Superbowl, Senegalese Style

January 28, 2008

Photo : Flickr/Cirdan

All day there was a palpable excitement in the air. My students were even more restless than usual, for today was the Africa Cup, and Senegal played against Tunisia at 5 pm. The final score was 2:2, so there was no glorious celebratory roaring in the streets (only the drone of the ubiquitous muezzin).

The real drama played out not on the television, however, but in the apartment of my friend and teaching colleague. My friend, who used to live in the very same plastic-furnished, no-hot-water apartment I currently inhabit, was encouraged to leave the place to me when I came on board, so she, her husband and two children moved to the tallest building in the nearby village of Ngor. Midst all the clapboard shanty-style dwellings, they have tiled floors, a balcony, and all sorts of luxuries, including a TV with a generous screen, which is why I had invited myself over to see the game in the first place, bringing a ridiculously expensive bottle of French wine with me. All imported goods are prohibitively priced, and virtually everything to which a Westerner is accustomed, from apples to cheese to coffee and wine, are import goods. (The main local crop is peanuts. Oh yes, there are also lots of watermelons in season. Need I say more?)

We had ordered some pizza and gotten out the glasses when my hostess exclaimed, “Oh no!”. It turned out that my Estonian friend’s much-loved corkscrew had recently broken (I suspect from overuse). We stared at each other in dismay for a few seconds, then fumbled for a moment, trying to remember the word ‘ tire-bouchon‘ in French. It occurred to us that perhaps we could just buy one (at the rate the former one got used, we figured it would be a worthwhile investment), so she asked her maid to pick one up at a nearby convenience shop. The maid, not usually very fleet of foot, came back astonishingly quickly, proudly clutching a hideous plastic bottle opener complete with key chain to her breast. I have taken a picture of it for posterity.

Horrified, we tried to explain the concept of a CORK and its removal. Eager to please, Awa offered to go to ask the neighbors. Please bear in mind that Senegal is predominantly Muslim. Muslims, alas, don’t drink, at least not openly. But Awa was determined not to fail us this time, and we cheered, clinking glasses in delight, when she reappeared holding a utensil in her hand. Sadly, however, this time it was a CAN opener, or ouvre-boite, which does not sound remotely like tire-bouchon, no matter WHICH language you speak…!

Luckily our tale of woe had a happy ending. Our savior, Ghanaian by birth, was none other than my friend’s husband, who succeeded in pushing the cork into the wine (at first I was horrified at the thought, knowing that all of my French friends would view this as something akin to – if not worse than - sacrilege. Pragmatic consideration won me over, however, as this seemed to be the only method that would permit us at long last to savor the fruit of the vine).

Once out initial thirst had been slaked, my natural curiosity got the better of me and I asked our rescuer:

“What did you use to push the cork in?”

A special stick,” came the pithy response.

“A special stick?”

“Yeah, most of the time the stick is in the drawer and doesn’t get used.”

By this time the wine had gone to our heads and both my friend and I were giggling like schoolgirls.
“Is it the kind of special stick I can take a picture of for my article?” I asked with just a bit of a drunken leer.
“Go and get your stick out,” my friend told her husband. “It’s not that special.”

We exploded in laughter as her husband made his way to the kitchen. A picture is included for your viewing pleasure; minors should only view in the presence of an adult. There was also some nudity (their four-year-old son is very bottoms-averse, though he is by no means unique among other four-year-olds of my acquaintance).

All in all, despite an appalling lack of chili, potato skins and hot dogs, for which I did feel some nostalgia, it was a hilarious evening. Nothing went quite as expected, but it was still great fun, which is strangely typical of my entire stay in Senegal thus far, truth be told…

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com