So we've started a pretty friendly relationship with a bunch of Senegalese students from the University of Dakar/Cheik Anta Diop (a figurehead from Senegalese independence era, his name is pronounced Sheck Anta Jop). Our French professor apparently also teaches English at the University, so he invited a bunch of the students to come to our French class. Last Wednesday, about 15 Senegalese students were sitting in our classroom (which kind of looks like a conference room, with a long table in the middle with a dry erase board at one end). The students looked shy but happy to be there, and yes – all were dressed in Western clothing.
After going around and introducing ourselves, we almost immediately broke up into small groups, two American groups and three Senegalese groups. We were given large pieces of paper and a marker, and were told to draw our stereotypical images of the other. What we came up with was: amusing, shocking, embarrassing, and a bit distressing at times.
The Senegalese versions were almost unanimous: bling, guns, crime, rap videos (they had drawn a 80% naked girl wearing a string bikini and seriously inquired if girls dress like this on the street in the United States), “Time is Money,” “Get Rich or Die,” streets paved with dollar signs, men on computers and phones attached to their ear, basketball/American football, Obama, bombs and soldiers symbolizing our powerful global military influence. I was surprised to not see fat people or McDonald's (actually, come to think of it, I haven't seen many American chains here, such as McDonald's or Wal Mart or anything....the Chinese, by contrast, are everywhere selling things and investing in businesses).
After we Americans finished chuckling at the absurdity of their drawings and 1 dimensional (but quite extensive) representations of the United States, we realized the implications of these conceptions. This is truly how they consider us. Obsessed with money and time, being busy, and our exportation of hip hop and the culture it emanates.
Then it was the American's turn: ours was much less extensive to say the least. For one thing, we drew a horribly inaccurate representation of the African continent (on purpose), with a gigantic question mark – symbolizing the vast inadequacy of American knowledge of Africa. It was actually quite embarrassing, especially after the Senegalese students filled their entire pieces of paper with ideas they had of the United States – and we literally said, “On sait rien de l'Afrique” We don't know anything about Africa. We made sure to let them know that we weren't talking about ourselves....of course me, having a specific interest in Africa in particular, especially after having worked with Congolese immigrants in the states, etc. I know much, much more than the average American, having taken several classes about Africa at U. of I. The French professor added that he had seen somewhere in the United States, a satirical children's book which listed drawings of stereotypes from around the world according to Americans: and for Africa, there was simply a gorilla. We Americans hid our heads in shame while the Senegalese students didn't laugh at all.
The two American groups drew pretty much the same thing:
Straw huts beneath a blazing sun
Half naked women with bowls on their heads, men in loin cloths
Lions, elephants, giraffes (these don't exist in Senegal...the students laughed at this in particular, because it's so ridiculous that we assume all of Africa, which is more than 3 times larger than the continental U.S., would all have the same animals...anyone who reads anything about Africa first sees how diverse its climate is)
Disease (A.I.D.s, malaria, cholera, etc)
War, violence
They got pretty upset about the last one, because this is so very very far from the truth. Yes, there is a lot of corruption in a continent that doesn't have much to go around in the first place, which often leads to civil unrest. Even in Senegal, University students have to protest/demonstrate several times a month to pressure Wade (the President), to continue their tuition money, which they call “scholarships.” It's really just government investment/subsidization in public schools, like the U.S. does...it would be as if the President decided to stop giving money to the University of Illinois – tuition would skyrocket. But this is commonplace here, student rioting is normal – but it's not the rioting you're thinking of. It's much more docile and routine.
As far as real violence, the Senegalese students were annoyed to hear that Americans think that Africa – all of it – is as dangerous as movies/the news portray it (Blood Diamond, Hotel Rwanda). Senegal in particular, along with the vast majority of African countries, is poor but not violent. Who knows what will happen in 2012 when the next election is due – judging by the vast anti-Wade sentiment that is already stewing in public opinion. But as of now, and since independence, there hasn't really been any acts of aggression. As I was saying in my last blog about the sense of community here, there is really no sense of danger...unless you are a white female with no common sense walking alone in an alleyway of the “grande ville” downtown. I feel safer here in Senegal, than I do in Champaign.
Anyway, it was pretty interesting interacting with the Senegalese students, talking about what it's like to grow up here, where they come from, and what University education is like. Apparently the class size is enormous; Chiekh Anta Diop was made for 12,000 students in the 1950's – built as a trade school by the French during colonialism. Now it is the largest university in Senegal, hosting over 60,000 students. So you can imagine....well, maybe you can't. I couldn't really either, until I went and witnessed it this last Saturday.
The students invited us to their debate (in English) about marriage, at 3:00pm. It was hosted by the English club, and so I didn't expect that many people to be there....like any other extra-curricular event on the weekend, in the states, where MAYBE 10 people show up. So about 8 of us from MSID went to the University on Saturday. We took the car rapid there, which was only 150 CFA (about 30 cents).
