Christmas in Dakar

13 December 2008

I am sitting at the Café de Rome watching a man meticulously put together a plastic christmas tree. He takes each synthetic branch, unwrapping it like a bunch of spring onions, pealing back each individual branch, like pulling fingers taught. He bends the metal end into an L shape and then pokes it into the pole disguised as a very skinny, very straight tree trunk. He started from the bottom with the longest ones and then worked from the top down. Now he’s on a stepladder arranging and rearranging branches. He steps back every now and again, looks up at the tree to make sure the shape is right, no bulges or gaps where they shouldn’t be.

The man next to me asks, La fete c’est bien passé? And the waiter replies, Alhamdoulilahi. They are talking about a different fete. The feast of the sheep, or tabaski, or Eid al Hadj, was last week and people here are in recovery perhaps similar to the post Christmas slump where you realise you’ve spent all your money on perishables.

The little kid at the next table points to the fake snow that drips its polystyrene down the walls. There are also white blobs stuck to the ceiling, outlined with white spray paint and covered in cotton wool. The man creating the christmas tree smiles and says, It’s too hot in here, isn’t it? The kid and his mum point out that the tree is tipping forward.

They are showing real christmas trees on TV and cars with snow caked on the roofs in some Western European country.

The Senegalese men next to me are talking about the financial crisis in Wolof, dropping in English and French with the ease of the well educated. They are talking excitedly and I really want to know what they are discussing, but unfortunately the French and English parts are only incidental. It seems all the interesting stuff tumbles out in Wolof.

Pictures of american car manufacturers and huge republican politicians talking into tiny microphones pass on the TV screen.

Ok so this is a different Dakar, or a particular priviledged Dakar. The Café de Rome is around the corner from my flat and I’ve been meaning to come here for a while. It is incredibly posh. There is actually customer service. You can sit down and people will come to you and ask you what you want. It also appears that over half of the things on the menu are actually available. The toilets are the nicest I’ve been to in a long while and as I turn to look at my bum on the way out I note that the mirror even makes you look thin. Sometimes you just need a little overpriced cappuccino, a fake christmas tree and a flat screen TV.

The three old men chatting away next to me look like old journalists, hair white-speckled, dark-rimmed glasses and distinguished. After smiling a lot in their direction I finally get up the courage to ask what they are discussing. The oldest one – the one with a full head of white hair – says, A little of everything. I ask them what they think about bailing out the American car industry and they say it’s a good idea if there are so many people relying on it for their livelihoods. But what about capitalism? I say. What about letting the free market do it’s business? I say. They shrug and smile. Why are we socialising our losses? I say. How this can help in the long term?

They are wiser than me. Or maybe shrugging and smiling makes them look wiser than me. I should practice that.

I ask if they are capitalists. They say, No! and shrink back as if I have asked them if they are mentally ill. And you, madame, what are you? one asks.

“Agnostic,” I say. They burst into laughter, they like that.

“Well then we are muslims,” he says with a wink in his voice.

“It’s funny. When you came to help African countries, you told us we must privatise everything and we did because we had no choice. But now…”

It’s true. I shrug and smile.

Niono, mid-July

Today is Saturday and I spend it removing the desert from my house, together with the stiff body of a dead frog, I push a few live ones out the back door with the broom, and an assortment of dead insects, I mop and sweep, I dust once, twice, three times – there is still dust – I feel the sweat slide down my nose and wobble at the end of it before dropping to the ground.

the night

The night is full of termites losing their wings and performing violent death wiggles on the floor ; the porch light has been assaulted by bugs of all types, they scatter and crawl over the white tiles, like black pepper spilt, grasshoppers clinging to the inside of curtains and beetles spinning on their backs – breakdancing! – and curling their legs around the air. The frogs are trying to get in, too. Every time I pass the back door, I glimpse a fat one eyeing up the gap that the welders left between the door and the floor.

a bamako rooftop, twilight

TTCL !

“TTCL!” As a bright yellow pick up truck passes by us, I shout and then see an arm pumping the air from the driver’s window. The Tanzanian Telecommunications Company Limited has just modernised, opening a flashy new office in town and offering broadband service that, according to the adverts, appears to zoom out of your computer like a whoosh of broadband brilliance, blowing your hair and eyebrows back in surprise.

Everything is yellow. There is a Thunderbirds-like fleet of various yellow vehicles – a pick-up, a landcruiser, a “bajaji” (auto-rickshaws imported from Bangladesh where they are now illegal). We half expect a yellow helicopter, a yellow fighter jet, a yellow speedboat with little wooden-mouthed TTCL operatives. I wonder if my bicycle – a bright yellow Giant Rock 4000 – could ever be part of the team.

The sign out the front, which lights up at night, is yellow. Half the building is painted yellow. The high-quality collared t-shirts worn by the staff are yellow. The counter is yellow-topped. The pre-paid phone cards are slashed with yellow, under the obligatory picture of a broadband internet user being blown away by TTCL’s power and speed.

