Scenes from the streets of Dakar, where the sidewalks are full of life

Dakar is a city full of energy, but that vitality does not come from its architecture: rather, it is the people who fill the city with life. Sidewalks offer a snapshot of the myriad ways in which the Senegalese turn zones of transit into bustling centers of activity. As far as I can tell, there is no pre-planned approach, they seem to expand into unoccupied areas organically. It's fascinating to observe such a rich tapestry of activities develop in a systemic yet informal manner throughout the entire city. Below are a few snapshots of how sidewalks in Dakar aren't just corridors to get pedestrians from one place to another, but a place in and of themselves.

Sidewalks are a contested area in Dakar, disputed by small stalls, cars, and artisans making and selling their wares 

People gather around a coffee stand
in the morning, and talk

Street life is the best expression I've found to describe what goes on among pedestrians. Between the many commercial activities that play out on sidewalks -- from small stalls to large displays to micro-cafes, Dakar's sidewalks are a canvas for human enterprises of various sizes. The sidewalks can be narrow bits of cement in certain areas, and wide swaths of packed dirt in others. It's hard to tell whether people are supposed to walk in the street or on sidewalks in certain parts of downtown Dakar: the commercial use of sidewalks pushes people into the street, where taxis casually honk at them while swerving around them expertly.

Here are some scenes from Dakar's lively, fascinating sidewalks, for your viewing pleasure: 

At times, I feel displaying your goods should be considered an art form

In other neighborhoods, commercial considerations clearly outweigh aesthetics

Sometimes, the sidewalk becomes your shop -- your factory, your display center, your commercial headquarters, all in one

Early on a Sunday morning, this salesman takes a nap on his suitcases in the shade, while displaying the fans he has for sale

At lunchtime, sidewalks become places where people gather to eat meals from street vendors, finding shade where they can

At night time, sidewalks remain just as busy, and the ubiquitous Nescafe stalls continue to bustling hubs of sociability

Call me Colin Gaye, the toubab of Mermoz

After spending a weekend in Saint Louis, and realizing how happy I felt upon returning to Dakar, I became aware of something: I am in love with this city, with its smells, sounds, and sights. It’s a never-ceasing mix of contrasting ingredients that make the city what it is. I particularly like Mermoz, the residential neighborhood where I’m staying. Mermoz is in the middle of the Dakar peninsula, halfway between the southern Plateau and the northern Pointe des Almadies.

The fruit stall just around the corner from my house. I'm going to miss Senegalese mangoes 

When I walk out of my house in the morning, the smell of sand and spices hits me immediately. If my traveling companion Fatou is with me, her invariably bright and lively outfit will add a dash of color to the picture, as will her smiling personality. Arriving at the courtyard at the end of the alleyway adds the smell and sound of the sheep who live there.

Fatou poses in the courtyard, while behind her some men give the sheep a sponge bath

The large Ecobank in Mermoz: 

the only way to tell taxis where I live

As I step out onto the main street, and the sand gives way to paved roads and sidewalks, the sound of taxis honking at me as they go by begins to fill the air. Initially, I would get mildly upset with the constant soliciting, as I viewed it; now, I either ignore it or laugh at the constant endeavors of Dakarois to make a little extra money through or despite a system that places constraints on their ability to do so. (A taxi spends half of what it can hope to make on a good day on gas; many of the taxi drivers work for another driver who owns the vehicle: the owner and the other driver will work in shifts, and the other driver will pay the owner a sizable portion of his earnings from that day.)

Scenes from Mermoz:
This is the sight that greets me every morning, when I open the door and step out into the alleyway. 

