A Naive American
A naive American is like a fish out of water flopping around, unable to control its environment. This is how I felt during the six days in November 2011 when I accompanied my husband, Ken, on a trip to Dakar, Senegal, in Western Africa.
Ken worked for the Johns Hopkins University Bloomberg School of Public Health Bill & Melinda Gates Institute for Population and Reproductive Health. He was the department Financial Manager. In this capacity he oversaw monies used to support partner public health universities in Asia and Africa. Once every two years, the department holds a large, multi-country conference overseas. Approximately 1,400-1,600 people attend.
When the opportunity to travel with him to Senegal arose, I jumped at it. We would be staying at a five-star resort hotel, on the Atlantic Ocean, with an outdoor pool, golf course, spa and fitness center. What was there not to be excited about?
Buying the airplane ticket was easy. Getting prepared for Western African was not. First, was subjecting my arm to the numerous recommended shots: hepatitis A & B, Tdap (tetanus, diphtheria and pertussis), polio booster, menomune (for meningitis) and influenza. Second, was making sure to have malaria pills, adequate prescription and over-the-counter medications, insect repellant and antibacterial wipes or hand sanitizer. Third, was putting together kosher perishable and non-perishable food. I packed granola bars, cookies, cereal, bread, vacuum packed deli and cooked meat, cheese, crackers, tuna, meals-ready-to-eat (MRE) and paper goods.
What I failed to do, though, was prepare myself by reading up on Senegal, its history and its culture. That was a big mistake. Afterall, what was a nice Jewish girl from Baltimore doing in a West African Muslim country??
Sunday, Day 1
Crunch day was Sunday, the day we left. Check-in at Dulles International Airport was uneventful except that our “kitchen in a suitcase” was overweight. We paid the extra baggage fee, though I suspect it went on an office expense account.
I discovered a Ben & Jerry’s in the terminal while waiting for our flight. Of course, it was imperative to have a large milk shake before we left. Who knew when the opportunity for real ice cream would again present itself? Despite the gas and bloating that would inevitably accompany this treat, I enjoyed every sip and slurp. We boarded, took off and had an uneventful evening flight.
Monday, Day 2
We landed in Dakar in the morning, around sunrise. Baggage was retrieved and we were ushered to the bus that would take us to the five-star Le Meredien President Hotel & Conference Center. (The name has now been changed to the King Fahd Palace Hotel. Oy.)
The first major snafu didn’t involve us, thank goodness. All Hopkins staff was supposed to be housed at Le Meredien, but some employees did not have rooms upon check-in. Somebody somewhere goofed.
Our room, however, was lovely! We had a pantry-like space with a small refrigerator for our food, two bathrooms (yes, two full bathrooms for two people!) a comfortable king-sized bed and a balcony overlooking the grounds.
The conference organizers held a VIP reception that night around the pool. We were not invited but were able to watch from a not-too-far-away vantage point. We couldn’t hear the speeches, but we could see and appreciate the African dancers and drummers.
Tuesday, Day 2
Tuesday started off poorly. My husband woke up early to have breakfast only to discover that the refrigerator in our room was broken. Our perishable food was inedible. We were left with bread, crackers, peanut butter, granola bars, cookies, tuna, a couple of kosher MREs and anything we could scrounge up from the free breakfast downstairs. We tried to explain the dilemma to the hotel staff, only to get shrugs of non-comprehension.
My husband left, discouraged and upset, to get to work. That left me in “fix- it” mode. The first stop was to scrounge food from the hotel breakfast room. The menu included scrambled eggs, sausages, pancakes – everything non-kosher we couldn’t eat. They did have hard boiled eggs, and I grabbed a few of those. Small boxes of Kellogg’s cereal were available as well as bananas and oranges. That would have to do for lunch and maybe dinner.
Back in our room, I googled Israeli Consulate, Dakar, Senegal, and found a phone number. My reasoning was that maybe a sympathetic Israeli had something we could eat. Somehow, I got through to a woman at the consulate. Between my bad Hebrew and her bad English, I learned she couldn’t help. She said some of the locally caught fish were kosher (those with fins and scales); maybe we could get a fish dinner at the hotel restaurant. Of course, I should have called the U.S. Embassy for help; it was just down the street from the hotel. Hindsight is 20/20.
Mission sort of accomplished, I had the afternoon to check out the beach. Such a disappointment! The “beach” was a rocky strip about three feet wide and loaded with trash—plastic bags, bottles and aluminum cans. Oh well. At least the pool complex was beautiful.
Wednesday, Day 3
After breakfast and upon returning to our room to plan my day, I noticed that the towels in both bathrooms were gone. I found a hotel worker in the hallway, but he didn’t understand me and vice versa. I had been sure that my five years of French would help me communicate with the locals. (Thanks to Wikipedia, I now know that while the official language of Senegal is French, only 15% of men and 1-2% of women speak it. The most common African language is Wolof.) Staff collected dirty towels in the mornings, but the clean ones didn’t appear until the afternoon.