There was this gigantic gate, guarded by an officer who let us in “just this once” because we had neglected to bring our MSID student Id's. We walked in to see a pretty big open lot of sand, with plastic and paper garbage blowing in the wind (which isn't uncommon at all, but I was surprised that it was this dirty at the university). We walked in between the dorms (which we got to see later, when one of the students took us up to his room), which were old. That's the only word I can use to describe how they looked...gigantic, with old, broken, rusty air filters on the outside of the buildings, black stains down the brick. The windows were dirty, and the paint was cracked and peeling; sometimes it was indistinguishable what the color used to be. Laundry flitted in the breeze on every floor, adding specks of color to the scenery. Students were everywhere, along with little booths and stands with people (non-students) selling peanuts, coffee or cigarettes, etc, etc. The occasional breeze skirted up small clouds of sand and dust. There was an old basketball court with graffiti all over the inside harboring sobering political statements, where tons of students played. The amount of male students walking around greatly outnumbered the number of girls, which I wasn't surprised about. I was surprised to see more strict, conservatively-dressed Muslim-Senegalese girls than I ever see on the streets of Dakar, with their heads covered. Usually in Muslim families, the girls don't go to school; they stay home to cook and take care of the house. Inside the cafeteria of one of the dorms, there was a student with a microphone, speaking passionately in Wolof to a packed crowd, who stomped their feed, responded, and cheered.
We arrived in the Arts Humaines et Lettres building (Liberal Arts and Sciences, b basically), which is where we had been told to go, room 77. We greeted the guards who stood at the door, and they accompanied us up the stairs and toward the back of the building. We followed him, and peered in the windows...long, old classrooms with wooden tables crammed with benches and chairs. One classroom was absolutely stuffed with students. “That can't be it..” I said to myself. As soon as I completed this thought, the guards opened the door for us and ushered us in.
We walked in the front of the classroom awkwardly, in front of at least 130 students. The room was loud, chaotic, and no one seemed to notice when we came in. Some of the students who had come to our French class came over to greet us, and shook our hand. They were really glad we could make it. They told us though, that we had to split up...even with 8 of us, when we each went to a table, we seemed to get swallowed up in the crowd. There were at least 12 tables, plus a crowd in the back, that we never got to interact with. Let me remind you, that this was English “club,” which people have to pay to be a part of, and this was an extra event on a Saturday. Ok, let's move on.
They began by performing some skits, etc. The professor said some words. This is all in English. Their English was awkward, even the professor, who had obviously studied in England, as some trace of an accent could be detected with some words. He assured them all that it was ok if they made mistakes, because they were all learning, and this was the place they could improve. Where else could they have the opportunity to practice and improve their English in Dakar? Therefore, we must all be respectful of everyone else. And no one should be afraid to talk, because it is important to know what everyone thinks...they want to know everyone's opinion, and how can anyone know what your opinion is if you keep it to yourself? And everyone agreed with the professor that they were “English Lovers.”
Then we had 15 minutes or so to mingle. All these people came up to me, all guys (about 80 percent of the room were men), and said basically the same greeting/response combination. “Hello? Are you fine? What is your name? Ah, what a pretty name. Why are you here, in Senegal? How do you find my country? Where you from? Ah! Chicago! The Bulls! Obama! I like the United States, I want to live there someday. Welcome to Senegal.”
Then we all sat down and began the debate. I saw right away that it was going to get out of hand. Again, the topic was marriage – are you for it, or against it? NO men, beside Henry (the French guy in our group), were against marriage. The women began, even a conservatively-dressed girl, and said that marriage is the best way to get a woman never to complete her life's ambitions. Even if she has a degree and goes to college, as soon as she gets married, her life stops. And we've noticed this in our own house here, too – there is so much work around the house, and since the men refuse to do anything, the woman have to bear all the responsibility. They have no time to do anything. The girls in the room spoke clearly, confidently, and passionately about their rights as women, and how they shouldn't be defined by whether or not they're married. These debates were all in English, which made it easy for the men to interrupt and scream and yell whenever the girl paused to collect her thoughts. All the men stood up for about an hour and a half, and reiterated the same nonsense:
It is our right as men to have a wife.
It is the right thing to do.
If our grandparents didn't want to get married, we wouldn't be here! (Even though someone DID point out that marriage is not how two people make children).
It is our culture, we don't care what the West does.
A wife can never be a slave in her own home, that is absurd and counterintuitive.
A woman's responsibility is to get married and have children, the man's responsibility is to work.
It is our religion; our religion, Islam, says we must get married.
Even when I stood up and tried to clarify the topic at hand, it didn't work. As soon as I said, “My name is Danielle, and I'm from the United States - “ the room exploded in a fit of laughter and mumbling. I continued to say that the argument was not about marriage itself, but the role of men and women in society and whether or not that should be reconsidered from the old ways. The women seemed unhappy with their level of responsibility and unequal share of household task in comparison with men, and that men shouldn't have the right to dictate what their wives do in life. This has nothing to do with the institution of marriage itself, and abolishing marriage altogether won't do a thing to change their qualms about Senegalese society. But people still refused to address this topic. It felt like a discussion in the 1940's or 1950's in the United States, before women had their sexual revolution. Just a bunch of arrogant chauvinists, basically. When I suggested the work should be 50/50, and men should cook – that was the end of my time to talk. Everyone screamed and yelled in protest, and started laughing harder. What a ridiculous thing to suggest!
