Hit the Deck

This week I learned that the United Nations loves mandatory training seminars.

My week began with a CD-ROM course called "Basic Safety in the Field--Staff Safety." Now, to most people sitting in the headquarters of any international organization in Washington or New York, being in Africa in any capacity is considered being "in the field." That is, if I'm in Senegal, surely I'm in direct contact with the starving people who receive WFP's food rations all the time, and I'm also probably living in a tent with no running water. False. (See previous post in which I reveal that I have a real toilet.)

Therefore, most of this Basic Safety course involved recommendations for what to do when confronted with land mines, child soldiers at checkpoints, gun fights, kidnappers, violent demonstrations and rioting, or any combination of the above. While it's true that living in Dakar presents the same hazards as any city--theft, auto accidents, asphyxiation from lack of greenery--I have a very minimal chance of encountering any of the dangers that would require me to crawl to the nearest cover or insist on my rights as a humanitarian worker. Nevertheless, after the course, I left the office believing that I would be blown up and/or ambushed by one of several vegetable ladies before the end of my ten minute walk home. And, if I actually leave Dakar, I have to take "Advanced Safety Training," which will probably advise me to stay out of areas where machetes tend to fall from the sky.

As if two hours spent on a program designed in the early 90s and embellished with Word Art and staged hijackings wasn't enough, yesterday I had to spend another two hours at a security workshop, held in French, in which the only words I understood were "white woman" and "terrorist."

Today, in what I assume will not be the end of my mandatory trainings, I attended a seminar on the proper and careful use of a tool that will vastly increasing the security of all WFP Dakar staff members, one that will avoid hours of needless pain and suffering in the face of a crash, fire, gun fight, violent demonstration, or kidnapping:

This afternoon, I spent 45 minutes learning how to use an external hard drive.

[Update, 7/30: Okay, I admit it. I just had to call IT to have them help me set up the hard drive.]

Apocalypse

You know it's the rainy season when:

a) You wake up to a cool morning, so you suppose it must have rained the night before.

b) It begins to drizzle one night on the windshield of your taxi.

c) 15 seconds after leaving your apartment for work, it's suddenly 1992 and you're in the middle of Hurricane Andrew, and 15 seconds after that the entire street has turned into six inches of white water rapids, except the rapids are brown, so your feet are dirty for two days.

Hint: It's not called the "fresh as spring dew and buttercups season."

As a white person in Dakar, having a look of slight confusion sometimes leads to men in the marketplace accosting you, bringing you to their buddy's store which they swear has exactly what you want for a good price, leading you all over the market so that when you come back to the buddy's store three times you think it's different each time, and endowing you with a Senegalese name (Maty) that also belongs to some beloved female relative.

In the middle of a West African Rain, however, being white and slightly confused can also lead to much kindness and generosity. Thus, I took 30 minutes out of my 10 minute walk to work to sit on a bench offered to me by a security guard inside a doorway, where I chatted with the guard's friend about how the local name of the rainy season is simply "August, and sometimes September." Eventually I decided to brave the floods, with only a rain jacket and a tiny umbrella that seemed like a great idea when I was packing light. When I finally arrived to work, wringing out the bottom half of my dry clean-only dress, I endured smiles and knowing looks from those whose knowledge of Senegal and Rain exceeded what I had learned in the first ten pages of my guide book.

On the plus side, the guard and I now say hi every day. Best. Friends.

America

Yesterday morning, I found myself (well, let's be honest, it was a bit more purposeful than that) listening to the blasting beats of a spin class, on a treadmill in an air-conditioned gym populated by sweaty, short-shorts wearing Lebanese men, overlooking a palm tree-lined swimming pool and jet skiers on the ocean. Point being, for those of you who were legitimately surprised that my toilet is "Western" and not a hole in the floor, I'm living in the most developed city in West Africa, dammit, traffic lights or no traffic lights.

In other news, as everyone knows, Africans love Obama. They love him enough to put him on their chocolates, along with other ambiguous world leaders and an insignia that looks strangely like that of the University Cottage Club.

"Je voudrais le chocolat avec Obama."

Nod. Smile. Nod. General indications of comprehension, though perhaps I should have known better by the amount of nodding and smiling I've been doing in the last week.

Not only is this balding, Soviet man not Barack Obama, but he also tasted vaguely of Play-doh.

Cockroach kill count: 7

(This post is dedicated to Justin Bieber, whose dance-mixed beats in a taxi last night made me feel right at home.)

My first week in Dakar was spent accompanying the previous PiAf fellow and Disney Princess Callie around the office and around town. Not only am I taking over Callie's apartment, job, and phone, but, according to my boss, Malek, our names rhyme, and we're both from the same state, Philadelphia. The Commonwealth of Brotherly Love. Does that mean that Will Smith is actually from Pittsburgh?

Highlights of the week included a trip to the European supermarket Casino (chips on red if you think the power will stay on; ah, too bad, red!); yoga in a beautiful Canadian embassy apartment that overlooks the city, accompanied by Angel and Grace cards for daily motivation; 30 minutes of Malek giving his amateur analysis of the 1982 World Cup; several compliments on my French, generally in the context of someone trying to sell me something; my first date with Pepto Bismol, with whom I envision a long and happy life; a successful bartering for some shoes that I'm not sure I even really like; 5:30 am calls to prayers from the mosque across the street; and several meals at the French Cultural Center, an oasis of greenery and The West in the middle of the city that induces the sensation of a Banana Republic-esque escape from The Other, and by The Other I mean last season's front-pleat chinos. One more post that references fashion, and I'll be able to write for ELLE.

Oh, and sweat. Tons o' sweat. Don't complain to me, East Coasters; in two months you'll be feeling the autumn air, and I'll still be struggling to keep cool in a Muslim country where I can't wear shorts. My life is super hard.

To end, a picture of an ambiguous sheep/goat that did not appreciate that Callie and I had taken a wrong turn into his 'hood.

I've got a new haircut, so I guess I'm ready

T-minus 24 hours until I leave for Dakar for my year-long Princeton in Africa fellowship with the West Africa Regional Bureau of the World Food Programme. T-minus 24.25 hours until I realize I left my passport, glasses, and/or money at home.

Another essential item is the mosquito net, inspired by the Spring 2010 Rag & Bone camouflage anorak and perfect for reading the magazine that you somehow managed to make room for among more important things like full denim outfits.

Let's hope my apartment has a green screen as good as this one.