West Africa

So Long and Thanks for All the Thieboudienne

/ Gallivantrix / 2 Comments

This is not a “fun” story of joyous tourism exploits and happy expat life. I had a lot of fun in Zanzibar, and I even had quite a few memorable good times in Senegal, even if most of them never made it into the blog. However, living and traveling in both places, I confronted some things that were hard to see, hear, think about, and know. I am personally both deeply pained and extremely grateful to have been smacked so far out of my comfort zone that it took me most of the year to process through denial, anger, sadness, and bargaining to reach a place of fragile acceptance. I travel to experience and learn, not just to have a good time. Though it is difficult, these aspects of a globetrotting life are just as treasured as my fun memories because they help me to understand the complex world we are all a part of in and to be a more compassionate human being to those around me.

Note*: Thieboudienne (pronounced chebu-djen) is the national dish of Senegal featuring fish and rice. My title is therefore a play on Douglas Adams’ book with a similar name: “So Long and Thanks for All the Fish”, also known as what the dolphins said in their final message to humans at the end the Earth.

The Stone Town Slave Museum 

Just as every historical tour in Europe has a section about WW2, every historical tour in Africa has a section about the slave trade. Zanzibar was the center of the East African slave trade, where slavers from the interior brought their captives by forced marches overland and a short boat trip to the slave market in Stone Town. The city where I live (Dakar, Senegal) has a similar historical site on Gorée Island, which is the center of the West African slave trade, and has a similar legacy of gathering slaves from the interior in one place to board on ships. Slaves went not only to the new world to work sugar, tobacco, and cotton plantations, but also to the Arabic world. These sites which commemorate the worst of humanity are not fun tourist attractions, but they are worth visiting because they instill a sense of reality that no amount of textbooks and documentary films can convey. You are standing where the people stood, both the boot and the neck. The blood is soaked into the earth and stones.

In the case of the Zanzibari slave trade, there existed a type of slavery before the growth of new world plantations exploded demand for free labor. Intertribal slavery between African (and indeed First Nations people in many parts of the world) was not uncommon, but it was a much smaller part of the economy. Prisoners of war were taken as slaves and although some were treated badly, some were integrated into the new tribe over a period of years. No version of slavery is “nice”, but I think it’s relevant to acknowledge how different slavery was in Africa before the foreigners got involved. Not only my guide, but a few other locals I spoke to there tried to excuse the West saying we wouldn’t have bought slaves if Africans weren’t selling them, and this is a level of internalized shame that I’m not ok with.

The increased demand for millions more slaves to serve in the Arabic peninsula and the new world colonies changed the entire dynamic of slavery and the economy of many places in Africa. The slaves that had previously been taken as prisoners of tribal skirmishes weren’t enough to meet the export demand and so a new industry emerged: to wage wars for the sole purpose of taking slaves. Government leaders also captured and sold their own people when they couldn’t get enough from “enemy” tribes. Slaves were forced on long marches with little to no food or water, and those who fell sick were left to die.

By contrast, the free people in Zanzibar prospered by collecting fees from the inland slavers as well as the foreign traders for every slave sold in their markets. When the West abolished slavery, the leaders in Zanzibar didn’t want to stop because it was too lucrative, even without the Euro-American market! The modern attitudes of hakuna matata and pole pole (no worries, and take it slow) on the island are likely a direct result of the fact that for centuries the islanders had to do very little work for the passive income of slave taxes to make them comfortable. Although they no longer sell anyone directly into slavery, the local governments in many places in Africa continue to exploit their own people in extreme ways in order to preserve the legacy of easy money their ancestors had in the slave trade days.

The slave museum in Stone Town tells not only of the horrors of slavery, but also of Livingstone’s mission of abolition. While some in the West may see Livingstone as an embodiment of the “white man’s burden”, many in Africa still praise his abolitionist efforts. Although it was the British government and navy that did most of the work of stamping out the slave trade, Livingstone’s published accounts of the atrocities of the slave trade in Africa helped spread discontent with the continuation of the practice. In American education, the end of slavery is often taught as something that just happened one day upon the signing of the Emancipation Declaration. Few white Americans know the history of the holiday Juneteenth (June 19th) celebrating the day the last group of confederate forces in Texas were finally uprooted, freeing the remaining slaves almost 2 1/2 years later. Even fewer know that the last slaves weren’t actually freed until 6 months after that with the 13th amendment. Almost no one I talk to knows that the 13th amendment didn’t end slavery for all – it’s still legal as a form of punishment for criminals in the United States.

The museum in Stone Town makes no bones about the lengthy process of eliminating slavery and the challenges newly freed slaves faced with no homes, no money, no family ties, and nowhere to go. Even after the Sultan finally caved to the pressure to stop the practice of selling slaves, he didn’t banish the owning of slaves for some time after. The women were the last to be freed because owners tried to claim them as wives rather than slaves, and the difference wasn’t easy to spot. Freed slaves were taken to “apprentice” at plantations where their lives were little different from they had been before; the only difference being their backbreaking labor was rewarded with meager wages and their food and housing came at a price. Freed children were sent to Christian missionary schools which molded them into “good” colonial citizens and converts. Slowly, the freed slaves were able to use their meager wages to move away from the plantations and missions, some to uncultivated land and others to the city for urban work. The legacy of the slave trade is long lasting for Africans everywhere, and museums like this help us understand not only our history, but our present — and hopefully help us to shape a better future.

The abolishment of slavery in the 19th century only made slavery illegal, yet it still continues to this day. Slavery exists in every country of the world and has dramatically increased in the 21st century. There are more slaves today than were seized during the entire African slave trade. While some countries have larger numbers than others, it is an issue that affects all of us.

Modern day slavery is defined as a relationship in which one person is controlled and exploited by another, usually by the use or threat of violence, for the purpose of profit, sex, servitude or the thrill of domination-deprived of free will, restricted in movement and paid nothing beyond subsistence. A slave may be kidnapped, captured, tricked or born into slavery.

Modern slavery is a hidden crime The International Labor Organization (ILO) estimates the illicit profits of forced labor to be $US150 billion a year. From the Thai fisherman trawling fishmeal, to the Congolese boy mining diamonds, from the Uzbeki child picking cotton, to the Indian girl stitching footballs, from the women who sew dresses, to the cocoa pod pickers, their forced labor is what we consume. Modern slavery is big business.

TYPES OF MODERN DAY SLAVERY

BONDED LABOUR
Workers who have received or are tricked into taking a loan and are unable to leave until their debt is repaid. Often times, children of bonded laborers must continue to work off the debts, leading to generations of enslaved families. It is the most common type of slavery today.

FORCED LABOUR
Any work or services which people are forced to do against their will under the threat of some form of punishment. Almost all slavery practices, including trafficking in people and bonded labor, contain some element of forced labor.

CHILD SLAVERY
Children who are used by others for profit. For example in forced marriage, prostitution pornography begging petty theft, drug tracing, labour, armed fighting or wives’ for soldiers. Usually, child slavery is accompanied with violence, abuse and threats.

EARLY AND FORCED MARRIAGE
Women and girls entering marriage without choice, forced to live a life of servitude often accompanied by physical violence and with no realistic choice of leaving the marriage.

DESCENT-BASED SLAVERY
The legal ownership of a person by another person or state, including the legal right to buy and sell them as any common object.

Products made by modern day slaves flow into the global supply chain and eventually into our homes leaving most of us unaware of our contribution in supporting it.

From the Slave Museum, Stone Town Zanzibar

A Talk With A Zanzibari Guide

My guide around Stone Town was a young man of mixed Arab and Swahili heritage (his mother is Arabic and his father Swahili) and I think had a unique perspective on Zanzibari culture as a result of living with one foot in two worlds while belonging to neither. When we reached the church at the slave museum, we sat down for a break from all the walking in 33C/UV11 weather and he opened up to me about his life. As with any personal account, I know that it’s his perspective and opinion, and not an objective truth, but I found it to be a fascinating conversation, and I’d like to share some of what he told me.

What he described to me was a life of codependency. I know Americans are extremely independent, and I’ve seen how extended family structures can bind young people in other countries often making them feel like they have no choice in what they study or who they marry. Yet what my guide explained to me of the family networks here, it is not only impossible to survive outside of one, the parents (especially fathers) can be very harsh, and abuse is normal. He shared his opinion that children need to have things explained to them because just hitting them makes them live in fear, so I hope that when he has his own children he will practice this. His parents are less bound by their own families. Both families disapproved of the mixed marriage, so they had to go it more independently. He feels very lucky to not be bound by the familial codependence he sees his peers trapped in.