Scenes from Mermoz:
Fatou stops to check the phone I gave her (an old flip phone that doesn't work in Senegal, but has two games)
next to the horse drawn cart that is carrying stones to a house where construction is currently going on.
It's not "under construction" since in Dakar people start living in a house as soon as the ground floor is built

Scenes from Mermoz:
It's very common to see stones from unfinished construction sites in Dakar, and Mermoz is no exception.
People start a project they will complete when they again have money, which can be ten years later, or never

Scenes from Mermoz:
The porch of my home. Children play outside, wearing the usual
assortment of bright t-shirts. At night, Alioune's sheep sleep here 

I think of Mermoz as an ensemble of residential islands, where a maze of small alleyways and sand roads connect houses and apartment buildings; larger, paved roads cut through periodically, but the main roads run north-south, giving the space between them a sense of isolated continuity, of being cut off from the rest of Dakar. The inner sidewalks tend to be wide swaths of sand, sometimes paved, where people gather to talk, where small shops ply their trade, in a relaxed way: when I went to buy another 10-liter bottle of water, the guy behind the counter seemed almost surprised by the business, and that his conversation with two friends had been interrupted.

On the other side of the main road, residential Mermoz gives way to imposing houses and embassies 

The bright flowers adorning the walls of the nice houses on the other side of the main thoroughfare are another indication of the gap between the two sides of the road. 
The abundance of flowers also undercuts the physical austerity of this part of Mermoz, which lack human warmth

Alioune spends every evening playing petanque, on a field that
has excellent lighting. All of the men play petanque in Mermoz
and the Mermoz petanque club has hundreds of members 

The inner streets of Mermoz, where the Senegalese live, are sand paths, sometimes hardened dirt, connected by narrow alleyways and courtyards. In the hours after school lets out, groups of kids and teenagers roam the alleyways, playing and talking animatedly. I love coming home to the relaxed energy that comes from their presence. Among older teenagers, fewer women are found in the streets, as they tend to sit in a local café or in someone’s apartment and talk.

After school and on weekends, soccer dominates 

At night, the inner streets are just as animated, if not more so. Mermoz is a very safe neighborhood, and I’ve never once felt afraid wandering about on my own or with Fatou after the sun goes down. Local stalls and small shops remain open until late: in a city where people never have dinner before 9pm, sometimes as late as 10pm, evening sociability seems to be an important part of life.

Beaches abound in Dakar. In Mermoz, beaches are more secluded, and offer gorgeous views. Yet even here you
can't escape a sense of poverty, as a small family has established residency under the trees next to the beach. 

This is the path that leads from the street
to the courtyard and my house.
To me, this is the entryway into
residential Mermoz, its sounds, its life

Last week, I became part of the Mermoz community. To celebrate my birthday, I decided to organize a small party, at Fatou’s request. The real purpose for me was to learn how the Senegalese celebrate birthdays, and give Fatou a chance to invite all of her friends for a party. It turns out the Senegalese celebrate birthdays the same way I did growing up in France and the US. I walked to a local (French) bakery to pick out a cake with Fatou, who got very excited. It was touching to see her, on the way back, run down all of her friends in the neighborhood to show off the box with the cake inside (though you couldn’t see the cake), and remind them of the party to come. We picked up two friends of Fatou’s, who upon learning we’d be heading to the mall to buy some food nervously asked me if they could come with me.

Fatou enjoying her time 

on the escalator intently

They relaxed a lot when I told them with a smile that they could. We walked to the mall, making small talk; one of them, Aissatou, was very proud she could say a few words in English, since her dad lives in the US. Upon arriving at the mall, I told the girls they could ride the escalator for a bit. I’ve learned from going there with Fatou that the escalator is a big source of excitement for them. Aissatou told me with evident pride she’d taken the escalator twice before, then proceeded to step on very nervously, before smiling grandly the entire way down (which lasted for 7 seconds). It still amazes me that things I take for granted can be such magical experiences for an 11-year-old here. 

Later that evening, kids from the neigbhorhood came over for the party, which featured cake, candy, and chips -- basically, just like any kids' party I'd ever been to. I relaxed and talked to some of the parents and older siblings waiting outside for the kids to finish partying, and relaxing with a glass of juice of their own. 

The next day, people started calling me Colin Gaye, since I'm staying with the Gaye family. Everyone started saying hi when they saw me, kids would shake my hand hello, and they'd introduce me to their friends as the "toubab" from the Gaye family. A toubab is the Senegalese term for a white person who tries to understand Senegalese culture and customs. Since that party, I've felt a shift in how others look at me as I walk through the alleyways of Mermoz, which confirms just how strong their sense of community is. I'm now Colin Gaye, the toubab. 

