What Would Jesus Buy?

I thought that in being a Senegal—an overwhelmingly Muslim country—I would be able to avoid Christmas season, only to encounter its uglier twin sister, Tabaski. Eid Ul-Adha or Tabaski as its known in Senegal takes place 70 days after the end of Ramadan. It commemorates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son when God asked. For those of you who slept through that Sunday school lesson, God ends up being like “syke! Just kill a sheep instead.” So to honor the spirit of total devotion embodied in the act, Muslims worldwide are supposed to slaughter and eat a sheep every year. This year Tabaski is nearly coinciding with Christmas. I would tell you the exact date only nobody knows when it will be exactly since it all depends on the moon. Subsequently, it could be December 20, 21 or 22. We won’t know until right before. Regardless of the difference of premises, this amazing holiday that not only venerates absolute devotion and could highlight the links among the world’s three great monotheistic faiths, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, is instead just turned into another superficial excuse to fritter lots of money away in order to impress your neighbors and friends in a spending spree that just leaves everyone broke. Of course, those who can least afford to end up wasting the most money. I mean, what will people say if you aren’t spending like a maniac? Maybe the truth: that you are poor. The sad truth, how horrendous.

The only major difference I can see with how people treat both holidays is that here in Senegal instead of buying tons of random shit that can lift the several whole sectors of the economy people just focus on two things, buying a sheep and a new outfit. Yup, every family tries to buy its own sheep, and no, they are not cheap. From what I have been hearing they can range from $100 to $450 with some costing even more (In a country where the GDP per capita, even when adjusted for purchasing power parity is still less than $2000). As a result the city is overflowing with sheep, many coming from as far away as Mauritania and Mali since Dakar is the wealthiest city in the region. I am not a Muslim theologian but I am sure that spending that much money is probably against the spirit of the holiday. After all, many—probably the vast majority to be honest—of the most devout people of any religion are poor, dirt poor. And I doubt Allah really intended people to prove their devotion by making themselves broke every year to buy a sheep. Considering that Allah was talking to some 8^th century Arab nomads originally he probably just assumed that people had sheep lying around, and that no one was ever so far from one that they would have to buy one. But in modern capitalist Senegal, it means most people are hustling hard to afford that sheep. On top of the sheep, everyone has to go out and spend anywhere from $25 to $325 on a new boubou. But at least the large expense for the sheep has some foundation in the religion, why you would need a new outfit is just pure consumerism and vanity.

Although it’s not quite as omnipresent (I would say suffocating) as Christmas with the media attack of holiday ads, music, and movies, Tabaski clearly changes the pattern of life. Suddenly the cab ride that cost $1.50 two weeks ago, now runs more like $2.50. Gasoline prices I asked? Nope, Tabaski. The waxaale for several products is now more difficult. You get the feeling that everyone is ready for what’s likely to be the biggest production of the year. This to me just further disproves the myth of rationality, one of the axioms of neoclassical microeconomics. Even if the means of purchasing are rationalized (charge toubabs more for everything) the end is of complete folly. Neoclassical microeconomic theory will tell you that it doesn’t matter how people determine how much “utility” to attach to any given good or service, just that they maximize and rationalize and economize and blah blah rationality to achieve that utility. But it’s not important that so much of our economy depends on our willingness to spend foolishly and gorge ourselves once annually with some flimsy religious pretext? Where would the WORLD economy be without Americans splurging every December 25^th? And how many of the herders in West Africa wouldn’t even be in business if it weren’t for Tabaski?

Oppression, It’s Digital Now!

Les Indigenes is a film about North African soldiers who fought with the Free French during WWII. It highlights the racism and ungratefulness faced by Arab soldiers who gave their lives to liberate France from Nazism. It’s a good movie, one of those touching films about unappreciated bravery, like those films about black Americans fighting for American ideals only to be reminded of the hypocrisy of US racism. Yall know what movies I am talking about, like Glory and Tuskegee Airmen and shit. We saw the film as part of the Tirailleurs Senegalais Week being held at the French Institute. The Tiralleur Senegalais was the name of the black French colonial army. Although they were from all over French West Africa, they were designated generically—in typically racist fashion—as all “Senegalese.” These soldiers fought for France during world wars I and II, in addition to helping France subdue anti-colonial insurrections from Morocco to Mali to Vietnam. They were paid and trained less, punished more severely, and treated as cannon fodder. For putting up with all of that, they did not receive their pensions and were quickly forgotten by the French government. In fact, the former French president Jacques Chirac, agreed to increase the pension payments after claiming to be inspired by the film. Two days later, we saw the opposite of “Les Indigenes” which although it’s Hollywood for example making the protagonists the most heroic Arab soldiers that ever fought for France. was still realistic and showed the racism of the French Army and criticized colonialism. One of the best shots of the film is when the Arab soldiers are anxiously standing tight in the hold of a ship about to land to invade France and the PA announcer beams about “their” return home, a country none of the soldiers have ever seen. The second film was “La Force Noire” a fluff piece on the history of France’s black African colonial army made by two conservative French historians which avoids criticizing France in the least. It quickly glosses over gross acts of discrimination, like the lesser pay and training, and key events like the Thiaroye Massacre to paint a shiny picture of La Force Noire. More than anything the historians seemed more enthusiastic about showing all of the recently digitized archival footage of black soldiers. The crowd was mostly conservative and laudatory, only one person—a young army cadet—asked about the lack of mention of racism in the French army. The dude’s answer was classic: one, you have to judge these things in context, it was 1914, everyone was racist, you know, two, denial, it wasn’t that bad, they weren’t cannon fodder the French just wanted them to, umm, feel warmer closer to the bullets, three, and my favorite, at least we (the French) weren’t as racist as the Americans. I mean, France allowed black people to die for its freedom, while the US segregated its black soldiers and didn’t deem them worthy of death. Let this be noted as one of the few times when I would prefer American-style racism. I would rather not die for a country that hates me. But look at these amazing images we found in the archives! Look the French teaching Africans to brush their teeth and smoke cigarettes! Look at them killing Asian people for France! It’s digital now!

