I know, I know - what does a vacation in Spain have to do with Senegal? Read on...
One of the more obnoxious things about Senegal is that airline flights are reasonably priced for arrival in Dakar, but ridiculously expensive to fly out of Dakar. For example, the Gambia - which is a country sort of tucked inside Senegal - is only a 30 minute flight from here. The advertised "promotional" price for a round-trip excursion is about $90. However, with airport departure taxes, the total cost of the trip will exceed $330!
I have also learned that airlines are completely irresponsible when it comes to pricing, because airfares from Dakar never make any sense. TAP Airlines is based out of Lisbon, Portugal. All TAP flights from Dakar to anywhere in Europe go through Lisbon for a connection. If I want to fly TAP to Madrid, it will cost $650 - with a connection in Lisbon. If I want to fly TAP to Lisbon - direct - it will cost $750.
Iberia Airlines is based out of Madrid, Spain. All Iberia flights from Dakar to anywhere in Europe go through Madrid for a connection. If I want to fly Iberia to Lisbon, it will cost $650 - with a connection in Madrid. If I want to fly Iberia to Madrid - direct - it will cost $750. Yes, you read those figures correctly. It is always $100 more to fly direct than it is to take a connection. There is no way two flights can be cheaper to operate than one flight, which is why I have absolutely no sympathy for any bankrupt airline.
Anyway, I decided to book Las Palmas in the Canary Islands (a Spanish territory) for 3 days, followed by 4 days in Madrid. Price, of course, was $750. Gran Canaria, the biggest island, is a beautiful place that is reminiscent of Puerto Rico. Las Palmas has a population of about 400,000 people and the diversity on the island ranges from volcanic cones to sandy beaches.
I came to Dakar to get away from it all. After a while, Dakar can grate on you. The sand-swept streets, the trash strewn all about town, six guys on every corner trying to sell you a pre-paid phone card, taxi drivers honking and stopping asking if you want a ride across the street. In addition, the stress of grading final exams and entering final grades, and then having to listen to students try to "negotiate" their grades as if that's part of the culture, and - well - sometimes a person needs to get away from the place where he "got away from it all."
So... I was relaxing on the beach in Las Palmas. Perfect climate (70's, slight breeze, topless women), perfect day, perfect everything. Afterward, I went to dinner at an open-air, beachside restaurant where a street musician had set up to play jazz guitar and I enjoyed a seafood risotto (that kind of tasted like Spaghetti-O's, but in a good way). It was about 10:00pm and I was just about to leave the restaurant when a man came in with an assortment of toys for sale. These were the kinds of toys that a vendor might be huckstering at any silly carnival: glow sticks, noisemakers, cheap plastic gifts, etc.
The wandering salesman was obviously pushing his favorite: a flashing, barking dog toy. He came around to each table with a big, toothy smile and said something to me in Spanish. I speak very little Spanish, but I thought I recognized the phrase.
Then, I said, "Wait a minute. Where are you from?"
"Senegal!" he replied with a big smile.
And what had he said to me in Spanish that caught my attention?...
"I give you good price."
P.S. If you are not laughing right now, you may want to read this archived classic:
http://chatinafrica.blogspot.com/2010/12/holiday-shopping-at-artisans-market.html
***************
Off to Madrid.
I always like the unexpected on vacation and the unexpected in Madrid came in the form of a giant street parade on a late Sunday afternoon. The Church of San Gines one of the oldest churches in Madrid, named after Saint Genesius of Arles, the patron saint of notaries and secretaries. I'm not sure I ever knew there was a patron saint for notaries and secretaries, but it seems to me that if we are going to honor notaries and secretaries, we might also designate a new patron saint for bloggers. I nominate Saint Suldog...
At first, I thought the parade was on old fashioned funeral march. New Orleans style. There were two dozen people carrying a giant statue upon their shoulders while a band played with drums and brass. People were cheering on the streets and some guy in uniform - my guess is that he was the Grand Poobah - shouted "Viva!" to a screaming crowd of thousands.
The parade went down a long block, but took over 20 minutes to complete. It ended with the giant statue being ceremoniously entered into the courtyard at the Church of San Gines. I'm not religious, but I couldn't help but be drawn in by this spectacle.
I've never really learned to read music, much less write music, much less try to figure out how to write it on the Internet, but there was something overwhelming about a band playing some variant of St. James Infirmary while the church bells roared in a pattern of:
G G#__D#_G# G
There were women crying in the streets, children celebrating, a man who nearly passed out from exhaustion from carrying the statue, and hundreds of on-lookers from the windows above representing many races and nationalities. I decided to enter the church and was treated to a show of glorious artwork from a church built in the 1600's.
As I left the church and passed the courtyard where hundreds upon hundreds of people were now exiting, I noticed a beggar with a coffee cup asking for change. All of these people celebrating the great glories and miracles; all of these people in high spirits - and not one person put a coin in his empty cup. Most wouldn't even look the man in the eye.
I thought, "Wouldn't it be ironic if this beggar was actually Jesus?"...
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Plage des Mamelles
I tend to post my blog Sunday mornings, but it never occurred to me to write about what I actually DO every Sunday. I take Sunday afternoons off and head to my favorite, secluded little beach. One might think this is quite selfish and that I do not want anyone to know about my favorite, secluded little beach for fear that my blog (read by - who? - tens of millions of tourists each day before embarking on their journeys to Dakar???) might destroy the character of this place.
In fact, I don't want the beach to become overrun with tens of millions of tourists. But, after speaking with my favorite bartender, Adame, last Sunday, I realized that he WANTS more people to know about this fine place since this is how he makes his living. Since this is my only outlet for spreading the word, the following is a picturesque tour of my favorite place in Dakar...
Surprisingly, I never knew this beach existed until I located it on a tourist map. This is a classic tourist map where things are identified by little icons with short descriptions, such as an icon with a grocery store cart and a short description of "supermarche". Le Plage des Mamelles had an icon of a little umbrella that the map key described as "site balneaire" (literally: nice tourist spot). There was also an icon describing the place as safe to swim.
The beach is very easy to miss because it is located next to Phare de Mamelles - a lighthouse located on the highest point in Dakar. I love to run up the steep, winding path to the lighthouse to view the entire city. To the north is the Almadies region with its sandy beaches, rocky points and distinctive cape formation that pokes out into the ocean like a bird's beak. To the east is the airport where I can watch planes arriving and departing. To the expansive south is the downtown section, but from here it is also easy to see the Madeleine Islands (a bird sanctuary with no human residents) as well as Goree Island. This is a working lighthouse including a light keeper's family living amidst. There is no fog horn, which I miss from Cape Elizabeth...
But, you can't see the beach from the lighthouse! The lighthouse is situated on a 105 meter high cliff and the beach is located directly adjacent to the cliff. From the beach, the lighthouse stands as a small building atop an imposing tower of rock. The rocks show obvious striations, but there are also natural carvings in the rock that are reminiscent of Mesa Verde cave dwellings. In fact, the entire rock formation and surrounding area looks like Arizona; a desert with cactus plants strewn about at random and dirt trails leading to nowhere.
Now, picture Arizona with an ocean and a tiki bar. How cool would that be? Not as cool as Plage des Mamelles...
The ocean temperatures are actually quite cold! Warmer than Maine waters, of course, but Dakar is on the same latitude as Belize, halfway between the Troic of Cancer and the Equator, so it would seem the waters here might be of a similar temperature. No such luck. Belize is tempered with the Caribbean Sea, whereas Dakar gets slammed with the mighty Atlantic.
