becomes

Typical site in the streets: a talibé begging for his religious teacher

It’s not all that unusual to see a white person walking the streets of this city, but you can bet that if your skin is fair and you are living here, you make a heck of a lot more money than the average Senegalese person. 

According to USAID, the average daily income in Senegal is $1.50. That’s 550 dollars a year.  I think I spent that much on the yoga pants sitting in my dresser drawer right now- which is a little mind-boggling for a number of reasons (only half of which address my unhealthy addiction to purchasing expensive workout gear). 

Every time I cross the Place de l’Independance in downtown Dakar, I am met by the usual stream of begging children. As soon as they see me, they make their approach: buzzing about at an acceptable distance with outstretched arms that hold empty cans. I smile absent-mindedly and continue on past them. Shortly after I clear them, I am next greeted by a gauntlet of vendors who are all hoping to sell me their small and mostly useless trinkets. They’re a bit more persistent, so I try to only briefly smile and not stop for them when they call out to me. One always poses the same question as I walk past him: “faché ou fauché?” (“angry or broke?”). I smile and keep on walking until I get to the other side of the Place. I know where the man with no legs sits on the ground and holds up his hand to me, so I instead choose to jockey with taxis in the street so as to avoid this minimal interaction. I opt for Street Pinball until I know I can find sidewalks where vendors take station- and I don’t feel so bad about not giving them a second look.

“My sister, my sister!”

“Pssst!”

“Madame! Madame!”

“Beep!” (Those are the taxis, who will stop for me from 200 meters away, even if I am not looking for a taxi. Then they get mad when I come upon them and tell them that I wasn’t ever looking for a taxi.)

You’ll hear all of these things ad nauseam, each and every time that you step out your front door. When I start to get frustrated, I try to remember where these people are coming from (nothing much at all, as it turns out). It’s so easy to get frustrated by the constant barrage of people who call out like you are the human version of a Mardi Gras float- where instead of beads, you are thought to hold endless reserves of coins that are just waiting to be thrown to frenetic recipients. I certainly never considered myself as a rich person, but now that I’m live in Africa, I see that my definitions need to be redefined.

I have nothing profound or insightful to write on the topic of world poverty. I’m no economist, philosopher or policymaker- I’m just another American who through dumb luck won the gene lottery and was born in the right place at the right time. The pessimist (or perhaps realist) in me says that we will never be able to wipe poverty from the earth; society will always be composed of the Haves and the Have-nots. Still, my pessimistic outlook shouldn’t and doesn’t absolve me from the basic human obligation of looking for ways to make things at least modestly better in my own corner of the world.

Apart from handing out fruit to some of these small children, I haven’t figured out exactly how to do this yet.