Franglais and colonial French

As I’m walking towards the Artisan’s Market with Tendayi and Aaron, we’re attacked by a viciously noxious smell. A mix of sewage, rotting seaweed, and traffic pollution – and who knows what else – it bites at our throats and lungs to the point where it’s impossible to think of anything else. The only option is gambling with held breath, terrified that I’ll have to inhale before we’ve escaped. I’m lucky, and my next breath is dominated by the relatively harmless odour of the petrol- and garbage-strewn ocean. On the way back, even with forewarning, it’s hard not to be sick.


Someone in the office organises an afternoon-long session titled ‘Myers-Briggs Personality Test’, which I do my best to avoid. But she asks me four times to go, and eventually I turn up out of sympathy. When I eventually creep into the meeting room, an hour late, I’m the only expat among 10 staff who’re being led through group exercises by an early-middle-aged Brit. The tubab (turns out that’s the Wolof for a foreigner) is clearly enjoying being the centre of attention, and he’s milking it by speaking an amazing franglais. Granted, some of the local staff aren’t fluent in English, but I’m not sure their understanding is really helped by sentences like: “Ok, regardez le projector, et vous can decidez whether vous avez un sensory ou un intuitive type de personality”. My compatriot at least has the decency to look embarrassed when I arrive and he avoids making eye contact with me. But when he reverts to speaking English, I feel I’ve spoiled his fun enough, and quietly leave.


When there’s not much to do in the evenings and weekends, work expands to fill the spaces. I’d expected the long hours in the office, but it’s the change to my life outside work that I hadn’t planned for. When I’m not studying French (which is pretty much all I do on weeknights except eat and sleep), I’m generally thinking about work. For the moment it’s a novel and fun challenge: the chance to plan more creatively than I ever can when I’m in the office. But I don’t know how long I could keep it up with so little else in my life.


My French lesson takes a turn for the surreal when the Mme Diagne pulls out a 1950s textbook, originally designed for teaching French to the natives. It’s packed with valuable phrases along the lines of: “the weaver weaves bundles of cotton” and “the ploughman ploughs the field”. I feel my vocabulary expanding in a wholly unexpected direction, and I wonder if it’s a rite of passage my teacher puts all her European students through: a sort of post-colonial revenge.

I’m reminded of the risks of making assumptions about people when I go for a drink with Tommy and a couple of his Citibank colleagues. They’re all new to Senegal, and surprise me with their conviction when one of them says he plans to ‘sort out’ this country before he leaves, and the others agree. Later, one of them corrects me when I refer to the people attacking oil installations in Nigeria as terrorists. The conversation then turns to Shell, and they’re indignant at its inhumane behaviour in West Africa.

Not the usual crowd

Leaving the jazz club at 1.30am, I'm about 25 minutes walk from home, and I decide to test the reassurances I've had that Dakar is safe at night. Evariste's parting words are for me to go quickly to look decisive, so I power along Avenue Cheikh Anta Diop, on the brink of a jog. The adventure starts when I cross a junction in front of a police van.

I hear voices calling for me to arretez, and I grudgingly turn to see two tall and scruffy men striding towards me. The taller - and scruffier - says something I don't catch, involving the word police. Remembering the security guidelines about checking policemen's ID, I ask - somehow forgetting the looming presence of the van - puis-je voir vôtre carte d'identite s'il vous plait? I can't do justice to the French that followed, but the meaning was pretty clear:
Policeman 1: Ok. Now I see your identity card.
Me: Umm. It's in my apartment. It's very close.
Policeman 1: You mean you asked to see my identity and you don't have your own?
Me: My apartment is very close.
They search me, look into my wallet, and return everything.
Policeman 1: Get in the van.
Me: Can I get my identity from my apartment?
Policeman 2: Getinthebackofthevan

I sit in the back of the van, along with about 15 other men. For about 20 minutes, we tour the city, picking up a couple of others until we arrive at the police station. A number of us are told to get out, and led into the station. A desk officer asks me something I don't understand, then I'm taken to a nearby cell. It's about 3m by 4m, with a bed in the corner and about 20 people, mostly sitting on the floor. I sit next to the door, looking at the ground, and wondering whether I should call anyone. I decide not to, worried about drawing attention to myself and my possessions. I also don't know whether calls are allowed, and since none of the policemen are wearing uniforms, I can't tell whether any of my cellmates are coppers who might confiscate my phone. I wonder about going to the toilet to make a call.

