Toubab Dialow

Welcome to Toubab Dialow...

Gardens in hotel

Door obsession!

Artisan Resort in Toubab Dialow

Stairs to the beach from our hotel

Toubab Dialow

We climb big rocks!

Sarai and I taking advantage of down time..

One of my favorite things about this program is their emphasis on "mental health." We had barely finished Orientation and the first two weeks of the program, when we were packed off to an "art colony" for a weekend of relaxation. This is the point where I start to believe, just a little, that my Grandfather is right in thinking I never actually do work here. The alleged art colony was in fact an artsy resort right on the ocean and beautiful stretches of beaches, just 2.5 hours south of Dakar by bus. We spent the weekend relaxing, taking art, drum, and dance lessons, and generally soaking up the sun (not to mention the wonderful food). The highlights are as follows....

Dinner time!

We showed up early one Saturday morning to school, ready to pile into the buses. When our transportation arrived, my mouth dropped. This was not the rusty, rattling, constantly-breaking-down school bus (don't forget the projectile back seats) of my last program. Oh no. We had two air-conditioned, newly upholstered buses equipped with baggage space, tinted windows (!) and a fully functioning engine.

Senegalese dancers

There is but one main road off the peninsula on which Dakar has spread over the many years of development. One highway, la route nationale, for all the traffic for an entire nation's capital. Needless to say, there is traffic all the time, regardless of a "rush hour," which doesn't even bear thinking about. Sitting in my first-class seat, gazing out a tinted window, and breathing fresh, cool air, I might as well have been on a different planet from the heat, bustle and pollution just outside my window. Traveling through Dakar like that only served to make me uncomfortably aware of the differences between my social/economic position and 90% of the people outside my window. People stared, pointed, and children yelled after us "heey! Tubaabs!" I remembered traveling through the Casamance and the Gambia, being just as uncomfortable, just as hot, and just as miserable as everyone else. We were on the same playing field, if just for the period of time it took to transport us, as everyone else. After experiencing both worlds.. I was surprised to find that as comfortable as I was, I would rather be on those stuffy, overcrowded buses if it meant people would stare less at me. But, things being what they were, I just turned by back from the window, and talked with my friends.

Participating in an evening dance/drum exhibition

Tubaab Dialow itself is just a fishing village on the coast, valued for it's fabulous beach-front hotels. We stayed in hotels with seashell and tile mosaics covering all the walls, and walkways of beautiful stone. The architecture was unique, consisting of circular towers, flowing arches, and tiered buildings. Flowering plants and vines were all along the paths and the buildings, making you think you were staying in some kind of seashell/foliage Eden. The whole structure sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean, creating a point that jutted over the beach. With no official classes, we spent hours swimming in the ocean and climbing huge rocks that were just off the beach. It was a time for relaxation and for the students to let off some steam about host families, cultural difficulties, and language barriers. As usual, the pack of dogs that wander between hotels attached themselves to our group. One in particular was always with me. He looked like some kind of wire-haired hound, was as tall as my hip, and tended to come with me on all my long beach walks. Sadly, unlike my little kitten Michou, he was too big to smuggle back to Dakar with me...

