Red Hot

Many things have disoriented and challenged me over the past two months: language and culture, suburban life, habitating with a child, gastro-intestinal adjustment, not having a blackberry or a mobile, focus on the family and not much focus on culture. I’ve had to learn to value my own work as a volunteer, because I’m not going to be getting heaps of praise for it. I’m learning to accept that the Senegalese generally, and the Senegalese government in particular, do not share my perspectives on time.

Big topics, it would seem. But they were nothing in comparison to my relationship with Ieta and Suzette, the duo with responsibility for caring for Seal, keeping the house and preparing our meals. They are a fluid duo—Ieta and Suzette, Suzette and Ieta—conjoined in name and in responsibility. One minute, Seal is bundled up on Ieta’s back while she makes French fries and the next minute, he’s on Suzette’s hip as sweeps the floor. Suzette starts ironing and Ieta finishes. They arrive together, leave together.

I lived with domestic help in my sorority, and I eventually worked with them. But it seemed different, most particularly because I could talk to them. Here, with Ieta and Suzette, language is only one of the barriers I have to overcome. For instance, there’s a DMZ between Ieta’s kitchen when she’s in it and me when I want something that’s in the kitchen. I feel like I’m crossing over into North Korea to get water out of the fridge or wash my hands at the sink.

There’s also the underwear barrier. These two are washing my tightie whities, and I find it a little weird. Do they think I’m a prude because I wear Hanes women’s briefs? Do they compare my underwear to Nathalie’s lacy, sexy lingerie? Do they think I have too many clothes from the Gap?

They are young--in their 30s. Both are moms. They wear really cool, chic street clothes--jeans and t-shirts--to work most days. On Friday, which is the Muslim Sunday, they wear traditional Senegalese dresses. They are always gorgeous, but especially on Fridays.

Of course, if we could speak the same language, my sense of separation from Ieta and Suzette would probably melt away. Amazingly, they seem to be picking up my American idioms and slang without much difficulty, while I am still puttering along with basic French. So I’m sure you can imagine how nearly impossible it is for me to make jokes when I can’t remember how to ask: Where did Paul go?

But today we had a breakthrough…happily at my expense. Ieta makes a killer hot red pepper sauce that I have learned to love. It is fantastic! Paul swears I’m becoming Senegalese because I’m eating it on all the native dishes: yassa, maffi, domoda, soupe kandje, katchoupa. Today, when he asked me how I liked the sauce, I said in a combination of French and English: “I’m a 58 year old, single white woman. This sauce is the closest thing to hot sex that I’m going to get. And I LOVE IT!”

Even through the messy French, Ieta and Suzette got it! They laughed hysterically. And something in our relationship has changed.

Felicitations x 3

We had a very big day today. It was a triple-header: Fete de Maman, aka, Mother’s Day; Mami’s birthday; and Ayesha’s confirmation!

The family danced, laughed, teased, hugged, kissed, ate and danced some more! Everyone was beautiful! The food was fantastic! It was hot, hot, hot…and we danced some more!

You know how family parties go. Enough said. I’m pooped.

Home Alone

The house is quiet. I am home alone. This is the first time since I left New York and the solitude of my sweet apartment—home sweet home since 1991—that I have been alone. And of course, the electricity has gone off, so I am without internet access. Translated, that means I am REALLY alone. And as soon as my battery runs out, even the distraction of writing my blog for later posting will be unavailable.

In New York, living alone is becoming a luxury for those who have enormous incomes or the province of those who have rent controlled apartments that they’ve lived in since the dinosaurs roamed Central Park. The city pushes people together. But in that mass of humanity, there are few markers that make it possible for individuals to find their own tribe…their own people.

Here in Dakar, I’m not often lonely. I certainly like everyone I’ve met. I even like some people that other people don’t like. It’s too much work to dislike people. It requires looking for reasons to personalize things that happen, reasons to stay angry when the time has come to “let it go.” In the final analysis, we’re all trying as hard as we can, we all have problems, everybody makes mistakes and everyone deserves a break. What’s to dislike?

But there’s a vast gulf between “good will toward man” and finding one’s tribe…where the language spoken, the costumes worn, the codes that facilitate communication are known by those who belong and the result is inclusion. I have not found those people in Dakar.

