Rockin the (Senegal) Suburbs

Ben Folds and I have been getting along famously as of late. I’m finding we can really relate. Not sure if he actually had life as a Caucasian in a developing country in mind when he wrote the song, but it’s somehow painfully relevant in this setting.

“Y’all don’t know what it’s like being [fe]male, middle class and white—it gets me real pissed off”

Winding through the sandy streets to school past fruit stands, brightly clothed women, and speeding taxis that seem to have little or no concern for pedestrians is not quite my most restful time of day. Even with our cultural orientation sessions, I still walk the streets wondering hopelessly how many people I manage to offend during my twenty minute trek from Sacre Coeur to Suffolk University.

Passers-by: Make eye contact? Is that rude? Am I doing it for too long? Should I say Salaamalekum or Bonjour, or just nod? Can I smile? Will that come off as an unintentional invitation? Just another easy American? Can’t I just walk and keep my head down? No, that will offend the neighbors…

Then come the kids in the street that beg: Make eye contact? Respond? French or Wolof? No thank you? Nothing? Should I feel more empathy for them—oh, but it’s more complicated than that. In some rural Senegalese villages young boys are sent to the city by their parents to learn the Koran under the supervision of marabouts, local Islamic teachers. But some of these marabouts force their pupils to beg in the streets with the promise of a beating if they don’t make their daily quotas. So there’s always a chance a child holding out his hand to me is from the rural villages, a talibé. Will he get beaten if I don’t give? Is he just another kid on the street?

Hardly time enough to reflect on this in the street, though—there are still more! My favorites: the venders. It’s amazing with how much English they speak they still haven’t learned “no.” Unfortunately I think my skin tone screams “SELL ME THINGS” louder than I will ever be able to protest verbally. “Sistah! My sistah! Come, I make good price for you!”

Thankfully it’s mostly in good humor…they really aren’t too terribly pushy (at least on the street corners…let’s not even TALK about the markets) and you can’t blame a person for trying to make a living. So far I’ve been able to greet-and-go fairly cheerfully, but I’m dreading the morning I wake up crabby and impatient. I know it will happen; it’s only a matter of time. I already feel sorry for anyone who tries to sell me something that day.

Really though, it can be extremely frustrating to have money constantly asked of you. And in 3 different languages, nonetheless. Another girl and I went to the Post Office for some stamps and a very nicely dressed, grown woman waiting in line gave me a puppy face and held out her hand as soon as I made eye contact with her. Really? Stop!

What do you even do with that? Does she really need the money? I don’t know. But do I really need the money, either? No. Would it even make that much of a difference? Do I really want to enforce the practice of begging? Doesn’t that further instill a sense of dependence on America(ns)? Is it wrong to wish a person would have more respect for themselves than to beg like that? But then who am I to say that—I don’t know her story, her situation. Is it really a respect issue, or is it more she thought she’d give a shot at making a few extra bucks? After all, we are white…

Hard to know.

And that's all before I even get to school to begin classes for the day.

We talked about these issues a lot in Lesotho. I’m finding the same hard questions resurfacing…even though Dakar is a very different corner of Africa, it’s very much
the same in a lot of ways.