Let’s Get Cynical
I have just come back from a really lovely dinner at one of Ngor’s most pleasant restaurants, a little place called Sao Brazil. Picture solid wooden tables and chairs in a garden setting, bougainvillea everywhere, even white wine and ‘real’ ham (meaning made from pork instead of beef, always keeping in mind that Senegal is a predominantly Muslim country). A great place to unwind, except for the fact that during dinner, my colleague looked at me and shook her head, warning me that I really ought not to be so cynical about every aspect of my life here in Senegal.
The Art of Marchander
Hippos, wall hangings, fertility figures, statuettes representing days of the week, monkeys that hear, see and speak no evil, pirogue-shaped trays, woven baskets, djembes, rings and bracelets: all of these items and more are to be had at most any Senegalese market. It goes without saying that everything is of course made of the finest ebony (or at least driftwood that has been given a nice black finish with shoe polish) or pure silver (well, the top layer, anyway). The famous wax cloth called bazin (see article A Trip to the Tailor, http://www.traveling-stories-magazine.com/a-trip-to-the-tailor/#more-397) so beloved by the Senegalese comes in three grades, but no matter which you choose, you will inevitably be told that the one you have selected is the most valuable kind, and will therefore be priced accordingly. So the most useful skill to acquire immediately upon arrival is that of haggling.
Waiting for the Barbarians
“So when you first agreed to come, did you think you would find us swinging from trees and stuff?” asked one of my students eagerly, to the sound of giggles all around.
Gala Soiree at the Sorano
Last night I had the good fortune to attend a concert in honor of one of percussion’s living legends, Doudou N’Diaye Rose, born in Dakar in 1928. The celebration was to honor 50 years of musicianship, as he has invented new kinds of drums, allegedly created no fewer than 500 rhythms, and has played with everyone from Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis to Peter Gabriel. Though many men did not train female percussionists, he did – in fact, he leads an all-female drum group called Les Rosettes, which is apparently made up entirely of his own daughters and granddaughters (!). Phenomenal women, they were, and incredibly expressive, powerful artists, at one point even playing an art ‘musical drums,’ running from one drum to play the next person’s, all without missing a beat (of course). So multicultural is Rose, too, that last night he teamed up with fabulous Taiko drummers from Japan, and so we were treated to a mixture of African and Asian rhythms that had some people getting up from their seats to dance and leaving others simply spellbound with admiration.
Of Waterfalls and Water Cuts
After the 15-year old mechanic came to our rescue with the small but essential part that was necessary for us to continue with our trip, we were on our way. Heat and dust and diesel fuel do not begin to describe just how terrible the conditions of our journey were; suffice it to say that when you blew your nose, black diesel came out of your nostrils and the same was true when you applied Q-tips to the inside of your ears. Parts of the road were so full of potholes that our driver kept veering off the road entirely to avoid them, sometimes even in the face of oncoming traffic, which I found not a little scary, partly because of the nonchalance with which this was done.
On the Road Again
“It’s not a good sign that we are pushing this early on,” said one man grimly.
Adventures at a School Newspaper Festival
Let me begin by telling you that just the getting to the ‘Festival International des Journaux Lyceens’ here was an adventure. As the nominal advisor of our school’s student newspaper, I found myself crammed into a dilapidated taxi with 5 students and a driver in quarters so claustrophobically close that the NYC Board of Ed would have had me up on charges of something or other in a heartbeat. On the way in, we saw a white TATA bus collide with a colorful car rapide and then were ourselves stopped by a policeman because our driver did not respect another car’s priority in a roundabout.
The driver’s papers were taken and I thought we might have to offer money in order to get them back, but my students warned me against ever trying to do this; if the policeman was not on the take, I could find myself in some hot water. Thankfully, while busy scrutinizing paperwork, the same officer completely missed the fact that we had an illegal number of passengers in the car – we were ’surcharge’, as they say, as cars in Senegal so frequently are.Students, perhaps 200 or so from schools in the Dakar area, gathered to examine different aspects of journalism in smaller workshops. They were accompanied by their teachers, mainly men, some in sport shirts, some in boubous, plus me, so it was a colorful mix.
Role Reversal: Who’s the Terrorist Now?
When I left New York, I had been through red and orange alerts, a time when the Department of Homeland Security was advising me to invest in drinking water, flashlights and canned goods because of the imminent terrorist threat. At the same time, the government had (and still has) the right to investigate every aspect of my personal affairs under the USA Patriot Act, my backpack was subject to search on the subway on my way to work and the authorities could monitor which books I had taken out of the library.
Notes from a Conseil de Classe
Our second semester recently came to an end, and so all the teachers met to discuss the ‘progress’ of our students. There was a lot of despairing laughter because our graduating class is, well, less than stellar, with 8 out of a class of 18 in danger of failing. I was never very good at math, but even I see these numbers as catastrophic. The picture I have chosen here, artwork done by the kids for this year’s Halloween bash, may well serve as a grim reminder to those kids who, come graduation time, will reap what they have sown. On a brighter note, the Conseil was most helpful to me vocabulary-wise, so let me share my newfound insights with you.
Chilly up Kili - climbing Mount Kilimanjaro
Feeling like a child on her first day at school, I stand apprehensively at Machame Gate, the starting point of my long-awaited trek to the summit (hopefully) of Mount Kilimanjaro. A sea of porters carrying rucksacks,bags of food, barrels of eggs, tents, mats, all unbelievable balanced on their little heads and fragile shoulders, sprint past me and disappear into the dense vegetation.