Some of the detainees speak to one another. It's mostly quiet, resigned. Very close by, outside the cell, a man screams. A few seconds later, he - or perhaps someone else - screams again. A couple of the men in my cell chuckle to one another. It seems more like bravado than mirth.

I phase out of the scattered Wolof conversations, and take a few seconds to realise I'm the centre of attention when several people are calling chef ("boss"). I'm immediately reassured that I'm being addressed with deference by the other detainees, as it eases my worries of being robbed. I explain why I'm here in my broken French, until a man who introduces himself as working for the UNHCR speaks to me in perfect English. He tells me that it is a requirement to carry ID in Senegal - so at least my arrest wasn't down to the impertinence of my asking for Policeman 1's ID. I think it would have been useful to have been told about this law in the country welcome pack. UNHCR man relates my story to the rest of the cell in much better French. Immediately, I sense a defusing of tension, as I become much less exotic. My new friend tells me that they'll probably keep me in overnight, then let me go in the morning.

I begin forcing myself to relax so I will be able to doze, when the door next to me opens. I don't look up, but follow a torch spotlight that shines on the face of a young detainee on the opposite wall. After a sharp exchange, he grudgingly stands, along with another, and they leave the cell. The man standing over me says monsieur twice, and I realise that I'm again the centre of attention. I look up, and follow the command to venez, following the others out of the station, and back into the van. As I'm walking I realise that I'm the only person to have been called monsieur, and take it as a sign that the guards are also treating me with a degree of deference.

With no explanation, the 16 of us in the van are driven through town. Once, the van stops suddenly, throwing us around, and the rear door swinging wide. With the guards off balance, one of the transferees takes his opportunity to run. Two guards chase after him, with the van cutting him off, and they easily catch him. I'm surprised that there seem to be no hard feelings, the returned man being brought back to his place with no kicks or "sorry, I didn't see the ceiling of the van there". As we continue, Policeman 2 asks me my name, and where I work. A short drive later, we pull into another station and are all ordered out.

I begin following the others into the station when I'm told to stand to one side, next to the van. With all the prisoners out of sight, I stand alone in the dark. Policeman 1 lurks nearby and I clench my stomach muscles as he approaches. I'm again asked what I do, and why I was walking so late. Then, I'm taken to the front of the van to sit in the passenger seat. The driver tells me that I should pay a fine. I ask how much it is. It turns out to be 10,000CFA (£10). By coincidence, this happens to be the amount I had in my wallet when it was searched earlier. I pay the bribe without bothering to ask for a receipt or whether the other detainees are given the same escape route.

The drivers asks me if I know the city, and whether I have enough money for a taxi. I - with the appropriate amount of bitterness, I hope - point out that I don't, having just given him my money. Genially, he tells me that he will take me to Mermoz, my district.

As the next two hours roll out, I begin to wonder whether the driver had forgotten about me, or simply whether taking the 'fine' had just been a con. The van fills to bursting, as the police cruise, jumping out whenever they see a crowd of bystanders. Occasionally, the targets run. Every so often they get away, but usually they are easily caught. I wonder how much trouble I would get into for openly showing my delight when the police fail on a chase. Occasionally, the detainees run. They're all quickly caught. I consider jumping out myself during one chase, when I'm alone in the back, save for the moustachioed sergeant who doesn't look like he could put up much of a chase. But I'm still holding out hope that the driver isn't bent. Or, to be precise, that he is bent, but not a thief. Every time we turn towards Mermoz, I imagine release is moments away. But then we turn away, and eventually I become entirely disoriented, and spend my time looking out for familiar places.