What made me happy is that the guy across the table from me, who had been quiet the whole time, said privately to me, “I like to cook...I don't know what the big deal is.” I was so happy to hear him say that. He said, Senegalese men are lazy. They don't understand that when they get a glass out of the cupboard and use it, someone had to clean that cup and put it away. They don't understand that they have hands, and are just as capable of doing the same action as a woman. There is no reason they can't help. He said he wouldn't dare say that in front of everyone though. The guy across from him heard him say this, and asked how he could cook for his family without feeling shame as a man. He said his cousin lives in Europe, and told him that everyone cooks...and that it's no big deal for a man to help out around the house. The other guy could not conceive of this and tisked, shaking his head.
Overall, it was very very interesting. I think I'm going back to the University next weekend, next time they have a debate.
Last Sunday, Margaretta, Josh, Seth, Kelsey, Ellie, me and Henry went to l'Ile de Ngoor, which is a pretty popular tourist location. This is unfortunate for several reasons, which I will get into later.
We met at Casino (the supermarket by our neighborhood), after Melanie and I went with Papa to Sangidoune (a artisan's market) which we planned to revisit later in the week. After some debate about whether or not to brave the car rapids, which are tricky because you have no way of knowing when/why/where they stop and how to get where you're going...so we decided to pay more and go with a taxi. The taxi was still only like 2 dollars (U.S.).
We immediately noticed a cluster of white people, about 90% French. Their burned, pale skin was a sight to be seen...I know notice this much more, just because of the contrast. I'm used to seeing black skin. They were loud, bawdy..and...well....generally French. This one guy wore a soccer jersey with FRANCE written across the back...how much more obvious can you get.
We bought some fruit, and bought an “aller-retour” (two-way ticket) to the island. I was the only one who didn't bring a bathing suit, but I figured I would be happy just relaxing on the beach. We waited for a “pirogue” (long canoe), to pull up, and when it did, we judged the waves just right so we could leap in without getting our shoes wet. They crammed us in with about 30 other tourists, and we were allowed to simply hold our life vests, which I thought was amusing.
We arrived on the island and leapt off the boat. We wandered around for a few minutes, in amongst sandy paths and old colonial style stone walls, white mortar, and explosive pink flower bushes over the top. Stray dogs followed us happily, used to toubabs feeding them, we assumed.
We finally arrived at the beach. The minute we stepped out, we were approached by people who had come onto the island to harass tourists to buy things. Women with large woven baskets of necklaces and jewelry, men with a few select statues and cheaply-made traditional instruments said “Bonjour, cheri...madame...I have nice things here......”
We ignored them, as usual, and made our way through the sand in good spirits. The water was a beautiful deep blue color, not green at all. The only black people on the beach were those trying to sell their wares, and those who were working the restaurants nearby. All the rest were French, with their young children splashing in the waves.
We decided to eat lunch, and so we looked at the menu of the closest restaurant (tables, umbrellas and chairs outside on the sand). Ciep bu jen (rice and fish, a national dish), was only 1,500 CFA ($3 U.S.), so we decided the prices were fair. I ordered a “cuisse de poulet” chicken thigh, which had been grilled and came with a mound of rice, yassa (an onion and garlic mixture in a sauce), and raw carrots. I also ordered bissap juice (the juice from the hibiscus plant), which I hadn't tried yet but everyone said was good. It is a dark reddish/pink color, and it turned out that I hate it. Apparently they add a ton of sugar to it when you order it at a restaurant, sort of like ataaya (tea), which I decided I didn't like either. It tasted like juice-flavored syrup with an after bite.
While we ate, I noticed a French woman next to me, regal and very tall, with her hair done in braids, and wearing an African boubou, sharing her ciep bu jen with her son. She spoke careful and soft French to her son, who had wild blond hair and bright blue eyes, and swung his legs beneath him. They were just tourists, but I just took note of her dress and mannerisms...how would an American have dressed/acted? Although most of the other French people were very underdressed (even a woman with a C-section scar up her middle), and generally obnoxious, this woman stood out to me. While we waited/ate, Kelsey got talked into buying a musical instrument for 5,000 CFA ($10). I bought a necklace and a bracelet, for 60 cents each.
We had an issue with the woman who owned the restaurant because her employee had originally told Ellie that her bottled mineral water was free, and then tried to charge us 1,800 CFA. Henry argued with her for like 10 minutes, since we speaks better French in this sort of situation. She ended up only charging us 300 CFA, because as it turns out, mineral water is not free on the island – it's actually pretty expensive. In order to make it up to us because we had fought, the woman brought us over free tea and began to chat with us...it was obvious that she wanted to alleviate the tension. I was not struck by this, as I would have been when I first got here...I actually even expected her to do this. I was glad that she did...she shook all of our hands when we left and smiled genuinely, and wanted us to come back again.
