In the afternoon waiting to pick up this suit, I spent some time at an internet cafe across the cul-de-sac from my hotel, mostly reading news, cricket and sending a couple of emails. Leaving in the late arvo, a roaming street vendor approached me about 50m from La Brazzerade. The street was still busy, plenty of the stalls were still selling things, and there was lots of human traffic about. He had a basket of things taking up both of his hands, like a washing basket would. He starts yapping away at me rapidly in French. When I finally got a moment, I said I couldn't understand him.
He switched to broken, searching English.
On top of this basket was a styrofoam board with holes punched through it. In the holes pairs of sunglasses sat propped up. Some were a little scratched, most just looked like knock offs. "Want sunglasses?"
I pointed to my forehead where a pair of sunnies were perched. In case he missed the gesture, I deadpanned, "I've already got some".
He smiled, "OK OK!" and in putting the board on the ground greater revealed his basket. A length of rope was tied in a circle and on it watches were kept; all showing different times, many scratched to shit and looking pretty secondhand. "Want watch?"
For the second time, I fended off the would be salesman, by gesturing to my own watch, significantly less scratched and showing a time I believed.
He smiled toothily, "OK OK!" Delicately, he put the watches atop the sunglasses on the ground, getting to a collection of small cardboard boxes in his basket. Opening one, he pulled out a bottle of fragrance, half full. "Want perfumes?"
It'd be a cold day in hell that I'd catch myself carrying perfume but I got away with, "no, no woman, no girlfriend, no wife".
The toothy grin persisted, accompanied with a now customary "OK OK!" and he began placing those items on the ground beside the rest of his booty. Now, his basket was mostly empty. He pulled out its last item.
A knife.
Oh fuck.
I took half a step back. It was broad daylight and totally in public. There were dozens of people around, many quite close. I'd so far been reasonably lighthearted with respect to this nonexistent transaction but it had drained from me now, leaving uncertainty and a very real amount of fear. He stepped forward, knife extended, still smiling.
Smiling, as this was probably how he came to obtain these things he was now "selling" and he'd just ostensibly hit jackpot for future sales. I was rooted to the spot. Through the toothy grin came, "want knife?"
I could hardly believe it. Right hand diving into my pocket, I retrieved and unfolded in one motion a knife that Russ had given me last year.
"Nah mate, I've got a knife."
He kept smiling, gathered his things and wandered off, wishing me a good day. I went and found beer to heavily self medicate with.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Senegal: The Suit
While in South Africa, Lars sent me an email detailing his plans to take me to a charity ball themed as a prom while we were going to be in NYC. Part of this email implored me to obtain a jacket and pants in the interim, something I figured might be an interesting thing to do in Senegal.
I mentioned this to Herve whereupon he wasted little time taking me to a tailor. Between the tailor, Herve and I there was an obvious and probably insurmountable language barrier. Furthermore, I suspected he probably wasn't able to actually produce what I wanted. Herve must have realised this also as we left shortly thereafter and he asked again what I wanted.
With a change of tact I said, "James Bond's clothes". His eyes lit up.
He made a phonecall and we were walking again, this time coming to an internet cafe. I was perplexed. Herve and the proprietor talked briefly before pulling out four grainy black and white photos; one each of Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig, all in Bond suits. I grabbed the picture of Craig and then we departed, this time Herve took me to his house. My being perplexed still hadn't subsided.
We followed the rat race through some claustrophobia inducing alleys, bustling with people, stalls spilling out of side rooms and completed with unhygienic smells. Herve passed through a door on the right which opened into a dusty courtyard. Cats and a couple of roosters played in the shadier corners. The buildings enclosing it looked half finished. One was missing a fourth wall altogether (like only the best Boston Legal episodes).
A few women met us in the courtyard, Herve introduced them as his daughter, wife and mother in law. None of them spoke English so the interaction was very reliant on smiling, nodding and finger crossing. His wife measured me up in a fashion that I would best describe as endorsing a lot of hope and eschewing the carpentry maxim of, "measure twice, cut once".