Women have little freedom. He said most men have 2 wives (though they are allowed up to 4) because the first wife will be who his parents want him to marry, and the second will be who he wants to marry, which seems critically unfair to everyone involved. Women are encouraged to stay at home. Though young girls here are in school, many don’t pursue a degree after high school or have any desire to work outside the home. Parents pressure young women to prepare for marriage and think men will not want a woman who works (or possibly that a woman who earns her own money will put up with less BS from a husband?) My guide told me that many young women watch romantic dramas from around the world and get the impression that marriage will be a better life than getting a job, and are later very disappointed that it’s not true. My guide said hopes to find a wife who wants to work, not because they need more money, but because she wants something for herself.

Men are also trapped into a life decided by others. They must go into the career their fathers choose, marry the woman their parents select, and spend their salary to support their own parents, their wives’ parents, their wives, and their children, meaning a single salary supports up to 7 adults and possibly more than 7 children. Zanzibar is even more economically challenging because people from the mainland come over and do jobs for dirt cheap (140$ a month!). Mainlanders can send home 20$ and it goes a long way to support the family living there, while families that live in Zanzibar need 350$ or more a month just to scrape by. A gift of 100$ from a hardworking son may be seen as a trifle on the island but a fortune on the mainland.

Despite the fact that tourists are paying 100$/night for a hotel room, 100$+/ day on tours and god knows how much on food and trinkets, the average salary for the workers here is around 250-300$/month USD. Where is all this money going? The government takes big cuts in the form of double income taxes (Tanzania and Zanzibar each have taxes that islanders must pay while mainlanders only pay Tanzanian taxes), and licensing fees for anyone who wants to sell, make, display, tour, drive, etc. I saw an actual paddy wagon loaded up with unlicensed street vendors on their way to jail, and my guide said they’ll be right back on the street selling souvenirs as soon as they can. Once the government takes their cut, the owners take the rest, and the owners are mostly foreigners. Several guides throughout my stay told me with bitterness edging their voices about the new development on one of the small islands that was bought up by Indians. Locals never get enough money to invest in property or larger businesses which is a big part of what keeps them trapped in the codependent and often abusive family structures for survival their whole lives.

It reminded me also of a conversation I had with an aid worker who had recently returned from the Congo. The warlords there keep everyone in a state of fear and violence and poverty while reaping the rewards of the mining operations. The mining work gets priority even over subsistence farming, leaving the population without enough food to live on. Many African countries are rich in resources, minerals, fertile land, skilled labor, and yet so often it is mismanaged to benefit only a few while leaving the rest to struggle for less than scraps. There should be enough to go around; the scarcity is artificial. The greed is real.

Final Thoughts in Dakar

As I prepare this post, I am 4 days from leaving Senegal to return to the US. Although I would prefer to end my journey on a high note, I feel that would be disingenuous. Living, working, and traveling in sub-Saharan Africa has been one of the most challenging experience of my life so far, but as such, one that will have a large and lasting impact. In addition to the quality of life challenges, it has been an unending revelation of my own biases and privilege, which is a hard pill to swallow. My friends and family, in a well meaning attempt to offer comfort when I’m so obviously discomforted, have used phrases like “living nightmare” to describe the conditions here while saying they simply can’t imagine how anyone could live this way, and telling me how brave and resilient I am. But. These words are not comforting. I am a guest in a place that may be objectively lower on the international quality of life index (yes that’s a real thing), but millions of people still call it home.

People in Africa are struggling with the legacy of colonial war and exploitation that still colors the culture, language, economy, and even religion today. There is no doubt that centuries of foreign rule and resource theft has left deep wounds and little with which to heal them. However, the human spirit is indominable. The people born into this reality are aware of what they don’t have because one thing they do have is enough TV and internet to see the literal and metaphorical greener grass of the northern hemisphere. Yet, every day, they get up and live.

They collect water from a centralized source when the infrastructure fails. They wash clothes in buckets on the front stoop because washing machines are an expensive luxury. There are orphans begging in the streets who will become adults selling peanuts and candy on the roadside. Families struggle to pay high fees for substandard services offered by corrupt politicians and businesses resulting in unreliable electricity, water, and healthcare in even the most developed and cosmopolitan cities. Schools cram 100 students into a room with 20 desks where they learn without computers or enough books. The government of the most stable democracy in the region violates the human rights of its citizens when they complain too much.

But also. They cook delicious food which they share with friends and family when they celebrate holidays, marriages and births. They create music and art in any available space. They stay out late partying and take naps in the heat of the day. Christians and Muslims exchange gifts of food across faiths on their respective high holy days. People gather at public screenings to cheer wildly for their favorite football (soccer) teams and set up casual matches in any open lot or field. They love their children and help their neighbors. They march and protest for better conditions while carrying their national flags because they have national pride and believe their country is capable of more. They open salons on every street and work out in the evenings along the corniche because they take pride in their appearance and wellbeing. They splash in the ocean and laugh with the sheer joy of it. They bring color to the dry and dusty land with bright fabric prints and billowing swathes of bougainvillea that climb every wall and patio.

It is not a tribute to the bravery or resilience of visitors who temporarily partake in a life which so different from the one we were raised to. It is not a fairy tale of the “noble savage” that lets us imagine some kind of mythical innate goodness and moral superiority of the people who have less, and are making the best of it. It is not a whipping post for white guilt where we come to cry and wring our hands about the horrors of the past in order to feel better when we shop fair trade and have someone tell us how good we are for not being racists. It’s just people. The traumas of life affect everyone: individuals, societies, generations. I want to be able to acknowledge the past and honor the pain of another without turning it into inspiration porn or a hairshirt self-flagellation. What do you see when you look at someone who is living a life that you imagine would break you? What are you living with that might break someone else?

In Wolof, the greeting expression often translated as How are you? is “Nanga def?”, but it literally means Where are you?. In English, we have to answer that question with an adjective of value: fine, ok, great, not good, etc. In Wolof, you answer, “Mangi fi.” I am here. I am here.

Souvenir Means “Memory”

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As an American/native English speaker, the word “souvenir” has always been associated in my mind with consumerism and with the temporary (and often disrespectful) tourist population. I spent part of my childhood living in Panama City, Florida, which was a huge tourist destination famous for it’s sparkling white sand beaches. Whenever my family would go out to enjoy the seaside, we were beset by sellers of overpriced fake key lime pie and tchotchkes made of seashells (which probably weren’t even from the local beaches). We joked about needing t-shirts that said “I’m not a tourist, I live here.”

I am never going to be the person who buys the shell encrusted picture frame or the novelty coffee mug, but I do like having unique keepsakes of my international homes as well as gifts to bring back for friends and family. For my friends, I’ve been gradually accumulating tidbits made from unique Senegalese materials and ingredients by small local businesses, but for myself I found an ethical, local, environmentally sound silversmithing class which seemed like a perfect way to combine a new experience with a physical representation of my tenure in Senegal.

The Existential Crisis Continues

Before I tell you about my cool souvenir experience, I need to talk some more about the (possibly culture shock induced) ongoing existential crisis that is living face to face with the legacy of the colonial and capitalist systems which benefit some at the expense of many. “Kaine, can you talk about Africa without going on about the ethics of it all? Can’t you just tell us the cool story?”, Nope. At least not yet. I don’t get a break from my brain feeding me moral quandaries, so neither do you. But the cool souvenir experience ties into the ethical discussion, and also I am trying my best to make it more “huh, I never looked at it that way” an less “moral philosophy lecture”, so hang with me.

The Global Supply Chain of Souvenirs

I noticed in Zanzibar that a lot of pan-African tourist goods on offer were not actually Tanzanian, being the same exact tropical island stuff I found in SE Asia complete with “Made in Thailand” tags. Even the more “Africa-centric” items like big 5 safari animal themed goods, and Maasai themed goods were not really helping the local economy since the raw materials and production were almost certainly outsourced, while most of the shops are owned by foreign investors. (the exception seemed to be hand painted artwork, which you can often see the artist create on the street)

It’s harder to tell how much of that is the same here in Senegal because Dakar is so much bigger than Stone Town, but it has been a challenge to find good souvenirs and gifts here that are genuinely unique and local. I’ve found that the majority of markets often only sell staples for living, and that many gift oriented markets offer imported items, while tourist oriented markets offer mass produced “pan-African” souvenirs which may or may not be made in China or by exploited workers in neighboring African countries. (the exception seems to be bespoke clothing and furniture, but these are way outside of my luggage size/budget limits).