We then went to sit by the beach. There were a bunch of empty red foam pads, but they were 8000 CFA each, which was outrageous. We just pulled out our towels and sat on the sand. People then went in, but Josh and Margaretta came running back, saying the water was freezing. Kelsey and Henry went out pretty far. Eventually I felt like I wanted to go in....of course:) Seth gave me his track pants to wear over my underwear, and luckily I had a tank top on under my shirt. I went in right away – now being used to freezing water, as I take a freezing shower every day now – and even when Henry and Kelsey got out, I stayed in. I swam in the ocean for over 25 minutes by myself, while everyone else lay around lazily on shore. The water felt soothing and nice, and every once in a while I would drift over a warm spot...maybe it's where a fish peed. Who knows. I began to float on the waves, looking up at the clouds drifting overhead, and then nearly got ran over by some stupid French kids on a boogie board. When I joked around with them and pretending like I was going to flip their board over, the one kid started crying, and his elderly French father yelled at me from shore. I decided that it was time to get out.
After building a sand castle and playing with a stray dog, the tide started coming in. We spent 15 minutes digging furiously with our feet to make a moat, as the water crept up toward our sand castle. It worked somewhat, and the castle was still standing when we got into the pirogue and headed back for shore. We bought beignets when we got back from a woman who was selling/making them, and then went looking for a taxi. There were four right in the parking lot who were coordinating prices in Wolof, which they thought we couldn't understand. They were trying to fix the prices at 4,000CFA ($8 U.S.), which is ridiculous. We laughed at them, and walked a bit to the road. We ended up getting one for 1,000 ($2).
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I forgot to mention a field trip we took two weeks ago, that I have to talk about. Since I'm not part of the Environment Class, I had to pay 5,000 ($10) CFA to go with them, but it was totally worth it. We took a taxi to the Corniche (the road along the beach), and after getting some French pastries, we boarded a pirogue. We went out from the bay into the ocean, toward a tiny island called “l'Ile de Madeleine.” We bounced over the choppy blue waves until we circled around back of the island, where there was a tiny lagoon/inlet. We stopped the canoe by a tiny cement pier, and hopped out.
The island steeply jetted up toward the cliffs that we had seen on the other side, dry and sandy, with stunted baobabs reaching toward the sky. All the plants, like the baobabs, were stunted because the immense amount of wind that bombards the island. The guide, who had a very thick French accent, talked to us about the island, it's climate, ecology efforts to protect fish species from fisherman, etc. He also talked to us about local legend (which people seriously do believe...my host mom mentioned it when I got home and told her where I had been), about a genie that lives on the island. Anyone who stays on the island past dark is tormented by him and his demon minions, and they say people have disappeared on the island before. I'm not sure if it's true, but I definitely wouldn't stay on the island by myself overnight anyway.
We walked around the rim of the cliffs, where migratory birds who had been reintroduced into the environment were reproducing. The rocks on the cliffs were covered in white bird poop (we originally asked if it was some type of limestone:)). There was a horribly foul scent of poop on the air, but other than that, the side was beautiful. As we approached the hundreds of birds, they would jet themselves into the air, flapping furiously against the wind. The guide showed us a gigantic hole, and quietly, one by one, we peered into the ground to see two mating tortoises within. We also looked under select rocks that the guide seemed to know ahead of time where they were, to see female birds hiding in the cracks on top of eggs. They always have their eggs in between rocks, apparently, and since they know predators can't get in there at them, the females just peered back out at us, unalarmed. She was unfazed by the fact that 12 human beings were gawking at her from outside the rocks. It was cool.
When climbed on top of the stunted baobabs, which were whiter and smoother than any I have seen before. They are beautiful in a very ugly way. They are twisted and fat, and quite slippery actually. We searched out ripe baobab fruit, which looks like a fuzzy green football until it's ripe – then it's a darker green with an element of red. When you crack them open, there is a dry, white inside with compartments for seeds. It tastes like a tart, almost raspberry-tasting Nugent type food, not at all like fruit. Almost like freeze-dried raspberry compressed powder...if that makes any sense. :) It was good after a while.
Then we waded down in the lagoon in the sun, and searched out tiny minnows which flitted beneath our feet. Some American girls in tiny bikinis came, their white skin again, obvious to me as they slipped into the freezing water. They swam over to some of the boys in our group, who we practically had to drag away into the pirogue to go back to the mainland. It was well worth the $10.
This past Tuesday, as I'm sure you all know, was Mardi Gras. Apparently Mardi Gras here is like Halloween in the states. In the morning before class, Papa called us outside to look at something. We walked down our little ruelle to the road right outside, to see a group of small children from the preschool in our neighborhood, all dressed up and singing a song in Wolof. They looked so adorable, Melanie had forgotten her camera at this point (mine was dead), but Papa was able to use her camera later when they came back around to take some. There was a superman, a China man with a rice paddy hat, a couple wise sages with cotton glued onto their chins and eyebrows, and some princesses. It was so cute. Their teacher came around with a little basket where we could put coins if we wanted, which would go toward buying snacks and drinks later for their party.
