Preparing myself for Goree, I kenw that my sentiments would be far from "happily ever after," though I hoped some sort of internal reconciliation would be possible.
We arrived at the port and I immediately I took notice of the usual suspects. In one group I saw the crunchy white people, dreadlocked and rugged, drawn to the attraction of Goree in an effort to connect with and understand the island, a symbol of historical oppression and human suffering. In another, white European tourists, in Dakar no doubt to see the major tourist sites and it just so happened that one of them is a famous slave port. Africans, (mostly Senegalese) for many of whom the trip is kind of like my elementary and highschool trips to Ellis Island. OK, not quite. More like Gettysburg or Jamestown, perhaps. Anyway, you get my drift. The token Asian tourists made an appearance as well, of course. And then there was me.
Looking around, I gathered that I was the only Black American around (an unfair assessment for all of the reasons that I am sometimes discounted from the consideration of others) and without realizing it (and somewhat involuntarily), my curiosity of the others turned into an almost despising scrutiny. Boarding the vessel that would be commandeered the short distance to Goree, all around me were smiles, laughing and picture taking. My mind began to rage.
What are you all smiling and laughing about? I wanted to walk around and ask people if they thought that this was going to be a fun trip. I wanted to ask them if they understood that to thousands and perhaps millions, the short trip that we were about to make meant for them either death or that they would never see home again. I held back (those of you who know me know that I am not that confrontational), though my mind was spinning. Looking around, I saw Senegalese, entertaining different groups of tourists with maraca-sounding instruments (two baseball sized orbs with beads inside of them). The tourists loved it, asking for more. I turned to Sam, who I hoped could be my outlet. But he was in a world of his own, fully enjoying his new iPod (he had done this trip many times before).
With no one to talk to you I fumed, silently, peering over the rails and into the green-blue water. Had I had my way, the boat would be silent. Well, maybe not silent, but not so damn festive. Shit, they even could have had a guide on the boat giving all of the tourists some history and perspective so that we could better understand the global significance of the slave trade in West Africa, and Goree's place in the grander scheme. I would have appreciated that. Instead, it felt like we were on our way to a theme park.
My difficulty (which I recognized better when we arrived and had spent some time in Goree) was not understanding that Goree had moved on. Though in actuality, I knew only outlines of the history of Goree Island (particularly it's significance in the trans-atlantic slave trade), I was not prepared for it to have moved on, for it to be a place of its own (not completely defined by the slave trade) in 2008. Like the open wound that it was as a keystone in the transatlantic slave trade for several centuries, I wanted it to remain as such, so that people (particularly Europeans) would not able to forget and would look upon it and feel shame. This is the closest that I can come to really articulating my thoughts and feelings at the time.
Understandably, to a handful of Senegalese (particularly those who live on the island) the business of tourism to Goree reigns supreme. That said, I found myself becoming gradually more annoyed and frustrated as Senegalese approached me, talking first of the signficance of Goree and then trying to sell some item, or asking a favor, usually prefaced with "my brother" or "can you help your brother/sister by..."
Symbolically, the visit to the slave quarters and dungeon was the most significant part of the experience (if anyone who reads this will be going to Dakar/Goree in the forseeable future, do let me know as I can put you in touch with a really good English-speaking guide). This was my first encounter with a slave port on the African continent, and as such it was a powerful moment. "The door of no return" was particularly haunting, as the ocean comes almost directly up to the door, where (according to our guide) smaller rowboats boats would briefly dock to pick up slaves to be transported to the larger ships to begin the Middle Passage. Those slaves who had died in the Goree dungeon or were perceived too weak or sick to make the trip to the Americas (and be productive) were frequently thrown out of this door to drown. The light emanating through the door and illuminating the otherwise dark slave chambers will be one of the most haunting images of this entire fellowship experience.
Exiting through the front entrance of the slave quarters, we left behind the only recognition of Goree's significance in the transatlantic slave trade, aside from a statue that stands right outside of the structure. The rest of the island is sparsely populated and business goes on as usual. Goree had moved on. I had to move on as well.
Sam and I explored the rest of the small island, snapping a few pictures (coming soon-ish) where appropriate and taking-in the experience. With the opportunity to stay on the island for several hours (we were meeting some friends who were coming on a later ferry) we split up and chilled a bit. Sandals in hand, I headed down to the water to collect a bit of the sea glass (quite plentiful on Goree) which littered the small beach. After a while I sat down. Burrowing my bare feet in the wet sand, I gazed at the island's coast, trying to sort my thoughts and wondering how many bodies had been thrown into the hungry and tireless ocean.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Race Matters, Volume 2: My Whiteness
February 25th, 2008:
For the first time in my 23 year short life, I am white.
