Los Clandestinos
It was New Year’s in Granada, and I was already about two pigs into a ham filled holiday in Southern Spain. My girlfriend Erica and I were having wine and tapas at this little retro bar El Circulo, taking in the stylish Spanish people and their laid back, have a drink at 3PM attitude. We were unabashed tourists people-watching on vacation. A little draft of cold air rushed into the bar as the door opened. I look up and knew immediately the guy who entered was Senegalese, not just because of the silver bracelet and large gris-gris ring he wore, but because he was selling burned CDs out of a plastic bag. He didn’t say anything, just waved the disk jacket in front of one group of people after another who quietly demurred. I leaned over to Erica and whispered that he was Senegalese just as he made his way back out the door.
With our next round the door opened again and another Senegalese walked in with the same routine, the same product. He wore a hooded sweatshirt underneath a worn-in burgundy caftan. I was going to say something to the guy but decided against it when a customer wanted to know what CDs he had. I wanted to ask him about his history and see how he got to Spain. I also wanted to show off speaking Wolof in front of my girlfriend. The customer didn’t buy anything and I could tell that the Senegalese guy wanted to negotiate with him, offer a lower price, but I got the sense that his Spanish just wasn’t there. He moved on to the next bar and we moved on to another glass of wine.
Next the door at the far end of the bar opened to reveal a small Spanish man, smartly dressed in a sweater and sports jacket. His hair was greased back and he had the kind of beard that has five o’clock shadow by noon. In his hand was a wooden shoe-shine box, the telltale foot stool on the top doubling as a handle. The man’s eyes went to the floor and within seconds he made his way over to a group of three men wearing nice leather shoes. Mr. Shoeshine greeted them in Spanish and ordered a glass of sherry. By the time his drink was served, he had already begun on one of the man’s boots.
I sipped my wine and couldn’t help but reflect on the very different experience of the men I had watched sell their wares. Erica saw what I was thinking and said, “Looks a little easier for that guy, huh?” I made a faint smile and just shook my head.
As if on cue, the door opened again and a third Senegalese walks in with his plastic bag of CDs. I say “Oh my God” as I notice the bartender see him and swear under his breath. Coming into the bar I had noticed a sign saying you couldn’t sell things inside, something I wondered might be the result of the Senegalese vendors. Before the CD guy could follow the footsteps of the two others before him, I called him over to our table in Spanish. I felt the need to give this guy a reason to be in the bar. I asked him where he was from and he looked at me with the wrinkled brow of someone who may have had Survival Spanish at best. I ask him in Wolof and after the requisite “Toubab degg na Wolof deh” I bought him a Coke and he told me his story.
Mustapha Seck left Kaolack five months ago and paid 360,000 CFA to travel from Dakar to the Canary Islands on a pirogue with 60 other people, two 40 horsepower outboards, and enough thieb for the nine day voyage. Thanks be to God, the ocean was calm for the entire trip. In the Canaries, Mustapha spent just under a week with the Red Cross where he and the others were processed and given blankets, sweatshirts, and food. He was then flown to mainland Spain where he appeared before a magistrate and was able to point to two other Senegalese he had been in touch with from the get-go, also from Kaolack, who already had legal residency and work permit cards, and who could vouch for his care. He came to Granada because, quite simply, he was told there was work.
His current job was buying burned CDs for a euro and selling them for three. Not a bad profit margin I thought, but it didn’t seem like it was going all that well. He said he was glad to be there even if the work was tough. “God is good,” he laughed.
I found myself wanting to consult with this guy as if I were back in Senegal, quiz him on the market for burned CDs in Spain, ask about other enterprises, but the moment passed.
Over the course of my vacation throughout Andalusia, in nearly every city we visited, I encountered Senegalese immigrants working hard, including two women. They sold purses and belts, makeup, African masks, paintings, and necklaces. All who I spoke with were glad to be in Spain, glad to be making money. Many of them were legal residents who had been there for years. Others like Mustapha were relatively fresh off the boat.
Senegal it would seem, has become Spain’s Mexico. Each conversation I had with a Senegalese immigrant made that much more striking the parallels between their situation and those of Mexicans and other Latinos I’ve worked with in the US. They were making it any way they could, living too many to an apartment, and dealing with discrimination and legal issues. Yet in spite of the difficulties they were incredibly positive and kind.
