On March 22, 1998, Dr. Sabine Cramer, Dr. Chad Stebbins, and I, Richard Massa, undertook a mission to Dakar, Senegal, and Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire. The mission was to seek collaboration by universities or institutes of journalism in a project of international journalism. We wished also to explore the possibilities of general, overall agreements between Missouri Southern State College and the universities or institutes we visited. Dr. Stebbins' role was to present the proposals and to seek the collaboration. He is associate professor of journalism and assistant director of the Institute of International Studies. Dr. Cramer's function was to serve as interpreter. She is assistant professor of German and French. My function was as director of the Institute of International Studies.

What follow is an essay about aspects of that journey.

(Click on photos to see a larger picture.)

From left: Dr. Sabine Cramer, Dr. Chad Stebbins, and Richard W. Massa

How does one describe what is a less-than-three-days experience in Dakar, Senegal? There are strong ¾ very strong ¾ impressions. Primarily they are of faces ¾ some beautiful in the simplest meaning of the word, having fully pleasing features; others are beautiful in the strength and determination and perseverance they display; others are beautiful because they are children's faces, most of which are full of joy and hope and the future, depending on their age and where we saw them. Some children we saw at school during recess; others we saw on their way to school or on their way home from school. Others we saw at work, at ages of 8, 9, 10, perhaps younger, sitting on the ground finishing carved figures, sanding, polishing, coloring them. Some we saw on the streets with empty coffee cans, begging. Others we saw searching for food. We saw children's hands outstretched as we walked by or drove by, asking for something, anything. So many of them, so very many.

We saw eyes of people of all ages, shining and gleaming regardless of their lot in life. A few were closed because of blindness, but we saw no tears. We did see pleading eyes, but even those eyes were often in faces beautiful for the courage they showed.

There were, for example, the eyes of a young man in his teens. He was so badly crippled by polio he could not stand. He moved on hands, shod with sandals, and on tip toes in a crouched, crawling position. He extended a hand. "Mon ami," he said, "My friend." He bade me welcome to Dakar and wished me good fortune. The face was bright and cheerful, the eyes shone, and his voice was, indeed, that of a friend. I shook his hand. I gave him a coin. "Not necessary, my friend," he said. I told him to keep it. I knew that despite all else he was a beggar and this was his daily routine. I saw him in the same place each of the next two days. He was shaking hands. And he was smiling.

Friendships, I learned, were quickly formed in Dakar. Peddlers, for example, became "friends." The first reaction to the countless hundreds of street vendors one encounters each day in Dakar is maddening frustration and annoyance. One wishes to be able to walk without being hassled and hustled by vendors who come at you from nowhere yet everywhere. One learns quickly to ignore goods in shops or on stands or in a vendor's hand. To eye an object is to signal a possible interest and to denote interest is to signal a possible sale. In the minds of most vendors, it seems, it is more than possible; it is probable if they have their way. A price is quoted.

"You wannta buy?"

"No, no," you reply.

"How much you willing to pay?" You continue to walk; you even pick up the pace, but the peddler is matching your pace and is still at your side. The very fact one peddler is so insistent with you signals to others that he may have a "hot prospect," and they join in.

"Nothing, go away," you plead.

"I your friend. We bargain," says the peddler.

"No. Go away." And perhaps you succeed in actually getting away.

On an afternoon trip to Goree Island, I happened to glimpse a tee-shirt held by a vendor and I made some comment to my traveling companion Chad. The vendor caught it all and on and off for the next five hours, I encountered him. He agreed to my first request to "see me later." But later to him always meant five or ten minutes later. His tee-shirts were priced at 10,000 CFAs ($17.50). I told him that was much too much. I had seen tee-shirts with designs equally as attractive in a fixed-price gift shop at the dock where we had boarded the ferry to the island. He told me his shirts were of better quality, and, in all honesty, they were.

It was about three hours into our walking tour of the Edenic island that Chad bought a shirt for $7 in American money. The vendor had four shirts left. He asked me how much I would pay for all four of them.

"You take them for $7 each, $28 in all?" he asked.

I said, "No way."

