More Cape Verde

• From left to right, Nas (or at least that is how I misinterpret her name); Odette, 25; Soizic, 24 and Nono, 26. Nono and Odette are my host sisters, and Nas is their friend.

• We all went to Club Melissa Sunday night. We ran into Ivan Paris (picture above, in case anyone was curious) , who performed for the small audience at the club. The girls were really excited, but I had had enough of cheesy love songs for the weekend. As we were leaving he hollered at Odette. I am glad to report that he was unsuccessful. I can also confirm—as the photo evidence corroborates—that people in Dakar just love dancing in front of the mirror.

• Every time I leave my house the little girls who live next door yell happily "bon jour toubab" or "good morning whitey." I reply good-naturedly "bon jour senegalais." But I must admit it is still weird every single time.

Viva Cabo Verde!

• Last night my host sisters invited me to another Cape Verdean concert at Saint-Michel an old Catholic school downtown. It was not really a concert; it was more like a community festival for religious reasons with live music. The whole event was reminiscent of the Festas Juninas in Brazil, not least of all because it is June, and we were celebrating the Day of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Basically, Dakarois love Cape Verdeans (or at least their music). I too am starting to really love Cape Verdeans mostly because they remind me of Dominicans. They are mixed Iberian and West African also, and therefore look a lot like Dominicans. The first time I went to the Fleet Center (TD Bank North Center, whatever “Big Bank Owns Boston, until the next merger” Center, or whatever they are calling it now) I saw a group of dudes that I could have sworn were Dominican and then they started speaking funny, or funnier than Dominicans usually speak. I found out later those people were from an archipelago off the West Coast of Africa called Cape Verde; ever since then I have been intrigued. Here in Dakar I have gotten as much Cape Verde as I can handle. But it is more than the physical resemblance, Cape Verdeans have some of the same “flair” Dominicans have. For example, the announcer had the same kind of whiny voice many Dominican women have, and although she was overweight she still wore some tight white pants and a glittery tube top with her hair in a pony tail with curls, on a pair of pointy high-heels. I was loving it. Then the main performer, Ivan Paris, also showed up rocking some tight white pants and a turtle-neck even though it was a comfortable 72 F. He also had the world’s sharpest line-up. So Dominican. Then he started singing some cheesy love songs in Cape Verdean kreyol and although they were a minority of the crowd all of the Cape Verdeans started dancing and singing along as loudly as possible. Again it reminded me of that diasporic feeling (the first band was fittingly called “Diapora”) that although we are not at home, and the beer may taste too watery or too dark and all of the signs are in a language we don’t quite understand, but we are going to ignore all of that for a second and just pretend we are not a minority in a far-away land. It reminded me of bachata concerts in NYC. Of course all of the images of a white Jesus and the constant talk of Jesus and the Virgin Mary (did you know she was a virgin? No, well I am going to mention it every time she comes up. She was a virgin. Yup never had sex. Not even once.) made me feel like I was three beers away from Santo Domingo. Next month they are crowing Miss Cabo Verde, I am definitely going to try to make it although I hate beauty pageants.
• This brings me to another problem: the “Paris/New York seal of approval.” Ivan Paris is a big deal because he lives and performs in Paris and of course he emphasizes this by using “Paris” as his last name. Here everything that comes from NYC and Paris is just that much official. It is the colonized mentality that is so funny when it’s not maddening. Half the clothing stores are either “New York” or “Paris Fashion.” Every fancy restaurant claims to have branches in New York, Paris and Dakar. I feel like I get more love cause I am from NYC, like if I was from Philly or Cleveland or some other city no one would care about me. The next time I fly out here, I am going to fly from NYC with a stopover in Paris so that my trip can be that much more official.
• I don’t know if I have mentioned this yet, but Senegalese love salsa and telenovelas. Talk about reminders of home. Right now the Venezuelan soap opera “La Femme de Lorenzo” is all the rage. And it seems like after Cape Verdean music, the second most popular non-French, non-Wolof music is Cuban salsa, especially among the older crowds. You can hear salsa everywhere, in the supermarket, in restaurants, etc. Which is of course, fine by me. The telenovelas though are awful in any language. That is one cultural export that should have stayed home.