Toubab Spaces

I only realized here in Senegal that the French word “souvenir” means memory in English, and I really love it because I am far more interested in a memory than a thing. My collection of physical souvenirs are all attached to stories of the experiences I was on when I got them. I’ve been trying to find memorable experiences in Senegal, to see, learn, touch, taste, listen and do things that help me to understand this place and people, but I have noticed that every time I find myself interested in or excited about a product, place, or event it’s probably actually owned by Toubab (the Wolof word for white people).

For example, I found an artisan chocolate shop which uses local fruits, grains, and spices, then I met the Belgian dude who is the half-owner. The woman who owns the other half is Belgian/Congolese, so at least there’s some Africa in there, but not Senegalese, and most Senegalese people couldn’t afford their chocolates anyway. The bar I go to is run by a French/Lebanese man who is super cool, and very dedicated to Dakar, but a foreigner nonetheless. My favorite restaurants are owned by foreigners (Italian, Mexican, Indian) and not just because I love those foods. I really like Senegalese food, but it’s challenging to eat at their restaurants for practical reasons like language barrier (they may not speak French), portion sizes (Senegalese meals are often cooked for groups to share) and “Senegal time” which means it could take 2 hours from the time you order to the time your food arrives.

It’s almost impossible for me to find products and activities that I want to enjoy which are owned and operated by Senegalese. I love to eat at the Senegalese faculty restaurant on campus because they are patient with my bad French, have single serving plates, and respect the fact that the faculty don’t have 2 hour lunches, but I don’t go there unless I’m already on campus. I suspect that Senegalese own and operate lots of small businesses, like all the corner stores, fruit stands, and small bakeries, as well as hardware stores, dry goods stores, and clothing shops, but with the exception of the occasional corner store run, I don’t shop at those places because I don’t need most of the things they sell other than food. My grocery delivery service specializes in selling from local producers, and it’s nice to be able to support local small businesses, but it’s not a souvenir in either the English or French sense of the word.

Cultural Exchange

When I was preparing to move here, my RELO told me there would be a lot of room for cultural exchange like dance lessons, or learning local music styles, local cooking classes, and so on. I was very excited. I don’t expect people to perform their culture for me, but I have become accustomed to being able to find at least a few people (or a government sponsored program) that want to show and tell, who are overjoyed to find a tourist that takes an interest. In New Zealand, I participated in a Maori tribal tour; in Spain I went on a cookie tour of nunneries; in Ireland I went to a trad music/storytelling night in a local performer’s home; Japanese ladies taught me their summer festival dance, Korean ladies taught me a tea ceremony, one of my Chinese friends taught me how to haggle at the market for the first time ever. In Zanzibar, I got to do a Swahili cooking class with a lovely Tanzanian entrepreneur and enjoyed a tour and history lesson from another local. These experiences are always my favorite parts of a trip, and they are usually not that hard to find.

Here in Dakar, I am better off watching YouTube tutorials if I want to learn how to make attaya or thieboudienne. People seem disappointed that I can’t speak Wolof, but I can’t find a class or really any help (one person sent me a pdf of common Wolof phrases, but no pronunciation guide, so again, better off with YouTube) I didn’t move here just to learn about it from my living room. I learned more Swahili in three weeks by chatting to locals than have learned Wolof in 9 months. I am making music, but it’s with other expats… they aren’t Americans at least, and not native English speakers either which makes it all the funnier that they love playing bluegrass covers of classic American rock songs (no, man, it’s “Tex-Arkana” not ‘Turkish-cana” Texas, not Turkey). I love it, it’s so fun and a wonderful way to feel like I’m part of a community, and although it is cultural exchange of a sort, it’s not with Senegalese, which remains a source of frustration 9/10ths of the way through this adventure.

Aid, Colonialism, or White Savior-ism?

I have been struggling since my arrival with the role of foreign aid in Africa in general and the very difficult to navigate line between aid and neo-colonialism, or help and white-saviorism. I think that while there is no hard and fast rule, the general guidelines are not that different from Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. In my opinion so far, the closer to the bottom (survival) the need is, the fewer qualifiers we should put on giving it. If the man is currently starving, give him a fish. Once he’s well fed, teach him to fish, and so on. As helpers, our long term goal needs to be to help the group achieve self-sufficiency, but we may have to do some things for them on the way.

In addition, because those things cost money in our capitalist hellscape environment, that means we will have to publicize the helping to raise that money. I and every other English Language Fellow write little publicity blurbs every time we do something that improves the lives of locals so that Congress can see where the taxpayer’s money is going. However, we don’t call ourselves out by name, and we focus the story on the achievements of the locals. This is the needle we thread to help just the right amount while learning how to say, “no, we will not do that part for you” and also advertising for funding without exploiting anyone’s suffering for personal gain. Fun fact, Chidi Anagonye, the moral philosopher of The Good Place, was raised in Senegal. I feel like my ongoing moral tummyache honors the writers work.

Green and Pink: The Cool Story

The Pink House (Maison Rose) is run by an older French woman and funded mainly by a French charity organization, but it serves a very real need in the community for women escaping domestic violence and sexual exploitation. They have an embroidery workshop where local Senegalese women are employed at a fair wage to hand embroider designs for (mainly French) fashion houses which are committed to raising the quality of life for women in West Africa. It still sounds slightly like a sweatshop, but I am assured that the women are paid fairly, and that for many if not all of the women who work there, not just the money but also the work itself are a huge part of their recovery and financial independence as survivors.

The Green Wave Jewelry shop has only recently started, but their goal is to provide free 3-month training courses to women from Maison Rose, and to then employ them to make the silver jewelry and “sea plastic” home décor items that they sell. The shop is committed to using natural and recycled materials, so their silver is all recycled, the materials for the molds are washed up from the sea, and they even use ocean trash plastic in a beautiful way (sea plastic, lol). The project is designed to give the women a skill which they can not only parlay into a viable economic opportunity, but also something that can build their self-worth back up.

They told me that although things have been slow going, they are selling enough product to train and hire another round of women this fall, plus they hope to hire one of their trainees as the new workshop manager to run things when they are travelling around Senegal or back to the UK. Finally, the fact that foreign founders don’t put themselves front and center on their social media is a good sign that it’s more about the impact than the image. See, I told you the experience was connected to the ethics. Now, let’s make a cuttlefish ring!

Did You Say “Cuttlefish Ring”?

The silversmithing workshop takes place for 5 hours over two sessions (2.5 x 2), and you get to choose if you want to do the sand technique or something called the “cuttlefish” technique. I looked at examples from the Instagram, and decided the cuttlefish was more my style, but I also was deeply intrigued by why it was named that. I guessed (correctly) that the sand technique was casting in sand, which although I’ve never done personally, I see videos of people making jewelry that way on TikTok and Facebook all the time because the algorithm knows I love watching people craft things in condensed 1-2 minute chunks. I very purposely didn’t investigate this jewelry technique before going because I wanted to be surprised, so everything I’m sharing here, I learned at or after the workshop.

What is a cuttlefish? One of the first questions asked in the workshop was quite reasonable, since although most of us have likely seen these creatures in a nature documentary, we may not know them by name. They are similar to squid, but have a calcium carbonate “bone” (a cuttlebone) that helps them keep their shape and change their buoyancy. When they die, the hard internal structure is left behind and they wash up on shore by the dozens. Cuttlefish have natural predators, but humans enjoy them too for both their high quality ink (that squid ink pasta that looks so pretty in photos?) and for their meat, which is an excellent substitute for calamari. You may have even seen cuttlebone in a pet shop or a parakeet cage before since they are often placed in with the birds to supplement their calcium intake and give them something to gnaw on besides their owners fingers.

Why are we using it to cast metal? The cuttlebone technique may be one of the older metal casting styles around, coming originally from the Mediterranean and traveling upward into Europe. There are examples of belt buckles made in this way in Germany dating back some 1200 years or more, but some antiquarians think the technique could be as much as 5,000 years old.

It’s super easy to carve or press shapes into it, and it’s harder on one side than the other, so the “outside” stays in a solid shape, while the softer “inside” is carved out. But that’s not really it. The way that the layers of calcium carbonate – also called aragonite – form beautiful wave-like patterns in the finished product, not unlike tree-rings. No two are ever alike because it’s an organic process that preserves the life of an organism in precious metal. Neat! The cuttlebone that Green Wave uses is generally that which has washed up on the beaches of Senegal and other neighboring West African countries.

