A Visit To Dan's House

My buddy Dan’s site and home is very different from mine. He shares a compound with a family, lives in a simpler home than I and his immediate surrounds feel much more rural and spread out than where I live. He also has an abundance of huge spiders all over the walls. They weren’t there the first time I visited, but the second time I visited, they were scurrying all over the walls. I kind of panicked and seriously considered staying up all night, sitting in the middle of the floor with a flashlight, shining it on the walls to keep an eye on the whereabouts of my worst enemies.

On my first visit, his site mate came over and we made Tom Kha (southeast Asian coconut soup) for dinner. We had a couple beers, and pretty late in the night it came up that there’s a river and a waterfall nearby his house. I was up for an impromptu adventure, so we decided to make the supposed thirty-minute walk through the forest. Dan had never been there in the dark, so unsurprisingly we were moderately lost after twenty minutes. Somehow we ended up incredibly high up on the steep hillside above the river. Trying to descend to the river was, at times, moderately harrowing. A bad step could have led to a seriously long tumble that would have at the least led to some broken bones. We made it, though, after a while of scrambling around the sparse forest.

And what can I say about it? The waterfall was modestly-sized, but beautiful, and most importantly, had a good pool below for swimming. We swam around for a while and sipped the beers we had brought along. Somehow the outside temperature and temperature of the river were perfectly comfortable. Most importantly, though, was the amount of solitude we had. It was a rare thing to be outdoors, and be completely free from the eyes of anyone. Rwanda is extremely densely populated, but we were about twenty minutes from the nearest house. That in itself is rare. Some of my most memorable moments in Rwanda are those in which I feel a strong sense of freedom. This was definitely one of those moments.

I returned to Dan’s months later for another little adventure. This time it was a little more intense. The plan was to walk and swim from the upper end of the river, down to the waterfall we had been to before. The river descended through a series of rapids and waterfalls before reaching the final pool. To get to the river, we went off a trail and bushwhacked briefly to stony area just above the river. When we got to a big flat boulder, Dan told me that this had been the spot where a European, who had lived in this village a few decades ago, would meet with the community. It was a seven-foot drop down to the riverbank, and we had to jump. Seven feet looks a lot higher from above and it was embarrassing how long it took us to jump down. We laughed at ourselves when we looked back up at the modest height we had been so nervous about.

The river was more of a shallow creek at this point. We took off our sandals and shirts and started wading downstream. There were a few rapids and slippery rocks, but for a while, everything was pretty calm. The first danger, to me, was the spiders. I noticed a few long web strands traversing the river, and delicately crept under them. A couple of the strands had huge, long spiders clinging to them. My skin crawled. Then I saw a tree that was hanging over the river that was crawling with these big spiders. Several strands crossed the river, with the spiders just chilling about three feet above the water, leaving me unable to cross. At this point I really thought I was going to have to give up. Spiders are my biggest weakness and I felt incredibly vulnerable. Dan fears bugs and insects, but claims spiders don’t bother him because they are restricted to their webs. He also said this would not be nearly the scariest part of the journey. He broke through the webs, which made me panic, since I couldn’t see where the spiders went when they fell. Surely they were in the river. I was in the river too. So, naturally, I was about to be crawling with homeless spiders. I waited a few moments, hoping the spiders would get a head start down the river in front of me and proceeded, keeping as far away from the tree as possible, ducking low, in case there were any more webs that Dan had missed. Dan was getting annoyed with my sudden shrieks. He wanted me to use my words. At one moment he was clambering over a rock, and shrieked again, as I saw he was about to put his head right into a floating spider. He glared at me and said, “Would you stop screaming?! What is wrong?” “Don’t move, there is a spider right next to your head,” I responded. He slowly turned and came face to face with the devil and shuddered in shock. He swatted it out of the air and continued on his way. Luckily that was our last spider incident of the day.

The river started to get bigger and at parts it became hard to proceed over slick rocks, rapids and little drop-offs. The most unique part came when the river basically fell into a hole in the rocks, making a little waterfall in a small cave. We had to get out of the river, and scramble down some rocks to get to the other side of the little cave. On the other side, the river was forced through a tiny channel between two rocks. We climbed into the incredibly strong current and clung to rocks as we inched up into the little cave. The whole river was falling about four feet through a hole in the roof of the cave. There were a couple of smooth rocks to sit on next to the falling water (waterfall). The force of the water coming down was tremendous and the sound was thunderous.

