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.