To Beat the Same French Horse

St. Louis was built by (and for) the French, and was the capital of French West Africa until 1902 when the capital was moved to Dakar. It remained the capital of Senegal and Mauritania until “independence.” It’s a pretty city—or at least the island where the French used to live is pretty—but sadly it’s crumbling. It reminded me of La Habana Vieja with its decaying facades and rotting windows and doors. Then again like in Havana, the city has more pressing concerns than restoring its historical center, like feeding and caring for its residents. But if they ever get around to issues of presentation, they really need to change the names of the streets. The main square in St. Louis is named after Louis Faidherbe, the first French governor of Senegal. Why? Are you not independent? Why is your main square named after your colonizer? Why? I am not even Senegalese and it drives me crazy. Two of the main streets in Dakar are named after Faidherbe and de Gaulle, while Mandela and MLK get two tiny streets downtown. People need to get their heroes straight. I mean, shit, is it that hard? It’s a simple test, did this person want your freedom or not? If not then they don’t get a street. The only thing that should be named after the French is the local garbage dump.

Charity

Since being in Senegal I have had to learn to rudely and unmistakably ignore everyone who comes up to me. I hate being like that, but if you pay any attention you will soon learn that your nice new friend sells overpriced statuettes or can arrange your tour of a nearby national park or can help you find a cab or good hotel. In other words, it’s never sincere. Actually, I am sure it sometimes it’s a genuine greeting but it’s so often just a sales pitch that I don’t have the chance to find out (kinda like how most women have to set-up the surface-to-air missile defenses whenever any dude approaches them, even if he just wants to know what time it is). Sometimes it gets murky though. For example, when walking around the island in St. Louis we were approached by a nice, middle-aged Senegalese man who asked us how we found St. Louis. Immediately, I doubted his intentions but he seemed nice enough. He took us around and broke down mad shit about the city and its fishing industry since he was born and raised there and works as a fisherman. After about 25 minutes, though, the truth came out. He confessed that he had come back from asking a friend to borrow money and that he had been unsuccessful and really didn’t want to go home empty-handed, could we buy him some food? Since I fear that my heart is turning to steel here in Senegal since I have to say no to begging children, handicapped people and old folks on the daily I decided to buy him some milk and coffee for his family. But that’s the problem with charity, it depends on the mood of the rich individual. Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t, depending on how guilty I feel for being a toubab on that given day. Still, charity is not justice and is not the solution to the world’s poverty because few give people give us as much as they should and then it depends on mood, personality and chance. I have tried being consistent with to whom, when, and where I give, but it’s hard to decide who is “worthy” and who isn’t when everyone has a human right to food, housing, education and healthcare, and when really it shouldn’t be up to me or anyone person to decide whether someone gets to eat today or not. Furthermore, I have found that the richer people are the greedier and more tight-fisted they are (duh, like my dad used to always remind me, you don’t get rich by spending) making any “more philanthropy is all the world needs” solutions laughable. I have been impressed by how even the poorest people in Senegal give regularly to others poorer than them. Although that also has a lot to do with the religion with alms to the poor or Zakah being one of the five pillars of Islam (does anyone else think it’s fucked up that Islam assumes that there will always be beggars to receive alms?) it’s still admirable.
Our fisherman friend.

Welcome Back

After six weeks traveling, Senegal felt like home. I felt in my element once again. I could negotiate in my crappy Wolof, rather being dependent on my Arabic speaking friends. Moreover, I actually had an idea as to how much things should cost. The first thing we did after settling in, in Saint Louis was to get some beers. I liked Morocco but I missed just being able to sit down and have a cold beer when it got really hot. I loved all the tea, but sometimes only a beer will do. I also appreciated seeing people smiling and looking happy again. But then I also returned to all the negatives of my stay here in Senegal. I once again gave up my anonymity to become a highly visible symbol of wealth and privilege in a deprived country. I had to get used to the constant harassment from vendors and child beggars, although the vendors weren’t as insistent in St. Louis as they usually are in Dakar. Seeing the children is as always heart-breaking. It was also just hot as fuck, which makes it even harder to be patient, keep walking briskly and mumble “non, merci” 20 times before they get it that I am not buying their Senegalese soccer T-shirt.

