A Typical Day at Work

Sitting on the pirogue, looking out over the calm, inviting sea towards the lights of far away island villages, and palm trees and mangroves illuminated by the moonlight dispersed softly through the night fog, I thought to myself what a perfect end to the day this was.  After trekking down to the coast and spending the day on the islands of Saloum at the mouth of the Fatick River, we were all ready for a good, long night’s rest.

 This visite de terrain was to help the president of the Communauté Rural of Dionewar analyze potential partners for the construction of two classrooms (thanks to the climate here, schools can easily be added onto because there is no need for indoor hallways).  The drive down took about an hour and a half to two hours, because of the poor state/lack of roads, a typical, but not discouraging, obstacle to travel in Senegal. 

We spent about 20 minutes analyzing the bidders – each enterprise submits an envelope containing its proposed price for the project and certain criteria to establish credibility, which we look through and take note of, finally choosing the best enterprise.  Omar, a fellow intern, and I spent the rest of the day at the home of the ex-president of the village and visiting a neighboring island with the current president while our supervisor, Semi Diouf, took measurements for a future project.  We wrapped up our visit by buying ditakh, a sweet fruit that looks like a rock and is filled with green fibers and dry pulp, and ditakh juice. 

Our charrette ride back to the other side of the island steered us through shrubs and ditakh trees, from dusk into nighttime, where we moved from charrette to pirogue.  But this perfect pirogue wrap up would become the deceptively smooth start to a crisis-ridden crepuscule.

It all started when I got out of the pirogue.  As I waded my way to shore, with one of the drivers helping me carry my stuff, the bag of ditakh juice broke and my two bottles fell into the water.  “garawoul, garawoul,” (“No worries,” or “Ce n’est pas grave”) I said as I picked them up and continued on my way.  Once we were all four on shore we made our way through hoards of fishermen sorting though the catches of the day to the old Mitsubishi SUV that had bravely brought us here. 

Now, the SUV, being a little old, doesn’t really start on its own, so you have to have everyone but the driver push it, preferably downhill, until the driver (Cheikh Ach) can rev up the engine and jam it into gear, which is usually not a problem.  So the men and a few fishermen gathered at the back of the SUV and started pushing down the little hill we had strategically parked on.  Unfortunately, once the car started picking up speed, it bounced and thudded to a halt.  Everyone went to the front, pushed it back up, and tried again.  No luck.  After a few more futile attempts, we decided to move the car from the ditch, where it was surrounded by piles of fish and hoards of fishermen, up the hill where we could take a look under the hood.

As we were pushing it up the hill, one of the onlooking fishermen tapped my arm, asking, “Mademoiselle, Am nga jëkker?” (“Miss, do you have a husband?”)

“Waaw,” I responded with a smirk. (“Yes,” – I don’t normally use this response, but I judged it the most diplomatic this time)

“Fan?! Fan?!” (“Where?! Where?!”)

“Fii, ci Senegal.” (“Here, in Senegal”)

“Déedéet, déedéet, amuloo dara dé!” he exclaimed, laughing. (“No, no, you don’t have anything!”)

Chuckling to myself as I approached the top of the hill, I heard others inquiring about my marital status, and his ecstatic response, always the same, “Déedéet, amul dara dé, amul dara!” (“No, she doesn’t have anything, she doesn’t have anything!”)

Once at the top of the hill, we continued without luck to push the SUV back and forth, interrupted by the occasional concerned bystander insisting on checking out the engine.  After about 25 minutes, Cheikh and Omar went with someone to find the local mechanic, and Semi and I walked to find a boutique with some cold water. 

Here in Senegal, there are these little boutiques everywhere, open at all hours.  If there is any sort of inhabitation of an area, there is guaranteed to be at least two boutiques.  The boutiques are decorated with photos of lutteurs, marabouts, and Barack Obama and are often painted Coca Cola red, TiGO blue, or Orange orange, always with signs and the corresponding logo plastered all over the place.  These boutiques are stacked floor to ceiling – including things hanging from the ceiling and walls – with pretty much anything you could ever need.  Bread, powdered milk, evaporated milk, tissues, cigarettes, playing cards, phone 

credits, candy, candy bars, cookies, nutella, eggs, spices, sugar, scrunchies, combs, flip flops, notebooks, pens, plastic bags, yogurt, coffee, Kafe Touba, water, Coca Cola, Sprite, Fanta, fruit juices, matches, chewing gum, laundry/dish washing detergent, soap, perfume, anti-mosquito spray, anti-mosquito incense, and 50kg sacs of onions are a few of the items that you are guaranteed to find at a boutique.

We went to a particular boutique, owned by a friend of Semi’s (who is from Dionewar).  Strolling down the road lined with shops, the aroma of this little coastal fishing town dramatically improved as we left behind us the overwhelming smell of fish, seawater, and sweat, to discover a delicious scent reminiscent of sweet, fried, state fair foods.  We passed by a few other boutiques, a barber shop filled with customers and music, women selling peanuts and people sitting chatting with them, groups of men making ataaya, people praying, and a bar/restaurant filled with patrons (likely the source of that tantalizing fair food fragrance).

This dark little town was lit up by the reflection of the moon and the starts on the water and the fish scales, the cell phones constantly texting or playing Akon and Youssou Ndour, the T.V.s in each boutique, the music leaking from the store fronts into the dirt street, the gas tank fires heating the peanuts for sale, and the constant hum of fish sorting, discussion, laughter, and activity.

            Despite all this seaside town charm, there was no getting around the fact that in addition to having left the island a few hours later than planned, we were stuck with a broken car and a long, bumpy ride ahead of us.  After another 45 minutes or so of waiting for the mechanic to arrive, we spotted him sauntering towards the car.  After about 15 minutes of repair time, we all got behind the old Mitsubishi and once again started pushing.  Only three tries this time and she rattled to a start.  After many thanks, we were finally problem free and homeward bound.

            Wrong again… (to be continued)