A Broad Abroad

Hello My Faithful Readers,

I must once again break invisible narrator status in order to address you directly.

I thought I would take a moment to reflect on a few things that that have come up of the last couple of weeks, but I will start my ramble from the beginning of the story…

Last winter I read the book “Half the Sky” (highly recommend it) which is a book all about how to help elevate the status of women’s issues, some of their stories, and also what is actually being done in the various areas of development and women. One very poignant point I came across was the idea that people often feel small and insignificant compared to the size of the problem, disconnected from the development community, and overall feel powerless to help those in need. The simple response was “just get out there and do something”. Basically to stop worrying about how insignificant you feel versus the size of the problem, get out there and contribute any way you can. Picture the entire amount of international aid as a bucket of water, and yourself as a drop of water. If you, the drop of water, are not in the bucket, the bucket just isn’t as full as it could be. So that, coupled with my pending chunk of available time in the fall (and of course much discussion with Nathan!) led me to seek out volunteer opportunities abroad (SEEKING TO BE A BROAD ABROAD as my friend Sara would say).

My initial interest in coming to Senegal was to help people who would otherwise not be receiving any attention. I know that there is great need for people to teach English, or other languages even, that could help someone get a better job, or any job in the future. I thought the type of work I would be doing would fill a need and wouldn’t be done if a volunteer like myself wasn’t here to do it. I chose to go through an organization like Projects Abroad because I felt they would be better connected to the parts of the community that would need volunteers to come and help out.

Unfortunately that initial interest in coming here hasn’t quite been fulfilled. While my personal experience with Projects Abroad was less fulfilling than I had hoped for, I really do feel that the sacrifice I have made leaving my friends and family, and also the stress that has put on them has been worthwhile when measured against my personal development and my impact in the area I volunteered and lived.

After I recovered from initial culture shock, it was easy to see that Senegalese people in St Louis are easy going and approachable. Kids especially are excited to shake your hand, simply because you’re a foreigner. The overall esthetic of Senegal has been a dichotomy between vast, clean beachscape and natural vistas, and congested and dirty city. It has been a place where Wifi is easy to find but toilet paper is not. My trip has been comprised of a thousand different moments, some of them quite poignant lessons, some of them just something to ponder, and some of them something to forget. The sounds and smells and sights of St Louis will remain forever with me.

So, after having taken 31 Malaria pills so far, I have only 11 to go before I return to the Homeland. Yes that’s correct, I will be home in 11 short days, a bit earlier than planned, but only after having spent 6 and a half very interesting weeks here in Senegal.

Thanks again for reading, and I will make sure that my final days of blogging will be worthwhile to read.

Time for Change

Before heading to the beach and hotel Mermoz this past Saturday we stopped by the Exotica grocery store to pick up some snacks. I picked out a few items and put them on the counter. The bill was 2800CFA. I took out my wallet and handed over a 10 000 bill, held my breath, and prepared myself for the ensuing argument. The problem is, there is a serious deficiency of physical currency here in Senegal that is that bane of any shopper’s existence. I cannot describe it any other way than to say if you know you need to do some shopping, you really have to think about where you’re going and what change you’ll need when you get there.

The change issue often sculpts my plans to run errands. If I know I need to buy fruit from a fruit stand and take 2 taxis that day, (or worse yet, share a taxi) and all I have are 10 000 notes, I pretty well have to walk 1km out of the way to the OiLybia gas station where they almost always have change (thanks to the taxi drivers buying 2 and 3 dollars of gas at a time), buy a pack of gum to break the note, then carry on. Last time I took cash out of the machine and it came out in 5000CFA bills, it was like I won the lottery because with 5000 notes, it’s only half as hard to get change! When you do get change, you need to be sure to guard it as though it’s gold and use sparingly.

So there I was in Exotica, a grocery store notorious for being very reluctant to give up change. I took out the bill, placed it on the counter and slid it towards the cashier very slowly trying to keep my poker face in check. “What, you don’t have to money?” the lady asked curtly. In actual fact I had three times the money and what she was doing was calling my bluff. Normally I hide money all over the place so that I can make a big show of having an empty wallet save for the one big note, but today in actual fact, I had no smaller change and 2 taxi rides pending so really, I was desperate! We stared at each other a for a spell, sweat trickled down the side of my brow, I spoke awful French to make her pity me, and at long last, the lady backed down and sent her assistant off with my cash to go bug other nearby stores for change. Last week I paid for a café au lait the same way and every employee in the café—five people—had to dig through their pockets to give me change.

