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