Senegal Stories

Wednesday, Feb 28th

Have sorted out computer power issues. Apparently all I had to do was use a plug adapter and my usual power cord. The Occam’s Razor of technology.

Day four, and feeling more at home here now.  Explored the area around my hotel, which is a dirt road lined with huts where women sell produce. There are a few art stores, run primarily by European ex-pats.

Ventured twice into Dakar twice in the past two days, once to buy a cell phone (which is frankly the only way to communicate in-country) and today for a meeting at the UNFPA country office. (I had a moment’s pause before realizing that the “country office” means the office for Senegal, not an office located in the country).  Great interview today with the head of their HIV/AIDS program. Looks as though I will be traveling to Tambacounda and Kolda – cities in the eastern and southern portions of the country, where various NGOs have set up prevention programs.  Now the only issue is finding a translator – apparently, Wolof, the local language spoken in and around Dakar, is not useful in other parts of the country. (Not that this makes much difference to me, given that I am only capable of saying – or perhaps mangling is a better word – “hello, how are you?” in Wolof.)

My French comprehension is getting quite a workout. Conducted today’s interview almost entirely in French, which was both exhilarating and draining. Recorded most of interview; am hopeful that between my deep (likely disconcerting) concentration on my subject’s mouth and the backup of the recording, I will be safe using direct quotations.

It’s strange to communicate all day in one language, and then try to organize one’s thoughts in another. Makes one think differently about words, and cultural context, and meaning.

Back to Dakar (see above, which is one side of the Place D'Independance, the main square): The city center is an overwhelming maze of streets, packed with parked cars, seething with people, vendors, mopeds and black-and-gold, battered taxis. I’ve never seen anything like it – it’s energetic – the sounds, smells, colors, heat -- in a way that’s completely foreign to me.  Everybody is selling something; I am practicing walking purposefully when I have no idea where I’m going.

The long road into town is being “renovated,” which means it’s torn up nearly from end to end. That means the traffic is constantly a snarl – giving boys ample opportunity to walk next to the car, waving and offering various wares (phonecards, socks, newspapers).  Long stretches of road butt up against dusty wastelands, dotted with smoking fires and garbage piles and populated by families, goats, horses and dogs. The poverty is stunning.

I took a few photos of Dakar and the area (Yoff Virage) near the hotel, although I am still figuring out how to upload more than one photo per post... I am also suffering a bit of camera-phobia; I feel like a voyeur, the worst kind of tourist, snapping shots of people going about their daily lives, and I know many people here are not fond of being photographed, see it as a kind of intrusion. Also, there’s no better way to announce your presence to pickpockets than brandishing a camera. Still, I want to record what I can, but you’ll notice the general absence of people in most of the shots.

Monday February 26th

First-day jitters aside, I'm settling in with some success. The hotel is fine, if slightly overpriced, I think, and as long as I practice my phrasing beforehand, I'm getting by with my French. Clearly travel is good for the vocabulary: I've already picked up "egout" and "lavabo" (the "drain" in my "sink" is not working).

The technical adventures continue: Bought a surge protector and adapter for my laptop, and, feeling enormously pleased with my forethought, plugged in the surge protector yesterday, upon which it promptly blew up, trailing tiny plumes of smoke. So that didn't work out so well. My laptop battery is dwindling, so while I research safe power sources, I am typing this posting from the computer center of the Meridien President, located in Les Almadies, just a few miles from my hotel. The MP is one of those hotels that makes you forget you're in a foreign country at all -- all sterility and manicured gardens. Not my speed, but certainly am pleased to have found an internet station (however overpriced.)

Sunday afternoon at the hotel, I met a lovely French couple who were, unfortunately, just concluding a week holiday in Senegal. I practiced my French on them (didn't have much choice, as English was not an option) and they humored me and gave me lots of tips (where to eat in Dakar, hotels to avoid, etc). We ate dinner together -- I had grilled fish, which was quite good -- and they left for the airport.

My complicated mosquito netting may be for naught -- it's been very dry, apparently, and so the population of moustiques (another good vocab word) has been greatly diminished. I am, however, dutifully applying DEET and SPF 45.

Right. Will log off for now -- am going to investigate the town here -- and later, meet with the UNICEF representative in Dakar. Will post again when possible (i.e. when I sort out the power source issues...).

Finding my footing...

Well, that was interesting.

My South African Airways flight, uneventful and generally pleasant, arrived from JFK into Dakar at 5:30 am local time. Most of the passengers were continuing onward to Johannesburg, but about 25 of us shuffled sleepily off the plane in the dark, down a set of stairs and onto a waiting bus, which shuttled us the 40 yards to the terminal building.

I’d been warned about arriving at the Dakar airport – about the guys who hang around, waiting for incoming international flights, which they (presumably) hope will be packed to the gills with, well, people like me. Warnings notwithstanding, I was completely unprepared for the onslaught – it was like a swarm of men, all trying to grab my bags, all trying to take me to their “friend” who could change my money.

In an attempt at preparation, I had arranged for someone from the hotel to pick me up, but there was no one in sight. I tried my best to look purposeful and un-lost, but apparently failed. One of the guys was particularly aggressive, and insisted I come with him to a “waiting room,” where,  he told me, a shuttle from the hotel would find me. I followed him warily up a set of stairs to what was in fact a small restaurant. He took a seat at a table and motioned for me to sit down, while he fiddled, apparently ineffectually, with his cell phone.  When the waitress came over to ask what I’d like, I took the opportunity to escape down the stairs, my new friend close behind.

