People think that I’m just days away from hanging off the back of a car rapide and collecting fares…
…the reality is that I am only about 5 minutes less bewildered than the new arrival who is unjustly impressed by my five words of Wolof. I’m going to keep drinking the attaya and hoping that my transition continues to evolve.
I’m not exactly sure when I made the jump from “Oh God, will I remember any of the French that was beaten into my head as a teenager?” to “How did I just have a complete conversation in French about bipoloar disorder with a Beninois-Togolese orthopedic surgeon through text messaging?”
You laugh, but transition happens that way; it is swift and altogether obscured by your daily battles while out in the culture. And the context is always as random as the one I just explained to you.
So with that said, I’m headed off the peninsula tomorrow, inch’allah. I figured that before I venture through this next entryway to more good stories I’d better post a few observations to demonstrate some of the paltry Dakar “knowledge” I have obtained so far. You’ll see that I’m using the term knowledge loosely…
- “Are you married?” The answer is yes. “What is your phone number?” The answer is, I don’t know.
- It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to buy that book on Hitler, that Orange phone card, or the ironing board being sold to passing cars in stopped traffic. “Merchants” will continue to smash the item against your car window until traffic resumes its crawl. Which could take hours.
- Nothing is “that far”, yet everything really is far.
- It’s okay if you don’t remember everyone’s name the first or second time around. They all don’t always remember yours either:
I got this sheet of paper from the guards the day after I moved in (and introduced myself in my foolproof “Mégane comme la voiture” fashion). Check out #2, and then if you don’t know much about Renault models, click here.
- Spending two minutes to ask someone how they are doing, or how their family is doing pays huge dividends.
- If during the conversation, a little stove and kettle is brought over, then you’re likely to sit and talk for an hour about nothing at all. That’s not a bad thing.
- My fancy and expensive (and pretty!) PT gear means nothing. I head out for each run with the understanding that I’ll be passed by all manner of Senegalese wearing flip flops, plastic “jelly shoes”, ski goggles (yes, I have seen these) and sometimes even the odd woman in a full headscarf. I may be pathetic in my jogging pace, but I will still receive countless words of encouragement from guards, fellow runners, and men hanging off the back of public transportation buses. You’d think a woman had never run on her own before.
- Operating a motorized vehicle that is painted yellow and black is no indication that you:
- Have a license or any idea how to actually drive
- Have any idea where you need to be taking your passenger
- Have any intention of obeying police or traffic flow
- Have any intention of driving the two miles to the customer’s destination directly. A stop for some Cafe Touba might be in order, and then you might ask the sucker patron for an advance on the fare to pay for it.
- Have any command of the country’s official language
- Have any intention of respecting the line of cars that are sitting at a standstill just ahead (so the savvy patron best keep an eye on the road and learn how to say “Look out!” in a few languages)
- I am able to recognize that a sunset like this means that the dust has gone away, and that I get to live in a really cool country (no bullshitting here, I do love it):
