Tamara had a lesson in seduction over lunch the other day. What began with an innocent invitation from our legume lady to eat at her place ended with dance lessons, jewelry and aphrodisiac incense.
In the preceding entry you were briefly introduced to the Legume Lady. She stands at the corner of the busiest road in Ouakam, across from the Total gas station, selling a variety of vegetables: bright red tomatoes with the little ridges around the side proof of their organic state, cucumbers, manioc, onions, lettuce, carrots, green and red peppers and other produce, depending on the day. Well I guess we made a good impression on her, with all of our earnest attempts at speaking Wolof, greeting with a salaam aleikum, asking na nga def and na ka sa wa keur (how are you, how is your family) saying jayrai jeff (thank you) and leaving with a bo bhenin yon (see you later). Tamara is always especially cute, turning as red as the tomatoes she had picked out each time she used a mix of French and Wolof. So one day, using her daughter to translate into clear French, she invited us to lunch at her home. We agreed and a couple days later we were at her home, eating with her son, daughter and their children.
We ate the national plate thieboudienne, which is an assortment of vegetables and fish served on top of red, lightly spiced rice. When we first got here we couldn’t get enough of the stuff. You can buy it for every lunch for 400 CFA (1$) at little kiosks set up alongside the road. Tamara would trek out under the scorching sun every day at around 2pm to get her fill. That is until we noticed that we were having “problems” disposing of the starch-laden meal; once it was in our guts it tended to stay there. Needless to say, we have included a lot of fibre and fruit into our diet… but I digress.
So we were eating thieboudienne with the Legume Lady’s son Malick and her daughter Royhaya. Malick and I were having some interesting conversations about politics, healthcare and schools in Senegal when Royhaya all of a sudden caught a glimmer in her eye and decided to spice things up a bit. As an aside, Royhaya has been married for at least 11 years and has three children. Unfortunately her husband is seldom home and is currently in Morocco with the Senegalese military. She explained that it is a good job, seeing that it is reliable and well-paid, but it keeps him away from the family for very long periods of time. Keeping that fact that Royhaya doesn’t see her husband all that often you can begin to understand why she was excited to give us some advice on love-life Senegalese style.
After having spent the first 45 minutes of our conversation lying on her side with a sleepy look on her face, Royhaya all of a sudden sat up and basically asked Tamara how we were doing… in the biblical sense. As an experienced wife Royhaya had a lot of tips she could teach to Tamara. It turns out that Senegalese woman are known for their mysterious ways and tantalizing techniques used to keep their men at home. In a country where there are more women than men and men are allowed to marry up to four wives, a lady has to stay competitive to keep ahead of the curve. Royhaya explained this to Tamara and I and said that Tamara would have to be careful, because the Senegalese women would try to steal me away given the chance. She said that Senegalese women were sneaky like that. Of course it was all delivered with a smile and a wink. Personally I figured it was more the onslaught of men always blatantly looking Tamara up and down and approaching her when I wasn’t around that should keep me on my toes. Thankfully marriage is respected institution in predominantly Muslim Senegal, so each time a man asked Tamara if she was married (which by the way happened all the time, seeing it was usually the first or second question she gets asked) and Tamara said yes, the interest of the potential suitor diminished rapidly. But in the eyes of Royhaya, it was Tamara’s task to make sure I wasn’t stolen away. To do so she would teach Tamara the Senegalese arts of seduction.
They began with the bin-bins. These are colourful waist beads of varying sizes. The smaller beads are worn by unmarried women, the large cylindrical ones, the ones that really make all the noise, are worn by married women. Seeing that Tamara was a married women Royhaya presented her with a string of large bin-bins. She explained that the women can wear bin-bins throughout the day, so that when she is walking around town all the men can hear the rustling of beads, a little reminder of her fertility. The next step was the petit pang. This little waist sash was used for the bedroom only. Royhaya found a light blue one with slits cut across it, all in order to leave little to the imagination of the husband, who by this time would be struck dumb with desire. The coup de grace was the churrai incense. Before the husband came home his wife would place the incense in the bedroom and keep it heated. By the time her man arrived in the warm, softly lit confines of their love shack a tantalizing scent would already permeate the room. The combination of bin-bins, petit pang and churrai would leave any hot-blooded husband enchanted by the charms of his beautiful, seductive wife… thus giving him no incentive to go out and find another one.
During her whole production of explaining and presenting the carefully guarded secrets of Senegalese wives Royhaya was smiling gleefully, getting a kick out of making Tamara try on the bin bins and pang and showing her how to dance for a man in the bedroom. By the time we left Tamara was stocked and trained to keep her man satisfied for a long time to come… I had no objections.
