Snapshots of Dakar

Disclaimer: Having been without my camera for over a month now, the only pictures I can give you are the thousand word variety.
The privileged American...

One of the many books that I have been able to read here is The Ponds of Kalambayi by Mike Tidwell. I'm only a few chapters in, but it's a great memoir of a PCV in the former Zaire. Although his training was much more severe than present-day Senegal's, I found myself easily relating to his writing - especially his chapter about illnesses. He says, "You are never as far away from home as when you get sick in a foreign country. I hid myself under the sheets and, with my body hot and my stomach hurting, grew lonely and intensely aware of the geography of my situation. I was 6000 miles from where I was born and grew up." There was one point in my hut, it was after dark, I was laying on my straw mattress completely naked and wrapped in a wet pack towel. I pulled the thermometer from my mouth to see my fever was still increasing and was currently at 103.5. In between uncontrollable sobbing for all of my frustrations past and present, I tried to regain some strength in the situation by telling myself to take deep breaths, drink sips of water and take more fever suppressants; the fever was going to break, it was going to be okay.

The level of medical care that I have received (link) following that night is just one example of the multitude of advantages available to most of the western world. Every day in Dakar, vast differences in economic development are readily visible. A Mercedes pulls over to buy expensive imported fruit on the roadside and is passed by a horse and cart carrying agricultural products from surrounding villages.

Mike Tidwell states that to note his own illnesses serves only to illustrate the gravity of his surrounding neighbors. "In a Western industrialized country like the United States, good health is more or less a birthright for a large majority of the population. Clean living conditions, nutritious food and access to basic medical care mean that most people stay healthy most of the time. But in Kalambayi, as in much of Africa, good health is not a birthright. It falls instead somewhere between a wish and a struggle. At any given time you are almost as likely to be ill as well."

Just one of the many lessons that I will learn here - having always been a relatively healthy person able to run, cycle, snowboard, backpack, etc. this little illness has given me a greater appreciation for my American friends with chronic issues, but more so for my Senegalese neighbors who often can't afford medication even if they do identify the issue.

The sweet taste of gasoline...

Weekend trip to the annual party in Kaolack to say goodbye to everyone COSing in early May: after much harassment in the Pompeii garage in Dakar, 6 other PCVs and myself piled into a particularly beat up 7-place (station wagon PT vehicle). Traffic was much heavier than we or apparently our driver had predicted as he obviously calculated and purchased the exact amount of gas to make it to the next gas station -not at drop more- when we left the garage. We still hadn't made it out of the greater Dakar metropolitan area when the heap of metal started to rattle and lose power. It could have been a number of issues really, after all, Courtney (now an RPCV) was practically sitting on my lap during curves in the road because her door had to be tied shut. Who would have guessed it was the gas, or lack thereof. We sat in mild shock as the driver siphoned gas into the engine via his mouth. That didn't do the trick, he was obliged to leave and get more gas. We all climbed out through the front door not wanting to disrupt the tied door: passenger rear (the driver's side rear door rarely works on PT vehicles in Senegal; this wasn't one of those times). 20 minutes later our fearless driver showed back up with a liter of gas and again siphoned it into the engine one mouthful at a time. He jumped back into the driver's seat and Kristen (also now a RPCV) promptly handed him a piece of mint Trident gum. At the next gas station, he added another cup or two of gas - while leaving the car running of course.

Fuuki Jaay...

You know all of those hideous old team shirts you've donated to various charities some of which ship the used clothing to developing nations? I spent last Saturday sifting through them; I think Senegal has a cornerstone on the market. They sell them at the fuuki jaay (used clothing market). A great sport among PCVs is to find T-shirts with crazy and funny English sayings. An example of a 'PG' rated item is a shirt from Joe's Crab Shack that sports a subversive looking crab saying, "Don't touch or I break ya legs!" That saying has since appeared on several "don't touch" shelves in the Kaolack regional house. One of the largest fuuki jaays is on Saturdays conveniently located near the Dakar regional house. To attend this particular market is reminiscent of an extreme yardsale festival, complete with dispersed food shacks selling rice and fish in bowls, crackers, etc. Merchants put up temporary stalls in the median of a large street; this goes on for as many blocks as the eye can see. Dodging traffic, I approached the first 'Island' of stalls about 10am last Saturday. Walking through the narrow center, open-faced shacks on either side, I could hear static-y radio tunes, merchants shouting out prices to anyone within earshot, and customers bartering over prices. Wall after wall, pile after pile of just about every type of clothing you might want. Unfortunately, I still wasn't in any shape to spend much time wandering in the sun. I did however find a great pair of corduroy pants and a pink superman shirt.