But they definitely stayed out of places like this…
When I said yesterday (or today if you’re reading this as I’m writing it which you most likely aren’t but never mind) that nothing of note happened…I lied. I’m sorry. Something of note DID happen…it goes a little something like this:
Last Wednesday, I was downtown with some friends who decided they were going to be nice and take me out for lunch for my birthday. After a delicious lunch and some ice cream (passion fruit and caramel nuts and cream for anyone who cares), my friends Hannah, Jarod, and I went looking for some stuff at the market downtown (no, I’m not telling what – it’ll be better if it’s a surprise).
Now Sandaga market has a reputation for being quite hellish. It may be crowded, chaotic, and dirty. You might get more than a little bit frustrated with all the vendors who try to get you to come to their shop with “even if you look its ok,” a friendly “My brother! We have the same skin!” or my personal favorite “Don’t be afraid of the black man, we don’t eat white people. We’re not cannibals here.” People coming up to you trying to take your pants off (or pick your pockets if there’s anything in them) might seem a bit odd to you, because where you come from strangers tend to leave your pants on.
But it’s all a bit unfair, I think. If you know how to deal with all hassling, keep your belongings safe, and wear a belt, you might make it out of there alive and if you’re lucky, still have your pants. If you’re really lucky, you’ll have some really sweet stuff to bring back home. Sandaga’s not really that hellish.
Or so I thought…
I like to think that Hannah, Jarod, and I are what you could have called Sandaga amateurs – that is to say we could pretty well deal with the hassling, the guys trying to take us to their shops (“just to look!”), and every time we’ve gone in there, we’ve come out with our pants still on (which is a good thing because an un-rapide car rapide ride with no pants would be the epitome of awkward). On this particular day, we’re walking through the main plaza at the beginning of Sandaga and I hear someone behind me: “Ahh, the young newlyweds!” “My sister!”
“Don’t look back,” I didn’t need to warn Jarod and Hannah. They knew the drill. “Keep going.”
Full steam ahead we barreled our way through the square, dodging the occasional taxi until a man catches my arm. “Hey! There you are! You remember me from the last time you were here?” Um….no, I’m thinking. “Last time, you told me you’d come to my store the next time you were in town. Remember?”
“Oh yeah, were you the guy standing over there by that thing?” I ask, gesturing vaguely over in that direction.
“Yeah, yeah, that was me!” he says.
“Hmm…sorry I would love to come visit your store and then have to tell you that I’m not going to buy anything, but we’re really in a hurry,” I said.
Hannah chimed in: “Yeah, we’ve got to go visit a friend and pick something up and then we’re on our way back home.”
“Oh, where is he? I’ll take you there!” my new “old friend” says.
“Oh, no thanks. We don’t need any help finding it,” I say. “It’s right over there in the covered market,” I say pointing. “We can get there ourselves.”
“Let’s go.” He says. And off he goes in the direction we’re going. “This way.” He says, turning off to the left.
At this point, I do not want to follow this dude, only to have him realize that a) we have no idea where we’re going and c) we’re not even sure what were looking for, but fortunately for me (not so much for Jarod), Jarod had gotten stuck between a territorial taxi and an inquisitive vendor. I stop and wait for him to catch up with us. Then we’re off, without a look at my new “old friend” who’s starting to realize that we didn’t follow him into the covered part of the market. When he realizes that we’re not getting off at his stop, he comes back to us. “Oh, you’re going this way?”
“Evasive maneuvers,” I mutter under my breath to Hannah and Jarod. “Roger that.” We break formation, banking into the middle of the street. The three of us start dodging and weaving, ducking and rolling in some sort of weird urban dance with the taxis, buses, and cars driving down the street. Off to the left a goat munched on some cardboard.
Still, our new “old friend” follows us. Usually dancing with taxis is a little too intense for the average annoying vendor. This guy is persistent. “We’re almost there!” he shouts.
To the left, I spied an opening in the booths and an inky black hallway led deep into the market itself. Desperate times call for desperate measures. “This way,” I said to my companions.
Looking back, the fact that the turn off actually worked and our new old friend didn’t actually follow us should have probably been my first indication that this was not somewhere I wanted to go. Barring that, then the three dudes with a full set of teeth between them who were sitting at the like gatekeepers to some infernal pit should maybe have tipped me off. But they didn’t, I had turned this way, pretending I knew where I was going, and to turn back now admitting I had no idea where I was going would have been a huge mistake in savvy Sandaga shopping. I probably should have.
After this experience, I can honestly say I’ve been to Hell. Not metaphorically or philosophically, like the trip to Bakel, but literal, physical Hell. Satan may not have been there, but I’m pretty sure I saw a giant eviler pelican lurking about in the shadows.
Hell is not the fiery pit of sulfur and brimstone that some would have you believe. Hell is not a place where you’re forced to roll a stone up a hill for all eternity. Hell is not even a place where you’re forced to listen to oldies for a 15-hour car ride with your family. I have been to Hell. I have seen what it is like and it is none of these things.
Hell is a basement market after closing time. Hell is a place that should be full, busy, chaotic, but is instead still, with the exception of a few vendors lingering around like that creepy gym teacher outside your school. Hell is a place where parts of fish lay rotting on counters that were just a few hours earlier covered in the fish that I probably ate tonight for dinner. There is no light in Hell. There are lights in Hell, but there is no light. Hell stinks. Hell smells like rotting fish, body odor. It smells dark. It smells worse than death, the smell is death. The smell sucks everything in, it sucks the breath from you, it sucks the light from the air.
For the first time in Dakar, I was scared. I had to get out. Something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it. We had to get out. We kept going.
“Uh oh, don’t step in that,” I said. “That” was something squishy, yet firm. It was wet. It was dark; I didn’t know what it was. Keep going.
“Uh oh, I stepped in it,” Hannah said. Keep going.
Deeper into the bowels of the market. Keep going. Turn right. A fish head. Keep going. A light. Then why can’t I see? “Jake, get me the hell out of here!”
Keep going…
I have never been so glad to see light in my life. We followed it. A goat stood there, munching on cardboard. After we finally made it out, there was an awkward silence…
“Sorry. I uh, I guess I took a wrong turn there or something,” I said at last. “But hey, at least we got rid of our friend.”
“Go to Hell, Jake.”
No thanks, I’ve been there already.
Love,
Jake
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