Let me explain.
Prior to my travel in Sub-Saharan Africa, I was warned by many friends (Black American and African alike) that on some level I would be stripped of my black identity. At the time, I acknowledged their caution intellectually, understanding that many Black Africans would see me as American before (or opposed to) "Black." Furthermore, I knew that in my case--as racially I have been an anomaly to many with whom I have interacted over the past 6 months--I would be particularly scrutinized, if not completely stripped. I was prepared, at least in my mind, for my romanticized vision of a Sub-Saharan Africa waiting for me with open arms to not exactly be the reality. All that said, I still held out hope for a connection.
Perhaps it was because I held out this hope that being called "white" blindsided me with such force.
To be fair, I was never actually referred to as "white," though language and attitudes in my direction suggested as much. The word I hear most frequently is "toubab," which is used for any different-looking foreigner, though there is a general understanding of it in reference to white people. (As a side note, this experience prepared me quite well for travel through other parts of West Africa such as Ghana, where the comparable word is "Obruni") Once I learned the meaning of this word that I heard so frequently around me I couldn't help but bristle. Sam quickly understood my dislike for the word and (at least from an American perspective) its implication and as a result stopped using it around me (though he never referred to me as such).
Having the opportunity to share my frustration with a friend (Francisco) who had similar experiences gave me a much needed outlet for my feelings, though it could only do so much. Having spent significantly more time in Senegal he had come to grips with--and come to understand--the word and gave his perspective, though we agreed on the irony of coming to Africa to be called "white."
Though for the most part it was kids who would point and shout "Toubab!" as I walked down the street (I would listen attentively in conversations amongst adults, waiting to hear the word (in reference to me) so I could give a dirty/sarcastic look) I found myself unable to just shake it off. Like being called "rich" in 5th grade by a white friend (which to me was synonymous with being called "white" as society as I knew it showed few examples of "black" and "wealth" going together), to being called "oreo" in 7th grade by a black friend (no explanation necessary) to being called "jewish" by my high school basketball coach (though I think that was more a term of endearment), "toubab" brings me back to the terrible days of my adolescence when I felt like my own racial identity was constantly being mistreated and violated.
But maybe I'm being overly sensitive.
After all, the word points out my difference from Senegalese and I am different. Moreover, I find that oftentimes, I am the one drawing the line of distinction, not the Senegalese whom I interact with on a daily basis. I find myself more and more frequently distinguishing myself from Senegalese (and in my mind, much of Sub-Saharan Africa) by embracing my Black American identity, an identity which they cannot share. On a superficial level, Senegalese hip- hop culture and other US cultural exports allow me to revel in this identity as in this context, these exports belong to me, not the Senegalese. I would wrap myself in a blanket, a feeling of cultural superiority; and though I knew it was wrong--on a number of levels really--it made me feel good.
And all the while I wanted to be embraced by Senegalese as "one of us." I wanted to have my cake and eat it too in a major way, and it took me a bit of time to realize how unreasonable this desire was as I was not prepared to make any steps of my own towards embracing Senegal (or Sub-Saharan Africa) as a part of my Diaspora.
If there is a turning point in the story (and I'm not sure if there actually is one) I would say that it came in the days leading up to my visit to Goree Island (Dakar's--and one of West Africa's-- most terrible and famous slave ports) talking to Alun, a friend of Sam's.
"This visit is important for you...it is important for us too, but it is very important for you." (He said it all in Wolof, but I have no idea how to write all that). I was moved by the statement because it captured both what we shared and didn't share. It acknowledged that slavery is a terrible part of our shared history, but at a certain point, we have to embrace our differences in order to figure out who we are. I will never have the legacy of direct African family or colonialism as a part of my personal history and many Africans will not have the legacy of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and American slavery as a part of theirs. But understanding our shared starting point, as Alun alluded to, is important for us both.
So I still separate myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, though in a different (and healthier) way than before, believing in my heart that there is something, deeper than I may ever be able to understand or articulate that we share. And I still hate to be called Toubab, though I am doing a better job to humor the kids with a smile, a wink or some English, hoping (though not holding my breath) that one day their eyes too will be opened to what we share, even if it is beyond either of our tangible conceptions.
For the first time in my 23 year short life, I am white.
Let me explain.
Prior to my travel in Sub-Saharan Africa, I was warned by many friends (Black American and African alike) that on some level I would be stripped of my black identity. At the time, I acknowledged their caution intellectually, understanding that many Black Africans would see me as American before (or opposed to) "Black." Furthermore, I knew that in my case--as racially I have been an anomaly to many with whom I have interacted over the past 6 months--I would be particularly scrutinized, if not completely stripped. I was prepared, at least in my mind, for my romanticized vision of a Sub-Saharan Africa waiting for me with open arms to not exactly be the reality. All that said, I still held out hope for a connection.
