Another View

During my afternoon class today, my professor had me read an article from the newspaper that had been published last week. The article was written by an intern at the newspaper who is most likely French. I love the article because it gives an outsider's perspective on this city. You've been hearing about it from me for the past month, so I thought it might be interesting for you to see what another foreigner thinks of this city. So, here it is:

Dakar, As Seen By a Foreigner
(Printed in the Soleil, October 5, 2007; roughly translated by Shannon O’Rourke)

It’s as if the sun is melting the houses that dare to rise towards the sky. Dakar is flat, crushed. Above, only the minarets of the mosques and the birds of prey have their place. The former sing, unmoving, and insensitive to the time that passes by. The latter are silent, and fly in the air by the dozens. They see beneath them the noisy life and the swarms of rushing people. But, what do they really see?
Probably, a hell for pedestrians. Buses, taxis, cars, and trucks scorn, pay no attention to, and honk at pedestrians. The sidewalks, the vital place for pedestrians, disappear under all sorts of merchandise or are crumbling into the street. Such is the place for pedestrians in this city which is mounted on four wheels and where green spaces are rare.

Walking merchants circulate all day between the exhaust pipes in order to sell their stock of belts, telephone cards, and sunglasses. The tourists, of whom there are few, are discouraged by the scorching heat and the harassment downtown. They are warned by their tour guides of frauds. But as they prepare themselves to be ready for such an instance, four people trick them: a few press and push them and the fourth rummages through their pockets. When you see this once, one understands that the victims are not only the tourists, but also the honest Senegalese merchants whose activities are tarnished by the tricksters. A few men steal, but many beg: children, women with newborn babies, and the sick handicapped by polio. One is first shocked, but then gets used to seeing it.

And continuing to soar through the sky, the birds of prey also see a Dakar which, from a distance, is more charming and less suffocating. You have to read the slogans on the walls, see the papers pass from hand to hand, and the agitated conversations of men and women to understand that the people of Dakar are more latin than the Latin. They speak passionately about politics, sports, and the latest news of the neighborhood or country with a great deal of gestures. When taking a public bus, one is surprised to see all of the passengers present their tickets to the controller, while in Paris it’s popular to try to get by without purchasing a ticket. And then, on a detour due to a street filled with sand, one gets a glimpse of the ocean. Once off the bus, one walks faster and faster down the streets where Mercedes pass horse carts, and then down the smaller side streets filled with goats and children playing soccer, and then one finally arrives at the beach. Dakar without the Atlantic seems unlivable, a place filled with din and chaos without the coolness and calmness of the ocean. Of the mystical Ouakam, where the sea is filled with children floating with swim toys, to the savage Yoff which calls back the waves of Landes, the beach is the indispensible place of decompression of the Dakar cooker-pressure. Aligned to the shore, facing the foam of the sea, the small colorful boats respond to the call of the open sea. The fishing nets are kept busy on the side of the boat, but the fishermen seem less enthusiastic. Yet, the traffic of the sea seems more appealing than that of the city.