Herve said she'd be going into Dakar city to get a suit, as to whether this meant tailored, stolen or retrieved from a coffin, I wasn't sure and wasn't willing to traverse the language difficulty to find out. Dutifully, I handed his wife 30,000 francs and crossed my fingers once more. The way I saw it, these 30,000 francs would buy me one of three stories and lessons.
a) Don't be so trusting of people, don't pay in advance and you'll keep your money
b) Be sure of the quality of the product before you part with cash
c) A bit of faith and ~$50 will win you a form fitting super suit in Senegal
Herve said he would meet me at La Brazzerade at 6PM to bring me back to his house to pick up the suit after his wife came back from Dakar. With that in mind, I spent the afternoon divided between the internet cafe across from the cul-de-sac from La Brazzerade (a story in itself) and the bar at the hotel. At 6PM I relocated myself and my beer to the front of the hotel. For an hour and a half I watched two local women (prostitutes) kick, scratch and scream over a client. This was all in a completely foreign language, but it required very little translation. Even here, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I relocated back to the bar at 7:30PM, a little disappointed that I had allowed myself to be swindled quite so easily. Copping it mostly on the chin, I settled in, filling my evening in with drinking, observing shameless Frenchmen and some writing. Otherwise engrossed by my own company, I was a little startled some time later in the night by Herve when he came and sat down at my table. Lighting a cigarette, he said that my suit was ready and he was here to take me back to his house for it. Finishing my beer in a time that would make most students blush, I put my things away and followed him into a now abandoned but just as smelly and claustrophobic maze of alleys.
On arrival, his wife was in the courtyard beaming. The cats, roosters and other women were nowhere to be seen, a young boy instead seemingly in their place. I gave his wife a toblerone bar, left over duty free from Johannesburg. Her beaming smile broadened. Herve retrieved the suit from a hanger on the clothesline in a corner of the courtyard. From ten feet, it looked a faultless replica. From two feet, it just looked faultless.
I tried it on, the fit was perfect. Herve's wife said something in French about being dressed fit to meet the president. This was probably a small exaggeration but I was certainly fit to attend a charity ball in NYC the following week...
I mentioned this to Herve whereupon he wasted little time taking me to a tailor. Between the tailor, Herve and I there was an obvious and probably insurmountable language barrier. Furthermore, I suspected he probably wasn't able to actually produce what I wanted. Herve must have realised this also as we left shortly thereafter and he asked again what I wanted.
With a change of tact I said, "James Bond's clothes". His eyes lit up.
He made a phonecall and we were walking again, this time coming to an internet cafe. I was perplexed. Herve and the proprietor talked briefly before pulling out four grainy black and white photos; one each of Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig, all in Bond suits. I grabbed the picture of Craig and then we departed, this time Herve took me to his house. My being perplexed still hadn't subsided.
We followed the rat race through some claustrophobia inducing alleys, bustling with people, stalls spilling out of side rooms and completed with unhygienic smells. Herve passed through a door on the right which opened into a dusty courtyard. Cats and a couple of roosters played in the shadier corners. The buildings enclosing it looked half finished. One was missing a fourth wall altogether (like only the best Boston Legal episodes).
 |
| One of Herve's cats, I suspect that this one could entertain itself forever. |
A few women met us in the courtyard, Herve introduced them as his daughter, wife and mother in law. None of them spoke English so the interaction was very reliant on smiling, nodding and finger crossing. His wife measured me up in a fashion that I would best describe as endorsing a lot of hope and eschewing the carpentry maxim of, "measure twice, cut once".
