Sights, sounds and smells of Dakar

I've been in Dakar four days now and I've drawn a few conclusions:

• This sure ain't America.
• That's not necessarily a bad thing.
• The food, at least what I have eaten of it, is good.
• Everything and anything are for sale.
• The air really is polluted.
• I haven't yet had the full Senegal experience.

First off, though, a little mea culpa. The vendors are selling sheep, not goats, for the upcoming Tabaski sacrifice on Jan. 20. Also, the western fringes of the Sahara are within 250 miles of Dakar, not the 1,000 miles I noted a few days ago. A smaller desertlike region is within 150 miles.

That does not change the fact that the city and the air are enveloped in dust. Add to that the year-round presence of aging vehicles, the availability of leaded gasoline and warm, often humid, conditions, and this is not the ideal place to breathe pure air. *cough, cough*

Apparently, many of the cars on the road here are castoffs from the Benelux countries because they no longer meet European emissions standards. A large portion of these European vehicles (OK, so they're mostly Japanese-made Toyotas) end up as taxis. You can imagine the maintenance levels of those.

On Friday, I went to my uncle's office at the Peace Corps compound in downtown Dakar. I say compound because it's a group of buildings surrounded by a fence (not heavy fortification like you might find at a U.S. Embassy or U.N. installation, but a barrier nonetheless), with your typical security guards, plus a serious inspection of all vehicles that enter. Even my uncle's car, which has diplomatic plates, was subject to an under-the-hood inspection and a pass of mirrors on all four sides, looking for explosives strapped to the chassis. Standard operating procedure at overseas American outposts these days.

From the balcony of the main, three-story Peace Corps building, I got a nice view of Friday afternoon prayers at la Grande Mosquée, or Great Mosque. The important people go inside, while the regular folks—hundreds, if not thousands of them—set up their prayer rugs on the ground outside. They bow in tandem as the minaret loudspeakers blare chants of "Allahu akbar" for about five minutes. They pack up and get on with their lives.

Senegal is about 95% Muslim, but that doesn't stop Christian missionaries from setting up shop around the country, nor does it prevent people from putting up Christmas lights and other decorations. It's just another reason to party, I suppose.

And party they do. Some obviously very well-to-do family had a wedding at a house just behind my uncle's this past weekend. Notice how I said, "weekend," without specifying a day. The party, so far, has lasted three days. I think that will be it, but I guess I'll find out tonight. There was live African music past 1 a.m. on Friday night, recorded music but clearly lots of partying most of the day Saturday, then more live music all day Sunday. Fortunately, it was quiet by about 10:30 p.m, though my cousin Julia had to sleep in her parents' room because it is on the other side of the house from her room. Her brother, Leo, had no problem, because his room also is in the front. As for me, when is the last time I've ever gone to sleep before 10:30?

For lunch on Friday, we stopped at this little restaurant on a very chaotic street (as if there is any other kind) in downtown Dakar, a place that has been my uncle's favorite for shawarma for many years. Locals eat there, so it's got to be good. We also had fatayas, which are tasty, triangular wheat thingies (patties? pastries? puffs?) filled with meat and spices. It's sort of like a Jamaican beef patty, only shaped differently. Perhaps Jamaicans got the idea from the Senegalese?

Later, I watched my uncle play hardball with a Peace Corps volunteer who went AWOL for a couple of days. This volunteer left her assigned village without permission because she wanted to do her own thing for a bit before turning up at the Dakar office to quit. But people in the village had already called the office to report her missing, so when she showed up at the office, she was busted. She asked to stay the weekend, but she was put on a very inconvenient flight with a very long layover that very evening—at the expense of American taxpayers, of course.

Following that episode, I got a tour of Sandaga, the central market in Dakar, where chaos rules and pretty much anything goes. Anything and everything are for sale, from gorgeous Senegalese handicrafts of wood and leather, traditional African clothing, traditional Western T-shirts and enough counterfeit electronics, sneakers and DVDs to make a Hong Kong merchant blush.

And that was just on the streets. Inside, people can buy food, ranging from fresh fruit to freshly caught fish to scraggly, fly-infested chickens that clearly would not pass Purdue's inspection—or make it to my plate.

Of course, every price is negotiable. Just hide your cash somewhere other than a wallet. If you don't keep your pockets empty, someone will be happy to empty them for you.

On Saturday, a friend of my aunt and uncle celebrated her 60th birthday at a wonderful restaurant called Les Chevaliers des Boufflers, Boufflers being the name of the family that owns the place. While the food itself was great—a bass-like fish called tioff (pronounced "chofe"), it was the setting that made it special. The restaurant is on Ile de Gorée, a UNESCO World Heritage site because of its past as a slave auction site, about 5 km off the coast of Dakar. In all the years he's been coming to and living in Senegal, my uncle had never been to Gorée at night. I'd, of course, never been at all.

I'll be going back on Tuesday to take the actual tour and see the museums and the slave house, which features the infamous Door of No Return.

Wow, that was a lot of typing, and I haven't even caught up yet. Stay tuned for the next update.