A few days later when we went by the Legume Lady’s stall to buy some more veggies Royhaya was there. She jumped up with a gleeful smile on her face when she saw Tamara and asked her how “things” were working. Before Tamara could give a response Royhaya was already grabbing for her shirt and flipping it up to take a look and see if the bin-bins were there. They were, which resulted in laughing, high-fives and a little booty jiggle from the Senegalese momma.
Friday 19 December 2008
Street Spirit
If you want a better picture of what the community is like that we live in, or if you are holding onto the fading hope that my writing might one day be more interesting or at least grammatically correct and today might be the day for that long awaited metamorphosis, then read on.
The area of Dakar that we live in is called “Ouakam”. Tamara teases me that I spell it differently every time, but the altered spellings seem to fit the theme of this trip; random wanderings in a continent where nothing is as formalized, as set in stone or as transparent as home… at least from our point of view. Who knows, probably for the folks here everything does have a rhythm and a sense, it’s just harder for us Canadians to see. Of course when it gets down to it, I don’t really know how Oukam (or Ouakham) is supposed to be spelled. In any case, that is where we live.
Ouakam is north of downtown, not too far from the airport, tucked in between the Senegalese and French army bases and the Atlantic Ocean. The closest beach is about a fifteen minute walk away, lined with colourfully painted pirogue fishing boats and home to a very cool mosque that has rounded turrets on top akin to the Cloud City-esque architecture of Bespin. Five times a day we hear the call to prayer that is amplified from the topmost tower of the mosque across the whole neighbourhood. The highway Cheikh Anta Diop runs through Ouakam right to the N’Gor, which is the westernmost point in all of Africa. The few blocks of red dirt and black tarmac that we would consider our hood is full of the goings on of city life. For one, there is constant traffic. There are the flowery-painted Car Rapides and white Ndiage Ndiayes, which are basically big vans that can carry up to 30 people. They go downtown for 150F CFA (about $.40) There are also the big blue Dakar Dem Dikk (‘Dakar return trip’ in Wolof) buses that have routes all over the city at the rate of 200F CFA per ride. More than half the cars on the road are taxis in various states of disrepair and they constantly pass by honking at anyone who doesn’t even look half interested in a ride. Taxi fares are negotiable, which can be a lot of fun once you know what the prices should be and you develop a knack for tough negotiations. The toubab (white folk) price for a taxi to downtown from Ouakam is 2000F CFA (about $5), while the price for Senegalese people is about 1500F CFA ($3.75). However, the taxi drivers usually have the audacity to ask for 4000F right off the bat and are always a little put out when you explain that you live here and thus know that ‘deux mille c’est bon!’
Our house is in a walled courtyard about 25 m from the main road. Walking onto Cheik Anta Diop, right across the street, is the first fruit vendor that we meet in Dakar. For the first month or so we bought oranges, mangos and grape fruit off of him. Usually 2 kg of the latter was 1400 CFA ($3.50), which usually resulted in 5 plump little pamplemousse in our bag. But then we tried out the competition up the road and found that we could get six for 1200 CFA, so we’ve switched suppliers. A little further north you would come across the Total gas station. It is a very modern looking station, with all the European amenities you would expect from such an establishment (overpriced gas ($2/litre), chocolate bars ($1.50), pop, juice and wine. Across the street form the Total is our favorite street vendor of all, the “Legume Lady”, or the vegetable lady. We’ve been going to her for our greens since we arrived and although the prices fluctuate wildly (from $3.75-$6.25 for the same produce), the service is always with a smile. In any case, if we pretend not to have more than $5 she will still sell us a good bag full. The Legume Lady is Peoul, which is an ethnicity in West Africa that can be found all over the region. I first heard about the Peoul when I was watching the five-part National Geographic series Africa. It showed the young men herding their cattle over thousands of kilometers of Sahel and the Peoul girls with their elaborate and beautiful dresses and jewelry. The average girl wore enough amber in her hair and gold around her neck to stock a full Spence Diamonds. The girls also henna around their mouths, making a large black outline of their lips reaching down to just above their chins. I noticed that the Legume Lady had the faint tracings of henna in the same place. When we got to know her and her family better they told us that they were Peoul and that they had originally moved from the countryside to Dakar.
Anyways… that was a bit of a diversion. The following entry will go into our deepening relationship with the Legume Lady and her family.