A typical scene from Mermoz: small alleyways of stone connect larger openings of sand

The bus ride up to Saint Louis, or how to make a 4-hour trip in nearly nine hours, yet arrive happy

I visited the island-city of Saint Louis over the weekend. The ride up was a great adventure (more eventful than actually visiting the city would prove to be), as it turned into a series of windows into Senegalese life. 

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get there, since the taxi ride to the bus station included some of the most insane driving I’ve ever experienced. Even by Senegalese standards this was insane: between the cataracts that prevented the driver from seeing out of one eye, his disregard for what few red lights there are in the city, his penchant for driving all over the road including into incoming traffic, and a tendency to wave wildly at people around him, leading him to forget to break unless I hit him on the shoulder (yelling didn’t do anything), I considered getting out, but since he never stopped the vehicle once during the 30-minute drive I could not.

I finally arrived at the bus station, and made my way to the area where buses are for Saint Louis, after taking a minute to appreciate the firm ground beneath my feet, and letting my legs stabilize. A station official helped me find the right bus in the middle of the sprawling station, and I was again thankful for the people wearing a small plastic badge around their neck in Senegal, who will go out of their way to ensure you arrive where you’re trying to go without soliciting bribes.

Above the man in the baseball cap,
hangs the portrait of a man: the bus
is under the protection of a cheikh 

I found a seat in the middle of the aisle – a fold-out seat with very little back support and, in the case of my particular seat, a broken spring that stuck into my back like a needle. During the ride, I grew to hate that spring intensely, more so with each passing bump and lurch. As I settled into my seat as best I could, I asked what time the bus was leaving and told “there are four seats left.” I realized that in Senegal, the bus leaves when it is full. It turns out this can be a subjective notion: after I had been sitting in the bus for about 50 minutes, an animated argument broke out between some passengers at the front of the bus and the driver. Since it was taking place in Wolof, I had no clue what the fuss was about, until I asked another passenger who said the passengers wanted to go since the seats were filled while the driver wanted to wait for people willing to pay to stand in the absence of seats.

In such a crowded bus, getting
off  can be a struggle

Their frustration was all the more understandable since some of the people had been waiting in the bus for 5 hours at that point. I was again amazed by the patience the Senegalese exhibit, a resignation to forces deemed outside their control. While we waited, vendors kept jumping on the bus to sell us their goods, each one carrying one type of item: water, cookies, phones, dried fruit, books, perfume, t-shirts, toothpaste...

I waited for about an hour and 15 minutes before the driver finally agreed to depart. That’s when mechanical issues intervened: the motor refused to start. A crew of 8 men standing around the bus, quite possibly for just this purpose, began to push the bus, its 42 passengers, and the luggage we had brought on board, outside the station, as the driver tried to start the engine. He finally succeeded after the guys had been pushing us for nearly 10 minutes, out of the station and onto the street.

At the outskirts of Dakar, we encountered
bustling markets, which differed greatly from
the fruit stands we'd drive past in the countryside

Once we finally got going, we suddenly stopped after 2 minutes of actual driving, for reasons unclear, in the middle of the road. Vendors hanging around immediately jumped on board to try once again to induce us to purchase something. At this point, I’d been on the bus for about 90 minutes, on my broken, uneven seat, in the midday heat that the open doors only alleviate slightly, barely at all when the bus isn’t moving, especially as temperatures continue to rise to their midday peak.

Finally, we began to move again, lurching forward, and shaking as the driver shifts gears. When the bus went over a speed bump, and despite slowing down to about 5 miles per hour, the whole bus creaked and trembles as we laboriously climb over the speed bump. As I felt the spring jab me in the back, I thought, this 4-hour, 160-mile journey should be interesting. It’s 12:04pm. What follows is my attempt to chronicle “in real time” the events and adventures I witnessed during the drive, which ended up lasting almost 9 hours.

At 12:08pm, we pull into a gas station, to fill the empty gas tank. They fill it up with exactly the amount of gas needed to complete the trip. Vendors immediately jump on the bus again, offering apples to general indifference. I should add that vendors can hop on so easily because the front and back doors remain open at all times, including while moving, to provide much-needed ventilation.