Too Far

I was supposed to start my internship at Oxfam-GB in Dakar last Wednesday but my first day was postponed twice due to “popular unrest.” On the same day that the bus drivers for the major bus company in Dakar went on strike, the government decided to enforce its ban on street vendors. The result was some of the worst rioting in Senegalese history. The street vendors, mostly young men who make a precarious living—lucky to make a dollar a day—selling phone cards, towels, watches, water, peanuts, clothing, etc. to drivers stuck in Dakar’s never-ending traffic, rebelled by burning trash, trash cans and tires. They shut down downtown for two days, which along with the bus drivers strike made getting around the city impossibly difficult. How dumb and arrogant is the government here? How can they try to take cats’ livelihoods away and not expect a violent backlash? I definitely not a fan of street vendors, but I understand that it’s not their fault they are poor. They live in a country that can only provide stable jobs in the formal sector for a minority of the population—and well-paid jobs—to even fewer, and they are basically forced to hustle or starve. If anything, I am surprised that shit hasn’t popped off before. As poor as this country is, it’s surprisingly stable. People have been incredibly patient, mostly expressing their dissatisfaction through the ballot box. But eight years after President Wade promised “sopi” or change, it’s clear that the people are starting to get frustrated. Again, it’s a testament to Senegal’s political culture that the country has avoided a meltdown like practically all of the countries in the region given how fucked up shit is out here. It’s good that the people showed the government that they went too far, and decided to fight back. For the moment the mayor said he would lay off temporarily, although there will likely be more violence if they try to get rid of the street vendors again.

The Music Rarely Disappoints

I only got to catch one movie all weekend, the very disappointing comedy “Africa Paradis.” Taking place in 2033 after Europe has declined into poverty, colonialism and war while the recently created United States of Africa has become the center of global wealth, the movie follows the attempt of a French couple to illegally immigrate to Western Africa. It’s a wonderful premise, yet they blew it. The movie is low-budget, boring, and melodramatic.

I also only caught one session of the series of conferences on the history of slavery. Predictably, there were no Senegalese there, with more French people in the crowd than Africans born and still living in Africa. For inane reason most of the discussion ended up being about diversity training for teachers in France. Queen Mother Blakely brought up reparations and the response was underwhelming.

The concerts, however, didn’t disappoint.

The music was good and varied, even though the only representatives from the Diaspora were some Martinicans performing Martinican folkloric music and dance, and Netsayi, a black British “acoustic soul” singer who also sings in Shona. She gets credit for putting female instrumentalists on stage (a rare sight in Senegal, where the only women on stage are young, pretty “singers”) and for actually saying something in her songs. Still, it’s regrettable that there was only one non-Francophone artist. Then again she was sponsored by the British Embassy, and it’s not like the Brazilians or Cubans can afford to send someone or Senegal afford to bring them. Beyond that there were some tedious Mbalax bands, a gnawa band which made me really nostalgic for Morocco and the highlight of the weekend, the Senegalese hip hop, R&B, and dancehall trio Daara J. I had seen them perform on SummerStage in Central Park last year, and remembered how the crowd just wasn’t ready for them. This time though they came on at 3 AM on a Saturday playing before their core audience of young, working-class Dakarois men and they put on a great, high-energy show which woke everybody up. It made up for having to take the ferry at 4 AM and then having to waxale with cabdrivers while my teeth were chattering due to the cold.