On my Iberia flight back to Senegal we made a stop in the Canary Islands to refuel and pick up more passengers. It was dark as we made our approach but I looked carefully along the coastline to see if I could spot some sign of the thousands of Senegalese who have landed here in their journey to mainland Spain. I couldn’t make out a whole lot, but I did get a new neighbor for the last leg to Dakar, a Toucouleur man from Velingara who had been working in Barcelona for 15 years. Both his Wolof and French were about as bad as my Pulaar, so we spoke in Spanish about his time in Spain and his thoughts on immigration.
He loosened his tie and settled into his chair, laying his meaty forearm on the armrest between us. He was lucky he said. In his situation, with his family living in a comfortable apartment in Barcelona, his children had been born and raised bilingual, with the same rights and opportunities as other Europeans. He said that he felt sorry for the plight of other Senegalese risking their lives in pirogues to have a life like his, but how could he blame them?
As our plane neared Dakar our flight attendant, Isabella, passed out immigration cards for us to fill out before arrival. Before take-off, I had enjoyed watching this beautiful and perfectly put together woman nearly unravel as she tried in vain to make all the Senegalese passengers sit in their assigned seats. My neighbor handed me his passport and with a big smile asked me to fill out his card. This same man who had successfully emigrated with his family to Barcelona, and who spoke beautiful Spanish, could not read or write. I had this experience before traveling from Senegal so his illiteracy wasn’t a surprise, but as I filled out his card I smiled and thought to myself, “Damn these people are tenacious.”
Back in Mouit at my site in the national park my colleagues greeted me with that African warmth I had really missed in Spain. They were genuinely amused by how I was now a few shades lighter from my time in the cold of Europe. They even “toubabed” me affectionately.
My counterpart Arona seemed a bit down though, so I took him aside to ask what was up. His cousin had died the day before yesterday he said. I asked him what happened. His cousin had left Dakar only a few weeks earlier on a pirogue for Spain. Somewhere off the coast of Western Sahara, the boat began to take on water and two of the passengers got high fevers. The captain decided to turn around and head back to Dakar. Two days later both men died en route and Arona’s cousin had to help throw the bodies overboard. Soon after he too fell ill. The boat made it to Dakar and Arona’s cousin, by this time in very bad shape, was brought to the hospital. He lived another six days, long enough to tell of his ordeal before dying in his hospital bed. He was 21 years old.
I wanted to console Arona as this awful story lingered in my mind, but it was so prescient just having been to Spain that I kept quiet. I think my mouth sort of hung open a bit. Then he tells me this was his cousin’s second time making the voyage! On his first attempt he made it to the Canaries, but was returned to Senegal by plane as part of the new effort at repatriating Senegalese immigrants.
“It was his destiny Mansour,” Arona concluded. I couldn’t say anything. For some reason all I could think about was Mustapha Seck trying to sell his CDs at the bar in Granada.
Destiny is both fascinating and troubling, whatever its veracity. I’ve often wondered why it was my destiny to be born an American, rich and blessed, educated and healthy, when I consider the challenges and lack of means most Senegalese have to meet them. I get frustrated trying to figure out what to do with my life, choosing among all the possibilities my apparent problem. Most Senegalese on the other hand, will do whatever they can so long as it means making money. Listening to Arona, I realized my trip to Spain was a casual vacation to the promised land his cousin just died trying to reach.
I don’t know what the solutions to clandestine immigration are but I feel confident that people from poor countries will keep trying to get to rich countries, even if that means risking their lives. Their struggle is a poignant indicator of the economic disparities between countries of the North and South and amid their rich and poor.
It’s funny how when you are thinking a lot about something, it seems to manifest in your life all over the place. I went for a get back in the swing of things afternoon beer at the Zebrabar in my village still thinking about the clandestine connection between Senegal and Spain. What comes on the stereo? Manu Chao’s “Clandestino.” I listened, sat down, and opened my journal.