Herve said she'd be going into Dakar city to get a suit, as to whether this meant tailored, stolen or retrieved from a coffin, I wasn't sure and wasn't willing to traverse the language difficulty to find out. Dutifully, I handed his wife 30,000 francs and crossed my fingers once more. The way I saw it, these 30,000 francs would buy me one of three stories and lessons.
a) Don't be so trusting of people, don't pay in advance and you'll keep your money
b) Be sure of the quality of the product before you part with cash
c) A bit of faith and ~$50 will win you a form fitting super suit in Senegal
Herve said he would meet me at La Brazzerade at 6PM to bring me back to his house to pick up the suit after his wife came back from Dakar. With that in mind, I spent the afternoon divided between the internet cafe across from the cul-de-sac from La Brazzerade (a story in itself) and the bar at the hotel. At 6PM I relocated myself and my beer to the front of the hotel. For an hour and a half I watched two local women (prostitutes) kick, scratch and scream over a client. This was all in a completely foreign language, but it required very little translation. Even here, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I relocated back to the bar at 7:30PM, a little disappointed that I had allowed myself to be swindled quite so easily. Copping it mostly on the chin, I settled in, filling my evening in with drinking, observing shameless Frenchmen and some writing. Otherwise engrossed by my own company, I was a little startled some time later in the night by Herve when he came and sat down at my table. Lighting a cigarette, he said that my suit was ready and he was here to take me back to his house for it. Finishing my beer in a time that would make most students blush, I put my things away and followed him into a now abandoned but just as smelly and claustrophobic maze of alleys.
On arrival, his wife was in the courtyard beaming. The cats, roosters and other women were nowhere to be seen, a young boy instead seemingly in their place. I gave his wife a toblerone bar, left over duty free from Johannesburg. Her beaming smile broadened. Herve retrieved the suit from a hanger on the clothesline in a corner of the courtyard. From ten feet, it looked a faultless replica. From two feet, it just looked faultless.
I tried it on, the fit was perfect. Herve's wife said something in French about being dressed fit to meet the president. This was probably a small exaggeration but I was certainly fit to attend a charity ball in NYC the following week...
Senegal: Ile de N'Gor
The easiest achieved on my new to do list with Herve was traveling over to Ile de N'Gor on one of the frequently operating ferries/boats that seemingly moonlight as sieves. Handing Herve the equivalent of $2, he sourced return tickets for the both of us and handed me a life jacket whose best days as a flotation device were probably in the '80s. I'm not a great swimmer but I'd be pretty concerned with myself (or dead) if I failed to make land on either side (400m tops) never mind any one of the dozens of nearer moored boats. Regardless, this nod to health and safety in an African nation - however notional it may be - was both amusing and a little heartwarming; at least they seemed to acknowledge the porous nature of the hull of their vessel.
Ile de N'Gor is very simply a tourist island. There are a handful of hotels, restaurants, bars, markets and homestays aimed at different sized wallets. It can be traversed on foot in under half an hour and reasonably well explored in half a day. It was here that I met Africa YeYe, a man who paints sarongs, makes and plays bongo drums and is more than half a dozen beers in before midday, everyday. Among the five or six of Herve's friends that I would meet, the camps of thought on Africa YeYe's boozing would be evenly populated by people regarding it as tragic or legendary.
For the princely sum of $2, Ile de N'Gor is well worth braving maritime rescue for. It's a little more spacious and less helter skelter than continental N'Gor, I suppose owing to the fact that it's almost exclusively a tourist trap...
Ile de N'Gor is very simply a tourist island. There are a handful of hotels, restaurants, bars, markets and homestays aimed at different sized wallets. It can be traversed on foot in under half an hour and reasonably well explored in half a day. It was here that I met Africa YeYe, a man who paints sarongs, makes and plays bongo drums and is more than half a dozen beers in before midday, everyday. Among the five or six of Herve's friends that I would meet, the camps of thought on Africa YeYe's boozing would be evenly populated by people regarding it as tragic or legendary.
For the princely sum of $2, Ile de N'Gor is well worth braving maritime rescue for. It's a little more spacious and less helter skelter than continental N'Gor, I suppose owing to the fact that it's almost exclusively a tourist trap...
Monday, June 24, 2013
Senegal: Herve
I met Herve on the beach on my first morning and through some broken English he explained he was a guide and asked if I'd like to be shown the village. I agreed to hire him and we headed into the ratrace and maze of bustling and tight alleys. Maybe this was dangerous, certainly it wasn't well informed but I had three days to do something, why not violent be violently coerced into becoming a French drug mule after my organs had been harvested?