Unfortunately, TTCL’s power and speed is almost entirely restricted to the broadband service itself and is barely apparent anywhere else, including the necessary step of getting connected. As it seems often happens here, the splash of new equipment and the flashy front of a renovated office – all massive glass windows and yellow paint – have arrived before the knowledge and skills. There are any number of answers to our question, “How do we get connected?” depending on who we talk to, what time of day it is and perhaps what the person has had for breakfast. It seems there is as much logic.

We make regular visits to the yellow building and have made friends with the lady whose job description seems to include only 1) greeting 2) apologising and, 3) evading of difficult, indeed, any questions regarding TTCL services. However, she is so lovely and wants to be our friend – she said so – that we cannot get angry and the daily visits have become part of our routine. There is a comfortable, if miniature, couch (perhaps purchased from a catalogue that misrepresented its size?) and – gracious – a working water cooler. So we get comfortable, grab a newspaper, a plastic cup of icy water, have a chat with the floor manager about the rain and settle in.

One day we walk in and our friend greets us wearing a fabulous fake fur, leopard-spotted, coat with raised collar over her yellow shirt. She seems down and we ask what’s wrong? We don’t like to see her unhappy and she sniffs and tells us, “mafua” (a cold). There is none of her usual humour in her greeting, or apologising or evasion of our daily question, so we leave early and wish her a quick recovery.

The most elusive and enigmatic and, yes it is possible, unfriendly member of the TTCL team we have named, Lambchops (we have never got close enough to see his nametag), due to his bushy sideburns and Pulp Fiction style not-quite-afro. Lambchops could easily walk into a seventies funk band and not look out of place. He is dark-skinned and unamused with the world. He is not impressed with our daily TTCL antics and is not interested in being our friend, indeed he seems to act as if we do not exist at all. Perhaps he resents the fact that he is not in a Seventies band, or simply that he must wear yellow.

It was somewhere around the time of our daily visits to TTCL, when we lost all hope of ever experiencing the eyebrow-raising whoosh of broadband so well advertised (and for which we had already paid). This was when we subconsciously and simultaneously decided that the only response to such absurdity is absurd amusement – that the only way to carry on without Losing It, is to laugh and realise that Customer Service is not a universal concept. Luckily both of us rely on a similar philosophy in the face of the daily corruptions and inefficiencies that the national corporations thrive on. I am sure that Sartre, Camus and the like might have appreciated such absurdity, a perfect example of the Myth of Sisyphus. As he eternally rolls his rock up the mountain – he must be laughing, or Losing It. I prefer to think of him laughing.

It was somewhere around this time, long before we got connected, that we began to shout in the street every time we saw one of the yellow fleet whizz past us. They just seemed to be having such fun caning around town in their various vehicles that we could barely begrudge them their complete lack of customer service. The indignant horror of the American Consumer who, knowing her rights, demands them without shame and often without patience doesn’t work here. In fact, it often has the opposite effect – I’ve seen the effect of an irate Customer on a government employee. It is possible to pinpoint the moment when heels dig in, eyes glaze over and some paperwork suddenly becomes urgent. Either that or they just disappear out the back never to return.

We were connected a week and a half ago, just two months after we walked into the yellow world of TTCL, and now enjoy the whoosh of broadband at a ridiculous speed, while my parents in California struggle to download my photos on their dial-up connection.

Every time a yellow TTCL vehicle passes us now, we lift our fist in solidarity and shout “TTCL!” My favourite is the yellow bajaji (auto-rickshaw) because of the inherent ridiculousness of a 10 foot ladder lashed to the roof and four or five blokes (technicians, TTCL employees, randoms?), squished inside and hanging off the side. If you’ve never seen an auto-rickshaw, it is essentially a three-wheeled motorbike with a metal hood that covers the back seat and the driver’s seat. I have always wanted to own one – it is a dream that other people might have about owning a Vespa, hair blowing in the wind etc. – and to cruise around town giving people lifts.

One day, when I have sufficiently buttered up the TTCL crew, I will joyride with them all around town, shouting “TTCL!” and shaking my fist out the open side of the bajaji.

But until then, we will continue to pass by the office, sit reading the papers and shooting the shit with floor manager. We will squeeze into the miniature couch with plastic cups of cold water. And we will be thankful for TTCL: Bringing People Closer Together.

Jon's 30th

Ethiopia. In bits

Arriving

Yesterday the Ethiopian Prime Minister rocked up to our hotel along with 2,000 Ethiopian farmers wearing identical chalk white caps and t-shirts. It was National Farmers’ Day and the farmers, rows upon rows of white caps and t-shirts, watched young traditional dancers shimmy and step in the traditional style. They all wore white and the girls had Queen of Sheba hairdos. The next morning we saw the Ethiopian Prime Minister on TV talking to the nation about the troops they’ve sent to Somalia and the bombing of the major airports. The sharp american accent of the BBC World newsreader comes in over the top telling us it could unbalance the fragile stability of the region. The newsreader uses the word, Islamists.


