In Photos - Tabaski

Today we celebrate Tabaski, a Muslim holiday called Eid al-Adha outside of West Africa. Tabaski commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son, and Muslim families in Dakar slaughter a sheep in honor of the religious holiday.

The family where I lived for my first two weeks in Dakar invited me to join them. I missed the killing in the courtyard, but I was there for the butchering and the bloody clean-up. I also got to taste a grilled delicacy - sheep testicles. Some photos from Tabaski and the neighborhood.

Poverty in Senegal

I am a feeder. If I eat a mango, I slice off sections for the people around me. I buy beignets for my study abroad friends, and I bring madeleines to the office to share. There is happiness in the simple pleasure of giving food.

My feeding also extends to animals. In the villa where I live, the madame keeps a black Labrador, a silly thing that rolls on her belly the instant she meets you. But she has a deep bark that keeps the curious away. In the mornings, I tuck away a portion of my buttered breakfast roll, and when I come home at night, I feed the bread to Blackie. She wags her tail and lets me rub her belly then sneaks off to wolf down the snack.

On a recent morning, the bakery was out of the usual soft rolls, so I bought a baguette instead. That night, Blackie and I went through our usual routine: Wag, belly rub, bread. She crept away to the dark backside of the house with the dry baguette hanging out of her mouth.

I was boiling water for tea the next morning when the girl who cleans the villa stepped into the kitchen. Her name is Rama, and she is 15. When I wake in the mornings at 7:30, she is already at work sweeping the courtyard. She scrubs the tiles while I eat breakfast. When I come home in the evenings, she’s chopping onions or washing the laundry in large plastic tubs. I bumped into her once at night, asleep in the kitchen. There are four unused beds in the villa—bedrooms for when the madame’s children visit from France and Canada—and yet Rama sleeps on the floor.

I pulled the tea kettle from the gas burner, and she stood in the doorway.

“I saw you gave the dog bread last night,” Rama said.

I thought: busted. I wondered if she would chastise me for feeding Blackie people-food.

“The next time you have bread left over, you shouldn’t give it to the dog,” she said. “Wrap it in a bag and save it for me.”

I looked at her, and a hard, tight knot formed in the back of my throat.

“The madame gives me money every day, but it’s not enough for breakfast,” Rama said. “I don’t eat in the mornings.”

I thought of all the times I sat on the patio with my tea and roll while Rama swept at my feet. For her day’s toil, from sunup until after sundown, she earns just enough to cover her evening meal. In a country where almost 50% of the population is unemployed, the madame knows she can get away with paying those rates. This then is the face of poverty in Senegal. Not because there is not enough—in this household, there is plenty—but because those who have enough refuse to share with those who don’t.

I asked Rama if she wanted me to buy her breakfast. She lowered her eyes to the counter and nodded her head in a quick jerk. I bought her a roll that morning and the next one, too. But I’m moving out of the villa soon, and Rama will be back to fending for herself.

May the Earth Lie Lightly Upon Him

Friends do not come easily in Senegal. Not Senegalese friends, anyway. There is too much suspicion—on both sides—too little in common. The men you meet want to see if the rumors about American girls are true. The women look at you from the corners of their eyes, disinterested at best.

But true Senegalese friends are just that—true. Kind, helpful, and generous. Moussa Diallo was my first real friend in this country. A journalist, like me. We were the same age. He lived with the family where I first lived when I moved to Dakar, a son or cousin, some family relation that was never quite clear. We spoke in the evenings before dinner, going over the day’s news, and he brewed tea after the meal so that the conversation could continue. He showed me how to navigate the city’s bus system and helped me with my Wolof homework. In the hardness of this place—the stink of the open sewers, the men who call you bitch on the street—Moussa was a bright, bright spot.

Three weeks ago, I came home to find out that Moussa had been taken to the hospital. Malaria, they said. Then, two weeks ago: a cerebral hemorrhage. No one spoke the truth, that Moussa was dying of AIDS.

On Tuesday, I got this message from another student living in the house: “Moussa is dead.”

I came home quickly, and already women from the neighborhood filled the house and spilled out onto the street. They sat in rows of white plastic chairs, the kind many families here own, to be brought out for baptisms and other family events.