The current continued to get faster, the rapids rockier and the drops deeper, until we arrived at a full on waterfall. The drop was about thirty for forty eet. We obviously couldn’t just slide down, but Dan had been here once before and knew a way down. The way was not obvious by any means. We climbed out of the river, and had to scramble diagonally down a stone crevasse until we reached earth again. A short descent through steep greenery led us to the most intense part of the hike (except for the spiders, of course). We had descended almost halfway down the falls and were standing on an earthen ledge next to the rushing water. A six-foot drop below us was a stone ledge. Reaching it would be difficult. I suggested that just jumping to the ledge was feasible, but he insisted that it was too risky. The ledge was barely big enough for two people to stand on, and the chance of a bad landing, which would ensure a 15-foot rocky fall, was too great. He said the only solution was to slip down the near-vertical earth between us and the waterfall, then flip your body over and climb onto the ledge. I don’t know if my description is making any sense or if it sounds terrifying, but it was very terrifying. Dan had to psych himself up for a few minutes before even clambering down a body length. There was a vine coming out of the ground that I tested for strength. It seemed strong enough to rely on for support, so I handed it to him. He took another few minutes to psych himself for the couple of steps over to the ledge. Mind you, the physical act itself wasn’t incredibly challenging. The point is that the stakes were incredibly high. For a moment he would only be touching earth with one arm and one leg, as he swung his body over to the ledge, all while hovering about twenty-feet above jutting rocks and churning water. He had done it once before, but he was still incredibly on edge (get it?). With the help of the vine as an emergency support, he swung his body over and inched onto the stone ledge. He exhaled deeply and let out a big whoop. I don’t know if I was as scared as he appeared, but I thought I was holding it together better. I acted like it was no big deal as I slid my body down to where the first foothold was. It was at that moment that I realized how scary it really was. I still tried to not let on that I was nervous, probably because of my embarrassing behavior with all the spiders. I reached for the vine, and with just a tiny tug, it came free and fell into the chaos below. Dan realized the serious danger he had been in, putting most of his weight into the vine, which was apparently not as strong as well anchored as I had thought. When I finally made the steps over to the ledge, I had the added benefit of Dan being there, so he was able to grab me when I was halfway, and pull me over.

The hardest part was over, but we were still only halfway down the waterfall, and there was definitely no terrestrial route to the river below. We had to, nay, we got to jump. It was a big drop, but nothing that I haven’t done dozens of times in Idaho. I was only worried about the depth. The river above had never been more than four or five feet deep. I let Dan go first. When I entered the water, I was surprised to find that, although I descended incredibly deep, I never touched the bottom. I still remember that moment of my body hitting the deepest point, the murky water bubbly around me, coming to a slow halt, and rebounding towards the greenish surface where I could see the rippling light of the sun. When I reached the surface, I found myself in a pool that seemed calmly enveloped in green foliage. Before leaping from the ledge, I was still too jumpy (get it, again?) to appreciate the atmosphere. A sheer rock wall draped in vines rose thirty feet above us on one side, while the bushy vegetation was thick on the other. I felt very tucked away and secluded in this little pool, which is a good thing.

We continued. The natural part of this adventure was almost over. The human part of this adventure (which I should actually refer to as awkwardness, rather than adventure) was imminent. We arrived at the top of the last waterfall, the one that I mentioned on a previous visit, and bushwhacked around it.

I forgot to mention that this area is full of sacred prayer sites that people from all over Rwanda make pilgrimages to. There are a few big, flat stone surfaces and some caves where people come to pray. Dan knows most of the people in his village, but out here, most of the people he might run into are strangers.

As we tried to make our way around the waterfall, he noticed two old woman traversing a steep trail on a distant hillside. As we were very indecently dressed and behaving abnormally, splashing around in rivers and all, he didn’t want them to notice us. We stopped and hoped they wouldn’t see us. It might sound weird, but when you live in a small village like this, your reputation is important, and strange behavior and shirtlesness like ours will be looked on with suspicion or even disdain. Rwandans tend to be very observant, and within a couple of moments, they noticed us. They waved and we shouted a couple of greetings. I didn’t feel to awkward, since I was very far from my community, but I could tell it bothered Dan.

He told me that these women were probably visiting a nearby cave to pray in. He said he walked into one of these caves once and regretted it. A group of Rwandans were huddled together in the darkness, speaking in tongues. He said it was like the scene in “I Am Legend” where Will Smith stumbles into a dark building to find a group of vampires all crowded together in a corner.

The hike was done and as we crossed the river to head back, we found ourselves on one of the stone platforms. This was another popular prayer spot. We heard voices of people approaching. We tried to sneak around them, but inevitably ran into the group of pilgrims. They were clean and well dressed. We were half-naked, barefoot and dripping wet. We exchanged awkward greetings--theirs in halting English, ours in well-rehearsed Kinyarwanda--and passed each other without incident.