The mood approaches farce when the first female detainee joins us. She's caught after a long chase, her boyfriend easily outdistancing the police. She comes in whimpering, and soon begins sobbing. The coppers in the van have no idea how to deal with her, as if embarrassed by the idea of a woman seeing through the silliness of their boyish games. But her femininity is as nothing compared to that of the two prostitutes who're picked up later. They're achingly beautiful and bring scents that explode through the van, easily flicking aside the background BO. As the numbers in the van approach 20, I'm entertained by the man sitting next to me, who gives every impression of being perfectly at ease. At one point, with the van stopped for another round-up, he hands a note through the bars to a bystander, who returns seconds later with a packet of cigarettes. Minutes later, at another stop, he repeats the trick and is rewarded with a espresso. Sitting in the police van, with a lit cigarette in one hand, and a coffee in the other, I'm only convinced that he's not a copper from the reaction of Policeman 2 when he stands up near the door, as if about to make a break.

Suddenly, I realise we're at the junction I got picked up at. I will the driver to turn right, until I realise I'm being addressed from the guard at the back door: Mermoz est pas au loin. In other words: hop it. I can't make eye contact with the other captives as I jump out and walk away.

First impressions

Things I hadn’t realised I really liked having until I left them behind:

• A dictionary: because what exactly is the difference between ‘enquiry’ and ‘inquiry’?
  
• The ability to go walking or cycling at night without always getting lost or feeling uncomfortable.
  
• Pubs where you can drink beer from pint glasses. Especially when they’re next to a river, and you can walk home afterwards.
  
• Electricity. Power cuts are really exciting and all that, but when they go on for 24 hours and all the cheese and cold meat in the fridge is at room temperature, they get annoying.

Things I hadn’t realised I really liked having until I got them here:

• A gas lamp to read by when the power goes out.
  
• Fresh baguettes for sale 20 metres from the office.
  
• Allahu akhbar drifting in with the warm night breeze.
  
• Kids playing football in the street outside my flat all the time.

Driving towards town, I pass a West African bloke whose shirt is dark blue with sweat. It’s a reassuring reminder that no-one’s perfect, like seeing a squirrel fall out of a tree.


Marc moves into my flat and we get talking about Chad, where he spent three years. I’m quickly drawn into working out ways of fixing the country, using its oil revenues for development, pulling in international support. I start feeling like Jeffrey Sachs, as if I’m the first foreigner to have looked at the place with a benign and well-organised eye, and have just spotted the end I need to yank to unravel the knot. It’s exhilarating, and I let the thought carry me onto the first stages of getting from here to there, starting with overhauling our advocacy strategy. But as Marc carries on describing the depth of elite corruption and disinterest, I realise quite how distant there actually is.


I notice again how little local understanding I have when I start thinking about race. For the first time in my life, I’m self-consciously white. When I’m walking down the street, I’m aware that I’m the only white person in sight. I feel like everyone notices me from a distance and pays more attention to me than to anyone else – and by extension, I’m more vulnerable than other people. With that on my mind, I couldn’t relax when I went walking yesterday, at least until I was away from a busy road, where I’d felt like every driver was wondering what I was doing. But I’ve got no idea if I’m right. For all I know, I’m as anonymous as anyone else. After all, there are other white people around, and maybe it doesn’t cross the locals’ minds: I still haven’t been able to find out if there’s a Senegalese equivalent of gringo or vazaha.


A reminder of how everyday life here can be insidious here: driving back from the supermarket after work with Stéphane, we’re behind a small bus. As it splutters along, its exhaust fumes are so black and dense, the gap between us becomes as opaque as any fog. We wind up our windows as the bus gets a lost its wake, even though it's going pretty quickly.