Later that night, Kenjo, Antoine, Melanie and I went to a Mardi Gras party at the local church social hall type space. Melanie and I dressed up in Viergenie's clothes. It was the first time I'd dressed up in Senegalese clothing, and it felt strange, but they loved it. Everyone got up and laughed, clapping for me when we came down the stairs. I even wore the foulard (head wrap). The party was pretty interesting, considering it was a church party. There were no adults, only kids, even some little kids. They were selling Gazelle's and Flag's of course, Senegalese beer, which I thought was interesting. There were tons of really neat costumes; a clown, a pharmasist, a girl who had a shopping cart with her and was asking everyone for money – and the highlight of the night; a group of about 6 guys, early 20's, who came dressed like girls. They were tall and super skinny, wearing they're sister's skinny jeans and skin-tight shirts, high-heels, and stuffed bras. They walked around pretending to be girls as well, covering their mouths in mock disgust when other guys slapped their behinds. Everyone loved in, gathering in a large circle to watch them dance.
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On Thursday, we went on a field trip to visit a Daara (the Islamic school where the street children live) in Pikine, a very poor district of Dakar where our professor lives. Aside from the little detail that I was late by half an hour because I forgot about the field trip, and had to get a taxi to meet the bus (even though the bus had only left three minutes before I got there....typical Senegalese style...never on time!)...we drove for a good half an hour through Dakar. Once we approached Pikine, the road practically disappeared, and the bus bounced and rocked over sand and stones. People were selling everything from peanuts and oranges, to “Orange” cards (cellphone credit), to other electronics sitting out in the open, in the boutiques. The streets were busy and crowded, dusty and colorful, and people stared incredulously at our bus. I didn't like to be gawked at, I would have rather have been walking amongst the people. I felt like we were on a safari, and I don't like that feeling.
We hopped out at a steel gate. About twenty boys (we recognized their red tin cans as being the street boys that harass us every day) encircled the bus....and all the sudden they were no longer the slightly annoying children from the street, but the adorable, excited children from Toubacouta that we had hung out and taken pictures with. We followed them inside, where there was a tiny cement courtyard with a canopy over the top. About 30 small boys from the age of 5 to 14 encircled the chairs they had set up, where the Marabou sat and white plastic chairs for us. The marabou sat, sizing us up, quietly watching us as we took our seats, pearing over his glasses which sat low on his nose.
Professor Kane translated as the marabou welcomed us, and he simply introduced us together – which was the first time we hadn't gone around individually. The way it was set up, was that we were supposed to ask the marabou whatever we wanted. Meanwhile, as usual, the kids who were standing behind my chair started gently playing with my hair, fascinated by its soft texture, thinking I didn't notice. We were a little intimidated by this, because we didn't want to ask anything that would offend him. Here are some things we found out:
the little boys on the street have to beg for all their meals. The 200 CFA they bring to the marabou per day does not go for them...it goes to buy their wooden boards on which they write Koranic verses, and it goes to feed the marabou's four wives and their children. He mentioned this as if he wanted our sympathy...as in, I have a big family, and I don't have enough money to support them! I couldn't help thinking...then why did you take four wives?? Therefore, the boys have to beg from door to door, where people spoon leftovers into their red tin cans, and they eat a variety of table scraps together with their hands.
The boys come from all over Senegal, but these boys in particular come from the Touba area (Where people went for the holiday of Magal two weeks ago). Their families are too poor to care for them, so they send them to these Daaras (Koranic schools), to get an “education.”
The marabou refuses to admit that going to these Koranic schools (which do not teach subjects such as French, math, literature, history, or anything....JUST Islam and the Koran), puts the boys behind the rest of the Senegalese children later in life. He said that learning the word of God in the form of Islam's idea of him, is the only thing people need to know...and if the boys deserve success and are intelligent enough, then God will grant them success in life. He claimed that boys that have “Graduated” from the Koranic school have ended up getting good jobs. We all agreed that this is ridiculous.
The marabous was mad because the State does not give him any money for his teaching. He claims he is a teacher and should have access to public education funding just like any other school. We did not agree.
The entire time we were talking, the marabou was screaming at the boys when they dropped something or opened the door for a fellow talibe (Koranic student). He backhanded one at one point. They didn't seem that bothered by it, and spent the entire time just staring at us, catching our eye and grinning. They must have been really confused as to why we were there.
When we asked what the boys want to be when they grow up, the marabou answered for them, saying “They want to be marabou's, like me!! They want to teach the Koran, of course!” None of the boys dared to correct him. We kept trying to ask the boys questions, but it was always the marabou who answered for them.
The marabou then asked us why we were visiting the Daara in the first place. We tried to answer in the same way we always have, that we're here to truly understand various cultural and social situations in Senegal...not just to read about them. The marabou sat back for a moment, lost in thought, and then he said slowly, with a grin, “Toubab est curieux.” Toubab is curious.
