Welcome to the madhouse. Dakar is a bulging ball of human ingenuity, filth, competition, dust, traffic, and continuous movement, maybe what New York or London might have felt like 100 years ago. Typical Senegalese warmth and the seedy side of teranga meet in the capital as con-men and opportunists follow you, yell at you, and try with undying intensity to get a piece of the xaalis they know is in your pocket. Walking through the Salle de Vents market and Place D’Independence I preferred to look at these guys as my friends instead of fiends and I have never felt more popular. The sheer number of t-shirts, backpacks, magazines, fabric, furniture, jewelry, food and junk that they sell across every meter of the city makes me wonder just how much of it is actually sold.

The interchange with vendors, cab drivers, or clando drivers (people who use their “clandestine” vehicles as cabs) is an exercise in patience and debate. The price starts high, in fact unusually high since you’re a toubab, and is listed with indifference. This is followed by their steadily increasing expression of desire for your sale but disdain for your offer to pay half or at best three quarters of what they ask. Walking away from the stall or car after a couple minutes of discussion is a classic move that will usually make the guy finally give in or give up.

When a cab driver told me that gas prices were killing him (gas here is just over $4 a gallon) and that my offer of say 1200 CFA for a ride was a joke, I responded in kind saying, “Don’t worry, I can speak to my friend George Bush about the price of gas. I can help you, no problem.” His laughter at this comment gets me a fare of 1700 CFA for a ride that he quoted me at 3000 CFA.


Dakar, not unlike Senegal as a whole from what I have experienced, exists as a series of paradoxes in terms of wealth and poverty, beauty and grit, and hilarity and fear. Here though, it is incredibly palpable. Crumbling concrete is buffeted by fancy banks while the remnants of colonial grandiosity mingle with modern supermarkets and a Senegalese bourgeoisie. And while the meat vendors, fishermen, peanut ladies, and tailors are like any others I have encountered in the country, the middle class have an air unto themselves, a definite European-American refined glitz that is markedly different from “traditional” Senegalese.

At a nightclub called “Just for You” I almost felt uncomfortable under the pink and lime green light with palm trees and attentive waiters. The amount of French versus Wolof that I heard was incredible and it wasn’t the typical African accent but stylized native French. I hesitated ordering a beer because I could feel my tongue wanting to roll the “r” in “biere” like most Senegalese. But the fact that this middle class exists is perhaps encouraging on a certain level. It certainly reflects the growing wealth and economy that the country will hopefully see spread beyond the borders of Dakar.

Still, it doesn’t take long to be brought back to reality by the stench of grey-green sewage running along the side of the street overflowing onto the pavement here and there. Horses, goats, and chickens still graze in the median and my cab driver jumps the curb onto the sidewalk to avoid one of the ever-present traffic jams that block our way.

On a trip to Ngor Beach with my friends Nick and Dan, our cab stalled after we stopped to show a policeman the vehicle registration. What do we do after it doesn’t start on the 10th turn? The boys get out and push with a guy walking past, the cab driver pops the clutch, and I capture the moment with a laugh.

Dakar reminds me that economic development comes with its costs- pollution, sprawl, traffic, and loss of community. These are all apparent in the city and my Senegalese friends from Thies say they prefer the tranquil life to the city life. The difference between people from the city and people from the country is apparent in any culture, the surreal thing here is that while the wealth and development hit you head on, so does the fact that it happens in a uniquely Senegalese way. People honk and moan in morning traffice, but still eat their thiebugen (fish and rice) for lunch around communal bowls, go to prayer together, and laugh with one another on the street as anywhere else in the country. I look forward to more...