At 12:20pm, we pass a bus that’s broken down, its passengers mulling around on the sidewalk to escape the heat of the bus. I estimate our odds of arriving without further mechanical issues at 50-50.

12:39pm -- At a busy intersection, where the bus slows down but doesn’t stop as it charges through the traffic, a vendor makes a well-timed jump, and proceeds to try to sell cookies for about a mile and a half, before getting off just as he got on, when the bus slows down to struggle over a speed bump.

Suddenly, an athletic Senegalese runs alongside the moving bus and hops on board. He isn’t selling anything, and looks very comfortable sitting on the steps of the bus. No one challenges his presence. I later realize he’s the co-pilot, who alternately rides by standing outside the back of the bus hanging on a pole, or sitting on the stairs of the back door. He’s in charge of telling the driver when to stop to let someone on or off, when to go again, and is responsible for ensuring we don’t lose people during rest stops. He communicates with the driver by banging with his hand on the side of the bus.

Leaving Dakar, our path takes us along the coast for a few, short minutes. The ocean breeze is
delicious, the calm landscape a welcome respite from the busy urban chaos we just traversed

At 1:08pm, at a seemingly random spot (as far as I can tell) along the road, at the outskirts of Dakar, the co-pilot begins banging on the side of the bus. The driver laboriously pulls to a stop, and three new passengers climb on board. Since there is only one free seat, two people are forced to stand in the front. I’m confused by how the co-pilot knows when people standing on the side of the road are passengers; the only landmark I can make out is a tree, which is perhaps the informally-accepted location for a bus stop for this route.

A small fruit stand selling mangoes. I saw more mangoes during this bus ride than at any point in my life

At 1:10pm, my stomach begins to growl. I consider eating some of the dried fruit and Senegalese gingerbread I brought with me. Since I’m unsure if there will be breaks, and since there are no bathrooms on the bus, I decide to hold off from eating for the time being. Meanwhile, a woman a few rows ahead begins to sing – not softly, but very loud. No one seems to take any notice.

Woman with baskets of fruit race to be the first one on the bus at every stop

A vendor selling bags of oranges
on our crowded bus

1:58pm – As we drive past an outdoor market in the middle of nowhere, brightly-clothed young women begin racing to the slowing bus, with baskets of fruit on their head. They fight each other to be first on the bus, and begin selling large bags of mangoes for 500 cfa Francs, less than $1. Since the aisle is filled with people like myself seating on fold-out seats, the woman stand at the door, shouting; when someone wants to purchase a bag, money is passed up, and fruit is passed back. They ply their trade for a few minutes, until the co-pilot begins banging on the side of the bus again. Some women get off immediately, others choose to remain onboard in the hopes of making another sale, and, in a now-familiar pattern, get off when the bus slows down to go over a speed-bump.

Our dynamic pharmaceutical
sales rep extols the virtues of
the toothpaste he's selling

At the front of the bus, a passenger gets up from his seat, and begins selling pharmaceutical products. He seems different from the other vendors: he had a seat on the bus, and has stored his goods on board. He talks and gesticulates for about 20 minutes, expanding on the virtues of the toothpaste, toothbrushes and “really extra gel” (a sort of pain relieving gel) he’s selling today. He passes out samples for people to examine the labels, and unlike the other vendors sells most of his goods. After about 20 minutes, the bus stops to let him come to the back of the bus and repeat the same spectacle for our benefit, with a new bag of the same goods. Next to me, a local marabout or Soufi religious man buys about 15 packs of toothpaste and 15 toothbrushes, which I assume he’s bringing back to his community.

2:23pm – At another stop at another fruit market, the same scene plays out. It’s much shorter this time, since most people who want to have already purchased bags of oranges and/or mangoes. A passenger gets out to stretch his legs. The bus begins moving again until the co-pilot spots the man and bangs on the side of the bus. How the driver knows how to interpret the bangs is beyond me, but the driver obliges by slowing down for the passenger, who sprints up to the moving bus and jumps on.

