First, I have never quite grasped the concept of "Writer's Block." How could someone stare at a blank page or an empty screen and NOT have something to write about with all this great material to choose from around Dakar...
I have read with interest the stories of winter from America this year. You couldn't hold a global warming conference anywhere in the U.S. when - at one point - 49 states had snow on the ground (including Hawaii). Nor'easters blanket New England on a weekly basis. Syracuse has recorded 157 inches of snow this winter - that's BEFORE the month of March. Nowata, Oklahoma hit minus 31 degrees. Nowata, Oklahoma. Why is it the only thing I can picture when I hear "Nowata, Oklahoma" is Junior Samples sticking his head out of a cornfield saying, "Population 3,971. Saaaallluuute!"
For more of Junior Samples, try: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5S2z8rDL9Hg
Many of you have wondered, "What is winter like in Dakar?" Surprisly similar, as you will learn from my observations while out running last week. First, I made my way down an oceanfront promenade called the Corniche. The Corniche is actually a four-lane highway that runs along the ocean route, and adjacent to the Corniche is a huge stretch of concrete sidewalk. Think Storrow Drive along the Charles River.
One particular stretch of the Corniche is about two miles long and features a small beach. Normally, there are over a thousand people walking down this particular stretch after work, and there are hundreds more exercising on the beach. This particular day, the numbers had dwindled because of the weather.
Any souls brave enough to fight the temperatures wore woolen, knit hats and gloves. The exercisers - who are usually dressed in soccer uniforms - were more likely to be wearing a warm-up track suit with long pants and jacket on this particular, blustery day.
I left the Corniche and ran into a neighborhood that gave off an aroma of desolation. Six men were bundled up, warming their hands around an open pit fire they had built on the side of a street. It looked like a scene out of Mad Max, except instead of burning a tire in an old metal garbage can they arranged rocks and were burning what appeard to be some old furniture. The time of day was just prior to sundown. These men looked like homeless people and were preparing themselves for a long night.
Children scurried to get from one place to another, deftly avoiding open space as if the wind would carry them away. Many people stared at me as I ran through, with some even calling out comments that (I think) warned me against running in this type of weather or that I was not dressed appropriately for the conditions.
I returned to my neighborhood and did not see the guards. There are six houses on my street and each house has a security guard on duty. Since there is no crime in my neighborhood, the guards bring plastic chairs outside and set up a central watchpoint where they can hang out and shoot the breeze for hours. There were no guards outside today.
I found our guard inside our garage. He was wearing a heavy overcoat as if he were on the sidelines at a Green Bay Packers game, hoping his unit would not have to go onto the field. The garage door was open just enough for him to be able to record the comings and goings of pedestrians. I asked why he wasn't outside enjoying the beautiful day and he shuddered while responding there would be no outside for him today.
Then, he asked me with an incredulous voice, "Aren't you cold?"
It was 17 degrees on this day. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Oh, wait. That was 17 degrees Celsius. About 63 degrees for you and me. And it was the coldest day of winter.
This week, it was back to normal. I came back to our neighborhood and saw three guards out mingling. I said to our guard, "I have some news for you." He asked if it was good news or bad news, and I replied that it was just news. He was still wearing a jacket and I had to inform him that it was 88 degrees outside and that winter - all six days of it - appeared to be over.
He laughed heartily. But, he did not remove his jacket.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Customer Service Aplenty - Part Deux
For some reason, merchants guard their change as if these coins contained real silver, gold and copper while throwing paper money around as if it contained real wood pulp.
I once rode with a taxi driver who stopped at three different places looking for a 500 CFA coin (approximate value: $1), but no one would give him change for a 1,000 CFA bill. Never mind that the driver wasted much more time trying to find a coin than trying to find his next customer, these people are absolutely steadfast about the need for coinage.
My local convenience store/gas station absolutely refuses to give out change unless someone makes a purchase. And there are two ironies here: they will not give out change during the day when the bank - located one block from the convenience store - is open AND the employees don't own the store, so I imagine they would get paid for walking to the bank, cashing in bills for change, and walking back to the store.
You may have already guessed this information is required reading to appreciate the story of my most recent shopping experience at Casino. One other note that will add tremendously to your reading pleasure is to understand Part One of this story occurred sometime in October, whereas Part Deux takes place in February.
I went to Casino ostensibly because it is the only place in Dakar where I can find a particularly yummy brand of cashews. They are prepared "Senar Style" which (I think) means that the entire cashew nut is first grilled, then shelled and bagged. These cashews are WAY better than dry roasted peanuts, which is the closest comparison I can make in the U.S. Before I leave Senegal, I will be visiting the company to ask them to fill an entire carry-on suitcase for my personal consumption in the U.S. If they even last the plane ride home...
In any case, I walked to the cash register with a 200 gram bag and the cashier looked at me. She asked me something in French, which the bag boy translated to me in English as, "She wants to know if you have money." I looked closely at the cashier and it was - yes indeed! - "I'm a B*tch!" from October! Apparently, she thought I might try paying with a credit card and she was planning to refuse my purchase.
I said, "Oui" and she ran the product through the bar code scanner.
I need to digress for a moment to tell yet another story about the Casino bar code scanner. Ever since that fateful day when I was charged $20 for truffles that I did not buy, I only purchase a few things at a time at this fine grocery store. That way, I can clearly see what is being scanned and how much it will cost. One day, I went to purchase a bag of cat food (clearly, another blog entry is forthcoming on that) and noticed the store had replaced the usual ten varieties of Friskies with a single variety of store brand. Every section of every shelf contained the same variety of store brand cat food. Usually a 1/2 kg bag (one pound) costs 675 CFA (about $1.40) and a 2 kg bag (5 pounds) costs about 2,400 CFA (about $5). When they scanned the store brand through the bar code, someone had - once again - entered the wrong price in the system and I refused to pay $5 for a $1.40 bag of cat food. Every cashier in this store has finally determined I am the one customer who does not take kindly to paying three times more than I should because of bar code idiocy.
Now, back to our previous story... My lovely cashier ran the product through the bar code scanner and the price came up as 2,090 CFA (or, $4.18). I handed her three 1,000 CFA bills. She asked if I had change. I said no, only bills. You may realize that she was speaking in French and I was speaking in English, but we were communicating quite well. Or, so I thought.
