge gold earrings in the shape of private school emblems that would rip your ears open, necklaces with enormous fringe and balls, ring pill cases that could hold all daily vitamins and then some. They were of superior quality but Otman didn’t think his mom would want sets without stones.

In the end, we ended up with four imported sets made up of a necklace and earrings in pink, blue, and two diamond designs. Unfortunately, none of the stores had crowns and refused to sell the necklace, earrings, and bracelet as a package. The total came to about $60, which made me fall off my stool. Sixty bucks in Senegal is a ton of money. You could buy that kind of jewelry in the US for so much cheaper and better quality. I tried to talk Otman out of it, but when it comes to his mother, he will do anything.

Playing dress-up in Fez with the good quality jewels.

A close up of the colorful jewelry.

Articles

Below is a link from the Associated Press regarding the floods in West Africa, highlighting some of the horrors outside of Dakar.

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2009/09/12/world/AP-AF-Senegal-Living-in-Water.html

Also, a satirical piece published in the wonderful Granta magazine on "How to Write about Africa" by Binyavanga Wainaina.

http://www.granta.com/Magazine/92/How-to-Write-about-Africa/Page-1

While very patronizing and a bit superficial, this BBC article talks about the dwindling number of irregular migrants from Senegal. Since Senegal is rarely in the news, I figured I would link this article, even if it is problematic.

As a point of reference, I used to work in Yoff "the fishing village" that happens to house the international airport. Yoff is not a fishing village for many reasons, one being that there are fewer people who fish for a living because of the large numbers of commercial fishing companies that are plaguing West Africa with their over-fishing. Another story all together.

Another point of reference, this sentence, "They may be talking about an economic crisis in Europe but if you want a real crisis it's right here in Senegal," said in Wolof is stated by every taxi driver I have had in the past few months. Senegal dafa metti.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/8251029.stm

No power and under water

The American media does not cover African news properly. This is a fact to which I have ample proof. The news is frequently printed late, prejudiced, and incomplete. There has been major flooding in Burkina Faso and the New York Times has yet to issue their own article detailing the floods. However, they have relied on the Associated Press and Reuters for two articles and there has not been any follow-up.

The point of that rant is to highlight recent current events in Senegal, the type of news that is rarely printed in the US and is occasionally discussed in the French media.

There have been massive power cuts in Dakar leaving neighborhoods without reprieve from the heat. The cuts happen suddenly without warning and can last several hours.Out of utter frustration, I began to record when there were power outages. During one week the cuts in my neighborhood averaged nine hours per day. During one day there were three power cuts totaling thirteen and a half hours. This is nothing compared to what people in the lower-income housing areas face. They can have power cuts for days. It goes without saying that power cuts render the country incapacitated. People cannot work unless they have a generator. Generators run on fuel, which is expensive. The power cuts bleed people of energy, time, and patience. Riots in many neighborhoods against the electric company have cropped up. They will rage on until the power outages cease.

Why are there power outages? It is a multi-pronged problem. One aspect is the Minister of Energy who mismanages money and energy and is not qualified to do his job. He has been widely criticized for ignoring alternative energy as a method of producing energy instead of relying on combustibles. Solar energy, in my opinion, makes sense for Senegal, a country with approximately 355 days of sunshine per year (my estimate). The second reason why there are many power outages is combustibles that are purchased from aboard. The Senegalese government does not have enough money to buy combustibles in bulk and can only afford a fifteen-day supply. In the long run the fifteen-day supply is more expensive and not as prudent. I just read an article in a Senegalese paper that stated that Senegal needs 18 billion CFA (3.6 million dollars) per month to supply power to the country and since the government has a limited budget, that is impossible. I would argue that the limited budget stems from mismanagement and poor prioritizing, but that is also my humble opinion. A third prong is that the machines that transform combustibles into energy are ancient (not my words) and thus malfunction all of the time. This electricity crisis is not new. It has been getting worse in recent years, especially with the increase use of air conditioners, computers, hot water heaters, and other electrical goods that consume a lot of electricity. Although, none of this should be a surprise if proper research and projections had been done.

