Cape Verde Encore

Sunday night I went with my host and their “cousins” to Cape Verdean night at “Le Mandingo” the club for the Hotel Sofitel Teranga right by the Place de l’independence downtown. (when I asked my host sister how she was related to them, she replied that they were from the same group of villages and had the same last name, therefore they were cousins). One of the cousins, Mami (her name, I kid you not) is a “mannequin.” Mannequin is the French word for model, which in my opinion is a more honest term for it than the English word. Model connotes exemplary, and what are models exemplary of? A good eating disorder? Mannequins on the other hand are objects designed to display clothing. Ultimately her occupation makes no difference, she took no longer than my host sisters in doing her make-up, was just as broke when it came to pay for the cab and danced pretentiously in front of the mirror at the club like everyone else. Since it was Sunday we left the house at 1:30 AM or slightly earlier than usual. Once at the club the Cape Verdean zouk live band performance I was promised got reduced to a dweeby looking dude in white jeans lip-synching three songs in the middle of the dance floor. I don’t speak Cape Verdean Creole but I understand enough of the Portuguese influence in it to know that the songs are not about anything, the choruses always prominently feature words like “sentimento,” “coracao,” “amor,” and “quero.” Other than that it was “Cape Verdean” night because they played more zouk and funana than usual, but they still went through the typical Dakar club mix so I filled my Lil’ Jon, 50 cent, Mimz, Daddy Yankee and Don Omar quotas for the week. I was just glad that men here don’t have to dress up to go out. I thought I was casually dressed in my uniform of dark blue jeans, high-top Chucks and a short-sleeve T-shirt, but there was some dude there in a giveaway T-shirt, navy blue wind-breakers and running shoes. He beat me. He looked like he was going to go jogging after leaving the club at 5 AM. The women of course were super-made and dressed up.

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.

Poor, but not Cheap

• OK, so scratch that, apparently US$4 doesn’t get you a coke in Dakar either. This city may be poor but it ain’t cheap. I went out on Friday to Club Alexandra in downtown Dakar, and saw a very good live Cape Verdean band play. I played myself while I was in Boston, I had no idea that Cape Verde—as small as the archipelago is—has such a rich and diverse musical heritage, I should have gone out and heard more Cape Verdean music while I was there. The lounge was crazy expensive though. A cup of coke was more than $4. I don’t want to say how much I spent cause it’s embarrassing, but let’s just say that I have gone out and had a good time in NYC for less dough.
• But it’s not just the club, everything else here is super-expensive compared to other peripheral countries. I am starting to wonder just how the poor majority of Dakarois are able to survive. Shit, if tourists feel the pinch I can only imagine how desperate the people who are actually struggling must feel. After all if I can’t afford to buy as much street food and beer as I planned it isn’t the end of the world, if you can’t pay your rent or afford dinner then you really are fucked.
• Saturday night I went to another bourgeois club, The Casino de Cap-Vert. The cover alone was US$12. It’s near the airport in the richest part of Dakar, so I figured I was partying with the elite. I thought I may even run into the president’s daughter, only to find out that there are even bougier clubs. Shit it’s not bad enough that I was spending someone’s monthly salary in a night, apparently I am not spending real dough until I am spending someone’s yearly salary on cover and drinks. Count me out, though, after this weekend I am done seeing how the rich party. My curiosity is satisfied.
• What did I learn? Like bourgeois people all over the Third World, Senegalese love them some damn European culture. I was forced to endure a set of techno by a French DJ to start off the night. After we were done with our, “Let’s pretend to be in Paris, Milan or Brussels” part of the evening, we moved on to the real shit. The DJ hit up that coupe decale, that mbalax, followed by Cape Verdean funana and zouk, more coupe decale and ended with a set of remixes of the biggest club hits in reggaeton and hip hop of the last two years. So I learned that 5o Cent is truly ubiquitous, and that they will never stop playing Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina.” In addition, I am astonished by the cosmopolitan and worldly nature of the club culture here. In the course of one evening we heard several genres from several diverse parts of the world in different languages. How often do you get that in a club in NYC, ostensibly a world-class cultural center?
• And yes, they really do love themselves here. I saw more people dancing in front of the mirrors again on Saturday. It hasn’t stopped being funny.
  Cats here really know how to party. They go out mad late. Friday night when I asked at what time we were going out, my host sister replied that not until after midnight. She was serious; we left the house at 1 AM, and didn’t get back until 5 AM. I can’t hang. I spent too many years in Cambridge where by 2 AM you are already walking home after a night out, where you shower at 9:30 PM to make sure you can be at the bar/club/lounge by 11 pm. I was still getting used to NYC time when you start getting ready at 11 pm. Here they told me to take a nap until midnight and then get ready to go. Saturday we didn’t leave the house until 1:30 AM, to return at 6 AM. The club doesn’t even open until midnight. The craziest shit was that as we were leaving the club at 5:30 AM there were people walking in!
• I think my host sisters have set a new record for how long it takes a group of women to get ready to go out. I thought no one could beat my actual sisters, but they have raised the art of “getting ready” to another level. I was completely expecting them to come out as transformed human beings, and was disappointed when they just looked like themselves in make-up and heels. It was cool though, cause while waiting for them I watched a bunch of music videos on Senegalese TV. First there were a bunch of low-budget mbalax music videos, which are just hilarious. They look like they are made with someone’s camcorder in their living room and backyard, but the dancing in so ridiculous that they are great in a kitschy way. They remind me of merengue music videos. Then I watched “Made in USA” which is basically BET’s 106 & Park. They play the latest hits in hip hop and R&B, so that I was able to see the video for the new Rihanna song, the new Mya song, the latest Akon song, etc. Here I thought that I would not be able to hear 50 Cent’s latest remix of “In da Club” but no, you can all rest easy in knowing that I will be kept abreast of all of the latest developments in 50’s career, and that I can see R. Kelly every night tell me how he’s a flirt. Felt just like home. Then the worse part was when they started playing French hip hop videos and I could see how hip hop has spread ignorance world-wide. I saw a video where some French 50 clone, was doing some drug deal and then goes to Rio de Janeiro and has a party with a bunch of women and crystal and then gets arrested by the police (the Feds? Interpol? The French? James Bond? Whose jurisdiction?) sent to jail where he writes his girlfriend a letter. I was horrified.