Perhaps it was because I held out this hope that being called "white" blindsided me with such force.
To be fair, I was never actually referred to as "white," though language and attitudes in my direction suggested as much. The word I hear most frequently is "toubab," which is used for any different-looking foreigner, though there is a general understanding of it in reference to white people. (As a side note, this experience prepared me quite well for travel through other parts of West Africa such as Ghana, where the comparable word is "Obruni") Once I learned the meaning of this word that I heard so frequently around me I couldn't help but bristle. Sam quickly understood my dislike for the word and (at least from an American perspective) its implication and as a result stopped using it around me (though he never referred to me as such).
Having the opportunity to share my frustration with a friend (Francisco) who had similar experiences gave me a much needed outlet for my feelings, though it could only do so much. Having spent significantly more time in Senegal he had come to grips with--and come to understand--the word and gave his perspective, though we agreed on the irony of coming to Africa to be called "white."
Though for the most part it was kids who would point and shout "Toubab!" as I walked down the street (I would listen attentively in conversations amongst adults, waiting to hear the word (in reference to me) so I could give a dirty/sarcastic look) I found myself unable to just shake it off. Like being called "rich" in 5th grade by a white friend (which to me was synonymous with being called "white" as society as I knew it showed few examples of "black" and "wealth" going together), to being called "oreo" in 7th grade by a black friend (no explanation necessary) to being called "jewish" by my high school basketball coach (though I think that was more a term of endearment), "toubab" brings me back to the terrible days of my adolescence when I felt like my own racial identity was constantly being mistreated and violated.
But maybe I'm being overly sensitive.
After all, the word points out my difference from Senegalese and I am different. Moreover, I find that oftentimes, I am the one drawing the line of distinction, not the Senegalese whom I interact with on a daily basis. I find myself more and more frequently distinguishing myself from Senegalese (and in my mind, much of Sub-Saharan Africa) by embracing my Black American identity, an identity which they cannot share. On a superficial level, Senegalese hip- hop culture and other US cultural exports allow me to revel in this identity as in this context, these exports belong to me, not the Senegalese. I would wrap myself in a blanket, a feeling of cultural superiority; and though I knew it was wrong--on a number of levels really--it made me feel good.
And all the while I wanted to be embraced by Senegalese as "one of us." I wanted to have my cake and eat it too in a major way, and it took me a bit of time to realize how unreasonable this desire was as I was not prepared to make any steps of my own towards embracing Senegal (or Sub-Saharan Africa) as a part of my Diaspora.
If there is a turning point in the story (and I'm not sure if there actually is one) I would say that it came in the days leading up to my visit to Goree Island (Dakar's--and one of West Africa's-- most terrible and famous slave ports) talking to Alun, a friend of Sam's.
"This visit is important for you...it is important for us too, but it is very important for you." (He said it all in Wolof, but I have no idea how to write all that). I was moved by the statement because it captured both what we shared and didn't share. It acknowledged that slavery is a terrible part of our shared history, but at a certain point, we have to embrace our differences in order to figure out who we are. I will never have the legacy of direct African family or colonialism as a part of my personal history and many Africans will not have the legacy of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and American slavery as a part of theirs. But understanding our shared starting point, as Alun alluded to, is important for us both.
So I still separate myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, though in a different (and healthier) way than before, believing in my heart that there is something, deeper than I may ever be able to understand or articulate that we share. And I still hate to be called Toubab, though I am doing a better job to humor the kids with a smile, a wink or some English, hoping (though not holding my breath) that one day their eyes too will be opened to what we share, even if it is beyond either of our tangible conceptions.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Exhausted...
I will make no excuses for my absence of late...if you are still checking the blog somewhat regularly then you must already be used to the herky-jerkiness of my posting. It goes without saying that you should have no fear: many updates (and there are a lot of them as I've got three countries to cover) are already recorded (longhand) and it's just a matter of getting enough time at a computer to actually to transfer the ink to the keyboard. (Sounds like excuses to me, Hamilton)
Also, so as not to continue apologizing for my lack of photos, since leaving Senegal, it has been impossible to find a computer that can handle my wonderful/monster mobile external hard drive (propse to LaCie...but only in the developed world where a 40G+ USB key can be handled) where all of my photos (aside from those taken the past two weeks) are housed. That said, to all the photo cravers...I think you will have to wait for the viewing en masse when I get back to the States in May. Trust me...it will be worth the wait.