Oh Lord, Rosso

If crossing the border into Mauritania was a quiet, forbidding but organized affair, crossing the border out of Mauritania was the opposite, chaotic, crowded, and noisy. Before we could even grab our stuff out the trunk of the sept-place we were being harassed by cab drivers who offered to take us to the border post. I negotiated what I felt was a decent price, until we realized we could have walked and therefore the only decent price would have been $0. The cab driver had a young male assistant who spoke English because he is Gambian and who was actually really helpful in getting us through the madness at the border. First of all, I can’t remember well because I was worrying about where our Gambian friend had run off with our passports but there was an animated crowd of black folks before the gate. Were they seriously trying to sneak into Senegal? Is this like Haitians finding the Dominican side better even though the Dominican Republic is still poor as fuck? I didn’t have time to contemplate this though, as a soldier quickly opened the gate to let us through while simultaneously trying to hold back the crowd. We were promptly approached by another man selling tickets to the ferry which left just as we got our tickets. Beautiful. We got our passports stamped and then a soldier came to ask us for money. Now, let me get this right, I have my passport and the stamp in my pocket, why would I give him money? I tried to be funny and tell him in French that I had paid 10€ for my visa and that if he wanted more money he should ask his government for it. Sadly, I don’t think he spoke much French and even if he had I doubt he would have found my joke funny. After that we just had to negotiate a pirogue ride across the Senegal River to the border post on the other side. The Senegalese side was just the familiar chaos of Senegal, nothing special. There were dudes offering to carry our stuff, “help” us with customs, and exchange CFA, none of which we needed. The border officials made us wait but other than that the process was smooth.

The Fast and the Furious VI: Nouakchott

Nouakchott too got the one-night treatment. We took a cab to the “garage” where the bush taxis to the Senegalese border take off from. I remember it as a regular street somewhere except for the numerous sept-places chasing the customers getting out of cabs. There were literally station wagons chasing after us our cab slowed down. Even though it was a sept-place we had to wait to have nine passengers before taking off. Our driver even took a tenth passenger on, in the form of a moped that ended up on the roof of our ride. A police officer saw this and chased the car down on foot as the driver and his assistant weaved through people, cars, tires, construction materials, incoming traffic and the gas station toward freedom before resuming the chase for the elusive eighth and ninth passengers. I love that these dudes are driving around these tore up old cars and yet still trying to make moves like NASCAR drivers. Fortunately we didn’t get caught and we were able to drive—calmly—for several hours to the Senegalese border through territory that looks just like Northern Senegal only drier.

George III Blvd

The three former French colonies I have been to recently have principal streets named after General Charles de Gaulle. Now de Gaulle was the French president that finally realized that the direct colonialism party was over and France would have to transition to neocolonialism and would be better off leaving peacefully and putting friendly rulers in power everywhere. So de Gaulle was the president that “granted” independence although he did so tactically and reluctantly only after it was clear that the game was over once the French were defeated in Indochina and Algeria degenerated into bloody civil war. Consequently having Avenue Charles de Gaulle in downtown Nouakchott and Dakar is like having Broadway in NYC or Pennsylvania Ave in DC renamed King George III Blvd. I mention this because we were staying off of de Gaulle in Nouakchott. At the same time the other major street in Nouakchott is named after Gamal Abdel Nasser the famous pan-Arabist, anti-imperial, authoritarian independence leader of Egypt. Two clashing personalities, one busy intersection.

Budge

For what yall are paying me I can’t give yall the “t” or at least that’s how I felt when we reached our hostel in Nouakchott. To be right in the middle of town we paid even less—2,000 ouguiya or about $8—for a bigger room with four beds (in true hostel fashion they had dormitories) but no sheets. I guess the $2 difference is the sheets. The hostel also doubles as a camping and we could have paid even less for a tent or the space to set up a tent.