I would like to take this opportunity to talk about markets. I have been to two markets so far : Sangadioune and HLM. I went to Sangadioune twice, once last Sunday with Papa for only about half an hour, and on Tuesday with Seth and Henry. I'll talk about the time I went with Seth and Henry. The only thing I'll mention about Sunday, is that I had spent nearly 20 minutes chatting with a shop owner while Melanie looked for leather purses. He seemed genuine and nice, and he was selling mini car rapides made out of recycled metal, which I showed a slight interest in....he told me that when I come back on Tuesday, (since I told him I'd probably be back with some friends), he would give me a good price on them. He gave me his card, with his name and email address on it. I naively took it as him being nice, and sincere.
He tried to soak us just like everyone else at the market on Tuesday. Right when Seth and I got out of the taxi and entered the maze of tents and booths and shops, we were harassed aggressively by shop owners. I have never, ever, in my life, been solicited that much. I much prefer the American system of fixed prices on tags, and indifferent shop keepers that don't bother you because there's nothing in it for them. It got to the point where people would block the entrance/exist/opening to their shop with their body, and grab my wrist when I tried to get past. Saying “Je le veux pas,” or “Je ne l'aime pas” I don't want it, I don't like it, doesn't mean a thing to them...it simply is an invitation to continue bargaining. They see walking away as a further strategy in getting them to lower the price. The push anything and everything in their shop, even the truly hideous paintings or statues that no one would buy, not even them. Here are some catch phrases I heard over and over,
Please. Please. Please, Madam. Please.
Here's the price. What's your name? Oh, that's beautiful. Beautiful name to go with your beautiful eyes.
How much do you want to pay for it?
Well the reason this is so expensive, is that there was a lot of work that it took to make it...see here, the way they cut out the opening here...
This wood is called the “___”....they call it the wood that isn't racist, because it's both white and black.
I see you looking at this statue...you like? How much you want for it?
I'm broke, Madam, please.
Madam, please, I have a wife and 3 kids. Here's my ring to prove it.
The normal price on this is___....but for YOU, I'm going to make it half price. You're so nice/beautiful, that's why.
I started developing some cunning, witty remarks to say in response to this, which usually got them to go away. Something that SOMETIMES works, is offering a price that is ridiculously low for them. They understand that you're joking, and that you're not interested. But at this market in particular, this didn't seem to work too well. But usually I would just attack their comments, such as “Really? You think I'm nice? How do you know this? We've only talked for 2 minutes. I'm actually not nice at all, ask my friend. I'm really bitchy.” After watching Seth get harassed for 15 minutes, while I chuckled with a few other shopkeepers over this one painting he truly wasn't interested in, I finally stepped in and said, “Look, he said he wasn't interested. We'll “Faire le tour” (look around), and we'll be back. Thanks.” Seth starts to laugh when he gets uncomfortable, and this doesn't help when people are trying to talk him into things. He also gets less confident in his French, and sometimes trips over his words.
I ended up only getting a statuette for $10 at the market, and not any of the other things I wanted to buy...just because I started to feel deterred from going into shops and looking, because I didn't want to be harassed. Finally, while Henry and Seth looked around, I sat down and pet a stray cat...who was genuinely confused by this, because they had obviously never before been treated nicely by a human being. After two minutes of obvious reflection, it began to nuzzle my hand and purr. Then the shop keeper came over and tried to sell me the cat.
I definitely had to learn fast, the “the art of looking without looking”.
Henry ended up buying an enormous conch shell for $2 (he drives a really hard bargain), and Seth bought a series of traditional masks. I also got a necklace for free by a shop keeper, because I have nice eyes. A real gift:)
The other market, HLM, is less of a tourist market, and it's about 10 times larger. It stretches on for blocks, and weaves in and out of alleys and narrow hallways, upstairs, downstairs, and through tiny passageways. Outside there are plenty of booths and tables selling bright yellow fake jewelry, large, gem-studded necklaces and bracelets. Rows and rows and rows of stores selling bright, pointed women's shoes of every color, studded with jewels or metal. People are everywhere, pushing past, and then everyone will move out of the way for a taxi which drives through the market, as if coordinated to music. Women are the vast majority here, bargaining with straight, uninterested expressions everywhere, holding up material or embroidery. There are rows of small spaces where “tailleurs” sit with tiny sewing machines, working diligently – all men. I did not see one woman tailor, and Viergenie confirmed that they are always men. Women are sitting getting fake nails put on outside, or getting their eyebrows plucked. Rolls of embroidery dangle in the wind. Of course plastic bags sail in and out of my feet, along with other garbage. There is more rolls of material than I have ever seen in my life, of every texture, fabric, color, pattern, etc.