The next thing I know, the bag boy translates for me in English, "She wants to know if you have any change." No, I repeated, I only have bills. The cashier looked at me. She asked me AGAIN if I had change. The bag boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out some coins. I honestly thought he was going to pay the 90 CFA for me just to put an end to this Mexican stand-off. But no, he shows me his change and asks, "Do you have any of these?" as if I didn't understand him the first time. I held my tongue, but the cashier absolutely would not open her cash drawer to make change. Had my command of French been a bit better, I would have said, "You do realize your job is "cashier", which means "one who makes change", don't you?"
Instead, I tried a different tack: "No comprendre Anglais?" I asked. She shook her head no, raising her eyebrows as if to say, "Who, me?" and matched that facial feature with a smirk that would have made George W. Bush proud. "Oh, that's too bad," I replied loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear, "because I was going to call you a F***ing B*tch!"
Suddenly, her eyes lit up. "Oh!" I said, "Vous comprendre Anglais! Donnez mon f***ing changer!"
At this point, my favorite cashier now realized that in my few months in this fine country, I was able to grasp enough French to survive in a supermarket. She slowly opened the register. She handed me a 500 CFA coin, effectively shortchanging me by 410 CFA (or, about a dollar). I said, "Non, neuf!" and held up nine fingers. By this time, two other customers were waiting in line and one of them clearly understood English. For the benefit of that customer - and now anyone within three rows of this particular register - I held out my hand and proudly pronounced, "My f***ing change, please."
My favorite cashier slowly counted out coins and handed me the worst possible assortment of coins she could think of handing me (think a dime, two nickels and five pennies instead of a quarter). I nodded my head, smiled and walked out of the store. Those who know me will vouch that - while I may have a crude sense of humor - I rarely use profane language anywhere other than a golf course. But, I can now see the allure to becoming a stand-up comedian because there really is something satisfying about dropping the F-bomb three times in one minute in front of an audience to chastise someone who clearly relishes her status as "I'm a B*tch!"
Maybe she thought she was making me look like a stupid American, but I know better. For pennance, I will return to Casino. And buy a small bag of cashews every week.
I once rode with a taxi driver who stopped at three different places looking for a 500 CFA coin (approximate value: $1), but no one would give him change for a 1,000 CFA bill. Never mind that the driver wasted much more time trying to find a coin than trying to find his next customer, these people are absolutely steadfast about the need for coinage.
My local convenience store/gas station absolutely refuses to give out change unless someone makes a purchase. And there are two ironies here: they will not give out change during the day when the bank - located one block from the convenience store - is open AND the employees don't own the store, so I imagine they would get paid for walking to the bank, cashing in bills for change, and walking back to the store.
You may have already guessed this information is required reading to appreciate the story of my most recent shopping experience at Casino. One other note that will add tremendously to your reading pleasure is to understand Part One of this story occurred sometime in October, whereas Part Deux takes place in February.
I went to Casino ostensibly because it is the only place in Dakar where I can find a particularly yummy brand of cashews. They are prepared "Senar Style" which (I think) means that the entire cashew nut is first grilled, then shelled and bagged. These cashews are WAY better than dry roasted peanuts, which is the closest comparison I can make in the U.S. Before I leave Senegal, I will be visiting the company to ask them to fill an entire carry-on suitcase for my personal consumption in the U.S. If they even last the plane ride home...
In any case, I walked to the cash register with a 200 gram bag and the cashier looked at me. She asked me something in French, which the bag boy translated to me in English as, "She wants to know if you have money." I looked closely at the cashier and it was - yes indeed! - "I'm a B*tch!" from October! Apparently, she thought I might try paying with a credit card and she was planning to refuse my purchase.
I said, "Oui" and she ran the product through the bar code scanner.
I need to digress for a moment to tell yet another story about the Casino bar code scanner. Ever since that fateful day when I was charged $20 for truffles that I did not buy, I only purchase a few things at a time at this fine grocery store. That way, I can clearly see what is being scanned and how much it will cost. One day, I went to purchase a bag of cat food (clearly, another blog entry is forthcoming on that) and noticed the store had replaced the usual ten varieties of Friskies with a single variety of store brand. Every section of every shelf contained the same variety of store brand cat food. Usually a 1/2 kg bag (one pound) costs 675 CFA (about $1.40) and a 2 kg bag (5 pounds) costs about 2,400 CFA (about $5). When they scanned the store brand through the bar code, someone had - once again - entered the wrong price in the system and I refused to pay $5 for a $1.40 bag of cat food. Every cashier in this store has finally determined I am the one customer who does not take kindly to paying three times more than I should because of bar code idiocy.
Now, back to our previous story... My lovely cashier ran the product through the bar code scanner and the price came up as 2,090 CFA (or, $4.18). I handed her three 1,000 CFA bills. She asked if I had change. I said no, only bills. You may realize that she was speaking in French and I was speaking in English, but we were communicating quite well. Or, so I thought.
The next thing I know, the bag boy translates for me in English, "She wants to know if you have any change." No, I repeated, I only have bills. The cashier looked at me. She asked me AGAIN if I had change. The bag boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out some coins. I honestly thought he was going to pay the 90 CFA for me just to put an end to this Mexican stand-off. But no, he shows me his change and asks, "Do you have any of these?" as if I didn't understand him the first time. I held my tongue, but the cashier absolutely would not open her cash drawer to make change. Had my command of French been a bit better, I would have said, "You do realize your job is "cashier", which means "one who makes change", don't you?"
Instead, I tried a different tack: "No comprendre Anglais?" I asked. She shook her head no, raising her eyebrows as if to say, "Who, me?" and matched that facial feature with a smirk that would have made George W. Bush proud. "Oh, that's too bad," I replied loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear, "because I was going to call you a F***ing B*tch!"
Suddenly, her eyes lit up. "Oh!" I said, "Vous comprendre Anglais! Donnez mon f***ing changer!"
At this point, my favorite cashier now realized that in my few months in this fine country, I was able to grasp enough French to survive in a supermarket. She slowly opened the register. She handed me a 500 CFA coin, effectively shortchanging me by 410 CFA (or, about a dollar). I said, "Non, neuf!" and held up nine fingers. By this time, two other customers were waiting in line and one of them clearly understood English. For the benefit of that customer - and now anyone within three rows of this particular register - I held out my hand and proudly pronounced, "My f***ing change, please."
