The Time I Got Caught in a Riot

October 14, 2011

The past few times I’ve sat down to write a post, I’ve struggled to find topics I feel are interesting. I’ve often reflected how, during my first year of service, everything that happened to me was an epic tale—everything was worth reporting. Lately, however, I am short on anecdotes or cultural observations (which I think always make the best blog entries.) So, I’ve often wondered if interesting things have actually just stopped happening to me or if I am now so accustomed to life here I don’t see the things I used to.

I was ruminating over this exact question on a car ride from Dakar back to Saint-Louis a couple weeks ago. One thought in particular kept resurfacing: I don’t even see transport in West Africa as the adventure I used to; it was now just routine. Just last month, my sister and father had visited me in Senegal, and on the same trip I was now making (from Dakar to Saint-Louis) we’d gotten in a minor car accident. Maybe I was just too busy or distracted at the time, but I didn’t take any of the mental notes needed to transform the collision into a story. I just got back in the car and didn’t give the situation a second thought.

I guess West Africa just doesn’t shock or awe me anymore, I thought while drifting to sleep in the back of the car, squeezed between a large Senegalese woman, the car window, some suitcases, and a live chicken. (Imagine a series foreshadowing minor chords.) I awoke as the car slowed. The drivers will pull over a lot or run errands, but never stop in the middle of the road like we were. It was then I saw a plume of thick black smoke billowing from the middle of the road.

There was a large garbage truck in front of us, so I couldn’t see the source of the smoke, but I was immediately certain there had been some terrible accident. The people of this small, roadside town were going crazy. Everyone was running in all different directions and yelling. Only…they didn’t seem upset. They were fired-up to be sure, but no one was crying or looking shocked. Also, the driver of the truck in front of us seemed more angry than concerned.

It was then that the large truck pulled off to the side of the road, making room for us to see what was happening. There was no car accident or mangled bodies on the road, but rather an enormous pile of flaming tires, bordered by strategically place bricks, which combined with a mob of townspeople, effectively blocked any forward progress. Oh, I thought, I get it. This is a protest.

For those of you haven’t been following Senegalese politics, here’s what you need to know: Throughout the past year there have been increasingly violent protest in Senegal over the long-incumbent, 80-plus president’s decision to run for another term. It’s all vaguely legal, though apparently less-than-palatable to many Senegalese citizens. In addition, Senegal is suffering through an energy crisis. As the government connects more and more villages to the power grid, they have failed to create any new sources of power. Thus, the six (coal-fired?) power plants in Senegal are failing to fulfill power demands. As a result, the major cities suffer almost daily blackouts and/or water cuts that can last days. The Senegalese, perhaps inspired by the Arab Spring, have started protesting.

As far as I know, there haven’t been any deaths or violent retaliations, like in Syria, but there have been numerous causalities and many Dakar-based mobs were so bold as to burn government buildings. (Imagine my friend Phil’s surprise and disappointment when, after trekking to his daily lunch spot, he discovered it had been burned down the night before. That’s what you get for having a government bureaucracy as your neighbor.)

This is what is running through my mind as I looked at the scene unfolding in front of me. My driver called someone over to the car to ask what was happening, and though I don’t speak a lot of Wolof, I understood the village hadn’t had water in more than a week. Yeah, I thought, I’d be pissed too. The driver yells at the villager pointing out he had no control over the water and was just trying to get to Saint-Louis. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another car trying to circumvent the blockade, only to be swarmed by the mob. Whether or not we could bring the village water, we were stuck here.

At this point, my car was the closest to the flaming roadblock, only about ten yards away. My driver, clearly angry, got out of the car and started pacing. He opened the trunk and pulled out a large water jug, like he was going to put out the fire. I, meanwhile, am cowering (cowering) in the back of the car, trying to seem inconspicuous and silently begging my driver not to get involved as it might somehow draw more attention to me.

Blending it is a key survival skill in many circumstances, like, for example, when a clown asks for a volunteer from the audience or if you are a zebra. Unfortunately, being a tall white girl in West Africa, I never blend in. I am constantly the recipient of all kinds of unwanted attention. Besides frequently being seen as a kind of living ATM, potential second-wife, and/or omniscient, I have in different moments been blamed for calamities that were laughably beyond my control, like the socio-economic fallout from imperialism, gun-deaths in Africa, and Sarah Palin. So, sitting in the back of that car, I was thinking, please don’t let this be on of those moments. Let me be one with the upholstery.

Meanwhile, the scene was escalating. A police car arrived, but as the two rather slight officers stepped out of their car, they were immediately overwhelmed by the mob.

I had my phone in my hand wondering if I should call the Peace Corps security officer, but I stopped myself, knowing there wasn’t anything he’d be able to do besides tell me to stay in the car, which I was already doing an exemplary job of. Self-doubting to the end, I did call my friend Hailey to ask if she thought I should call the security officer. It was then I discovered I didn’t have adequate cell coverage, so the call she received must have sounded something like this: “Heeeeey Hailey, I think I’m in trouble. (Static)…flaming tires and a mob… (static) …can’t move and there’s… (static)…call for help? (Static)…zebras.”

It was then another truck, carrying a squad of riot police, showed up. They lined themselves up along the right side of the road, the mob on the left side. As the police loaded their guns, the villagers starting throwing rocks. Shit’s getting real here. I didn’t see if the police were shooting into the air and I don’t know if they were using rubber bullets or something, but I definitely heard gunfire.

A lot of shit has gone down during my Peace Corps service, but this was the first time I was genuinely concerned for my safety. I had the same thought I always do when in legitimately dangerous situations such as the one unfolding before me: When is this going to escalate to a point that I won’t be able to control or escape from.

But in a flash my driver dove back into his seat, slammed the car in drive and sped through the hole created by the advancing police and the retreating mob. Then we were on our way. Within minutes we’d arrived in Saint-Louis and I was standing the sun and chaos of any other ordinary afternoon. The whole thing hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes.

I called Hailey back to tell her I was ok, and called the security guy to report the event. Then promptly forgot about the whole thing…but not before making a mental note not to tempt the wrath of West Africa with further delusions of my immunity to its capriciousness.