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Published: March 13th 2007
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Today was our first full day in Senegal. Unbelievably, I'd somehow not packed my journal. (Listen, I've forgotten my passport before--more than once--but
never my journal. I was practically dry-heaving in withdrawal. S produced composition books from a suitcase of goods she'd brought to give and trade and let me have one. See? That's why I keep her around-- not just for comic relief--there's also notebooks, Peanut M&Ms, hand sanitizer, toilet paper--but I'm getting ahead of the story...
First impressions of Dakar? Not good. After rendezvousing in Casablanca then sleeping warm and fed (twice!) on the plane, we were jostled through Immigration and wound up at the baggage claim turnstile. As luck would have it, my bag was the first one off, weighing in at, what was it again? 50 pounds? S' was next, weighing only slightly less. As timing had it, S had gone to to the lavatory at this critical juncture, so the herculean task of maneuvering these heavy bags in short order off of a moving turnstile was mine alone. With an oversized carryon on each shoulder, naturally I accomplished the task with graceful aplomb. S returned shortly thereafter. Getting the bags on the conveyer belt to
be xrayed was no small feat, but we managed alone--even the ghost of chivalry had given up the ghost! To be fair, one "helpful" male airport employee did deign to jab his hand in the direction of the conveyor belt as he sat down; presuming, I guess, that our sweating and huffing and throwing our backs out was due to our not knowing
where to put the bags, as opposed to being a little too weak to lift them. BFFTTT! I could've stayed in DC for this!
Fortunately, just through the window was "I Try, Man", S' friend from her last trip to Dakar, who came with his friend DJ in a little Toyota taxi to pick us up. Our bags barely fit, but somehow we all piled in and drove to the 2 bedroom 2 bath house we'd rented in Fann Hock. I may have been asleep before my eyes closed...
"I Try, Man" rang the doorbell promptly at 10:00 this morning, to begin our programme (programme? what the--?); We began with a walking tour of downtown Dakar, changing money (and beating the bank's rate) at "I gotta place", then honing our haggling skills at an artisan's
market. (I fell in love with a leather trunk. I got "a good price", so the Leather Man said.)
The day ended at Le Plongeur, a two-level concrete structure on the beach beside Magic Land. "I Try, Man" and DJ chose the fish for our meal, and the grill man nearby set to work while we drank Coca ("no Coca light") and Sprite. Not too long later, a fat grilled fish was brought to us on a silver platter with salad on one side and marinated, grilled onions on another. Chioff Grillade under the stars. It. was.
good!
DJ and I did some semblance of communicating in Wolof and English and French, till I became transfixed by the sound of the surf leaving the shore. Thousands of stones, gently unsettling then resettling against each other; it was an arresting sound, like rolling thunder, scaled to human size.
First impressions, fortunately, are not always lasting ones.
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