The world is
not a safe place – that much has been obvious to me ever since the day my
mother and her impromptu neighborhood watch group discovered that our local
bike thief was in cahoots with our ice cream lady. It turns out that she didn’t have only ice
cream sandwiches in the back of her trunk, but a delinquient son scoping out our sweet ten-speeds. Also, her
garage was full of torn apart bikes, like a sad childhood graveyard. That experience taught me to lock up my
shit. It also led me to do things like
wear money belts, even when it leads people to assume I’m
wearing a diaper, and occasionally sprint for blocks at a time in heels, just
to keep my reflexes sharp. I’m a safe
girl. I like safety.
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| Dramatic representation of my ice cream lady circa 1993 |
But as we
all know, sometimes precautions and awareness aren’t enough. Before coming to Senegal, I (safely and
cautiously) looked over some crime statistics.
In some ways, they were striking, but once I compared them the rates of
where I was living at the time (Logan Square), I relaxed a little bit. On paper, Logan Square seemed pretty
dangerous. In reality, I left my car
unlocked on the street for 9 months without a problem. So you never know.
Now, after
living in Senegal for about 19 months, I can admit to having seen my fair share
of crime. I would guess that almost all
of my friends have experienced some sort of petty theft, purse snatching,
pickpocketing, or phone hijacking by this point: though luckily, these are incidents
that pass relatively harmlessly and silently, save for the incurred
losses. But I’ve also had a handful of
friends deal with far more serious and violent situations. As time went on, it became to seem more and
more improbable that I could leave this country without a blemish on my
security record. Paranoia and money
belts can only get us so far, or as Fiona Apple would say, the world is full of pits and crevices that will try to kill you. Plus,
especially in places like Dakar, I admit that my fancy hoop earrings from
Claire’s and wedge sandals bought on the side of the road make me some sort of
walking target. The question became not
if, but when, someone would try to pull one over on me.
September 14
was the night of reckoning.
I had just
finished our Girls’ Camp. I was flying
high! It had been an exhausting week,
but I came to Dakar to recuperate for a few days and see some friends off to
America. After eating an entire pizza by
myself, I headed downtown to meet some other volunteers with my friends Aimee
and Kirstin. We had a wonderful taxi
ride. In fact, it was so wonderful that
when we arrived at our destination in downtown Dakar, I said as I unzipped my
clutch, “Wow guys, that was just SUCH a great cab ride!”
At that
moment, a hand reached in through the taxi window and snatched my clutch out of
my hands. Oh no! My money!
My bank card! My phone! My chapstick!
Best cab ride ever RUINED!
OR WAS IT???
The answer,
my friends, lies in a reaction I did not expect out of myself, though I must
admit that in my elaborate crime anticipation scenarios, I always vowed to use
the last remnants of fast-twitch muscle fibers that cross country had not
destroyed to chase down an assalient. I
mean, you might as well, right?
Especially if you’re in a public place?
It’s worth a shot? I think that’s
where my head was.
So the next
thing my friends knew, I was rolling around on the ground outside the cab
yelling expletives BECAUSE I HAD DECIDED TO JUMP OUT THE CAB WINDOW and chase
down the thief. Was I sitting next to a
door? Yes. Do I understand how door handles work? Yes.
And yet... the window beckoned me.
The route to which my clutch had been lost beckoned me. So I followed the clutch, through the open
window, onto the street, and began running in the general direction of the
purse-snatcher, screaming “SACCKAAT SACCKAAT SACCKAAT!” which is the Wolof word
for thief. Because WE WILL NOT GO
QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT.
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| The inspiration for every moment of my life |
Help arrived
quickly and efficiently. Brave and
courageous Peace Corps volunteers jumped over fences, through shrubbery, and
around gates to come to my aid: truly, a league of extraordinary gentlemen. The
United States Marine Corps also came to my assistance. But most importantly, about 25 loitering
Senegalese men took on my cause, formed an angry mob, and set out to hunt down
the man who took my beloved possessions.
But despite
the group’s enthusiasm, it seemed like the culprit had escaped unscathed,
probably during the moments I lost peeling myself from the pavement after
rashly jumping out a window. And so I
gave up and gave in to Senegal, conceding defeat after an exhausting week of
work and reporting my possessions (on another phone) as stolen.
But
then! The mob returned, a scared man in
a Senegalese soccer jersey in tow! “Was
this the man who stole your purse?” the mob cried, thrusting him toward
me. I didn’t want to respond because it
had all happened so fast: he seemed to be wearing the right shirt, but I also had
no idea what punishment awaited this man.
What if I sent an innocent man to Senegalese jail? I tried to avoid categorically saying yes,
instead saying, “I... think so?” But
everyone was sure, “This was the man, he is a known thief, this is the man, this
is not the first time!” As one
impassioned volunteer chased after the mob yelling, “Bring him to justice! WE MUST BRING HIM TO JUSTICE!”, I trailed
after crying, “Wait! Wait! Pardon him!
He is pardoned by the goodness of the rest of you! He is pardoned by the goodness of his
countrymen!” No one listened. Also, no one would give me my wallet. It took a few blocks of marching until I
realized that the accused didn’t even HAVE my wallet. This did not feel like justice to me.
Meanwhile,
near the original scene of the crime, my cab mate Aimee was still combing the
area like a good CSI agent. Suddenly,
she was approached by a kind gentleman: “Floran? Are you Floran?” Immediately realizing the significance of
this coincidence, she took on my identity, rejoicing, “Yes! That is me!”
The kind man extended his hand, which held my wallet. “This was thrown at me about 15 minutes ago,”
he said, handing it over to her. “I
think it’s yours.” And indeed, so Aimee,
using her Sereer language skills, recovered my wallet, money, bank card, cell
phone, chapstick and all. How the kind
gentleman somehow missed connecting a fleeing man chucking a wallet at him, an
angry mob passing his guard post numerous times, and a depressed, teary
American girl moping by is beyond me, but he did. But in the end, he did manage to maneuver the
wallet back into my possession, and for that, I am extremely grateful.
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| Aimee has been elevated from gum shoe to detective (skipping the rookie phase) |
I’m not sure
what happened to the thief – after trying to pardon him and failing, I gave up
and returned to our original destination.
I bought a beer for Aimee and a kebab for the bar bouncer who apparently
hunted down the thief, and then we all went dancing. I literally stuck my purse down my pants for
the entire night, without shame, as a way of dealing with my stage 1 PTSD.
Ultimately,
I felt pretty lucky that my first, and hopefully last, brush with Senegalese
crime was so tame, and moreover, had a happy ending. Sure, there was the bad seed who stole my
purse, but so many good seeds had come to my aid and defended my honor. I still like to believe this is how the world
works – not only in Senegal, but everywhere. Seeing it in action was quite
a wonderful way to end what had been a crazy, topsy-turvy week.
So cheers to
everyone who helped me out of that sticky situation, to everyone who had to
listen to me retell it numerous times in the style of Tai from Clueless, and to
Senegal, for always pulling through when I least expect it.