2:24pm – The motor stalls. I hold my breath. After a minute, it starts again, thankfully.

In rural communities I saw, horse-drawn carriages seemed more prevalent, a reflection perhaps of the greater
difficulties such communities would face in refueling their cars, and their poorer economic status.

2:40pm – We stop in the middle of nowhere in response to the copilot’s banging. Three people get on after agreeing on a price with the copilot. Even though the bus is crammed full and no one has gotten off, they somehow manage to fit on the bus, some standing, some sitting. I’m beginning to believe the laws of physics may not apply to this seemingly expanding vehicle.

2:41pm – A bump on the road rams the spring into my back forcefully: certain laws of physics do apply after all.

Anytime the bus stops at a fruit market (and I lose track of how often this occurs), the temperature quickly rises in the bus: we lose the precious breeze, while the sun and the nearly 50 people crowded inside the bus combine to produce almost unbearable heat.

The Senegalese countryside. The yellow color is not a distortion: it's caused by the sand in the air
(I actually took this photo during the drive back down). As the sky became yellow it created a desolate atmosphere

4:02pm – After 4 hours of driving, we’ve nearly reached the halfway mark on this supposedly 4.5-hour trip. However, we’re making fewer stops as we drive past empty fields in the countryside. The landscape features decrepit buildings, and a few new ones, all mosques, which stand out because they don’t look dusty but are kept immaculately clean.

We drive past fields of sandy dirt, where a few trees somehow manage to grow, where young boys 9 or 10 years old herd small flocks of skinny sheep, relying on bright t-shirts, a stick, and their youthful energy to keep the flock together.

Even driving through isolated villages, you see signs of the French economic presence, here with TV provider Canal+

5:34pm – 5 and a half hours into the trip, I finally get to seat in a real seat (a handful of people have gotten off at various spots). I sink gratefully into a seat that’s even, had back support, and lacks any spring pointed at my back. I’m hot, sweaty, and hungry, but I feel great, and settle into a blissful contemplation of the countryside for the rest of the trip.

8:47pm – The bus pulls into the station at Saint Louis. I get off the bus. A cool, ocean breeze kisses my face. It’s time to find a taxi to take me to the island of Saint Louis, and to figure out a place to stay for the night before exploring the island at dusk. 

Discovering Dakar’s future? An evening with young and aspiring tech entrepreneurs

Last Thursday, I happened to attend by chance an event for young Senegalese tech entrepreneurs. One of the organizers was a friend of a friend whom I had emailed the previous day and who suggested I stop by that evening to meet him. The evening proved interesting, as it exposed me to two faces of Dakar with which I had yet to interact, one by choice, the other by lack of opportunity: that of the luxurious four-star hotels, and the world of young entrepreneurs trying to make a difference.

The Pullman is a nice hotel, but the gates around
it reinforced my sense of stepping into a world
far removed from the Dakar I've come to know

The setting made sense for the event, but was unsettling for me: a very nice hotel on the Place de l’Indépendence, Dakar’s main square. Upon walking in I felt as though I were stepping into a different world: not just because of the guard and the gate at the entrance of the parking lot, but because of the odd, almost artificial deference with which the hotel staff treated me. After having become accustomed to being either a guest of a family (and sharing their meals and electricity outages), or a target for friendly hustles and smiling vendors, this polite, distant attitude troubled me.

I later realized the attitude of the hotel staff, while fully professional, lacked the characteristic warmth and authenticity of regular Senegalese interactions, in a town where you can have a pleasant conversation even with people peddling knock-offs on the street, and where people move between “tu” and the more polite “vous” within the same sentence.  

In this context, details took on a heightened importance, such as the fact that bathrooms not only had toilet paper (a first for me in Dakar), but also featured faucets offering hot and cold water – whether showering or washing my hands, every other place I have been so far just offered “water,” with no means to regulate temperature. 

The view from the hotel's terrace is spectacular, undeniably so.
(Immediately below me is the hotel swimming pool, a very secluded spot a stone's throw from the sea)

The shiny interior just added to the sense of a sanitized version of Senegal

Having processed my discomfort at the lack of warmth and (to me) excessive amenities, so far removed from the Dakar I’ve come to know and enjoy in the short time I’ve been here, I proceeded to the room where the event was, down shiny hallways and past brightly-lit conference rooms. 