And tonight, all these years later, I find myself thinking about the kids in my hometown who were not allowed to be a part of the tribe, who were always the victims of childhood taunts, cliques and general unkindness. They never got a break. Ever. I wonder how they managed their loneliness then. Did our meanness build their characters so that they grew into adults with full, rich and happy lives?

I wonder if they would have some advice for me about how I might find my own people here in Dakar.

Sun, Sand, Surf

It’s Friday afternoon at 5:30. It’s Memorial Day weekend back home, the official first weekend of summer.

My head has gone to the beach. Or perhaps my heart has gone to the beach. I’ve been living by the sea since mid-April, so it’s not as though the beach is something I’ve been missing. No, the beach is right out the French doors. I can hear the tide coming in…it’s a little bit wilder than usual, perhaps the result of the full moon last night.

I think it’s my heart more than my head that’s wrapped up in this Memorial Day. This is the much anticipated weekend that stay-in-the-city New Yorkers so anticipate because they get a break from the I-have-a-summer-share New Yorkers who go away, who leave us empty seats in movie theaters, empty tables in restaurants, empty park benches, shorter lines, quieter streets, parking spots and a generally nicer city.

In New York, people are making plans for picnics, getting together, taking it easy. And in less urban areas, they’re picking peonies to put on graves and planning to gather around the grill on the deck. It’s an important weekend because it means that we all survived work through the long stretch from mid-February to the end of May when there are no holidays. And now, we get Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, and if we’re really lucky, Columbus Day in October and Veteran’s Day in November before Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s.

That stretch from February to May is tough.

Just as a scent or sound can trigger memories, significant dates can do the same. Memorial Day does it for me…it’s when I ritualistically start tanning, eating watermelon, drinking iced coffee, anticipating fresh corn and tomatoes from the New Jersey farms, and spending lots of evenings outside with no-name music groups that are playing free concerts.

This year will be a little different. I already have a tan. Watermelon is available, but not for much longer because it grows during the rainy season which starts next month. Iced beverages are….well, there’s no ice. Tomatoes are imported. Corn is not grown here because there’s not enough water and then there’s too much. Culture of the sort I like is a little hard to come by. But we do have a holiday to celebrate…several, in fact. Sunday is Fete de la Maman (Mother’s Day), which is always celebrated on May 30 in European countries. (Shhh...Senegal doesn't know it's not French.) It is also Mami’s birthday! And to add to the fun, Paul's niece is being confirmed. Our usual Sunday gathering will be triple the fun this weekend!

On Sunday, Mami will be tied to her chair so that she isn't working. We will eat fish, prepared in one of the endless varieties of ways that it is eaten here in Senegal, and I’ll be fantasizing about...hot dogs and corn on the cob at Coney Island.

Four Alarm

Last weekend Nathalie and I cruised to downtown Dakar, a trip that takes us past countless construction sites for residences, offices buildings, apartment complexes. As I’ve mentioned before, Senegal is a “developing” country and the evidence is in the amount of building that is underway…everywhere. All projects are constructed of the same material: concrete block covered with stucco.

I observed to myself—and almost said to Nathalie—“Limited risk of fires with all this concrete block construction.” But I didn’t say it. And this afternoon, I found out my assumption was wrong!

Around 6:30, a fire started in the closet that houses all the electrical circuits for our complex of four businesses and two apartments. "Snap, crackle and pop" quickly escalated to explosions, followed by roaring flames. Black smoke poured through the corridor that connects our ocean-side apartment to the street.

Those of us who live here scurried to get out…Nathalie grabbed Seal and his bottle…I packed a bag with my computer, cameras and electrical converter…and we raced through the construction site next door and out to the street where a chattering crowd of residents, business owners, vendors , people walking home from work had gathered. It was the same crowd of interested by-standers who gather wherever there is a disaster.

In two months of living in Dakar, I have not heard a fire alarrm nor seen a fire truck..a “pompier” in French. And this evening, we didn’t see one until about a half-hour after the fire had been drowned in buckets and buckets of sand.

The good news? No one was hurt. Damage was minimal. Only one business lost power. Seal is safe. And as in many other cultures, the firemen are hunky and handsome!

As I wrote yesterday, the Monument de la Renaissance Africaine gave me reason to start paying attention to the context of this continent where I am now living.

On Monday, our trip to Ile de Goree drove home that point.

