July-8th


Promises have a way being quite slowly delayed.

I have left Mali and Burkina and now find myself in Senegal. On my arrival in Senegal, I followed a housing lead given to me by a traveling French girl and headed for the mission catholic. At the first mission catholic, I was soundly turned away. It was a community of sisters who shared everything together and thus had no private facilities. Thus, being a man, it could get complicated for me to stay there. They sent me on to the procure down town with the warning that the responsible was out of town. Luck is typically on my side, so I hopped on a taxi and headed south. On arrival, I found myself waiting through the French African sacred hour (lunchtime: 12-3). I finally met some priests who found the next man down the rung for me. As the responsible was out, however, it wasn’t possible for me to stay there. They sent me on a car back north but angled thirty degrees to the left along the shore side. I was effectively dumped and the road side and told, first door on the right. The buck had been passed. I entered inside and found to my little surprise that all the rooms were full. I had thought that the priest, whose phone was attached to his ear that sent me hear had in fact called them to be sure there was space before sending me on this wild goose chase, but that was just expecting too much. I found myself in friendly hands, however, as I soon discovered that this was the house of the congregation of the holy spirit (also known as spiritans or holy ghost fathers). Indeed, I lived with the spiritans for about a month and a half when I was in Ethiopia. While their house was full, they gave me a full plate of food, which after having been up since 5 am, and dealing with all the hassels of unsuccessfully smuggling extra weight onto planes with me, with the added burden of traversing the traffic filled city of Dakar twice, was all that I could want in the world. I was comfortably resigned to seeking out cheap housing in some reputable brothel downtown, when one of the employees, Alain, with whom I had already shared some decent conversation, invited me to his house. I had never actually lived with an African family before, as my constant moving typically made this difficult. I was intrigued and immediately accepted. Alain took me and my heavy bags further north and set me up in his room. He had two beds put together, as it would not be uncommon for his cousin to crash there. Alain lives in a three story cement building. His parents live on the ground floor, while they rent out the next level and alain, his sister and some cousins live in rooms built on the roof. This is too simple of a scheme for describing the living situation here, for I think I could probably count at least 40 people living there. Unfortunaly things used in common, without a common pooling of funds can make living a little difficult. The water had been cut from the complex due to a lack of timely payments. With one meter and 40 opinions, I can certainly understand how such a problem would arise. Effectively beaten, I took to the bed and spent a good three hours recuperating my strength.
Over the next few days I began to fall into rythym with urban African life. It is certainly not what I expected. Rising with the sun, I found myself effectively alone on the roof for near 2 hours. Not a soul stirred in the compound. Soon a few of the lodgers and the other family would begin to rise, wash their face, and head off on the day. Alains dad, a retired doctor would clean the courtyard, and I would greet alain’s mom from three storeys high. Without Alain or his sister being awake, I didn’t know how to get my bucket of water to wash and wake up. I found myself somewhat incapacitated as I waited for others to arise. Alain would pop out of bed just a few minutes before eight and would head off to work. Jerome, Alain’s brother, ran a very successful mini bar out of the exterior part of the ground floor. I should probably note that this is a predominantly muslim neighborhood, though Alain’s family and some others in the quarter are catholics from the formely animist ethnicities of the south eastern part of Senegal. Jerome could easily find himself up till 6 am working, selling his wares to his muslim-in-everything-but-stomach friends and neighbors. Around 9 am one would see him awake and the family would have a small breakfast of bread, butter and your choice of coffee or powdered milk with a hint of coffee.
My second day in Senegal, Jerome helped me cross the city with some of the research books I have collected and sent them off by post. I got by narrowly with a minor fine at the last airport and I did not relish the idea of trying to make it through 3 more with the added 20 kilos before making it finally home. I returned and waited for what I thought would be a quick lunch before heading out again. Lunch, however, didn’t arrive until 3 pm. I began to realize just how much of an independent streak I have picked up this year. The moment it felt culturally ok to leave the lunch table, I hastily grabbed my day sack and hit the road. For as much patience and ease with slowness I have developed in Africa, I felt a strong urge to leave the house and do something. I made my way to a early 19th century lighthouse that I had marked out in my guidebook before arriving that promised some of the best views over the peninsula. After a good hour of twisting through narrow walkways, I finally traversed a giant construction site next to a landfill and begin to ascend to little volcanic mound. Halfway up the sea breeze struck me, and I was filled with awe as I gazed over the stretching ocean blue.