My favorite cashier slowly counted out coins and handed me the worst possible assortment of coins she could think of handing me (think a dime, two nickels and five pennies instead of a quarter). I nodded my head, smiled and walked out of the store. Those who know me will vouch that - while I may have a crude sense of humor - I rarely use profane language anywhere other than a golf course. But, I can now see the allure to becoming a stand-up comedian because there really is something satisfying about dropping the F-bomb three times in one minute in front of an audience to chastise someone who clearly relishes her status as "I'm a B*tch!"
Maybe she thought she was making me look like a stupid American, but I know better. For pennance, I will return to Casino. And buy a small bag of cashews every week.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Customer Service Aplenty
Please note this is the first of a two-part blog entry.
My reputation as a celebrity shopper at my local grocery store was confirmed this Friday. Frequent readers to this blog will note Casino is the name of a French-based grocery chain, although the following entry just might make you wonder if the store might be more aptly named "Price Roulette"...
The Casino where I shop is a newly built store in a newly built shopping mall. The mall was built to attract European businesspeople, Non-Government Organization aid workers and embassy staff. This is not a "local" market, but it is bright, clean and has the largest selection of "European" groceries. In other words, this should be the marquis store in their Dakar chain of six stores.
The cashiers at Casino are hired based on "personal characteristics." No, that doesn't mean "hot chicks," it means personally related to some character who manages the store. As a group, they have all the intelligence of French Onion Dip and all the personality of French Onion Dip left out in the sun for three hours.
Now that you have some background... one sunny day, the Whitest Guy in West Africa ran up a tab of 42,000 CFA, but only had 40,000 CFA in currency and needed to pay with a credit card. In any ordinary country, the card would be swiped, you would sign and be on your merry way.
At Casino, the cashier will give you a dirty look. She will ask if you have any money. She will ask if you're sure you do not have enough money. She will ask to see your money to prove that you don't have enough money. She will stare at the credit card as if it will cost her a week's pay if she tries to swipe it through the machine. She will reluctantly swipe the card with abject disgust. She will give you the receipt after asking someone else for a pen. After you sign, she will hand you a copy of the receipt. You will not be merry, she will not be merry, but you will be on your way.
The next time I went there, I bought a few items and again paid with credit card. As I was handed my bags, I looked at the receipt and noticed that a 2-pack of 200 gram dark chocolate bars was listed as "chocolate truffles" and I was charged the equivalent of $20. Normally, one 200 gram dark chocolate bar is about $3 and the package said "save 40 euros."
I don't speak French very well, but I could point. I pointed to my chocolate bars and I pointed to my receipt and said, "non truffles; deux chocolat bar." The cashier looked at me and - with a very snotty grin said - "Merci, Bonsoir!" and then she held her hand up - like a policeman stopping traffic - and waved goodbye to me with a slow motion of her four fingers. Apparently, there is a universal wave that translates to, "I'm a B*tch"... with a capital B.
Well, now I'm pissed. I went back into the store to check the price and - wouldn't you know it! - the two-pack of chocolates was displayed in the space normally reserved for truffles. Obviously, someone had loaded the incorrect price into the bar code system because truffles were indeed $20.
I located one of my colleagues, who speaks perfect French, and asked him to translate because I obviously was not going to pay $20 for a two-pack of chocolate bars. He explained what happened and his cashier (completely different from mine) did a price check by running my two-pack through her bar code scanner. It came up $20. She looked at him and said, loosely translated, "Look, the machine says these are truffles." My friend replied and I replied that they were obviously not truffles, but our ace cashier had probably never seen truffles before and could not believe the bar code scanning device could actually be wrong.
I took her back to the aisle to show her the mistake. One shelf had my chocolate bars in single packs. One row beneath held the two-packs. The packages looked identical (save, of course, for the fact that one was a two-pack wrapped in plastic while the other was a single bar). I said, "Une chocolat, $3. Deux chocolat, non $20." She looked at the packages, looked back at me, pointed to shelf and pointed to my package and said, "Look: you buy truffles."
We asked to see the manager. My colleague explained the situation. The manager was wearing a green uniform and apparently needed another manager, who was wearing a red uniform, to complete the transaction. The manager in the red uniform must not have had enough authority because he called in a third manager - who was obviously very important because he was the only one not wearing a uniform. I think he was not wearing a uniform because he did not want anyone to know he was the manager.
Anyway, the third manager agreed that maybe one of Casino's employees had inserted the wrong price into the scanning system. Note I said "maybe" because the manager never went back to change the pricing or give anyone any instructions to change the pricing; he was happy to charge truffle prices for a two-pack of chocolate. But, he said I could return the product for a full refund. We spent approximately 35 minutes to get a refund based on a bar code error.
But, wait! There's more! To get the refund, I had to go back to MY cashier! What a joy it was to see "I'm a B*tch" twice in one day! The manager stood next to her and informed her that she needed to refund my purchase. That meant she had to go into her cash drawer and pull out actual cash money to give back to me! Oh, the look on her face. Why didn't I bring a camera to the grocery store?
That would normally be a pretty good story, but it's not over. While I was getting my refund... remember how the second cashier did a price check on my two-pack? Well... she never deleted that price check so my colleague was ALSO charged $20 for truffles on his bill, even though he never even bought any chocolate!
Once again, a manager was required to delete this phantom purchase. The problem was, my colleague had just handed her 100,000 CFA in currency and she now was required to hand him back change - including the difference for the truffles. This required the second cashier to perform basic subtraction - a task for which she was obviously not prepared for. She and my colleague spent the better part of ten minutes trying to reconcile the difference between his bill; both pre- and post-truffle.
We spent a total of 45 minutes trying to check out of the store. When we returned to the house to unload our groceries, we discovered that neither one of us brought home any chocolate.
(Part Deux - Next Sunday!)
My reputation as a celebrity shopper at my local grocery store was confirmed this Friday. Frequent readers to this blog will note Casino is the name of a French-based grocery chain, although the following entry just might make you wonder if the store might be more aptly named "Price Roulette"...
The Casino where I shop is a newly built store in a newly built shopping mall. The mall was built to attract European businesspeople, Non-Government Organization aid workers and embassy staff. This is not a "local" market, but it is bright, clean and has the largest selection of "European" groceries. In other words, this should be the marquis store in their Dakar chain of six stores.
The cashiers at Casino are hired based on "personal characteristics." No, that doesn't mean "hot chicks," it means personally related to some character who manages the store. As a group, they have all the intelligence of French Onion Dip and all the personality of French Onion Dip left out in the sun for three hours.