When we got back to the place where we had embarked on our journey, we realized we had to make the little jump off the rock to retrieve our effects. Then, after Dan made the anticlimactic leap, I realized that I didn’t have to go down, since he could throw me my things. Getting back up, for him, turned out to be stupidly complicated. He spent several minutes gracelessly clambering up through bushes and rocks, trying to find a route for the seven-foot ascent.

When we got back to his house, he realized he was out of water and we would have to take a walk to the spring to fetch more. Most Peace Corps volunteers, and many Rwandans, that don’t have running water pay someone to fetch it for them. I don’t have any criticism for this, but I do have mad respect for Dan for insisting on fetching his own water. It is clearly one of the many things he has done in his community to help him integrate and ingratiate himself with his community. I enjoyed the physical task of fetching water when I was in Mali, but am also glad that I didn’t have to face the decision of whether to do it for two years in Rwanda. I am one of the few volunteers that has running water in the home. I was originally disappointed by this because I wanted that experience of going to the water spout every day and mingling with all the women and children in line. I got used to it very quickly now, and have to admit that I am thankful constantly that I don’t have to run out and carry a 50 pound jug of water any time I run out of water. Dan’s fetching trip takes about 45 minutes, more when there is a line. Luckily, when we went, it was after dark, so there was nobody in line. On the way there, Dan had to pick up a new cork for his jerry can. And when I say cork, I mean one of those purple banana blossoms that hangs off the banana trees. This is a common cap replacement (NOBODY in Rwanda has the caps for their jerry cans). We had to go stumbling around a bunch of banana groves to find a blossom that was at the right size and stage of growth. It was a fun little excursion for me, since I had no idea how to find the right blossom or even that it was appropriate to nab one out of somebody else’s banana grove. 

I live in a Rwandan village, but it is incredibly different from Dan’s. My house and immediate surroundings do not feel “village” on the level that Dan’s site is. I am usually grateful for my community’s relative modernity, with a basketball court and well-stocked boutiques, but there is something truly special about the simplicity of Dan’s village.

Senegal Part 3

I was in Senegal for a Peace Corps training on malaria prevention. I was honored to be selected from Peace Corps Rwanda’s new team of Regional Malaria Volunteers. The training was a 10 day “boot camp” in Senegal’s second city, Thies. Thirty volunteers and Peace Corps staff members from all over Africa were there to learn about malaria and how to fight it in their communities.

Some people that have done the training are not huge fans of it, but I thought it was a really impressive program. The training consisted of a lot of classroom time where we learned about epidemiology, malaria transmission, prevention techniques, etc. We had skype calls with a variety of impressive figures in the malaria prevention field, and others who were not directly involved with malaria, but still had relevant areas of expertise. For example, we had a call with a man who has become well known for his use of crowd-sourced mapping, which was used effectively in a variety of situations, such as disaster relief in the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti. I remembered seeing him once as a guest on The Daily Show. We also left the training center for visits to health posts and to the home of a man who had come close to eliminating malaria in his community. In the evenings, we had discussions about case studies we had been given before the training. The days were long, but pretty interesting. Plus, we usually had time for a beer or two at the Catholic bar nearby.

The food was great, and I loved the fact that we ate on the floor from big, communal bowls. Floor-sitting and communal-eating are two things that are severely lacking in my life in Rwanda. The dishes were usually typical Senegalese dishes like maffe (thick peanut sauce with goat or beef), yassa (onion and lemon sauce with chicken) and theboudienne (red rice with vegetables and fish). Occasionally we had western dishes like pizza and salad, which I didn’t mind too much.

Halfway through the conference we got a day off to go to the beach. This, I didn’t mind either. It was in a rural area, away from the crowds of Dakar and the Cap Vert Peninsula. There was almost nobody on the huge stretch of, foreigner or local. The sparse village was set far back from the beach and there were only a couple of homes and restaurants nearby. It was the rare kind of beach atmosphere where I wouldn’t mind settling down for a bit.

I have learned over the years that I am not the typical beachgoer. Most people are there for the sun and sand. I am clearly there for the water. While everyone else was laying out there towels, and tiptoeing around the edge of the surf, I was careening into the garbage-choked water. I think it was a seasonal thing, but the water was so heavily laden with floating plastic debris that it was impossible to avoid contact with them. With so few people living in the area, it was clear that the garbage was floating in from Dakar. It was less than ideal, but I was confident that the salty sea had cleaned the garbage pretty well.