Another huge issue is that much of the “banlieue” outside of Dakar is underwater. The urban planning behind these sprawling communities was none existent when these lower income areas were forming. One major problem apart in the banlieue is the lack of a proper irrigation system. It rains and the water remains in large muddy puddles and becomes stagnant. Stagnant water, the breeder of disease and mosquitoes makes life even harder for people living in the banlieue. After it rains, water, in some places, is as high as my knees. People are forced to either leave their homes or make due by putting their beds on palettes and sleeping above the water. For the past several years during the rainy season this same problem has occurred. It is nothing new. Water from last year is still stagnating in several areas. The President has made promise upon promise but the fact that people are living under water has not been dealt with properly. It is unacceptable.

The final current event sums everything up and demonstrates the power of immigrants living abroad. President Wade decided to go to France for vacation. Upon his arrival he found many Senegalese living in France protesting his presence. They stated in interviews that they felt that Senegal’s electricity and water problems were outrageously out of control and that instead of vacationing Wade should be handing these grave issues.

According to my records, it has worked because there has been an overall decrease in power outages to as little as 3 hours a day at least in my neighborhood. Additionally, there was a recent purchase of combustibles and rumors of the Minster of Energy stepping down. Will this last? I am skeptical but hopeful, because one must have hope when living in Dakar.

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.

la lutte

Believe it or not, wrestling is Senegal’s national sport. However, this is not the Vince McMahon version of wresting entertainment. This form of wrestling is a mix of mysticism, brute force, tradition, and modernity all rolled into pure controlled chaos. It is entertainment but it is also about pride, force, and power.

Let me preface this post by saying that I have only watched professional “lutte” (wrestling) on television. The only time that I have seen matches live is while visiting villages where young inexperience boys battle. Watching professional lutte on television and seeing it live are very different, although the essence remains, the total experience is different. After watching la lutte I feel like an insider since Mondays are usually spent rehashing what happened during the Sunday night match. Last night there was a major match in Dakar between Yekini, the reigning champ, and Gris Bordeaux. There were other, smaller, less important matches before the big match.

Senegalese culture and life are exemplified in these wrestling matches. There is pomp, grandiose personalities, marabouts (religious leaders), mysticism, Islam, dancing, singing, sand, etc. As per usual, there is always a lot going on at one time. There is action everywhere. People vying are for attention and recognition on all sides of the arena. During the matches women dressed to the nines in “traditional” clothing sing, dance, and fan themselves. Drummers are banging away on their dembes or sabars. Marabouts bless their wrestling follower.

The main attraction wrestlers come with an entourage consisting of bodyguards and assistants. The lesser known wrestlers have a coach and perhaps a friend that help them with the rituals. The majority of the major wrestlers are physically extraordinary in the sense that they are large, gusto, and muscular unlike the average skinny but strong Senegalese man. Many wrestlers have crazy hairdos, some guys have words craved out in their hair and some have cowry shells placed around their heads. Wrestlers wear loincloths, à la Sumo wrestler, and tons of gris-gris.

Gris-gris are amulets blessed by marabouts that can be worn around the neck, arms, legs, waist, or across the chest. Wrestlers are known to wear many gris-gris. On any given wrestler there may be as few as five and as many as fifteen gris-gris. Gris-gris hold a sort of power and are used to protect the wrestler. The rituals before the match are more advanced and complicated. The wrestler is usually chewing on something, a stick or a metal object. He digs up sand, writes in Arabic on the sand, and throws sand. He also dumps various unidentified liquids over his head. I was able to determine that the liquids include curdled milk, oil, and water, among others. The wrestlers don’t stop moving. They run, walk, sway, crouch before their match. There isn’t any deep breathing mediation going on, instead they are keeping busy with the liquids and sand.