Now that you have some background... one sunny day, the Whitest Guy in West Africa ran up a tab of 42,000 CFA, but only had 40,000 CFA in currency and needed to pay with a credit card. In any ordinary country, the card would be swiped, you would sign and be on your merry way.
At Casino, the cashier will give you a dirty look. She will ask if you have any money. She will ask if you're sure you do not have enough money. She will ask to see your money to prove that you don't have enough money. She will stare at the credit card as if it will cost her a week's pay if she tries to swipe it through the machine. She will reluctantly swipe the card with abject disgust. She will give you the receipt after asking someone else for a pen. After you sign, she will hand you a copy of the receipt. You will not be merry, she will not be merry, but you will be on your way.
The next time I went there, I bought a few items and again paid with credit card. As I was handed my bags, I looked at the receipt and noticed that a 2-pack of 200 gram dark chocolate bars was listed as "chocolate truffles" and I was charged the equivalent of $20. Normally, one 200 gram dark chocolate bar is about $3 and the package said "save 40 euros."
I don't speak French very well, but I could point. I pointed to my chocolate bars and I pointed to my receipt and said, "non truffles; deux chocolat bar." The cashier looked at me and - with a very snotty grin said - "Merci, Bonsoir!" and then she held her hand up - like a policeman stopping traffic - and waved goodbye to me with a slow motion of her four fingers. Apparently, there is a universal wave that translates to, "I'm a B*tch"... with a capital B.
Well, now I'm pissed. I went back into the store to check the price and - wouldn't you know it! - the two-pack of chocolates was displayed in the space normally reserved for truffles. Obviously, someone had loaded the incorrect price into the bar code system because truffles were indeed $20.
I located one of my colleagues, who speaks perfect French, and asked him to translate because I obviously was not going to pay $20 for a two-pack of chocolate bars. He explained what happened and his cashier (completely different from mine) did a price check by running my two-pack through her bar code scanner. It came up $20. She looked at him and said, loosely translated, "Look, the machine says these are truffles." My friend replied and I replied that they were obviously not truffles, but our ace cashier had probably never seen truffles before and could not believe the bar code scanning device could actually be wrong.
I took her back to the aisle to show her the mistake. One shelf had my chocolate bars in single packs. One row beneath held the two-packs. The packages looked identical (save, of course, for the fact that one was a two-pack wrapped in plastic while the other was a single bar). I said, "Une chocolat, $3. Deux chocolat, non $20." She looked at the packages, looked back at me, pointed to shelf and pointed to my package and said, "Look: you buy truffles."
We asked to see the manager. My colleague explained the situation. The manager was wearing a green uniform and apparently needed another manager, who was wearing a red uniform, to complete the transaction. The manager in the red uniform must not have had enough authority because he called in a third manager - who was obviously very important because he was the only one not wearing a uniform. I think he was not wearing a uniform because he did not want anyone to know he was the manager.
Anyway, the third manager agreed that maybe one of Casino's employees had inserted the wrong price into the scanning system. Note I said "maybe" because the manager never went back to change the pricing or give anyone any instructions to change the pricing; he was happy to charge truffle prices for a two-pack of chocolate. But, he said I could return the product for a full refund. We spent approximately 35 minutes to get a refund based on a bar code error.
But, wait! There's more! To get the refund, I had to go back to MY cashier! What a joy it was to see "I'm a B*tch" twice in one day! The manager stood next to her and informed her that she needed to refund my purchase. That meant she had to go into her cash drawer and pull out actual cash money to give back to me! Oh, the look on her face. Why didn't I bring a camera to the grocery store?
That would normally be a pretty good story, but it's not over. While I was getting my refund... remember how the second cashier did a price check on my two-pack? Well... she never deleted that price check so my colleague was ALSO charged $20 for truffles on his bill, even though he never even bought any chocolate!
Once again, a manager was required to delete this phantom purchase. The problem was, my colleague had just handed her 100,000 CFA in currency and she now was required to hand him back change - including the difference for the truffles. This required the second cashier to perform basic subtraction - a task for which she was obviously not prepared for. She and my colleague spent the better part of ten minutes trying to reconcile the difference between his bill; both pre- and post-truffle.
We spent a total of 45 minutes trying to check out of the store. When we returned to the house to unload our groceries, we discovered that neither one of us brought home any chocolate.
(Part Deux - Next Sunday!)
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Tourism: The Great Economic Hope
Senegal is widely accepted as being the arts and music capital of West Africa. The country was recently host to the "annual" Festival Mondial Des Arts Negres. I say "annual" because that is exactly how the festival is billed, even though this is only the 3rd Festival since 1966. A nice, working link is included below:
http://blackworldfestival.com/wp/en/
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. This blog entry is about one man's dream to build an economy in his native country - a country that does not appear to have any major manufacturing facility to employ its citizens; a country that still imports most goods from France 50+ years after Independence and has its currency linked to the Euro; a country with an official unemployment rate of 49%. That man, of course, is the Honorable President Wade (pronounced "wod", as in "spit wad").
So, President Wade, like every great leader before him in every great country, determined the best way to provide for his people - and also ensure his legacy - was to do something for his country. I'm not talking about leaving the country to his son like most 80 year old world leaders who are currently being overthrown (although that would make for another excellent blog entry). And - to his credit - Wade did not build a giant statue of himself. No, Wade went one better.
He commissioned the largest bronze statue in Africa. At about 49 meters high, it slightly outranks the Statue of Liberty (46.5 meters, or about 150 feet) and absolutely dwarfs Christ the Redeemer (a mere 38 meters tall). Just in case you were wondering, the statue was also built on a hill about 100 meters and is located adjacent to the airport. Welcome to Senegal! Build it and they will come...
The statue was commissioned at a cost of $27 million. And, with all the great artisans in Africa - including world reknowned sculptors - the chance to earn $27 million for building this statue would have provided quite a spark to the local economy as well as defining Wade's commitment to investing in Senegal's arts and tourism sectors. So, the builder lucky enough to earn this windfall was (drumroll please....) North Korea.
I can't make this stuff up, but all of the above has been widely documented by others much more qualified than me. Criticisms have been leveled, expectations have been scaled back - such as Wade's expectation that he should personally earn 35% of the revenues from the statue because the "intellectual property," or "idea for the statue," was his - and the statue was built anyway. Now, bring on the tourists!
