Sylvia's Journal

For three days I observed some 20 Senegalese, mostly pharmacists, wrestle with the complexity of the pharmaceutical supply chain. The chain requires that numerous actors, each with their own needs and motives, work flawlessly together to bring the medicines to the people who need them.

Aside from the actors there are also many places along the chain where things can go wrong, or not happen at all.  The last kilometer has become a bit of a rallying cry. It’s a concept that sounds simple but is very complex. When I asked why that last mile doesn’t see as many good quality products as it should, there were many opinions which led to heated debates.  Not knowing much about the supply chain, and not being a pharmacist, I focused on the dynamics between the teams to see whether some of the causes of the problems could be traced to the way the talked with each other.  So I held up a mirror from time to time and things quieted down and there was a pause for reflection.

To the puzzled looks of the hotel staff I had said I wanted the chairs placed in front of the tables, set up in U form, not in back. I explained that the tables formed a barrier between the participants and that it also invited people to place their laptops and (multiple) phones on the tables so they could monitor incoming emails and text messages. This is the new addiction of our times (“let me check my phone to see if anyone, anywhere, wants me for something.”)

After the initial surprise about the setup people sat down. But before we started they had already placed their phones and laptops on their knees – habits are hard to break. We discussed how we were going to work together these three days. They agreed that having various devices open was not such a good idea. One by one the laptops disappeared. The phones was another story. I had made sure that no one had a relative in a hospital somewhere, or was close to dying or giving birth,. Despite the commitments, cellphones kept ringing, people answered them, and many couldn’t help themselves to check messages regularly.

I am back in Senegal. I was last here fourteen years ago, when, accompanied by the girls and Axel, we celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. However, it had been 40 years since I was last at the hotel I am staying at now. It was called Le Meridien then. My parents stayed here when we lived in Dakar. The hotel is now named after a Saudi King. 

It is located in what was a quiet but windy part on the northern side of Cap Vert where Dakar is located, in a small village called Les Almadies. A tiny little restaurant built on the rocks, with not much of an inside, offered simple lunches, fish, brochettes, frites. While waiting for the food to arrive (never fast), we walked on the black rocks looking for treasures. There was very little construction here and other than the Meridien, nothing tall.

Now the US embassy is here, with countless other embassies and well-guarded residences of people who did well, either because they bought land here all these years ago, or got their wealth from connections to a previous president and his circle of cronies. Or maybe they won the lottery. 

The airport is now far away from Dakar. It has the allure of a modern airport. It is still clean and organized. Entering the country was a breeze – no lines for the visa counter. The visa is free and is issued in no time: four fingers on the reader, a look in the camera, and stamp-stamp and I was in. The luggage part was not so efficient – it took an hour for my bag to arrive and by then half of all passengers were still waiting for theirs.

Once again, the driver who was supposed to pick me up was not there but, unlike my experience in Zambia, two months ago, this time I was prepared. I had the driver’s number and the name of the hotel. A nice young man named Mounir saw me looking, and looking. He offered to help. He called the driver who told Mounir someone else was at the airport, not with my name on a piece of paper, but the name of the company. He clearly was not on his post when I came out. Mounir asked for a little something to compensate him for his services – not everyone is so altruistic. I gave him something that I thought was a lot for his two phone calls and walking me across the length of the arrival hall. He wanted more. I said I thought he was richly compensated and he backed off. It doesn’t hurt to try and I am sure he is often successful.  Eventually I was delivered, 3 hours after I landed, to my hotel on the other side of Dakar.

The hotel still has the same furniture in the rooms. It’s funny how I instantly recognized it. The hotel has a superficial glow of luxury and I am sure the prices are commensurate with that. But underneath are may signs of poor maintenance and surface cleaning. The breakfast food was, like the hotel, good looking only.  I am not a food snob but this I recognized as mass produced food with little attention to quality and freshness. The dining area feels like an airport restaurant – cavernous and noisy. There are many US military here, body-built guys who fill the gym with testosterone. Elections are only a few weeks off – observers are streaming in. The military are here, I suppose, because of Senegal’s proximity to the Sahara desert. Parts of the Sahel (the Sahara’s front yard) and the Sahara itself are crawling with bad people, drugs, arms and poor souls who want to get to Europe. I presume it is also a perfect training ground for new crops of terrorists as all the key ingredients are present: an unlimited and never ending supply of potential recruits (poor young men with no prospects), money, drugs, arms and an easily cultivated hate of the west and western life style.