Workshop Session 1

For the casting technique, you need two smaller or one larger (or I guess if you want a Texas sized belt buckle, two larger) cuttlebones. Green Wave had cut ours in half before we arrived. We then learned about the hard and soft side, and how to sand the soft side flat until the two pieces could press together as tightly as possible. That was the basis for our mold. We all sifted through a bowl of rings, mostly made of brass or steel, in order to find the size and style we wanted to use. The model rings were plain and unadorned, just to get the general shape. They told us it’s better to choose a slightly smaller model (foreshadowing) since there will be a later step that files some silver out of the interior. I chose a square ring in a size that would fit well on my index and middle fingers.

With the rings chosen, we learned how to carefully but forcefully press the ring halfway into the newly flattened surface of one of our cuttlebone halves. This is harder than it should be, given how soft the material is. I accidentally broke part of my cuttlebone while pressing in, and thankfully it was a chunk off the larger half towards the top, and we were able to smooth out my initial impression with more sanding and move the placement further down. Unfortunately for me, the narrow end of the cuttlebone is harder and more dense, so instead of a smooth pressing, I had to take the ring out and remove the compressed aragonite dust with a paintbrush like an archaeologist.

Once I got the ring model halfway submerged, I added some ball bearings at two corners (to help align the two sides of the mold) and then gently placed the second half again and pressed some more until the two halves touched and the ring model was completely encased. The dust or powder left behind can also be used to polish jewelry, so doesn’t have to go to waste.

The next step was definitely the most interesting because we took our archeology paintbrushes and went back to the gentle and painstaking work of removing all the powdered remains from the mold. When I first removed my model, the indentation was smooth, and I still hadn’t really realized the link between the cuttlebone and the finished jewelry I’d seen in their shop. Then as I brushed away the compacted dust, the beautiful striations of the cuttlebone began to emerge like layers of sediment in rock. The tiny intricate lines were mesmerizing, and more beautiful than anything I could have thought to carve on my own. The tiny brush was uncovering a lifetime of growth a few grains of powder at a time.

Step 4 was to carve the funnel via which the molten silver would enter the mold. This part was actually the most nerve wracking because we had all spent a painstaking 90 minutes creating the ring mold, and a misstep in the funnel could wreck the whole design. However, our teachers were very patient and kind, encouraging us to take smaller cuts if we felt nervous, and never once made us feel rushed or stressed. The funnel was more technical than I expected since it not only needed to direct the silver into the mold without disrupting the natural cuttlebone pattern, it also had to work with gravity to force the silver all the way to the bottom, and with shape, since silver doesn’t like to flow at sharp angles.

The very last step was to create teeny tiny air vents that would lead from the bottom of the ring mold to the top, once again working with physics. The silver will flow, pushing the air down, meaning the channels have to start at the bottom, but air prefers to go up, so channels that run down or to the side may invite the heavier molten metal, leaving air bubbles in the ring. These final tiny tunnels are made by gently smoothing away a groove that aligns with the existing grooves of the cuttlebone pattern, then arcing it upward once it’s a few mm away from the ring impression. Then end result looks a little like a daddy longlegs spider got smooshed in your cuttlebone. After a final brushing to get any lingering loose powder out, we put our two halves together, assuring perfect alignment with the ball bearings, then taping them together tightly with masking tape.

The Molten Silver

It was a little disappointing to realize I would not be pouring the molten silver myself, but it’s probably for the best. Considering how long it takes to master the act of carefully pouring anything into a tiny space without spilling, the addition of molten to the equation means bulky gloves, long tongs, and heavy protective clothing, not to mention huge liability. Would I have liked to pour it myself? Yes, but I’m also happy knowing that one of the Senegalese trainees will be doing the pouring on my behalf. Also, since it takes a long time to heat the silver to 1000+ degrees Celsius, and then also cool off enough to go in the cooling bath, the employees do this part between the two workshop sessions. They were, however, kind enough to take some unique video and photos of my ring during the process.

I was surprised at how small the workspace actually is. The smelter which heats the silver is no bigger than a Keurig, then they have a small crockpot to keep the food grade acid that is used to cool and clean the silver, and a cake pan full of dirt that holds the mold in place and provides a safe splash zone. They make the pour look so easy, but I am assured it is something which requires a lot of practice not only not to make a molten silver mess, but to make sure no air bubbles mar the finished product.

When the mold comes apart, you can see the scorched cuttlebone and all the excess silver. The large chunk on top is the funnel and gets sawed off (though part of me could not help but think that it might be fun to deliberately make a funnel that could stay as a chunky decoration). The wispy lines are the air vents, which are so thin and delicate, they can be broken off by hand. By the time we all returned for our second and final workshop, the rings had been cooled & sawed, and were ready for the finishing touches.

Workshop Session 2

Disclaimer, I took far fewer photos in the second workshop because it was a lot more intensive and focused work. During the the first workshop I had a lot of breaks and down time where it was easy to grab my phone for some photos, but during the second, my hands were busy busy busy.

The very first thing I noticed was the insane amount of texture that my ring had captured from the cuttlebone. One of the reasons I chose a square ring was that I liked the side pattern more than the top/bottom pattern and I wanted to maximize the texture variety of the finished product.

Next, we learned the 4 stages of the jewelry finishing process: 1) brass brushing, 2) coarse filing, 3) fine filing, 4) polishing. The brass brushing is a way to remove any other bits that stuck to the ring during the molding process or acid bath. It’s the most aggressive scrub brush you could imagine, and it’s very important to keep the ring wet while brushing. It can be done on and off during both the filing stages, but has to be finished before the polishing. I thought my ring was fairly bright silver compared to the others in the pile, but a little brass brush scrub revealed even shinier metal.

The filing is both physically grueling and mentally satisfying. We start off working on the area where the funnel was cut off since it’s the largest. For people with round rings, this was a smaller area, and involved making the cut blend smoothly into the rest of the ring. For me and the other person with a square ring it meant filing one entire side completely smooth. I toyed with the idea of doing just the part that the funnel had attached to, but it didn’t look as good as the examples they showed us of the fully smoothed side. They showed us two methods for filing, one using a wooden brace attached to the table, and the other using your own foot (a more traditional method that probably works better if you have calluses).

Once we had the funnel edge smoothed, we then worked the interior. Again, at first, I thought I might like to leave some texture on the inside, but as I worked the sharp edges down, and slid the ring on to test size and comfort, I realized that the flatter interior was more comfortable. So, in addition to smoothing one whole exterior edge, I did the interior as well.

They had advised us to choose rings which were slightly small for the mold making process since filing would give it extra size, but mine was still a bit snug once the interior was smooth flat, so they offered to put it on the ring stretcher. This when the its-not-a-disaster-its-a-bonus-lesson accident happened. My ring cracked. I didn’t know silver could crack! I knew that things which were forged or joined with solder might crack due to flaws in the material or process where two different things connected, but I thought poured silver would be like poured concrete and just — be all one piece? But something to do with the physics of the liquid metal means that sometimes the spot at the funnel where the two sides of the pour meet can be a bit weak.

In the end, it’s best that the ring showed this flaw before I left the shop because they had all the tools on hand to fix it. I got to watch as she broke out two types of solder and a mini blow torch. I’ve seen and even used (a long time ago) solder for electronics, but no one cares if electronics are pretty, so I associate solder with lumpy grey metal. This silver solder is a copper silver alloy that matches the ring and even with a hairline crack, the heat causes the solder to sort of suck up into the flaw, like a straw, aka capillary action. So when the temperature gets into the goldilocks zone, you can see the lump almost vanish. A cooling acid bath and a little filing, and there’s no sign of the repair.

The fine filing is done with a series of smaller files to work on any tiny edges which might be left from the air vents or an inexact alignment of the two halves of cuttlebone. It’s almost entirely invisible unless you are looking with a zoom lens or magnifier, but taking the very tiny square or sharp edges and making them rounded and smooth has a big impact on the comfort while wearing and keeps the ring from snagging on skin or clothing.

Last but not least is a polishing process that engages 4-6 types of sandpaper at ever increasing fineness from 240 to 3000, ending with a silver polishing cloth. The end result is that your filed areas have a mirror shine, and your textured areas are free of poking-out bits.