Oh wait, tourists usually need some reason to visit a particular location. Mount Rushmore aside, most people won't actually burn their hard earned vacation dollars to stare a giant monument. So, enter the annual Black World Arts Festival: 21 days of music, films, lectures, arts and crafts and a giant celebration of Senegal's place as the new tourist capital of West Africa. The event was attended by dozens of heads of state and many famous artists, musicians and actors. By most accounts, it was a success in terms of drawing visitors to the region. That's why I decided to offer up a couple of sidebars to the event.
The first item is that Senegal's electricity is not especially well known for its reliability. This can generally be traced to two factors. The first is that Senegal's electric system is highly dependent on oil and diesel, so the recent increase in fuel prices cannot be immediately passed along to customers and puts additional strain on the power provider's finances. This is also related to the second reason: Senegal's electric utility is absolutely corrupt.
With profits being skimmed and a rise in the price of oil, suppliers were not paid and they reacted swiftly by cutting off access to the fuel required for the power plants. Rolling blackouts are the norm here. What would President Wade do about that? Certainly, he would not allow his country to be embarrassed on the world scene with rolling blackouts during a signature event. The results were amazing! 21 days of power aplenty! After the festival, the country returned to heavy rolling blackouts for about a month...
The other sidebar is about whether or not tourism generates economic benefits for the locals. With all those tourists expected, many college students were hired to work booths, hand out literature, give directions and act as general public ambassadors. The students sometimes worked eight to twelve hour days and were asked to be "on call", meaning it was difficult for them to plan anything for the entire 21 days of the festival. Rumors of Spike Lee and several other top celebrities filled their hopes and I know of one student who met actor and international humanitarian Danny Glover at the event.
What were their wages? Just how much did they earn? It is now February 6 - thirty-seven days after the festival ended and fifty-eight days after they began work - and none of the students have been paid a dime for their efforts. Repeated visits to top officials result in responses of, "You'll need to see Mr. So and So", who in turn refers them to Mr. Such and Such, who refers them to Mr. Upper Muckity Muck who - of course - is "away on business."
http://blackworldfestival.com/wp/en/
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. This blog entry is about one man's dream to build an economy in his native country - a country that does not appear to have any major manufacturing facility to employ its citizens; a country that still imports most goods from France 50+ years after Independence and has its currency linked to the Euro; a country with an official unemployment rate of 49%. That man, of course, is the Honorable President Wade (pronounced "wod", as in "spit wad").
So, President Wade, like every great leader before him in every great country, determined the best way to provide for his people - and also ensure his legacy - was to do something for his country. I'm not talking about leaving the country to his son like most 80 year old world leaders who are currently being overthrown (although that would make for another excellent blog entry). And - to his credit - Wade did not build a giant statue of himself. No, Wade went one better.
He commissioned the largest bronze statue in Africa. At about 49 meters high, it slightly outranks the Statue of Liberty (46.5 meters, or about 150 feet) and absolutely dwarfs Christ the Redeemer (a mere 38 meters tall). Just in case you were wondering, the statue was also built on a hill about 100 meters and is located adjacent to the airport. Welcome to Senegal! Build it and they will come...
The statue was commissioned at a cost of $27 million. And, with all the great artisans in Africa - including world reknowned sculptors - the chance to earn $27 million for building this statue would have provided quite a spark to the local economy as well as defining Wade's commitment to investing in Senegal's arts and tourism sectors. So, the builder lucky enough to earn this windfall was (drumroll please....) North Korea.
I can't make this stuff up, but all of the above has been widely documented by others much more qualified than me. Criticisms have been leveled, expectations have been scaled back - such as Wade's expectation that he should personally earn 35% of the revenues from the statue because the "intellectual property," or "idea for the statue," was his - and the statue was built anyway. Now, bring on the tourists!
Oh wait, tourists usually need some reason to visit a particular location. Mount Rushmore aside, most people won't actually burn their hard earned vacation dollars to stare a giant monument. So, enter the annual Black World Arts Festival: 21 days of music, films, lectures, arts and crafts and a giant celebration of Senegal's place as the new tourist capital of West Africa. The event was attended by dozens of heads of state and many famous artists, musicians and actors. By most accounts, it was a success in terms of drawing visitors to the region. That's why I decided to offer up a couple of sidebars to the event.
The first item is that Senegal's electricity is not especially well known for its reliability. This can generally be traced to two factors. The first is that Senegal's electric system is highly dependent on oil and diesel, so the recent increase in fuel prices cannot be immediately passed along to customers and puts additional strain on the power provider's finances. This is also related to the second reason: Senegal's electric utility is absolutely corrupt.
With profits being skimmed and a rise in the price of oil, suppliers were not paid and they reacted swiftly by cutting off access to the fuel required for the power plants. Rolling blackouts are the norm here. What would President Wade do about that? Certainly, he would not allow his country to be embarrassed on the world scene with rolling blackouts during a signature event. The results were amazing! 21 days of power aplenty! After the festival, the country returned to heavy rolling blackouts for about a month...
The other sidebar is about whether or not tourism generates economic benefits for the locals. With all those tourists expected, many college students were hired to work booths, hand out literature, give directions and act as general public ambassadors. The students sometimes worked eight to twelve hour days and were asked to be "on call", meaning it was difficult for them to plan anything for the entire 21 days of the festival. Rumors of Spike Lee and several other top celebrities filled their hopes and I know of one student who met actor and international humanitarian Danny Glover at the event.
What were their wages? Just how much did they earn? It is now February 6 - thirty-seven days after the festival ended and fifty-eight days after they began work - and none of the students have been paid a dime for their efforts. Repeated visits to top officials result in responses of, "You'll need to see Mr. So and So", who in turn refers them to Mr. Such and Such, who refers them to Mr. Upper Muckity Muck who - of course - is "away on business."
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Mighty Hunter
This is a story about mankind's base instinct. Long before we developed into civilized societies, we were tribes of hunters and gatherers. While gathering may have played an important role, hieroglyphics and cave paintings rarely glorify the rituals of picking blueberries and daisies. No, this is a story about hunting.
Certain people are offended by hunting; their attitude is that some creatures are far superior beings and have a responsibility to help others. They believe hunters today are using technology that is inappropriate to stalk helpless creatures. Some people would even go so far as to say we should arm the prey with weapons to kill their hunters to "make things even." Those people might even enjoy this story...