Flies crawled across the tiled floor of the courtyard and rose in swarms when a new woman walked in, her long skirts swirling in a blaze of color. The women wore veils over their heads and lifted the corners to cover their faces. One woman stopped to wash at the outside faucet, as if to rinse away her grief. She rubbed her hands together beneath the running water, crying softly, and then pooled water in her palms to splash over her face. The more she washed, the harder she cried, so that by the time she reached her feet she sobbed in great heaving gasps.

I sat with the women as the hot afternoon turned shadowed and a wind came up as the day gave way to evening. Clouds crept across the sky, and the sunset sent veins of red coursing overhead.

The men went to the mosque for prayers and then to the cemetery for the graveside service. The women stayed behind, lining the alley outside the home. The family handed out bags of crackers and blue mints wrapped in plastic.

When the men returned, an imam rose to speak. The crowd on the street answered him in parts, so that their voices created a low hum of prayer. When the holy man finished talking, the gathered neighbors stood and approached the family.

“Que la terre soit legère sur lui,” they offered as condolence. May the earth lie lightly upon him.

When the mourners had disappeared back into their own homes, the family re-stacked the plastic chairs, to be stored away for the next birth, the next death.

Second-Class Citizen

In Senegal, as in much of West Africa, the concept of women’s rights weighs heavily on the local population. The topic is debated in newspapers, passed between government ministries, dissected by European NGOs. Women’s rights are improving here, they say. Women are becoming a powerful economic and social force. The women of Senegal are on the way up.

The lived truth, of course, is a very different thing.

Women must dress modestly here or risk retribution. They are shuffled to the back of elevators; men push them aside to step out first. Men receive wooden benches for sitting at mealtimes. The women sit on the floor. When a German student staying with my host family offered me his bench one night, he caused a minor revolt. I didn’t take his seat—I knew my place—but even still he got a lecture from the father of the house.

This same father sits apart while the rest of us crowd around the communal plate. There are many of us—small children, students like me, his wife—and we all share the rice and fish. Some nights we only get a few mouthfuls apiece. The father, though, has his own table setting and his own portion of food. His plate is heaped with rice and vegetables and meat. I can hear the stomachs of the children next to me growl even when we have eaten what is offered on the communal plate. Sometimes the father has so much he can’t finish it all.

These are small moments. Wearisome and irritating, but insidious, and they work their slow way into your psyche and show you what it’s like to be a second-class citizen. Still, they are not grounds for anger. That comes later.

It’s a strange thing to hear a man hit a woman. It unsettles on some primal level, goes against the fundamental order of things. When a man hits a woman, all is not right with the world.

The first slap woke me after midnight. I thought I dreamed it, but then I heard sobbing and the hard thwack of a second slap, heavy and full, the sound a hand makes when it comes in contact with a cheek. There was more sobbing. I recognized the tone as Awa’s, the serving girl who works in my host family’s home. There was muffled yelling, and I recognized the voice of the father of the house. They stood in the courtyard just beyond my window. The father spoke in Wolof, so I could not understand what he said, but I flinched at the harshness of his tone. When he stopped yelling, he hit Awa again. She wailed in a voice that made my heart ache. I lay awake in my room until the voices quieted and dispersed.

Now when I walk the narrow alleyways between homes, I think about the women who live behind the iron doors. I wonder if they are respected and cherished, or if their anger is simmering, like mine.

In Photos - Living Quarters

I rent a room in a villa in the suburb of Dakar that is a 20 minute drive from downtown. My host, Marie Therese, is from the Cape Verde islands, a former Portuguese colony 300 miles off the coast of Senegal. Her granddaughters, Laura and Celia, spend the afternoons with us.

Avarice and Generosity

If Africa is the cradle of civilization, as some experts claim, then Senegal is the inventor of the hustle. It’s everywhere here, from the cabbies who quote me a price three times the going rate, to the shop girls who charge me $6 for a $3 bottle of shampoo.

“You can’t let it get to you,” a friend from the Ivory Coast told me. “Otherwise, you’ll be angry all the time,” he said. “Senegal will age you.”

