Not too far from the Radisson lies the unmissable halfway point of my morning run: a canal-scented lock that seems light years away from where I’m sitting.

Greetings from the trendiest hotel in Dakar, a place of prestige refuge if you’ve got money and want a place to wear your high heels unencumbered. My random duties of existence this week have me playing VIP handler at a terrorism conference. If only for the fantastic lunch spread and professorial dialogue, it’s been a worthwhile experience. Everything else that comes with being a protocol person (like standing on tarmac at night in uniform and holding a useless sign that nobody can see)- that’s something I can do without in my life.

Following around a VIP entails sitting and waiting for appointments to happen- which is what I am doing at the moment. I’ve got some more photos to show you from my bout of running tourism, and it seems a better way to pass the time than actually cracking my book on foreign aid to Africa. I’m a fantastic procrastinator.

Graffiti gives a city its narrative, and Dakar is no different. Down by the fish market (also a location where people burn tires and throw rocks in protest), a crop of fresh commentary has appeared. Even if my head is beat in, is the general translation- but it’s also a play on words. Gueule Tapée is the name of the neighborhood where this was taken.

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After the fish market comes the Muslim cemetery. Not a bad location for a final resting place- hanging out by the ocean. Me, I’ll still ask that you put me in one of those modestly-priced Folgers receptacles and scatter me on the cheap.

And speaking of bizarre burial methods, how about the manner in which Senegal buried one its greatest historical figures? I love this: when he died, no one knew if Blaise Diagne was Muslim or Christian (even his wife), so they just split the difference and buried him right outside of the Muslim cemetery.

The Millennium Door. I like this bit of art way more than I like the African Renaissance Monument- but why someone felt the need to spray paint the guy’s boobs red I’ll never know.

I’ve posted on corniche art before, but this one seems a bit more accessible to the general population. Especially everyone who is stuck in traffic as they try to access Plateau each morning.

Now in the strictest sense, this is not supposed to be art- but I totally think it should be. Not unlike the sign spinners who hang out in SoCal’s intersections, I came upon this row of people standing next to traffic with their backs to their cars, advertising a local cell phone provider. This is employment in Dakar. I don’t know what else to say.

 Here I wanted to capture the three life stages of a corniche palm tree. From left to right, you’ve got the moment one is transplanted into the ground, the brief midpoint where it never gets any water, followed by it flat out dying and rendering the corniche looking nothing like Beverly Hills. I won’t even tell you about how they unplug these guys from the ground and leave big gaping holes that will one day spell my end as I’m out running and not paying attention…

But it wouldn’t be very Senegalese of me to end this blog entry with that last photo’s commentary. The Senegalese are a largely peaceful people, but conflict and friction does occur from time to time. When this happens they always like to try and end things on a positive note of some sort. So in the spirit of being nice here’s a pretty shot of the beach that stretches right up to the traffic choked downtown Plateau area. 

So there you have it, a complete photo essay of my morning run. I can think of worse ways to start my day- and I still think this totally trumps waking up to a carefully constructed hotel paradise in the middle of all this West African authenticity.

I totally wanna go running tomorrow – I just need to lose this last pesky VIP at the airport first.