So much has happened in the last five days, so I ask in advance for your forgiveness if I start to ramble or if it gets to be too long. Also, forgive any bitterness or sarcasm or combination thereof.
All day Tuesday I was aching for a really good drunk, but by the end of the day (after going downtown to buy some presents for my European hosts and hostesses) I was just too gosh-darn tied. As a consequence of this pent-up alcoholism, Wednesday night was a fun if self-destructive evening of gin and brioche and blurry bedtimes.
And, as such, Thursday was horrible. Normally if I was that hungover I would just skip my 8:30 class, but seeing as I’m skipping this entire upcoming week to go gallavanting through Italian piazzas and French châteaux, I figured I should probably suck it up and make an appearance. Unsurprisingly, economics at 8:30 was awful. At 10:30, we had a meeting with Baobab Center bureaucrats: enraging, as usual. Note: rage and hangovers do not mix well. Then we took a ride in Babacar Guèye’s Land Rover to talk to some people about the elections, yet again. It was actually really interesting, as these people seemed to actually know what they were talking about (rare). The only problem was that I was still fighting off the dizzies and the room we were in was in the process of being painted. Note: paint fumes and hangovers do not mix well. Then I went home for lunch, napped for literally 14 minutes (woken up by spoiled annoying nephew), and returned to school for another invigorating two-hour Wolof class. Luckily my Wolof teacher/personal hero Zator was as unenthused as we were and let us out almost an hour early. I love Zator.
Suffice to say I was in a horrible mood, and was really looking forward to getting a good, cheap haircut, as I had twice before. It sounds weird, but haircuts always cheer me up, especially when they’re $1. I went to the guy I’ve been to before, and told him the same thing I told him before, but somehow — in that infuriating illogical African way — he decided to take matters into his own hands and basically give me a prison-issue buzzcut. Indeed, the first comments I got were in reference to Michael Scofield and Prison Break… not exactly the look I was going for, especially since my scalp is winter-in-New-Hampshire white and the rest of my body is white-boy-in-Africa tan. And it’s not like I have a lot of hair to work with here, dude. Pretty awful-looking. Anyway, I was ripshit and had to get up at 7:30 the next morning to go on a weekend trip.
The trip, organized and paid for the Baobab Center (i.e. our money in the hands of incompetent fools), was to a delta region south of Dakar called Siné-Saloum. We were told of mangrove forests, river swimming, beaches, etc. Exciting, right? Read on, dear reader.
So we left the Baobab Center almost 45 minutes late (saw that one coming!) On the way to the Saloum we stopped at an NGO called the Centre Malango. We were supposed to meet traditional healers and see them in action… what this has to do with anything with any of our class, you tell me. So we pull up to this very isolated conglomeration of huts and wait outside for the director, who’s on the telephone talking about slavery or somesuch nonsense. The sun is beating down, we’re sitting and waiting and swatting at flies. He comes out and gives a long-winded lecture about how traditional medicine works and how it’s so hard to gain legitimacy in the eyes of modern medicine. Well duh. Pouring milk on the ground and sacrificing sheep on Fridays isn’t exactly on par with, say, anti-retrovirals or the polio vaccine. Anyway, we got a brief tour of the compound’s very cutting-edge laboratory facilities — think the science station on LOST (see my Flickr page for more). And then we sat down to talk with the healers: all male, all old, all wrinkly. There were no patients about, since it was Friday and most healers don’t work on Fridays. We were able to get a demonstration of their healing abilities, though: one man put on a fancy headdress and then proceeded to chew a razor blade. With medicinal skills like that, I’m surprised he hasn’t cured malaria. (I warned you that this was going to get bitterly sarcastic.)
We departed the healer’s village and continued south to literally the end of the road: the ferry dock that was supposed to take us across the river to the “bustling” town of Foundiougne. Of course we were late, and missed the ferry, so we left the van behind and hopped on a pirogue. Well, we first waited for the pirogue driver to clear away the fishhooks and stinky fish carcasses, and then we hopped on. Across ther river, we pulled up to our hotel and literally ran to the lunch table. Lunch was shrimp, grilled fish, and fruit.
Next we took some horse-drawn carts. Our destination: salt pits. The area around Foundiougne is, to say the least, desolate. Very flat. The river is literally at the same level as the ground — there are no banks, so it looks like the river is just inches deep. The water salty and the water table is so high that nothing can grow. Thus, the only real industry is extracting salt from the ground. We went out to the pits and saw how they dig holes and wait for the water to evaporate. Men dig, women extract. There is no “private property” per se; they just trust each other not to steal someone else’s salt.
