DaKaR is good; however
DaKaR is worth exploring
DaKaR is a city of contrast where businessmen and tourists
DaKaR is a good pedaler
DaKaR is natuurlijk de stad waar je geweest moet zijn om in senegal te zijn geweest
DaKaR is about africa
DaKaR is the capital of senegal
DaKaR is different
DaKaR is een elfstedentocht op terreinbanden met als enige doel lac rose halen
DaKaR is voor rallyrijders
DaKaR is more expensive than neighbouring gambia
DaKaR is above all a race created for amateurs where professionals have a role to play
DaKaR is right on the ocean
DaKaR is estimated to be 15 years
DaKaR is not cheap
DaKaR is compatible with the dsp~link2 specification when used with the appropriate mechanical adapter
DaKaR is located on the cape verde peninsula on the atlantic ocean
DaKaR is stuck in a strange land with strange cheese products
DaKaR is likely to intensify as progress is made in the west african economic and monetary union
DaKaR is linked to 23 african cities by air
DaKaR is the best in west africa and we enjoyed a peaceful hour there before diving back into the streets and finding our way to the market
DaKaR is also a vast african town with its problems indeed
DaKaR is both vigilant and passionate
DaKaR is the friendly nature of the DaKaRois
DaKaR is a choking hot sprawl of concrete without much of the fantasy bright colonial
DaKaR is a tall bike anyway and perching it up on that tall stand with a large degree of stability is tough
DaKaR is the capital of somalia ?
DaKaR is not one of complacency; on the contrary
DaKaR is therefore the paradise of people “without identity papers”
DaKaR is a city no one can ever forget
DaKaR is worth exploring
DaKaR is a city of contrast where businessmen and tourists
DaKaR is a good pedaler
DaKaR is natuurlijk de stad waar je geweest moet zijn om in senegal te zijn geweest
DaKaR is about africa
DaKaR is the capital of senegal
DaKaR is different
DaKaR is een elfstedentocht op terreinbanden met als enige doel lac rose halen
DaKaR is voor rallyrijders
DaKaR is more expensive than neighbouring gambia
DaKaR is above all a race created for amateurs where professionals have a role to play
DaKaR is right on the ocean
DaKaR is estimated to be 15 years
DaKaR is not cheap
DaKaR is compatible with the dsp~link2 specification when used with the appropriate mechanical adapter
DaKaR is located on the cape verde peninsula on the atlantic ocean
DaKaR is stuck in a strange land with strange cheese products
DaKaR is likely to intensify as progress is made in the west african economic and monetary union
DaKaR is linked to 23 african cities by air
DaKaR is the best in west africa and we enjoyed a peaceful hour there before diving back into the streets and finding our way to the market
DaKaR is also a vast african town with its problems indeed
DaKaR is both vigilant and passionate
DaKaR is the friendly nature of the DaKaRois
DaKaR is a choking hot sprawl of concrete without much of the fantasy bright colonial
DaKaR is a tall bike anyway and perching it up on that tall stand with a large degree of stability is tough
DaKaR is the capital of somalia ?
DaKaR is not one of complacency; on the contrary
DaKaR is therefore the paradise of people “without identity papers”
DaKaR is a city no one can ever forget
I enjoy being entertained- espcially when it involves a bit of schadenfreude. After spending time away from Dakar, I always get a chance to experience things with somewhat renewed eyes, and as such I’ll notice things that after awhile become rather unremarkable. So, I’d like to create a synopsis of my first full day back in Dakar. Some of it is boring, some funny, and some frustrating- but I hope it gives you a snapshot of life in this corner of my world.
7h30: Wake up. Look out my circular bedroom window and notice that it looks very pink outside. Pretty. I’m happy that I recognize where I am when I open my eyes. The day prior (the morning of my return) I awoke standing straight up and blindly looking around after three hours of sleep. I think I was looking for the bathroom.
7h40: Espresso. How I’ve missed this glorious machine and my Illly pod stash. I down my coffee as I walk over to my ooma and see that the flower in the middle is still blinking red instead of the glorious constant blue which means that my Internet is working. I’m mildly annoyed yet usurprised that there’s been no connectivity for six days.
8h00: Work out. Today’s a strength day- something that I’ve neglected while out on the road. As I’m TRXing, I make a mental list of the things that need to be done today, and know that I’ll probably forget almost all of it as I move on to the next really hard exercise. I should have done yoga this morning.
8h00: Work out. Today’s a strength day- something that I’ve neglected while out on the road. As I’m TRXing, I make a mental list of the things that need to be done today, and know that I’ll probably forget almost all of it as I move on to the next really hard exercise. I should have done yoga this morning.
8h40: Get my news update while listening to West Africa Democracy Radio in my magical shower.
8h43: As I’m toweling off, I hear the doorbell ring. There’s an outside chance that someone is randomly here to fix my internet, so I beachcomb through clothes on my floor to find a skirt and tank top that will be acceptable for receiving unscheduled guests.
8h45: It’s DHL. I never get DHL packages (no one has this address) but he says hello and hands me a clipboard to sign. “Who’s it for?” I ask him, and of course he gives me the name of someone who is not me. I redirect him to somewhere else in the building, which may or may not have confused him (there are two seventh floors in this “building”).
