The Mad Dash

Just returned from a very exciting evening – went to one of Dakar’s most venerable music venues, where I saw a fantastic band in the open-air café and ate a delicious fish stew. This, however, was not the exciting part. The real thrill came in the taxi rides to and from the concert. On the way, I negotiated my rate with a surly guy who illustrated his distaste for my low bid by pulling over immediately and relieving himself in the bushes next to the car.

On the way home (which was at about 1am, because no one here goes out before 11, and things don’t really get started before midnight, which has proved a major challenge to my already erratic sleep schedule), a sweet-faced young cabbie agreed immediately to my price, only to be pulled over by several police officers after apparently failing to make a complete stop. (His cab, which appeared to be held together by dental floss and some gum, may not have had entirely serviceable brakes. Not that that’s any excuse, but really, guys. Give the man a break.)

The beleaguered cabbie got out of the car and disappeared for a long ten minutes, during which time I contemplated the deserted road around me, and rifled through my wallet, wondering if perhaps I was finally going to have an opportunity to use my Hostile Environment Course training in the delicate art of bribery.

When he returned, the driver told me all about what had happened, in a stream of outraged Wolof. I made sympathetic noises in the backseat, and once we were safely in front of the hotel, I asked for an explanation in French. The police, it seems, wanted a bit of cash to make up for the theoretical traffic violation. This, it seems, is a fairly common occurrence on the roads of Senegal. (Will they use these ill-gotten gains to fix the roads? Probably not).

This week has evolved, as expected, into a veritable marathon of interviews – each fruitful, and each revealing a new, tantalizing story I’m salivating to cover. Given the fact that I’m leaving on Saturday, most are doomed to remain tempting non-issues. It’s hugely frustrating: the five weeks granted by the IRP fellowship, while hugely generous, is an awkward length; not a marathon and not a sprint. It's just enough time to get oneself situated in a new culture, to establish a good community of local contacts, and to begin to piece together the strands of some really fascinating stories. But it’s just not enough to time to do everything I want to do – a fact I am slowly beginning to accept, even as I race around town trying to squeeze in every last interview that presents itself.

With that in mind, Wednesday morning I’m off to Fann Hospital, where Steve Bollinger, former Peace Corps volunteer, runs an organic garden used to supplement the meager meals provided to the inpatient population. The brainchild of Professor/Dr. Salif Sow (whom I interviewed Monday, and who is one of Senegal’s (and Africa’s) giants in the field of infectious disease), the garden has emerged as a boon for the hospital, and for the often-undernourished patients. When Professor Sow, an imposing man with an encyclopedic grasp of the AIDS epidemic in Senegal, mentioned the garden during our interview, his serious face lit up and he clasped his hands together in ecstasy. “I remember the first time the kitchen made a soup from the vegetables,” he told me. “I watched the patients line up for it, and then they ate it.” His smile widened until it threatened to take over his entire face. “I was so happy!”

So I’m looking forward to visiting the garden, and to seeing what’s cooking (so to speak). Thursday, I’m back on the road, this time with TOSTAN, an NGO run by an American woman (originally from Illinois, but who has lived in Senegal for 30-odd years). TOSTAN is at the forefront of the regional movement to abolish female circumcision, and they also spearhead other health projects in Senegal’s rural areas.

We’re heading out at 6 am to visit a village where TOSTAN’s particular brand of community-based building and education has brought the practice of FGM to a screeching halt. (TOSTAN is careful to call FGM “FGC,” or female genital cutting, because, they say, “mutilation” implies an intent to do harm, and the practice, however brutal, is borne out of ancient cultural norms; i.e. an uncut girl is not marriageable in traditional society and is therefore doomed to the life of an outcast.

So the key, in the TOSTAN philosophy, is to provide each village with a yearlong, interdisciplinary course of non-dogmatic information that allows a community to internally address the health risks and human rights implications of FGC, rather than just moving in and lecturing everyone about barbarism. It’s an interesting, perhaps even revolutionary tack, and it’s been hugely successful – so much so that nearly 2,000 villages in Senegal that have undergone the TOSTAN course have issued public declarations abolishing FGC, thereby changing the cultural “norms” of the community, and rendering the once routine practice unacceptable.

It should be a really fascinating and thoroughly exhausting day. I've been told it will be quite warm Thursday, and in light of this I have dutifully prepared for the Senegalese ability to last for hours and hours without sustenance: water bottles and emergency biscuits have been procured, and are waiting in a bag by the door.

Comments

[Christopher]

Senegal sounds as if it is a training ground for cabbies before they come to Chicago. Maybe you should have asked if they take credit cards? :)

The TOSTAN project sounds fascinating. Looking forward to reading more.

Be safe!

Christopher