Getting lost in Dakar

Hi everyone, 

A vibrant approach to everything, 
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I arrived safely in Dakar last Wednesday, after a mad dash through the airport in Paris. Even the best-laid plans can go awry when you are meeting a captivating woman with mesmerizing eyes for lunch in Paris. Once in Dakar. the lush colors and rich vitality combines with a slow-paced energy to create a unique atmosphere, where capitalism meets a laid-back approach to life. 

At the airport in Dakar, airport officials, identifiable not by their clothes but the small badge around their neck, went out of their way to be helpful and protect you from scams – they clearly tolerate hustlers that throng the airport, but will not help them or facilitate their schemes. This has been true ever since – police officers passively observe scam artists, but have yet to appear in cahoots with scam artists, unlike other places I’ve been.

I didn’t want to publish something too soon, to have time to absorb my surroundings. Of course, like many people perhaps who set out to write a travel blog, I hoped that somehow my observations and experiences would lead to some penetrating insights and deep truths. Dakar evades simplistic narratives and offers instead an incredibly rich environment full of contrasts.

Just when I think I’ve figured out the socioeconomic dynamics of a neighborhood, an impossibly elegant African woman stepping gingerly around uneven pavement, concentrating to not break her high heel, walks by a man heating water on the sidewalk to sell tea. The King of Morocco, Mohammed VI, visits the Ministry of Health and Social action in grand pomp, while a beat-up taxi drops off a late-comer for the departure ceremony.

Taxis and colorful minibuses with no clear stops abound

On my first full day in Dakar, I promptly – and unintentionally – proceeded to get lost on foot. Confident in my GPS, I hadn’t paid sufficient attention to my surroundings. In Dakar, addresses are meaningless. I was attempting to navigate using my phone’s map (which was off by over a mile, not surprising given that the Senegalese don’t use addresses) rather than adopting the Senegalese way of seeing things. You have to look beyond names and develop personal landmarks. As a result, navigating to and from somewhere on foot becomes a much richer experience.

The WARC, my home base for the next three weeks

Upon arriving at the West Africa Research Center, the think tank that I’ve joined in Dakar, the staff greeted me warmly, especially Mariane whom I’ve bombarded with emails for the past few weeks. Yet as I begin trying to set up meetings, frustration sinks in: things will take time in Dakar. When can I meet the Center’s director? Tomorrow, or in 2 days, or Monday. Monday, for sure. But if not Monday, probably Tuesday. Coming on the heels of a very busy week in Paris, full of back to back to back meetings, this feels impossibly slow.

Architecture is often uneven, seemingly
providing a creative outlet...

And gorgeous colors explode everywhere 

Having had some time to think about that experience, and the initial sensation of being powerless to control things that came over me, I think it’s emblematic of my need to adapt to the Senegalese way of doing things more than anything else. I need to adjust to Dakar’s rhythm, and embrace the city’s vibrant energy, a combination of friendliness and half-hearted hustling, classic scams and a quasi-artistic injection of creativity in daily life.

As one of the rare Caucasians in Mermoz, a non-touristy neighborhood, I quickly noticed I was a constant object of attention, but never of hostile intentions. Taxis honk as they go by, hoping for a fare but not expecting to get one. Street merchants in this area are similarly resigned to the fact they won’t hook you. 

In contrast, in the market, a clear tourist trap, an eager salesman tries to sell me cheap fabric as authentic Senegalese cotton. Laughing, I engage with him, but keep my hand in the pocket that has my cell phone and the bulk of my cash. I quickly help draw attention to my back right pocket, putting some bills in there as we talk. After trying to convince me we’re best friends and that he’s given me outrageously good deals, we part laughingly. As I walk away, I check: sure enough, my back pocket is inside out, and the 2,500 cfa francs (about $4.00) are gone, along with the decoy wad of bill-sized pieces of paper I folded into there. The rest of my money is safe.

In Dakar, you negotiate everything, including taxi fares (they have no meters)

Next time, I hope to have stories about going into downtown Dakar to see the main sites, and will talk more about my host family and their sense of community. Plus spending my first weekend in Dakar with no running water, nor electricity for part of the weekend. 

The courtyard behind my host family's house. These are sheep.
They're not my host family's sheep -- their sheep live around the corner.
Why do they own sheep I asked: out of habit, because of tradition.