Taxi Cab Confessions…. So yesterday I took a cab home. I was exhausted after a full day of work, a short workout at the gym and an hour of haggling with my two tailors. (I know my life is really hard, right?). After being rejected by two cabs – you have to waxale or bargain before getting in and if you ask for a price the driver finds ridiculous he will just drive off without a word – I finally found someone willing to accept my price (the equivalent of $2). Bargaining here is a ritualistic game of sorts. The driver will size you up based on appearance, accent, and company and test the waters by asking for something crazy. Then there is the back and forth and, finally, the moment of compromise. Most of the time there is much joking and teasing involved, which continues during the ride. Last night, as in most cases when I ride in a taxi by myself or with girlfriends, the second question the driver asked after ‘where are you going?’ was ‘are you married?’ As usual, my immediate response was a fervent ‘Yes.’ Most of the time taxi drivers don’t doubt this response, as I’ve learned to say it confidently without a note of humor or mischief in my voice. I even throw in the fact that my husband’s name is Azziz Ndao and that I’m going to meet him right now, for good measure. They seem genuinely pleased to know that I am ‘married’ to a Senegalese and many pleasant conversations on music, politics, etc.. follow. However last night the response I got to my ‘am naa jeker ba paree’ or ‘I already have a husband,’ was ‘yow, amuloo dara!’ or ‘you, you don’t have anything!’ (Though the Wolof version and the way it was hurled at me sounded a lot more accusatory). If this conversation had taken place in the US, I would have probably been really offended, but I’ve learned to take everything here with lots of sugar – a.k.a. a robust sense of humor. I laughed and tried to change the subject by commenting on how chilly the night air was. He shook his head disapprovingly and told me that this was further proof that I didn’t have a husband. Ha! - I thought - two can play this word game. ‘I’m cold now, but he is waiting for me at home where it is nice and warm.’ He sucked his teeth – clearly unconvinced. I was so determined to prove that I was someone’s wife that by the time I arrived home I had promised to introduce the driver to my make-believe husband. Of course it was easy to get out of this because the man didn’t believe me anyway…

This is a common dialogue in cabs here. But even back in the US, I’m used to having lively or interesting conversations with drivers in the bootleg Harlem cabs, usually driven by men from Senegal or Cote D’Ivoire. Plus, my Grandpa drives a cab in DC – so I’ve always been interested in learning about the backgrounds and stories of the drivers I meet. I’ve heard of cab drivers here being really rude and even threatening towards foreigners (especially other Africans, unfortunately). But maybe I’ve just been lucky, because I’ve never felt unsafe in these situations; the tone of conversations are always full of humor. I remember in another cab ride, Duma and I had fun convincing the young driver that we lived in a polygamous household and that we were, in fact, co-wives. This tickled him beyond expectations and he invited us to his house for lunch in the neighboring city of Thies. We ‘accepted’ the invitation with the sole clause that if we should come, our shared husband would come too.

Taxi rides are interesting in so many ways. For example, this morning on the way to work with Jeanne (another day of sleeping in and missing the bus), we were in a cab that had what looked like a real bird’s nest hanging over the dashboard from the rearview mirror. I’ve seen all manner of trinkets obstructing the view of drivers (baby shoes, framed pictures of religious leaders, fake birds…etc), but I must say that this was a first. But I guess everyone has their rituals and beliefs, right? I mean, whenever Jeanne and I see the herd of horned white cows that occasionally passes leisurely through our neighborhood in the mornings we believe that nothing can go wrong that day.