This seems to be the standard advice: Don’t let it get to you. I learned to bargain quickly—to insist on the right price from cab drivers and storeowners. I ask Senegalese friends the price of everything before I go to the market, that way I know what I should be charged.

On a recent weekend, I went with friends to the HLM market, a section of town that supplies the beautifully printed fabrics women wear here. I had asked a tailor friend for the prices, and she gave me a tutorial on the three tiers of fabric and how much six yards of each quality should cost.

My friends and I arrived on a rainy Sunday morning. Most of the stalls were still closed. We picked through the muddy side streets, past piles of trash pushed into corners. Goats grazed on the sparse blades of grass. Some vendors called out to us from their open storefronts; most eyed us suspiciously. We stood in the road, mud squishing over the toes of our sandals, and eyed the piles of bright cotton. Finally, I found what I was looking for: six yards of fabric printed with a yellow and blue motif. I wanted to have my own pagne made, one of the beautiful skirts the local women wear so regally, like royalty.

From my tutorial, I knew the price of the fabric I wanted to buy. The seller quoted me double. I laughed and shook my head.

“I know it’s worth 4,500,” I said.

He lowered his price a little, but not much. We went back and forth. Finally, he stopped, intractable, at 5,000 CFA. I knew it was still too high, but I loved the fabric. I told him I’d take it.

He pulled out a plastic bag, sullen and angry, and slipped the folded cotton inside. He spit the stick he’d been chewing at my feet. “You must love money,” he said.

“I’d say the same about you,” Isaid. I handed him the 5,000 CFA note, took the bag, and left the store.

Sometimes the Senegalese hustle is more subtle. It happens when the cab driver says he doesn’t have exact change—he comes up 100 CFA short. He can get the change, he tells me, but I know it will involve flagging down other drivers, more discussion and hassle, and I’m already running late. The truth is it’s only 20 cents. So, I tell him not to worry about it. We both know he’s scamming me.

But there are moments of unexpected generosity in Senegal. This happens often when I’m crossing the street. There are no streetlights in this city of 2.5 million, and getting across a road can feel like a feat for Evel Knievel. The locals do it effortlessly, stepping out into traffic, weaving their way through oncoming cars. I stall and hesitate.

“Come, come,” the person in front of me will say, and they will lead the way through traffic. I follow them closely, and together we make it across. This happens frequently here, in the busy downtown and in the quiet suburbs, and I’m surprised each time at this kindness from a stranger.

I’ve seen, too, people give money to the poor on the street, frequently and without hesitation. One night I walked with Marie, the woman who owns my villa, to the fruit stand on the corner. She is assiduously frugal. Once when I did not leave enough laundry detergent for the laundry woman, Marie bought me an extra pack. I reimbursed her that night, but was 5 CFA short, about a penny. She shrugged her shoulders and said it didn’t matter, but in a way I could tell it did. I made sure to repay her the 5 CFA.

At the fruit stand, a woman sat just outside. She smiled warmly at me when we came up the road. I was surprised—people here do not smile at strangers. They reserve a cold hostility for the unknown. The only people who appear friendly on first meeting are the hustlers, the men in the market who want you to visit their shop, the men on the street who want to get your number.

But American habits die hard, and I smiled back at the woman, glad to see a friendly face. She extended her hand to me, palm up, and then brought her fingers to her face, as if to mime eating. I realized then that she was one of the city’s many beggars.

Marie and I bought mangoes and bananas and small, sweet oranges from the fruit stand. We left to go back home, and I turned to say something to Marie, but she was not behind me. She was kneeling next to the woman, pressing coins into her hand.

In Photos - Dakar's environs

We visited Keur Moussa, a Catholic monastery, for a traditional mass mixed with African music. Then we stopped at Lake Rose, where the high salt content turns the water pink in the afternoon sun. Finally, the turtle village on the way back to town.

Forecast

Dakar is hot. Ungodly hot. The kind of heat that assaults from all angles. It radiates downward from the cloudless sky and upward from the sand at my feet. It presses in from every side, bounces off the concrete buildings, flows over the ocean in a hot wave of humid air.