The area of Dakar that we live in is called “Ouakam”. Tamara teases me that I spell it differently every time, but the altered spellings seem to fit the theme of this trip; random wanderings in a continent where nothing is as formalized, as set in stone or as transparent as home… at least from our point of view. Who knows, probably for the folks here everything does have a rhythm and a sense, it’s just harder for us Canadians to see. Of course when it gets down to it, I don’t really know how Oukam (or Ouakham) is supposed to be spelled. In any case, that is where we live.
Ouakam is north of downtown, not too far from the airport, tucked in between the Senegalese and French army bases and the Atlantic Ocean. The closest beach is about a fifteen minute walk away, lined with colourfully painted pirogue fishing boats and home to a very cool mosque that has rounded turrets on top akin to the Cloud City-esque architecture of Bespin. Five times a day we hear the call to prayer that is amplified from the topmost tower of the mosque across the whole neighbourhood. The highway Cheikh Anta Diop runs through Ouakam right to the N’Gor, which is the westernmost point in all of Africa. The few blocks of red dirt and black tarmac that we would consider our hood is full of the goings on of city life. For one, there is constant traffic. There are the flowery-painted Car Rapides and white Ndiage Ndiayes, which are basically big vans that can carry up to 30 people. They go downtown for 150F CFA (about $.40) There are also the big blue Dakar Dem Dikk (‘Dakar return trip’ in Wolof) buses that have routes all over the city at the rate of 200F CFA per ride. More than half the cars on the road are taxis in various states of disrepair and they constantly pass by honking at anyone who doesn’t even look half interested in a ride. Taxi fares are negotiable, which can be a lot of fun once you know what the prices should be and you develop a knack for tough negotiations. The toubab (white folk) price for a taxi to downtown from Ouakam is 2000F CFA (about $5), while the price for Senegalese people is about 1500F CFA ($3.75). However, the taxi drivers usually have the audacity to ask for 4000F right off the bat and are always a little put out when you explain that you live here and thus know that ‘deux mille c’est bon!’
Our house is in a walled courtyard about 25 m from the main road. Walking onto Cheik Anta Diop, right across the street, is the first fruit vendor that we meet in Dakar. For the first month or so we bought oranges, mangos and grape fruit off of him. Usually 2 kg of the latter was 1400 CFA ($3.50), which usually resulted in 5 plump little pamplemousse in our bag. But then we tried out the competition up the road and found that we could get six for 1200 CFA, so we’ve switched suppliers. A little further north you would come across the Total gas station. It is a very modern looking station, with all the European amenities you would expect from such an establishment (overpriced gas ($2/litre), chocolate bars ($1.50), pop, juice and wine. Across the street form the Total is our favorite street vendor of all, the “Legume Lady”, or the vegetable lady. We’ve been going to her for our greens since we arrived and although the prices fluctuate wildly (from $3.75-$6.25 for the same produce), the service is always with a smile. In any case, if we pretend not to have more than $5 she will still sell us a good bag full. The Legume Lady is Peoul, which is an ethnicity in West Africa that can be found all over the region. I first heard about the Peoul when I was watching the five-part National Geographic series Africa. It showed the young men herding their cattle over thousands of kilometers of Sahel and the Peoul girls with their elaborate and beautiful dresses and jewelry. The average girl wore enough amber in her hair and gold around her neck to stock a full Spence Diamonds. The girls also henna around their mouths, making a large black outline of their lips reaching down to just above their chins. I noticed that the Legume Lady had the faint tracings of henna in the same place. When we got to know her and her family better they told us that they were Peoul and that they had originally moved from the countryside to Dakar.
Anyways… that was a bit of a diversion. The following entry will go into our deepening relationship with the Legume Lady and her family.
Tuesday 25 November 2008
Our Nutshelled Life
We live in an area of Dakar called Ouakam. It’s nicely situated between downtown, where you’ll find my office and Tamara’s school, and the beaches of Les Almadies and N’Gor to the north. We’re tucked away from the main road by about 25 meters of gravel path ending at a wrought iron gate. Beside our little three-room home there is a bachelor’s flat where a Senegalese lady lives, and across from that there is a larger single story house used by vacationers usually coming from other African countries. Walking behind our house you pass a second story home where a family lives on the way to the main courtyard. In the courtyard there is a swing set and a pool, which these days is more of a larva puddle for mosquitoes than anything else, and past that you’ll find the crowning achievement of the whole property, a giant baobab tree. Across from the baobab is the school for handicapped children.