Last night, the main attractions were Yekini and Gris Bordeaux. They each had a large entourage with bodyguards. The wrestlers were wearing their loincloths, gris-gris, gauzy tunics, and sneakers. Their entourage was dressed in tracksuits provided by Orange, the communications company. The entourage’s job is to stay with the wrestler and assist him with his rituals. If the wrestler feels like doing large-man sprints, the entourage must follow him, but stay behind to demonstrate how fast and agile this monstrous man can be. The wrestlers also did some dancing to the drums as well as had a few face-offs with their opponent. Gris Bordeaux seemed much nicer than Yekini in the face offs, so I rooted for him.

The pre-match for Yekini and Gris Bordeaux was two hours of watching other people wrestle. Apparently, there is a Spanish league of Senegalese wrestling because some Spanish toubab outfitted in loincloth and gris-gris wrestled and lost to a skinny Senegalese man. In between matches the camera would cut to Yekini and Gris Bordeuax and they would be running, dancing, pour liquid on themselves, or grimacing at each other. In the background the commentators were speculating on who was going to win, what tactics they would employ, and on and on. The marabout, who spoke too quickly in Wolof for me to understand, gesticulated and carried on.

The matches take place in a sand pit delineated by sand bags. The wrestlers start the match off by slapping. It looks like two guys swatting flies since the slaps don’t go beyond the hands. Then after a minute or two of the slap fighting things get serious and the sand flinging begins. Yes, the wrestlers can throw sand at each other. Punching, slapping, kicking, and head butting are also allowed. Oftentimes one wrestler will end up with his head in the other’s stomach and punching will ensue. The objective of Senegalese wrestling is for one of the wrestlers to make the other one fall down. Once one knee is on the ground the game is over. I have yet to see someone fall down because they have been hit too many times. Most likely they end up on the ground because they have been thrown there or because they have been tripped.

The Yekini and Gris Bordeaux match lasted exactly two minutes and thirty seconds. It was timed on the television screen. All that hype and liquids wasted for two and a half minutes. The first minute was slapping. Yekini looked bored and barely landed his slaps. Then they entered the embrace position and Gris Bordeaux had a solid handle on Yekinis’ legs and was pushing him over/lifting him up when Gris Bordeuax fell on his knees. The match was over. Yekini won despite showing no effort.

This is a six-minute youtube video of Senegalese wrestling from 2008 in Palamarin, a village in the Sine-Saloum region South of Dakar. The clip is an accurate depiction of la lutte as it shows both the ritual and fighting sides of the sport.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZIG1Lj1dnw&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.au-senegal.com%2FLa-lutte-senegalaise.html&feature=player_embedded

little serrer girl

A small little girl with neat braids, wearing a colorful wrap skirt and a dirty tee-shirt, came into my office this afternoon and asked me in Wolof, “Where is Michel?” Michel is the gardener/ security guard for the building that I work in. He frequently leaves his post, a bench under a banana tree, to visit friends or hang in his room at the back of the building. I told the girl that Michel was probably in the back and indicated where she should look.

On my way back to my office, I realized that she was the first person in a long time who has spoken to me like a “normal” person. Not exaggeratedly slow Wolof, no poking fun of my lack of comprehension, no asking for money or gift, just a person to person interaction.

Not two seconds after I sat down I heard a little voice say, “Michel, nekkel fofou.” Michel isn’t over there, I could tell from the short amount of time it took her to return that she hadn’t really looked because she was scared to go alone. So I took her by the hand and led her to the back of the building. Michel wasn’t there. As we were walking back to the front gate I asked her all sorts of questions like her name, her age, and where her mother is. As soon as we got near the gate, I turned, I think to pick her up or to take her hand, and she started to scream. The screaming and crying was nothing compared to the utter fear in her face. It was astounding. I could tell before, when we were walking around the building that she was afraid, it must have built until “boom,” I made one false move. I racked my brain on how to ask her if she was scared but all I could think of was how to say “cry”.