I honestly have no idea why they don’t take bigger bills out of circulation and replace them with smaller coins and bills other than to think that that is an expensive project for a country that has other, much bigger fish to fry. Seriously, I have rarely ever paid 10 000+ for anything other than a weekend excursion away or the bus ride to Dakar and hotel as most purchases are rather inexpensive. I can only imagine how frustrating it is for the people who are out there selling things every day, working really hard to make 100CFA for a coffee or 500CFA for a cab ride, and never really having the right change to conduct business with.

I would also like to correct something from my past blog. Fedherbe Bridge is not getting a twin. Replacement sections are being built alongside the bridge and are then slotted in when they are complete... a very deceiving method of bridge building if I do say so myself. The old section is then taken out and crumpled into a pile, awaiting shipment elsewhere to be recycled. This weekend the bridge was closed for such an occasion leaving us worried that we would be stranded at Mermoz or worse yet would have to find a pirogue to take us back to the mainland. Fortunately the swap took less time than anticipated and I was able to enjoy a nice, breezy walk home.

Many, Many Mouton

Yesterday I walked with my friend Hanne over to one of the main streets near the edge of town where my other friend Sally lives. This last week or so, Sally has been complaining about the increasing number sheep around her place. When she mentioned that I thought, Ya that’s right, where there was one sheep now there are two or three, and I supposed that if there were a few more like that all over the city then the mouton population would be considerably higher than a few weeks ago. So Hanne and I took off in the heat of the day to go check things out.

Before we could see the sheep we could smell them. They were laying fresh asphalt on the road and even stronger than the smell of tar was the smell of manure, and overpowering the general din of construction was the tell-tale “bleeeeh!” of sheep.
We walked further along and the road opened up to a sea of sheep. They were every which way you looked, all grouped together on the sides of the road. The sheep herders all stood by waiting for potential customers to come over and have a look. The kept their herds tight together, though the sheep really didn’t seem to want to go anywhere. I have heard of the sheep herders that they sleep on the ground next to the sheep as well.

Word on the street is that the price for a sheep ranges from $60 to $100 depending on the quality of the ram and also depending on the person buying it and their haggling skills. Anyhow, it was amazing to see and hear so many sheep all in one place. Perhaps more amazing was the realization that not one single sheep was tied up, and though many were chasing each other around and heat butting, they didn’t seem inclined to run away.

All the sheep are for Tabaski which is this coming Wednesday. Whenever you mention the word mouton to anyone their faces light up and they say Oui, Tabaski!, as though Santa is coming to town. I realise that Tabaski is a very religiously significant day for the Muslims however it is difficult not to getting caught up in all the Toubab’s concern that this Wednesday, every single sheep will be killed, pretty much all at the same time. The word bloodbath keeps coming to mind for some reason… All I know for sure is that Wednesday will be an eye opening day and is sure to have a really great meal!

After Dinner Vignette...

Last night after dinner I walked out the front patio of the house to stretch my legs after having eaten dinner on the floor. In the front foyer there were three Talibe boys lying, sleeping, waiting for our leftovers. One boy asked me for 50F but I as always declined. I began thinking of some kind of nice gesture and remembered the growing collection of empty water bottles in my room. Here in Senegal, I have done my very best to drink only the bottled water provided, and avoid eating fruits and veggies from suspect places that may wash fresh food in tap water. Some people think the tap water here is fine. I would rather avoid finding out that its not.

Nevertheless, I rushed upstairs to grab three bottles and filled them up with water as quick as I could. I went back down the stairs and into the foyer to find 4 Talibe boys lying in wait for some food. I distributed the three bottles, and left to find another, giving a reassuring look to the one rather dejected boy who got nothing. Up I went, back into my room, to get another bottle and fill it up. When I went back downstairs I found the foyer empty.

I went out the front door and by then there were 6 boys huddled around the food platter. I left the bottle with the boy I had assured would get one and went back up to my room, peeking over the second story balcony along the way to find 8 boys huddled eating around the food tray, each boy perched on their haunches as though they may take off in flight at any moment. The food had quickly disappeared, and what little bits were leftover were being scooped up with bread chunks slowly and deliberately. I looked out across the field, and there were more boys emerging from the dark, walking in from across the soccer field.

Once in my room I sat down to read my book but shortly after, unable to concentrate, I went back to the balcony to have a look. I peered over the railing and all there was to see were two crushed water bottles and not a soul in sight.