Okay, it would be dishonest of me to say that I have never felt unsafe in a taxi here. But those cases have all been because of the dilapidated state of the car itself, not the behavior of the driver. Most of Senegal’s taxis and public minibuses (called cars rapides) are probably around 30 years old. Not only does this mean that they are just really, really funky, it also means that bits and pieces are always breaking down or in need of repair. It is not uncommon for a taxi driver to have to reach back – very matter-of-factly – across the right backseat passenger to open the skeleton of a door using some resourceful rope-catch contraption, since the handle that was once there retired years ago. I’ve been in cabs that, when turning a corner at full speed, had a side door fly open – only cementing me fear of leaning on car doors. I spent the rest of the ride sitting in the middle of the backseat with my right arm outstretched, holding the door close. I am always the rushed person, late for one thing or another, who has to wait by the side of the highway while a taxi driver changes his flat tire, all the while assuring me ‘cinq minutes rekk’ or ‘only five minutes!’ The fact that many of the more dilapidated taxis have mini fire extinguishers mounted within the driver’s reach is not comforting at all.

The other day our friend, Gabe, told a funny taxi story. He said he was in a cab that, like many, had a large, spidery and very disconcerting crack in its windshield. What was great though was that the crack seemed to be held together by a collage of stickers featuring President Obama’s head. What better metaphor for our current economic situation, right? A 30-year-old, broke down, Senegalese taxi going at full speed, with a cracked windshield – all being held together by the precarious positioning of Obama!

A strange phenomenon occurs when bargaining. You suddenly forget that what you are bickering over is the equivalent of $1, which to me is something completely different than its value in the budget of the average Senegalese taxi driver. Sometimes I feel judgment and pressure from American friends (yes, Duma – I’ve seen the disapproving looks) when I seem to give in too easily in the bargaining ‘game.’ Granted, we are all on different budgets and have different priorities – but in the end we are all still much better off than the vast majority of the local population. I was shocked to discover the other day that the price to fill up a regular car with gas here is the equivalent of $100! No wonder drivers just up and drive away, without so much as a head shake, when you offer a price they think is too low!

***Wow – that was a real patchwork of taxi thoughts and stories that had been floating through my mind for a while. Hope it’s interesting! This entry (sorry it’s so long!) is dedicated to my Grandpa Cromer – rich with wisdom, humor and love.

Chocolate Cupcakes and other culinary conquests.... Have I mentioned that I love my roommates? Not only does Duma's research turn our humble abode into a happenin' place filled with artists of all stripes, but Jeanne happens to be a master baker. Alxemdilallah! (translated as Hallelujah in Arabic). Of course I pitch in with the occasional candle-lit dinner or beach house hook-up (thanks tata Jackie and tonton Momar!), but most of the time I just sit back and reap the many benefits of living in the coolest apartment in all of Ouakam.

Jeanne's decadent cupcakes; candle-lit dinner of pizza bread and salad a la CK et Duma;
a rich bowl of cupcake with raspberry, chocolate and coffee ice cream
(i know- we went overboard...)

Since my students were traveling all over the country and in Mali and Guinea for their spring break this week, me and the girls decided to spend a couple of days at the beach house of close family friends in Toubab Diallow (about 2 hrs outside of Dakar). The house is located at the very end of a long and windy village road lined with fancy beach homes on either side. It's nestled between a small lake dotted with sand bars where birds from the neighboring nature preserve stop and chatter and, on the other side, an impressive white beach and the Atlantic. The beach was completely clean and deserted.

Beautiful view from beach house veranda

We spent the two days and nights tanning, reading, cooking, eating and, of course, laughing. The majority of time was spent on the verandas of the house because the one time we attempted to lay out on the beach the wind actually whipped us with sand so bad that we were stinging - it is how I imagine a painful exfoliant at a Russian spa would feel. We also made one attempt to counterbalance all of the eating by jogging on the beach and doing a few yoga stretches. Oh, how we were proud.

These ladies mean business.