I went to HLM yesterday to buy fabric for a dress. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to draw a design for the dress I wanted, and I had no idea as far as fabric type. I went with Viergenie, who supposedly knows fabric and material pretty well. She guided me in and out of the mind-boggling, swimming corridors, until we ended up outside at a fabric store that looked like all of the rest. She asked me what kind of material I wanted, and I responded that I had no idea. I tried to explain that in the United States, we don't make our own clothes anymore. At one point, I said, women would go to the tailor, like here, and order fabric and get measured. But now, everything from our food to our clothing is pre-made, and we buy it in the store like anything else. She nodded, with nothing to say.
I realized I needed to get my act together and figure out what I wanted right there, or else we'd be here forever, and Viergenie would probably get pretty annoyed with me, fast. So I started at least coming up with colors, and asked her to show me the different fabrics so I could compare them. It was also most that I had no idea what the word in French was for them.
She showed me Wax first (wahx), which is the cheapest and most popular fabric type. It has dizzying designs and colors, some with distinct shapes, like apples or frogs. Wax fabric is what I think of when I think of African clothing. But for some reason, I didn't like any of them at first...it was just too much. I couldn't picture any of those designs on me...I wanted simple. Maybe two colors, and complementing. Most of these designs were greens, blues and...oranges. At one point I called Kelsey, who had showed me a picture of a purple dress she had borrowed from her host sister, which was this shimmery, thick material. It's called Choup (I think that's how you spell it.
When I mentioned that I was interested in Choup, Viergenie took me to several glass cases where the second-choice Choup fabric was kept. It had an interesting texture to it, and much more vibrant colors. I found a really stark-looking purple and white pattern, and asked how much it was. The guy took one look at me and said, “30,000 CFA” ($60). Viergenie started laughing. “For second choice??” She asked incredulously. When he persisted, she took my hand firmly and led me away without a second glance. I asked her what was wrong and she responded simply that if it was her buying that material, he would have sold it to her for 6,000 CFA. Again, another instance of racism....because I'm white and foreign, people assume they can charge me way more than locals. Viergenie was really upset, more so than me in fact. She said we were going home, that was it.
One the way out of the market however, she asked if I wanted to take one last look. I had been formulating a dress design in my head this whole time, and agreed that I could give the Wax another try. This shop was nice that I made my way into, because they didn't harass me. I could take my time searching through the fabric that hung all over the walls, and pick out a pattern I liked, that they could take down for me. My eye caught the maroon/burgundy colors, and I decided I wanted a darker color because they contrast better with my white skin. The bright/light colors look much more stark on black skin, and end up making white people just look pale. I finally decided on a maroon fabric with tiny circles that reminded me of rings that trailed down the length in straight lines. I paid 3,500 CFA ($7) for it, which wasn't bad.
We headed out of the market, and caught another car rapide. Let me explain a bit about the car rapides. I've been sort of nervous about taking them until two weeks or so ago, because Thierno (the Senegalese friend of mind I was meeting with first semester to practice Wolof), laughed when I asked them what they were. I had heard about them in the book I was reading. He advised that I should take other public transportation in Dakar:) They are about 15 passanger buses...they look like toy cars, usually blue and yellow, and look like they've been made out of recycled metal. There are usually ribbons and other things stuck all over the outside and at the base of the bus, which flitter and wave in the wind as they drive. The front says “Alxamdoulillah” (thank God), or “Talibe Cheikh” (students of Cheikh...an Islamic leader in Senegal, no longer living...he's a legend). The only way to board them is through the back door, which is wide open the entire time they drive. When you want to board, you flag them down, and they slow down long enough for you to hop in the back. The “apprenti”, or young boy (usually younger than 17), who shouts out to you to find out where you want to go, where they're going, etc. They also collect money every once in a while once you're inside. Inside is usually crowded and dark...and the seats are usually ripped up with the yellow foam exterior exposed. The walls are rusty and no longer blue, the sides warped. Surprisingly, I don't ever feel that unsafe in them....even though in the U.S., those cars would have been not allowed on the road years ago. The only time I feel unsafe is - and this happened in the taxi I was taking the other night – when the car stalls in the middle of the road, and the driver has to quickly restart it by banging something, twisting something, and with the sound of crunching metal, the engine turns over again. :)
On the way back, I saw a store that said “New Jersey's” . No idea what was inside it, and we couldn't stop to look, but I thought that would be worth mentioning.:)
We then went home for lunch (rice, onion/carrot/garlic/tomato sauce, fish, potato), I drew a picture of the design I wanted, then went back out to a local tailor that Viergenie knows personally. Unfortunately she wasn't there, but we left the fabric and the picture. Everyone at home said they wanted me to design a dress for them, and they really liked my picture:) Apparently another American, Katie, who stayed at this house, also drew a dress design and spent 60,000CFA ($120) on clothes. I don't think I' going to go that all out, but I might have another made...this was kind of fun.