In the meantime, I hustled for a card reader which (wait for it...) actually works! So in the coming weeks there will be both POSTS and PICTURES. I'm actually a bit excited myself...
I arrived in Gabarone (pronounced gHabaronEE) yesterday morning after traveling through the night from Accra to Jo'burg and boarding a flight here about an hour later. Thanks to God I am the same Chas with the exception of some longer hair, a beard and a few fewer pounds (or kilos, depending where you are; don't worry, the babay has been protected). I'm just a bit exhausted and think that all this movement is finally getting to me. There is so much more that I could (and should) write about life 'on the road' but exhausted is all I can come up with right now. I find that this exhaustion even infiltrates my daydreaming as thoughts of 'retirement,' 'settling down' and my 'golden years' have become quite romanticized for me. Boo hoo, Chas. Yes, I know. If you were here with me you would slap me across the face with the backhand (twice)and tell me to savour every second of these next two months because there is no telling if I'll ever get an opportunity like this again.
Trust me, I am and I know.
And before you feel the need to reprimand me further (two backhands were sufficient), let me say that the word exhaustion is coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. My journey thus far has been incredible and though much of it (as one might expect) has not gone according to my plan, I feel a supreme sense of satisfaction and happiness knowing that these things that I have done and seen, combined with the people that I have met (and gotten to re-meet) over these 6 months have so uniquely and positively impacted my life and I am a much better person for all of it.
So before I start to get nostalgic, I'm going to get some sleep. Because I am exhausted, but I've got a lot to do, see and write before it's all over.
Also, so as not to continue apologizing for my lack of photos, since leaving Senegal, it has been impossible to find a computer that can handle my wonderful/monster mobile external hard drive (propse to LaCie...but only in the developed world where a 40G+ USB key can be handled) where all of my photos (aside from those taken the past two weeks) are housed. That said, to all the photo cravers...I think you will have to wait for the viewing en masse when I get back to the States in May. Trust me...it will be worth the wait.
In the meantime, I hustled for a card reader which (wait for it...) actually works! So in the coming weeks there will be both POSTS and PICTURES. I'm actually a bit excited myself...
I arrived in Gabarone (pronounced gHabaronEE) yesterday morning after traveling through the night from Accra to Jo'burg and boarding a flight here about an hour later. Thanks to God I am the same Chas with the exception of some longer hair, a beard and a few fewer pounds (or kilos, depending where you are; don't worry, the babay has been protected). I'm just a bit exhausted and think that all this movement is finally getting to me. There is so much more that I could (and should) write about life 'on the road' but exhausted is all I can come up with right now. I find that this exhaustion even infiltrates my daydreaming as thoughts of 'retirement,' 'settling down' and my 'golden years' have become quite romanticized for me. Boo hoo, Chas. Yes, I know. If you were here with me you would slap me across the face with the backhand (twice)and tell me to savour every second of these next two months because there is no telling if I'll ever get an opportunity like this again.
Trust me, I am and I know.
And before you feel the need to reprimand me further (two backhands were sufficient), let me say that the word exhaustion is coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. My journey thus far has been incredible and though much of it (as one might expect) has not gone according to my plan, I feel a supreme sense of satisfaction and happiness knowing that these things that I have done and seen, combined with the people that I have met (and gotten to re-meet) over these 6 months have so uniquely and positively impacted my life and I am a much better person for all of it.
So before I start to get nostalgic, I'm going to get some sleep. Because I am exhausted, but I've got a lot to do, see and write before it's all over.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Race Matters, Volume 1: "Pour les femmes comment nous"
(Actual photo coming soon...)
The name of the product is 'Fair and Light' and is marketed with the french slogan, 'Pour les femmes comment nous' or in English, 'For girls like us.'
Even with all of the cultural adaptation that I've had to do here in Dakar--squat toilets, no toilet paper and all--this has been the most shocking aspect of my experience here. A couple of days after I saw the first billboard (and these billboards are all over the city, second only to the ads for Winston cigarettes...more on that later), I saw the 'Fair and Light' commercial which showed a pouting woman who magically turned into a smiling (lighter-skinned) beauty as soon as she applied the cream.
My first reaction was shock, followed by a moment of tolerance, and finally outrage and disgust.
I felt like I was in some sort of time warp as (perhaps I've been living under a rock) I haven't heard about skin lightening/bleaching products since the Jim Crow days.
(In fact, I can't even remember skin-bleaching products being around the US then, though I'm sure they were. My mind keeps on returning to the part in the Autobiography of Malcolm X where the 'conk' is referenced and the connection between a caucasian-inspired hairstyle and 'cool' is established).