"Slammed" is a perfect description for the waves that hit this beach. The waves are normally over six feet high with a perfect surf or boogie board swell. While this might not seem conducive to swimming, the natural formation of the tide line and the beach itself are perfect. In the ocean, just beyond the "wave line," the sand has somehow collected such that you can be standing on your feet with your head above water while watching the waves hit the beach! In other words, there are parts of the ocean less than 6 feet tall beyond where the waves form and hit the beach. Not a sandbar, just a hilly formation under the ocean's waters.
The physical characteristics of Plage de Mamelles are beautiful, but what makes this place truly special are the people. There are rarely more than 50 people at the beach - ever - on Sundays. And, this is the only beach I've seen in Dakar that has a perfect mix of locals, tourists and ex-patriates. I have always seen at least two mixed race couples (white male/black female and black male/white female), pairs of single females, single men in groups, groups of young ex-patriates and families with children (also often of mixed race). There is almost always a group of people playing soccer on the beach - locals and tourists easily mixing into a game.
Some of the credit for this mix is due to the "owners" of the tiki bar: a group of three "Senegalese Rastafarians" who have taken the time to develop tiki huts to provide shade, as well as create a tiki bar serving cold beverages and the local sandwich. The tiki huts are exactly as you might picture: straw thatch roofs set on sturdy poles. What's especially nice, though, are the little artistic touches that are carefully placed about. For example, an old plastic jug with a handle has been transformed into a happy face. The handle serves as a nose, while two buttons have been added for eyes and a smile is drawn on to complete the "face." This would be called "folk art" in developed countries, but here it's just something fun to add to the atmosphere.
Adame is my favorite server. He has a big, toothless smile (only two upper incisors!), yet he is likely not even 35 years old. His English is as good as my French, but we seem to communicate well. One week, I was on vacation and didn't come to the beach. When I returned the next week, he smiled and shouted, "You're home!"
The Rasta-Senegalese have a monopoly here. (As an aside, I don't want to get these guys in any trouble, so I'll just use Rasta-Senegalese as a code-phrase and you can sort of draw your own conclusions...) They could charge whatever they want for drinks and food. If this place was in the Caribbean, you would easily pay $5 for a beer and $10 for a sandwich. Instead, beer is 1,000 CFA (about $2, compared to buying a single bottle at the store for $1) and sandwiches are the same price. I think it's just easier for them to divide up 1,000 CFA bills at the end of the day...
The sandwich is a local specialty: a fried egg served on French bread, with fried onions and french fries stuffed into the sandwich. The sandwich is topped with ketchup and a local spread that is made with mustard, oil and chopped garlic. It's the messiest sandwich you can possibly eat, but there's an ocean a few steps away to wash your hands when you're finished. It is also the perfect dish to accompany an ice cold local beer and both of these are the perfect accompanient to a sunny, 80 degree afternoon.
Tipping is not normal in Senegal, but I always leave something extra for Adame so he can buy cigarettes. And, for Adame's sake, I hope this place becomes the most successful tourist spot in all of Senegal.
Right after I leave...
In fact, I don't want the beach to become overrun with tens of millions of tourists. But, after speaking with my favorite bartender, Adame, last Sunday, I realized that he WANTS more people to know about this fine place since this is how he makes his living. Since this is my only outlet for spreading the word, the following is a picturesque tour of my favorite place in Dakar...
Surprisingly, I never knew this beach existed until I located it on a tourist map. This is a classic tourist map where things are identified by little icons with short descriptions, such as an icon with a grocery store cart and a short description of "supermarche". Le Plage des Mamelles had an icon of a little umbrella that the map key described as "site balneaire" (literally: nice tourist spot). There was also an icon describing the place as safe to swim.
The beach is very easy to miss because it is located next to Phare de Mamelles - a lighthouse located on the highest point in Dakar. I love to run up the steep, winding path to the lighthouse to view the entire city. To the north is the Almadies region with its sandy beaches, rocky points and distinctive cape formation that pokes out into the ocean like a bird's beak. To the east is the airport where I can watch planes arriving and departing. To the expansive south is the downtown section, but from here it is also easy to see the Madeleine Islands (a bird sanctuary with no human residents) as well as Goree Island. This is a working lighthouse including a light keeper's family living amidst. There is no fog horn, which I miss from Cape Elizabeth...
But, you can't see the beach from the lighthouse! The lighthouse is situated on a 105 meter high cliff and the beach is located directly adjacent to the cliff. From the beach, the lighthouse stands as a small building atop an imposing tower of rock. The rocks show obvious striations, but there are also natural carvings in the rock that are reminiscent of Mesa Verde cave dwellings. In fact, the entire rock formation and surrounding area looks like Arizona; a desert with cactus plants strewn about at random and dirt trails leading to nowhere.
Now, picture Arizona with an ocean and a tiki bar. How cool would that be? Not as cool as Plage des Mamelles...
The ocean temperatures are actually quite cold! Warmer than Maine waters, of course, but Dakar is on the same latitude as Belize, halfway between the Troic of Cancer and the Equator, so it would seem the waters here might be of a similar temperature. No such luck. Belize is tempered with the Caribbean Sea, whereas Dakar gets slammed with the mighty Atlantic.
"Slammed" is a perfect description for the waves that hit this beach. The waves are normally over six feet high with a perfect surf or boogie board swell. While this might not seem conducive to swimming, the natural formation of the tide line and the beach itself are perfect. In the ocean, just beyond the "wave line," the sand has somehow collected such that you can be standing on your feet with your head above water while watching the waves hit the beach! In other words, there are parts of the ocean less than 6 feet tall beyond where the waves form and hit the beach. Not a sandbar, just a hilly formation under the ocean's waters.
The physical characteristics of Plage de Mamelles are beautiful, but what makes this place truly special are the people. There are rarely more than 50 people at the beach - ever - on Sundays. And, this is the only beach I've seen in Dakar that has a perfect mix of locals, tourists and ex-patriates. I have always seen at least two mixed race couples (white male/black female and black male/white female), pairs of single females, single men in groups, groups of young ex-patriates and families with children (also often of mixed race). There is almost always a group of people playing soccer on the beach - locals and tourists easily mixing into a game.
Some of the credit for this mix is due to the "owners" of the tiki bar: a group of three "Senegalese Rastafarians" who have taken the time to develop tiki huts to provide shade, as well as create a tiki bar serving cold beverages and the local sandwich. The tiki huts are exactly as you might picture: straw thatch roofs set on sturdy poles. What's especially nice, though, are the little artistic touches that are carefully placed about. For example, an old plastic jug with a handle has been transformed into a happy face. The handle serves as a nose, while two buttons have been added for eyes and a smile is drawn on to complete the "face." This would be called "folk art" in developed countries, but here it's just something fun to add to the atmosphere.
Adame is my favorite server. He has a big, toothless smile (only two upper incisors!), yet he is likely not even 35 years old. His English is as good as my French, but we seem to communicate well. One week, I was on vacation and didn't come to the beach. When I returned the next week, he smiled and shouted, "You're home!"
The Rasta-Senegalese have a monopoly here. (As an aside, I don't want to get these guys in any trouble, so I'll just use Rasta-Senegalese as a code-phrase and you can sort of draw your own conclusions...) They could charge whatever they want for drinks and food. If this place was in the Caribbean, you would easily pay $5 for a beer and $10 for a sandwich. Instead, beer is 1,000 CFA (about $2, compared to buying a single bottle at the store for $1) and sandwiches are the same price. I think it's just easier for them to divide up 1,000 CFA bills at the end of the day...
