Last week I decided it was time to go out on my own, find a post office and mail a small something to my chéri. During my lunch break, I resolutely march out across the huge sand field towards the VDN. The VDN is a big bustling highway with a wide dirt strip separating the two directions. There is a constant frenzy of taxis, buses and vans rapidly stopping, picking up a few passengers and zooming off again. I suppose the Senegalese government decided maintenance is not a priority seeing that traffic lights are all non-operational and the long row of light poles haven’t worked for who knows how long.
The post office is directly across the VDN. As I approach, running across random goat legs (hoof and hair still in tack), I try to figure out what will be my technique. Mad chaos, constant lines of vehicles are buzzing by and I know as soon as I get close to the road I’ll get mobbed by hungry taxi drivers. Ahhh, I know, I’ll pretend like I’m with those 11 year olds about to make the fatal sprint. 12 minutes or so later, we all make it over to the other side. I continue across yet another field of dirt… aaahkk! wind blows orange dust in my eyes, nose, and mouth. And what is going on? More random goat legs! Maybe they are in fact mouton legs, left over from the ceremonial practices of the Islamic New Year celebrations. I scurry towards the big building with the enormous sign: POST. Hmmmmm… I only see Western Union tellers inside. I walk outside, walk around to see if I missed the entrance. Nope. I look for stairs, maybe it’s on the second floor. Nope. I walk back in and ask the man sitting calmly in the hallway preparing the traditional 3-service tea on pieces of coal.
“Sir, could you tell me where the post office is?”
“The post office?” (long silence) “…the post office has not started yet.”
“You mean it is still closed for lunch?”
(looking down, visibly a little embarrassed) “No, we haven’t got it going yet.”
Oh…huh. (starring up at the large sign)
I ask him where I can find the closest functional post office. I don’t understand his broken french, so after thanking him, I head out, exasperated, as I look on towards the daunting obstacle ahead.
Post Office: Part TWO
Next day, during lunch break I am once again determined to find a way to mail my envelope out to my sweetheart. The secretary tells me exactly where to tell the taxi to go. I have to catch one on the other side of the VDN. Ugh! After some price haggling (that’s right, I’m not gonna get cheated out of my 40 cents!), I jump in and he speeds off. Pictures of famous imams are plastered all over the dashboard. The taxi is like all the others, disturbingly loud and rickety. You literally feel like if one screw came out, the whole thing would just collapse. A friend told me that junk cars have become such a problem that a recent law makes it illegal to import cars older than 5 years old. It’s probably a good idea since there in an inordinate amount of private taxi cars racing around, spewing out dark trails of carbon monoxide, just trying to make a few bucks. The only positive is that the huge supply keeps taxi fairs really low… To go all the way to the other end of town, a 25-30 minute ride, it is about $4.
At the post office, Senegalese crowd the teller windows… One is open and no one seems to notice so I approach and give a big smile to the rather large woman sitting at her computer behind the glass. "Salaam Malakoum!" She pauses, glances up at me only long enough to give me a "can't you see you are bothering me" look. "Umm… aheem, I would like to know the price to mail this to the United States?" After a few minutes of disinterested tapping on her keyboard she grabs my envelope, throws it on the scale. "It depends, how you want to mail it." "Well, can you please tell me the different prices?" Big roll of the eyes. She talks to a colleague for a while (probably making snide comments about the needy toubab) and eventually gets around to mumbling some prices. "Sorry, what was that?" Another big roll of the eyes. After not understanding a third time I ask her to just send it regular airmail. Whew, finally mission accomplished.
*** note to reader: this is the first and only time in Dakar that I’ve dealt with such an unhelpful person. I don’t understand how post offices all over the world all seem to find and hire the most miserable people!
“Sir, could you tell me where the post office is?”
“The post office?” (long silence) “…the post office has not started yet.”
“You mean it is still closed for lunch?”
(looking down, visibly a little embarrassed) “No, we haven’t got it going yet.”
Oh…huh. (starring up at the large sign)
I ask him where I can find the closest functional post office. I don’t understand his broken french, so after thanking him, I head out, exasperated, as I look on towards the daunting obstacle ahead.
Post Office: Part TWO
Next day, during lunch break I am once again determined to find a way to mail my envelope out to my sweetheart. The secretary tells me exactly where to tell the taxi to go. I have to catch one on the other side of the VDN. Ugh! After some price haggling (that’s right, I’m not gonna get cheated out of my 40 cents!), I jump in and he speeds off. Pictures of famous imams are plastered all over the dashboard. The taxi is like all the others, disturbingly loud and rickety. You literally feel like if one screw came out, the whole thing would just collapse. A friend told me that junk cars have become such a problem that a recent law makes it illegal to import cars older than 5 years old. It’s probably a good idea since there in an inordinate amount of private taxi cars racing around, spewing out dark trails of carbon monoxide, just trying to make a few bucks. The only positive is that the huge supply keeps taxi fairs really low… To go all the way to the other end of town, a 25-30 minute ride, it is about $4.
At the post office, Senegalese crowd the teller windows… One is open and no one seems to notice so I approach and give a big smile to the rather large woman sitting at her computer behind the glass. "Salaam Malakoum!" She pauses, glances up at me only long enough to give me a "can't you see you are bothering me" look. "Umm… aheem, I would like to know the price to mail this to the United States?" After a few minutes of disinterested tapping on her keyboard she grabs my envelope, throws it on the scale. "It depends, how you want to mail it." "Well, can you please tell me the different prices?" Big roll of the eyes. She talks to a colleague for a while (probably making snide comments about the needy toubab) and eventually gets around to mumbling some prices. "Sorry, what was that?" Another big roll of the eyes. After not understanding a third time I ask her to just send it regular airmail. Whew, finally mission accomplished.
*** note to reader: this is the first and only time in Dakar that I’ve dealt with such an unhelpful person. I don’t understand how post offices all over the world all seem to find and hire the most miserable people!
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