We had little free time in Thies, but any time we  got to lunch early or didn’t have an evening discussion, I made an effort to explore the town. Mostly I stayed in the market area, since it was the closest thing of interest to the training center. The outer edge of the market was stinking and filthy. I imagine it is because it was where the fish trade was happening. Lots of the women sat with meat grinders, shoving chunks of fish into it and grinding it to a stringy pulp. It looked disgusting, but I don’t doubt that the ground fish could be turned into many delicious things. My favorite part of the market were the frozen drink sellers. Mostly they sold frozen hibiscus juice, or baobab fruit juice, but my favorite was the mint frozen yogurt. They made this by taking the thickened, sour milk and mixing it with a powdered mint drink mix. So refreshing in the dry Sahelian heat. The market wasn’t particularly remarkable, but I did find good deals on cloth and picked up some tea glasses and giant bags of hibiscus and café touba (spiced coffee) to take back with me.

At the end of the training, we got a ride back to Dakar. Some people were leaving early in the morning and Peace Corps had supplied them with pretty swank hotel rooms. People like me, however, weren’t leaving until the next afternoon and we were on our own. That night some of us had a small balcony party at one of the hotel rooms (it was a really nice room) before heading out to a concert. The concert was my idea, though I didn’t know if people would actually want to go. In fact, I kind of didn’t want people to go because I would feel responsible if they didn’t like it. When the party broke up, some went to a club and the rest came with me to the concert. It was a free concert held in a huge public plaza. Headlining was Daara J Family, my favorite Senegalese hip-hop group (ok, the only one I really know), who I had just seen two weeks earlier. Their performance was so good, though, that I didn’t mind seeing them again.

The concert was sponsored by Nescafe and there were booths all over distributing free cups of the instant coffee. It is interesting to see how much more marketing there is for Nescafe in Senegal than in other African countries. It seems to be because Senegal is one of the rare countries that has a coffee culture that doesn’t need Nescafe, and Nescafe can’t handle it. Café Touba, the strong, spiced coffee, is sold everywhere and is far better than Nescafe. Nescafe appears confused and frustrated by this, since it has little competition in the majority of the world and is just the default coffee. They have gone as far as making an instant coffee flavored with lemon and ginger to compete with Café Touba. I don’t know if it has caught on.

There seemed to be an endless stream of openers. Some were great, and some were mediocre. The people that had joined me were enjoying it, so I was at ease. By midnight we were growing a little impatient to see Daara J Family, though. They didn’t make it to the stage until 1:00. Again, they were fantastic. They didn’t end their set until close to 3:00 AM. We were exhausted. When we got back to the hotel, I managed to snag a bed from a volunteer that was already leaving for the airport.

The next day, Matt, my compatriot from Peace Corps Rwanda, and I went to the beach in Yoff. Being a Sunday, the beach was bumping. It was a nice last day in Senegal, enjoying something that we did not have in our country of residence. Our day was cut a little short, as we were told we had to get picked up for the airport at the Peace Corps office, rather than just go to the airport (which is in Yoff) directly.

As I approached the front doors of the airport, a man in plain clothes with some sort of ID tag hanging around his neck motioned for me. He asked for my passport. Although you must show your passport to enter the airports in Kigali and Bamako, this seemed strange. My passport and ticket were in my hand so I just quickly flashed it and tried to move past. He told me to stop and said he needed to look at my passport. I asked him why, then asked to see his ID. He was not expecting this and just started to back away. I realized he was clearly a hustler and as I started to motion to a nearby police officer, he hustled out of there quickly. I really wonder what would have happened if I had given him my passport. I also wonder how often people actually do give him their passport. I also wonder if I really look like that good of a target for a scam.

Anyway, Senegal blew me away. I was terribly disappointed to be leaving its friendly people, vibrant arts scene, urban swagger, awesome food and beaches. It is definitely one of the countries high on my list to return to if I have the chance.

Senegal Part 2

 

I had about three full days in Dakar, and I tried my best to use them to the fullest. I will try to explain all the things I loved so much about this city through brief anecdotes.

***

Dangerous street shave. Duh, any place worth its spit has a guy on the side of the street or tucked away in a market with a straight razor. And no, I don’t really think this is dangerous, I was just being sensational. Except for maybe fancy salons in Rwanda’s capital, you won’t find anything beyond clippers. No razors, no scissors. Much to be desired. The chaming, old, baldheaded man in a green boubou looked and behaved exactly as you would hope a man in that line of work to look and act. It was in a random corner in one of Dakar’s central markets. The dollar he charged was a little steep, but it was worth it on a special occasion.

***

I walked to a little market near the guesthouse on my first morning in Dakar. There was little of interest, but I was looking for a little breakfast and pulled up to a little stall where women served sandwiches filled with mysterious substances from a variety of charred pots. Unsure what to get or how to order, I indicated that I wanted the same as the guy next to me. The woman smiled in approval and slowly set to work assembling my sandwich. I was happy to find that dijon mustard was a ubiquitous feature of Senegalese street sandwiches. There were also delicious, spicy beans. The meat turned out to be liver and it was pretty good. I’ve noticed in several countries that liver tends to be served as a breakfast food. I don’t really know what that’s about, but I guess I can get down with that.