I’m happy with my finished product as both a piece of jewelry and a memory. It’s a unique souvenir of my time in Dakar which encapsulates many aspects of my experiences here: the chronic quest for cultural exchange, the inescapability of toubab spaces, the long road to understanding my ethical role in aid-centered activities outside my own country, and my struggle to find meaningful projects. Plus, it’s pretty.

The Museum of Black Civilizations

/ Gallivantrix / Leave a comment

Happy 2023 and year of the Rabbit! I am sad to say my holidays were marred by an illness of unknown cause, a risk of travelling to any new geography where one’s own immune system is naïve to the local microbes. However, I’m bouncing back and getting my new year groove. My first tourist visit for the year was to Le Musée des civilisations noires, and now I’m here to share it with you.

If I could describe the Museum of Black Civilizations after my visit in one word, it would be: aspirational. The museum itself is an enormous building with — as one might say to a child who’s pants need to be rolled up — room to grow. I was initially disappointed with the experience because it has so much hype, but after doing some follow up research online about the history, I’m a little more impressed, and a lot more sad.

It opened in late 2018 with a substantial contribution from China to the tune of $34 million (an especially revealing number since the estimated construction costs were 30mil?) and was built with over 150,000 ft2 (14,000m2) of space over 4 floors to display more than 18,000 exhibits (I have no idea how they reach that number given the varity of size and display needs, but that’s what they say). In 2019 it was hailed on TIME’s list of the World’s 100 Greatest Places.

The museum was built in large part to give a big middle finger to the French (and other colonial countries that … I tried to find a nicer word, but … r*ped the continent). For context, there’s a lot of pushback from European museums about returning the looted treasures and artworks of colonized African cultures. They argue that without sufficient quality display areas like climate controlled museums that it would be irresponsible to return the fragile artworks to the countries they were stolen from. This is a real hot-button issue with lots of discussion about what constitutes ownership and stewardship, especially when discussing artifacts that affect all of humanity like early hominid remains or artifacts that were looted by rival tribes/kingdoms well before they were stolen by colonial masters, but the way I see it, if you just took that thing from someone’s great-grandpa less than 200 years ago and his family is still there, it really should not be a debate.

Regardless, the construction of Museum of Black Civilizations was meant to allay all the concerns that the artifacts would not be properly cared for or displayed in Senegalese stewardship, and France made some conciliatory noises that they would work on giving stuff back. Then before that could be finalized, “ohhhh global pandemic, hands are tied, guess we can’t now”. Fast forward to 2023 and that museum is like a grocery store after a storm alert – empty.

The Ground Floor

The first thing you see (aside from the vast empty space) is “The Saga of the Baobab,” a metallic tree by the Haitian artist Edouard Duval-Carrié in the center of a display about the cradle of humanity aka the “Out of Africa” hypothesis which shows strong evidence that modern day humans evolved in and migrated from the African continent something like 300,000 years ago. There’s debate about this too (I don’t mean creationism) because some fossil evidence has been shown that other versions of humans existed in other places around the world as much as 1.8m years ago. I get a headache when I try to follow the scientific debate because all the versions of hominid are based on bone fragments and mitochondrial DNA. I don’t blame the museum for sticking to a single scientific hypothesis in their presentation, but I was a little let down by the presentation itself.

The vast majority of the exhibit is printouts and blocks of text (French only!) on the walls with a few scraps of skeletal remains under glass. I strongly doubt that these are actual remains since it is the standard practice of museums everywhere to put replicas on display because of the delicate nature of the bones. It’s a cool story to tell, from the origin of the first bipedal apes through “Lucy” and on to the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon, but it didn’t seem especially unique. One thing I was really fascinated by was this Neanderthal skull because it clearly shows that the front teeth are rounded instead of edged. I remember being taught that our front teeth were made for cutting (cone shaped teeth are for puncturing, gripping, tearing hence why all the carnivores have them) and our molars which are more square are for grinding. It made me really curious about the unique tooth shape of the Neanderthal and what that means about their diet. It was neat to see up close.

The other feature(?) of the first floor was the contribution of African cultures to science and technology. When the greeter at the door told me about this I was really excited. I feel like this is a very under-taught area of global history, and I strongly hoped to learn some things. Even after this, I still hope there are things to learn. However, the exhibit was a real let down. While the cradle of humanity section was maybe 60% wall of text and photos, the “science and technology” section was easily 99%. In addition, other than the origin of smelting iron (a huge contribution to human culture, no doubt) most of the rest of it was limited to Egyptian contributions which could be argued to be a part of the Greek Classical world. I stan negritude and black excellence, but I want to see more than “Egypt did a lot of cool stuff” when we talk about the history of African contributions! Also a museum heralded as one of the best in the world and maybe the best on the continent needs more 3d models. Printing a Wikipedia page on the wall does not a museum exhibit make.

The Next Floor

The elevator lets you out at a room full of recovered pan-African artifacts. Which is… cool? I guess? I know it’s the museum of “black civilizations” so all of Africa and the diaspora included, but I am curious as to how many of the countries whose artifacts are on display gave them willingly? With all the controversy about France putting stolen Senegalese artifacts on display in their museums, I expected more Senegalese focus here. I also would have liked to see some “graciously donated by…” or “on loan from…” signs on those foreign artifacts to reflect the value of only displaying other culture’s property with permission. I was also let down by the lack of context for the items on display. Most of them only came with a card saying something like “mask from Nigeria” with the materials and size listed. Nothing about when it was made, what it was used for, how it related to the culture at the time or now or anything. It was fun to look at, but it left me with a bit of an empty feeling.

  • A-bamp (Baga bird) Guinea Conakry, Baga wood, lime, black, red, white pigment Height: 176cm
  • Botchio, fon fetish Benin, Porto-Novo Various materials (leather, iron, cowries, fabrics, clay, cow tails, etc.) Height: 70cm
  • Nkisi Nkondi Mayombe Region Democratic Republic of the Congo wood, horns, iron, nails, glass, fabric, and vegetable fiber rope Height: 245cm
  • Bedu Mask Ivory Coast, Boudoukou-Koulango wood and polychromy Height: 186cm, width 176cm
  • Traditional “Dozo” hunter outfits Mali, bambara Cotton (bogolan), mirror, pearls, skins, charms, horns and cowries Variable size
  • Traditional “Dozo” hunter outfits Mali, bambara Cotton (bogolan), mirror, pearls, skins, charms, horns and cowries Variable size
  • Traditional “Dozo” hunter outfits Mali, bambara Cotton (bogolan), mirror, pearls, skins, charms, horns and cowries Variable size
  • dance crest; Chiwara Mali, bambara wood and iron variable size
  • buffalo helmet-mask Cameroon, Bamileke wood, white and red pigments Height: 30cm, length 75cm, width 43cm
  • Yoruba coffin Nigeria Wood, lime, black pigment Height 67cm, width 190cm
  • Idiok Ibibio Mask Nigeria wood, imported pigments yellow, green, red ocher

The next section was called “Les Appropriations 2022-2023” and was about the presence of monotheism (Judaism, Christianity and Islam) in Africa. I am interested in this kind of thing, but it was hard for me to get through when again 70%+ of the display is a printed a Wikipedia article on the wall in French. The most interesting part of the exhibit on Judaism was a photo of African (black) men in yarmulkes. Christianity was mostly about Egypt (the Coptics) with a few references to the African officiants appointed by the Catholic Church. I was most interested in the Islam section since I know sub-Saharan Islam is quite different from Arabic/North African Islam. I even captured all the French text to peruse at my leisure later with Translate to help me, but it was still really basic. I actually think the Wikipedia entry on Sufism has more information. Also, since Islam is pretty iconoclastic there was an even higher ratio of wall-text to object display in that section. There was a whole wall dedicated to the teachings of Sheik Ahmadou Bamba who is a really fascinating historical figure in the fight for Senegalese independence, but if I had not known that about him before going to the museum, I wouldn’t have figured it out from the display.

ART

The next section was the highlight of my experience at the museum. However disappointing the first floor was, the modern art section made up for it in spades. The “Africa Now 2022-2023” exhibit was stunning. Everything I dreamed of for a beautiful modern African art exhibit was turning it out. Art that really made me feel things and think things and go WOOOOOW. 

The very first painting at the entry was just a punch in the gut, but so beautifully done.