When I pay attention, I’m beginning to see the depth of the poverty. Yesterday, as we were being driven back from a beach resort in our air conditioned minibus, I saw the dehydrated corpses of two zebu and a third that looked to be barely hanging on. Then, this afternoon, while wandering in my beautiful neighbourhood, among the colonnaded new buildings, I got the occasional glimpse of a different world, huddling in the cracks. A set of tin shacks crowding next to a bus depot, a small circle of men sitting in a half-demolished building. Being in a vibrant, tourist-friendly city, rather than in some refugee camp outside Abeché, it can be easy to to forget how tough survival can be here, even in Senegal, especially now that I’m starting to have a social life and it’s getting easier for me to live the Emergency Sex life.


I’ve never worked such long hours before. Natasha - the regional director - had a quiet word with me, worried that I’m spending too much time at work. But while I’m in the office, I don’t particularly feel like I’m pushing myself. When 5 o’clock comes, the idea of going home doesn’t cross my mind. Having other people around who’re still working makes a difference. In Oxford, people start leaving at 4.30, and I feel intrepid if I’m still there at 6. Today, Michel and Gilles were still in the office as I left at 8.


I’ve been thinking for a while – a few months – that society is never far from collapse. Take away our water, our petrol, our electricity and it’s lord of the flies in days. For a second evening in a row, we didn’t have water yesterday. Luckily, I had a 5 litre bottle that I’d just bought, which was plenty for washing, and the pipes were on again in the morning. But what if they hadn’t come on again, or there hadn’t been local places to buy bottled water? I comment that things are probably worse in the camps in Chad, but as Gilles points out, you expect and prepare for it when you’re there. Perversely, our luxuries make us much more vulnerable.


I’m reminded again of my gaps in local understanding when I slob out for a pizza at Caesar’s after a long day’s work. When my fruits de mer arrives, I look at the mussels, squid and pink things, wondering how sensible my choice is. In Britain, I’d be dubious about getting that kind of salmonella-prone topping from such a shabby establishment. But here I have no idea. I’m next to the sea, and everything on the pizza could be caught today. But have they made the pizza themselves? Did they heat it from frozen? Was the whole thing bought in, or just some ‘seafood mix’ topping? Are there even such things as catering companies here? Waiting to see how I feel in the morning may be my only way of getting an answer.


At 17.10 today, I feel a little like an aid worker. It started with an early afternoon power surge that blew out the electricity in the office, leaving the computers running on a generator. As the office heated up in the absence of air conditioning (or a fan, thrown away when air conditioning made it redundant), my shirt began to turn a darker shade of blue. The network connection had collapsed, bringing down my PC and forcing me to use my laptop. Then, Kate breezed in and out of the office, doing something to her computer that caused it to beep loudly every 3.5 seconds, until – at 17.10 – the intermittent beeping merged into a continuous wail. I thought about the health & safety directives and workstation assessments so popular in Oxford.


I feel my integration into local life has moved forward a step now I’m coming to understand the importance of ça va-ing. Until now, I’d thought ça va was an optional pleasantry, used as an opening gambit in a conversation between friends. Not so here. The Senegalese greeting is Bon jour ça va. Bon jour on its own has no meaning and is never used. Whether talking to a colleague, or buying a bottle of water, every conversation starts with ça va. Every conversation. Begin a dialogue with something else, and the other person will look at you blankly, and ça va you as soon as you pause, regardless of what you said. Of course, the only conventional response to ça va is ça va bien. But before I leave this country, I intend to prepare – and deliver – a monologue on my blocked sinuses, arthritic hip and constipated goldfish to some poor shopkeeper who ça vas me without really wanting to know the answer.


It’s good to see my old friend, Wayne Myslik. That sentence should be nonsense. We’ve met just once before, and spoken on the phone no more than half a dozen times. I didn’t recognise him when I arrived at the Strategy Academy, and had to ask where he was (two metres away, it turned out). But, identities clarified, we greet one another warmly, and spend the next half hour in conversation. It’s a glimpse into the life of the aid worker. Rapid friendships, that begin in Kigali, are built upon in brief days, hours or minutes, in Aceh, Darfur, Port-au-Prince.


