Waking Up in the City

I was ready to take a break from Dakar.

It's not that I don't like the city- on the contrary, I'm getting more and more fond of it. But the walk home on Thursday was an interesting wake-up call to the fact that I'll never be fully used to life here.

We always leave from WARC in a big group, stopping by the street vendor to buy fruit or Biskrem (TM), cheap packets of tiny chocolate-filled cookies. He knows us by now and every week we can understand more of what he says- he quizzes us in Wolof, chatting with the group while we debate if the pears have been washed in tap water or whether to bring home oranges or bananas for the family. We cross the street by the MyShop- I tried to use the ATM. It didn't work. Rejected my card which is slightly worrying but later I'll try the first bank we went to since that worked just fine. You have to use the ATMs that have guards sitting outside, and we always go in groups.

Then we walk down the street, past men shouting "bonjour toubabs!", every block there's another hiss or bad attempt at English, a few boys walking by just started singing "Ameeerican ladieeees, American laaaaadies..." I do realize that we are here in this country as strangers, and we are speaking quite loudly in English, but just shouting "Hey white girls!" from cars or doorways is less than convincing as a pick-up line. We were talking about how women are treated in this country, how you go straight from "daughter" and "little girl" to "wife", there is no in between, how women whose husbands leave to work in other cities or countries try to ignore the fact that they might have found another wife, because of the money that gets sent home and the shame that would accompany a divorce. Our teachers blame the rising divorce rate on how many women are becoming independent, but it seems like no one is realizing that while that is an important connection, it means that the women who don't have that freedom still might be unhappy.

We discuss our role as students here, whether or not we have a right to take offense on the behalf of a culture that surrounds us. The line between cultural difference and universal rights. Whether that changes from country to country, depending on how much money you have. What the difference is between discipline and abuse, if a child refuses to do his homework. We walk around the other side of the stadium, to the patisserie for a snack. The lady asks if we're Italian, which I find flattering, sort of. The chocolate croissant is delicious, we'll have to remember this place. I cut back through a few neighborhoods to the main road home, the sky's bright pink but not yet dark enough to worry, and two skinny kittens are playing by the curb. They're adorable, why aren't there any pets here?

Stop to chat with a neighbor I met the other day, his name is Pierre Sow and he's a retired agricultural engineer. Looks like an African Ghandi with the little glasses and big smile, and talking to him you can tell immediately he's been to at least a few universities, which is stereotyping but it's true nonetheless. He's very polite and speaks clearly, with an obviously French accent. Of course I play it safe, no I have to get home it's getting late but say hello to your family for me perhaps I'll meet your kids another time. But it's nice, talking to someone who asks about what I'm studying as apposed to who I'm marrying, discussing the environment and issues of overfishing and global warming without asking how long I'm staying in Senegal or when I'm coming back.

I start walking home and haven't gone ten feet before I see Bad News. He may be drunk, or a Bifal, or just unsteady on his feet, and if his face always looks like that then it's nature's warning to others. I don't make eye contact but he still sees me, throwing his arms wide and shouting "Ma cherie! ma femme!" and I can't make out the rest of what he says but I can't get by without getting close to him and as I pass he grabs my free arm and holds my wrist- tight. I'm so startled I pull and jerk and tell him in French that I don't want to talk, I tell him in English to get off me, I can't hear what he's saying but he hasn't stopped talking and hasn't loosened his grip and when I switch to Wolof finally my voice rises and by this time poeple on the street are staring and they hear me shout "baayi ma" and they also shout at him to let me go and in ten seconds it's all over and I'm scurrying away, only one more block till my house and my wrist is red and I'm shaken but didn't have time to think and as I go over it in my head I wonder what he was trying to say to me and I know I shouldn't always go by first images but I don't care what language you speak you don't grab my wrist that hard without letting go, and if it was culture shock then it was well justified even if it was a misunderstanding, although I think we understood each other just fine thank you.

I came home, washed my feet, wrote an essay for my Country Analysis class, had dinner, went to bed.

The next morning I automatically start walking faster as I round the corner. He's there, sure enough, not Pierre but Bob Marley Shirt, starts mumbling at me and I can't understand him but he doesn't follow me for more than a half a block. The dog with the chewed ear is looking the other way. He's looking at what I'm guessing is a stinking pile of intestines at the curb. I also later on see a kitten in the road, but it isn't playing and has been there for a while and is no longer interested in the fish bones that, were it alive, it would be eating. I see firsthand why the supermarché parking lot smells like piss, there's a man urinating quite publicly on one of the potted plants near the road.

Dakar is a city. It's just a city. There are people and animals and buildings and some are beautiful and some are reeking of fish and they turn pink at sunset and are dangerous after dark. I am not regretful but I am certainly not euphoric, I am content but never comfortable.







And if the powdered milk doesn't spill over the plastic basin and turn the crow's vest white, I'll tell you next about my trip to Toubacouta.