He kept telling me how much he liked me, how we were friends. After all, he said, my son (Chad) and my daughter (Sabine) liked the shirts.

"He's not my father," Chad shouted.

"Nor mine," Sabine chimed in.

"He's my boss," they said, almost in unison.

I offered 10,000 CFAs ($17) for the four shirts. He accepted my offer. "For you, my friend, it's a deal," he said.

His name was Cheikh-Thiam Dit Chake, and he rode with us on the ferry back to Dakar. He told of his great desire to attend a university in America. He asked us about tuition and fees and the total cost of attending our college. He figured out he needed two million CFAs for a year's study, and he was going to figure out how long it would take him to earn that much and save that much. The tourist season, after all, is short, and his is strictly a tourist trade. The season is only about four months long, ending the first part of April. During the season most vendors must make enough to live on for the next eight months of the non-tourist year, the long, very hot summer, and the short, intense rainy season. Chaka gave us his name and address, and his picture. He asked us to send information about our college. He took my name and address and said he would write.

"We are friends," he reminded me.

Vendors on the streets of Dakar also want to be friends, and after seeing the same ones outside the hotel each time you leave and return, they are, in a sense, your friends. They greet you each morning, smile at you, shake your hand, and wish you a good day. The three shoe shine boys, all in their middle teens, joked they couldn't shine my white walking shoes, but my black dress shoes up stairs in my room did need shining, they reminded me. They opened doors for us, closed doors, and waved each time we walked away or drove away or stood on our room's balcony.

On our first night, walking the streets of Dakar, I was singled out from among the three of us, by a vendor who had two items in his hand¾one a four foot Senegalese carved mask and the other a one foot tall heavy wood carving of "The Thinking Man." He showed them to me. I admit that I stopped and looked at them, and I did like them. He asked 35,000 CFAs ($60) for each. We negotiated. We began by shaking hands and expressing friendship. I eventually bought the mask for 10,000 CFAs ($17). He then tried to sell me "The Thinking Man." His price was now 20,000 CFAs, then 15,000 CFAs, then 10,000 CFAs. I told him, "I have only 2,000."

"Then you can have it for 2,000, my friend," he said.

That's $3.40.

We shook hands.

We were, indeed, "friends."

At the gift shop before boarding the ferry to Goree Island, I found the mask for 12,000 CFAs ($20.40) and the statue for 25,000 CFAs ($42.50). I had bought both for the price of the mask, but I had also made a "friend."

Then there was the market place where many artisans had their shops. The word spread quickly that three Americans were in their midst. We were "among friends." They came after us to show "friends their shops. Just look. No buy. Just look."

But if you looked, you were interested. If you were interested, you would buy. In one shop I bought an African gown and a bag for my wife. In another shop, the owner said, "You are my friend, You bought gown from my sister." In another shop I was a friend because I had visited the shop of a cousin. In this shop I bought a set of carved elephants and that made me a friend of another shop owner because I had bought from his son.

After buying five carved elephants, a bag, a gown, a bracelet, a necklace, and four carved masks (all for a grand total of $59.50), I was rich in "friends," but I decided I needed no more friends in that place. Chad, who also was rich with friends, left the market place with me while Sabine continued to make friends. (Let me again point out that one does not merely shop in Dakar; one "makes friends.") Outside the market, however, were beggars and street vendors who also wanted our "friendship." We started back into the marketplace to avoid these individuals, but as we did so the shop owners we had not befriended made their way toward us. We retreated. Would it be the shopkeepers or the beggars and street vendors? We walked back and forth from our waiting taxi to the market. We were on the move, and we avoided everyone.

The taxi is another story. It was driven by Amar Mboush. We met him Monday morning on our arrival at Dakar International Airport. I deplaned first and passed through passport control. A young woman was standing under a hotel sign. She asked if that were my hotel. I replied it was not, and moved on. She noticed, however, that I must be waiting for others. She came over to me and said, "How many of you are there?" I told her there were three of us.

"I can help with the luggage and a taxi," she said. I agreed.

