It was the week before Tabaski, and the dusty streets were dotted with white sheep waiting for their slaughter. A sign in French advertised, “Win a mutton with Western Union!” A young man strolled about the middle of the road with small axes in his hands. Preparations were underway for the annual celebration in which Muslims kill a lamb as a symbol of their faith to God.
In Dakar, the capital of Senegal, most people are Muslim, and daily life is dominated by the influence of the religion. The markets were fuller than usual, and traffic on the main boulevard by the coast was jammed. My taxi driver, who was tall and lithe and wore a skullcap, shook his head, chuckling. “Every family’s getting ready for the Tabaski party,” he said. In parts of the city, young boys not yet 10 years old tapped on my window in the taxi, begging for money instead of going to school. Leaders of some religious schools here require boys to beg for at least a dollar on the streets to show piousness and humility. But as much as my heart was breaking for them, I couldn’t give those boys money.
By the latest estimates, 30,000 kids attend religious schools in Dakar, and not all of them advocate begging. But it was clear even from my short visit to Dakar, that many still do – despite statements from Senegal presidents and a 2010 court ruling condemning the practice. Human rights groups and government officials say some schools take the children’s money and abuse them. Some children are beaten. Many others sleep on the streets. Leaders of these schools control influence over voters because more than 90% of the country is Muslim. As a result, elected officials have been slow to crack down on the abuse. It is such a sensitive topic that reporters often save writing this story for when they’re ready to leave the country, a friend told me.
As with other parts of French-speaking Africa that I visited, the legacy of French colonization remained strong in society and the economy. The elites and customer-facing people spoke French well, though often in an accent so heavy my untrained ears often couldn’t parse out the words. Wolof, not French, was the real choice of everyday discourse. The take-off and emergency procedures on my Royal Air Maroc flight from Morocco to Senegal were spoken only in French, as sign of the dominance of France in the region, because most international flights use at least English and one or two other languages. Many boutiques and restaurants were closed, because the French always take the whole month of August off. The closures indicated how many businesses were still owned by French. The main banks in town were an affiliate of BNP Paribas and Societe Generale.
One thing the country wasn’t able to inherit was a fast track to modernized systems. Daily inefficiencies were symptoms of larger troubles with financial systems, public infrastructure and urban planning. One day, I wasted an hour going to six different ATMs before one spat out cash. My taxi driver said banks frequently have problems with cash. Not many places take credit cards or mobile payments. The main streets are paved in concrete, but most of the side streets are dirt roads. On one corner, pairs of sports shoes, one them in glittering gold lame, were lined up in rows in the dirt. “Every street looks like a sandy construction site,” my friend told me on my arrival. “This is normal.”
Places do not have addresses with numbers, which hampers the growing delivery business and makes finding exact locations somewhat of a scavenger hunt. People go by street names and the nearest landmarks. Petty crime is also rampant. Thieves like to ride motorcycles so they can snatch a bag out of your hand and make a swift getaway. It had happened to a friend only a few months after she had moved to the city. Foreign women often warn each other not to live on the ground floor of a building, because it’s easier for robbers to break in.
Despite all these problems, many say Dakar is their favorite city in West Africa, and I could see why. There’s a laid-back, quiet beach culture that is distinctly Senegalese. Up the northern coast near wealthier neighborhoods, surfers pushed themselves out from jagged rocky beaches and shredded the roaring waves. Small bars and restaurants, just a handful of them in pockets along the coast, seemed to serve beers and drinks in slow motion. Instead of the fish tacos you might find on a Southern California beach, the specialty here was skewers, or brochettes, of savory cubes of grilled fish. Instead of salsa, the meal came with bread served with mayonnaise, ketchup and a fiery green chili. French tourists lazed about in white lounge chairs and bikinis and smoked.
Dakar beaches at sunset are a display of athleticism and energy. Bands of young men moved across the beach like herds of antelope, doing drills of squats and short sprints. “The whole beach is the gym,” a friend quipped. One evening, we took a taxi to the north end of the peninsula to cross over to Ngor Island, one of the surrounding islands that banned cars and so only has walking paths. A giant pelican strutted on the sand. Young men bounced a volleyball among themselves. Once the French speakers haggled the price for the pirogues, or canoes, we donned life jackets, stepped into the waves and climbed into the boat, which rocked back and forth until we reached shore. We winded down alleys between stone walls of buildings until we ended up at an Italian restaurant for a birthday soiree of pasta and wine.