When we first arrived there weren’t any kids yet because it was still summer holidays. But with each passing week, little by little, the little people marched into school and now it is full. There are probably 15 kids all together now. In the beginning it took a little bit for them to warm up to our presence. We started with a salaam aleikum here and a na nga def there. One afternoon, a couple of weeks after school started, a few of the more adventurous children approached Tamara while she was using the computer in the shaded Wi-Fi zone (which we somehow lucked-out getting for free with a faint signal) in our yard. They asked her name and how she was doing and Tamara did the same, in Wolof and French. The kids smiled and laughed, some more shyly than others, and seemed pretty content to have a new playmate. They surrounded Tamara and proceeded to poke and prod at the computer screen. To avoid the laptop becoming the newest plaything for the kids Tamara gave a quick yet courteous au revoir and since then we have had a whack of miniature Senegalese friends in our backyard.
Proceeding to the back of the courtyard you will find what I would call the students’ quarters. There are about ten little rooms, five on each side, all with a screened door facing out to a walkway that encircles the building. At the far end there is a dining room and a kitchen. In the centre of the building all of the rooms give access to a hallway, which leads onto the shared bathrooms. Our friend Emile, a student of literature from Burkina Faso, is staying in one of the rooms. In three of these other pads live our French Canadian friends Anne-Marie, Marie-Helene and Mathieu, or as Tamara would call them, “the Kwee-bek-kwa and Anne-Marie”. The five of us have shared in a few trips, a few adventures and a lot of “Settling of Catan” since we arrived.
Walking up that path to the Cheikh Anta Diop highway we pass a Catholic school, a square of living quarters for nuns and the church Notre Dame des Anges. We rent out our home from the church and the sisters take care of the any maintenance issues. Sister Rita, or lovely Rita as I like to think of her, is the Madame who takes care of the property and collects our rent. One of the first times we saw her she was speeding into the courtyard at the driver’s seat of her SUV, tinted windows rolled down and shades on. She hopped out of the Ford onto her short legs and flipped open her cell phone; some business needed attending to. A formidable flip-flop wearing force of a woman, she is always issuing instructions and charging someone with some task. Whether it’s tending to the garden, fixing our lock or supplying us with purple, ant-eating gel, she’s perpetually a woman on the move. We think Whoopi Goldberg must have researched the life of Sister Rita for Sister Act.
So that is our little world, tucked away from the sputtering engines and black fumes of Dakar’s busy streets.
When we first arrived there weren’t any kids yet because it was still summer holidays. But with each passing week, little by little, the little people marched into school and now it is full. There are probably 15 kids all together now. In the beginning it took a little bit for them to warm up to our presence. We started with a salaam aleikum here and a na nga def there. One afternoon, a couple of weeks after school started, a few of the more adventurous children approached Tamara while she was using the computer in the shaded Wi-Fi zone (which we somehow lucked-out getting for free with a faint signal) in our yard. They asked her name and how she was doing and Tamara did the same, in Wolof and French. The kids smiled and laughed, some more shyly than others, and seemed pretty content to have a new playmate. They surrounded Tamara and proceeded to poke and prod at the computer screen. To avoid the laptop becoming the newest plaything for the kids Tamara gave a quick yet courteous au revoir and since then we have had a whack of miniature Senegalese friends in our backyard.
Proceeding to the back of the courtyard you will find what I would call the students’ quarters. There are about ten little rooms, five on each side, all with a screened door facing out to a walkway that encircles the building. At the far end there is a dining room and a kitchen. In the centre of the building all of the rooms give access to a hallway, which leads onto the shared bathrooms. Our friend Emile, a student of literature from Burkina Faso, is staying in one of the rooms. In three of these other pads live our French Canadian friends Anne-Marie, Marie-Helene and Mathieu, or as Tamara would call them, “the Kwee-bek-kwa and Anne-Marie”. The five of us have shared in a few trips, a few adventures and a lot of “Settling of Catan” since we arrived.
Walking up that path to the Cheikh Anta Diop highway we pass a Catholic school, a square of living quarters for nuns and the church Notre Dame des Anges. We rent out our home from the church and the sisters take care of the any maintenance issues. Sister Rita, or lovely Rita as I like to think of her, is the Madame who takes care of the property and collects our rent. One of the first times we saw her she was speeding into the courtyard at the driver’s seat of her SUV, tinted windows rolled down and shades on. She hopped out of the Ford onto her short legs and flipped open her cell phone; some business needed attending to. A formidable flip-flop wearing force of a woman, she is always issuing instructions and charging someone with some task. Whether it’s tending to the garden, fixing our lock or supplying us with purple, ant-eating gel, she’s perpetually a woman on the move. We think Whoopi Goldberg must have researched the life of Sister Rita for Sister Act.