At midday, no one moves. If I am home, I stay in my room. I stretch out on the bed and I will the heat to pass. If the power is on, I crank up the fan and aim it at the bed. If the power is out, I lay in a pool of sweat. Moisture beads on my arms, in my hair, and I am drenched.

The weather is also variable.

I pull myself up off the damp bed and take a cool shower. I cross the street for lunch, head from the lush confines of the villa where I live to the cool inner courtyard of the home where I eat. The space between the two is negligible, a 10-minute walk at most. But in the bright sun and fierce heat of midday, it is an impossibly long stretch. I arrive red-faced and sweating.

We eat together on the floor. On Sundays, it’s always the same: yassa, chicken stewed in an onion broth and served over rice. The madame scoops bits of rice and sauce and meat with her hand. She pulls apart the chicken and flings bits to each person seated around the metal dish. There are nine of us today. We spoon the chicken into our mouths like hungry birds.

The power is off for most of the meal, and without the fan the heat inside the living room is heavy and thick. But as we eat the last grains of rice, a breeze stirs the leaves of the mango tree in the courtyard. I look out the open back door, and I see that the blue sky is covered over with grey. The temperature drops, and in the stillness of an afternoon without electricity, we can feel the coming storm.

I say my goodbyes, and I pass through the courtyard into the narrow alleyway. The wind kicks up the sand that is everywhere here, and I squint and turn my head from the gritty blast. The people around me turn their heads, too. We are all hurrying, trying to reach some secure spot before the storm hits. The wind blows in gusts, and laundry set out to dry in the heat of the day snaps on the line. A sheep tied to a tree brays and yanks on his tether. Blades of grass ripple at his feet.

I move back across the street, my head bent against the storm. I unlock the gate to my villa and duck inside as the first drops of rain fall. The heat that has been building all day suddenly slackens, and the grey clouds overhead deliver us from the inferno.

Dark nights in Dakar

I started this morning crouched over a bucket of water. The water has been cut in Dakar—an unusual occurrence, residents assure me—and the woman who owns the villa where I live had the foresight to fill buckets early this morning.

It is a surprisingly natural thing, this bathing out of a bucket, and I laughed to myself when I realized my body had naturally assumed the posture I’ve seen on women washing beside the road.

If losing running water is rare, blackouts are more common, those daily cuts to the power system that leave us without fans, in the stifling heat, sometimes in the dark. When the cuts come at night, everyone is exasperated. People condemn the power company, the corrupt government, the oil oligarchy. They throw up their hands in frustration, and then they bring out the flashlights.

If the meal has already started, or if my host family is just sitting down to eat, then we stay where we are, gathered around a communal plate on the living room floor. The TV, for once, is silent. The fan overhead is still, and the heat in the room suddenly thickens, condenses. If we have not sat down to eat, we will go upstairs to the rooftop, where the air moves and the song from the muezzin in the mosque across the street can be heard clearly.

When I first arrived, during Ramadan, we once ate on the rooftop as soon as the sun set. The air still carried a trace of pink. We dipped our spoons into the platter of rice and fish, and I listened as the Senegalese talked politics and religion. The night darkened around us and a plane passed overhead, so close I thought I might run a hand along its belly if I just raised an arm. A current of hot air circulated in the plane’s wake and a low moan whirled through the archways of neighboring buildings like a passing djinn.

On other powerless nights we sat gathered in the living room long after the meal had been eaten, longer even than the rechargeable batteries for the flashlights could last. The bulbs slowly dimmed until we were sitting in blackness, and still we stayed. The madam’s brother—a professor at the university—and her sister visiting from France lead the debate about women’s role in the Koran. The father of the house hotly disputed their opinions. There was much laughter and ribbing.

The dark, close quarters of a night without electricity lend themselves to profound conversations. The streets, even, feel more intimate, and people bring chairs to sit in the sandy back alleyways between their homes. There is a collective relaxing, a letting go into the quiet of the powerless night. At any rate, the electricity will come back—perhaps in a few hours, perhaps in the morning—and there is no sense worrying in the mean time.

I hope the same can be said for the water.