Where your husband?

The humid air enveloped us the moment we made our way off the plane and down the shaky metal steps to the tarmac in Dakar. It was nearly 9 pm, but the December heat persisted, and was a shock after the winter chill in Geneva. I took off my oversized coat, and hurried to join the hordes waiting for customs.

The queue stretched on and on, forward progress was rare; it was almost as bad as Washington Dulles. When I finally got to the front of the line, I realized why the line moved so slowly. First they fingerprinted me. Then they took a photo of me. Then they photographed my passport. Then the official, a lanky man in a mint green uniform, began with his questions.

“Where your husband?” he enquired sternly.

As I tried to come up with an evasive answer, I overhead the woman at the other counter responding to the same question.

“I’m not married,” I replied. I suspected I knew where this was going, but regardless, lying to a man who is holding all of your identification seemed like a bad idea.

He broke into a grin, revealing evenly spaced white teeth. “Good. You marry me.” The official Senegalese entry stamp hovered over my passport as he waited for my response expectantly.

“I’ll have to ask my mother first,” I politely demurred. As I waited by the baggage carousel, I briefly pondered who on Earth was accepting the marriage proposals of the customs agents. This strategy was clearly working for some of them, or they wouldn’t all be doing it. Right? Maybe they could have three separate lines instead of just two: Senegalese passports, All other passports, Seeking husband.



Malarone, the medication recommended to prevent contracting malaria, results in some extremely bizarre dreams. It’s a little bit like the sleep you might snatch if you’re lucky on call; fitful sleep haunted by things you need to remember or do. The odd hallucinations and desire to explore Dakar conspired to get me out of bed earlier than normal. Throwing open the curtains to our room, I got a glimpse of sandy beaches, palm trees, and a gigantic tent that was being erected on the lawn for our conference.






Île de Gorée, is a small island off Cape Vert Peninsula, about 30 minutes from Dakar by ferry. It’s one of the few entries in Lonely Planet under “Things to Do” in Dakar, and with our one free day, we decided that this should be our destination. No cars are allowed on the island, and about 1,000 people live there now. It’s been declared a UNESCO world heritage site, and carefully maintained, in part to serve as a memorial to the atrocities of the slave trade.



The road to the harbor wound along the ocean and outskirts of Dakar. Sandy beaches were populated with kids playing soccer, palm trees, and fitness fanatics. Senegal is the only developing country I’ve been to where I’ve seen so many people working out. Men in track suits jogged along the beach. A weight bench was set up under a palm tree. An improvised circuit with push-ups, jumping over two five-gallon buckets, and sprints. Within the city, narrow, congested streets were lined by yet more palm trees. Elaborate mosques were interspersed with crumbling apartment buildings.


At the ferry launch a guide quickly attached himself to us, and began chattering in French about his life on the island, his two wives, and the history of the island.
The ferry steamed away from Dakar, through a busy harbor lined with rusting freighters and small colorful fishing boats bobbing on the waves. Beer cans and plastic bags floated along the foam capped waves. Pulling into the harbor of Île de Gorée, I was reminded of Cuba. Colorful houses contrast with a brilliantly blue sky and the white sand of the beach. Colorful bougainvillea and hibiscus flowers lined narrow cobblestone streets where small kids played soccer and goats ambled. The gnarled baobab tree, a Senegalese symbol was everywhere. Our guide explained that the sap was “Senegalese Viagra.” We quickly backed away from the tree.


Maison des esclaves, serves as a memorial to the millions of Africans who were kidnapped and sold during the trans Atlantic slave trade. I caught about half of what the guide said, but seeing the cramped, subterranean cells where people were held for months, was enough to get a glimpse of the nightmare. The misery of the confined cages where captives were held contrasted painfully with the beauty of the island, and the house where the captors lived, right above their human cargo.



Over lunch, a few of our guide’s friends wandered up to the beachfront stand where we’d ordered cold beer and yassa poulet. A spirited debate broke out between the group as which of them would marry my friend, and which would marry moi. Neither of us was included in the discussion of course. Our various attributes were discussed enthusiastically. I vaguely appreciated the only-in-Africa experience of the conversation, but was beginning to feel like prime rib prominently displayed at the butcher shop. My friend and I drank beer, and waited for an opportunity to interject.
Finally, the matter was settled amongst the three of them; a jaundiced leprechaun offered me the honor of being his third wife.

I thanked him for the honor, but regretfully informed him that I planned to be the première femme et seulement (first and only wife). However, I continued, “Je vais prendre deux maris.”(But I will take two husbands).

Oh no! They replied. This is not possible! It is only for men to have many wives. Not for women.

“Pour quoi?”said Moi.
The response: Clearly a woman cannot have more than one husband. If she becomes pregnant, how would they know who the father was? The men shook their heads gravely.

I grinned. This was almost too easy. “Pas de problemes,”said Moi, as innocently as possible.
(No problem!)

“Je vais avoir deux maris- un mari africain et un mari europene. Le pere cést evident!”
(I will take two husbands- an African and a European. The father will be obvious.)
The table erupted in laughter.