To Market, To Market...

There is a market here in St Louis that is open whenever it is daytime, and generally only closed friday afternoons which is when people go to mosque. It is located just before Fedherbe Bridge and has two main components, the stalls all along the main road, and a more out of the way, off the beaten path section not for the faint of heart.

Yesterday my friend Krista were on the hunt for fabric to take to her tailor. Krista had had a dress made for Tabaski and I thought it would be fun to do the same (though she went with an african style dress complete with head piece and I chose something more western). The tailor-man has a little shop with two sewing machines and two plain wooden benches where he sits and sews all day. One only needs to look at his catalogue, print a picture off the internet, or draw a simple line drawing and have him take your measurements, and he will sew anything you ask him to.

The market is an interesting place to go and in the same breath it is a hard place to describe. In a way, the market caters to locals who are looking for groceries, clothes, electronics and many other things. There are several entrances that are quite dirty with an offputting amount of flies there to greet you. The alley ways are numerous, winding, covered in tin and any other thing that will keep out the sun and heavy rain, and the pathways are just wide enough for you to navigate around the bowls of fish and other wares. People offer you up their (eggplants, okra, pinto beans, tiny cabbages...) but don't push too hard, which either means they don't think you're there for groceries, or they are more laid back than some of the other vendors.

The stalls or 'stores' are each about 5 X 5 in size and utilise every inch of vertical space to their advantage. Trying to look at all the stuff up and around you can only lead to you tripping over a hungry cat or a bag of rice.

We found a tiny booth with a good selection and haggled the lady down to 1000CFA per metre, which is about $2. After talking to the tailor, we negotiated 3500CFA for his work (complete with zipper!) and all said and told the dress should cost around $10. I can only hope that his friendly, interested demeanour bodes well for the dress actually fitting me properly. Pick up is set for tomorrow at 6:30... until then I'm definitely keeping my fingers crossed!

Dakar Part II: This Weekend I Broke the Law

We were 6 people heading to the hotel so we split up into 2 cabs, with our cab following and the other one leading since the cabbies in Dakar have no idea where most things are unless you give them an exact address. When we were nearing the hotel, the other cab turned right to the side streets and our cabbie headed straight on towards the Place de l’Independence (a huge square in the middle of Point E considered to be central Dakar, and where our hotel was located). I was sorting out change with Kat, a German girl and all of a sudden we were flagged down by the police.

The cabbie pulled over, and the police officer stuck his head in the window while flashing his flashlight right in our faces. “Donne moi votre piece d’identification!” he said. I pulled out my wallet knowing full well that I had no id on me and said (in French), “I’m sorry but I haven’t got any”. Kat sat stone quiet as she doesn’t speak french, and Tenita woke up in the front seat and started telling the cabbie where to go. The police officer continued to yammer on about how it was past 12:30 and we need id otherwise it’s a 6000CFA ($12) fine, a point which he kept repeating.

I kept my cool and kept politely telling him that we didn’t have id and unfortunately I wasn’t going to give him any money. I said he was welcome to take us to the station to get things sorted out if need be. That was when he got into the back seat with us and told the cabbie to keep driving. “So what’s going on then?” he says. “I don’t know, you tell me” I say. In my mind, this was all very suspect and since his main concern was that we need to pay the fine it further confirmed in my mind that we were being taken.

Eventually he asked where we were from which gave me an opportunity to tell him we are from St Louis, arrived yesterday, we were leaving tomorrow, we’re volunteers here to work with the children of Senegal, we had no idea we needed id on us, and if he wanted to talk to the director of our program he was welcome to. As I was saying this I pulled out my cell phone and started dialing Moctar’s number. It was 12:30 and I was really hoping Moctar was still up and would answer his phone. Two rings in the Officer gave up. Suddenly everything was fine so he lectured us a little more and just sat there looking at us. “Out!” I said to the girls, “Pay the fare and get out! I am completely done with this cab ride!” We were off the hook and still not at the hotel.

Finally we made it back to the hotel at about 1am only after we went into a restaurant to ask directions, and a nice couple having a late dinner called our hotel, and paid for our cab ride there after telling the cabbie explicitly where we were staying.