So that is our little world, tucked away from the sputtering engines and black fumes of Dakar’s busy streets.
Friday 7 November 2008
Obama-Maniafrica
Thank God for the BBC! And for portable, wind-up radios! All day Tuesday I was feeling more homesick than I have since heading out a little over a month ago. It wasn’t family or friends that I missed, nor was it even a craving for Second-Slice pizza on a Friday night. No, it was the idea of missing out on the biggest world event since the war in Iraq started. And by world event I don’t necessarily mean the most costly, the most fatal or the most terrifying. I mean what is on the tip of every tongue, “Obama-Mania” a.k.a. the US Presidential Election.
I was sad that I was going to miss CNN with Wolf Blitzer and those seizure-inducing flashes of red and blue across the sensationally named “War-Room” video screen. Or that I wouldn’t have a chance to flick between Peter Mansbridge’s baritone voice delivering insights into the race or Lloyd Robinson’s dour portrayal of US politics.
But luckily enough, and thanks again to BBC Radio, Tuesday night we found ourselves huddled around our wonderful little radio, playing cards and listening to the initial projections for the US Presidential Elections. By 1am we knew that Indiana was in the Obama camp and that South Carolina was with McCain, but not much else. I set my cell-phone alarm for 5am Dakar-time (GMT) and slipped off to sleep with the radio still chattering away in the soothing accents of BBC commentary.
We woke up at 5. I admit, my first feeling was of fear. What if McCain had actually won? What if when I turned on the radio I heard instead of reports of the promised parties in Ghana and Kenya, utter disappointment? But my worry was put at ease moments after I wound up the radio and flicked it on. Obama was giving his acceptance speech! A big smile came across my face and I felt as though Dakar itself was smiling as well. In fact it sounded like all of Africa was smiling. Throughout the BBC broadcast reporters situated all around Africa had been reporting how there was such a great sense of expectation. People were prepared to stay up all night to watch the results and to party all morning if it was an Obama victory. In Obama’s father’s town in Kenya they had set up a theatre-sized screen so the whole community could watch the election together. In Accra attentive well-wishers gathered together in bars and restaurants, where they could conveniently watch the results and then grab a beer to celebrate without having to give up their seats. And in the days leading up to November 4th every other conversation I had with people in Dakar had touched upon the election, Obama and their support for him.
During his speech Obama gave a shout out to those of us “in the forgotten corners of the world huddled around our radios”. Hah! That was us. It was nice of him to recognize his supporters all over the world. And he probably realized that if everyone who was listening and who felt that the US Election was important to their future all had a vote, the tens of millions counted in his favor would have been a drop in the bucket compared to the hundreds of millions or more he would have amassed from those states outside of the 50 that counted. As for McCain, he could only hope to pick up a few votes in Alberta.
Obama-mania is alive here in Dakar. Educated professionals talk about it with reserved optimism. The man on the street, in our case mostly taxi drivers, burst with enthusiasm when we bring up the topic. “Obama is good for the world. Everyone is tired of war.” Our taxi man said on Thursday. “Since the war gas prices have gone way up. We are tired of war.”
Many of my friends in Dakar have made the point that their support for Obama is not because he is black (where I point out that his mom is white, but he’s almost always referred to as black and only black), but because of his message. Vision and policy put aside, one did say that he didn’t like the stiff way McCain moved, where I explained that that was due to injuries sustained in his POW past. But it goes to show you, if you want the youth vote in Dakar it helps to dance a good Mbala.
A coworker stated the obvious that “Everyone likes Obama. Everyone appreciates his message.”
A friend gave the most pointed summary. “Now we know that the United States is truly a democracy. Now that they have voted for a black man. We know that really anyone can become the president of the Unites States, including a man who’s father came from Africa.”
I was sad that I was going to miss CNN with Wolf Blitzer and those seizure-inducing flashes of red and blue across the sensationally named “War-Room” video screen. Or that I wouldn’t have a chance to flick between Peter Mansbridge’s baritone voice delivering insights into the race or Lloyd Robinson’s dour portrayal of US politics.
But luckily enough, and thanks again to BBC Radio, Tuesday night we found ourselves huddled around our wonderful little radio, playing cards and listening to the initial projections for the US Presidential Elections. By 1am we knew that Indiana was in the Obama camp and that South Carolina was with McCain, but not much else. I set my cell-phone alarm for 5am Dakar-time (GMT) and slipped off to sleep with the radio still chattering away in the soothing accents of BBC commentary.