While wandering through the alleys of N'Gor, Herve asked how long I'd be there for and what I wanted to do. It was a very transparent effort at drumming up repeat business. I outlined a few ideas of things to do that Lying Planet had suggested, Herve suggested a few others, we worked out a rough itinerary and haggled by writing numbers in the sand and kicking out the more offensive ones.
All of a sudden I had a plan, a guide and presumably someone at least a little invested in keeping me out of trouble.
While wandering through the alleys of N'Gor, Herve asked how long I'd be there for and what I wanted to do. It was a very transparent effort at drumming up repeat business. I outlined a few ideas of things to do that Lying Planet had suggested, Herve suggested a few others, we worked out a rough itinerary and haggled by writing numbers in the sand and kicking out the more offensive ones.
All of a sudden I had a plan, a guide and presumably someone at least a little invested in keeping me out of trouble.
Senegal: La Brazzerade
For the first time in my travels, I was really embracing Lonely Planet's suggestions, pandering mostly to a great deal of personal uncertainty about traveling in Dakar. La Brazzerade got a pretty good write up including some golden words about its grill and ocean side rooms. $60/night after a week of not paying for accommodation was well within my budget so I went for it.
This was a good decision. My room was great, the staff friendly and immensely patient, food excellent and ample cheap beer was at hand.
Relief overwhelmed surprise or suspicion at being able to walk straight in at 3AM to check in and find the bar still open with a handful of locals chattering away. I dropped my bags off and headed back down for a nightcap.
While buying a beer, an African lady dressed to the nines peeled off the main group, stationed herself beside me and asked if I'd just flown in, in near enough to good English. Suspecting that conversation might be scarce in Senegal, I went for it, bought her a beer and spread the word about hoopsnakes and drop bears for as long as half a litre of beer lasts. At the end of it I said I was going to bed and got up and left.
She followed me. It wasn't until I was at my door that I realised she was behind me. Perplexed, I asked her why she was following me.
"For your massage"
She wasn't a guest at all. I was staying at a hotel that was moonlighting as a brothel.
My three days at La Brazzerade were really enjoyable. The bar always had something interesting going on and the grill - as Lonely Planet had suggested - was pretty excellent. However, this all comes with one large caveat. If watching middle aged Frenchmen with fat wallets and fatter guts go on a sex tour of West Africa is going to leave you feeling uncomfortable, maybe stay at home.
Amusingly, it's the hookers that speak the best English here and for the most part, the ones that I've rubbed shoulders with (figuratively) have been good company right up until they learn that I didn't want to shag them.
This was a good decision. My room was great, the staff friendly and immensely patient, food excellent and ample cheap beer was at hand.
Relief overwhelmed surprise or suspicion at being able to walk straight in at 3AM to check in and find the bar still open with a handful of locals chattering away. I dropped my bags off and headed back down for a nightcap.
While buying a beer, an African lady dressed to the nines peeled off the main group, stationed herself beside me and asked if I'd just flown in, in near enough to good English. Suspecting that conversation might be scarce in Senegal, I went for it, bought her a beer and spread the word about hoopsnakes and drop bears for as long as half a litre of beer lasts. At the end of it I said I was going to bed and got up and left.
She followed me. It wasn't until I was at my door that I realised she was behind me. Perplexed, I asked her why she was following me.
"For your massage"
She wasn't a guest at all. I was staying at a hotel that was moonlighting as a brothel.
My three days at La Brazzerade were really enjoyable. The bar always had something interesting going on and the grill - as Lonely Planet had suggested - was pretty excellent. However, this all comes with one large caveat. If watching middle aged Frenchmen with fat wallets and fatter guts go on a sex tour of West Africa is going to leave you feeling uncomfortable, maybe stay at home.
Amusingly, it's the hookers that speak the best English here and for the most part, the ones that I've rubbed shoulders with (figuratively) have been good company right up until they learn that I didn't want to shag them.
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