Granted that's US culture (and there probably are skin lightening and bleaching products still out there), but I figured the same principle--that history had left skin-bleaching behind--would apply for Africa, perhaps even more so because, well, because it's Africa. Yes, I know that I cannot legitimately make such a broad statement about such a large and diverse continent; that said, in my romanticized picture of Dakar, Senegal and Africa, skin bleaching just did not seem to make sense. Afterall, (sub-Saharan) Africa was supposed to be the place where color was different because everyone is black and that's what makes black beautiful. I knew that in the US, colorisms (the paperbag, lightskinned, darkskinned etc.) were alive and well. My naive self had no idea that a color hierarchy existed in Africa.
I realized that perhaps my initial sentiments needed a history lesson. Afterall, Africa was only recently released from the shackles of formal colonization, and how coud I, a black American, really understand the emotional and psychological impact of another group of people owning and controlling the affairs of my nation, especially (in specific reference to the current discussion) if the major unifying characteristic of those people was their lighter skin? Somewhere in my head, processing this commercial, I struggled to understand the people (both men and women use this skin-bleaching cream, though it is used much more openly by women) who wanted their skin to be lighter.
Among the many things that globalization and colonization has brought is that lighter, brighter and whiter is actually more beautiful than what is dark. (Making this statement, I have the image of all of the US-based TV shows, citcoms and movies that are hugely popular here in Dakar and, I imagine, other parts of the continent). In the commercial, this principle is reinforced as the newly 'lightened' woman gets more attention from guys as well as is more successful at her job. The message that the commercial (which is about 2 minutes long) sends is quite clear: not only is lighter more beautiful; it is superior.
It was about at that point in the commercial that my attempt at understanding, turned to frustration and a quiet outrage (I was alone so I couldn't exactly voice my feelings to anyone). There is a lot of talk about why African countries have trouble dealing with social, economic and political problems, but how often is the focus on the psychological damage that has been done as a result of centuries of physical, social, economic and political oppression at the hands of the rest of the world (namely Europe)? To me, the presence, popularity and public advertising of skin-bleaching cream speaks to a problem deeper than what most forms of aid can touch.
There is so much more to be said, but I am afraid that if I continue further I will soon be talking out of my ass, so I will leave you with that. I would love to hear your perspective, though I imagine that this thread for me is nowhere near its end.
My first reaction was shock, followed by a moment of tolerance, and finally outrage and disgust.
I felt like I was in some sort of time warp as (perhaps I've been living under a rock) I haven't heard about skin lightening/bleaching products since the Jim Crow days.
(In fact, I can't even remember skin-bleaching products being around the US then, though I'm sure they were. My mind keeps on returning to the part in the Autobiography of Malcolm X where the 'conk' is referenced and the connection between a caucasian-inspired hairstyle and 'cool' is established).
Granted that's US culture (and there probably are skin lightening and bleaching products still out there), but I figured the same principle--that history had left skin-bleaching behind--would apply for Africa, perhaps even more so because, well, because it's Africa. Yes, I know that I cannot legitimately make such a broad statement about such a large and diverse continent; that said, in my romanticized picture of Dakar, Senegal and Africa, skin bleaching just did not seem to make sense. Afterall, (sub-Saharan) Africa was supposed to be the place where color was different because everyone is black and that's what makes black beautiful. I knew that in the US, colorisms (the paperbag, lightskinned, darkskinned etc.) were alive and well. My naive self had no idea that a color hierarchy existed in Africa.
I realized that perhaps my initial sentiments needed a history lesson. Afterall, Africa was only recently released from the shackles of formal colonization, and how coud I, a black American, really understand the emotional and psychological impact of another group of people owning and controlling the affairs of my nation, especially (in specific reference to the current discussion) if the major unifying characteristic of those people was their lighter skin? Somewhere in my head, processing this commercial, I struggled to understand the people (both men and women use this skin-bleaching cream, though it is used much more openly by women) who wanted their skin to be lighter.
Among the many things that globalization and colonization has brought is that lighter, brighter and whiter is actually more beautiful than what is dark. (Making this statement, I have the image of all of the US-based TV shows, citcoms and movies that are hugely popular here in Dakar and, I imagine, other parts of the continent). In the commercial, this principle is reinforced as the newly 'lightened' woman gets more attention from guys as well as is more successful at her job. The message that the commercial (which is about 2 minutes long) sends is quite clear: not only is lighter more beautiful; it is superior.
