Where is my space suit?

Sunday I went to downtown Dakar. Now I had been downtown before—the day I went to the markets—but after spending all of the time dodging street vendors, trying to follow my teacher through the maze of market stalls and narrow streets, and looking down to keep from tripping on litter I can’t say I really got to see anything. Therefore, I decided to go on a Sunday when all the markets would be closed. I took the bus down with a friend and was happy to see all the stalls locked up. Except for a few stragglers who shoved paintings, statuettes, perfume, phone cards and watches in my face as I walked, I could actually walk in peace. Even they seemed like they were tired from a week of hustling and weren’t as aggressive as they had been earlier. As we walked calmly through the streets of Medina heading toward the Place de l’Independence, I felt like I was in another country. I couldn’t imagine it: a leisurely walk through downtown Dakar! The impression of being in a different planet was further reinforced when I reached the plaza. I had been expecting a significant difference between the downtown and the rest of the city, but it’s like they are not even in the same country. The downtown looks like the business district of any affluent mid-size city in the US like Stamford, CT or Princeton, NJ with some tall buildings and perfectly manicured lawns, no sand on the streets, no trash, no mbalax blaring from someone’s wedding tent set-up on the street, no one selling pots or car parts or furniture by the roadside, no street vendors, no groups of children playing soccer, nothing like the rest of the city at all. I even saw little, old, white ladies crossing the street in front of the presidential palace (pictured above). It was eerie.