Aspiring entrepreneurs listen and
take notes during a presentation

I met with Yann and other members of the incubator for which he works, CTIC – Dakar (http://www.cticdakar.com/), to learn more about the event’s theme. Yann explained it was a “Fail event,” to challenge perceptions of failure in a society that stigmatizes it heavily. This is in part due to the influence of a certain French mentality in which risk aversion often wins out. It also reflects social pressures in Senegal: if a worker is expected to provide not only for himself or herself, but also support his or her community, then starting a company and failing can have significant ramifications beyond the state of your own savings.

Throughout the evening, young entrepreneurs shared stories of failure and highlighted how it helped them. The evening featured testimonials from male and female entrepreneurs, who told their tales with doses of humor (often starting with “Hi, my name is X, and I’ve failed,” mimicking support groups to great laughter) to inspire others while making the notion of failure a banal and accepted aspect of launching a successful company.

A Senegalese entrepreneur tells of his failures, and how they contributed to his success today. 
Yann can be seen in the white shirt taking a picture of the speaker

The same experience, only magnified: walls
and gates to create an environment cut
off from the boisterous Dakar I enjoy

I later had a meeting at another, even nicer, hotel, the King Fahd Hotel and Palace, a luxurious resort built by Saudi Arabia for the 1990 Organization of the Islamic Conference summit in Dakar, and donated to Senegal thereafter. Upon arriving at the hotel, I felt the same sensation of seclusion and exclusion, of entering an artificial bubble.


Inside, it was the same thing I had noticed before: a gorgeous view of an empty sea, while people flock to the swimming pool. Having been fortunate to experience a little of the rich tapestry Dakar offers on a daily basis, it's still hard for me to believe that people would settle for such a mundane experience. I was happy to exit the gated area and leave its swimming pools behind me, and walk along dusty streets and sandy sidewalks where odors and colors, taxi drivers and street vendors, fight for your attention.

But I digress. 

During my evening with the tech entrepreneurs, it struck me that the young professionals, who lived in conditions similar to that of my host family, and clearly enjoyed being in the environment of the hotel, were similar to young Americans in many regards: as they settled into their seats, they took out laptops and smartphones; some even sported Beats headphones. Here were young professionals with drive and vision, the young people I’d often heard about in the speeches, of U.S. officials and others, promoting Africa’s potential. I couldn’t stay for long during the ensuing cocktail, but left the group feeling inspired, and excited to have encountered yet another face of Dakar, one that exhibited tremendous drive and determination, and inspired sincere hope they would succeed.

Fatou and Demba watch a movie on
my laptop, with evident fascination
(despite the moving being in English)

Their rapport to technology reminded me of Fatou’s, but also illustrated the gulf that separated this group of educated young professionals from my host family’s milieu. Fatou is fascinated with my smartphone, having seen smartphones on TV, and often asks to accompany me to the café when I work so she can go on her Facebook account (which was created for her by a previous American visiting scholar placed with her family by the same think tank that put me in touch with them).

Fatou, who has never used a computer, is excited about the possibility technology offers to encounter new ways of doing things. She uses my phone to chat with her best friend who lives a few blocks away, and to watch episodes of her favorite Senegalese shows on YouTube. I’ve since noticed she will even will sneakily take selfies with my phone, when I'm not looking, mimicking the poses (and unfortunate trends, such as the “duck face”) of American teenage girls, before running home to play with her friends in the street. 

For the aspiring entrepreneurs, on the other hand, technology had become a part of their daily life, and a way to achieve success, not only for themselves but to support their communities – directly, by redistributing resources from their successful ventures, and indirectly, by changing the way communities operate, which was the focus of many of these socially-minded aspiring entrepreneurs. 

