Take me out

I love Dakar. Did you expect any less?

If you don't know what WAIST is, you're probably not in Peace Corps. And if you don't win it, you're from somewhere besides Mauritania (Yay! We won! It must be all the sand and ruthless heat that make of our intrepid softballers unstoppable machines).

Anyway, WAIST stands for West African Invitational Softball Tournament, and the rest is whatever you make of it. Even after months in the vacuum of desert, many drunk Americans, hot-dogs and baseball aren't quite what I would refer to as the highlights of Dakar. Not to mention the queasily compoundish and 'Passage to India' -like nature of the 'American Club' where we played. Still there was beer, there was dancing and there was English, so there was fun to be had.

Anyway, Senegal is like Mauritania cubed. So you have to bring it.

Dakar is notoriously crime-ridden and teeming with pick-pocketers, muggers and -who knows.. vampires?- a fact which I can't seriously doubt, but which I found nothing to support. I feel like the people who allow themselves to be closed off because of this reputation are weak and flawed (excepting women - women probably have a legitimate right to feel scared all the time in Africa). Am I naive? Insufferably. Am I preachy? Sickeningly. Are there untold volumes of things I don't understand about Africa? Unquestionably. But listen to this....

In most interactions with African's, it is necessary to immediately establish that you are not a western imperialist, a tourist, or someone who has no interest in understanding them. And ironically, the best way to do this is to also immediately establish a sort of dominance. Because of course, as in any culture in which you are an Alien, your ignorance and consequent fear make you subject and suspicious, though your manners may be those of disinterested aloofness, or disdain, or of practiced (though maybe unconcious) superiority. So you need to make them see you as a person, and then you need to see them as one too.

You need to be impeccably earnest, kind and honest. Your lack of fear, your guilelessness (sp?) will disarm them. If you are guarded, there are plenty of people who will give you something to be guarded about. If you are confrontational, you will lose all confrontations. You have other weapons: smiles help, a lot, your tone of voice is important. You need to be funny, you need to be quick. If you are neither, then god help you, they will eat you alive.

You need to find a way to exist in their physical space. I get right up close and stare into their eyes like a puppy dog and smile big (not like a nutter). My hand always finds its way to their shoulder and squeezes or rests there while my grinning mouth talks about the heat or asks for directions. I scold those whose prices are too high with a wag of my finger, I pout my lips and scrunch up my brows and ask them why they are so mean to me. And then when they get too serious or start shouting, I poke them in the chin, and ask why they aren't smiling, or put my arm around their waist and my hand on their stomach. In America this would be highly unusual, inappropriate and antagonizing, but here it just works. I do not know why.

Again, speaking through the language of gestures I say, 'My brother, I love you. Now, these oranges are shit, please lower your price'. But no matter how harmless, or careless, or playful you seem to be, the little intelligent flame in the back of your brain must never go out. You can not be stupid, or you will deserve what comes to you. This is Africa, after all, the color of your skin is unfortunately always talking, and you do not get to choose who listens in. So while my mouth is chatting, the hand on their tummy always whispers 'If you repay my kindness with deception, I will destroy you'.

I met a nice young man working at a pizza shop who I think will be the next something-or- other important of Senegal. He was brilliant, and wistful, and talked with me about Michael Owens, and how American's don't care about soccer.

I met a security guard and explained to him the rules of baseball, halfway through realizing both that I did not know said rules and that he actually did, though had proclaimed not to out of politeness. Then I gave him some candy and he tried on my sunglasses.

I met so many cab drivers I can't count them. It sometimes feels too easy - I'll greet them in Wolof a little (all I know), then ask them how they are, ask them if they've had lunch, if they're tired, if they like dogs, if they're married, why they drive so fast, or whatever comes to mind. It's not quite a science, but it's definitely an art.

Unfortunately, a thorn (a nail? a hypodermic needle? a chicken bone?) on the ground (and later in my foot) put me out of commission for a few days, so instead of wandering Dakar I mostly just limped around like a scary, homeless ghost between my bed and the club.

I did get to see a few things though...

Traffic, traffic. The big commuter busses, the color-splashed cartier transports, crammed full with people, weaving through lanes.

A cool scrap metal horse sculpture, rearing its head.

Fruit. Oh my god, there is nothing more beautiful than an overflowing fruit stand, glowing like lit-up jewels at night on the side of the road.

I saw the stifling grip of religion (in this case, Islam) fall away a little like a dark veil, and for some of the rhythmic variety of natural human lives begin to return.

I saw a really big ram.

I ate absolutely perfect pastries for breakfast, each as elegantly fashioned and unique as snowflakes.

Horse carts, moving through traffic along side sleek mopeds and shiny new nissans.

I saw what appears to be the disturbingly insular nature of the American ex-pat community.

I saw an uncountable number of unfathomably beautiful people, in clothes the colors of everything, with intelligent eyes, laughing, or sad, or busy, or heedless, or loving, walking through their lives -those made from the constant, palpable richness of an only partially tamed wilderness.