Dakar

Just when I think I couldn’t possibly love Senegal anymore than I already do, it offers up stunning islands and gorgeous beaches, Dakar even was such a treat. I walked around most of Thursday afternoon, taking in the museum, which was pretty informative. Friday I went to the WFP interview, but arrived early, so I walked for a bit not realizing I was taking in the Corniche Est, which follows the coastline and rings the expat/embassy community. The homes and cliffs were beautiful. The interview itself was mildly interesting but certainly not enough to base a story on. I think I will either have to follow it when I get home, as it’s just too much legwork for the time and money I’ve got left. I walked up the road from the interview to a sandwich shop, spent an hour at the Internet café, then headed back toward my auberge, grabbing a mango along the way. The mattress in the room is so poor, I’ve been sleeping at the foot of the bed, curled up on the last few inches of uncrushed foam in an attempt to give my hips a well-deserved break. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to help and I end up tossing and turning with my joints throbbing. My back, my knees, my hips, my ankles. Everything is a big fat mess that hopefully a nice massage and a few nights on my pillow-top mattress will cure. For dinner I ventured to a restaurant highly recommended by my guidebook and was richly rewarded. Chez Loutcha is Cape Verdienne, with heavy Portuguese influence, and it was heavy in meat, beans and salty sauce, but delicious nonetheless. The restaurant itself was the epitome of kitsch and the poor waitresses were made o mismatched uniforms. But they fed me well.

I had every intention of going to a nearby jazz club afterward but when I emerged from the restaurant the street was pitch black but a bunch of boys called over from the other side of the street. I quickly lost my nerve. Dakar has a dangerous reputation and white I’ve been incredibly fortunate so far. Don’t want to risk it by making stupid choices. So instead I sat on my little French balcony and watched the world go by.

Saturday morning I let myself sleep in for a while, then headed to a grocery store where, I have to confess, I recoiled when a leper begging by the door went to grab my hand. In my heart I know I wasn’t recoiling form his touch. I just simply didn’t want to enter into a vice-like grip that would only relent if I donated. But I’m sure it was misconstrued and I feel badly about that. Inside the grocery store was just a weird mix of mostly dollar store items and the occasional piece of food. There were baby items in the dairy case. I made my selections – cheese and crackers – and headed in what I thought was the direction of the silver market, but turned out to be the train station. I got terribly turned around and it was about two hours before I ended up back where I started after threading through the old medina, where cars were fighting for space among porters and shoppers and cart pushers. It was just a big, noisy mess – in other words, a typical African market. Once I got my bearings, I headed out again and only managed to find the market, tucked into in alley that opens into a courtyard, because a vendor turned in just ahead of me.

Inside it was absolute tranquility. The usual “come into my shop for the pleasure of your eyes” but nothing unusually aggressive. And if you give a polite “merci,” they let you go easily enough. I ended up buying a fertility statue from Cameroon and a fertility god statue for Georgia also from Cameroon. Surprisingly, and a little suspicious, they fit into my bag no problem. I’m worried my bag has turned bottomless and I just haven’t noticed. From the market I walked to the Internet café where I wasted a dollar finding out that bill hadn’t responded to an email about locusts. Neither had the FAO for that matter. Then I walked a few blocks to a quiet but “upscale” Senegalese restaurant where I had – you guessed it – yassa poulet: a big piece of chicken smothered in onions and marinated in Dijon mustard, which normally I can’t stand. The food wasn’t nearly as good as St. Louis, but maybe it was just the ambiance. Just as I was finishing, a guy started strumming a kora, a kind of multi-stringed guitar, which is played with the instrument facing the musician and plucked with the thumbs. It’s sort of a hybrid guitar/harp and while I initially thought it would be irritating, it turned out to be rather soothing. Even the guys singing were quiet nice. From there, back to the auberge, where I laid for a while trying to give my hip a reprieve, but found little comfort. So, instead, I took some self portraits using my camera’s self-timer and a couple turned out really well. It was fun, if not a bit bizarre.

At about 5 p.m., as the sun was beginning it’s descent – the sunset in Senegal being a rather unrushed affair that ends around 7:30 p.m. – I decided to head out to the corniche, which the guidebooks all recommend, but never alone and never at night. But I had no problems, luckily , and found the locals friendly and the children charming and the views stunning and the walk well worth it. By the end, I was thinking I may need a hip replaced at 30. I bought a mango and some yogurt and headed homeward, where I ate it with crackers and cheese, played solitaire and went to bed. By morning, I felt I was the only person left in Dakar. The streets had that sleepy Sunday morning feel, with a few people out buying bread, but otherwise deserted. I walked with my pack undisturbed until I got to the Place Independence, where some kid in a Rasta hat started following me and chatting, which annoyed me, especially as we got tot he ferry and he tried to tell me where to go, only to send me in the wrong direction as the horn was blowing. The ride was short and unexciting but the view of the island was gorgeous.