She got a porter who loaded our luggage on a cart, moved us quickly through customs, arranged for us to change American dollars into CFAs, and got a taxi for us. The fee for her assistance was less than $10. Her final word of warning was not to pay the taxi driver more than 5,000 CFAs for the trip to the hotel. On the way to the hotel, though, the driver grumbled saying our luggage was so big and heavy he should charge us 10,000 CFAs. I said it was okay. I would pay the 10,000. He then struck up a conversation with Sabine in which he offered us his exclusive services for our time in Dakar. For the next three days he would drive us where we wanted to go, wait for us, and drive us some more. For being our chauffeur for those three days, the fee would be 30,000 CFAs ($51). We agreed, and it turned out to be a real bargain. When we had finished a business appointment, for example, we would simply say, "Take us someplace interesting. Show us something of Dakar." He did.

Once it to was a gigantic fish market where we saw hundreds of fishmongers, fishermen, and boat builders. We had quite a visit. Another time he took us to the market of the common people, and we went through the food market, as well, where we met his mother. He took us to crafts markets, to a Mosque and to the Islamic Institute. One morning he took us to the Medina, in the 16th residential district, where we encountered a community of the poor living in hovels and shacks and eking out an existence. He bargained with women at the entrance to permit us into the enclave to take pictures. The women asked for 10,000 CFAs. I handed one woman a 5,000 CFA note and told her that was all I would pay. The woman grabbed the bill, clutched it in her hand, but there still was no agreement. I reached to take back the bill. All the women recoiled in shock that I was not willing to bargain any more. There was a frantic conversation among themselves, and they began throwing glances at Chad. Through fractured French and fractured Woloff and through body language, including gestures, eye movements, and head movements, it was obvious they were discussing Chad. He, incidentally, was oblivious to what was going on, partially because of where he was standing.

"He's so white, so fair, so beautiful," the women were saying, and one standing out of Chad's total view seemed to find him particularly attractive.

Our driver told the women, speaking of me, "The old man likes children."

They let us in. We were allowed to photograph women grinding meal, women suckling babies, and some parts of the housing. Women wanted their pictures taken with Chad. Some of the older women wanted pictures taken with me. All wanted their children photographed.

It was a moving experience and in many respects, regardless of all else, it was the highlight of my trip to Dakar. And our driver had made it possible. He drove us around a huge variety of neighborhoods in Dakar. He showed us the ugly and as much of the beauty as existed.

The beauty, as I said, existed, however, primarily in the faces of people.

Amar was the one who arranged for us to have our own personal guide to Goree Island. Again, the guidebooks will tell you that you don't need one and don't hire one, because they're expensive. Our guide was Adama Biop, and he was expensive, but he was also very good. He tried to charge us $50 in CFAs for the four hours he was with us, and whether he succeeded or not was not determined until my final conversation with him. Adama was interesting. He spoke English, French, Italian, and Woloff, and he knew history and literature. He had no formal education at the university level, however. He was largely self-taught. We kept remarking among ourselves that we thought he would make an excellent college teacher.

Adama was excited about President Clinton's planned visit to Goree Island the following week.

"We will give Bill Clinton a big welcome," he said. "There are 1,200 residents on the island, and we will all be here to welcome him." Adama claimed he had been the guide for Hillary and Chelsea Clinton on their previous year's tour to the island.

Although there was some dissatisfaction with the way he handled the question of his fee, he was a good guide and we enjoyed him. In our final moments together, he and I walked together to a point overlooking the sea, and we talked privately to reach an agreement on his fee. We did reach such an agreement; it was a compromise, but, in his words we parted "friends forever."

And so friendship emerged as the theme of our visit to Dakar. While we disliked the hassle and hustle of vendors, we did like the overall attitude of friendliness. Especially was it felt at the University Cheikh Antop Diop. On a Monday afternoon shortly after our arrival in Dakar we spent some four hours in discussion with Oumar Diagne, the director of CESTI, the Center for the Study of the Science and Techniques of Information. His was a positive response to our proposals in the international journalism project. He invited us to return the following day, to extend our visit in Dakar and to have additional meetings.

We felt the same positive response from Latsoucabe Mbow, the director of international programs, with whom we met twice. He agreed that our proposal for an overall cooperative agreement between our universities would be approved as it worked its way through channels. We felt positive reactions from the students whom we met and whom we encountered. There were warm greetings in the hallways and in the classes we visited. We were pleased.