Walking back Google Senegal's headquarters, I came across this small stall, a scene which to me
illustrated the contrasting levels of technology that rhythm daily life in Dakar

In a city where cell phones remain by far the most efficient means of reaching someone, with email a remote option further down the list (smart phones have started to spread, but remain rather rare in my experience), technology contributes to Dakar's apparent fascination with Western, and especially American, trends and culture. Its integration in Senegalese life will take place with typical Senegalese contrasts, as entrepreneurs use technology to meet local challenges and build from within rather than disrupt the traditional social fabric, like the young entrepreneur I met who wanted to create a mobile payment platform for all the street vendors in Dakar. 

Driving in Dakar, part 2 (of 2): A word about taxis, and Senegal's institutionalized informality

Driving around Dakar, or rather, being driven around in taxis, is a unique experience. In a city where public transportation is minimal, and where the heat makes walking in a suit for more than a mile an unappealing option, I renew with the experience once or twice per day. What follows are two posts, one with general observations about the Dakarois style of driving, and a second one with more about how taxis work, in a city with no addresses and where taxis don't have meters. 

Taxis are generally 20-30 year-old vehicles, and seem for some to be barely holding together (these are the ones where you can negotiate a better price). I noticed there is no meter in the taxis, unlike in India where there are meters but drivers will cover them up with a cloth to try to extort a higher price: everything is a negotiation in Dakar. I almost get the impression that nothing is settled in Dakar, anything can change, there's a sense of constant movement, or possible fluctuations, that people seem to accept and even embrace. People are constantly adapting to their surroundings, in a relaxed manner, which affects even how they drive: the shifting to avoid other vehicles is a constant feature of driving in Dakar.

After the bus suddenly slowed down to left off the man at the curb
(without stopping), the taxi shifted around it, and calmly shifted
further as bus started moving back towards the middle of the road

This makes every aspect of life a much richer interaction, something I've come to enjoy. For instance, when I hail a cab, I don’t get in immediately, but lean in the front window on the passenger side to establish a general destination, using a neighborhood and a landmark (nobody uses addresses in Dakar). Arriving at a common understanding of where you want to go can be difficult considering that taxi drivers can locate shockingly few buildings in their own city. I’ve learned through experience that large banks are the best bet, or hotels, but that governmental buildings, military bases, restaurants, even mosques, rarely help.

This is how a taxi enters an intersection that has no stop signs: it inches forward into traffic, until it's in the middle of a road, and then continue moving forward, weaving its way across lanes and between cars. It's a surreal experience, because it somehow works despite its insanity. 

There have been times when I don't know the neighborhood I'm heading to, and can't help the taxi locate my precise destination, in which case he'll gladly drop me off at the first occasion he gets, to go looking for another fare. I thus spent 45 minutes once wandering around an area trying to locate a cafe where I was supposed to meet someone, to no avail. Afterwards, I learned why: I wasn't even in the right neighborhood, there are six areas called "Liberte" numbered 1 through 6, and the taxi had dropped me off in the wrong one, 2 miles away from where I wanted to go. Everything becomes an adventure in Dakar! For example, tonight, in a few hours, I have a meeting at a place with no address beyond "street of the airport." All I know is to look for a neon green bank, and it's somewhere opposite that. This should be fun explaining to a taxi driver.

If I'm not in a hurry, I can direct the taxi to take the city route, to observe scenes from
Dakar and take in the sounds and smells which make up so much of these scenes

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Once I manage to establish a shared understanding with the driver of a general destination, I then negotiate the price. I’m fortunate, living with a host family, to be able to ask Alioune what the proper price is to get to various parts of Dakar. Being white, taxis will naturally double the normal price in their initial offer. I've learned through experience that on days when I'm wearing a suit and tie they'll try to charge even more.

In addition to negotiating a fare, the drive itself is enjoyable:
certain routes offer great views along the coast

When a taxi stops to negotiate, it won't necessarily 

pull up to the curb, but stop wherever

The key is to know that there are established prices (no one knows how they were established, apparently) that inhabitants of Dakar will pay depending on where they’re trying to go: as a result, I don’t negotiate, but remain firm in my price. The trick is to do so with a smile: there's no need to get upset in Dakar, I just accept that they'll try to make more money off of me, and the goal is to show them I know what they're doing, so we can laugh about it together. Viewing it as a game, not a struggle, is how I approach these situations. This is why I think I hated my initial visit to a very touristy market, which was the only time I got the sense that no matter what I'd never get a fair price out of the negotiation, since it was less a game and more of a straightforward scam, despite the smiles.

