Thursday, July 21, 2005
Tambacounda, Senegal
All evidence of the preceding evening's fierce rain, which pounded the corrugate roof of the tired campemant we were staying in at the edge of town, was slowly disappearing. Road side lakes were once again transforming into passable mud puddles. Tuuli and I headed into the market area to pick up a few remaining supplies for the long road east into Mali. While we heard the road to the capital Bamako was currently drivable, we still weren't close enough to truly ascertain what we would be up against.
The Tambacounda market was remarkably laid back, as opposed to just about anything Gambian. Senegalese in this region seem to regard foreigners with only a little curiosity and any help offered by them rarely seems to be followed by any harassment. In the Gambia, white skin in most areas serves like a signal fire for harassment from touts, sellers, thieves, disrespectful children, prostitutes, beggers, drug dealers and bumsters. Young men with access to at least some resources that are conspicuously evident in their baggy WuTang Clan cargos, Tommy Hillfiger shirts and matching 50 Cent bandanas, will persistently follow Westerners around all evening at clubs pleading for a single Coke or Fanta. While the majority of Gambians are respectful and behave in a culturally appropriate manner, those that have completely discarded all respect and behave like ill-mannered children are often the only ones that you remember. Senegalese, on the other hand, while very friendly and helpful, seem to have an innate dignity that ensures that regardless of the color of your skin, you will be treated as an equal. Consequently, it was unnervingly pleasant as Tuuli and I wandered through the market purchasing fabric for the car, fishing line, a one meter chain, locks and the unexpected find of a vintage red "I Love Surfing" t-shirt. The previous day we had spent the morning interviewing a community group at the city's primary hospital and upon conclusion of this work, I felt that it was time to do something about my increasingly uncomfortable hair style. Upon discovery of a barber, I told him that I wanted him to buzz the sides and back, leaving only a bit on top. The barber proceeded to take his inferior shaver and jump in full speed, randomly taking off small and barely noticeable chunks of hair from everywhere. After about twenty minutes of wondering whether he really was a barber, I asked him if he had ever cut a white person's hair before. He replied that he hadn't and that it was more difficult than he had expected. I suggested that he find some scissors and use those first. When it became readily apparent that I wasn't going to get the haircut I wanted, I told him to give me an 'African' haircut and hoped for the best. I ended up with a patchily shaved head; but all things considered, I was happy because the mop on my head would no longer be a nuisance.
All evidence of the preceding evening's fierce rain, which pounded the corrugate roof of the tired campemant we were staying in at the edge of town, was slowly disappearing. Road side lakes were once again transforming into passable mud puddles. Tuuli and I headed into the market area to pick up a few remaining supplies for the long road east into Mali. While we heard the road to the capital Bamako was currently drivable, we still weren't close enough to truly ascertain what we would be up against.
The Tambacounda market was remarkably laid back, as opposed to just about anything Gambian. Senegalese in this region seem to regard foreigners with only a little curiosity and any help offered by them rarely seems to be followed by any harassment. In the Gambia, white skin in most areas serves like a signal fire for harassment from touts, sellers, thieves, disrespectful children, prostitutes, beggers, drug dealers and bumsters. Young men with access to at least some resources that are conspicuously evident in their baggy WuTang Clan cargos, Tommy Hillfiger shirts and matching 50 Cent bandanas, will persistently follow Westerners around all evening at clubs pleading for a single Coke or Fanta. While the majority of Gambians are respectful and behave in a culturally appropriate manner, those that have completely discarded all respect and behave like ill-mannered children are often the only ones that you remember. Senegalese, on the other hand, while very friendly and helpful, seem to have an innate dignity that ensures that regardless of the color of your skin, you will be treated as an equal. Consequently, it was unnervingly pleasant as Tuuli and I wandered through the market purchasing fabric for the car, fishing line, a one meter chain, locks and the unexpected find of a vintage red "I Love Surfing" t-shirt. The previous day we had spent the morning interviewing a community group at the city's primary hospital and upon conclusion of this work, I felt that it was time to do something about my increasingly uncomfortable hair style. Upon discovery of a barber, I told him that I wanted him to buzz the sides and back, leaving only a bit on top. The barber proceeded to take his inferior shaver and jump in full speed, randomly taking off small and barely noticeable chunks of hair from everywhere. After about twenty minutes of wondering whether he really was a barber, I asked him if he had ever cut a white person's hair before. He replied that he hadn't and that it was more difficult than he had expected. I suggested that he find some scissors and use those first. When it became readily apparent that I wasn't going to get the haircut I wanted, I told him to give me an 'African' haircut and hoped for the best. I ended up with a patchily shaved head; but all things considered, I was happy because the mop on my head would no longer be a nuisance.
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