Mango Season

There’s an enormous mango tree at the university, its branches nearly in arms’ reach from the window of the nutrition lab. I’ve been waiting, impatiently, for the fruit to turn from green to yellow and to drop. Finally, the first mangos of the season appeared in the markets last week. Although mangoes signal the sticky hot weather to come all too soon, they’re abundant and sweet, and so delicious that it’s hard to resist eating one daily. They might, just might, be a trade-off to the unbearably hot days ahead.

I recently finished reading The Shadow of the Sun, an engaging portrait of Africa written by Ryszard Kapuscinski. In the book, he describes Dakar: “A beautiful coastal city, pastel-colored, picturesque, laid out on a promontory amid beaches and terraces, slightly resembling Naples, the residential areas of Marseilles, the posh suburbs of Barcelona. Palm trees, gardens, cypresses, bougainvillea. Stepped streets, hedges, lawns, fountains. French boutiques, Italian hotels, Greek restaurants.”

Recalling a train ride leaving Dakar, Kapuscinski continues, “The lush, flowering gardens have disappeared, swallowed beneath the ground, and a desert has commenced, but a populated desert, full of shacks and lean-tos, sand upon which sprawls a neighborhood of squalor, a chaotic and swarming district of slums, one of the depressing bidonvilles that surround most African cities.”

Indeed it is beautiful, with sweeping views of the Atlantic, which is dotted with fishing boats (pirogues) off the coast. Dakar is Mediterranean-like and there are several upscale venues catering to European tourists. Last week I attended a work-related cocktail reception at a hotel (which happens to sit on the most western point of Africa) with at least two swimming pools overlooking the ocean, a golf course, polished tile floors, and immaculately manicured lawns and shrubs. After some nibbles around the pool patio, my daily routine seemed oddly distant since this hotel was so extraordinary.

While commuting through largely expat neighborhoods with a variety of restaurants and shops en route to downtown each day, we pass other neighborhoods constructed of recycled materials – corrugated metal roofs, scrap wood, and cardboard. The markets are overflowing with people looking to sell and trade goods in overwhelming numbers. People selling sunglasses by the dozens try to coax a sale, “Madame, you like these! They’re not expensive! They’re very pretty!” Groups of people are seen sitting. Sitting along sidewalks, or under a tree, presumably without work. A taxi driver told me one day, “People here are tired. Tired of no jobs.” Living standards are comfortable, if not luxurious, for some who live here, and seeing this contrasted with the urban poverty is consistently jarring in highlighting the disparity in living conditions.

Thursdays at The Café

I get the biggest kick out of kids aged a year and change. It's a fun age, watching them learning to interact with each other and starting to babble. Moms seem highly amused when their children are comfortable being carried around by a foreigner. It's a nice break from project data entry and verifying questionnaire forms when a I spot a little one who needs to be carried around or entertained.

The neighborhood surrounding the clinic brims with energy: rainbow-colored car rapides dodge potholes as they putt-putt down the street, taxis honk as they sneak up behind pedestrians walking in the street and barely avoid running them over, barefoot children run after each other shrieking, neighbors exchange ritual salutations, Nescafe coffee carts wheel around corners, goats rummage through heaps of trash, men pray on mats, women sit on inverted buckets on the sidewalk washing clothes, preparing the daily meal in large metal bowls over fires, or selling oranges, grapefruits, and candied roasted peanuts in small clear plastic sachets.

There are blocks and blocks of workshops where furniture is constructed, clothes are sewn, metal housewares formed. If I could capture the mosaic of sounds heard outside the clinic, of the clanking metal, whirring sewing machines, and instructions shouted in Wolof, I’d submit it to NPR for one of the guessing games of “name this sound.”

On Thursdays, in addition to feeding the children cereal, we collect blood samples of participants finishing the study in the morning (in order to analyze the plasma zinc concentrations of subjects) and lead an afternoon-long orientation with newly recruited study participants at the clinic. These are easily 12-hour days, from the time the taxi picks me up at 7 am, or quarter of, and I return home, following stops at the university to drop off the cooler and to store the samples and ice packs in the freezer.

After the participants have left the site each day, we have a brief team meeting, clean the room and prepare folders for the following day. Normally we munch on bread topped with canned tuna and sliced cucumbers, brought from home, for lunch at the clinic. Occasionally one of us will remember to bring mustard; then it feels like we’ve upgraded our meal plan.

