A typical Megan Day: Part Two

So about once a week I run to work. This used to be an easy task that undeservedly tagged me as an “athlete” among the guards.  I assure you, if they saw my track star performance this morning on the corniche (the main road into downtown), they would revise their impression of me:

I credit my choice of modest running apparel- you know the kind that goes just past my knees- for minimizing the damage.

So I get to work, completely tired from my early efforts of running, falling, and running faster on a rush of adrenaline and embarrassment (Note: you don’t feel any less stupid skidding across concrete on another continent than you do on your own- I can speak for Asia, Africa and America so far). I trudge up the stairs and I know I’m a bit of a mess, so I quickly try and get past the super-nice cleaning ladies who unsuccessfully engage me in Wolof every day. My tactic of answering “uh huh” to their incomprehensible questions isn’t flying, and I finally have to tell them (like I do each day), that je n’ai pas compris. 

After that mildly awkward interaction, I get into the office and take stock of the damage done to my body.  Not too bad: scraped up hands and knee, a hole in my overpriced running tights, and a scratch on my cell phone (how did that happen?). I decide that it is best to shower now and not have my cuts sting so much rather than wait the three hours it usually takes for my body temperature to cool down.

Oh good. There’s gonna be sun today.

Showered and still sweating (I told you I wasn’t going to complain about the weather), I sit down at my desk for a few hours of email hockey. In between feigning attempts at utility, I decide whether I have the mental fortitude to try and chip away at any of my still-unresolved accommodation issues. Nah. The battle I did with Dakar’s pavement took all the fight out of me for the day.


Instead, I find greater interest in hobbling about the office, drinking coffee, applying sarcastic comments where needed, and suffering the newly-discovered consequences of frequenting the office dispenser of Purell. Shit that stuff burns when rubbed into an open wound!

So I believe that’s about all I can really tell you about my day defending freedom here in Dakar. I really wish there was more excitement to report, but I don’t think that the special in the cafeteria even made honorable mention (it was yassa poulet, in case you’re curious). After a slow day in the office, my bruised ego called it a day after I was rewarded with a lift home from a kind co-worker. This spared me from having to do one of two things:

  1. Attempting to run back home and very likely dying from further exposure to the elements 
  2. Matching wits with whatever taximan happened to be passing the embassy and mistaking me for a vulnerable 20 year old who just got dropped into this country unawares

The scene of my morning spill, taken from the safety of a “quatre-quatre” (SUV) while heading home this afternoon. 
All said, it was a good day. As for me tripping and falling, I sincerely hope that I at least provided some entertainment for the morning commuters. Lord knows I for one personally love a daily dose Schadenfreude….