We went home for dinner, and then I went with Kenjo and Viergenie to church – yes, I said it. I went to mass. It started at 6:30pm, and we arrived just as mass was starting. It was a round church, with a high ceiling that stretched up like the inside of a cone. The walls were all white, and most of the doors were open, to let in the pink sunlight as the sun set. Apparently the church used to be at another building, but there were so many people that they built this church. The front rows were pews, but the rest of us just had wooden benches. It was very simple, with a crucifix up front on the wall, and three large chairs for the priest and deacons. The entire mass was in French, but it was very difficult for me to understand because his words echoed horribly off the walls, and he spoke in the monotone, almost chanting voice that is typical of Catholic priests. The chorus was striking when they began to sing, powerful and beautiful in pitch, both men and women. (They don't know what a men's or women's choir is). Apparently there is a children's choir that sings on Sunday's.
The entire time during mass (which upset Kenjo again, more than me), there was a small girl in the seat in front of me, who was staring at me the entire time. She kept grinning at me when I wasn't looking, and touching her nose where my piercing is. I thought it was amusing. I didn't blame her, considering I was the only white person in the entire church.
At 7:30pm mass was finished, and headed back to the tailor. It was pretty close to the house, and since Kenjo and Viergenie thought it was “freezing”, we first went home to get sweaters (it was only about 60 degrees). Once we arrived, the proprietaire was there, and I tried out my Wolof phrases as usual, “Salaamaleikoum, nanga def, nanga tudd. Danielle la tudd. Enchantee.” As most Senegalese people know, I don't speak enough Wolof to have a conversation, so they always try a really complicated phrase and then laugh when I don't get it. It's harmless, and I laugh along with them at myself.
She looked over my drawing, asked some questions about what I meant by certain things I drew: did I want the skirt to be a “panne” (wrap around), or with a clasp on top? How did I want the material to fold over?
Then I stepped over to the tailor, a guy of about 25 or so, who took a tape measure and measured all of my dimensions. It was sort of amusing when he was measuring my bust size, he kept saying, “pose-le” and I had no idea what that meant. I turned to Viergenie who starting chuckling, and explained that he wanted me to hold the tape measure on my boob, so he wouldn't have to touch me there. I started cracking up, and so did everyone else, and I took the tape measure. The guy was really uncomfortable, and if he could blush, I'm sure he would have:)
Anyway, it'll be ready on Friday, so I'll see how it turned out.
Last night, Josh, Zach, Seth and I went downtown to see Saun Kruti, a Nigerian big brass/African style musician. I didn't yet have tickets, but I was pretty confident I could buy them scalped. I took a taxi at 8:30 and had the taxi stop at My Shop, which is a 7/11 type place on the corner of Bourgiba (the main road that goes all the way to my house), and Aime Caesar where I walk to W.A.R.C. every morning. Since that's right by their neighborhood, Fann Residence, they met the taxi there. I went to the ATM and got some money, and then we were on our way.
We took the Corniche downtown, and stopped at the French Cultural Center (the same place we saw the first concert, Cheikh Lo). Right when I stepped out of the taxi, two French people called me over and asked if I wanted tickets. I thought I would end up paying more for them, considering they were scalped, but they only wanted 8,000 CFA ($16 U.S.) because he himself had gotten the tickets for free. This was the price that Josh, Zach and Seth had paid when they went to buy their tickets in advance.
We went in and had to split up because it was so crowded. It was the same amphitheater that the first concert was in. I think 90% of the toubab population in Dakar was at this concert...it's been a long time since I've seen so many white people in the same place...and it was odd. The way their faces looked, their expressions, their coldness...was striking. They didn't even acknowledge us, they didn't look at us when they passed. If someone happened to catch my eye, they just looked away and pretended they hadn't seen me. I am no longer used to this.
The concert began after a few minutes, with 12 musicians on stage including Saun himself. There were two dancers in skimpy orange outfits, and I have no idea how they move their behinds like that. It was if they had plugged it into an outlet, or made of rubber, or battery-operated to shake. It was ridiculous...for the entire 2 hour concert they danced. They had drums, various African instruments, trumpets, a drum set in the back, and a saxophone. It was great...Josh got most of it on video. I realized how embarrassing it is when white people dance :). Compared to how people dance here, with their whole bodies, and how early kids get into how to dance, very rhythm conscious and more intense with their moves...the way the white people were dancing by the stage was very calm and arrhythmic. It was amusing for us:)
After the concert, we went to get hamburgers, filafel and chawarma(me) at a nearby downtown restaurant. All the other races are found in downtown Dakar; this particular restaurant was full of North Africans, Arabs and French people. The food was good, only a bit more pricey than what we're used to, but this was to be expected. We then walked around downtown for a while, but we were surprised to see that outside about a 4 block radius of the French Cultural Center, the streetlights disappeared, it was dirtier, and there was a ton of homeless people sleeping in plastic sacs on the sidewalk that we had to step over. There were cats everywhere, tons of graffiti, and it was deathly silent. It was a bit too creepy. We started to get a little uncomfortable, and then decided it was time to go home. Even though there aren't street lights in Sicap Baobab, in my neighborhood, I still feel so much safer there than I did downtown. We hailed a cab and went home about 2:00am.
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what people will remember about Americans:
we really like cats/animals
we're really sensitive about:
our weight (girls)
criticized/accused in general
unpleasant or controversial topics
we really like gender equality and get touchy about it