***

In a corner of Dakar tucked away behind a large industrial zone I searched for a couple of art galleries. One was closed the day I was there and the other one seemed almost as if it had never existed. I had read about it from something written a few years ago, but nobody I asked seemed to have ever heard of it. The intersection where it supposedly existed hosted almost no buildings at all. I explored the seaside neighborhood nonetheless to find a stinky beach with streams of unknown origin or contents flowing into it. Nearby, I found an even stinkier fish market. I idly watched the boats coming in with their catches, the haggling over piles of fish and the commercial scale packing of fish into large, chilled boxes and trucks. I had steered toward the beach, thinking it might be good for taking a dip. It wasn’t, but I met interesting people and saw a fascinating industry in motion.

***

Wandering central Dakar one day, I walked in the general direction of the ocean, which actually surrounds most of Dakar. I arrived at the top of a derelict staircase that overlooked the sea and some resorts and restaurants on the shore. The opulence below contrasted starkly with the makeshift shelters erected amid putrid refuse to my left.

It's hard to see, but there are a couple makeshift shacks amid the rubbish.

Note the pool.

I descended, crossed the boulevard and bought some frozen juices in plastic sachets from a vendor. I wasn’t expecting to find a place up my alley, but as I walked, I found a tiny strip of public beach. It was nestled between two private docks, where scantily clad foreigners sunbathed and ordered expensive cocktails.

The public beach was decently clean and was populated by a few parents with their kids and a couple of young guys. I went for a swim and threw a volleyball around with a Cameroonian artist I met. He was a nice guy, but I was rightfully skeptical of a person who introduces himself and immediately tells me he is an artist.

When I was done swimming, I went to the only structure or business on the beach. It was a long and shoddy thatch building divided into little private booths with mats on the sand. There was one man who ran the joint. He also grilled fish. Delicious, well-spiced fish. I chose a little booth, sat on my mat and ordered a plate of fish for about a dollar. It came with onions, lime and a homemade chili paste. I couldn’t have asked for a better meal or setting, I thought, as I watched the affluent foreigners secluded on their dock.

***

Artistically, Dakar is one of the most outwardly vibrant cities I have seen. Not only were there many galleries, artist communes, and art festivals, the city and the people themselves often seemed like art themselves. From the colorfully and creatively decorated buildings and buses to the relentless street fashion, Dakar had plenty to look at. The occasional suit constructed from scraps of dozens of mismatching leftover cloths was a testament to the imagination and resourcefulness of the city’s residents.

So I made a point of exposing myself to as much art as I could in that short time, since I am so starved of it in Rwanda. I went to a gallery that was associated with the French Cultural Center. The current exhibition featured work by a variety of artists, including many photographers, from Senegal and a few foreigners. The theme of the exhibition was “Pietons de Dakar”, or pedestrians of Dakar. The space was filled with photos, a few paintings, a couple of video installations and a replica of a rustic tea stall, all as a tribute to the people that give a pulse to the streets of this city.

The French Cultural Center is the driving force behind plenty of art in Dakar, but it is by no means the only game in town. My favorite spot was something of an artists’ collective tucked between a stadium and a highway at the edge of the suburb of Yoff. It reminded me of the artist lofts and living spaces packed into crumbling buildings around Seattle’s Pioneer Square. It consisted of about four rows of art studios/living spaces. Maybe a couple dozen artists worked and/or lived there. I was worried that this was going to be the kind of arts village where everyone makes generic African-themed paintings, cliché woodcarvings, “traditional” masks and other trinkets to sell to tourists and hotels. It most definitely was not, though. I visited the workshops of maybe half the artists and none of their work seemed trite. All the artists were friendly and interesting, and only one of them attempted to sell me his art.

The area where the sculptors worked was mesmerizing. Their randomly scattered pieces made from corrugated tin and scavenged metal were great and watching them work was fascinating. However, because it was set up far more like a workspace than as a gallery, I started to feel like a voyeur invading people at their job. So I left the calm, leafy space and headed back into the suburban wasteland of rushing vehicles and large, sparse buildings.

***

Yoff, a suburban neighborhood on the northern coast of the Cap Vert peninsula, was definitely my taste. The narrow, sandy paths between homes and businesses gave it a Saharan caravan town feel, yet it was right next to a beach. Even if you didn’t know Yoff’s history of peaceful resistance or its current status as an autonomous, self-governing neighborhood run by the Layenne Brotherhood (a sect of Sufi Muslims), it would still be clear that you were in a place farther from Dakar culturally than geographically. A sense of calm looms over the neighborhood. Supposedly there is no crime, nor is there a police force. Yes, the area can be a little more restrictive than my taste (alcohol is strictly forbidden), but the peaceful feeling of wandering the narrow alleys and greeting old men in long boubous is worth the moment of sobriety.