The great and mighty hunt begins long before dusk most evenings. I close my window to shut out the fresh air and I try to become one with my surroundings. I will need to be focused if I'm going to succeed. I will not have a battle plan, for tonight is as much about base instinct as it is about planning. But, I have found that some advance field work will increase my chances for success.
My room is cell-like: sparsely decorated white walls, a tightly shut armoire, a desk with laptop computer another desk with several books covering its surface. Two chairs, a nightstand, my floor-standing fan and my bed complete the interior decoration.
The bed. A place of rest or a place of action? The bed will likely be the battleground once again this evening. I am, of course, referring to the great evening battle of Man vs. Mosquito.
Let me set the stage: Thursday night. Power was off. The generator was not working. It was just me. And the mosquito. Buzzzzzzzzz. And a flashlight. Tonight, I am the prey. Have you ever tried locating a mosquito using only a flashlight? Buzzzzzzzz. At 4:00 a.m., with four welt marks and a decidedly uncheerful attitude, I decided to leave my residence and go to work. Thursday night, victory went to the mosquito.
Friday night would be different. The power was on. The generator was working. I decided on my plan of attack. I would fasten duct tape around the doors and windows so there would be no escape. I would go to bed before I was tired and wait - playing opossum to draw the mosquito toward me. Buzzzzzzzzz. S-l-o-w-l-y, I get out of bed, turn the light on and locate the mosquito. Armed with the rigid annual report of the Neogen Corporation (who, ironically, manufactures a wide variety of products related to animal health care), I swat the mosquito. I am then reminded of the slogan used by a famous manufacturer of a different kind of product:
RAID: Kills Bugs Dead.
I like that phrase. When it comes to mosquitoes, I don't consider it the least bit redundant. Friday night will be a good night for sleep.
A post script: I don't sleep with a mosquito net because it does not prevent this sound: Buzzzzzzz. Instead, I prefer to kill the bastards and take preventative courses of action (namely, keep my door and window shut at night). Saturday night was an especially vicious battle. Somehow, five mosquitoes found their way into my room during the day, but I was unaware of their number until after I killed them all (three at night using the above "pretend I'm asleep" method and two this morning after I realized I was still being bit). My previously white walls now have several marks on them...
Certain people are offended by hunting; their attitude is that some creatures are far superior beings and have a responsibility to help others. They believe hunters today are using technology that is inappropriate to stalk helpless creatures. Some people would even go so far as to say we should arm the prey with weapons to kill their hunters to "make things even." Those people might even enjoy this story...
The great and mighty hunt begins long before dusk most evenings. I close my window to shut out the fresh air and I try to become one with my surroundings. I will need to be focused if I'm going to succeed. I will not have a battle plan, for tonight is as much about base instinct as it is about planning. But, I have found that some advance field work will increase my chances for success.
My room is cell-like: sparsely decorated white walls, a tightly shut armoire, a desk with laptop computer another desk with several books covering its surface. Two chairs, a nightstand, my floor-standing fan and my bed complete the interior decoration.
The bed. A place of rest or a place of action? The bed will likely be the battleground once again this evening. I am, of course, referring to the great evening battle of Man vs. Mosquito.
Let me set the stage: Thursday night. Power was off. The generator was not working. It was just me. And the mosquito. Buzzzzzzzzz. And a flashlight. Tonight, I am the prey. Have you ever tried locating a mosquito using only a flashlight? Buzzzzzzzz. At 4:00 a.m., with four welt marks and a decidedly uncheerful attitude, I decided to leave my residence and go to work. Thursday night, victory went to the mosquito.
Friday night would be different. The power was on. The generator was working. I decided on my plan of attack. I would fasten duct tape around the doors and windows so there would be no escape. I would go to bed before I was tired and wait - playing opossum to draw the mosquito toward me. Buzzzzzzzzz. S-l-o-w-l-y, I get out of bed, turn the light on and locate the mosquito. Armed with the rigid annual report of the Neogen Corporation (who, ironically, manufactures a wide variety of products related to animal health care), I swat the mosquito. I am then reminded of the slogan used by a famous manufacturer of a different kind of product:
RAID: Kills Bugs Dead.
I like that phrase. When it comes to mosquitoes, I don't consider it the least bit redundant. Friday night will be a good night for sleep.
A post script: I don't sleep with a mosquito net because it does not prevent this sound: Buzzzzzzz. Instead, I prefer to kill the bastards and take preventative courses of action (namely, keep my door and window shut at night). Saturday night was an especially vicious battle. Somehow, five mosquitoes found their way into my room during the day, but I was unaware of their number until after I killed them all (three at night using the above "pretend I'm asleep" method and two this morning after I realized I was still being bit). My previously white walls now have several marks on them...
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Vignettes
These are observations that - taken individually - would never fill up an entire blog entry, but that certainly deserve a space. In many instances, a picture would have been worth a thousand words, but walking around all the time with a camera would make me look like a tourist...
* Freedom is walking to work without a wallet, keys or a cell phone in your pocket.
* The divide between rich and poor was never more apparent than the day I saw a deep blue, new Bentley Continental GT (MSRP: $182,800 or $207,700 nicely equipped) with the most luxurious, buff colored leather interior parked at a bakery directly next to a horse drawn wagon. The horse had a roan exterior.
* I think McDonald's hasn't opened a restaurant here because the Senegalese like their hamburgers cooked so well done that the "Quarter Pounder" would end up looking like the "Quarter Ouncer."
* Buildings here are concrete. I watched workers constructing the third floor of a building wherein 5 guys at ground level rhythmically shoveled sand up to 4 guys on a scaffold, who in turn kept beat and shoveled the same sand up to 3 guys on the 2nd floor, who in turn shoveled the sand toward several other workers who mixed the concrete using a manual machine. I watched in amazement for several minutes, silently counting four seconds between shovels, and the workers never once lost beat although not one of them said a thing.
* African girls have bigger boobs
* Do you remember the last time you saw a child sitting on their parent's lap driving a car? Do you remember how big the smile was on that child's face? It's the parent's responsibility, so screw the National Transportation Safety Bureau. If the parent gets in a wreck and hurts their child... well, here, they'll probably just have two more children. And get off your mighty pedestal: Malaria kills more children in Senegal simply because they don't have access to treatment than any form of parental irresponsibility.