Yrneh Gabon BROWN, Troubled Waters, mixed medium

I enjoyed a range of colors, materials, styles and subject matters, and as with all modern art, I didn’t “get” all of it. I tried to capture a few of the ones that either reached out to me or just were photogenic. The huge wall mural was only ‘meh’ to me until I got up close and realized it was made of a mix of African print fabric scraps and garbage, which made it suddenly a huge statement about the trash problem I’ve been noticing literally every time I walk outside. Trash isn’t only a local problem. A lot of the “developed” aka rich countries in the world export their trash to poor countries, so basically there are places around the world being paid (not much) to become our landfills. The practice is slowing down mostly because the countries receiving the garbage are saying “no more”.

There was also a field of oversized cotton made of metal and … cotton. I know it’s oversized because I used to live in a place where I drove through cotton fields on the regular, I know how tall it grows. This cotton was enormous and I think the choice of size and material really spoke to the impact of the cotton industry on the slave trade and the decimation of Africa as well as to the diaspora.

  • “Oldies and Goodies” Olanrewaju TEJUOSO mixed medium encouragement prize from the Minister of Culture Dak’Art 2018
  • “Oldies and Goodies” Olanrewaju TEJUOSO mixed medium encouragement prize from the Minister of Culture Dak’Art 2018
  • Cotton Field Soly CISSÉ installation (iron and cotton)
  • Cotton Field Soly CISSÉ installation (iron and cotton)

If there is ONE artist you look up after reading this let it be Malaika Dotou Sankofa. I don’t know why these jumped into my soul the way they did, but these photographs are amazing. The juxtaposition of African prints and western clothes, the angel in broken and shabby environments, and sure the model is easy on the eyes too.

Environmental Awareness

The last section of the museum was a corner dedicated to environmental awareness called l’incivisme or “incivility” that opened in December of 2022. It had informative displays and photos about environmental preservation projects like the great green wall (a multinational effort to plant trees and ground cover along the border of the Sahara desert to keep it from expanding). There were displays about pollution, garbage, over harvesting lumber, lack of clean water, traffic congestion, noise pollution, and public hygiene. It suggested a strong sense of self-reflection and a desire to improve living conditions in Senegal and on the continent in general. It makes me happy to know that there’s a local movement about it, but also a bit sad that it’s relegated to a tiny space at the top corner of the displays.

I also went up to the third floor just to see if I could. It looked like maybe it was used for meetings or celebrations. It was quite empty, but I could see a stage and risers as well as a lot of blank walls that hoped to receive more art someday. There was a nice balcony with a cute view, but it felt very surreal being in this vast space that remained totally unused 4+ years after the museum opened.

Like most of Dakar, Senegal, and West Africa that I’ve experienced so far, the museum of black civilizations was a mixed bag – I’m glad to have the experience, but most of the feelings I come away with are difficult and heavy. I’ve been to a lot of museums in my life from the Smithsonian to tiny hole-in-the-wall unairconditioned rooms in the backwaters. I know that money can go a long way, but in the end the displays need to be unique, interesting, and educational. I am glad that Dakar has this building because it’s the first step in the reclamation of their historical treasures, but right now, the museum is more a testament about what black civilizations have lost rather than a display of their achievements. Hopefully it will live up to it’s aspirations someday.

A Random Day in Dakar

/ Gallivantrix / 4 Comments

I have been in Dakar now for 8 weeks and no two days are the same here. I had some hope that getting an apartment and starting work at the university would create some regularity, but that’s just not how things roll here. I wanted to paint a picture of average daily life, but the truth is every day is different, so I’m just going to pick one at random.

My Fellowship is very much not like a regular job. I have some days at the “host institution” (for me, a veterinary school which has no actual English program or staff), and on other days I’m working on whatever professional development projects or cultural exchange experiences I can find. On the days I’m scheduled to be at my host institution, there are no regular classes. Instead, I’m set up to run an English Clinic as part of the veterinary clinical rotation from 8:30 – 4:15 (-ish) where I’ll see each of the year 3 and 4 students a grand total of one time during the semester. It’s obviously not a “class” in the educational sense; I’ve chosen to think of it as an English Promotional Seminar, which definitely makes me feel like less of a teacher and more of a “cultural exchange experience”, so I guess that’s on mission?

Nothing in West Africa starts on time, but so far, I keep trying. Feel free to place bets on how long that lasts. To get ready for English Clinic, I wake up at 7am, bleary eyed on a Monday and wondering why anyone would choose this. Marcus Aurelius hated mornings too, so I feel validated in my preferences for sleeping late. I start trying to find a car between 7:20-7:30 but there aren’t any. I watch the ride-share apps search and search for drivers to no avail. I go out to the street to scout for taxis, but the black and yellow vehicles which make up 80% of the cars on the road at all other times of day are nowhere to be seen at this dawning hour. When one finally appears and stops for me, he flatly refuses to make the drive south to the university. Though the taxis are thin on the ground, there’s no shortage of talibés (begging children) who have been forced out onto the hot and dusty streets by the so-called “teachers” at the Quranic “schools”. I retreat from the human rights violations that make me confront the horrors of humanity far too early in the day, and return to my apartment to continue trying the apps.

When a driver finally accepts my request around 8am, I know I have to face the inevitable phone call. There are no addresses in Dakar, so you give directions for everything. The apps have GPS maps, but most drivers don’t know how to use them well. Heetch, a French company in neon pink, has an option to share location and an in app messenger, but the drivers call anyway. Yango, red for Russia, even includes a “do not call unless it’s an emergency” option, which the drivers ignore completely. The drivers speak in rapid French accented with Wolof or another African dialect. When I first arrived, these calls were panic inducing, but I’m finally getting used to it. They’re probably going to ask where I am, they might ask where I’m going, or they could tell me they are stuck in traffic. This one is all three. I agree the traffic is terrible, and I know I have to wait. Two minutes later, he calls back asking me to cancel.

I keep trying. All drivers busy. No drivers available. Eventually another driver accepts and calls. They ask where I am, even though it showed the location on the app before they accepted the job, and they ask where I’m going. They tell me how long they think it will take for them to reach me, even though the app tracks them by GPS and shows me when they are near. It’s everything I hate about talking to strangers on the phone plus language barrier – every time. The driver arrives around 8:30 and we set off. He doesn’t want to take the Corniche, even though it is the most direct route it will be a traffic jam at this hour, so instead he weaves through side and back streets. He cuts back and forth between the seaside road and the interior road. Both are choked with cars. I watch the traffic which seems to be an ongoing negotiation, drivers signaling by any means except the turn signal – leaning out of windows to chat or yell, and occasional passing pedestrians helping to direct cars when things get truly jammed up. In the early morning rush hour, most major intersections and roundabouts have an officer directing traffic. There are no traffic lights anywhere.

Most drivers know where the campus is generally, but not the veterinary school. This driver is flying blind, no GPS in sight, so when we near the campus, he asks me for directions. It happens probably slightly less than half the time that the driver can’t or won’t use GPS (phone data costs money after all), it’s not the norm but still very common. This was another source of panic in the beginning, since when I was newly arrived I had no idea where anything was nor the best way to get a place. Now, I at least know the roads I travel regularly and I have enough working knowledge of the city’s geography to use Google Maps without getting lost. I am able to direct him to the school and we arrive a little less than an hour after leaving my apartment.

I walk onto the campus greeting staff, students and faculty in a mix of French, Wolof, and English, deposit my bag into my office and head to the security guard who has the key to the conference room that has been issued for my use. Today, the room is in use by another group, but no one thought to tell me about it until I was trying to get in and set up my clinic. It’s a wild departure from both Western culture (where I grew up) and East Asian cultures (where I’ve worked the last 6.5 years), but then again, so is showing up 60 minutes late and not getting reamed, so … when in Dakar, I guess. A few other faculty members who were wandering the halls popped over to help, and soon I was placed into a new conference room, a special room usually reserved, I’m told, for the director general. The complex process of making sure that my computer can be hooked up and both audio and video can be delivered to the students starts all over again. A third faculty who is more tech savvy must be called in for this. As we begin to get the TV and speakers online, I realize that the students have no idea where to come due to the unannounced room change, so a fourth faculty must be contacted to issue a broad text message to the students.

After some trial and error, we get the computer, tv, and speakers all talking to one another and I’m able to begin class around 10am. Just 90 minutes later than scheduled. Of the 14 students expected to show up, 10 are seated around the conference table. I breeze through the introductions and ice breaking games with the students, all but one of whom are uncharacteristically shy. I myself am particularly low energy having spent my weekend on an exhausting but interesting road trip. Perhaps were I less tired, or the students were less shy, we could buoy each other up, but instead, I declare a break after our second game.