The view from my balcony reveals a beautiful day outside. I laugh to myself each time I glance at the newly-constructed minaret near the ocean. Call me a blashphemer, but it just looks a little too…..erect. There I said it.
8:50: After the DHL visit I’m pretty much dressed, so I figure that I might as well head outside and search for phone credit (I have a pay as you go cell phone). As I step outside, I plan on crossing the street to my guy’s phone credit stand- except he isn’t there. I look around for one of the ubiquitous roving Orange card vendors, but no one’s in sight. I’m annoyed in a bizarre way that I have to walk more than 50 meters to find someone to sell me a phone card. There’s a promotion today (meaning you get bonus credit) so it takes some wandering before I can find someone with a card. As I’m looking around, a guy with 10 layers of eggs on his head walks by and asks if I want any. I reflexively tell him no, and then realize that yes, I do want eggs. But then I remember I have no money on me. Damn.
9h00: I walk back into my apartment and say hello to the people who are here every morning and mopping down the lobby area. Just seconds before, I had blown past a young talibé who was begging for money outside my front gate. While I often try to steel myself against not feeling too much guilt about the people earning obviously lesser incomes than myself, I have to say that I always feel ridiculous walking in and out of this ivory tower. The economic disparity is overwhelming.
9h10: Decide which guerre I’m going to fight today. I decide that it’s going to be the Internet, since that has the most immediate impact on my morale. I top up my phone and send a text to Issaga, my nemesis (he’s my point of contact for all building issues). Yesterday he promised to text me the number of my home phone line, which isn’t used, but having the number is useful when troubleshooting Internet problems wtih Sonatel. He never texted me, so I send him a text asking him the same question.
9h15: My suitcases have thrown up all over my bedroom, but I can’t bring myself to deal with unpacking yet. Even if this one is blocking my path to the bathroom.
9h30: My water distiller is way overdue for a cleaning, and I know that this really must be attacked sooner rather than later. Today is going to be an Internet and distiller day. I know you’re jealous, but one way or the other I’ll have one of these tasks resolved by day’s end.
As I’m draining the water tank I notice that my skirt looks inside-out. No wait, no it’s not. It’s only on backwards. Either way, I don’t think that anyone would have cared about my fashion faux pas while walking around Point E. Stilll, Senegalese women always look very well put together, and I’m nothing but another grungy toubab with a peasant skirt on backwards.
10h00: My water distiller is a disgusting mess inside, and there’s loads of mineral build-up. This is going to take awhile. No text either from Issaga. I decide to head down to the lobby to see if I can find someone else who can locate my only hope for mindless web browsing in the comfort of my own home.
[aside: You know what’s tough about being a privileged Westerner living in Africa? It’s that you see that you have things so damn good compared to the average African that you feel like a complete a-hole if you gripe about stupid things like having no Internet. This consideration weighs heavily on my mind, and makes me want to erase this blog entry completely.]
10h30: My new building liaison in the lobby gets a hold of Issaga, who in turn calls me and apologizes, saying he totally forgot about it. He promises that he’ll come by at 1pm with a technicien, and hopefully that will solve the problem. He swears to me that the building has been paying its internet bills. That’s good to know.
11h00: Working on my distiller, I swish my hand around the tank. I keep coming up with chunks like this. I start to lose motivation and decide that my toenails need painting.
11h15: I choose a color that was both in honor of the Boston Celtics starting their season on Christmas day, and also capable of masking the horrendous state of my toenails. Perk of being a runner.
Noon: I return to my distiller and daydream about the things I would look up if I had Internet. I’m making progress on cleaning the machine, and as I close the thing up for another round of steaming I reflect on the fact that clean water is a privilege, and I was made extremely conscious of its precious supply as a young kid. I think about the people outside who don’t even have easily-accessible tap water. This is the stuff that helps me to shut my brain up when I want to gripe.
12h30: I’m hungry but haven’t been out to buy fresh food. I’d really love to make some curried salmon salad, one of my favorite meals, but I don’t have any apples. I open the fridge and check out what’s inside, and locate a black plastic bag. I silently bless my housesitter for leaving me some produce, because she indeed has left me an apple that I can slice up and throw into what will now be an awesome lunch.
12h45: I’m slicing and dicing as I glance at my espresso machine. I realize that this too needs to be descaled. That will have to be another day- the distiller is sufficiently kicking my ass (and making a mess of the floor) on this day of accomplishment.
13h00: Behold lunch. There’s no way Issaga’s going to show up on time. Or even today for that matter. Who knows!
13h42: Doorbell. It’s my man Issaga with a new IT guy. I welcome them in and give them a drink as they set to work with doing whatever it is that smart IT people do. It’s beyond me, so I leave them to it and attempt to straighten up the apartment.