However, we’ve instituted a weekly treat: our mid-day respite on the longer days is a café just a 10-minute walk from the clinic. The smell of freshly baked bread lingers in the air surrounding the building and inside there are rows and rows of treats at the patisserie counter. Napoleans, operas, éclairs, lemon tarts, apple tarts, croissants. Raisin bread, sesame rolls, whole wheat loaves. There are chocolate bars imported from France and boxes of loose leaf tea for sale. Recently on display are giant egg- and bunny-shaped chocolates on tables covered with yellow tablecloths.

We sit at one of the tables in the bright, airy room with sunshine streaming through windows, and flip through a Jeune Afrique magazine or newspaper after ordering lunch. Usually it's a hot panini sandwich with a green salad; sometimes I splurge for freshly pressed juice, but I always splurge for a perfectly-made cappuccino.

March Madness

I read that living in Africa can be both exhilarating and unsettling. Earlier this month, I had an adventure riding local public transport with my French/Wolof teacher. We took a bus to the HLM marketplace, which sells everything one can imagine and more. We wove in and out of stalls with rolls and rolls of material, past dyed shoes, sparkly costume jewelry, and sequined dresses. We then rode in a car rapide to the Point E neighborhood and joined a group for dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant. I met some Fulbright scholars and we chatted quite a bit; unfortunately they left the following day for their field research in village located hours outside of Dakar.

Maybe it’s just part of living overseas, the unsettled feeling of being far away from family and friends for an uncertain period of time and meeting other people who are also in transition. Fortunately, I haven’t really had time to overanalyze it. This month was consumed with starting the larger study of zinc fortification of infant cereal and preparing for a workshop held in Dakar. I was simultaneously doing research for one of the background papers presented at the workshop and arranging the meeting logistics while getting the study rolling along with a new team of data collectors. The learning curve is steep and the work is exhausting but it’s, well, exhilarating. This is the kind of work I'd hoped to find, and I'm still pinching myself daily.

Just as the workshop wrapped up and the study was started to run more smoothly, I had my first visitor from Seattle! We visited Ile de Goree and feasted on lunch at a waterside restaurant before taking a tour of the historic island. My visitor was such a good sport, too, coming to work with me at the clinic on Sunday morning to observe the study site on her day off. We went to the lighthouse later in the afternoon and could see all the way to Goree Island and the coast of Senegal; I did a double-take because I’d never seen it so clearly.





We then ran from the lighthouse through the Almadies neighborhood (so nice to have a running buddy!), and met some friends for dinner at a restaurant perched on the water, serving cold Gazelle beer and fresh fish. Sitting at the table and watching the sunset, (though swatting at mosquitoes) I felt not entirely unsettled, but relaxed and grateful for good company. And grateful for bug spray.

Now, who’s next coming to visit?!

Lac Rose

Last weekend 5 Peace Corps volunteers from remote areas of Mauritania stayed with us while they were in town for a Peace Corps event. Although potentially a circus with such a full house, I enjoyed their company and was amused by their appreciation for electricity and running water. They were such easy-to-please houseguests; just about over the moon when I sprinkled parmesan cheese over pasta for our dinner. The night they arrived, I had left work exhausted and was skeptical that I felt up to the task of being the welcome wagon. However, the moment they walked in I was greeted with huge smiles as they chattered away in familiar American accents. I found their gratefulness and enthusiasm infectious and my bad mood disappeared. As the weekend went on, I sort of felt like a summer camp counselor again since the age difference between them and me was spot-on, and I loved hearing their adventurous stories.

I also took my first day trip out of Dakar with my apartment-mate, a Senegalese co-worker, and our neighbor, an entrepreneur from Texas who keeps an apartment here and comes to Senegal a few times a year for business. I don’t know why it surprised me, but the group dynamic was unexpectedly terrific and everyone’s “up for anything” disposition made for a relaxing day.



