white fantasy, black dream

No, I'm not trying to promote the place above (although, given how the internet works, I recognise the risk that this post is seen by someone who then shares the picture in various networks), just wanting to say how it disturbs me every time I walk past it - and how it so accurately reflects a sad part of this country and indeed, many other places in sub-Saharan Africa.

As background, I should explain that there is a general feeling here that people from developed, Western countries are 'better'.  I refer to developed, Western countries, rather than white countries, because it does seem that African Americans (and I presume black Europeans) are categorised together with white Amercians and Europeans - so I don't believe this has the racial undertones that it might appear to have.  Unpicking that term 'better' is rather more difficult; it certainly means wealthier, and with more job/career opportunities, but it also means more educated and therefore more worthy of being listened to, and respected.  It also means that something manufactured in the West is preferred; I think here of a friend of a friend, really happy because her family have installed what is called here an English toilet (ie a sit-down toilet) which, although not so good for you as the local-style squat toilet (can cause you to develop piles), is considered much higher status.

But then - the main point of this post - we have the sex tourism.  At a basic level it involves older white (mostly French) men and women coming here to have sex with Africans for a couple of weeks and then returning home.  But beyond that, some of the tourists fall in love, and either send money from home to support their lover and return annually to rekindle the physical side, or they actually come here to live.  I've seen the tearful goodbyes at the airport between wrinkly old white women and fit, young Senegalese men, and even knew (before I'd ever visited Senegal) a British woman in her seventies with a young husband out here, who had taken up work in London as a 'vintage escort' as the only way she could find to fund her Senegalese husband's incessant demands for money.

I also heard recently of one case of a young Senegalese woman whose old (and now bedridden) French lover moved here to marry her and live here with her - where she complains to friends that he's not dead yet, and she is apparently giving him 'medication' that is not what he thinks he's getting but rather something that should shorten his life.  Then she will inherit the house and money and can move in with the secret Senegalese lover she already has on the side.  I'm told this kind of situation is not all that uncommon.

Since in most cases both parties to the transaction are willing participants, I'm not sure whether it really counts as exploitation.  What it does do is reflect the imbalance of resources and opportunities in today's world.  Those young Senegalese men and women do not, in most cases, genuinely find their older customers to be sexually attractive, and most of them would choose other ways of making money if jobs were available.  But jobs are not available ... so prostitution is common (any nightclub here will be full of young Senegalese women with very high heels, long nails and long eyelashes, and very revealing clothing, who immediately approach any unaccompanied white man who walks in), but more disturbingly for me, any white woman out in public here without an accompanying man or children will be hit upon.  Those approaching her can be of any age, and can be already married, but they still see that opportunity to improve their life if they can hook up with her - whether that be for an hour, a night, a couple of weeks, or for life.  If they are married, they do not even hide the relationship from the wife - in part because polygamy is legal and accepted here, but in part because the wife will also want the family to benefit from the opportunities associated with the white woman.

Negotiating this minefield is a regular part of my life here.  Whilst in many ways I can distance myself from it and act as a (fascinated) neutral observer, it is an irritation.  Just walking down the street to the supermarket often involves dealing with young men telling me I am beautiful and wanting my phone number.  I find myself giving my stock response as to why I am not interested ("I want to remain single - I can do what I like, where I like, how I like, when I like, with whom I like, without having to justify or explain it to anyone, as I am free!") quite frequently, and still sometimes waste an afternoon or evening in some man's company having mistakenly believed their assurance they they would like to meet for a drink "as friends".  But the situation also makes me very sad.