It’s remarkable how strong the colonial influence still is here, in a country that’s been independent for so long. Some things are predictable, like the language and the omnipresence of French tourists and workers. Others are more unexpected. Why should most shops and restaurants be closed on a Sunday in a Muslim country? Why is Senegalese handwriting embellished in the French style? Would people be quite so passionate about the World Cup Final if there wasn’t France’s opponents to support? At least some things are very welcome: you can buy excellent freshly baked bread wherever you go. Except on Sundays, of course.


Swimming in the beautifully constructed and packed Piscine Olympique, I hazily wonder what the locals would be doing now if it wasn’t for colonialism. Probably something worse that playing in the refreshing waters of a swimming pool, I conclude. I wonder if I’m in danger of convincing myself of an apology for colonialism. But then I realise that no society functions only on its own discoveries and inventions. Most are learned from other cultures, and the fertilisation doesn’t require conquest and imposed changes. My cultural guilt restored, I swim on contentedly.


Mary calls when I’m in a taxi, driving through bright market streets that are barely wider than the car. The shift in context is so sharp, I don’t recognise her voice for several seconds. When I do, my happiness reminds me of the difference between a holiday and a work trip. For the first time when I’m abroad, I only see the benefits of the communications revolution.


Tendayi points out how far we have to trust people when we’re in situations like ours. She’s living with a host family, any one of whom could easily rob her, or worse. We agree, though, that we can’t function without constantly taking risks. How could I have got to her house without taking a taxi that had no seatbelts and would no doubt have failed an MOT? But later, I draw the line when she invites me to her host sister’s birthday party. It’s pitch dark, there are no street lights, and my phone’s out of credit. I find somewhere still open where I can top up my phone, but I’m relieved when I get back to my flat, and decide to stay there until the morning.


Being away from Oxford reminds me how far my life is built around social contact. I spend the working day without having any non-work-related conversation, and by the evening feel quite isolated. As I’m leaving, I suspect that I will be back in the office before Monday in order to fill my time. But then I meet Sereya and Lorenza at the fruit stall, and I’m invited out tomorrow night. My day gets another boost when Tendayi calls and suggests a trip to Îls de Gorée.


Biting into the mango I bought from my new friend at the fruit stall, Mamadou, I gasp aloud at its succulence. I’m reminded of Patrick’s comment on eating a Malagasy pineapple that its taste was so intense, his mouth hurt. Only the vastness of the mango prevents me declaring it the nicest thing I’ve ever eaten: its flavour becomes exhausting when it goes on for so long.


Everyone here tutoyezs. It solves the problem of remembering how to conjugate vous, but my British formality keeps on getting offended. Too many school French lessons and s’il vous plaits.


Going to the supermarket after work, I realise that about 90% of people on the street are men. Most of those seem to be between the age of 18-30, and most of those are dressed in a parody of American ghetto-wear: caps, basketball vests, baggy jeans, big trainers, a load of bling. Lorenza tells me that the women dress in a similar cultural style, though only on Friday and Saturday nights. And this in a Muslim country.


I’m reminded how the small differences between countries can easily catch you out. After seeing the Heinz Tomato Ketchup, I give up being surprised by the familiarity of the products in the supermarket, and start buying ingredients for a pasta sauce. But it was a false confidence. I only realise that mushrooms probably don’t grow in Senegal when the checkout girl rings up £1.20 for two of them. Later, as I cut open the first of my carefully chosen, soft golden mangoes, I’m startled to realise that they are in fact shrivelled and foul-tasting oranges, with more pip than flesh.


As I’m going through passport control, a beautiful young British student on holiday is stopped for five minutes, and questioned in a language she obviously can’t understand. I’m next, with my form that has no exit date, and with its vague reference to working as a communications officer, for an unspecified employer. Not entirely surprised to be quickly waved through by the middle-aged man at the desk.


I touch down to Dakar with a sudden wave of self doubt. Getting off the plane among a crowd of tall, handsome, black West Africans, I wonder what I can possibly offer them. Feel like a neo-colonialist, with grandiose ideas of bettering the lot of the natives, and no practical experience of what their needs really are. Wonder if it’s really true that no-one in West Africa could have been a regional information and communications officer for three months.