The Toubab Effect

Intervention studies take into account factors that could potentially muddle a relationship between two variables of interest. For instance, if you want to know whether exercising is related to weight loss, you also have to consider what and how much a person eats. If a man exercised every day but ate twice as much energy as he needs, you're likely to conclude that exercising doesn't make a difference in his body weight, but dietary intake would have a confounding effect on the relationship.

In our study here in Dakar, we're dealing with the Toubab Effect. (Toubab being a term for white person.) In general, I'm quick to pick up a youngster who needs attention ... until said child starts howling at the sight of my face. (I try not to take it too personally.) It's pretty amusing to watch everyone's reactions to my approaching a youngster who clearly would rather not be cooed at by a scary foreigner. Given that, I only wander in and out of view as needed while we're filming the children eating the cereal, lest they get distracted and decide to stop eating in protest.

The Senegalese study staff from the university get the biggest kick out of referring to the stations at the study site as "Station Anthropometrique" (where the kids' lengths and weights are measured), "Station Alimentaire" (where the cereals are fed to children), and "Station Toubab" (where the other Toubab and I sit and enter the data into the laptop). The lead staff member from the university brought in some beignets (delicious, doughnut-like balls rolled in sugar) for the team yesterday morning and warned me that I need to gain some weight if I am going to find myself a Senegalese husband here. When I told her that I went to the tailor on Saturday to drop off the material I'd bought here and to have some pants made, she replied, "I hope they're a tighter fit than those pantalons you're currently wearing!" and started cackling. I can't tell whether she's like this at baseline or whether it's her pregnancy-induced loss of a filter, but she's a riot.

I took a "Survival Wolof" class over the weekend which armed me with the (many) basic greetings, all of which I tend to use at once. I've already discovered wider smiles and surprised facial expressions in response to my attempts at saying hello in Wolof. I've heard of taxi drivers dropping the fares for folks who greet in Wolof rather than French. Although securing a safe ride from point A to B is a greater task than negotiating the fare: while riding in a taxi recently, when the driver pulled into the gas station I casually glanced at the ignition and then again at the ignition. It was hotwired (and probably had parts stolen from other cars)!

We've since found a friendly, reliable taxi driver named Babacar to take us to the clinic each morning. He drives a new-ish Peugeot, with seat belts all around, and sent a friend of his to pick us up when he was out of town one day last week. I got a bit confused when I said to his buddy, "You're a friend of Babacar?" and Buddy replied, "Oui, Pape is my brother." Pape? Pape who? I thought it was Babacar. But everyone seems to be called Pape here. And brother, even if no relation.

Apparently, names are a universal source of confusion. Once Babacar returned, I loved the text message he sent to let me know when he had arrived at my building: "Saly, j'ai arrive." Poor fella, confused by my Toubab name!