Goree is a 30-minute ferry ride from the Port of Dakar. The day was sunny and very warm. It was lovely to be on the water. As we approached the landing for this petite island, my eyes wandered here and there, captured by the splashes of color: brightly painted 18^th century residences, vibrant pink and purple bougainvillea, women in traditional Senegalese dresses and headresses .

The entire island is a World Heritage site, which means that Goree is in the process of being historically preserved. The narrow alleyways are lined with graceful colonial homes, some are stucco over native stone and some simply native stones, fitted together so perfectly that sliding a broomstraw in the cracks would be impossible. Wrought iron balconies on the second level and open courtyards off the flower-lined cobblestone paths invite romantic curiosity.

Goree is quiet. There are no roads and no cars. The whole island is only 56 acres, so it takes about 10 minutes to walk from one end to the other. Its small beach is surrounded by boulders and crashing breakers. Commerce is limited to art, artifacts and refreshments. It wasn’t always.

Goree was a slave trading station. On one end of the island is the Castel, erected by the Dutch. On the other, is an ancient fort. Goree’s most famous building is La Maison des Escalaves, built in 1776 by the Dutch to conduct slave trading. On the ground floor, holding chambers segregated men from women and women from children. The slaves were kept alive, but just enough to survive their transport. Dungeons, barely large enough for one person, commonly held five to ten. A dim, dank narrow passage ends at a doorway that opens onto the ocean, so that the prisoners could be loaded directly onto boats.

From the crowded slave quarters, a double curving stairway leads to the second level and an ocean-front terrace. Here, the merchant conducted business, and his family lived in luxurious comfort above the human cargo stored below. Now a museum, the house has an appropriately somber and reverent atmosphere. Docents offered moving portrayals of the house’s grim history. Although only 300 of the 20 million Africans who were enslaved moved through Goree each year, the island’s value is indisputable: a reminder of the suffering inflicted on Africa and its people.

As I wandered through the quiet streets, having left Nathalie and Seal, in the shade for a mid-day snooze, I passed by houses under renovation and courtyards where women were braiding hair extensions. Kids were swimming on the beach and playing soccer in front of the school and large 19^th century church. On an exceptionally beautiful lane, there was a well-tended garden and beautiful gate. The name plate read: Residence George Soros.

I thought it telling that this icon of philanthropy dedicated to social change and social justice would have a home on Goree Island.

Sights and Insights

Just before I came to Dakar, Senegal celebrated the 50^th anniversary of its independence from France. To mark the occasion, President Abdoulaye Wade unveiled the Monument de la Renaissance Africaine, which in the minds of many is the Monument de la Abdoulaye Wade, who is preparing to leave office.

The monument is a representation of a couple, both of incredible physical attributes….he, robustly male with the best chest in Dakar and she with best breasts in all of Africa. In his arms, the man holds a child pointing to the west. Why? No one is sure.

Started in 2002, the 53-meter statue appears suddenly from the hills overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Completed with the assistance and underwriting of the Korean government, the monument cost about $27 million and is built on the highest point of land in Senegal, which is probably only a few hundred meters high rising from the coast. This large hill has a twin about a kilometer away, where the only lighthouse in Senegal is located.

The flags of all Africa fly proudly on the landscaped and well-tended hillside. At the street and parking level—180 steps lower than the monument’s entrance—are the theater and Jumbo-tron where it is expected crowds will gather for cultural, sports and political events.

Much bally-hooed, the monument is intended to be a Statue of Liberty-style attraction, nationalistic in its spirit, drawing tourists from all over the world, and especially Africans and Senegalese. The price tag doesn’t begin to cover the additional investment in infrastructure to support the monument…the highway, parking, ancillary buildings, programming and security that are required to keep the site open, organized, clean and safe.

We’ve laughed about it, marveled at the cost (which could have financed 120 dispensaries) and then we went to visit on Saturday. I stopped laughing. The site, the scale, the sentiment are inspiring and ennobling. Artistically, the monument’s strengths are that it is heroic and African.

Within the historical context of Senegal’s role in the Atlantic slave trade, the monument dignifies that scarred past, suggesting a people with determination and hope. Within the context of the current global economy, it towers, seeming to remind that Africa is thriving, a continent where there is driving energy and optimism that the developed markets seem to have lost.