The next morning we were off to a late start. Sally another Brit had taken a late cab ride home at about 3:30 or so with 2 other people. “So I hear you got pulled over by the police last night?” Sally asked first thing. I told her all about it and let her know how annoyed I was about almost getting ripped off by the police. Sally’s cab had the same experience, and they managed to get a hold of Moctar while they were talking to the officer because their negotiating was going nowhere. Moctar let them know that it is in fact necessary to have id on us late at night and that they were in fact breaking the law at that point in time. Moctar talked to their officer, and negotiated a 10 000CFA for 3, steal-of-a-deal ‘fine’ versus each person paying 6000.

So I guess this weekend I broke the law, and was quite lucky to get out of it when I got caught!

Otherwise the rest of the trip was uneventful. I was grateful I didn’t go to Dakar on my own as I probably wouldn’t have gone out to see stuff, especially after dark. We walked around a bit but most things were closed as it was Sunday. The street vendors weren’t as polite as in St Louis and one even called us racist because we didn’t want to go into his shop.

So, back to the bus for a 2:00 (4:00 Sen time) departure. This time I snagged the front seat beside the driver. I had the window open and my feet on the dashboard the whole way home. Along the way I saw the slummy outskirts of Dakar, a huge yard full of hundreds of Sheep ready for Tabaski, donkeys pulling carts loaded with grain bags and firewood, Brahman cattle with huge horns being herded around, farmers piling their grasses into African style stooks, women in bright coloured dresses with flashy sequined scarves on their heads, and endless vistas of Baobab trees.

Excursion: Dakar & Ile du Goree

This past weekend was an ‘organized’ trip to Dakar. Dakar is the biggest city in Senegal, with a population of 2.4 million people. The city is divided into various quartiers, some of which are really nice, some of which aren’t.

Papis who works for PA arranged a bus for the 19 people going on the trip. Upon the bus’s arrival, it was evident that in Canadian terms the bus should seat 10 people but here in Senegal it would seat 19, and therefore be a really cozy 4-5 hour car ride! We left at 6:30 ‘Senegal time’ which meant 7:45… needless to say it was really a cramped, uncomfortable bus ride that got us to our hotel at 1:30.am and a ride that I would rather soon forget. It was impossible to see anything along the way because it is dark at around 7:30.

The next morning we were to take the ferry to Ile to Goree. Since we were travelling en mass, we made it for the 12:30 ferry. Ile de Goree was really a highlight of the trip so far. It’s a small island off the south east tip of Dakar which has no roads and about 600 permanent residents. After walking around Dakar a bit in the morning, and living in the noisy hustle and bustle of St Louis these past few weeks, it was really nice to walk down quaint, narrow streets with flowers and birds and plain old quiet.

Ile de Goree is really known as the last stop for most of the slaves exiting Africa. I visited the Musee d’Esclaves which is a small inconspicuous building made up of guest rooms with a view on the top floor, and small, dark holding rooms on the bottom that separated men from women and women from children until they all boarded the ship to South America, the Caribbean and North America. Typically the museums I have visited here in Senegal have been really scant on details and generally out of date. That is how the museum was presented here, but having read up on the slave trade in the past, Musee d’Esclaves really held a significant symbolic importance to the subject. I would say that especially of the small, square doorway that opens up right onto the Atlantic Ocean-- the doorway touted has being the point of no return for all who passed through it.

The rest of the island featured regular families going about their days, and a slew of artists who weren’t as pushy as most vendors I have come across. There were also a few leftover bits of artillery from an old Dutch base but most were in a ruinous state and not much of that story was told outside of one small notation on the tourist map.

Overall Goree was a great place to take pictures and wander around the streets. It was definitely very touristy but once we moved away from the beach it was hard to notice. At 4:30 we caught the ferry back to the mainland. We were all going out for a real West African dinner in celebration of Briony’s (a doctor from the UK) 30th birthday.

Dinner was amazing. Briony read about this new place called La Calabesse which is located on top of the African Cultural Centre (more like expensive African souvenir shop with one statue in homage to some past President). We had the set plate deal for 12000 ($24) which included appetizer, main and dessert, and since there were a load of us eating, the Maître D basically kept the food coming till we said stop. There were several meat dishes such as fish with coconut, chicken with peanut, goat (?) with sauce (?) and other such things as beans, couscous, rice, and prawns of various presentations. All in all it was nice to sit at a table, with my own plate and a fork and knife AND have good food to boot (though I should say I have only had a couple of meals that I didn’t like back in St Louis). The meal ended at midnight, and I was toast so myself and 5 other girls decided to head back to the hotel.

To Be Continued…