The sandwich is a local specialty: a fried egg served on French bread, with fried onions and french fries stuffed into the sandwich. The sandwich is topped with ketchup and a local spread that is made with mustard, oil and chopped garlic. It's the messiest sandwich you can possibly eat, but there's an ocean a few steps away to wash your hands when you're finished. It is also the perfect dish to accompany an ice cold local beer and both of these are the perfect accompanient to a sunny, 80 degree afternoon.
Tipping is not normal in Senegal, but I always leave something extra for Adame so he can buy cigarettes. And, for Adame's sake, I hope this place becomes the most successful tourist spot in all of Senegal.
Right after I leave...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
More Vignettes
The trash truck arrives about three times a week. Dakar is one of those areas where you wouldn't dream of leaving your trash outside overnight, much less for a few hours in the day because of scavengers (both human and animal). To be fair, the animals are just searching for food and are rather courteous while the humans will strew the trash all over the place looking for a broken cell phone.
To alert the residents, the trash truck gives its signal when it arrives on the street: multiple blasts on an air horn. We're not talking a pleasant little honk; we're talking a driver laying on the horn for a count of five, followed by several repetitive blasts. I'm not sure if you've ever been awakened by an air horn at 7:00 am, but it would seem to be a bit more user friendly if they just established something called "a schedule" for when they will pick up the trash.
************************************************
From a physical perspective, young Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful women in the world. They dress well, have incredibly expressive eyes and are usually very physically fit. Yet I have rarely seen a middle-aged Senegalese woman who might be considered physically beautiful. It's almost as if they go from age 25 to age 50 immediately after having children and there are no women between at any ages in between.
Some women might find that comment offensive, but I mentioned it to a Senegalese woman who said, "It takes a lot of work to keep up appearances, so once the women get married they just sit around, get fat and have more babies."
************************************************
The Presidential motorcade often drives through Dakar. Military men are stationed every 100 yards on both sides of the street for the entire length of the President's travels. The motorcade is led by two Gendarme motorcyclists who make a first pass through the route in order to clear traffic. Afterward, the motorcyclists circle back and join to other police motorcyles, four S.U.V.'s, two limosines, two vehicles with the President's license plate, an ambulance and a military vehicle - plus the official car of whatever dignatary they are escorting.
The military men stand in place until the President's journey is complete. They are then picked up one-by-one by a second military vehicle. The Presidential vehicles have curtains on the windows, ostensibly so would-be assassins cannot tell which vehicle he is in, but it also has a not too subtle effect on eliminating any piece of reality that the President might actually see. It makes me wonder how Obama, or any other head of state, can have any clue as to how the real people actually live - and what traffic in Washington, D.C. must look like. It also makes me think that the President would probably be safer if he just hopped into a taxi - because no one would have any reason to search for him there.
But, I give all this background information for a classic Senegalese juxtaposition: last week the Presidential motorcade was driving down a road where raw sewage was flowing like a river. All the money spent on pomp and circumstance - yet the President is completely oblivious to the fact that people just want broken pipes fixed promptly. At least the motorcylists leading the way now know about the issue...
*************************************************
A friend logged onto the Internet and learned that one of her friends (age 33) died. Besides the obvious condolences, I asked what anyone in America would have asked: "How did she die?"
My friend shrugged her shoulders and responded: "She got sick."
Imagine living in a country where death is so prevalent that people don't even know the cause of death, much less whether the illness could have been prevented or treated. The deceased was married and left two children. The youngest child is two years old.
*************************************************
It was mid-week and a colleague wanted to introduce me to a nightclub/gambling casino because I casually mentioned that I had not had a chance to try all of the sins this fine Muslim nation had to offer. Being mid-week, the club was fairly empty. However, I clearly heard voices speaking my language - American English and discovered several active duty U.S. military personnel on a 48-hour leave.
People see the news and think they understand what our servicemen are doing. We are peacekeeping in Iraq. We are trying to make villages safer in Afghanistan. We are trying to stop the Libyan army from killing its own citizens. What they don't see are all the smaller missions that are being carried out in some of the most God-awful places in the world.
The deserts of Mali are a training ground for Taliban. The soldiers could not tell me anything of their mission, but I learned they had been in the desert without seeing a bottle of water for four days. They asked if I was safe and one soldier even pulled me aside to ask if I had a weapon or if I needed anything for protection.
There is no better feeling than buying active duty infantry a round of drinks in a foreign land where no one knows anything about who, what or why they are fighting. Our soldiers are the best.
**************************************************
Why do I have more compassion for stray cats than human beings when it comes to creatures begging me on the street? I think it's because the cats show genuine appreciation when I help.
**************************************************
Regular readers to this blog will note that I have been trying to learn French with little to moderate success. Because I don't speak French, people - especially my African co-workers - mistakenly think I don't UNDERSTAND French.
This would be a big mistake. An even bigger mistake would be to talk about me "behind my back" whilst riding in the same vehicle as me... especially if you are an African co-worker who is trying to earn a year-end bonus...
*************************************************
My French tutor (who is actually of Russian descent) was mugged on the Ouest Corniche. The Ouest Corniche is probably comparable to Central Park in New York: beautifult by day, but stay away at night. The mugging occured at 8:00pm. It was three grown men against one woman with a sprained ankle. The criminals made away with a backpack that contained cheese, bread, cans of soup, a book on French verbs and - most important - a French language book written in Russian.
I can guarantee you the thiefs will earn exactly $0 from the sale of the French/Russian book and a book of French verbs. But, to my friend, those are tools for employment. Without them, she has nothing.
There really ought to be a special place in hell for people who steal without having a clue as to the real value their "booty" has to the person who was attacked. I know, I know... "Happy Easter" and "Go to Hell" don't usually appear in the same article, but it seems particularly fitting for this instance.
To alert the residents, the trash truck gives its signal when it arrives on the street: multiple blasts on an air horn. We're not talking a pleasant little honk; we're talking a driver laying on the horn for a count of five, followed by several repetitive blasts. I'm not sure if you've ever been awakened by an air horn at 7:00 am, but it would seem to be a bit more user friendly if they just established something called "a schedule" for when they will pick up the trash.
************************************************
From a physical perspective, young Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful women in the world. They dress well, have incredibly expressive eyes and are usually very physically fit. Yet I have rarely seen a middle-aged Senegalese woman who might be considered physically beautiful. It's almost as if they go from age 25 to age 50 immediately after having children and there are no women between at any ages in between.
Some women might find that comment offensive, but I mentioned it to a Senegalese woman who said, "It takes a lot of work to keep up appearances, so once the women get married they just sit around, get fat and have more babies."
************************************************
The Presidential motorcade often drives through Dakar. Military men are stationed every 100 yards on both sides of the street for the entire length of the President's travels. The motorcade is led by two Gendarme motorcyclists who make a first pass through the route in order to clear traffic. Afterward, the motorcyclists circle back and join to other police motorcyles, four S.U.V.'s, two limosines, two vehicles with the President's license plate, an ambulance and a military vehicle - plus the official car of whatever dignatary they are escorting.
The military men stand in place until the President's journey is complete. They are then picked up one-by-one by a second military vehicle. The Presidential vehicles have curtains on the windows, ostensibly so would-be assassins cannot tell which vehicle he is in, but it also has a not too subtle effect on eliminating any piece of reality that the President might actually see. It makes me wonder how Obama, or any other head of state, can have any clue as to how the real people actually live - and what traffic in Washington, D.C. must look like. It also makes me think that the President would probably be safer if he just hopped into a taxi - because no one would have any reason to search for him there.