• After the Festa Junina we went to a local bar. In the US we would call it a dive bar, but these Third World bars are much, much more than that. After all the nights of living the “jet-set” lifestyle (Thursday night I went with the white girls to Casino de Port, another lounge that simply defines chic. Plush couches. Alternative, artsy shaped cups. The whole nine. Of course, the only Senegalese people were the waiters and other staff. The moment I walked in I could feel my money flying away invisibly from my pocket.) I was glad to be in such an “unassuming” place. The chairs and table were beat-up plastic. The walls looked like they had been peed on, and probably were. The beers cost a dollar and, no, they don’t hand out you a coaster or even open your beer for you. No cute napkin wrap either. We chilled and had shelled peanuts and beers, and as they starting going in rapid-fire Wolof my mind started wandering and I finally resolved a dilemma that had been bothering me since my latest entry. I said hair weaves are a negative legacy of colonialism, but aren’t all legacies of colonialism negative? I could not think of a single positive thing brought by the French that did not serve to further exploit Africans and make them ever more dependent and colonized (like the usual things mentioned by apologists for colonialism, like modern medicine, schools, railroads and other infrastructure). But surely a sophisticated thinker like myself was willing to admit that nothing in life is ever so “black and white;” surely there must be at least ONE positive legacy to French colonialism. Then it hit me: Peanuts! Peanuts were introduced by the French as a mono-cultural cash crop export to further exploit Senegal, like sugar, cacao, cotton and coffee were used in other peripheral countries. Senegal is still enslaved to peanuts, and I am in no way arguing that the reign of “King Peanut” has brought anything but misery to Senegal. Still, I love shelled peanuts. Shelled peanuts remind me of Dominican Christmases and many late nights by Copacabana Beach eating peanuts and drinking Skols. So there, the only concession I will make to the French, peanuts. The rest is all dependency, poverty and bad hair weaves.
• What separates this “dive” bar from any other I have been to in peripheral countries (Brazil is technically semi-peripheral but I don’t want to get into the intricacies of Dependency Theory quite yet) is that it’s in a Muslim country which makes it extra special. Muslims aren’t supposed to drink alcohol or eat pork. The Islam here is not very Orthodox (a topic for a later date) and many people drink and eat pork, but you can only do either at a bar. That’s right, you have to go to a bar if you want a pork chop. So last night they were all eating what I interpret as chitlin soup. I miss swine, but not enough to have had any of that stuff. My rule of thumb is, if you can’t identify what part of the animal then you probably shouldn’t eat it. I was content with my peanuts.
• Finally, adding to the list of people who should not come to Dakar (no contact lense-wearers remember?), no one who likes peace and quiet. If you think lower Manhattan during rush hour is insufferable then steer well clear of Dakar. This place takes hustle-and-bustle to the next level. Although sadly I have seen worse (Cairo is the worse I have ever witnessed) walking through Dakar is still like a blitzkrieg attack on the senses. Everything comes at you super fast, there is simply no respite. The sidewalks are filled with vendors and hustlers selling everything, batteries, fruits, shoes, T-shirts, weaves, etc. You have to dart, duck, and jump around them, running away from calls of “monsieur, c’est pas cher.” And that is just the human obstacle course, there are also the actual physical obstacles, the random pieces of corrugated metal (is that a really old bumper?), the potholes, the litter, etc. Basically, there is no such thing as taking a stroll through town.
• Food, once more. Dinner is also wack. Breakfast is always French bread, tea, and cheese, Lunch is always amazing and dinner is just a wild card. On good days, it is simply lunch reheated, but on bad days it is some Franco-Senegalese fusion or just random carbs piled together. For instance, last week I had peas and bread, then spaghetti lightly sprinkled with olive oil and fried eggs, then macaroni lightly sprinkled with olive oil and fried eggs, and finally spaghetti, bread and French fries. Yikes! It is like they have not eaten dinner traditionally and are just at a loss as to what to eat before going to bed.