One evening, my friends and I decided to take a moon-lit walk on the beach, after obtaining permission from our program directors. Beaches in tourist locations like this are typically pretty safe, since a town can't have their source of revenue scared off from ever coming again. Most of us (about 30 or so) walked down to the beach and found a bar willing to remain open a little longer for us. We sat in the sand under the moonlight, just taking in the moment and talking. After about half an hour, 6 friends, including myself, decided to go for a walk. We took our drinks (all non-alcoholic) and wandered away from the group, watching nocturnal crabs scatter before us. About half a mile down the beach, we were surprised by 3 men coming up to us out of the darkness. By that time, our group had split off in pairs, with Jenna and Joke at the back, two others by the water, and my friend Garrit and I in the lead. Two of the three strange men were in the uniform of Gendamarie, the local police force. The third had no uniform, and carried a large assault rifle. They approached Garrit and I, asking us our names, if we had an I.D. on us, where we were staying, what we were doing this late on the beach, if we were drinking alcohol, if we had any cigarettes on us, etc. Jenna and Joke had time to turn back, because they saw us talking with them, but Garrit, the other two, and I were not allowed to walk away. None of us had I.D. besides Garrit, who was able to pass it off by showing them his and quickly answering the rest of the questions so they wouldn't find out the rest of us didn't have ours.
By law, we are supposed to have either our original passports or a legal copy on our persons at all times. But, in my three months here, and traveling in two countries, the only time I've been asked for my passport and papers are at border crossings, and semi-legitimate military checkpoints. Never on the beach, and never in a situation like this. If he had found out we didn't have I.D.s, we could have been packed off to jail for up to 5 days and been forced to pay a fine. Jails here are not like the ones in the U.S., to say the least. The Gendamarie men then had the frustration of finding out that we were nothing more than American students taking a walk on the beach, within sight of their hotel, with non-alcoholic beverages, sans smoking materials, or any other sketchy behavior. However, they did make us lead them back to where the rest of the students were relaxing on the beach. Like any busted college party in the U.S., we were lined up and asked if we were drunk. Not that drinking was illegal anyway. However, we decided it would be a good idea to follow the directions of men wielding assault rifles. After finding nothing to get us in trouble, they threw out a reprimand for safety, telling us unsavory people could be on the beach at night. Even though, close as we were to our hotel, there was no danger besides the attention created by the policemen. When they finally left us, we felt that was our queue to head back to the hotel for the night. In the course of our 5 minute walk back to our rooms, we were stopped twice more. Both by Gendarmarie men without uniform and carrying large guns. Once, a pick-up truck carrying more police officers screeched to a halt by our group, men swarming out and telling us to go home. We saw more police marching men they had just arrested to vans. It seemed we had chosen the one night when the local police force decided to crack down on the local marijuana community, which at least explained the first Gendamarie's insistence on knowing whether or not we had been smoking that night. As intimidating as they were, we felt better knowing we were not the focus or direct target of the Gendamarie's attention. And for a word on the Gendamarie's side, they would have been in the right to punish us for smoking pot, since it's against the law here and is openly, and strictly, enforced.
The reactions of all the people in our group were kind of comical to watch. Though we had done nothing more than run across a night-time pot raid, which if you think about it, is only making the neighborhood safer, most felt as though a real crisis situation had just occurred. They gathered in the courtyard of the hotel, beating over the details of the night so much I thought I was going to scream. There were only a handful of us who weren't panicking, and we had been the ones to see the most of the Gendamarie men.

This was my third confrontation with armed men since I've been here. Senegal is a peaceful country, and is far removed from the kind of violence seen to the extent as it is experienced in the Lake Kivu region, Somalia, or Sudan. The Western perception of Africa is based upon the media, which grabs at conflict and ignores vibrant culture and life. Back in May and June, when I was preparing the leave, people would assume the most "African" situation they could imagine for me. Of course, I would be living in a hut in the middle of the desert. It was assumed I would basically living on a safari for a year while trying to avoid ethnic conflicts boiling around me. I got such questions as "do they even have cell phones there?" When Africa is one of the regions with the fastest growing telecommunications industry. "So, will you have to collect your own water everyday?" As if plumbing couldn't have existed anywhere outside suburbia. "Will you have to eat with your hands, is that sanitary?" Yes, I eat with my hands, but so do you. Or do you eat ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, and sandwiches with a fork and knife? "Are you going to get AIDS?" Taking into consideration the means of transmission...and seeing as I don't plan on shooting up or having sex...no. "Are you going to be in danger, from, like, civil war?" Senegal is one of the most stable democracies on the continent, any danger I encounter is purely situational.--and in this case, it was actually benefiting a community, once I found out what was going on!
All the dire predictions people laid out for me, for the most part, are ignorant assumptions based on "everyone says that.." And, I'll have you know that if a sentence begins with "everyone says that.." it's probably wrong. This rant has a purpose, believe it or not, an it's to say that no one can lump experiences into a box. Yes, I have encountered some dangerous situations, but that does not mean Senegal falls into the category of conflict that most of the world associates with Africa. My experiences are exotic by American/Western standards, but should not be classified with the heading of "Everything in Africa Just Wants to Get You Sick, Eat You, or Kill You." There are parts of the United States that have the same, or worse, problems as Senegal, the only difference is the access to social/financial resources for development. Thanks to colonization and the economic exploitation on the part of first world nations, Senegal (and other developing nations) struggle for a economic and political foothold in a world that already has a head start.

Thus, I ask that when you read my blog, please do more than just read it. If you cannot be here with me-- experiencing, tasting, and smelling everything with me, then please use this blog as a portal. Shatter preconceptions and assumptions you might have had, think critically about what I'm writing. This is a window into a world most people don't get the chance to see, so please digest what I'm saying and don't view this blog as just a "cool story." I'm here to do more than acquire "cool stories," and if I walk away from this experience knowing I was able to change someone's fundamental preconceptions about Africa, then I will find my job here, as it were, done.

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” –Aldous Huxley

Beach view hotel