To a city of the north
I went to work
I left my life Between Ceuta and
Gibraltar
I’m a line in the sea
A ghost in the city
My life is forbidden
So says the authority
Alone I go with my sorrow
Alone goes my sentence
To run is my destiny
For having no papers
Lost in the heart
Of the great Babylon
They call me clandestine
It was New Year’s in Granada, and I was already about two pigs into a ham filled holiday in Southern Spain. My girlfriend Erica and I were having wine and tapas at this little retro bar El Circulo, taking in the stylish Spanish people and their laid back, have a drink at 3PM attitude. We were unabashed tourists people-watching on vacation. A little draft of cold air rushed into the bar as the door opened. I look up and knew immediately the guy who entered was Senegalese, not just because of the silver bracelet and large gris-gris ring he wore, but because he was selling burned CDs out of a plastic bag. He didn’t say anything, just waved the disk jacket in front of one group of people after another who quietly demurred. I leaned over to Erica and whispered that he was Senegalese just as he made his way back out the door.
With our next round the door opened again and another Senegalese walked in with the same routine, the same product. He wore a hooded sweatshirt underneath a worn-in burgundy caftan. I was going to say something to the guy but decided against it when a customer wanted to know what CDs he had. I wanted to ask him about his history and see how he got to Spain. I also wanted to show off speaking Wolof in front of my girlfriend. The customer didn’t buy anything and I could tell that the Senegalese guy wanted to negotiate with him, offer a lower price, but I got the sense that his Spanish just wasn’t there. He moved on to the next bar and we moved on to another glass of wine.
Next the door at the far end of the bar opened to reveal a small Spanish man, smartly dressed in a sweater and sports jacket. His hair was greased back and he had the kind of beard that has five o’clock shadow by noon. In his hand was a wooden shoe-shine box, the telltale foot stool on the top doubling as a handle. The man’s eyes went to the floor and within seconds he made his way over to a group of three men wearing nice leather shoes. Mr. Shoeshine greeted them in Spanish and ordered a glass of sherry. By the time his drink was served, he had already begun on one of the man’s boots.
I sipped my wine and couldn’t help but reflect on the very different experience of the men I had watched sell their wares. Erica saw what I was thinking and said, “Looks a little easier for that guy, huh?” I made a faint smile and just shook my head.
As if on cue, the door opened again and a third Senegalese walks in with his plastic bag of CDs. I say “Oh my God” as I notice the bartender see him and swear under his breath. Coming into the bar I had noticed a sign saying you couldn’t sell things inside, something I wondered might be the result of the Senegalese vendors. Before the CD guy could follow the footsteps of the two others before him, I called him over to our table in Spanish. I felt the need to give this guy a reason to be in the bar. I asked him where he was from and he looked at me with the wrinkled brow of someone who may have had Survival Spanish at best. I ask him in Wolof and after the requisite “Toubab degg na Wolof deh” I bought him a Coke and he told me his story.
Mustapha Seck left Kaolack five months ago and paid 360,000 CFA to travel from Dakar to the Canary Islands on a pirogue with 60 other people, two 40 horsepower outboards, and enough thieb for the nine day voyage. Thanks be to God, the ocean was calm for the entire trip. In the Canaries, Mustapha spent just under a week with the Red Cross where he and the others were processed and given blankets, sweatshirts, and food. He was then flown to mainland Spain where he appeared before a magistrate and was able to point to two other Senegalese he had been in touch with from the get-go, also from Kaolack, who already had legal residency and work permit cards, and who could vouch for his care. He came to Granada because, quite simply, he was told there was work.
His current job was buying burned CDs for a euro and selling them for three. Not a bad profit margin I thought, but it didn’t seem like it was going all that well. He said he was glad to be there even if the work was tough. “God is good,” he laughed.
I found myself wanting to consult with this guy as if I were back in Senegal, quiz him on the market for burned CDs in Spain, ask about other enterprises, but the moment passed.
Over the course of my vacation throughout Andalusia, in nearly every city we visited, I encountered Senegalese immigrants working hard, including two women. They sold purses and belts, makeup, African masks, paintings, and necklaces. All who I spoke with were glad to be in Spain, glad to be making money. Many of them were legal residents who had been there for years. Others like Mustapha were relatively fresh off the boat.
Senegal it would seem, has become Spain’s Mexico. Each conversation I had with a Senegalese immigrant made that much more striking the parallels between their situation and those of Mexicans and other Latinos I’ve worked with in the US. They were making it any way they could, living too many to an apartment, and dealing with discrimination and legal issues. Yet in spite of the difficulties they were incredibly positive and kind.