We woke up at 5. I admit, my first feeling was of fear. What if McCain had actually won? What if when I turned on the radio I heard instead of reports of the promised parties in Ghana and Kenya, utter disappointment? But my worry was put at ease moments after I wound up the radio and flicked it on. Obama was giving his acceptance speech! A big smile came across my face and I felt as though Dakar itself was smiling as well. In fact it sounded like all of Africa was smiling. Throughout the BBC broadcast reporters situated all around Africa had been reporting how there was such a great sense of expectation. People were prepared to stay up all night to watch the results and to party all morning if it was an Obama victory. In Obama’s father’s town in Kenya they had set up a theatre-sized screen so the whole community could watch the election together. In Accra attentive well-wishers gathered together in bars and restaurants, where they could conveniently watch the results and then grab a beer to celebrate without having to give up their seats. And in the days leading up to November 4th every other conversation I had with people in Dakar had touched upon the election, Obama and their support for him.
During his speech Obama gave a shout out to those of us “in the forgotten corners of the world huddled around our radios”. Hah! That was us. It was nice of him to recognize his supporters all over the world. And he probably realized that if everyone who was listening and who felt that the US Election was important to their future all had a vote, the tens of millions counted in his favor would have been a drop in the bucket compared to the hundreds of millions or more he would have amassed from those states outside of the 50 that counted. As for McCain, he could only hope to pick up a few votes in Alberta.
Obama-mania is alive here in Dakar. Educated professionals talk about it with reserved optimism. The man on the street, in our case mostly taxi drivers, burst with enthusiasm when we bring up the topic. “Obama is good for the world. Everyone is tired of war.” Our taxi man said on Thursday. “Since the war gas prices have gone way up. We are tired of war.”
Many of my friends in Dakar have made the point that their support for Obama is not because he is black (where I point out that his mom is white, but he’s almost always referred to as black and only black), but because of his message. Vision and policy put aside, one did say that he didn’t like the stiff way McCain moved, where I explained that that was due to injuries sustained in his POW past. But it goes to show you, if you want the youth vote in Dakar it helps to dance a good Mbala.
A coworker stated the obvious that “Everyone likes Obama. Everyone appreciates his message.”
A friend gave the most pointed summary. “Now we know that the United States is truly a democracy. Now that they have voted for a black man. We know that really anyone can become the president of the Unites States, including a man who’s father came from Africa.”
Saturday 1 November 2008
Watch out for the Cockroaches!
Last weekend Travis and I went to the movies. Along came Anne-Marie from Ottawa and Marie-Helene from Montreal. Together with another Canadian, Mathieu, they constitute our little Canadian family living with us at the Centre. We arrived a bit late at the theatre, so Mission Impossible 3 had already started. Yes indeed, no current blockbusters here! Admission was about $1 (since 6:30pm is still considered ‘matinee’), and after passing several ‘no smoking’ signs we were led into an extremely dark, large room. From the noise and rustling it seemed to be full, but it was impossible to see anything of the audience even though the screen was lit up. We sat down in some very dirty yet comfortable movie chairs (most of which were broken), and settled in to watch the show. Suddenly the sound of clicking filled the room as the audience as one lit up, the cigarette smoke wafting to the ceiling in a big cloud. The room was clearly some kind of old garage, because it was like watching a movie in a tin can. The echo and sound quality was so bad that even the native French speakers among us had a difficult time understanding. As a dubbed movie, the words didn’t match the lip movements, so lip reading was impossible also. Luckily about half of MI3 consists of Tom Cruise running, rather than conversing, so it was still entertaining for all. During the climax of the movie, Tom Cruise rescues his wife from evil-doers, and then electrocutes himself. He then lies motionless for several minutes while his wife performs CPR on his lifeless body. Just when you think all hope is lost, Tom gasps for air, sits up and grabs a gun. That is the end as far as the Senegalese are concerned. After this moment the entire audience got up and left the theatre, with a good 10 minutes of the movie left to go. Our small Canadian contingent stayed until the lights came on, at which time we noticed that all the seats in front of us were benches or chairs with no cushion! As we made our way to the theatre exit a big cockroach scurried under foot...
