Deux Images

Walking to school this morning I saw a man sitting in a plastic chair on the sidewalk, sipping coffee. He was wearing a brilliant white anango over immaculate blue jeans. Just as I passed him, he tossed his coffee cup into the street.

I have noticed a very large difference here between inside and outside. Or, perhaps the difference is better described as the home and the not-home. The inside/home is cleaned every day. I've probably mentioned before that sweeping is a big deal. You have to be constantly cleaning or the dust will quickly get ahead of you. That is the main difference. Inside is clean, and outside is sand. Of course, people are also part of the home- and people take as much care of their bodies as they do their houses, everyone showers at least once a day, and I have never seen so many well-dressed people in my life. Every block has another hair salon and on the walk home I pass at least three men cleaning their feet in front of their houses.

Which is why I am confused to stumble upon banana peels, coffee cups (terracottaburntsienna- remember?), plastic bags, and fish heads half buried in the piles of sand that are dumped in the middle of sidewalks, pouring into the street. I try and keep my head up to notice the colors and signs and people and CARS that are all around me, but il faut toujours/you must always keep your eyes on the ground especially while walking in flipflops on the curb/in the street/in the sand/on the sidewalk. There is never a straight line, and never a flat surface. The flattest surface is the street, where the cars rush up from behind you and the taxis don't stop. The safest is the curb, which sometimes is missing both street and sidewalk to either side. The sidewalk is the least consistent sometimes being composed entirely of sand, sometimes cobblestones, but if it is made of cobblestones then that means you can park your car there or plant low-hanging well-pruned trees there or perhaps leave a bench or pile of garbage.

This man, then, that can sip a cup of coffee without spilling a drop on his shirt, who can wear a traditional costume and blue jeans and keep them both free of the sand he sits in (but never sits on the ground, he sits in a chair, you can always tell an American because of his or her willingness to sit on the ground because he or she is used to grass lawns that don't soil your clothes), who will always remember to wash his feet and brush his teeth and even if he does not own a mirror will have a maid to iron his shirts and sweep his floor- this man is accustomed to buying a cup of coffee from the street vendor every morning, a cup that to dust shall return.


Yesterday my sister Raïssa came home with a pair of shoes. She had just bought them from a vendor for 3,000 CFA and was very excited because they were a very popular name brand. The shoes were for Pascal, our little brother.

And he was so excited he paraded around the house for a full ten minutes, showing everyone. Raïssa was so proud. She told me she had saved up for a long time, but when she saw the shoes she couldn't resist. She told me that perhaps she had paid too much but it was worth it because it was such a good brand, a popular name brand. (I had never heard of that name or at least couldn't understand it with her accent. Sometimes that happens when people ask me about "Maïktaïsonne" or "Lozan-djellaise") She was grinning ear to ear all evening.

Three hours before that, my siblings had had a huge fight, and I'm not sure exactly what about but I know it stemmed from the fact that I posted pictures of them on facebook and Raïssa wanted me to send her one to use as a profile picture and Pascal wanted her to use a picture of him or of them both instead. It ended with him crying and her getting scolded in very rapid Wolof and she left to buy bread, and came back with these shoes. These 3,000 CFA shoes.

Now, I know I'm new here and still can't get a grasp of how much things cost but I know bread, cookies, and bananas cost about 100 and 1.5 litres of water costs 400 and my flipflops were 500 and my notebook was 250. I know that if I try and use a bill higher than 2,000 at any place other than the supermarket people won't have change. (For perspective, 500 CFA is about a dollar). Pens (Bic, people say "bic" for pen just like we say "kleenex" for tissue) (on a totally unrelated note, in Wolof the world "Kleenex" would be pronounced "klenn-ehhh-kh"), pens cost about 250 too. A meal at WARC is anywhere from 500 to 1500, and a box of juice is 800. So, if you're still with me, 3,000 is a lot.

This morning Mama Binta handed me one of the shoes. She told me to try it on, saying that they are a little too big for Pascal, actually, and she guessed my feet are sized somewhere between my brother and sister. I protested, but she had me try the shoe nonetheless. Luckily, it was too small. She left the room, talking about some niece or nephew that might be able to wear them. It wasn't until just now that I realize the idea of "you'll grow into it" doesn't apply. You don't save money, when you can buy nice name-brand shoes, even if the shoes don't fit you. You don't save the shoes if they don't fit, if you have a relative who might be able to wear them.





Et voilà. Two stories that sum up my idea of Senegal, so far. Senegal on a postage stamp. Which reminds me. If you want me to send you a postcard, I have no idea if it will work or not or when you'll get them, but send me your address! I'll try and figure out how to get one in the mail.