Returning from the break, we charge through the listening comprehension activities and then break again, this time for lunch. I feel like I’m missing a part of the picture of how things work here and that I’m scheduling the sections and breaks badly. The students never act like I’m doing things the normal way. When I ask the one member of the faculty that speaks English well, he assures me that they are just being students trying to get out of work, but also points out that sometimes the teachers offer to skip breaks/lunch in order to finish early. That sounds exhausting, and I’m hungry. I need breaks too!

I walk out the back gate, passing the cows that no longer startle me so much, watching the pied crows drift lazily between the fences and the trees and listening to the calls of raptors riding the thermals above. The sun is oppressive. Despite the fact that it’s early December, and the temperature in the shade with a breeze might even be considered pleasant, the sun feels like it’s trying to eat my skin. It feels like reaching into the oven when the heating element is on, but everywhere. The faculty restaurant is nestled in a lush garden and in perpetual shade. During October’s heat wave the shade was not enough to make the outdoor dining bearable (and there is no indoor option), but today it’s fair enough without the hungry sun.

I like the faculty restaurant because it’s close, cheap, and fast. Most restaurants bring food out with the same attention to time as everything else here. If you were hungry when you sat down, you’re hangry by the time the food arrives. I wouldn’t dream of trying to eat at a regular Senegalese restaurant in less than 2 hours, but the faculty restaurant is half cafeteria. The dishes are cooked in advance and are waiting for the teachers to come in and order. Today I choose Thiebou Yapp, a traditional beef and rice dish served with a kind of onion chutney sauce that is a little piquant and only slightly spicy. Some days I might finish up with some attaya, a very sweet strong tea served in tiny cups, but I can see I need to leave to get back to the class on time, and I still have this lingering attachment to being on time. An attachment the students do not share.

I get back to the conference room/classroom just in time, but no one else is there. I wait and wait, and after about 30 minutes I decide to go ahead with the 5 students who have shown up. Over then next 30 minutes, 3 more students trickle in one at a time, the last returning over an hour after I asked them to. I don’t keep attendance or give grades. I will not see any of these students again inside a classroom until next spring. I understand why they might feel like it’s a waste of their time, and I can’t be upset at them for not wanting to do this ill-conceived program. I feel a lot like the school just wants to be able to say “English happened”, which was one of the biggest things I disliked at my last school. If my job is to teach, then I want to teach, not talk to myself in a room of 5 people who are falling asleep, reading their phones, or just zoning out because they can’t understand me, none of whom I will see in a classroom again for 3-4 months after our one day together.

The after lunch section is my least favorite part of the single day “curriculum”. The school asked specifically for clinical roleplay, but I’ve discovered two main problems with this. One – I’m not a veterinarian, so I don’t know what goes on in a veterinary clinic. And two – 90% of the students do not have the English ability to have a basic vet-client conversation even with a helpful worksheet. I can deal with the first part a little by researching, but nothing I do will make it possible for the students to gain conversation skills in a few hours. I desperately want to cut this section, and I am mentally preparing for how to do that, but I feel backed into a corner with it now because I need to be able to say that I tried it their way before I junk it, plus I’ll need time, energy and brain space to invent something to take it’s place (none of which I have on this day). It’s a struggle every time, and with this extra shy, extra small group of students it’s even harder because they are so reluctant to speak, but we survive. I praise them and smile and applaud and they decide to forgo the last break in favor of leaving early.

I don’t mind the idea of leaving early myself, so I walk everyone through the last section, a self-study guide with a list of free resources, and introduce the final game of the day. I love this game because everyone universally gets into it. I read somewhere that first and last experiences shape the emotional memory, so I want the students to have fun at the beginning and the end of my clinic day. AGO is a Japanese card game based on UNO but designed for learning English. It never fails to arouse competitive feelings and get lots of people smiling and laughing. In this case, the students who were so eager to leave early they wanted to skip the break end up staying late to finish their games. It’s a tonic to me too, when after a long day of pulling short quiet sentences from shy and reluctant students I can see them having fun again. It rescues me from the pits of despair that this otherwise futile educational effort brings on.

When it’s finally time to leave, I have to search for another car. There are no taxis along the small internal campus road, so my options are to use the apps or walk to the main road. I sit in a small courtyard waiting for a driver to accept my request. When one finally turns up, it’s an actual taxi, … part of the reason we agree to pay more for the app cars is that they are better cars, usually with AC, while the beat up little bumble bee taxis are frequently falling apart and have no AC, fine for short trips but rather miserable to be stuck in traffic in. But what are you going to do? I sit in the back and try to pretend that the wind through the window is enough for the nearly hour of traffic back to my apartment.

While I’m sitting there, feeling tempted to complain and feel sorry for myself, I slowly realize that the ever present butterflies of Dakar have become a flurry. There are always what I as a city girl think of as “a lot” of butterflies, but today the small white wings fill the air by the thousands. It’s impossible to film or photograph because they are so tiny and move so fast, yet as I stare out the window in the heat of stalled traffic, I am transported by the pure magic of witnessing this Senegalese snow. I had never thought of butterflies as a weather condition before, and yet even the largest of butterfly greenhouses I’ve visited have nothing on the migration I am witnessing from the back of the beat up taxi. The way they drift through the air looks like cherry blossoms or snowflakes caught in a breeze, though both are sights I associate with much cooler weather. I think about how un-Christmas-like I have been feeling as December continues on, and marvel at this little whirl of white. How can I be upset at traffic or late students when this beauty exists?

At home I go straight to the shower to rinse off the sweat and dust of the day and the traffic. I prepare drinkable water by moving the boiled water to the bottle in the fridge and boiling a new kettle to cool overnight. I watch tv, eat dinner, and log into another zoom call to manage the bureaucracy. The next day, I’ll decontaminate my produce delivery to make the fresh fruit and veggies safe for my delicate western constitution, and I’ll figure out what the next step in the next project that needs my attention is. Life here is more different from any place I’ve lived in a long time, there’s no routine in my job because everything is always changing, and no routine in my life because it’s always breaking down, getting replaced or being updated. I am still not sure how I feel about this lack of stability and constant uncertainty, but I do know that without it, there wouldn’t be unexpected moments of beauty and joy, so for now, I’ll take the trade.

Ahhhh… That’s Better: Getting Settled in Dakar

/ Gallivantrix / Leave a comment

I knew when I was drifting through the cortisol laden depths of anxiety and despair that getting my own space to live in was going to make a huge difference in my outlook and wellbeing, and wow I was right. As of November 22, I finally got my very own place to live! It’s made a huge difference in the way I feel and my ability to tackle other challenges of living here. After 6 weeks of living in Dakar, I’m so pleased to finally be able to start sharing something good.

Good News, Good Vibes

I know my first three posts about Dakar were very rough, but it’s so here’s some other fun things/achievements I’ve gotten to do.

Trivia Night!

Every other Thursday there’s English language trivia at a bar by the sea. The bar is called Kraken and it’s in a tourist/expat part of town, so there’s a lot of people leaning in and trying to sell us stuff over the railing. They have a decent selection of drinks, but I tried a local beer with Picon added in. I had never heard of this before, but apparently Picon is the French version of Amaro and has a bitter orange botanical flavor. Picon beer is a thing. It was nice and added a lot of depth of flavor to the otherwise cheap local beer. The theme that night was FIFA which did not go well for us, but I had fun anyway, and I plan to keep going.

Thanksgiving Dinner

One of the ETAs I temporarily lived with hosted her very first Thanksgiving (first as hostess) and went full out with it. The ETAs from orientation came back into town and we had a nice evening sharing food and conversation. She made chicken instead of turkey (I helped because she’s vegetarian and didn’t know how to tell if it was done) plus mac and cheese, cornbread, cornbread stuffing, green beans, roasted root vegetables, mashed potatoes, a zhuzhed up canned cranberry sauce, and three pies: pumpkin, apple, and peanut with both vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. It was wonderfully homey to have a group of good people to share the holiday and meal with, too.

Loman Art Gallery

I didn’t realize it at the time we went, but it turns out there’s a gallery very close to my apartment. It’s an Airbnb and artist residence with a rooftop bar/restaurant. They had a lovely Ethiopian buffet the night we went. The art installations weren’t fully up inside, but the rooftop was gorgeous and we sat in the most elaborate gazebo-esque table to enjoy the food. I ordered a house wine and was pleasantly surprised (I guess the French influence extends that far) and I got some fresh roasted coffee afterward. The barista brought the pan over to the able to show us how she was roasting the beans small batch!