Friday 24 October 2008
Arrival in DAKAR
I’ll give everyone a brief rundown of how things have gone so far. After five long weeks of Tamara traveling and partying around Finland and Ireland and me riding my flashy tricycle around Victoria giving rides to tourists,we met up in London at Canada House in Trafalgar Square. From there we went to Her Majesty’s Royal Theatre and saw the Phantom of the Opera. The next day we met up with Gordon and Maddie, two of my friends from the Legislative Intern days. It was very cool seeing them in London, and Maddie picked out an exquisite restaurant that gave us a view of Trafalgar Square and much of downtown. We walked to Hyde Park then made our way to Heathrow for an evening flight to Dakar.
On the flight to Dakar there was a Belgian sitting across from us that had all sorts of stories to tell about Senegal. He had lived there years back and now returned regularly to see friends. He talked about the government corruption, about the regular rolling blackouts that happen day and night through the city and about the friendliness of the people. But what stuck out in my mind was fact 1: that the weather was going to get cool, even cold, come November and fact 2: when this happens all the little bugs, spiders and critters invade our homes and get cozy with the inhabitants. So I guess I was looking forward to some cool weather, seeing I knew from last time in Benin that it can be hard to do anything when it is constantly 35 degrees and humid, but on the other hand the thought of battling with exotic bugs in my bed wasn’t appealing.
In the seat behind us there was man from Dakar who was returning home with four laptops. He had packed them with his carry-on luggage and was trying to get me to give one of them to Tamara so she could take it across customs for him because otherwise he would have to pay a fee at the border. Now, I’ve never actually watched Broken Down Palace, but I know the plot line from trailers and I didn’t want Tamara to do a Claire Danes and end up stuck in jail for trying to get some hidden substances across customs in a foreign country with a foreign language she didn’t speak. So I had to politely tell the exporter-importer that no, we would not be able to take his laptop through customs. Though really, I didn’t suspect him of trying to pull a fast one on us, I just figured that if this sort thing happened regularly he should be able to ask a Senegalese on the plane to take it through customs for him. Eventually that’s what happened. He also gave me his number and said to call him and he and his wife would take me and mine out. Oh, that’s right… Tamara and I are pretending to be married while we are here. We read somewhere, probably in the Lonely Planet, that Western women tend to be approached often by the relatively uninhibited Senegalese men and are proposed marriage to, etc. The best way to avoid this seems to be being already married.
So my “wife” and I got off the airplane and made our way through customs without any problems. It felt familiar coming into an African airport. The Dakar airport is similar to the one in Cotonou, and the same blast of heat and humidity, even at 3am, slapped us in the face as we walked down the steel steps to the tarmac. The other side of customs we were set upon like two little lambs by a pack of salesman and currency exchangers, hawking their wares and telling us where we could get a ride and where we should stay. The situation would have been overwhelming if it wasn’t for the fact that I knew that Amadou, the project supervisor for the internship in Dakar, was going to meet us at the airport. The only problem was that I didn’t see him anywhere. Tamara first attempted to walk outside and look around for him, but we were instantly swarmed by the salesmen I mentioned. So we retreated back into the safety of the arrivals gate and waited. After 15 minutes it seemed clear that Amadou was not going to be coming up to the airport door to meet us. So I took off my backpack, left it with Tamara and went out into the parking lot to look for our ride. Turns out unless people are selling things they aren’t allowed too close to the airport terminal. So this whole time Amadou had been waiting behind a barricade about 200 ft from us. We met Amadou, were once more swarmed by young guys asking for money and got into a Taxi. We arrived out our new home at the end of a long and dark alley. Amadou found a woman I assumed was a nun, because we were living on clergy property, to open the door to out little house for us and let us in. He said he would see us in a couple of days and headed off. It must gave been around 4:30am. Voila our arrival at Dakar.
On the flight to Dakar there was a Belgian sitting across from us that had all sorts of stories to tell about Senegal. He had lived there years back and now returned regularly to see friends. He talked about the government corruption, about the regular rolling blackouts that happen day and night through the city and about the friendliness of the people. But what stuck out in my mind was fact 1: that the weather was going to get cool, even cold, come November and fact 2: when this happens all the little bugs, spiders and critters invade our homes and get cozy with the inhabitants. So I guess I was looking forward to some cool weather, seeing I knew from last time in Benin that it can be hard to do anything when it is constantly 35 degrees and humid, but on the other hand the thought of battling with exotic bugs in my bed wasn’t appealing.