But, I give all this background information for a classic Senegalese juxtaposition: last week the Presidential motorcade was driving down a road where raw sewage was flowing like a river. All the money spent on pomp and circumstance - yet the President is completely oblivious to the fact that people just want broken pipes fixed promptly. At least the motorcylists leading the way now know about the issue...
*************************************************
A friend logged onto the Internet and learned that one of her friends (age 33) died. Besides the obvious condolences, I asked what anyone in America would have asked: "How did she die?"
My friend shrugged her shoulders and responded: "She got sick."
Imagine living in a country where death is so prevalent that people don't even know the cause of death, much less whether the illness could have been prevented or treated. The deceased was married and left two children. The youngest child is two years old.
*************************************************
It was mid-week and a colleague wanted to introduce me to a nightclub/gambling casino because I casually mentioned that I had not had a chance to try all of the sins this fine Muslim nation had to offer. Being mid-week, the club was fairly empty. However, I clearly heard voices speaking my language - American English and discovered several active duty U.S. military personnel on a 48-hour leave.
People see the news and think they understand what our servicemen are doing. We are peacekeeping in Iraq. We are trying to make villages safer in Afghanistan. We are trying to stop the Libyan army from killing its own citizens. What they don't see are all the smaller missions that are being carried out in some of the most God-awful places in the world.
The deserts of Mali are a training ground for Taliban. The soldiers could not tell me anything of their mission, but I learned they had been in the desert without seeing a bottle of water for four days. They asked if I was safe and one soldier even pulled me aside to ask if I had a weapon or if I needed anything for protection.
There is no better feeling than buying active duty infantry a round of drinks in a foreign land where no one knows anything about who, what or why they are fighting. Our soldiers are the best.
**************************************************
Why do I have more compassion for stray cats than human beings when it comes to creatures begging me on the street? I think it's because the cats show genuine appreciation when I help.
**************************************************
Regular readers to this blog will note that I have been trying to learn French with little to moderate success. Because I don't speak French, people - especially my African co-workers - mistakenly think I don't UNDERSTAND French.
This would be a big mistake. An even bigger mistake would be to talk about me "behind my back" whilst riding in the same vehicle as me... especially if you are an African co-worker who is trying to earn a year-end bonus...
*************************************************
My French tutor (who is actually of Russian descent) was mugged on the Ouest Corniche. The Ouest Corniche is probably comparable to Central Park in New York: beautifult by day, but stay away at night. The mugging occured at 8:00pm. It was three grown men against one woman with a sprained ankle. The criminals made away with a backpack that contained cheese, bread, cans of soup, a book on French verbs and - most important - a French language book written in Russian.
I can guarantee you the thiefs will earn exactly $0 from the sale of the French/Russian book and a book of French verbs. But, to my friend, those are tools for employment. Without them, she has nothing.
There really ought to be a special place in hell for people who steal without having a clue as to the real value their "booty" has to the person who was attacked. I know, I know... "Happy Easter" and "Go to Hell" don't usually appear in the same article, but it seems particularly fitting for this instance.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Accro-Baobab Adventure
Accro-Baobab Adventure is the name of a real business in Senegal. It is billed as being "fun for all ages: from 4 to 77!"
http://www.accro-baobab.com/
The business is obviously owned by a foreigner because there is a functioning website with prices clearly displayed, a working telephone number answered by a bilingual staff member, read-able directions accompanied by a map as well as numerous photos of people who look like they are enjoying themselves. Don't believe any of the photos: these people have already soiled their pants as part of a "team building exercise" and are trapped on the course. Those grins are the same ones you might see in an insane asylum from people who are laughing hysterically at their situation. As I will explain...
First, let me explain the baobab. The baobab is a giant tree: usually about 60 to 80 feet high with a trunk diameter of 24 inches. Giant. There are "baobab forests" that dot the country-side, but it is definitely possible to see giant baobabs still standing in the city limits of Dakar. The tree is known as the tree of life in Senegal because it provides fruit ("monkey bread"), the leaves may be eaten and the tree can store water. The tree is pulpous, meaning you can't chop it down for wood to build anything (which is probably why there are still so many remaining). Also, in some cultures, people are buried in a hollowed out section of the boabab. Sometimes the trunks can "break open" while the tree is still standing and it is possible to see a random skull or other bones lodged into a portion of the trunk. I might have inserted that last part for "dramatic effect."
My friend and I were chauffeured to this fine location by our driver who never met a bump in the road he didn't like. In fact, our driver takes the phrase "speed bump" quite literally as "go very fast over this bump." We arrived in record time.
I knew roughly where the location was and wisely packed three 1.5 liter bottles of water as well as some cashews and chocolate covered bisquits (think Keebler Fudge grahams, or - if you are a high-classed citizen - think LU chocolate covered busquits, which is pretty much exactly what these are) because there isn't a grocery store around for miles.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by some local men dressed in official "Accro-baobab Adventure" shirts who were happy to strap a harness, clamps, a pulley and some other gear onto us. No safety helmet required. Heck, it wasn't even an option. I love this country.
I had been ziplining in Costa Rica before and had presumed this was going to be a similar adventure. At the ziplining course, the workers did everything for us. They strapped on our gear. They secured our pulleys. They were located at both the beginning and ending platforms of each location to assist with getting on and off the zipline. It honestly couldn't have been easier.
Our first clue that this wasn't Costa Rica is when we were taken to a "practice course" by our guide. He spoke very little English and my friend and I speak very little French. There are many of you who have seen horror movies and there's always a point in the horror movie where you fairly scream at the television, "No! Turn around! Run!" My friend was screaming those exact words while asking for an English speaking guide. I decided I had to be brave for the both of us, so I dutifully went through the practice course without difficulty. My friend was able to find a worker who spoke enough broken English to build the absolute minimum level of confidence required to complete the practice course. Then, it was off to the real thing.
First, we climbed a giant baobab tree using a strategically placed ladder. Our safety equipment was tethered to the ladder and this was fairly easy - although a bit strenuous. After reaching the top of the platform, we were then instructed on how to zip-line across a 60 foot ravine to another baobab. In the back of my mind, I asked myself "How is a 4-year old was supposed to figure out how to stop at the other side with no one there to assist?" but I quickly put that out of my mind as I went hurtling through the air. This was the easy part of the course.
We continued through a maze of activities that could only be described as a vicious prank developed by all the contestants who have ever played (and lost) the television game show "Survivor." There were rope walks, catwalk bridges, more ziplines, more trees to climb on ladders and planks that were much more rickety than the "practice course" ever would have suggested. And it was getting hot outside. About 85 degrees to be exact. Our driver was taking photos of this hilarious excursion while drinking his bottle of water. That's when it really hit me. There was no way to actually get off the course without completing the course! And there wasn't an ounce of water anywhere to be found in these tree-tops without actually hacking one of them open with a machete.
My friend - who is self-admittedly allergic to exercise - was getting a bit tired at one point. Our guide let her rest at one platform and pointed for me to continue along to another section of the course. After we had begun this course, he informed me with a smile that this particular section was the "military course." I discovered why moments later when I was asked to traverse a particular section consisting of two swinging logs followed by two stirrups followed by two rope-swings followed by another swinging log.
I would have paid a monkey $30 to bring a bottle of water up to me. The monkey would have laughed because it wouldn't have been stupid enough to attempt the military course. My friend, who by this time was very well rested, laughed heartily when I finally returned to her platform after performing 5 other tasks.