* Where do stray dogs sleep at night?
* I have to cross one busy street to get from my residence to my place of work, but there is no crosswalk. In fact, the rules of the road here are, "Biggest wins." So, I stand on the side of the road and wait to cross the street. But, you'll remember that I look a bit different than the average person in Senegal. So, every taxicab that sees me must think I'm wearing a sign that says, "Early Retirement: White Guy Needs Ride Back to United States and Wants to Take a Taxi To Get There" and stops abruptly in front of me. This, of course, impedes my progress across the street by up to five minutes per day.
* The official unemployment rate in Senegal is 49%
* I frequently run down a sidewalk that is frequently occupied by a very old woman and a very young child. The old woman has lines all across her face that speak to experience, hardship and an ability to survive. The young child is preschool age, dirty and better behaved than my children were at that age. The lady has a parasol to protect her and the child from the sun and they sit on a mat. I wonder who they are, why they picked that place on the sidewalk, how long do they stay there and what they do to pass the time. But, I don't speak Wolof and I'll probably never find out. They have never asked me for money, but on my last week here I'm know where I'm going to leave all my spare change.
* We're directly on the west coast facing the Atlantic but the sunsets in Senegal are nowhere near as attractive as California, Hawaii or even Maine.
* I withdrew 50,000 CFA (about $100) from the ATM machine to attend a charity dinner with a friend. Walking away from the ATM, I realized that I had two week's wages of the average employee and I was going to spend it on one meal for two. A moment later, I realized that if I divided up the $100 amongst three guards, two housekeepers, three groundskeepers, a cook and two maintenance staff... that the charity needed the proceeds even more. One person may be able to help change the world, but not even Bill Gates and Warren Buffet can just hand money to people and make everyone better off. By strategically raising funds for organizations that can help change the infrastructure (teach a man to fish vs. give a man a fish), it might not take as much money as people think.
* Freedom is walking to work without a wallet, keys or a cell phone in your pocket.
* The divide between rich and poor was never more apparent than the day I saw a deep blue, new Bentley Continental GT (MSRP: $182,800 or $207,700 nicely equipped) with the most luxurious, buff colored leather interior parked at a bakery directly next to a horse drawn wagon. The horse had a roan exterior.
* I think McDonald's hasn't opened a restaurant here because the Senegalese like their hamburgers cooked so well done that the "Quarter Pounder" would end up looking like the "Quarter Ouncer."
* Buildings here are concrete. I watched workers constructing the third floor of a building wherein 5 guys at ground level rhythmically shoveled sand up to 4 guys on a scaffold, who in turn kept beat and shoveled the same sand up to 3 guys on the 2nd floor, who in turn shoveled the sand toward several other workers who mixed the concrete using a manual machine. I watched in amazement for several minutes, silently counting four seconds between shovels, and the workers never once lost beat although not one of them said a thing.
* African girls have bigger boobs
* Do you remember the last time you saw a child sitting on their parent's lap driving a car? Do you remember how big the smile was on that child's face? It's the parent's responsibility, so screw the National Transportation Safety Bureau. If the parent gets in a wreck and hurts their child... well, here, they'll probably just have two more children. And get off your mighty pedestal: Malaria kills more children in Senegal simply because they don't have access to treatment than any form of parental irresponsibility.
* Where do stray dogs sleep at night?
* I have to cross one busy street to get from my residence to my place of work, but there is no crosswalk. In fact, the rules of the road here are, "Biggest wins." So, I stand on the side of the road and wait to cross the street. But, you'll remember that I look a bit different than the average person in Senegal. So, every taxicab that sees me must think I'm wearing a sign that says, "Early Retirement: White Guy Needs Ride Back to United States and Wants to Take a Taxi To Get There" and stops abruptly in front of me. This, of course, impedes my progress across the street by up to five minutes per day.
* The official unemployment rate in Senegal is 49%
* I frequently run down a sidewalk that is frequently occupied by a very old woman and a very young child. The old woman has lines all across her face that speak to experience, hardship and an ability to survive. The young child is preschool age, dirty and better behaved than my children were at that age. The lady has a parasol to protect her and the child from the sun and they sit on a mat. I wonder who they are, why they picked that place on the sidewalk, how long do they stay there and what they do to pass the time. But, I don't speak Wolof and I'll probably never find out. They have never asked me for money, but on my last week here I'm know where I'm going to leave all my spare change.
* We're directly on the west coast facing the Atlantic but the sunsets in Senegal are nowhere near as attractive as California, Hawaii or even Maine.
* I withdrew 50,000 CFA (about $100) from the ATM machine to attend a charity dinner with a friend. Walking away from the ATM, I realized that I had two week's wages of the average employee and I was going to spend it on one meal for two. A moment later, I realized that if I divided up the $100 amongst three guards, two housekeepers, three groundskeepers, a cook and two maintenance staff... that the charity needed the proceeds even more. One person may be able to help change the world, but not even Bill Gates and Warren Buffet can just hand money to people and make everyone better off. By strategically raising funds for organizations that can help change the infrastructure (teach a man to fish vs. give a man a fish), it might not take as much money as people think.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Is There a Doctor in the House?
So-called health care experts often point to developing nations and say, "See? Even (insert povery stricken country here) provides (insert random medical treatment here) to its poorest citizens while the United States spends its money on advertising, bloated administrative salaries and Viagra."
The so-called health care experts often ignore the actual, day-to-day medical care systems and whether or not features of these systems might be adopted in the U.S. Dakar is fortunate in some respects. As an urban center, the best care facilities in the country are located here, health insurance is available here and most of the medical professionals in the country live here. But to truly get a flavor of Dakar health care, I thought I might share stories from three different health care incidents.
One of my students complained, "The doctor didn't show up yesterday." After further inquiry, I learned that in Senegal, you dial a number and a fully equipped vehicle and trained professional arrives - AT YOUR HOME OR OFFICE - to treat you.
http://www.sosmedecinsenegal.org/presentation_eng.html
If it is an emergency, they will transport you to a health care facility. I need to do a bit more research on this, but from what I understand the doctors affiliated with this practice are essentially moonlighting! Doctors earn relatively little compared to their U.S. counterparts when paid for their government work, so to earn additional money they need to be entrepreneurial. Entrepreneurial does not mean, "figure out ways to bilk the insurance companies", so score points for Senegal's health care system for its ability to provide government-sponsored care to the poor while allowing its medical experts the ability to earn additional money using market-based techniques.
