It‘s not why you’re running
It’s where you’re going
It’s not what you’re dreaming
But what you’re gonna do

It’s not where you’re born
It’s where you belong
It’s not how weak
But what will make you strong

                                             -Bono (yes, I listen to a lot of U2) 

 “Hey! Who took the sky?”

The past few days the pretty blue sky has gone away.

They call it “dust” here (well, no- actually, they call it poussière, but Dad is saying that I put too many French words in my blog, so now je ferai un effort de ne pas écrire en français. Starting now. Man, Dad, you’re lucky degguma wolof)

Okay, back to the dust. I call it “flying sand”.  Dust is something that you are forced to deal with when you own tchochke magnets such as hutches and spinning bookcases. I hate knick-knacks. I hate dust too. Now I might just add sand to that group of unpleasantness. Did I mention that I like snow and winter?  Oh yeah, I am really prepping myself well for a ripe old retirement on the Cape some day…

So the dust comes in often here, and the haze is really unbelievable. The sky just ceases to exist, as does a good portion of the skyline.  I was dumb enough to go for my long run yesterday evening, and I can only imagine the amount of particulate that was collected in my lungs; my wind pipe could probably use a lint trap. The compromised intake of oxygen  combined with doing the last two miles in the dark made for a really stupid recipe of outdoor activity. In a future entry I will have to post a picture of the “sidewalks” in Dakar (hint: they are called streets), and also point out the paucity of functioning headlights on the taxis.  In fact, I’m fairly confident that 90% of the vehicles here would fail a Massachusetts vehicle inspection. And maybe that’s being generous.

So before you call my boss here and tell on me for taking unnecessary risks (running after dark, alone, blah blah, blah), I will let you know that it is too damn hot and treacherous to run in the evening. I’m sticking with morning runs where everything seems much more manageable.  

For those of you who are initiated, you’re gonna tell me to just wait till the heat comes. Oh yes, I know- and I am already preparing my diatribes against l’hivernage (sorry, Dad). That said, remember that a bitching sailor is a happy sailor- and I really do love it here.