We finally zip-lined down to the finish area where we were once again photographed. After landing, we were led to a "break" area where we were served approximately two ounces of hot tea. I asked my driver to bring a bottle of our water, but forgot that the water had been sitting inside of a locked vehicle for two hours and was now hotter than the tea!
It was about this time that my friend and I noticed some small children. It was also at this time we discovered there was a children's course. The children were strapped into their safety gear and happily zipping across "their" course. The children's course consisted of 10 foot trees and wide platforms occupied by helpful staff to assist their entry and exit onto the course. They also had a big trampoline to play on. They were laughing and smiling. I was unable to lift my arms over my head for 4 days.
I have to end this with a quick post script. As we were about to leave, a group of Chinese tourists were embarking on the course. One of the tourists was, ahem, a bit timid to zip-line across the first section and was trying to wrap her arms around the trunk of the baobab for protection. After a dozen or so false starts, she finally made it across.
My friend and I couldn't help but take pictures, laugh and smile as we left for the day. We drank our hot water and the chocolate had completely melted on our bisquit-cookies. We both agreed they were the best cookies we had ever tasted.
http://www.accro-baobab.com/
The business is obviously owned by a foreigner because there is a functioning website with prices clearly displayed, a working telephone number answered by a bilingual staff member, read-able directions accompanied by a map as well as numerous photos of people who look like they are enjoying themselves. Don't believe any of the photos: these people have already soiled their pants as part of a "team building exercise" and are trapped on the course. Those grins are the same ones you might see in an insane asylum from people who are laughing hysterically at their situation. As I will explain...
First, let me explain the baobab. The baobab is a giant tree: usually about 60 to 80 feet high with a trunk diameter of 24 inches. Giant. There are "baobab forests" that dot the country-side, but it is definitely possible to see giant baobabs still standing in the city limits of Dakar. The tree is known as the tree of life in Senegal because it provides fruit ("monkey bread"), the leaves may be eaten and the tree can store water. The tree is pulpous, meaning you can't chop it down for wood to build anything (which is probably why there are still so many remaining). Also, in some cultures, people are buried in a hollowed out section of the boabab. Sometimes the trunks can "break open" while the tree is still standing and it is possible to see a random skull or other bones lodged into a portion of the trunk. I might have inserted that last part for "dramatic effect."
My friend and I were chauffeured to this fine location by our driver who never met a bump in the road he didn't like. In fact, our driver takes the phrase "speed bump" quite literally as "go very fast over this bump." We arrived in record time.
I knew roughly where the location was and wisely packed three 1.5 liter bottles of water as well as some cashews and chocolate covered bisquits (think Keebler Fudge grahams, or - if you are a high-classed citizen - think LU chocolate covered busquits, which is pretty much exactly what these are) because there isn't a grocery store around for miles.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by some local men dressed in official "Accro-baobab Adventure" shirts who were happy to strap a harness, clamps, a pulley and some other gear onto us. No safety helmet required. Heck, it wasn't even an option. I love this country.
I had been ziplining in Costa Rica before and had presumed this was going to be a similar adventure. At the ziplining course, the workers did everything for us. They strapped on our gear. They secured our pulleys. They were located at both the beginning and ending platforms of each location to assist with getting on and off the zipline. It honestly couldn't have been easier.
Our first clue that this wasn't Costa Rica is when we were taken to a "practice course" by our guide. He spoke very little English and my friend and I speak very little French. There are many of you who have seen horror movies and there's always a point in the horror movie where you fairly scream at the television, "No! Turn around! Run!" My friend was screaming those exact words while asking for an English speaking guide. I decided I had to be brave for the both of us, so I dutifully went through the practice course without difficulty. My friend was able to find a worker who spoke enough broken English to build the absolute minimum level of confidence required to complete the practice course. Then, it was off to the real thing.
First, we climbed a giant baobab tree using a strategically placed ladder. Our safety equipment was tethered to the ladder and this was fairly easy - although a bit strenuous. After reaching the top of the platform, we were then instructed on how to zip-line across a 60 foot ravine to another baobab. In the back of my mind, I asked myself "How is a 4-year old was supposed to figure out how to stop at the other side with no one there to assist?" but I quickly put that out of my mind as I went hurtling through the air. This was the easy part of the course.
We continued through a maze of activities that could only be described as a vicious prank developed by all the contestants who have ever played (and lost) the television game show "Survivor." There were rope walks, catwalk bridges, more ziplines, more trees to climb on ladders and planks that were much more rickety than the "practice course" ever would have suggested. And it was getting hot outside. About 85 degrees to be exact. Our driver was taking photos of this hilarious excursion while drinking his bottle of water. That's when it really hit me. There was no way to actually get off the course without completing the course! And there wasn't an ounce of water anywhere to be found in these tree-tops without actually hacking one of them open with a machete.
My friend - who is self-admittedly allergic to exercise - was getting a bit tired at one point. Our guide let her rest at one platform and pointed for me to continue along to another section of the course. After we had begun this course, he informed me with a smile that this particular section was the "military course." I discovered why moments later when I was asked to traverse a particular section consisting of two swinging logs followed by two stirrups followed by two rope-swings followed by another swinging log.
I would have paid a monkey $30 to bring a bottle of water up to me. The monkey would have laughed because it wouldn't have been stupid enough to attempt the military course. My friend, who by this time was very well rested, laughed heartily when I finally returned to her platform after performing 5 other tasks.
We finally zip-lined down to the finish area where we were once again photographed. After landing, we were led to a "break" area where we were served approximately two ounces of hot tea. I asked my driver to bring a bottle of our water, but forgot that the water had been sitting inside of a locked vehicle for two hours and was now hotter than the tea!
It was about this time that my friend and I noticed some small children. It was also at this time we discovered there was a children's course. The children were strapped into their safety gear and happily zipping across "their" course. The children's course consisted of 10 foot trees and wide platforms occupied by helpful staff to assist their entry and exit onto the course. They also had a big trampoline to play on. They were laughing and smiling. I was unable to lift my arms over my head for 4 days.
I have to end this with a quick post script. As we were about to leave, a group of Chinese tourists were embarking on the course. One of the tourists was, ahem, a bit timid to zip-line across the first section and was trying to wrap her arms around the trunk of the baobab for protection. After a dozen or so false starts, she finally made it across.
My friend and I couldn't help but take pictures, laugh and smile as we left for the day. We drank our hot water and the chocolate had completely melted on our bisquit-cookies. We both agreed they were the best cookies we had ever tasted.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Meeting with the Ayatollah
I met with the real, live Ayatollah! Not THAT Ayatollah, but a local guy here that is considered the holiest of the holy for the minority sect. His name is Ayatoullah Al-Sheigh Abdul Mone'm Al-Zien. I was too afraid to ask if I could just call him Al...
He is able to travel freely through every country in West Africa on a diplomatic visa and is revered as a king by his followers. The Ayatollah is of Lebanese decent, so I obviously visited with my Lebanese friend to ensure proper translation. Okay, I was traveling with my boss, the former Minister of Education, to give the news that our campus was closing and I was essentially just tagging along so I could say I met an Ayatollah, but humor me for a moment with my self-importance. On another note, my Lebanese friend is also responsible for the spelling of the Ayatollah's name, although I'm pretty sure it's not correct because every Google search turned up empty.
There is a strong Lebanese contingent in Dakar - about 25,000 - and, like many places, they run the bodegas, grocery stores, money changing shops and other small businesses that the locals never seem to figure out how to do for themselves. And, like many places, they are largely reviled in the city.