I walked to the beach where dozens upon dozens of fishing boats were parked. The Lebu ethnic group that comprises the majority of Yoff’s residents have historically made their living as fishermen. I didn’t have any real plans, beyond maybe taking a quick swim. Kids from the community were swimming just past where the fishing boats were parked, but I decided to postpone going in just yet. I saw a fantastic mosque sitting on the shore in the distance, and large crowds on the beach even farther along.

The walk was tranquil as I passed the occasional soccer game and was passed by the occasional horse cart. As I reached the large white mosque with its green, onion-shaped dome, I saw a sign alerting people that playing sports and swimming in this are of the beach was forbidden. Next to the mosque was a Muslim cemetery. I wanted to know more, and look around, but it surely would have been disrespectful to go poking around, so I moved toward the mysterious crowds.

I had assumed that the crowds had something to do with a religious ceremony or a festival, but it turned out it was just a popular spot to do normal beach things at. It was mostly packed with Africans, but there were also a large number of whites lounging on the beach. Small groups of people circled around pickup wrestling matches between soccer and volleyball games. Wrestling is Senegal’s most popular sport, and although they have a great national soccer team, it is more likely to see a famous wrestler on a billboard than an international soccer star. Women ran little fish stalls and people had picnics on the public beach or at private areas that offered umbrellas and cabanas. Groups of friends rented little tea kits, with charcoal, wire stove, kettle, mint, etc. It was maybe the most fun and innocent beach atmosphere I’d ever seen.

After ordering a grilled fish sandwich I found a little patch of sand to sit down on. I bought frozen juices, snacks and cups of café touba (a local version of strong, sweet and spicy coffee) from whatever roaming vendor happened to pass too close to me.

As much as I have talked about this area being quiet and peaceful, I was only mildly surprised when a fight, nay, a brawl broke out. I have previously written about the fighting culture in Rwanda, and how it is rare to see people’s anger turn into physical aggression. However, from my experience in West Africa, fighting always seemed quite common. It was also never that serious. People’s emotions would rise and a punch would be thrown. It was never meant to be taken very seriously, and people took fighting in stride. So when a group of people came tumbling out of the fenced off private area behind me, followed by a man brandishing a leg-sized piece of wood, I barely moved. The women running the food stall near me shrieked and ran for cover, which almost shocked me into retreat. I was too curious. A brawl with indiscernible sides broke out right in front of me. It was broken up in a few moments, but the yelling and posturing continued. After things started to calm down, a deranged man appeared, waving a machete over his head. He seemed to be threatening one man in particular. This was when I started to get nervous. I knew I wasn’t in danger, but what was I supposed to do if a guy started getting slashed up a few feet away from me? Suddenly someone came from behind him and tackled him into the sand. He tried to get up, but was restrained by a couple more people. Some security guards arrived and tried pull him off the beach. When they tried to stand him up, his legs suddenly stopped working. He was not taken to the ground that hard, but now seemed almost catatonic. He was dragged away, and that was the end of that.

***

On my last night in Dakar before going to the conference for which I was in Senegal for, my buddy Matt arrived. At this point, were both crashing at the home of a generous Peace Corps volunteer who had opened up her house to us. She and the other two volunteers that were staying there were hunkering down that night, but Matt and I had the firm intention of getting something out of our evening. Our host recommended a beach and an island that would be fun and appropriate for sunset beers.

We walked to a gas station on the way to the beach to pick up some cheap beers. As we entered, we were shocked to see about ten American high school girls inside. I am trying to find a way to describe them that does not sound sexist. Then again, if it was ten American high school guys, I am sure they would be their own kind of shrill and obnoxious. They were on some sort of study abroad trip, led by an American girl a little younger than me. The way they were all dressed, the way they talked loud, the way they didn’t bother to speak a word of French, let alone Wolof, the way their leader did speak French probably better than me, but with the most shameless American accent I have ever heard, was all incredibly strange. What had I walked into? I felt awkward about seeming associated with them as I spoke with their leader. Some of the Senegalese guys waiting in line were blatantly hitting on them, making things even more uncomfortable. I was glad when we got our beers and left.

The beach was narrower than the one in Yoff and even more crowded with merrymakers and food vendors. Matt bought a shrimp sandwich from a woman with a grill, and I regretted not doing the same.

We bought some cheap tickets for the boat to take us out to Ile de N’Gor (N’Gor Island). The boat was a 30 or 40-foot long wooden skiff with an outboard motor and room for probably 50 or 60. The ride only took a couple of minutes. The island had a couple of restaurants and a beach facing the mainland. We walked through the tiny neighborhood to the other side of the island where we found a rocky area facing the ocean. Surf was way too chaotic and rocky for swimming, but it was a good enough place for sipping our sunset beers.

