Noting that my days in Dakar are numbered, I concluded a couple of days ago that certain business really had to be accomplished, and soon. It was the pilgrimage to Point Almadies.
Accordingly, I put aside my plastic-woven bag with seashells attached from Mali that my daughter's mother-in-law had so kindly given me—the sort of bag every proper lady around here carries. For something as serious as the Almadies trip, I hauled out my TravelSmith handbag.
My TravelSmith purse has enough secret pockets to make a Boy Scout ecstatic; more zippers than could fit on a biker's jacket; and radio-interference technology that might melt a snooper's earbuds. It has exterior pockets just the right size for a water bottle and a hand grenade.
I think the mission of TravelSmith is to make American travelers feel safe and secure no matter how frightened they are of the foreign destination it is their expensive privilege to visit. Why do Americans think everyone is out to get them? Probably because in the gear purchased from TravelSmith, people look so absurdly outfitted ("Are those people on the patio lost mountaineers?" "How kind of you to bring your hand-held rocket launcher to dinner.") And in such style-proofed clothing, TravelSmith patrons could be no other than Americans. "Come get us! Who else would go around looking so bland, wrinkle-free and boring?"
So, I dressed for the part. A taxi found me (that's really the way it works). He took one look at that purse and demanded triple what he should have. I spat in his face, quoted him my final offer. He laughed. I walked away, to the cab that had pulled up across the street, stalling for the outcome of my first parlay. Surprise!—just like that, I was speeding along the Corniche to the Artisanal Market at Point Almadies—in the first cab.
Point Almadies is a little outcropping on the coast just beyond Lucy's school, the US Embassy and the hotel that was until recently the Meridien Le President—now the King Fahd. The point is deep into wealthy-tourist land, near all the resorts and not-grocery-store casinos, and quite as many white people are seen as Black. It is the central place for wealthy tourists to sit by the waves, drink juices and cocktails, eat grilled fresh seafood, and enjoy life.
At the far end of the point is the artisanal market, where many craftsmen and -women display and sell their goods, and many others sell their junk. All are enthusiastic about clients to the point of being hostage-takers. But if you want a few things genuinely made in Senegal, this is where to find them. The place is not too big. On follows a narrow path set in a square with tiny shops on each side. Everything is close in both senses of the word.
I set out to buy a couple of necklaces and to find some other interesting small things for gifts. I knew that there would be wood carvings, djembes, jewelry made from all sorts of things—seeds, shells, sea glass, semi-precious stones, metal, wax cloth, ceramic beads, and you name it. I wasn't sure what else there would be, and it would be fun just to find out. I had gone there with Lucy on my first trip to Senegal in 2009, but then I'd been escorted and it had been the briefest of tours. My plan for this, my first solo market experience, was first just to tour the market, glance at all the stalls to see what there was, and then retrace my steps for more careful study and purchase.
I could have foreseen that a plan as logical and neat had no chance at all of being executed. It was, in fact, daft because every assumption behind it was wrong. I imagined one artisan to each booth; deal with one, move on to the next. Instead, the stall keepers are all-for-one and one-for-all in their business plan. The moment I arrived at the shop placed at the market gate, not only was I completely ineffectual in my effort to assure the shopkeeper that I'd return later, but I was surrounded by his compatriots, a heckling chorus of men encouraging me to linger, to buy, or to be led off to neighboring shops. I was literally surrounded.
Did I allow myself to become flustered? Hell, no! After all, I had my nuclear handbag! I had my Western clothing with not a snippet of wax nor any sign of going native about me. Take that, you swarming, pesky would-be bandits!
I figured that I'd take a page from Lucy's book in making my independent trip to this major tourist market. I'm sure that nearly all their business is with foreigners and most of that with Americans. But just as Lucy uses the obviousness of her being American to grab the power when they are discomfited to find that she speaks fluent Wolof, I'd decided that I'd do nothing to disguise my nationality and comparative wealth—as if I could. I'd just fulfill their assumptions.
But my surprise way to seize negotiating control would be that I not only understand the need to negotiate prices, but I have by now an excellent sense of what things are worth. Vendors can hector, distract, push, and finagle, but when they name a price, they free me because I've caught them. They inevitably cite a price at least three or four times beyond even the range of reasonable for the item. I can make it clear with a glance that they've lost me with the first move. If it's something I want, I'll stay and get my price. But if, as usual, it's not, the absurd offer is my "Get out of here fast and free" card.
I had a pretty good time and I bought a few lovely and curious items, some just because of the interesting stories about them and how they fit into the culture: A set of seven teak faces carved with different numbers of points and caps on top is a calendar for the illiterate. Each is set out in order to remind the family which day it is. Friday is the fanciest, that being the day to go to the mosque.
Tomorrow is my last day here. I fly out on Thursday at 1:30 in the morning. Business class. Deluxe.
Accordingly, I put aside my plastic-woven bag with seashells attached from Mali that my daughter's mother-in-law had so kindly given me—the sort of bag every proper lady around here carries. For something as serious as the Almadies trip, I hauled out my TravelSmith handbag.