On my Iberia flight back to Senegal we made a stop in the Canary Islands to refuel and pick up more passengers. It was dark as we made our approach but I looked carefully along the coastline to see if I could spot some sign of the thousands of Senegalese who have landed here in their journey to mainland Spain. I couldn’t make out a whole lot, but I did get a new neighbor for the last leg to Dakar, a Toucouleur man from Velingara who had been working in Barcelona for 15 years. Both his Wolof and French were about as bad as my Pulaar, so we spoke in Spanish about his time in Spain and his thoughts on immigration.
He loosened his tie and settled into his chair, laying his meaty forearm on the armrest between us. He was lucky he said. In his situation, with his family living in a comfortable apartment in Barcelona, his children had been born and raised bilingual, with the same rights and opportunities as other Europeans. He said that he felt sorry for the plight of other Senegalese risking their lives in pirogues to have a life like his, but how could he blame them?
As our plane neared Dakar our flight attendant, Isabella, passed out immigration cards for us to fill out before arrival. Before take-off, I had enjoyed watching this beautiful and perfectly put together woman nearly unravel as she tried in vain to make all the Senegalese passengers sit in their assigned seats. My neighbor handed me his passport and with a big smile asked me to fill out his card. This same man who had successfully emigrated with his family to Barcelona, and who spoke beautiful Spanish, could not read or write. I had this experience before traveling from Senegal so his illiteracy wasn’t a surprise, but as I filled out his card I smiled and thought to myself, “Damn these people are tenacious.”
Back in Mouit at my site in the national park my colleagues greeted me with that African warmth I had really missed in Spain. They were genuinely amused by how I was now a few shades lighter from my time in the cold of Europe. They even “toubabed” me affectionately.
My counterpart Arona seemed a bit down though, so I took him aside to ask what was up. His cousin had died the day before yesterday he said. I asked him what happened. His cousin had left Dakar only a few weeks earlier on a pirogue for Spain. Somewhere off the coast of Western Sahara, the boat began to take on water and two of the passengers got high fevers. The captain decided to turn around and head back to Dakar. Two days later both men died en route and Arona’s cousin had to help throw the bodies overboard. Soon after he too fell ill. The boat made it to Dakar and Arona’s cousin, by this time in very bad shape, was brought to the hospital. He lived another six days, long enough to tell of his ordeal before dying in his hospital bed. He was 21 years old.
I wanted to console Arona as this awful story lingered in my mind, but it was so prescient just having been to Spain that I kept quiet. I think my mouth sort of hung open a bit. Then he tells me this was his cousin’s second time making the voyage! On his first attempt he made it to the Canaries, but was returned to Senegal by plane as part of the new effort at repatriating Senegalese immigrants.
“It was his destiny Mansour,” Arona concluded. I couldn’t say anything. For some reason all I could think about was Mustapha Seck trying to sell his CDs at the bar in Granada.
Destiny is both fascinating and troubling, whatever its veracity. I’ve often wondered why it was my destiny to be born an American, rich and blessed, educated and healthy, when I consider the challenges and lack of means most Senegalese have to meet them. I get frustrated trying to figure out what to do with my life, choosing among all the possibilities my apparent problem. Most Senegalese on the other hand, will do whatever they can so long as it means making money. Listening to Arona, I realized my trip to Spain was a casual vacation to the promised land his cousin just died trying to reach.
I don’t know what the solutions to clandestine immigration are but I feel confident that people from poor countries will keep trying to get to rich countries, even if that means risking their lives. Their struggle is a poignant indicator of the economic disparities between countries of the North and South and amid their rich and poor.
It’s funny how when you are thinking a lot about something, it seems to manifest in your life all over the place. I went for a get back in the swing of things afternoon beer at the Zebrabar in my village still thinking about the clandestine connection between Senegal and Spain. What comes on the stereo? Manu Chao’s “Clandestino.” I listened, sat down, and opened my journal.
To a city of the north
I went to work
I left my life Between Ceuta and
Gibraltar
I’m a line in the sea
A ghost in the city
My life is forbidden
So says the authority
Alone I go with my sorrow
Alone goes my sentence
To run is my destiny
For having no papers
Lost in the heart
Of the great Babylon
They call me clandestine
posted by Nat Parker | 3:36 AM
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