The Joker, Bahir Dar

The B____ bar is red and tiny and packed on both sides with people sitting on low wooden chairs and stools. There’s a bar at the back (also full of people) and to the right of it a door out to the bluelit alleyway behind. A man with a mini drumkit sits in the space between the door and the bar. Dressed in traditional white garb with a wooden instrument held low on his waist, the top end pressing into his shoulder, a man strolls back and forth in the tiny amount of floorspace afforded him. His instrument is guitar-like, but with a diamond-shaped body and one thick blue string that he manipulates with his fingers and palm, drawing a curved wooden bow across the bottom. The place is packed with young Ethiopians and I can see their shoulders wiggling to the beat. The man with diamond guitar strolls back and forth, his eyes sparkly and mischievous. He has the look of a joker and sings little ditties making fun of people in the room. A big man behind the bar leans over a young man’s shoulders and drunkenly sings a ditty of his own. Four lines.
“You say, ‘How are you?’ in English.” The joker repeats the phrase with a flourish of his bow.
“I say, ‘How are you?’ in Amharic.” Again, and some more bow.
“How can we understand each other?” Repeated and a flourish.
“But in bed, there is no problem!”
The bar goes mad with everyone clapping and laughing. The drums kick in and everyone is smiling at us.


The Boatman, Lake Tana

The hotel manager is strange and sleazy with a cleanly shaven head, he invites us for a coffee, and then for wine after ripping us off on the boat trip to the monasteries. The Ghion Hotel looks right out over Lake Tana and there are pelicans on a pile of rock nearby and hornbills making noise in the high branches of the trees. A nervous monkey collects bits of food left over from the Farmers’ Day celebrations.
We spend Christmas day, lazy start, trying to avoid the manager who seems to appear instantly at our sides, as if he has sniffed the air and smelled us coming. We avoided him and his flashy mobile phone, jumping off the large, clean tourist minibus at the last minute when we realised that we didn’t want to spend the day with other tourists. We caught the nice boatman (who also seems to get screwed by the sleazy manager) and did a deal with him to take us to the mouth of the blue nile river. He’d taken us out to the island monasteries the day before and made animated jokes to the Ethiopian couple from Addis Ababa we shared the trip with. Later the couple told us what he’d be saying, imitating different nationalities and their tipping habits – Japanese, American, French, English.
“You say your price in birr and the Japanese are tentative.” The boatman bows his head and makes a mmmm noise, imitating his Japanese customer. “You ask him then, What about 50 dollars? And the Japanese looks up smiles say yes yes yes and gets the money out straight away.”
“Americans? No problem – they leave big, enormous tips. And Germans, too. the French are difficult and the English,” he says, knowing we are English and the trip is not over yet, “are fair. If they get good service, they will tip you nicely.”

The boatman is embarrassed that his jokes have been translated to us by the man from Addis Ababa with the gold tooth and gel in his thinning hair. His girlfriend/wife/woman is younger and beautiful and quietly smiles. But we all egg him on and ask, What about Ethiopians? How do they tip?


The girlfriend is scared of the boat tipping and smiles nervously every time someone climbs in or out of the boat. While we wait at the bottom of the island at the top of which the monastery sits in a green cloud of foliage, she teaches me one to ten in Amharic and writes the script next to my own phonetic spellings. She seems pleased to help me and I think, with her beauty and quietness, she would make a good teacher. We are not allowed on the island because, as women, we would be a huge distraction to the monks who have there without such distractions on their turf since the middling ages. No Entrance For Lady. The men brought us back a photograph of this sign and of the ancient books of Mattius, Marcus, Luka, and Johannes, and of frescoes and of a monk holding a Lalibela Cross.

While we waited for the men to visit the monastery, we shared bananas and the boatman told us the story of an Italian woman who refused to accept that she wasn’t allowed up with the men, marched straight up to the gate beyond which the path led up the hill to the monastery. Our boatman sat on the dock drawing a sign for a monk who had emerged from the bushes. He traced the sun-faded symbols with his pen. The Italian woman was stopped at the gate by some Ethiopians – maybe the monks themselves – and a fracas ensued, she wouldn’t give up, she shouted and tussled. Eventually a fellow Italian was able to calm her down. And she not pass through the gate. The boatman continues to trace the Amharic script as he tells the story, shaking his head, laughing. She was a crazy woman. The monk stood by, nodding. It seemed we women posed no distraction whatsoever to this monk. And I felt the slightest trace of resentment, the barest inkling of indignation at having been excluded from the monastery for simply not being a man. A memory of feminism/equality, that dirty word, where does that fit into tradition and religion?

st gabriel, monastery, ethiopia