My TravelSmith purse has enough secret pockets to make a Boy Scout ecstatic; more zippers than could fit on a biker's jacket; and radio-interference technology that might melt a snooper's earbuds. It has exterior pockets just the right size for a water bottle and a hand grenade.
 |
| My TravelSmith bag with suicide pills, snake bite kit, currency counterfeiting press. |
I think the mission of TravelSmith is to make American travelers feel safe and secure no matter how frightened they are of the foreign destination it is their expensive privilege to visit. Why do Americans think everyone is out to get them? Probably because in the gear purchased from TravelSmith, people look so absurdly outfitted ("Are those people on the patio lost mountaineers?" "How kind of you to bring your hand-held rocket launcher to dinner.") And in such style-proofed clothing, TravelSmith patrons could be no other than Americans. "Come get us! Who else would go around looking so bland, wrinkle-free and boring?"
So, I dressed for the part. A taxi found me (that's really the way it works). He took one look at that purse and demanded triple what he should have. I spat in his face, quoted him my final offer. He laughed. I walked away, to the cab that had pulled up across the street, stalling for the outcome of my first parlay. Surprise!—just like that, I was speeding along the Corniche to the Artisanal Market at Point Almadies—in the first cab.
Point Almadies is a little outcropping on the coast just beyond Lucy's school, the US Embassy and the hotel that was until recently the Meridien Le President—now the King Fahd. The point is deep into wealthy-tourist land, near all the resorts and not-grocery-store casinos, and quite as many white people are seen as Black. It is the central place for wealthy tourists to sit by the waves, drink juices and cocktails, eat grilled fresh seafood, and enjoy life.
At the far end of the point is the artisanal market, where many craftsmen and -women display and sell their goods, and many others sell their junk. All are enthusiastic about clients to the point of being hostage-takers. But if you want a few things genuinely made in Senegal, this is where to find them. The place is not too big. On follows a narrow path set in a square with tiny shops on each side. Everything is close in both senses of the word.
 |
| Toy car rapide, a type of bus commonly seen around the city; highly decorated, highly unsafe, overloaded, very cheap |
I set out to buy a couple of necklaces and to find some other interesting small things for gifts. I knew that there would be wood carvings, djembes, jewelry made from all sorts of things—seeds, shells, sea glass, semi-precious stones, metal, wax cloth, ceramic beads, and you name it. I wasn't sure what else there would be, and it would be fun just to find out. I had gone there with Lucy on my first trip to Senegal in 2009, but then I'd been escorted and it had been the briefest of tours. My plan for this, my first solo market experience, was first just to tour the market, glance at all the stalls to see what there was, and then retrace my steps for more careful study and purchase.
 |
| Collage art made from the wings of many species of butterflies. Very beautiful and fine. |
I could have foreseen that a plan as logical and neat had no chance at all of being executed. It was, in fact, daft because every assumption behind it was wrong. I imagined one artisan to each booth; deal with one, move on to the next. Instead, the stall keepers are all-for-one and one-for-all in their business plan. The moment I arrived at the shop placed at the market gate, not only was I completely ineffectual in my effort to assure the shopkeeper that I'd return later, but I was surrounded by his compatriots, a heckling chorus of men encouraging me to linger, to buy, or to be led off to neighboring shops. I was literally surrounded.
Did I allow myself to become flustered? Hell, no! After all, I had my nuclear handbag! I had my Western clothing with not a snippet of wax nor any sign of going native about me. Take that, you swarming, pesky would-be bandits!
 |
| Leather wallets on long straps. One big pocket, one little one under the flap. Made for the TravelDumb company, but I got one anyway. |
I figured that I'd take a page from Lucy's book in making my independent trip to this major tourist market. I'm sure that nearly all their business is with foreigners and most of that with Americans. But just as Lucy uses the obviousness of her being American to grab the power when they are discomfited to find that she speaks fluent Wolof, I'd decided that I'd do nothing to disguise my nationality and comparative wealth—as if I could. I'd just fulfill their assumptions.
But my surprise way to seize negotiating control would be that I not only understand the need to negotiate prices, but I have by now an excellent sense of what things are worth. Vendors can hector, distract, push, and finagle, but when they name a price, they free me because I've caught them. They inevitably cite a price at least three or four times beyond even the range of reasonable for the item. I can make it clear with a glance that they've lost me with the first move. If it's something I want, I'll stay and get my price. But if, as usual, it's not, the absurd offer is my "Get out of here fast and free" card.
I had a pretty good time and I bought a few lovely and curious items, some just because of the interesting stories about them and how they fit into the culture: A set of seven teak faces carved with different numbers of points and caps on top is a calendar for the illiterate. Each is set out in order to remind the family which day it is. Friday is the fanciest, that being the day to go to the mosque.
Tomorrow is my last day here. I fly out on Thursday at 1:30 in the morning. Business class. Deluxe.
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