That night we went to a place that was recommended for live music. It was a fancy restaurant that we both felt a little uncomfortable in. We bought small beers at crazy prices and sipped them slowly. These are the rare moments that I wish I was a well-paid expat, so I could afford places like this. The music was more in the traditional vein with acoustic guitars, djembes and a kora. It was quality music and we both really enjoyed it. The restaurant was pretty empty though, and there was little atmosphere to speak of. The hoity-toity feel made it a little disappointing compared to the free shows I’d seen the previous nights. 

***

When I was staying at the home of my Peace Corps volunteer host in Dakar, there were also a couple of volunteers from Sierra Leone staying there. The Sierra Leone volunteers and I had made rough plans to go and do stuff around Dakar, but first they needed to stop by the Peace Corps office. To nobody’s fault in particular, I ended up waiting outside the office for over an hour. When they finally emerged, they carried lunch plans and a few more volunteers with them. I was a little bit frustrated since everything had been moving slowly all day. It was almost 1 PM and I hadn’t really done anything. I decided to forego joining the group for lunch and went on my own. It was just another of my many situations where I am caught between my desire to be social and my need to DO stuff and not waste time. Sometimes the experiences you share with people when traveling are irreplaceable, but sometimes it is just more rewarding to go off your own despite the potential for loneliness.

Senegal Part 1

It’s crazy how we construct images in our minds about places we’ve never been, and we’re always surprised at the inaccuracy of our mental depiction when we finally see the imagined place. At least that is the case for me. Sometimes the images even defy logic or your better judgment. This was the case for me when arriving in Senegal. I had been to two bordering countries, Mauritania and Mali, but still was unable to accurately picture what Dakar would look like. This was partly because Dakar is incredibly different from its neighboring capital cities. I know that Senegal is a very dry country. I know it is on the northern edge of the Sahel, not far from the Sahara. I know there are serious problems with access to water in the city. But all this knowledge did not stop my mind from anticipating a lush, green city. As the plane descended into the outskirts of Dakar, it looked like my mind’s creation of what a Middle Eastern city looks like. Boxy concrete buildings, some colorfully painted, many unfinished or decrepit that gave it a war zone-like feel, and brown. Lots and lots of brown. From the sky it was clear that I was heading into a country just this side of desert.

So my mind quickly readjusted what it was expecting of Dakar. That is probably why I was not surprised by the heat, when stepping off the plane, but I was taken aback by the humidity. Dakar is on a peninsula that juts off the coast of West Africa like a little nipple, providing a climate that is a little less dry and hot than the interior of the country.

I was in Senegal because I was lucky enough to be selected to attend an intensive training on malaria prevention. Stomp Out Malaria is a new and innovative Peace Corps initiative to increase malaria programs at Peace Corps posts all over sub-Saharan Africa. There are a few of these trainings every year and most African Peace Corps countries send volunteers and staff to help improve their malaria-prevention programs. Although it is one of Africa’s biggest health problems, until recently it was widely a neglected issue. Since joining Rwanda’s team of volunteers that do malaria programs, I had felt good to have a new side project to work on, especially because I live in one of the most malaria-ridden parts of Rwanda. I was very honored to be selected to attend this training, but most of all I was excited to return to West Africa, perhaps my favorite region in the world. I am growing to like Rwanda, but anyone around me knows that I obnoxiously pine over West Africa on a regular basis. I wanted to take full advantage of this opportunity, so I managed to take a few vacation days and arrive early. Although my flight was paid for, I was told that I would have to pay for the difference in the cost of the flight if I was to change it. I was willing to pay almost anything to have a few extra days to myself in Senegal. The difference came out to a whopping $2.

Uncharacteristically, I planned extensively for my time there. I figured that since my time was limited, it would be well worth it to have plenty of ideas of what to do when I got there. Now, it’s not like I made any reservations or schedules, but I made an effort to find out when concerts were, write down where art galleries were and jot notes about beaches. I had a lot to pack in.

As I exited customs, I was surprised to find a man holding a sign with my name and the Peace Corps logo on it. I figured that since I was arriving before the other volunteers, I was on my own. Instead, a Peace Corps driver named Matar was there to arrange my transport to the Peace Corps Office. It was a nice gesture, but I was kind of looking forward to getting into town on my own. Matar brought me to a hired van that took me directly to the Peace Corps office where they gave me a cell phone for use while in Senegal. I met Jillian, a volunteer who was in her third year and worked closely with the Stomp program. She had invited me to stay at her place nearby, but I felt like I wanted to be on my own during the brief time I could be on full travel mode. She gave me directions to get a bus into the city center.