We were welcomed into the meeting room which might be described as "Muslim retro-chic" if that was the motif someone was trying to achieve. It might also be described as "hasn't been updated in 30 years" since the wall-to-wall carpeting, faux leather furniture and gargantuan coffee table were obvious relics. The bookshelves were packed with what might have been the Arabic Encyclopedia Britanica, but I'll never know for sure. For all I know, the books may have consisted of 35 years of back issues of "Good Housekeeping" magazine set in fancy bindings. Although I'm pretty sure it wasn't the latter, because we were served cheap tea and very cheap store-bought cookies upon the arrival of "The King." There's a reason some people have a lot of money: they don't spend it.
The Ayatollah is a Shiite in a town where the Sunnis outnumber them by the millions. I was told beforehand that this man was very open-minded and is considered by many to be "a thinking man." After meeting him, I draw the conclusion these personality traits are probably as much a function of being a minority pragmatist for more than 20+ years instead of being truly open-minded.
The Ayatollah lamented the politicians' requests for Lebanese support in the upcoming elections. "They come to us many months before an election asking for money and for our votes; then we don't see them or hear from them for 5 years." In other words, not much different than the U.S... He made some suggestions (including one that I hear more and more often - that my boss should run for president) including the keen observation that he cannot support 15 different opposition candidates such that the opposition might be smart by consolidating to one candidate that he might be able to support.
He spoke of how the current administration has done little in terms of public works for its citizens. He noted the Lebanese Shiites have built a hospital that has served more people - free of charge - than the government-run hospital. The Ayatollah is considered "a friend of math and science" and he told of the new school being constructed in downtown Dakar and offers to build other schools in the rural areas. He even explained how his organization made a generous offer to build a new power plant to assist with the regular electricity shortages. Of course, there was a small catch: "We only asked that we be allowed to take the regular profits from this power plant." In other words, proposal was dead on arrival because the current power structure is much more concerned with having a monopoly on taking profits from state-run enterprises than in providing more electricity.
We left after an hour's time and with a list of complaints that we were asked to take to "people who can do something about them." It seems this is one case where controlling a big pile of money can't buy happiness.
There is a very relevant side note to my visit. The mess in Cote D'Ivoire has had a dramatic impact on the Lebanese community in that country. They made the silly mistake of siding with the now deposed leader, Laurent Gbagbo. The Lebanese are now being persecuted by the new, democratically elected leader; their stores are being looted, their homes are being burned and their bank accounts are being frozen. Funny how we never hear about these stories on the evening news. Many of the Cote D'Ivoire Lebanese are fleeing for the relative safety of Dakar.
It is a reminder that supporting one political agenda in Africa is enough to get you killed if it's the wrong agenda.
He is able to travel freely through every country in West Africa on a diplomatic visa and is revered as a king by his followers. The Ayatollah is of Lebanese decent, so I obviously visited with my Lebanese friend to ensure proper translation. Okay, I was traveling with my boss, the former Minister of Education, to give the news that our campus was closing and I was essentially just tagging along so I could say I met an Ayatollah, but humor me for a moment with my self-importance. On another note, my Lebanese friend is also responsible for the spelling of the Ayatollah's name, although I'm pretty sure it's not correct because every Google search turned up empty.
There is a strong Lebanese contingent in Dakar - about 25,000 - and, like many places, they run the bodegas, grocery stores, money changing shops and other small businesses that the locals never seem to figure out how to do for themselves. And, like many places, they are largely reviled in the city.
We were welcomed into the meeting room which might be described as "Muslim retro-chic" if that was the motif someone was trying to achieve. It might also be described as "hasn't been updated in 30 years" since the wall-to-wall carpeting, faux leather furniture and gargantuan coffee table were obvious relics. The bookshelves were packed with what might have been the Arabic Encyclopedia Britanica, but I'll never know for sure. For all I know, the books may have consisted of 35 years of back issues of "Good Housekeeping" magazine set in fancy bindings. Although I'm pretty sure it wasn't the latter, because we were served cheap tea and very cheap store-bought cookies upon the arrival of "The King." There's a reason some people have a lot of money: they don't spend it.
The Ayatollah is a Shiite in a town where the Sunnis outnumber them by the millions. I was told beforehand that this man was very open-minded and is considered by many to be "a thinking man." After meeting him, I draw the conclusion these personality traits are probably as much a function of being a minority pragmatist for more than 20+ years instead of being truly open-minded.
The Ayatollah lamented the politicians' requests for Lebanese support in the upcoming elections. "They come to us many months before an election asking for money and for our votes; then we don't see them or hear from them for 5 years." In other words, not much different than the U.S... He made some suggestions (including one that I hear more and more often - that my boss should run for president) including the keen observation that he cannot support 15 different opposition candidates such that the opposition might be smart by consolidating to one candidate that he might be able to support.
He spoke of how the current administration has done little in terms of public works for its citizens. He noted the Lebanese Shiites have built a hospital that has served more people - free of charge - than the government-run hospital. The Ayatollah is considered "a friend of math and science" and he told of the new school being constructed in downtown Dakar and offers to build other schools in the rural areas. He even explained how his organization made a generous offer to build a new power plant to assist with the regular electricity shortages. Of course, there was a small catch: "We only asked that we be allowed to take the regular profits from this power plant." In other words, proposal was dead on arrival because the current power structure is much more concerned with having a monopoly on taking profits from state-run enterprises than in providing more electricity.
We left after an hour's time and with a list of complaints that we were asked to take to "people who can do something about them." It seems this is one case where controlling a big pile of money can't buy happiness.
There is a very relevant side note to my visit. The mess in Cote D'Ivoire has had a dramatic impact on the Lebanese community in that country. They made the silly mistake of siding with the now deposed leader, Laurent Gbagbo. The Lebanese are now being persecuted by the new, democratically elected leader; their stores are being looted, their homes are being burned and their bank accounts are being frozen. Funny how we never hear about these stories on the evening news. Many of the Cote D'Ivoire Lebanese are fleeing for the relative safety of Dakar.
It is a reminder that supporting one political agenda in Africa is enough to get you killed if it's the wrong agenda.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Traditional Music Concert
For me, one of the biggest draws to come to West Africa was the music. I love all types of music (okay, opera is awful and I've never been a big fan of country OR western), but I devour world music with the same appetite as a pile of ribs with slathering sauce... I must have listened to every African CD released by Putumayo Music http://www.putumayo.com/en/index.php and was ready to absorb sounds upon arrival.
If you read any guidebooks for Senegal, they will explain the rich culture and how music is a part of everything in West African culture. I expected to get off the plane and be greeted by a welcoming committee of local musicians. I expected my students to sing and play instruments while studying for a test. I expected drum circles on every corner and singing at the grocery store. Instead, the only local music I ever hear is what we Americans would refer to as "urban." That's right: most of the Senegalese men listen to rap and gangsta while the women listen to "pop/soul" and the equivalent of the Top 40.
In fact, the worst American export ever can be readily found here. I'm not talking about Michael Jackson, I'm talking about the fashion style wherein young black men wear their pants halfway down their butt. One of my students (who is a bit overweight and incredibly NOT hip) tried out this fashion with disastrous results. Apparently no one told him that if you want to try that style, you're not supposed to wear "tighty whiteys" underneath...
So when I learned of a traditional music concert featuring artists from the Casamance region, I jumped at the chance to see some real, live African music. But first, I had to get there... Every taxi driver in Dakar will nod yes when you tell them where you want to go. I could say, "Worcester, Massachusetts" and the driver would nod in agreement and give me a price. Only after they drive into downtown will they stop to ask directions.