The meals we were able to whip up at the beach house using the minimal kitchen supplies and salt and pepper as our only spices made me think of and appreciate the simplicity of our diets here. Yes, we do treat ourselves to a few 'luxury' items at the supermarket - good wheat bread, cold cuts, dark chocolate and spiced Gouda - but overall we eat lots of fresh vegetables, canned beans and peanuts for protein, and basic carbs (couscous, rice, bread, pasta). Very few preservatives, pre-packaged foods, or artificial flavoring. A few weeks ago, at one of several candle-lit dinners, our friend Tinari asked if we think we eat healthier here or in the US. He was surprised when we both said Senegal without hesitating. True, there are no health food stores here and most local dishes are dripping with palm oil and are spiced with bouillon cubes packed with MSG (but maaan, are they good!). On the other hand, when I bite into a hamburger at a fast food joint here, I know that the meat came from somewhere close to Dakar and was raised naturally without freaky hormone injections. When we we buy things in the supermarket, mostly local or middle-eastern products, we don't have to worry about the ever presence of corn syrup or trans fats. Plus, it's actually fun being a foodie in a place where everything isn't available and at your fingertips.

Anyway, here's to good food and good people to share it with!

Le Président oublie/ Oublie le Président! Okay I know it's been a while since the last post, but instead of giving you a laundry list of what I've been up to, I thought I should jump right into what's up and on my mind at the moment. I'm actually coming full circle back to my last post on the FESMAN because the official launch of the nine-month pre-festival events was a free hip hop concert that Duma dragged me to last night. Among the notable performers was our fabulous rapper friend, Moona, the lauryn-esque Njaaya and DJ Awadi (the title of this post is one of his lines, translated as: the President forgets/ forget the President). Our friend Tinari plays drums for both of them - which is why I found myself standing outside in the cold (everything is relative) at 1am on a Monday morning (Duma, you still have to name your first child after me - here's hoping it's a girl). Anyway, I'm glad I did because it was refreshing to hear the bold political commentary in the lyrics and reflected in the audience. I already know how hip hop has influenced politics here, but it's been cast as somewhat of a dead dynamic.

Senegal's local elections are coming up on March 22nd and my neighborhood's walls are graffiti'd with the names of candidates and slurs against their rivals. It is both fascinating and a bit depressing to consider the difference between the U.S. electoral process (local or presidential) and what goes on here. I have not heard one debate, not seen one poster listing goals, not even seen any superficial marketing ploys associating candidates with acts of charity or social programs....Granted I don't have a TV here - something tells me I am not missing any kind of political forum. I have heard mixed reviews about the upcoming local elections. Some people are excited by the fact that, for the first time, the candidates are comprised of some professionals (many from the private sector) instead of the same old career politicians. However, I've also heard that pretty much everyone, including the so-called 'opposition,' has some affiliation with either the current regime or the former regime and is therefore not really fresh blood. Of course the most controversial aspect of the elections is the fact that the president, Abdoulaye Wade's, son, Karim, is running for Mayor of Dakar. Many see this as sign that he is being groomed to 'succeed' his father. This begs the question: what is the real difference, if one exists at all, between monarchy and political dynasties (Kennedy's, Bush's...)? Is one more acceptable than the other?

We had a guest speaker come and talk about democracy in Senegal for one of our courses today. His appraisal of Senegal as a transitional democracy a step above arbitrary rule and a step below actual rule of law was dead on, in my opinion. A student asked about the residual affects of colonial rule and the lecturer made a great point in response. He said that without a sense of national pride a country cannot develop independently. And it is clear that Senegal lacks this sense of pride and autonomy. He said, ministers who send their pregnant wives to France or the U.S. so that their children can be born French or American are doing exactly the same thing that young people boarding pirogues to cross the ocean to Spain are attempting to do. Both demonstrate a total lack of faith in the future of their country. Why, then, are we so shocked when these kids risk their lives to leave Senegal? When Wade retires he will likely move to France with his French wife, just as Senghor and Diouf did before him. If even the political elite don't have a stake in the country's future, then who does? Oh yeah, China!

Ok, ok...enough politicking. On a more begge note (begge, Wolof for fun, happy, everything good in life), I went to a Seun Kuti concert on Friday and got a pic with Fela's son!

More begge to come....