Id have to say that this has been my craziest trip yet. My plan? Penetrate the most destitute continent in the world, stay with a Senegalese family, and hope that I could be of some help once there. My contingency plan? If the family doesn't show up and the NGO's don't want a volunteer getting in the way - cheap hostals and powerbars. My travelogue:With dad's warnings of AIDS ringing in my ears and the doctor's warnings of menginitis and malaria contraction racing through my head, I try my best to mount the plane without mounting my anxiety as well. On the first plane ride my frazzled nerves are quickly soothed as my traveling luck once again kicks in. By the end of the plane ride, I have met two girls from Belgium that switched seats to sit with me, I'm carrying the phone number of a Parisian who insists that I call for a personal tour as soon as I'm back in the city, and I am full from the first class dinner selection I was offered by the hostess. And if thats not enough, right before landing, the Belgium girls tell me they work for a job recruiting center. No problem - They'll help me find something in Belgium if I'm interested. Score! From Morocco to Senegal, however, I start to get nervous once more. No one comes to sit with me. No one gives me their number. No one offers me a job. Not only that, but the plane smells bad and the people are dressed funny. I decide to take things into my own hands - I target a white woman sitting nearby. I lean in and ask her a grammar question in French ... Lame, I know. But it does the trick. Five minutes later, I have her number and a contact just in case I need anything while I'm in Senegal. Relief.Coming off the plane the first thing I notice is the heat. It's three in the morning and the heat has an almost tactile quality. Nevertheless, I pull a light jacket around my shoulders to ward off any malaria-infested insects that could kill me with one bite. Don't look at any stranger, I think to myself, they'll steal your visa and take over your identity! I cross my fingers and hope that my Senegalese family will be there to pick me up. Africa in the middle of the night seems the perfect setting for a horror novel ... especially with a disillusioned American traveling alone acting as the main character. Interpolation: young, white, female, dissillusioned American traveling alone. My first day in Dakar, in Africa really, I go into sensory overload as all five of my senses are pummeled by new sensations. New smells, new tastes. Startling sights and strange sounds. The pungent odor of horse maneur lying in the street. A handful of cooked rice and fish mashed against the palm of my hand. A flash of color as rickety buses barrel down the street. The satisfying crunch of a cocunt as I bite down on the hardened flesh. The sound of vendors trying to sell mangos on the side of the road. So this is Africa. Im staying in Pikine, a tiny village outside of Senegal's capital. Its known for its destitution. No paved roads, no garbage collection. Sewage treatment? That's what the ocean is for, naturally. I explore the market with Yacine, my Senegalese host while I am here. The vendors are scattered haphazardly within an incongruous series of disheveled ramshakes and dilapidated sheds. It is "markets" like these that contribute to Africa's GDP - 70 percent of which isn't accounted for by the government. If you are expecting a receipt after purchasing your eggs, think again. If your lucky, you might get a tiny plastic bag with your purchase. And as I said, that's if you're lucky. The family I stayed with was incredibly warm and welcoming. I felt comfortable right away and was able to get to know each one pretty well during the time I was there. I was always with one of the family members. Whether I was exploring Dakar, going to the market, or watching television, I was never alone. The villagers themselves were also really nice, and I met 3 Canadians that were friends with Yacine. Despite the warmth of the people, however, the reality of the living situation wasn't as inviting. First of all, there were flies everywhere. I felt like a horse in a barn, constantly swatting at " les mouches. " Try eating a mango in Africa - its a protein-enriching experience (; Furthermore, I was staying in a 4 bedroom home that was shared by 12 people. I shared a room with Yacine and her younger sister. I was just happy to have my own bed. There were two bathrooms in the home, and while each one boasted a spicket with running water, there was neither soap nor toilet paper. A rather pertinent detail when all meals are eaten with your hands ...Needless to say, I didn't last the three weeks I had planned on staying.The last night I spent with the family the sweltering heat had literally transformed into a tangingle force that was actually pushing down on my lungs. Everything was damp. My pillow, my sheets, my legs. The worst were my arms, sticky with a thick film of grime - a melange of silt from the day's adventures in the city and moisture from the air's heavy humidity. I tossed. I turned. I sighed. Random memories of mom's AC fanatacism drifted in and out of my head. How could I have complained when she blasted the airconditioning in the house? I vascillated between cherishing the coolness of these memories and growing bitter for the intolerance to heat she had fostered. I tossed. I turned. I sighed. There was no way I was sleeping tonight. Exasperated, I pulled my mosquito net to the side and headed for the "shower." Too late - it looked like I had to wait my turn. There were two cockroaches crawling up the side of the bathroom. The next morning, I packed my bags. After five days, I had to escape ... from reality. I wanted back in my bubble. Now! I rummaged through my backpack looking for the number of the younger woman from the plane. Found it. "Call if you need help. 436 67 86. - Tashina." Two hours later I was sitting across from her in an air-conditioned French restaurant. The second half of my trip to Africa -Poolsides, cocktail parties with world-wide embassadors, and an air-conditioned car.Oh, and did I mention personal lessons on discreet bribery from the police chief himself?To be continued....Africa: Part II
(Just in case you didn't read the first half - this entry is from my stay with the couple I met on the plane. They were in their later 20's, so just by the default of age we got along really well during my stay)
I soon realized that Tashina had quite a few connections in Dakar – I suspected it the first day while we were at lunch. From the time we parked the car to the end of the meal as we payed the check, it seemed to me that she knew almost everyone. It wasn't until she answered a phone call from the ambassador of India, and sent a text message to an Egyptian diplomat, however, that I began to realize the extent of her contacts. Tashina, as it turned out, had some pretty interesting friends.
While I enjoyed the social benefits of her network as I tagged along to cocktail parties and lunch-ins with politicians and ambassadors, we soon found out just how advantageous her connections really were one Wednesday afternoon ...
Technically, Tashina was living in Dakar illegally. For over one year now, she had been without a Visa because she didn’t want to bribe the officials to issue it. In order to switch electric companies, however, she had to present her Visa to the comany. Therefore, late Wednesday morning we drove to the police station - Tashina ranting about governmental corruption the whole way. Arriving at the building, I was already prepared for a long wait to talk to an official that would only send us off on a scavenger hunt to fetch a paper that doesn’t exist from some department in the middle of nowhere. And then bring everything back to the station only to discover that they closed early for the day. (You get the point). When we walked up to the building, however, one of the head police chiefs came up to us smiling. Go figure – Tashina knew him. He sat with us for an hour as we waited for the official to come back from lunch. The conversation passed rather uneventfully - that is, until the topic of bribery surfaced. The police chief quickly shook his head at the word “bribery” and patiently explained that, well, there’s a difference between bribing and giving money. You see, bribing a cop isn’t necessarily bribing a cop. Oooohhhh. Suddenly, I understood! So all this talk of corruption was really just one global misunderstanding. I wish someone had explained this to me before! Encouraged by my feigned enlightenment, the chief pulls out his “briefcase” (a beat- up bag with a broken zipper), pulls out his wallet (a folded over piece of leather of similar quality to that of the briefcase), and proceeds to demonstrate how to tactfully bribe a cop. Oh, excuse me. He proceeds to demonstrate how to tactfully give money to a cop. Fold, slip, smile … and "Voila" …afterwwards ... just roll up the window and drive away. 15 minutes later, our expedited Visa is ready, and Tashina practices her new trick … twice. Our friend the Chief and the Visa man were quite tactfully compensated for their services.
Coming up (if I get around to it):
A rotting infrasctructure .... Fainting in the middle of the night ... Prostitution and AIDS...