I was surprised by how quickly I was able to transition to speaking French. In Rwanda, any time I try to speak French it comes out littered with Kinyarwanda words. Within an hour I was feeling pretty comfortable with the language. I got on the battered, but colorful bus and was thrown off by a payment system I’d never seen before. You had to buy a ticket from a person in a booth made of wood and metal at the back of the bus and someone during the ride would check the ticket. My exhilaration as we made our way through the chaotic streets was out of control. I was already feeling like Dakar was everything that Kigali wasn’t. Energetic, chaotic, loud, artistic, dirty, and filled with smells both sensational and gag-worthy. All the things that good cities are made of.

Admittedly, I was a little nervous when we arrived at the bus park close to dusk. I’d always heard negative things about Dakar. That it is a fast-moving, aggressive and dangerous city rife with hustlers and thieves. Almost any urban bus park in Africa can be unnerving, and this was no exception. I didn’t want to linger, but I also didn’t really know where I was going. I knew my skin and large backpack would make me a target to any opportunists in the area. I escaped the bus park chaos in the direction I assumed to be the center of town, but I really didn’t know. After asking a few people along the way, I was finding my way to what I had heard was the cheapest place in the city to stay.

Without too much hassle, I arrived at Ali Baba a Middle Eastern fast food joint that is an icon in Dakar. Above it is a somewhat sketchy guesthouse. At about $20 for a room, it was indeed cheap for this remarkably expensive city, and I was not able to bargain for a cheaper room at all.

My first impression of downtown Dakar was how much it reminded me of the African neighborhoods in Paris. Everything about the streets and the buildings reminded me more of Paris than Bamako, Mali or Nouakchott Mauritania. The French influence would continue to be apparent during my stay.

After checking into my room and unsuccessfully trying to greet the Indian man cooking in a lungi in the communal kitchen, I headed out the door into central Dakar. I was hoping to go to a concert that was happening at a place called “Biscuterie la Medina”. Assuming that it was in a nearby neighborhood called Medina, I walked the twenty or so minutes it took to get there. I knew it was a big venue, but I mostly got blank stares or incorrect directions when I asked where it was. Eventually one person knew where it was, but said it was far too far to walk to. I would later find out that the venue is not in the neighborhood I had assumed it was in. Not even close. The man showed me which shared taxi to get into, and I piled in. Whisked into the neon and blackness of Dakar’s outskirts, I was both nervous about making it to the concert at all, and invigorated by my the sparse amount of control I had over my situation. I was now at the mercy of the driver, and had stepped firmly away from the vague orientation I had clung to so I had a chance of an easy return home.

When the driver told me it was my stop, I fumbled for a modestly valued bill. I only had the largest denomination. I almost never make that mistake and I felt like an amateur and the irritating foreigner I never want to be. The driver didn’t have change and just told me to not worry about it. I apologized, but he seemed not to mind much and peeled back into the traffic.

It took some wandering and asking, but I made it to the venue. It was a large, outdoor space, with a huge stage, a small set of bleachers, a VIP section and a serious light setup. I feel like I’m just describing a fairly normal concert venue, but that is because it was that. The nicest I’d seen in Africa and better than the average venue in Seattle.

Both of my first two nights in Senegal, I ended up at this same venue, since there was a three-night series of concerts. Thus, I will describe them together.

Most of the music I know from this region of Africa leans towards the traditional. This night, however, was almost exclusively hip-hop, R and B, and poetry. Most of the acts were Senegalese, however, since the even was sponsored by the French Cultural Center, there were also a healthy dose of French acts, such as Grand Corps Malade (Big Sick Body), a spoken word poet, and Sniper, a rap group. I felt that French groups unfairly took the headlining spots, even though they are pretty well-known. Of course I was unable to understand much of the poetry of Grand Corps Malade, but it didn’t fit into the atmosphere of fun and dance that was happening just before. Sniper was a little too much about gold, guns and braggadocio for my taste.

There was only one local act that I was familiar with, but plenty of the others were fantastic. The styles were varied, and some artists were more polished than others. Mostly I was impressed to see hip-hop being done with higher quality and sophistication than I’d seen elsewhere in Africa (and, of course in mainstream America). Daara J Family performed exceedingly late the night I saw them. They are a group that I first heard on KEXP in Seattle about three years prior, and had loved them immediately. Their show did not disappoint. It was the most excited I had been at a concert in years, although I am sure no small part of it was the almost complete absences of live music in Rwanda.

Dakar made me happy. It was quickly showing me it had everything I wanted in a city. A vibrant arts and music scene, incredible food, interesting and friendly people, exciting public transportation, beaches and a little bit of edge.