Ko weli warataa - What's pleasant won't kill you

When I first heard this Pular expression, I thought: “Well that definitely has it’s limits.” But sometimes this kind of thinking helps me look at the big picture when I’m doubting myself. Once again, the phrase is courtesy of Sadio, who always has an idiom on hand, whatever the language, whatever the situation. On Sunday, we were digging a garden out of the square of dust that makes up a corner of the courtyard. Sadio reminded me that even though I haven’t jumped on a sept-place station wagon heading to Tambacounda to start doing interviews, I’m still more or less on track. One week’s delay in Dakar won’t kill my research ambitions. A political scientist I met at a Fulbright potluck this weekend put it another way: No matter how long you’re in the field, at least a fifth of the time will be a total waste. Ko weli warataa doesn’t have much else to do with what I'm writing about today, but it’s a nice expression.

 
Dirt is a phenomenon I’ve been thinking about since we first looked at our house in Dakar. The dirt in Dakar comes in at least two varieties: First, the gray sand that makes up most of the city streets, and finds its way into even the very few paved neighborhoods such as Liberté 1. The second type of dirt is a fine red dust deposited by the Harmattan, the dry-season winds that blow off the Sahara. This dust is nefarious stuff – it clings to the floor in long streaks when you try to move it, and at the same time flies into the air when you sweep to be redeposited everywhere. Given enough time, the dust even accumulates on walls and ceilings.

This makes cleaning in Dakar very different from in 'the North.' It isn’t just that Dakar is dirty, although the urban waste of fish spines, batteries, and plastic bags does confront you on a daily basis. It’s also a matter of attitude: rather than conquering dirt (or ignoring it) you have to manage it, continuously and conscientiously. You can’t distractedly run a vacuum cleaner across the floor. You have to strategize: Where is the dirt concentrated? (there are no dust bunnies here) Where will you take it?

Sadio and our neighbor Maggat showed me how this is done: First, sweep the larger sand particles, bent over double with a hand held, straw broom (“balé”). To tackle the dust, you have to fill a bucket with water – add all-purpose powdered soap (“omo”) if you’re really serious. Start at a corner and work your way downhill towards the drainage point, pouring water, scrubbing with the broom bristles, and sweeping to keep the dust-filled water going where you want it to. If you’re really good, you won’t get too wet, or tread too much dirt up-hill where you’ve already cleaned. It took me about an hour to clean the tiled front garden when we first arrived. Rose, the mother of six who we hired to clean for us once a week, accomplished it in about ten minutes.

Which points to a larger issue related to dirt and cleaning. Although infamously dirty, the existence of any clean space whatsoever in Dakar is due entirely to the daily labor of literally a million women. When we get up early - the sun doesn't rise until 7 right now - in front of every house we see a teenage girl (the maid) bent over, her seer skirt folded up at her knees. They are scrubbing the tiled front stoops, and sweeping up the candy wrappers in the cobbled alleys in our middle class neighborhood. In neighborhoods that lack the infrastructure of Liberté 1, women sweep the sand back into the deep, red potholes that it creeps out of during the day. When we were staying in Village Ngor, we noticed spider-web patterns in the sand streets as we walked to the taxi stop in the morning. Then one day we saw an elderly lady with a broom, scooping up the pile of detritus she'd gathered. Every morning, Ngor women sweep the streets clean of yesterday's litter.

I complain about littering here - most people's attitude is buy it, unwrap it, and drop it where you stand. People also complain about the State's lack of investment in public goods - paved roads, sidewalks, reliable trash collection. (Although to be fair, I often see men in uniforms sweeping up along major streets.) Could men's lax attitude towards cleaning, or even the negligence of the entire government, stem in part from the assumption that women will do the work for you? A million women work hours a day to provide clean space in Dakar. Their labor used to be invisible to me, but now I see it everywhere.