Note: I’m afraid that this post kind of unwittingly devolved into a diatribe against men, but I’m still going to post it and see what comments come forth…
The entrance of our hotel. I know that this just a cast-off toilet, but I find it a fitting symbol of the notion of privacy round these parts.
The Senegalese value their sense of community above most other things. This is an important point because it explains why people here don’t grasp the desire to spend extended amounts of time by oneself. I’m no anthropologist, but I suspect that this stems from the fact that life in Africa is hard, and if you don’t surround yourself with an ample support structure, you’re not going to make it very far.
Obviously, I don’t scorn this mode of living. Indeed I find it to be the only viable way to live when growing up African. There’s also something to be said for the whole “it takes a village” axiom. But I didn’t grow up here, and my culture of living swings in the complete opposite direction….
Our sleepy town here in the south. It moves to its own pleasant vibe.
Those of you who know me understand that even while living in Ireland- above all a country of people who value silent reflection- I still often ducked out in search of even quieter spaces. That’s just the person that I am. Keeping this in mind, it’s not a stretch to believe that I could never be confused with a Senegalese person (skin color notwithstanding). Even down here in the south, as we sit on a beach made for toubabs, I find myself looking for greater escape.
The same town, I find this tree the embodiment of Senegalese life.
Here relationships are important, as are the daily greetings exchanged with the people that you encounter on a daily basis. With this in mind, it should come as no surprise then that my employment of the very cursory “Ça va” greeting (essentially, ‘hi-how are you-I’m fine’) was regarded as insufficient (and little rude) while interacting with the hotel staff.
“Why doesn’t Lisa talk to me?” asks a staffer to my friend Liz while she is off playing with her son.
[I should probably note that I have reverted to employing my college bar name ‘Lisa’ when interacting with unknown West African men.]
“She just wants to read her book” answers the congenial Liz as she is left accounting for my anti-social behavior.
Liz is correct: all I want to do is to sit and read my 800-page book undisturbed. Call me impatient, rude, or even a misanthrope (it’s all been done) but I can only take so many repeated daily interactions of “Hello, I’m fine, yes I slept well, yes I’m relaxing, yes it is beautiful outside, yes it is hot, yes the food is good, yes I am probably going swimming (again) today” before I get a little nutty. I know that the relationship between staff and tourist is superficial, and if I were in Asia, America or Europe I’d still want to be left largely alone while staying at a hotel.
And really, I do make an effort to be polite around these parts…but it seems as though every time I show any semblance of consideration, I am repaid with exactly the thing that I don’t want.
Take the dude who paints the palm trees at this resort- I walk by him after breakfast one morning and offer up the usual “Ça va?”- because I believe that you should treat all people with a base-level courtesy. I don’t just get the same “ça va” response back from him. No, instead I see a goofy grin and hear “Tu es belle” as a reward. Really? You can’t just make me feel comfortable and say “hello” back to me as I walk by?
Nope, the DNA make-up of the men in this country don’t really allow for that.
Or let’s go back to the staffer who was talking to Liz. He came back to re-engage me as I was sitting at the beach. Here’s a condensed version of the long exchange:
Him: “There’s a big Senegalese soiree tomorrow night that is followed by a disco.”
Me: “Yes I have heard.”
Him: “I am inviting you.”
Me: “Okay that is nice, thank you. I’m not sure what our group is doing yet. On verra (we’ll see). ”
I try to go back to my book and ignore him. He is not going away.
Him: “But I’m inviting you.”
Me: “What?” I ask, playing stupid and looking up from my book in a way that says ‘haven’t we crossed over the accepted client-staffer interaction line for the morning?’
Him: “I’m inviting you. You are coming to the disco.”
Me: “Disco? No, I don’t dance. I’ve already told you, thanks but I don’t know what our group is doing that night. We’ll see.”
Him: “Oh so you have to ask your group for permission. You can’t make your own decisions?”
He’s got a big smile on his face.
I’m getting annoyed since:
1) I just want to read my book
2) He is not taking the hint that I don’t want to be disturbed, and
3) He is standing over the back of my chair, laughing and doubtlessly looking down at my boobs as I sit in my bikini. I want to throw my 10-pound book at him.
He finally takes the hint when I make a grand showing of returning to my book for the nth time and actively ignore him while he continues to stand there and make us both look stupid.
Him: “T’es fantastique, Lisa” (You are fantastic) he says, as he finally takes leave of my beach chair. I’m agitated by his parting shot and have trouble returning to my book for a few minutes.
At the rate that I am griping about my fantastic vacation, maybe next year I’ll patronize this seaside ‘resort’ (taken from the ferry as we departed Casamance).
After a year, it’s getting hard for me to remain polite and not get annoyed that I constantly find myself holding the bag when it comes to smoothing over awkwardness that I myself did not create. If I try to be ouverte (open) with everyone- even if it’s against my own nature- this is largely misinterpreted as me being “interested” in these local men. On the flip side, if I act too closed-off or abrupt, I’m pegged as just another privileged toubab living in a developing country. I find it an impossible battle to win.
So yes, this trip down to the south was indeed nice, but it was certainly a microcosm of the things that I deal with each day while in living in Senegal by myself. After 11 months I am now inclined to stay true to my personality, which will doubtless place me in a category of white women who come off as thinking that they are too good for everyone else. Of course this is not the case, but in the interest of self-preservation, I find that this is the only way I’ll ever finish a good book in peace.
This photo, taken as I drank a beer outside of our hotel, shows that my experience could not be solely chalked up as an adventure in harassment. Indeed, it still provided plenty of peace and tranquility….even if the night guard came up afterward and asked if I had any beers left for him.