It was about at that point in the commercial that my attempt at understanding, turned to frustration and a quiet outrage (I was alone so I couldn't exactly voice my feelings to anyone). There is a lot of talk about why African countries have trouble dealing with social, economic and political problems, but how often is the focus on the psychological damage that has been done as a result of centuries of physical, social, economic and political oppression at the hands of the rest of the world (namely Europe)? To me, the presence, popularity and public advertising of skin-bleaching cream speaks to a problem deeper than what most forms of aid can touch.
There is so much more to be said, but I am afraid that if I continue further I will soon be talking out of my ass, so I will leave you with that. I would love to hear your perspective, though I imagine that this thread for me is nowhere near its end.
A Few Things You Should Know About Dakar...
A list I put together for anyone traveling or thinking about traveling to Dakar:
1. NO TOILET PAPER: This is some general information on traveling in Sub-Saharan Africa, though if Dakar is your first stop, here is where you will learn. Instead of t.p. people use water. Definitely something to adjust to, though it will get you clean if you do the work. If you are going to be adventurous and not be handicapped with a roll of t.p. everywhere you go, rolling with some hand sanitizer may not be a bad idea.
2. NO LEFT HAND: This may not apply to many of you, but it is relevant to me as I am one of the special ones, aka, lefthanded. Here in Senegal, lefthandedness does not exist. It took me a little while to figure out why, and then I used the bathroom for the first time with no toilet paper (cue moment of clarity...ahhhaaaa). So basically, the lefthand is only good enough for wiping, which I found hugely offensive. That said, eating and any other social activity is done with the righthand. Use of the lefthand will be greeted with stares and maybe a couple of giggles.
3. THE SQUAT TOILET: Just don't miss.
4. DON'T FEAR THE HUSTLE MAN: One of the funnier things out here is seeing (usually white) tourists downtown struggling with the hustlers and hawkers downtown. Now don't get me wrong, I get it too, though I have figured out how to deal with it. Hustlers and hawkers are people too...not just some drones out to sell you knockoff Coach bags and Diesel Jeans; as soon as you realize that, dealing with them becomes much easier. If you are interested in buying something, be clear and direct (this will give you the upperhand in any negotiating that goes down). On the other hand, if you're not interested, keep it moving, though you should know that if you show any sign of doubt, they will be on you in a heartbeat. My preference, especially if you've got a bit of time, is to engage them a little bit, which will help them to see you as more than a walking ATM. You never know...you may find yourself a friend.
5. DON'T PULL IT; IT'S PROBABLY NOT REAL: Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful that I have seen in my 6 months of travel. That said, Dakar is, in the words of a good friend, 'the fake hair capital of the world.' I have never seen more variations on the weave, wig or braids than here in Dakar. It gets to the point where when you see a woman walking down the street with just her hair, you notice. (On a funny sidenote, I developed a bit of a crush on the *married* woman who runs the breakfast eatery by Sam's office at the YMCA. When I finally revealed this to Sam and he asked me what I liked about her I explained that it was her amazing cooking and her natural hair. Needless to say he got a good laugh out of that.) The sad truth of the matter is that many women out here will doing something absolutely ridiculous (in my opinion) with their hair before they wear it naturally. The issue, above all, is psychological and is one of the things that bothers me most about being here, though it is, on some level, relatable, unlike the advertisements I regularly see for skin bleaching cream (the topic of a later post).
1. NO TOILET PAPER: This is some general information on traveling in Sub-Saharan Africa, though if Dakar is your first stop, here is where you will learn. Instead of t.p. people use water. Definitely something to adjust to, though it will get you clean if you do the work. If you are going to be adventurous and not be handicapped with a roll of t.p. everywhere you go, rolling with some hand sanitizer may not be a bad idea.
2. NO LEFT HAND: This may not apply to many of you, but it is relevant to me as I am one of the special ones, aka, lefthanded. Here in Senegal, lefthandedness does not exist. It took me a little while to figure out why, and then I used the bathroom for the first time with no toilet paper (cue moment of clarity...ahhhaaaa). So basically, the lefthand is only good enough for wiping, which I found hugely offensive. That said, eating and any other social activity is done with the righthand. Use of the lefthand will be greeted with stares and maybe a couple of giggles.
3. THE SQUAT TOILET: Just don't miss.
4. DON'T FEAR THE HUSTLE MAN: One of the funnier things out here is seeing (usually white) tourists downtown struggling with the hustlers and hawkers downtown. Now don't get me wrong, I get it too, though I have figured out how to deal with it. Hustlers and hawkers are people too...not just some drones out to sell you knockoff Coach bags and Diesel Jeans; as soon as you realize that, dealing with them becomes much easier. If you are interested in buying something, be clear and direct (this will give you the upperhand in any negotiating that goes down). On the other hand, if you're not interested, keep it moving, though you should know that if you show any sign of doubt, they will be on you in a heartbeat. My preference, especially if you've got a bit of time, is to engage them a little bit, which will help them to see you as more than a walking ATM. You never know...you may find yourself a friend.
