Did you know that when you Google “patience” and “Dakar” the following image comes up? Looks like a Dakar Rally photo. I’m not saying it’s supposed to make sense. I will say that sometimes I’d rather drive off a cliff than be patient and wait for things to happen.

I’m trying to recall the words of Marie, my Senegalese language teacher. Once, after listening to my repeated “pressing” concerns over getting everything accomplished well in advance, she said to me: “Megan, this is Africa.”  Well put. You can translate what she meant as ‘shut up and go with the flow’.  

I’m trying.

After not hearing back from the University (“I’ll call you”) for almost two months, I sent a lengthy, politely-worded email last week to Boubacar, my trusted point of contact at the politics department.  Crickets. Then, Monday morning I received this as a response:

Not even punctuation or capitalization! Basically, “Come ASAP”. Great, I already know that I am behind the power curve in getting enrolled, but now I feel a slight sense of concern. I call him up, and he says to come the next day at ten before practically hanging up on me. 

I will spare you most of the details, but like a good militaire, I show up the next day at 9:59 and he is there, asking where I have been. Hmmm. “Waiting for you to get back to me?” I think. No matter, his phones are ringing and people are coming in and out of his office at a steady clip. Finally, he gets on his phone and calls someone, speaking quickly in a mix of French and Wolof. 

He tells me to come back in an hour.

“Just go make a petit tour and come back at 11:10.” Okay, I agree. A petit tour my ass. There’s nowhere to really sit around here…and I already ran five miles this morning, plus the two miles it took to walk to and from school!  No matter. I leave the building and set out to walk around in the sandy African sun for an hour of bonus Vitamin D time while I wait for fate expediters to materialize and assist in my cause. I can’t complain, because all of these people are doing me a favor. Still, I like to minimize my midday wandering about in the city. Today would not be one of those days… 

I finally get back to the office after buying bananas and reconfirming that the canal road, which runs adjacent to the university, still stinks to high heaven. Boubacar isn’t there.  Lucikly, I have made friends with the secretary, so I sit down and wait for Boubacar to show up again.  He never materializes, but the person who does show up makes good, and grâce à ma peau blanche, he recognizes that I’m the person he’s supposed to be helping (I don’t think I saw a single white person that morning). A rare occasion where I was happy to be a toubab.

He takes me to another room, and I tell this professor my story- essentially recreating everything I did two months ago with Boubacar.  

Him: “You’ll need to give me copies of your diplomas, etc”.

Me: “I already did that.”

Him: “Oh, I’ll just get it from Boubacar.  Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll get back to you.”

So that’s what I did, and I left. Looking back, all I know is that I gave some guy named Ismaila my email address, and Boubackar never showed back up, after making it abundantly urgent that I come in to see him.  In his defense, he did tell me that he was overwhelmed with work, and I believe him. So I feel like I am back at square one, waiting for things to happen.  A whole morning wasted? Time will tell. 

Before I knew it I found myself standing at a bus stop on the corniche, waiting for someone to bring me to the Embassy, and onto a new adventure that I won’t discuss here. It took awhile for them to get out of Plateau (downtown), so I was able to improve my tan a bit more as I waited. I even took a picture.:

Say, “Hey Mister Driver Man
Don’t be slow
‘Cause I got somewhere I got to go”
Say, “Hey Mister Driver Man
Drive that thing fast
My precious time keep slippin’ past” 

The one entertaining part about standing out here, getting beeped at by every taxi speeding by me?  A dude with a cart full of coconuts passed by, and he had a fantastic shirt that had “3 3 3” written in big letters followed by “I’m only half evil”.  

It was almost as good as the shirt I saw on a young dude I saw walking around town with a huge load of wood on his shoulder: “Retired. Don’t ask me to do a damn thing”. 

Another day in the life of an Olmsted Scholar.  I’ll let you know when I start feeling scholarly.