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Published: March 27th 2008
Not mere moments after taking off from Milan for Dakar and already I was greeted, once again, by that name familiar to millions (of women, in Africa, that is): sistah! I love it. Anyway one of the ten passengers on my late night flight came over to my row to ask me to fill in his carte d'embarquement (customs form) for him. I told him I wouldn't know what to put on it--as most of you know I am super gullible so my immediate desire is to do whatever I can to help in these situations, but I genuinely was thinking to myself, how on earth do I fill this out for him--and he turned away disappointed. Luckily a Senegalese guy on the other side of the aisle stepped in and of course then it hit me that this guy just didn't understand and/or couldn't read or write what was asked on the form. I offered them my pen but still felt like a schmuck.
When dinner was served I got ready to sink into the last U.S. paper I'd see for awhile but my attention was drawn to the tiny overhead screens where they'd turned on one of those
Italy tourism propaganda programs that feature--inevitably--clips of runway shows featuring absurd and absurdly revealing "fashion" products. I was immediately thrust back into all the tensions I felt last summer, being as I was in a cabin overwhelmingly occupied by devout Muslims. How insensitive, I had thought back then, for all these Western women to parade themselves around Zanzibar--a devoutly Muslim island--in tank tops and short shorts in contrast with local woman all clad in veils if not full-on hijabs? Yet I remember arguing to Eva that I shouldn't have to alter my beliefs or behavior--including my American dress--to suit someone else's dogma. It felt awkward seeing white women lounging about at super expensive resorts in Nungwi (which, I just discovered, was rated one of the 10 top beaches in the world by one of my favorite newspapers, The Guardian!) on Zanzibar as gawking locals in ankle-length skirts passed by. But when the developer of such a resort offered to let me use its facilities for free, I was right out there with the worst of them, in my bikini, getting a henna tattoo (cringe! I know...). I guess at least I felt as at ease...it not quite as comfortable...on the matolas in Northern Mozambique where we had to hop out and walk during the muddy patches and pee in the bushes alongside the road 😊
Anyway, if there's something to be said for Africa, there is nothing simple about it, from my itinerary--which has me flying like 15 legs and numerous trips in who knows what kind of overland vehicles (apparently here instead of minibuses or cattle trucks it's "sept-places" meaning they cram seven passengers and a driver into one car)--to the contradictions and convictions you discover in yourself as you make your way through it.
Anyway, as was said to Butch in one of the top ten movies of all time by Fabienne whose aspired to "pot
te bell
y" I seem to have achieved over these last weeks: l'aventure commence...
love,
m
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Me getting the henna tattoo
jim
non-member comment
keep on truckin'
looking forward to the updates, always interesting. in the meantime, you need some plates of food pics for dear ole' Dad.