A young woman, much younger than me, but probably her mother appeared at the door and began to laugh at this strange interaction. Her crying child and a toubab, standing across from each other, one in fear and the other in bewilderment. The girl ran to her mother and was comforted about the scary toubab. About five minutes later I saw Michele come back and heard him speaking in Serrer to a woman. Leaving for lunch, I walked past the banana tree and the girl started to scream in horror. Michel said in Wolof, “It’s OK, that’s just Soufi.”

To see a marabout or not to see a marabout, that is the question.

I am not a spiritual person nor am I a religious person. I try to think logically by planning, making lists, and being organized. So far, my methodology hasn’t exactly worked. I have used by “plan B” or “back-up” plan much more often than my initial plan A.

I think I need to go see a marabout (religious leader). I am of the opinion that marabouts only work if you believe in them, which I don’t. But perhaps something amazing will happen and my wishes will come true.

When I was in Senegal as a student I visited a “seetkat” or seer, because someone stole a nice sum of money from me. My host brother (the likely culprit) pushed me to visit a seetkat, who he claimed would reveal the guilty party and help me seek justice. I was very skeptical and had no desire to go through with the meeting, but I was feeling vulnerable and robbed, so agreed to go.

The seetkat was Guinean and only spoke a little French. He sat on the ground with his eyes closed in front of a pile of sand and after hearing my story, wrote lines in the sand every which way. After opening his eyes, he proceeded to read the lines. He described the thief and then as an extra bonus, read my fortune. Not to reveal all of my secrets, I will glimpse over my fortune and mention that the person he described match perfectly with the housekeeper at my father’s house who had been robbing me blind in my absence. Unfortunately, I realized this long after the fact. Anyway, the seetkat also told me that someone who loved me would get in contact with me soon. Not five minutes after leaving the seetkat’s digs, my mom called me. This was unusual because she rarely called me at night and it was circa 9 pm.

Recently things in my life in Senegal have been going awry, mainly in the job department. I have considered going to a marabout, there are at least three in my neighborhood, and getting a gris-gris (amulet). The difference between a seetkat and a marabout is that a seetkat sees the past and future and a marabout can influence the future and offer protection (for a steep price and some livestock). Until this point, these proclamations about marabouts and lusting after a gris-gris have been in jest. However, things are starting to change and I am seriously considering finding a toubab friendly marabout. If it happens, I will detail my experience on this neglected blog.

Accustom to list

Things I have become accustom to that once seemed weird, uncomfortable, disgusting, or inappropriate:

• Bikes, scooters, taxis, cars, car rapides, Ndiaga Ndiayes, chariots, Tata buses, and DDD buses sharing a one or two lane road.
• Crossing the barrier to get to work
• Being sandwiched on the bus next to large ladies and sweaty men
• Using landmarks not street names to describe locations
• Walking on sand
• Hearing “attention” after tripping or falling
• Being called “Madame” because that’s what women toubabs are called.
• People only knowing my Senegalese name (Soufi) and not my real one.
• Being gawked at by small children who seem both amused and appalled
• Greeting everyone I see, every time I see them even if 5 minutes has elapsed between sightings
• People not apologizing for being wrong or rude
• Listening to self-important men who aggrandize their work or capabilities
• Listening to other self-important men who talk too much and repeat themselves
• Restaurants that have many items on their menus but only a few actual options available
• Being told that something has “run out” or “finished” when the store or restaurant probably never had it in stock
• Not having water in the afternoons
• Toilets without toilet paper or toilet seats
• Cockroaches
• Having perpetually bad hair, bad skin, and dirty feet.
• Being able to see live music any night of the week
• Café Touba (very strong coffee)
• Tamarind sauce
• Fresh fruit that is in season- mangos!
• Bouye juice (made from baobab fruit)
• Gas station restaurants as the cool hangout place because they sell cheap beer
• Gaudy curtains and overstuffed couches
• The call to prayer and the Friday night chants
• Going to the tailor or having him come to my house
• Laughing at myself for various faux pas and laughing at my own misfortune
• Not paying the toubab price anymore

racist hustling

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.

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.

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

My mailman wears five glasses

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.

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.