14h45: They’re still doing “stuff”- but I have no idea what they’re doing. Issaga makes the mistake of asking me how everything else is in the aparment, so I decide to play my card and throw at him the other issue vexing me. The air conditioners in half of the rooms don’t really work- they only blow air around. He wants me to show him, and when he puts his hand up to the units he says, “Nah, these work fine!” I plead my case as a snow-loving toubab, and he says that he’ll get someone in to clean them. I am doubtful that he will remember, but am more concerned with the Internet right now.
15h00: I make a snack of bananas on peanut butter toast, and offer some up to my guests. I tell them it’s an American delicacy, and they take it without further comment. I’m totally trying to emulate Senegalese hospitality, but don’t know if I am succeeding.
16h00: I’m informed that the technician can’t fix my Internet without a new modem. They’re going to head out to find one, and will at least phone me with an update. I’m a bit dubious, but thank them anyway. I really didn’t expect to have my Internet fixed in one visit, but at least I now have my home phone number again- so Issaga’s on my good side.
I’m more posting this photo of my fridge because it’s got the number written on it, and when I once again lose my home phone number (don’t worry, you can’t call it because there’s no phone hooked into the wall), I can refer to my blog. Genius, I know.
16h30: Distiller is finally done. I’ve got a strong feeling of accomplishment, but can feel myself crashing. I make some coffee with pumpkin pie spice, a treat learned from my pal Meaghan up in Paris.
17h30: A sign of me being back in my home always involves me making bread. I make up a batch of multigrain baguettes, and mix up a starter for an awesome three day Italian bread.
19h00: Time for dinner. I make some macaroni and cheese to accompany the beautiful washed lettuce that was waiting for me in the fridge. Issaga and his quest for a new modem is a long-forgotten issue. Still, I really wish I had Internet. It’s my connection to home.
19h30: No water coming out of the faucets. I’m annoyed by this but slightly comforted by the fact that I have already made supper and have bread rising that will require no further effort from my water supply. My brain is flashing back to my recollection that water is a precious resource that isn’t necessarily a right. At least I have clean water on most days.
You know what else I get to enjoy here? Care packages from awesome people who inform me of the existence of pumpkin spice Hershey Kisses! This (and some wine) makes my evening very exciting.
20h00: I can’t do dishes, but I keep reflexively going for the faucet handle to either wash my hands or wash my dishes. I get annoyed that I keep doing this. I have a two-minute hissy fit in order to deal with the built up frustrations of the day before I compose myself and head down to my lobby where there is available wi-fi. I want to e-mail my detailer. Additionally, I’m a bit disappointed with myself that it was only just over 24 hours before I had my first small meltdown. I need to toughen up. Or get more of those pumpkin treats.
20h30: I get a near-instantaneous reply from my detailer, and suddenly I’m looking for new jobs in a dark lobby that only has the pink glow of my Macbook cover. I am sure that I look ridiculous. I’m still a bit frustrated, especially when I realize that my feet and legs are getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. What a rookie mistake- I totally forgot to put anything on my legs before heading to an open environment. I’ve definitely been gone too long.
21h00: I unpack the rest of my clothes and drink some more wine. I have only woken up once in my apartment when the water still hasn’t been running- so I figure that my chances are good that I’ll wake up tomorrow and things will be back to normal. The days’ stresses are not overpowering, but I am reminded of a conversation with a friend here who noted the high recurrence rate of amenorrhea for Western women living in these parts. We think all of these little stresses might have something to do with it, and I think I’m living proof that this is probably correct. Sorry if that’s TMI.
22h30: It’s an early night for me, and as I lay down I reflect as I do every day on how grateful I am for everything that I have. Don’t get me wrong- some nights I sound a bit less geniune- but at a minimum I remember that I asked for this assignment. Furthermore, there is flooding in Thailand, two scholars were evacuated earlier this year due to a small thing called the revolution, the scholar in Morocco just channeled her inner repairman and fixed her own dryer before going through a spell with no hot water in her house (and it’s cold in Morocco right now). All of us, even those who are back at home, have their fair share of crap to sort out each day.
7h15: Hello new day: I’m up, and there’s water. Alhamdoulilah! I see that my Internet is still blinking red, but I down some more coffee and lace up my shoes for a run.
7h45: It’s hot outside, and I’m having trouble acclimating to the humidity. I’m feeling quite slow and a bit glum as I focus on the hazy blue of the Atlantic Ocean. A car hits the side of the curb and trashes his tire as I pass right by it; I’m thankful that the corniche has high curbs on the seaward side. Continuing back home at about mile five, I realize that I’m about to cross paths with a pack of at least 30 guys running in my direction. There’s not much sidewalk real estate where we’re at, so I move into the road. As we intersect, I am greeted with hoots, hollers and applause at my sportiness- and I can do nothing to repress a big smile as I wave at my running friends. Senegalese men, you may often drive me crazy, but you certainly have your moments.
Back at home, there’s another day to take on. I’m in pretty good form after going through an evening that left me rather fed up. The people of this country may not have all the fancy modern conveniences that I may or may not enjoy on any given day- but they sure know a thing or two about genuine happiness. They also know exactly what needs to be done to turn my day around and make me feel completely lifted. I won’t lie- I’ll be super excited when cyberstastic time wasting is restored to my apartment, but for now I’m slowly getting back into my groove.