Goree Diaspora Festival

As much as I hate on Dakar (like Dominicans) I love it. That weekend I went to the Goree Diaspora Festival, a series of movies, conferences and concerts in Goree, an island of Dakar famous for its colonial architecture, car-free streets (cars are illegal) and La Maison des Esclaves or Slave House. It’s a touristy place and I had avoided going because first of all, it’s expensive for foreigners to take the ferry and the slave house is not an experience I was ready to face alone. But I decided to drag myself out there for the festival, although I still haven’t gone to the Slave House. When I arrived at the port in Dakar, I was predictably approached by a tout. I told him that I didn’t want a tour as I was going to the festival, but that if he could get me the Senegalese price for the ferry ticket he could keep the $8 difference. Although he looked like an old drunk he turned out to be quite smart, speaking English and Spanish fluently. He said he had a degree in history and we spoke about slavery and the African Diaspora over beers. I argued that Africans don’t understand the true impact of slavery on its descendants, or even on them. After all—even in purely economic terms—West Africa lost the most productive members of its labor force for centuries, and that’s without even looking at the social and psychological costs. West Africa would not be in the sorry state it’s in now, being the world’s poorest region, if it weren’t for centuries of slavery. Still I have been struck by how ignorant and/or insensitive people out here are about slavery (again a problem that is just as much “ours” as “theirs”). As far as they are concerned, slavery is just another way to get “white” folks to come out here and fork over lots of money, with “roots tourism” being essentially no different than taking folks to the beach or selling them batik. Lonely Planet even warns against the fraudulent claims of the tourist guides in Georgetown in The Gambia who have created a local roots industry by renaming random old buildings to create a “slave prison,” “slave house,” “slave market” and even a “freedom tree,” which would guarantee freedom to all those who touched it; and of course a “visitors’ book” encouraging donations in the memory of slavery. While I can’t knock the hustle (50 Cent and all of them fake studio gangstas need to shut up and come to this part of the world, if they want to see real hustlers), and understand that cats are poor and Black Unitedstatesians are wealthy in comparison, I find such fabrications disgusting. It is an insult to OUR ancestors. Ultimately, these were the relatives of their ancestors who were kidnapped, dehumanized and enslaved. It’s tragic that people would feel the need to pimp the suffering of their own just to make a quick buck. Ironically just as I was telling homey about how I hate people hustling me as a “homecoming African” it was clear that he wasn’t listening still busy thinking about how he could hustle me for some CFA. Once on the island, I met Queen Mother Blakely a remarkable woman, the community mayor of Harlem and a long-time reparations activist. She has been coming to Goree since 1990 and is trying to realize her dream of turning the island into a first-class tourist resort for Black Unitedstatesians to come “home” to Africa and “heal.” I am skeptical, but will keep my mouth shut out of respect to her. While building with her about what had just happened with my “guide” she made an interesting suggestion which still has me thinking. She asserted that Africans would never understand slavery, and we shouldn’t even try to explain. This reminded me of something I remember hearing in one of the classes I took on the African Diaspora. American Blackness and African Blackness are similar, but have different roots. For those of us on the Western side of the Atlantic, our blackness was born the moment whitey threw the shackles on you and crammed you onto a boat i.e. it was born during the middle passages. Thereafter, your ethnic group didn’t matter, you were a slave cause you were black and you were black cause you were a slave. For black folks on this side, they weren’t black until the French came over and started naming streets after their generals, i.e. people saw each other as Wolof, Sereer, etc. until the French told them they were black. Thereafter, they were black because they were colonial subjects and they were colonial subjects because they were black. Now that’s two different forms of blackness, which could justify the logical implication of Queen Mother Blakely’s stance: Pan-Africanism without Africa. I am still not sure if I am ready to go that far, but I can confess that after five months in Senegal it’s getting harder to claim that I am still a Pan-Africanist.

The Dakar Rally

The Dakar Rally is an off-road endurance race where people ride cars, motorcycles, trucks, vans, and every other kind of vehicle imaginable overland from Europe (here in Senegal they just call it the Dakar Rally, which makes sense considering it starts in different cities) starts on January 5^th in Lisbon and ends in the outskirts of Dakar on January 20^th. Most of the participants don’t make it across the Sahara desert but I did. I engaged in my own sort of Dakar Rally traveling overland from Madrid through Morocco and Mauritania and reaching Dakar about 40 days later. Lest you get the wrong impression, it wasn’t that glamorous or romantic. It’s not like I rode a bicycle or camel back here or walked across the desert; most of the trip consisted of long-ass bus rides. Moreover, I took the easiest route across the Sahara, hugging the Atlantic Coast all the way down (mind you I said easiest, not easy). Still, it was quite the adventure. Not always fun, but always interesting.

Home Sweet Home

After 40 days, and, however many thousands of kilometers I finally made it back to Dakar. I had even missed the place, but all feelings of nostalgia quickly dissipated, blown away by yet another interminable traffic jam before we even arrived in Dakar proper. Sometimes I swear that Dakar must be Wolof for “traffic jam, detour and road work” and people just don’t want to tell me the truth. Also the money just started pouring out of my pocket again.