It’s election day in Senegal, so the banks and currency exchanges are closed, which means I had nothing with which to pay a cab, assuming I could figure out which cabs were legitimate, which, I gathered from the airport “parking lot,” which was a tangle of scraggly cars surrounded by drivers all hoping to score a fare, could be quite a challenge.

It’s not a great combination: exhausted, confused, without local currency. And after one of the guys (whose numbers had miraculously multiplied) tried to lead me into a long, dark hallway, where his “friend” was available to change my money,  I put my foot down.

I don’t think I’ve ever said “no” as many times as I did during that five minute period, or worried less about whether I was being rude. I was abrupt and loud – I was, in other words, exactly what I should have been the second I got off the plane.

Shaken and a bit desperate, I took refuge in the tiny cubicle-sized office of South African Airways,  where a statuesque woman in a flight attendant uniform took pity on me, arranged a currency exchange and called the hotel. As the guys hovered outside the office, peering through the windows, she shook her head. “It’s a shame, “ she said, throwing a glance at the crowd of men. “It’s not safe.” She gestured towards my bags. “Get your things,” she said. “I’ll take you to an airport taxi.” She walked me across the tiny terminal,  outside, past the throngs of drivers, and to a small taxi stand. After negotiating my rate, she turned to leave, brushed off my effusive thanks and waved. 

I’m now at the hotel (Cap Ouest), not far from the airport, ensconced in an exceptionally simple but very clean room. The smell of salt is thick in the air, and the mosquitoes are buzzing ominously.

It’s 7:30 am now, and the sun is beginning to rise. Defying the laws of travel (get on the local schedule as soon as you arrive), I’m going to take a nap for an hour or two – I figure it will be easier to get my bearings in the daylight.

Last-minute lists

This is my dog Clyde. He is, as you've undoubtedly noticed, a very handsome animal. With exceptionally long ear fur.

I am including this photograph in this post for two reasons:

1. I wanted to test my ability to post pictures. It appears I have succeeded. Hurray!

2. I like to have a photo of Clyde on hand whenever I am going into unfamiliar situations. My saintly parents (who are taking care of Clyde while I am away) were kind enough to send me this picture for my travels. I think Clyde looks a bit mournful, but I am sure that's only because Mom and Dad just told him that I won't see him for another two months. That, and he probably ate something with sharp edges that is now working its way through his digestive tract.

Anyway, it appears it's suddenly time to go -- my flight leaves tomorrow evening at 5 from Kennedy. I'm lucky enough to be booked on a nonstop to Dakar, getting in at 6 am Sunday, which is also election day in Senegal. There's been a bit of unrest (clashes between supporters of the incumbent, Wade, and those who'd prefer a replacement), and the State Department has advised Americans to stay indoors after dark, so an early morning arrival sounds better and better.

I am finding my impending departure a bit difficult to grasp -- Where did the six weeks of preparation go? Did I actually do any useful preparing? What have I gotten myself into? -- and in an attempt to calm myself down, I have now made roughly 25 lists and, I am happy to report, have checked off nearly everything. At this point, after a day of visiting 14 different computer stores looking (in vain) for a particular brand of internationally-approved surge protector, I have decided that anything unchecked can stay that way. I surrender what remains of my fate to the travel gods. And to Jet Blue (which I am flying, for reasons that now escape me, from Dulles to JFK).

So the next time I write, I'll be in Senegal. Inshallah, as they say. 

A bit of background (Read: you've been warned).

Hi, there.  Welcome to my very first post on my very first blog.

This is not me gloating, this is me warning you: I don't know what I'm doing, and there will be technical problems, or "glitches," as I've been instructed to call them. At any rate, I just wanted to let any tech-savvy kids out there know that this may not be a smooth sail, as they say. But at least it will be an adventure. It's also a great excuse for me to indulge in my favorite form of writing: the often insufferable first-person narrative.

And with that enticing introduction, on with the show. A few basics: I'm a reporter for the Chicago Tribune, based in Chicago. In January 2007, I began a fellowship with the International Reporting Project (formerly the Pew Fellowship) out of Johns Hopkins-SAIS. The program, which is fantastic (and I'm not just saying that because they're paying for my trip), sends seven U.S. journalists on reporting trips around the world. My fellow Fellows (oh, the hilarity) are bound for Lebanon, Afghanistan, Liberia, China, Mexico and South Africa, armed with great story ideas, unbridled enthusiasm, and, if they're like me, increasingly nervous stomachs.

On February 24th, I'm flying to Dakar for a five-week reporting trip through Senegal, Africa's western-most country and one of the continent's few success stories in the fight against HIV/AIDS. (To put this in perspective: Recent studies indicate Senegal and the U.S. have similar infection rates).

During my time abroad, the plan is to profile the people (some of them, at least) responsible for keeping Senegal's AIDS/HIV infection rate at such remarkably low levels. The goal is to bring human faces to the fight against AIDS in Africa, and to shed light on some best prevention practices. The Western media -- and American media is particular -- don't do justice to the positive, instructive stories emerging every day from Africa.

These lofty goals are, of course, predicated on the (purely theoretical) theory that I will a) understand enough and speak enough French (and to a much lesser extent, Wolof, the local language) to figure out what anyone is saying, and b) that I won't go totally bonkers listening to five weeks of my deeply annoying internal monologue.

Anyway, here's hoping. I'll update this blog as events and Internet connections allow (and as soon as I figure out what, exactly, "updating" entails.) While I can't promise any technological fireworks or profound revelations, I do hope this blog will help my family and friends (and anyone else who stumbles upon it) keep track of me during my travels.

Thanks for reading.