To make matters worse, the concert was venue was listed as the Theatre de Verdure. Everyone (except me, and - of course - the taxi driver) knew this place better as "The French Institute." We stopped at least 5 times to ask for directions. Then, before the driver actually arrived at the location, he stopped to and ask for more money because he didn't realize it was located so far away. This ensued in the usual argument of epic proportions (he in Wolof, me in English) and resulted with me exiting the taxi to find my way from who-knows-where.
I arrived 20 minutes late, but that was okay because everything in Dakar is one "African time." My friends will tell you I am 20 minutes late for everything in America, but I seem to be the only person who shows up for any event in Dakar expecting it to start promptly. The lights were down as I found a seat and the band kicked into high gear.
The concert itself was fantastic. The band was called Keloumake and the musicians played traditional instruments such as the kora (a stringed instrument made from a gourd that is played much like an Irish harp), an akontig (a lute-like instrument with a bamboo neck called a "bangoe" that - not surprisingly - produces a banjo-like sound), the bougarabou (drums), a bolong-guineen (another gourd-like drum instrument), a bass player, a guitar player and an attractive female singer/dancer. After reading all that, wouldn't it be easier if I just inserted a link? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbhW8XHarnU&feature=related
You'll notice the akontig player is dressed in traditional garb of bare feet and a giant tie-dye diaper. He smiled all throughout the performance. He may have even toured with the Grateful Dead in the 70's...
Which brings me to the unexpected irony of this blog entry: the audience. During the first song, the lights were panned onto the audience and I realized the place was filled with what looked to be rejects from a PBS beg-a-thon. Of approximately 150 attendees, at least 80% of the audience was comprised of white, middle-aged people (me included). Two women who would have easily qualified in the category of "earthy, crunchy" began dancing in front of the stage during the first song. I'm not sure what tribe they belong to, but if their dance was indicative of their mating ritual I am pretty sure I understand why neither one of them wore a wedding ring.
That's when I realized I would have to change my ways. I might be getting older, but I can't believe I have devolved so much that I am now willing to spend money to hang out with the "Kum-Bay-Ah" crowd.
I think I'll go listen to some gangsta rap to make myself feel younger. I might even pull my pants halfway down my @$$... but, don't ask what I'm wearing underneath!
If you read any guidebooks for Senegal, they will explain the rich culture and how music is a part of everything in West African culture. I expected to get off the plane and be greeted by a welcoming committee of local musicians. I expected my students to sing and play instruments while studying for a test. I expected drum circles on every corner and singing at the grocery store. Instead, the only local music I ever hear is what we Americans would refer to as "urban." That's right: most of the Senegalese men listen to rap and gangsta while the women listen to "pop/soul" and the equivalent of the Top 40.
In fact, the worst American export ever can be readily found here. I'm not talking about Michael Jackson, I'm talking about the fashion style wherein young black men wear their pants halfway down their butt. One of my students (who is a bit overweight and incredibly NOT hip) tried out this fashion with disastrous results. Apparently no one told him that if you want to try that style, you're not supposed to wear "tighty whiteys" underneath...
So when I learned of a traditional music concert featuring artists from the Casamance region, I jumped at the chance to see some real, live African music. But first, I had to get there... Every taxi driver in Dakar will nod yes when you tell them where you want to go. I could say, "Worcester, Massachusetts" and the driver would nod in agreement and give me a price. Only after they drive into downtown will they stop to ask directions.
To make matters worse, the concert was venue was listed as the Theatre de Verdure. Everyone (except me, and - of course - the taxi driver) knew this place better as "The French Institute." We stopped at least 5 times to ask for directions. Then, before the driver actually arrived at the location, he stopped to and ask for more money because he didn't realize it was located so far away. This ensued in the usual argument of epic proportions (he in Wolof, me in English) and resulted with me exiting the taxi to find my way from who-knows-where.
I arrived 20 minutes late, but that was okay because everything in Dakar is one "African time." My friends will tell you I am 20 minutes late for everything in America, but I seem to be the only person who shows up for any event in Dakar expecting it to start promptly. The lights were down as I found a seat and the band kicked into high gear.
The concert itself was fantastic. The band was called Keloumake and the musicians played traditional instruments such as the kora (a stringed instrument made from a gourd that is played much like an Irish harp), an akontig (a lute-like instrument with a bamboo neck called a "bangoe" that - not surprisingly - produces a banjo-like sound), the bougarabou (drums), a bolong-guineen (another gourd-like drum instrument), a bass player, a guitar player and an attractive female singer/dancer. After reading all that, wouldn't it be easier if I just inserted a link? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbhW8XHarnU&feature=related
You'll notice the akontig player is dressed in traditional garb of bare feet and a giant tie-dye diaper. He smiled all throughout the performance. He may have even toured with the Grateful Dead in the 70's...
Which brings me to the unexpected irony of this blog entry: the audience. During the first song, the lights were panned onto the audience and I realized the place was filled with what looked to be rejects from a PBS beg-a-thon. Of approximately 150 attendees, at least 80% of the audience was comprised of white, middle-aged people (me included). Two women who would have easily qualified in the category of "earthy, crunchy" began dancing in front of the stage during the first song. I'm not sure what tribe they belong to, but if their dance was indicative of their mating ritual I am pretty sure I understand why neither one of them wore a wedding ring.
That's when I realized I would have to change my ways. I might be getting older, but I can't believe I have devolved so much that I am now willing to spend money to hang out with the "Kum-Bay-Ah" crowd.
I think I'll go listen to some gangsta rap to make myself feel younger. I might even pull my pants halfway down my @$$... but, don't ask what I'm wearing underneath!
Sunday, March 27, 2011
In the Rough
Many businessmen or women who travel frequently are concerned with a single item: can they sneak in a round of golf? This week, I finally played a resort golf course at Le Meridien Hotel. To be fair, Dakar hasn't seen rain in four months so I was expecting the course to be in terrible shape. That didn't matter; I was looking for was "The Experience." And a new blog entry. But, what an experience it was!
I arrived with a student who had never played golf, but has shown a keen interest by wearing argyle sweaters and knickers to school. This particular student is also fairly well off financially so I wasn't worried about him spending all of his allowance in one place. Golf can be a ridiculously expensive little hobby...
Prior to our arrival, I thought ahead and said, "We should go to the sporting goods store less than one mile away and buy golf balls and tees." The sporting goods store less than one mile away did not sell any golf accoutrements. This should be your first indication as to golf's popularity rating amongst the locals, but at least I felt better about paying "pro shop" prices knowing I had made some effort at advance planning.
Upon arrival, I learned that greens fees were 15,000 CFA (about $30) and renting a set of golf clubs was 10,000 CFA (about $20). These fares were inclusive for the entire day, so I could play 9 holes or 27 holes for the same price. This is comparable to prices at very mediocre U.S. 9-hole golf courses, so I paid with nary a second thought. The course superintendent asked if I needed balls and tees. I learned that 10 balls would cost 3,000 CFA (about $6, not too awful) and then I began to wonder about the balls. There's no such thing as a 10-pack of new balls and - indeed - I was not surprised to receive a black plastic bag with 10 used balls. "Gently used" would be a vast understatement: these balls couldn't have made it more than 20 yards on the driving range. I even think the word "Range" was removed with paint thinner to give the balls an extra sheen.