We drove to the aptly-named Lac Rose and marveled at the pink water (the water really is pink in the shallow areas close to the shore). Further along the shore, sitting next to mounds of salt from the lake, was a machine for salt iodization. We got out of the car to take a peek and were immediately surrounded by folks selling jewelry and painted cards depicting the lake. Their determination and persistence to make a sale is admirable, if not plain annoying, pushing a necklace into my hand and saying, “It’s pretty! It’s not expensive! It’s made here!” One can’t just flat-out refuse with, “No, thanks” (which is insulting) but instead responds, “It is very nice, but I’m okay.” It’s even better if you can make a joke while declining the transaction.



After we left Lac Rose, we drove another hour through rural areas, past mango trees beginning to bloom and elephant-like baobab trees (we stopped and climbed one!), to a small town (past Mbour, towards Kaolack) along the water. We enjoyed a very nice lunch at a resort where a friend of my co-worker works. We sat outside on the deck overlooking an estuary and spotted egrets and blue herons among the mangroves and brightly-colored exotic native birds perched in the lush tropical trees under which the restaurant was built. We all ordered yassa poulet – chicken with onion sauce, a favorite Senegalese dish – and were surprised with not one, but two desserts – individual chocolate lava cakes and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. It was completely over the top but I chalked it up to being a vacation day and happily dug in. For a moment, I didn’t believe this was Africa.

Afterwards, we followed a horse-drawn carriage as we drove across a manmade bridge, just wide enough for one car, to visit our hostess’s family in the neighboring village. We picked manioc leaves and dug up manioc root – similar to a potato but more flavorful than potatoes available here, and flakier when sliced and fried. I likened it to substituting fried plantains for French fries – just a side dish but when well done, the difference between an average meal and something special.



For me, it was like being in the villages that I had visited in Mali ... only not as remote, but still pretty much off the tourist path. Once again I experienced exceptionally kind hospitality and appreciated the tranquility of the rural area. I felt rejuvenated after the change of scenery and a day spent in good company.

Lights Out

Since my French is really quite basic, I’m often left in the dark at times when things are lost in translation. Last night a little misunderstanding left me - literally - in the dark. At first I paid no attention to the early afternoon power cut since it happens frequently and usually lasts only for short intervals. I kept waiting the electricity to turn on again yesterday afternoon but wasn’t fussed since my apartment-mate was away and I could still cook on the gas stove.

However, as the daylight waned, I grew perplexed as to why the outage was dragging on so long. I poked my head outside on the balcony and was shocked to see lights in the neighboring buildings, since usually the entire neighborhood is in this together. Then I discovered that the hallway of my apartment building lit up when I pressed the button, so I started to wonder where I might find the circuit breaker.

I dug out a few candles from under the sink and laid them on the kitchen table before I walked downstairs and asked the guard if other apartments were without electricity. He shook his head, then said, “Wait,” and disappeared for a minute into another room. A moment later, he opened the door and waved me in while pointing to a meter. He said, “You’re out of credit. Do you have candles?” Sure enough, our meter read zero, while others flashed numbers and whirred on.

I had no idea that there was any kind of credit associated with our electricity. I had (naively) assumed that we’d pay a bill at the end of the month for what we’d used. No, that’s not how it works here. I quickly learned that you buy credit – much like the phone credits – and top off the meter, then hope that you (or someone else) will notice when you’re meter is running low. I asked where I could buy a refill card. Senelec, but they don’t open again until Monday, was the response. Anywhere else I might get a card? Nope. I was thankful for a moment that no one spoke English for what came out of my mouth next.

It then dawned on me while I was walking back up the stairs to my apartment: our housekeeper was trying to convey this to me on Friday morning. The guard must have told her that our credit was running low, and she then explained this to me but I didn’t quite get the whole story. I had interpreted her pointing at the light fixture on the wall above the refrigerator as she couldn’t find light bulbs. At the time, I nodded, and said the equivalent of OK, no problem, clearly not seeing this as anything urgent.

As I lit the candles I started to laugh at myself for totally missing the point; serves me right for not figuring out a way to clarify what I didn’t understand. As they say, don’t assume...

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!

Yoff, Chez Moi

Views from the roof deck of my new digs, and of soccer matches on the beach! Dakar-Yoff is a fishing village right on the water, north of downtown Dakar. It's close to the airport and since there's no curfew for flights you hear planes at all hours of the day and night, but otherwise you can only hear waves (and occasionally, bongo drums or the barking of stray dogs). It's pretty sweet.