In the seat behind us there was man from Dakar who was returning home with four laptops. He had packed them with his carry-on luggage and was trying to get me to give one of them to Tamara so she could take it across customs for him because otherwise he would have to pay a fee at the border. Now, I’ve never actually watched Broken Down Palace, but I know the plot line from trailers and I didn’t want Tamara to do a Claire Danes and end up stuck in jail for trying to get some hidden substances across customs in a foreign country with a foreign language she didn’t speak. So I had to politely tell the exporter-importer that no, we would not be able to take his laptop through customs. Though really, I didn’t suspect him of trying to pull a fast one on us, I just figured that if this sort thing happened regularly he should be able to ask a Senegalese on the plane to take it through customs for him. Eventually that’s what happened. He also gave me his number and said to call him and he and his wife would take me and mine out. Oh, that’s right… Tamara and I are pretending to be married while we are here. We read somewhere, probably in the Lonely Planet, that Western women tend to be approached often by the relatively uninhibited Senegalese men and are proposed marriage to, etc. The best way to avoid this seems to be being already married.
So my “wife” and I got off the airplane and made our way through customs without any problems. It felt familiar coming into an African airport. The Dakar airport is similar to the one in Cotonou, and the same blast of heat and humidity, even at 3am, slapped us in the face as we walked down the steel steps to the tarmac. The other side of customs we were set upon like two little lambs by a pack of salesman and currency exchangers, hawking their wares and telling us where we could get a ride and where we should stay. The situation would have been overwhelming if it wasn’t for the fact that I knew that Amadou, the project supervisor for the internship in Dakar, was going to meet us at the airport. The only problem was that I didn’t see him anywhere. Tamara first attempted to walk outside and look around for him, but we were instantly swarmed by the salesmen I mentioned. So we retreated back into the safety of the arrivals gate and waited. After 15 minutes it seemed clear that Amadou was not going to be coming up to the airport door to meet us. So I took off my backpack, left it with Tamara and went out into the parking lot to look for our ride. Turns out unless people are selling things they aren’t allowed too close to the airport terminal. So this whole time Amadou had been waiting behind a barricade about 200 ft from us. We met Amadou, were once more swarmed by young guys asking for money and got into a Taxi. We arrived out our new home at the end of a long and dark alley. Amadou found a woman I assumed was a nun, because we were living on clergy property, to open the door to out little house for us and let us in. He said he would see us in a couple of days and headed off. It must gave been around 4:30am. Voila our arrival at Dakar.
Thursday 16 October 2008
Prelude to the dance of the Baobabs
Welcome to Tamara and Travis’ African Odyssey Blog. Yes, it is yet another travel blog. We were initially hesitant to start one of these up seeing that they often end up neglected, hopefully because the authors are busy with new experiences, or corny and longwinded, probably because the author is not busy enough. But we figured a blog is a good way to stay in touch with lots of people especially when internet access might be sketchy and it gives us a reason to document our goings on and a way to remember what we were doing then when we look back at this trip.
We sincerely hope you enjoy our blog, that you read it from time to time and that you even respond to what we have said. I guess a blog is what you make of it. It is definitely an example of how technology is changing communication and relationships. Imagine that only fifty years ago this kind of information would have been delivered by handwritten letters probably sent to our parents and closest friends, while the information would be disbursed by word of mouth. There’s no way that even 10 years ago we could have stayed in touch with all of our friends and family, in five different continents (I don’t think we have any friends in Asia right now, which is weird seeing that it’s almost half of the world’s population!), in lots of countries and different cities and towns. By packing this little black Mac of mine around Africa it’s like packing the world’s library, a compass and an instant messenger wherever we go so long as it is close to internet service. And that can be found in every city in the world most likely.
Hopefully we can make this blog into a bit of an adventure in itself. We can use this fairly new form of communication to not only let you know what’s going on with us personally, but to share what we see and hear over here and exchange thoughts on, well… whatever.
Travis October 14, 2008
We sincerely hope you enjoy our blog, that you read it from time to time and that you even respond to what we have said. I guess a blog is what you make of it. It is definitely an example of how technology is changing communication and relationships. Imagine that only fifty years ago this kind of information would have been delivered by handwritten letters probably sent to our parents and closest friends, while the information would be disbursed by word of mouth. There’s no way that even 10 years ago we could have stayed in touch with all of our friends and family, in five different continents (I don’t think we have any friends in Asia right now, which is weird seeing that it’s almost half of the world’s population!), in lots of countries and different cities and towns. By packing this little black Mac of mine around Africa it’s like packing the world’s library, a compass and an instant messenger wherever we go so long as it is close to internet service. And that can be found in every city in the world most likely.
Hopefully we can make this blog into a bit of an adventure in itself. We can use this fairly new form of communication to not only let you know what’s going on with us personally, but to share what we see and hear over here and exchange thoughts on, well… whatever.
Travis October 14, 2008
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