How is the quality of health care? The next anecdote is from personal experience (and BEFORE I learned about the above SOS home health care visits). I'll save the gory details, but I was severely dehydrated and absolutely could not drink enough fluids to replace what I was losing; I was unable to pinch even a bit of skin on my arm. I rarely use the U.S. health care system, so to ask to see a doctor in Senegal was a big leap of faith for me. I desperately needed an I.V. to get some fluids in my system and was willing to take a chance...
As a member of the upper crust here in Senegal, my driver took me to a very nicely appointed clinic - complete with tropical fish tank - on a Sunday morning. After providing my health insurance card, I was told the total fee was $60 of which I was responsible for 20% with my co-pay. I waited in a nicely appointed patient room and a guy entered about twenty minutes later with a large briefcase filled with medical stuff. He was not "African", unless it was Algeria or some other area where the Whitest Guy in West Africa might even be able to camoflage himself. In fact, he kind of looked Mexican. He never introduced himself and could have been the janitor for all I knew (with apologies due to all Mexican janitors who may have completed medical school).
He listened to me recite my symptoms and my request. I thought about trying to explain myself in French, but with my accent and under-achievements in mastering this tribal language, I was afraid my version of "I do not feel well" might somehow be translated as "I have swallowed an entire goat."
The guy (who might have been a doctor) performed a couple of routine tests on me. By routine, I mean he pressed my stomach with his hands, took my blood pressure, listened to my pulse and used a stethoscope to check my breathing.
Then, he pulled out a notepad and wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, pain medicine and the prescription strength equivalent of Imodium. He never drew any blood, so there was no way he could have known if I had a bacterial or viral disease. When I said again that my reason for coming was because I was severely dehydrated and asked again about getting a fluid IV, he looked at me reassuringly and responded, "You should drink some water." So, there you have it: $60 for expert medical advice to drink some water. My six year old daughter performs a similar routine on me with her doctor kit back home, but doesn't charge me $60.
I left the clinic to get my prescription filled and went back to sprawl out on a couch completely unsatisfied with the health care experience. That's when one of my colleagues/housemates entered. He, too, was not feeling well. The difference is that he went directly to the pharmacy.
He explained his symptoms to the pharmacist and asked for an antibiotic and a pain reliever. The pharmacist asked if he had a prescription. He, in turn, asked the pharmacist for a notepad and wrote down, "Antibiotics and pain reliever" and signed it "Dr. Haider." Now, in all fairness, my colleague has an earned doctoral degree. In mathematics.
The pharmacist looked at the fresh prescription signed by the good doctor and dispensed one box of antibiotics and a pain reliever...
The so-called health care experts often ignore the actual, day-to-day medical care systems and whether or not features of these systems might be adopted in the U.S. Dakar is fortunate in some respects. As an urban center, the best care facilities in the country are located here, health insurance is available here and most of the medical professionals in the country live here. But to truly get a flavor of Dakar health care, I thought I might share stories from three different health care incidents.
One of my students complained, "The doctor didn't show up yesterday." After further inquiry, I learned that in Senegal, you dial a number and a fully equipped vehicle and trained professional arrives - AT YOUR HOME OR OFFICE - to treat you.
http://www.sosmedecinsenegal.org/presentation_eng.html
If it is an emergency, they will transport you to a health care facility. I need to do a bit more research on this, but from what I understand the doctors affiliated with this practice are essentially moonlighting! Doctors earn relatively little compared to their U.S. counterparts when paid for their government work, so to earn additional money they need to be entrepreneurial. Entrepreneurial does not mean, "figure out ways to bilk the insurance companies", so score points for Senegal's health care system for its ability to provide government-sponsored care to the poor while allowing its medical experts the ability to earn additional money using market-based techniques.
How is the quality of health care? The next anecdote is from personal experience (and BEFORE I learned about the above SOS home health care visits). I'll save the gory details, but I was severely dehydrated and absolutely could not drink enough fluids to replace what I was losing; I was unable to pinch even a bit of skin on my arm. I rarely use the U.S. health care system, so to ask to see a doctor in Senegal was a big leap of faith for me. I desperately needed an I.V. to get some fluids in my system and was willing to take a chance...
As a member of the upper crust here in Senegal, my driver took me to a very nicely appointed clinic - complete with tropical fish tank - on a Sunday morning. After providing my health insurance card, I was told the total fee was $60 of which I was responsible for 20% with my co-pay. I waited in a nicely appointed patient room and a guy entered about twenty minutes later with a large briefcase filled with medical stuff. He was not "African", unless it was Algeria or some other area where the Whitest Guy in West Africa might even be able to camoflage himself. In fact, he kind of looked Mexican. He never introduced himself and could have been the janitor for all I knew (with apologies due to all Mexican janitors who may have completed medical school).
He listened to me recite my symptoms and my request. I thought about trying to explain myself in French, but with my accent and under-achievements in mastering this tribal language, I was afraid my version of "I do not feel well" might somehow be translated as "I have swallowed an entire goat."
The guy (who might have been a doctor) performed a couple of routine tests on me. By routine, I mean he pressed my stomach with his hands, took my blood pressure, listened to my pulse and used a stethoscope to check my breathing.
Then, he pulled out a notepad and wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, pain medicine and the prescription strength equivalent of Imodium. He never drew any blood, so there was no way he could have known if I had a bacterial or viral disease. When I said again that my reason for coming was because I was severely dehydrated and asked again about getting a fluid IV, he looked at me reassuringly and responded, "You should drink some water." So, there you have it: $60 for expert medical advice to drink some water. My six year old daughter performs a similar routine on me with her doctor kit back home, but doesn't charge me $60.
I left the clinic to get my prescription filled and went back to sprawl out on a couch completely unsatisfied with the health care experience. That's when one of my colleagues/housemates entered. He, too, was not feeling well. The difference is that he went directly to the pharmacy.
He explained his symptoms to the pharmacist and asked for an antibiotic and a pain reliever. The pharmacist asked if he had a prescription. He, in turn, asked the pharmacist for a notepad and wrote down, "Antibiotics and pain reliever" and signed it "Dr. Haider." Now, in all fairness, my colleague has an earned doctoral degree. In mathematics.
The pharmacist looked at the fresh prescription signed by the good doctor and dispensed one box of antibiotics and a pain reliever...
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