At dinner on Tuesday night, however, the three of us discussed¾perhaps argued¾about the feasibility of a student exchange program being successful. Would our Missouri students be able to fit into the Senegalese lifestyle and tolerate the street life with its hard sells, the constant grabbing and reaching out of people. We lingered long past our normal time, spending more than two and a half hours in discussion. I was being the most negative one, begging, however, that we find something positive. We stepped into the small hotel lobby.

A white woman was buying postcards. I made a comment to Chad about postcards. The woman looked at me and said, "Where are you from?"

"Missouri," I replied.

"Where in Missouri?"

"Joplin."

"We're from Kansas City." A husband and two daughters appeared.

"We are from Missouri Southern State College, meeting with university officials about possible exchange programs," I said.

"Missouri Southern?" the woman said. "I'm a bond attorney and I've been handling sale of Missouri Southern bonds for its construction projects. I just spoke to John Tiede [senior vice president at Missouri Southern] a day or two before we left. We're here visiting our daughter Megan who is spending a year at the university here on an exchange program from Georgetown University."

We all got into conversation about the exchange, the daughter's reactions, and her adaptation.

"I live with a host family. I'm part of the family, part of the neighborhood and part of the culture, and it is a marvelous experience," Megan said. She allayed all the fears we had expressed and discussed and she assured us the exchange would work and would be wonderful for our college.

The next morning Chad and I were entering the hotel after an early morning walk. We met the mother again. She said, "I've been hoping I'd see you. Megan wants you to be sure to know the experience in Dakar is a very positive one for students, and Missouri Southern students would profit. She wants that emphasized. It's a positive experience."

Actually, Georgetown University has set up its own courses at the University and uses some of its own professors to teach these courses¾in French, the language of Senegal, and of Cote d'Ivoire¾to its students in this particular program. The Senegalese system is not completely reliable; the faculty do go on strike occasionally. The total educational experience, however, is what the family valued.

Our impressions of the university were partially formed by our visits to classrooms and laboratories in the communications department. For students there was a computer laboratory with six ancient computers. For the administrators (the director and the assistant director) and two secretaries there were two computers, one in the director's office. His secretary uses a memory typewriter. The departmental secretary had a computer. There was one other computer in the department; it was in the department's reference room, or library, and it was the only computer in the department which had access to Internet and this was the one which provided e-mail service for all the students and faculty in the department. Faculty members shared one huge office with six desks. There were no machines to assist, no computers, no typewriters, no fax machines, and none of the equipment many American professors take for granted.

Classrooms were furnished with aged tables and chairs, but all students were present in each class we visited. There were no absentees. Education, we were reminded again and again, is too valuable too waste. The radio lab, the television lab, the photography lab were all of the 1970s or early 1980s vintage. There was a printing room with presses which were old, but which did a good job, and all the work turned out by students in the department was of high quality.

Prof. Diagne said his wish was for more computers, for Internet access, for equipment of all kinds.

We walked around the campus, seeming largely unkempt with lawns uncared for, buildings in some disrepair, sidewalks and roads with potholes and needing work. We marveled at the vendors on a university campus, at little sheds or tents housing vendors of school supplies and services such as photocopying. One enterprising young man had a photocopier in the open, unprotected by a tent or a shed, only by a blanket he used to cover it. Extension cords led to an outlet somewhere over a fence. Tables along the road held books, notebooks, pens, pencils, laminating materials, or paper punches. There were also the women with their pots over charcoal fires, cooking food to be sold to students, and there were vendors of the Senegalese version of the American hotdog.

We left the university each day with optimism for our mission, some feelings of regret for the condition of the university and its facilities, but aware that there is a feeling for education, not just for training.

When I arrived in Dakar, I expected the worst. I argued with myself and with my colleagues about the worst things we saw. I repeated over and over that I wanted to leave Dakar with positive feelings.

At the end of the week, as we left Africa, I was considering Dakar to have been one of the very best experiences in my own personal education.

I'd like to return to Dakar.

Back to top of page

Next page: Abidjan and Cote d'Ivoire