5. DON'T PULL IT; IT'S PROBABLY NOT REAL: Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful that I have seen in my 6 months of travel. That said, Dakar is, in the words of a good friend, 'the fake hair capital of the world.' I have never seen more variations on the weave, wig or braids than here in Dakar. It gets to the point where when you see a woman walking down the street with just her hair, you notice. (On a funny sidenote, I developed a bit of a crush on the *married* woman who runs the breakfast eatery by Sam's office at the YMCA. When I finally revealed this to Sam and he asked me what I liked about her I explained that it was her amazing cooking and her natural hair. Needless to say he got a good laugh out of that.) The sad truth of the matter is that many women out here will doing something absolutely ridiculous (in my opinion) with their hair before they wear it naturally. The issue, above all, is psychological and is one of the things that bothers me most about being here, though it is, on some level, relatable, unlike the advertisements I regularly see for skin bleaching cream (the topic of a later post).
Past the Policy...
As the title suggests, I have found ways to turn off my 'policy mind' from time to time :-).
While a lot of Dakar's problems lie in the environment and it's maintenance (or better put, lack thereof), its beauty (in a very human way) lies in its people the many contradictions present in their relations with one another. In this way it is not too different from anywhere else on earth; you can count on people to be people. I will explain.
On the surface, there is a level of respect between people that is unlike any other place I have visited. From what I have seen, this has a lot do with the fact that Senegal is essentially a Muslim state (there is a Christian minority), and thus there is a significant emphasis on custom and respect, especially in interactions between individuals. But this custom also has elements that are not so appealing, at least to those of us--particularly women-- in the more progressive world. There is a strict understanding between the role of women and that of men which has made for several semi-awkward interactions as I have learned my way around here. (Growing up in a household and family made up of very strong women, essentially 'renaissance women', adapting to the more traditional views/positions of women has been, at times, challenging). Young girls and women are encouraged to pursue education (topic of a later post), though there is an understanding that no matter how successful you are, you are the woman of the house and must be able to perform the tasks associated with that position. A cute/hilarious/sad example of this has been watching Anta, Sam's 2 year-old niece, who is FULL of attitude but is already being prepared to be a 'woman of the house.' Waddling around with a huge smile on her face, her mother an aunts fitted her with a headwrap, strapped her up with a melon tied to her back (to simulate the way in which Senegalese women carry infants) and giggled as she moved around the house, a small broom in hand.
That Islam is such a (stated) significant part of life here is not always the most accurate of facts, however, particularly among the younger generations, some of whom do not pray 5 times a day, drink, smoke and engage in premarital sex, all things that are forbidden or frowned upon by the Koran. I will save the religious investigation to someone with a bit more knowlege and experience, though there is certainly a question to be explored there.
Beyond the surface level, the hospitality here is second to none, though it is difficult to gauge how widespread this actually is because I am getting the foreigner/guest treatment. That said, what I have gathered is that while my case lies outside of the norm, from the very top of the hierarchy (patriarch/matriarch) to the bottom (errand boys/ girls), everyone is accounted for and taken care of. Out here, family truly takes care of its own (which includes, sometimes, fixed marriages between cousins to 'keep the family strong').
While a lot of Dakar's problems lie in the environment and it's maintenance (or better put, lack thereof), its beauty (in a very human way) lies in its people the many contradictions present in their relations with one another. In this way it is not too different from anywhere else on earth; you can count on people to be people. I will explain.
On the surface, there is a level of respect between people that is unlike any other place I have visited. From what I have seen, this has a lot do with the fact that Senegal is essentially a Muslim state (there is a Christian minority), and thus there is a significant emphasis on custom and respect, especially in interactions between individuals. But this custom also has elements that are not so appealing, at least to those of us--particularly women-- in the more progressive world. There is a strict understanding between the role of women and that of men which has made for several semi-awkward interactions as I have learned my way around here. (Growing up in a household and family made up of very strong women, essentially 'renaissance women', adapting to the more traditional views/positions of women has been, at times, challenging). Young girls and women are encouraged to pursue education (topic of a later post), though there is an understanding that no matter how successful you are, you are the woman of the house and must be able to perform the tasks associated with that position. A cute/hilarious/sad example of this has been watching Anta, Sam's 2 year-old niece, who is FULL of attitude but is already being prepared to be a 'woman of the house.' Waddling around with a huge smile on her face, her mother an aunts fitted her with a headwrap, strapped her up with a melon tied to her back (to simulate the way in which Senegalese women carry infants) and giggled as she moved around the house, a small broom in hand.