Then, I was presented with a nice bag of new golf tees. For $6. Yes, $6 for 40 pieces of carved wood. To put that in perspective, I can buy a hand-carved set of "see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil" monkeys for $6 in Africa. I could probably hit the monkeys farther than the golf balls, but the point here is not to complain about price (like all golfers do); I was here for the experience of West African golf. And a new blog entry.
Then came the big surprise: for some reason, we happened to mention the student had never played golf before. The course superintendent shook his head and apologized profusely, but said the student could not go out on the course by himself if he was a true "golf virgin." The student would have to hire the club professional and pay for a lesson. In fact, he could hire the club professional and take the lesson directly on the course so that we could enjoy the day together, but he could not go out without hiring the club pro.
I shuddered to think what this was going to cost. Then, the superintendent said the club pro would cost 10,000 CFA, but that would include the lessons, clubs and one hour on the course. I scratched my head for a moment. Didn't I just pay 25,000 CFA without golf lessons to hack my way through the very same course? Such is pricing in West Africa.
We were greeted by the club professional and I was pleased to see my greens fees also included my very own personal caddy. I have never had a personal caddy before and looked forward to having such a knowledgable advocate on my side.
The club pro was as knowledgable as your average high school golf team dropout. No matter what happened, he would go into some theatrics as if to mime, "You lifted your head." My student could have run up to the ball like Happy Gilmore attempting to whack Bob Barker, but he still would have received the same advice of "You lifted your head." Then again, he was playing golf for 60% less than I was so he couldn't complain about the lack of precision from his newfound mentor.
But my caddy was a different story. This was a man who knew the inner workings of the course. Its design, its nuances, its intricacies. And it didn't matter how far away I was from the hole, he would look at the bag and say, "6 Iron?" I finally figured out the 6 iron was the only club that wasn't warped, bent or ripped to shreds and I played most of the day with the trusty 6 iron. My set of rental clubs also came conveniently loaded with a left handed putter. I'm right handed, but you'll see in a moment that really doesn't matter...
I'm the worst golfer in the world and THAT is the best part about playing golf in Dakar. No one can possibly get angry about their score because the greens aren't much more than sand with grass sprouts. After four holes, I was laughing so much at the greens that I felt I couldn't do much worse than putting left-handed. I asked my caddy for the club and proceeded to sink a 20-footer from the fringe.
The beauty of golf in Dakar is that it's a microcosm for the rest of Dakar. Hakuna Matada; no worries. We didn't even have a scorecard. The club pro was insistent that I take a mulligan after every bad shot. "Favorable lie" was the rule, not the exception. Oh - and the course markers are listed in meters, not yards - which I discovered halfway through the course when I couldn't seem to reach the green with my trusty 6 iron...
To top it off, this is an oceanfront course with views reminscent of playing golf in Hawaii. There was even a cliffside hole where I had to hit over an ocean cove to get to the green. I missed, but my ball hit a rock and bounced what appeared to be about 100 feet in the air - nearly landing back on the fairway.
So, if you're coming to play golf in Dakar do yourself a favor and leave the Visa card at home because I don't think they accept it here. Bring a sleeve of balls, your own bag of tees and forget about your handicap. It's going to be a great day.
I arrived with a student who had never played golf, but has shown a keen interest by wearing argyle sweaters and knickers to school. This particular student is also fairly well off financially so I wasn't worried about him spending all of his allowance in one place. Golf can be a ridiculously expensive little hobby...
Prior to our arrival, I thought ahead and said, "We should go to the sporting goods store less than one mile away and buy golf balls and tees." The sporting goods store less than one mile away did not sell any golf accoutrements. This should be your first indication as to golf's popularity rating amongst the locals, but at least I felt better about paying "pro shop" prices knowing I had made some effort at advance planning.
Upon arrival, I learned that greens fees were 15,000 CFA (about $30) and renting a set of golf clubs was 10,000 CFA (about $20). These fares were inclusive for the entire day, so I could play 9 holes or 27 holes for the same price. This is comparable to prices at very mediocre U.S. 9-hole golf courses, so I paid with nary a second thought. The course superintendent asked if I needed balls and tees. I learned that 10 balls would cost 3,000 CFA (about $6, not too awful) and then I began to wonder about the balls. There's no such thing as a 10-pack of new balls and - indeed - I was not surprised to receive a black plastic bag with 10 used balls. "Gently used" would be a vast understatement: these balls couldn't have made it more than 20 yards on the driving range. I even think the word "Range" was removed with paint thinner to give the balls an extra sheen.
Then, I was presented with a nice bag of new golf tees. For $6. Yes, $6 for 40 pieces of carved wood. To put that in perspective, I can buy a hand-carved set of "see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil" monkeys for $6 in Africa. I could probably hit the monkeys farther than the golf balls, but the point here is not to complain about price (like all golfers do); I was here for the experience of West African golf. And a new blog entry.
Then came the big surprise: for some reason, we happened to mention the student had never played golf before. The course superintendent shook his head and apologized profusely, but said the student could not go out on the course by himself if he was a true "golf virgin." The student would have to hire the club professional and pay for a lesson. In fact, he could hire the club professional and take the lesson directly on the course so that we could enjoy the day together, but he could not go out without hiring the club pro.
I shuddered to think what this was going to cost. Then, the superintendent said the club pro would cost 10,000 CFA, but that would include the lessons, clubs and one hour on the course. I scratched my head for a moment. Didn't I just pay 25,000 CFA without golf lessons to hack my way through the very same course? Such is pricing in West Africa.
We were greeted by the club professional and I was pleased to see my greens fees also included my very own personal caddy. I have never had a personal caddy before and looked forward to having such a knowledgable advocate on my side.
The club pro was as knowledgable as your average high school golf team dropout. No matter what happened, he would go into some theatrics as if to mime, "You lifted your head." My student could have run up to the ball like Happy Gilmore attempting to whack Bob Barker, but he still would have received the same advice of "You lifted your head." Then again, he was playing golf for 60% less than I was so he couldn't complain about the lack of precision from his newfound mentor.
But my caddy was a different story. This was a man who knew the inner workings of the course. Its design, its nuances, its intricacies. And it didn't matter how far away I was from the hole, he would look at the bag and say, "6 Iron?" I finally figured out the 6 iron was the only club that wasn't warped, bent or ripped to shreds and I played most of the day with the trusty 6 iron. My set of rental clubs also came conveniently loaded with a left handed putter. I'm right handed, but you'll see in a moment that really doesn't matter...
I'm the worst golfer in the world and THAT is the best part about playing golf in Dakar. No one can possibly get angry about their score because the greens aren't much more than sand with grass sprouts. After four holes, I was laughing so much at the greens that I felt I couldn't do much worse than putting left-handed. I asked my caddy for the club and proceeded to sink a 20-footer from the fringe.
The beauty of golf in Dakar is that it's a microcosm for the rest of Dakar. Hakuna Matada; no worries. We didn't even have a scorecard. The club pro was insistent that I take a mulligan after every bad shot. "Favorable lie" was the rule, not the exception. Oh - and the course markers are listed in meters, not yards - which I discovered halfway through the course when I couldn't seem to reach the green with my trusty 6 iron...
To top it off, this is an oceanfront course with views reminscent of playing golf in Hawaii. There was even a cliffside hole where I had to hit over an ocean cove to get to the green. I missed, but my ball hit a rock and bounced what appeared to be about 100 feet in the air - nearly landing back on the fairway.
So, if you're coming to play golf in Dakar do yourself a favor and leave the Visa card at home because I don't think they accept it here. Bring a sleeve of balls, your own bag of tees and forget about your handicap. It's going to be a great day.
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