Shopping

I had a fun day out at the Sea Plaza shopping mall. There’s a disproportionate number of handbags and shoes for sale there, but I found a cute café and more importantly the large version of the Casino grocery store that I visited in my second week here. I don’t want to have to go there every week to shop, but it is nice to know what’s there in case I get a craving. There’s also a plethora of import food shops for different ethnicities around town. My friends found a Chinese shop, and I spotted a Korean grocery from a taxi the other day. It’s really nice to have regular access to variety!

English Club

I went to the first official day of the English Club at my university. I was pleased to be able to help the student led club get a real faculty sponsor and a classroom to use. I’m not real faculty, but I sent some messages out to people in charge and asked for them to get what they needed, and my voice carried more weight than the students alone. They meet on Saturdays, and I’m busy every Saturday in December, so I definitely wanted to visit before November ended. It was a lot of fun to see the students engaged in practicing English by debating veterinary medicine hot topics and I’m looking forward to going back in January.

PO Box / BP

I went to the post office to get my PO Box (boite postal) set up in order to get mail and packages. I was deeply entertained by the fact that they wanted to know my address … buddy if I knew my address I wouldn’t need a BP? Eventually they just wrote the general area along with my phone number and email. They made a copy of my passport, and collected my 5k (about 7.50$) which pays for a full year of service (it’s usually 10, but they were having a reduced rate special, Thanksgiving may only be in America but Black Friday is global). Then we searched through a box of about 100 keys, everything from 24000-24099. The three of us (me and the two postal workers) had a little race to see who would find my number first. They gave me one copy of my key and showed me where to go to find the box. I’m not sure how well this will work, or how long it will take things to get to me here, but I have a way to get mail now. 

Apartment!

I finally got a place to live!

What I Learned About Finding Housing in Dakar

This was not supposed to be a thing I had to do on my own. You can read the stories in my other Dakar posts, but it turned out to be one more thing I needed to do for myself while here and what I learned is: the best thing you can do to find a place to live here is ASK OTHER EXPATS. There are real estate agents (required for official rentals) and even some websites where you can search and view apartments, but it’s a minefield. The real resource is fellow foreigners.

If you’re coming here for more than a week, I’d say book something very reputable (high ratings, good reviews) for the first few nights you’re in town so you can touch down in comfort and safety, then move to a cheaper place after you arrive and can go see it in person before you book, and finally, find your long term stay by reaching out to the expat community. If you are moving here for the long haul (5+ years), you might want to get an unfurnished place and fill it yourself. The deposits are murder (4 months of rent!) and furnishing will be a hassle, but the rent is much cheaper on unfurnished units. If, like me, you are planning to be here less than 2 years, you might want a pre-furnished place.

For any length of stay, look before you pay! If you have to book a place sight unseen, check the reviews, make sure there are verified reviews that are recent and not just the landlord’s friends and family. I saw a lot of places on Airbnb that were total lies. The ones that were true to photo were mostly other expats. Ask about everything. Don’t assume a thing works because it’s there. Check it yourself. Make sure all the appliances, wifi, electric, hot water, a/c etc work. Imagine your apartment is a used car you are buying from a sketchy used car salesman. Kick the metaphorical tires. It will be exhausting, but worth it in the end. 

There are tons of people “renting” furnished apartments by the night who are entirely willing to make monthly discounts. The place I’m in was going for 25k/night (would be 750k/month) but I got it for 600k (local currency). I found it because one of the ETAs who has been here longer was able to reach out to her WhatsApp group to ask if anyone had something. There’s also a FB group called Dakarium Turfs & Cribs that people can post what they are looking for on and get replies from people who have places to rent. I didn’t use that method because I was not really sure how it would go with total strangers, but I think if you don’t know any expats from your work or whatever brings you here that it might be a better bet than trying to go through a Senegalese agent.

Another reason to go through expats is the language/culture barrier. It’s much harder to get repairs done from Senegalese landlords in part because you are as unlikely as I to speak Wolof, and in remainder because things just aren’t urgent here. My American landlady understands my American urge to have things fixed ASAP, so anything she can fix, she has done right away. There are things she’s stuck waiting on some locals for, but she communicates about it with me. Meanwhile, my friends renting from a local were washing dishes in the bathroom for several days while waiting for their landlord to get a plumber into the kitchen sink. Thankfully, they got it fixed before Thanksgiving!

Home Sweet Home

After 5 weeks of stress, I have moved into a nice furnished apartment in Mamelles (which is a neighborhood that means “boobs” in French because the French colonizers saw the two hills and were 12 yr old boys about it). The building is shared with some businesses on the ground floor and has a fairly new elevator (less than 2 years old) which speaks with a very interesting (not remotely African sounding) accent. There’s a lot of people around and the building manager is friendly and helpful, so I feel safe and welcome. The lady renting to me is also American, and usually rents the apartment out by the night on Airbnb but is happy to have me in for a long term rental since it means a steady income and probably less breakage of furniture. 

There’s a small kitchen which we made smaller by installing a washing machine. I think it’s worth it to be able to wash my own clothes at home and not in the sink. It’s got a dorm fridge, so I guess I don’t get to keep pints of ice cream at home, and the “stove” is a propane hot plate on a wooden countertop. The main room is a living/dining area, but I’ve shoved some of the furniture aside to make a space for me to VR dance in. I’ve also installed my Chromecast and switch on the TV. The bedroom is a bit sparse, but the bed is comfy and the bathroom has ALL THE HOT WATER. I didn’t really realize how much I missed that until my first shower in here where the water came out steamy and stayed that way the whole long shower… my first really good long hot shower since arriving in Senegal, btw.

It came furnished, including a towel and 2 sets of sheets, but I got some new pillows for myself. It also comes with a cleaner, which is something I may never get used to. The places I lived in Jinan (China) and in Tabuk (Saudi) had cleaners, but the one in China only came once a week, and the one in Tabuk was in a hotel, so they came when I asked, but I didn’t ask often, and I always pre-cleaned because all I really need help with is floors and bathroom scrubbing, and I don’t really *need* that, because I lived without a cleaner the whole time I was in Korea and did not drown in dirt. This lady comes 3x a week. Her service is included in the rent. It definitely makes me think about not leaving my undies on the floor or my dishes on the sofa.

It’s in a very residential area, which has pros and cons, but overall is probably for the best because it’s quieter and safer. The roads are made of dirt, and there’s a larger than average number of horse drawn carts. There’s not as many restaurants and no big grocery stores, but the manager at the corner grocery store was really kind to me when I came in, and showed me where to find the stuff I was looking for and welcomed me to the neighborhood. There’s a bakery, and some fruit sellers around too. Plus, it’s a much easier area to describe in this addressless land when I get stuff delivered. I don’t have a private terrace, but there’s rooftop access and there’s a beautiful view that includes both the lighthouse and the Renaissance Monument.

#Thankful

I literally cannot say enough how much better my life is now that I have this place to live. Nothing feels too big or too broken or too overwhelming anymore. Even when I went to see the English club only to discover that my new laptop didn’t connect to the projector, and also for some reason had the wrong country plug (even though I bought it here), and that the cleaning crew had disconnected my office desktop from power (which I was able to fix) and apparently also the internet (which I was not), I wasn’t particularly upset. I was just like, oh, ok, I’ll take the laptop back home and figure out the problem, I have an adapter there, too. My latest online order had a problem where they took my money and then said the order didn’t go through and I couldn’t speak to a rep because language barrier, but I was ok with figuring it out later, and it was ok, two days later the website had resolved the issue itself and my stuff is on the way.

I’ve been exploring, walking, taking photos, taking…. Well not risks, but getting comfortable living more normally. I finally got to dye and cut my hair and I have high hopes that being able to have a regular bed means a regular bedtime skincare routine and my hands and feet might be able to recover from the DRY. I was able to start working on stuff like minor sewing repairs and LAUNDRY. I have a space to disinfect my produce and can finally have fresh fruit/veg snacks again. It’s SO nice not to be living with the weight of stress and anxiety and just be able to enjoy living here. I’m astonished it took so long, but I’m glad that I was right when I promised myself that I’d get to this point.

Bienvenue au Sénégal!