That Islam is such a (stated) significant part of life here is not always the most accurate of facts, however, particularly among the younger generations, some of whom do not pray 5 times a day, drink, smoke and engage in premarital sex, all things that are forbidden or frowned upon by the Koran. I will save the religious investigation to someone with a bit more knowlege and experience, though there is certainly a question to be explored there.
Beyond the surface level, the hospitality here is second to none, though it is difficult to gauge how widespread this actually is because I am getting the foreigner/guest treatment. That said, what I have gathered is that while my case lies outside of the norm, from the very top of the hierarchy (patriarch/matriarch) to the bottom (errand boys/ girls), everyone is accounted for and taken care of. Out here, family truly takes care of its own (which includes, sometimes, fixed marriages between cousins to 'keep the family strong').
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Dakar Arrival
For those interested enough to be disappointed by this latest hiatus (I'm looking at you Birt C), thank you for your concern. Along with laziness and general fatigue, one of the major reasons that I have held off writing about my time in Dakar is that it has honestly taken me this long to wrap my mind around it (and yes, even though I am leaving in a couple of days, it is a work in progress). My writing is not nearly good enough, though even if it was, it would be very difficult to give you an accurate and complete picture of Dakar.
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Dakar is the dustiest place in my world (well, at this point, it is running a stiff competition against Bamako, Mali). Within my first couple of days in the city, I jokingly asked my god-brother, Sam , how they got all the sand here and he explained that this is how Dakar has been since he's known it. 'It starts with sand and ends with sand,' a reference he made to the fact that it didn't matter that certain parts of Dakar are paved, because it is only a matter of time before they become covered by the omnipresent sand and dust. For some background, Sam lives with his family in HLM Grand Yoff, which is one of several of Dakar's lower-income renting districts. This being my first stop in sub-Saharan Africa, my first few days I assumed that all of Dakar looked like Grand Yoff; it was only after my first week here that we made a trip downtown (where, among other landmarks, the President's mansion is located) and I saw that Dakar follows the 'normal' model of urban socio-economic stratisfication. More or less.
For better or worse, I have discovered over the past 5 1/2 months that I have a 'policy-oriented' mind which often sees a place from the perspective of what works and what doesn't. My time in Dakar has been no different. Spending the vast majority of my time in and around Grand Yoff (I've been renting an apartment not too far away from where Sam lives) I am struck by the stark contrast between the higher and lower income areas of Dakar. Now before you call me naive (I will admit that I am very much an idealist), let me explain. I have seen (both inside and outside of the U.S.) greater disparity between rich and poor than what seems to be present in Dakar, however, never have I seen a case that, in my opinion, could be so easily (relatively speaking) improved. The greatest noticeable difference that I see between Dakar's high and low ends is overall cleanliness. Many parts of Grand Yoff are littered/covered in trash while downtown is, for the most part, paved and pristine. On the surface, Dakar's major problem is its system of public waste management.
In my mind, the cleanliness of a particular environment has a major psychological impact on the people living in that area. A clean environment promotes cleanliness, upkeep and positive community development. On the flipside, a dirty, unkept environment is antithetical to those things (though that is not an absolute principle). In many parts of Grand Yoff, you will find yourself tripping over/shuffling through trash, amid the lingering and acrid aroma of burning trash (don't get me started on that). In my entire time here , I have seen a single garbage truck and perhaps a dozen trash collectors. By comparison, I have spent much less time in the downtown area, but have seen many more garbage trucks and have seen perhaps a handful of small piles of trash.
As I noted before, it is not so much the gravity of the problem (though I do believe strongly in cause and effect, especially when you are talking about a highly populated urban environment) as much as how easy I believe the solution to be which really frustrates me. Dakar has a SEVERE shortage of jobs (the subject of another post), from top to bottom. Why not create more jobs in the area of waste management from top (engineer) to bottom (garbage collector), placing an emphasis on improved/advanced methods of waste management and destruction and recycling.
Unfortunately, the x-factor (as always) is money and Dakar does not have a lot to spend. Thus there are the obvious questions of how these new workers will be paid and how this advanced system of waste management will be funded. These are valid points that I cannot (yet) counter, though trust, my mind, whether I like it or not, will be on it. To anyone who has some experience in urban planning and development (particularly in the area of waste management), I would love to hear your opinion.
But then again, who am I? Just a toubab passing through at the end of the day.
And afterall, there are more pressing issues, I'm sure.
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