Driving to the northern tip of the Dakar peninsula, to the Almadies neighborhood full of
beautiful houses and gorgeous views, takes about 20 minutes and costs 1,500 cfa Francs

Driving to downtown Dakar takes 10 minutes
from Mermoz, and costs 1,500 cfa Francs

The prices make no sense to me: Alioune told me that a trip to the think tank that I’ve joined, about a mile away, would cost 700 cfa Francs (about $1.15), while a trip to the Plateau in downtown Dakar, about 5 miles away, costs 1500 cfa Francs (about $2.50). Prices don't vary based on time: a trip in rush hour will cost the same as it would in normal traffic. No one seems to know how people settled on prices for different itineraries. This is another aspect of institutionalized informality that baffles and fascinates me about Dakar.

Rush hour is no joke in Dakar: a 10-minute drive can turn into an hour-long trip

Since taxis are everywhere (seemingly every other vehicle is a cab), it’s easy to walk away and hail another one – especially since taxis honk whenever they see a Caucasian person out walking. I used to wave no every time, but that just caused them to slow down, which I think is because so few of them wear glasses but probably should. (This impression is based in part on their inability to drive straight.) It's amazing to me that despite this, and despite driving at night with very dim lights, they still manage to see the road, and somehow have a radar to spot a white person even 50 yards away or more in the evening.

Detour and "road closed." I love how the Senegalese create
contrasts between a formal system and the informal reality

Moreover, since prices are negotiated based on a broad understanding of where you want to go, you have to know the neighborhood you’re going to, in order to give the taxi precise indications of where to drop you off (which add several minutes to the drive, if he didn’t know any of the more exact buildings you tried to use as landmarks). They accept this, and don’t try to argue I should pay them more; well one of them did, but simply informing them with a laugh that that’s not how it works and that he clearly mistook me for a tourist did the trick.

As I've gotten to know better Mermoz, the neighborhood where I live,
I enjoy directing the taxi through the sand roads that traverse inner Mermoz.
For other destinations, I tend to rely on a few main thoroughfares to get there

As there’s large French expat community well-established in Dakar (a community almost 20,000 strong), it’s easy to convince them you’re not a tourist, especially if you begin the negotiation with “assalaamu aleikum” rather than “bonjour.” To confirm an intuition, I tried negotiating a few times in English: doing so will prompt them to increase their asking price even further. Basically, if it's a 1,500 cfa Franc trip, they'll ask 2,000; if I'm in a suit, 2,500-3,000; if I'm in a suit and speaking English, it can reach as high as 4,500, which is a quarter of what they can hope to make on a good day, based on conversations with various taxi drivers.

Driving along various roads, it's not uncommon to see animals roaming around; so far, I've spotted horses, cows, and sheep

In my experience, those driving more recent-looking taxis are generally less happy when a white person negotiates the proper price: I think it's because white clients who recently arrived in the city may instinctively prefer more trustworthy-looking cars, i.e. people more likely to settle for higher prices. If the negotiation is going nowhere, either I'll walk away or the taxi will back up for one yard, signaling he's lost interest or is unwilling to pursue negotiations further. I've never had to hail more than three cabs to get a fair price, which is fine since hailing a cab takes about 30 seconds to a minute. One of them once tried to renegotiate the fare once we were en route, and kept doing so until I told him I would get out right now if he continued. It took me calmly opening my door wide while he was driving, and informing him he could lose a door or get a fare, for him to stop. This was a very un-Senegalese attitude.

Given a choice, I prefer the older, more beat-up cabs, whose drivers speak less French, and where the whole car trembles when you shift gears: the negotiation process is more pleasant and the music they listen to on the radio is nicer

All in all, even though I enjoy walking around, and getting a feel for the city on foot (taking in the relaxed yet lively atmosphere, the rich smells, the diverse sounds), I also know that getting into a cab will always be a fun experience in Dakar.