But I came to Africa to shop and explore, not to worry about towels. I wanted to find a beach and some shops selling local crafts. I applied my sunscreen, grabbed my debit card to withdraw CFAs (the local currency) from the hotel ATM and planned to sightsee. What could possibly go wrong? I’ve explored and shopped on my own numerous times in Israel without any problems.
Trouble came quickly. First, the ATM machine was out of cash. I had a few U.S. dollars but didn’t want to spend them. Plan B was to window shop instead of purchase.
Second, using my pidgin French, I inquired about walking off the hotel grounds to find a beach and shops. Not a problem, according to the lady behind the front desk. All I had to do was make a right at the end of the hotel driveway and keep walking.
Third, approximately 50 feet from the front gate, a local attached himself to me and proceeded to act as my official guide. I explained I had no money, but that didn’t deter him. I couldn’t shake him. He walked with me through an open-air market. At one point, I found myself seated at his friend’s stall, where they proceeded to give me two free “gifts” (a wooden elephant and a bracelet).
I began to freak out. Here I was, a white woman, walking around in a foreign country by myself. What if something happened to me? What if I was kidnapped? Or killed? Would anyone be able to identify my body?
At some point, I began walking back to the hotel. As we approached the main gate, my “companion” abandoned me. I made it up the long driveway, to the elevator, to our room where I promptly got sick. That was the last time I ventured out on my own.
Thursday, Day 4
My husband arranged for me to accompany some of the convention participants on an afternoon bus tour of the city. That left the morning, the perfect time to use the hotel fitness room. I’d walk on the treadmill, shower in our room, eat lunch and get ready for the tour.
Dressed in my t-shirt and shorts, I made my way to the fitness room, which was at the far end of the lobby. When I opened the door, the men working out all turned their heads and stared, or should I say glared, at me. Did I have cooties or something? I quickly shut the door and left. It didn’t dawn on me until later that a woman in a t-shirt and shorts in a fitness center in a Muslim country is not welcome.
Well, the afternoon had to be better, right? For the most part it was. As the coach bus filled up, I noticed that I was the only white person in the group. Keeping a low profile would be imperative.
The tour took us through the city, making two short stops and one longer one. At the Dakar harbor we would take a ferry boat to Gorée Island, where African slaves were shipped to the New World.
While waiting for the ferry boat, I did what any woman of a significant age would do before a field trip — use “the facilities.” The women’s room looked clean when I opened the door. It had sinks with running water. So far so good. Each stall, however, contained not a toilet but a hole in the ground! I figured that if the ferry had a bathroom it would probably be worse, so I took advantage of what was there.
Friday, Day 5
Friday night was Shabbat. We made kiddush and ate our MREs in our room. Afterwards, we sat in the lobby to people watch. It was fascinating to see people from all over the world, many in native costumes. However, when a conference room door opened, and a group of Arab sheiks in full ceremonial dress walked out, we decided it was time for us to go to bed! I wonder what they would have thought had they known that two Orthodox Jews were sitting in the lobby.
Saturday, Day 6
Shabbat, our last day in Dakar. A quiet day for reading, napping and sitting by the pool. At dusk, as we stood on the balcony of our room, watching the sun set over the Atlantic, a cloud of butterflies fluttered by. Then it was dark, time to pack and wait for the 10 p.m. shuttle to the airport.
One would think that an airport in a third world country at 11 p.m. would be empty. Instead, we encountered a throng of pushing, shoving people — a real balagan. After checking our luggage, we were directed to the passport control line, where hundreds of people waited to get approval to leave the country. We stood for at least 90 minutes in a hot, humid, old, dilapidated terminal, inching our way forward. Finally, our papers were stamped. The next stop was our departure gate.
Just as we sat down, we were told to get up and form another line. All hand luggage had to be checked before boarding. Laptops, iPads and other electronic devices were removed and inspected. Once given the OK to board, we walked outside to the plane — no jetways in this airport — and climbed the stairs to the aircraft. As the doors were closing, the flight attendants walked up and down the aisles spraying us with an aerosol, perhaps bug repellent. A fitting end to a weird trip.
Fortunately, the flight home was unremarkable. We landed at Dulles around 6 a.m. From the jetway we walked into a clean, well-ventilated, brightly lit terminal. Home never looked so good.
The following year my husband was sent to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, to meet with the university officials who would be hosting the next conference. He came home shaking his head at the poverty and lack of infrastructure throughout the city. Meanwhile I was so excited about the prospect of going to Ethiopia in November 2013! It didn’t happen, though. This naive fish stayed in the water.
Read more by Eileen Creeger.