Next we continued our horse-cart ride to a local village, where we were duly swarmed by several dozen rapscallions. And by rapscallions I mean totally unsupervised, dirty, bedraggled children. Runny noses, torn clothes, brown teeth, seven-year-old girls holding seven-month-old babies on their hips. You cannot imagine the frenzy that ensued when we whipped out our bags of milk cookies and started distributing. Little black hands flying everywhere. Then we learned about this mystical ancient drum from a toothless elder; they beat different rhythms depending on the occasion (marriage, death, drowning). Then we continued on back to the hotel, passing some more desolation and lots of trash fields. Tragedy of the commons much? I asked some questions about the desolation to our cart driver. He said that, in the past, the entire area supported agriculture and fields were everywhere. Now, he said, “the salt won against the land” and the saltwater table is too high to grow anything. They constructed some dikes in a few areas around the town to keep the salt out, but I would estimate several hundred acres were completely barren. Except for the trash, of course, which has been pretty much evenly distributed across the plains. (By the wind, on purpose, who knows? Senegal’s funny like that.)
Upon returning to the hotel, we had lunch — which, for the first time, we got to choose — delicious salad, omelette, and french fries. Totally satisfying, disgustingly full afterwards. That’s life. Then some hardcore napping until dinner, which was followed by what had only been described to us as a “soirée folklorique“, whatever the FUCK that means.
Actually, I know exactly what it means. It means a line of chairs set up specifically for a group of seven white American college students. It means an extremely bright spotlight shining on you as a group of probably otherwise unemployed rastafarians in ridiculous costumes play bongos and do traditional dances (read: breakdance) in front of you. It means they run back and forth screaming like they’re at some Pentecostal revival and experience the power of Jesus through the uncoordinated flailing of their bodies. It means they physically force you to join in the flail-fest, even if you would rather die and afterwards feel like you might want to make that happen. (Wow, that was bitter even for me. But I’m not going to delete it.)
The next morning meant breakfast, coffee, and a thoroughly satsifying bowel movement. And toilet paper was provided! (Don’t worry, I stole the roll before I checked out.) Then we drove maybe 90 seconds to the ferry dock and boarded another pirogue (again after the fish guts and rusty hooks were removed). Off the the lush mangrove swamps!
Two hours later: no mangroves yet, but we pull into a village. Get out, our Baobab Center chaperones/minders tell us. Why? we ask. What happens at this village? Turns out they dry and smoke fish. No thanks, we say, we don’t want to spend an hour in the sun watching and smelling smoked fish. We want to swim, is that too much to ask? Apparently yes. But after some tough words, we continued on to a mildly interesting mangrove-y area and saw a couple of birds. Maybe four.
Then we had to opportunity to dive off the pirogue and swim in the river, which was destined to be the highlight of the trip. Molly went first and did a graceful dive! Oops, they forgot to tell us the water was literally up to her knees. Thanks, Baobab Center minders. Thanks, boat driver. We didn’t really like our spinal columns anyway. Anyway, the swimming was a lot of fun if extremely salty. The second you got out the sun would bake that shit off you. If we were locals, we could have sold it.
Back to the hostel for our free afternoon! Yay! Free time! I took a quick nap, read a little, and then ventured out into the hot sun to find something fun to do. And by something fun to do, I mean ice cream to eat. Molly, Stacey, and I take the initiative and start the long walk into town.
Exactly 90 seconds later we arrive in bustling downtown Foundiougne and start our quest for ice cream. After trying to explain the difference between blocks of ice and ice cream, we give up. Apparently they don’t have ice cream because it would melt before they could get it from a bigger nearby city. Let’s not think to make our our ice cream. Too hot.
So we spent the rest of the afternoon playing Rummy 500 (also known as Rumy Sénégal, the game that never ends) and waiting patiently until 6 PM to start drinking. Then another shower (that’s right, number three), dinner, and the Senegal-Tanzania soccer game. Again disgustingly full, so we take a walk to a boutique to buy some snacks. The boutique owner looked suspiciously like a character from the great Brendan Fraser flick The Mummy, but it turns out that’s only because he’s Mauritanian. They have slavery there, you know.
The fun continued the next morning at practically sunrise, as we headed an hour and half south to Toubakouta, a gorgeous, lively, interesting tourist town where WE DIDN’T STAY. Apparently the Baobab Center has never heard of Lonely Planet and/or likes to pick random towns to stay in. Anyway, we order our lunches and continue on to Parc Fathala, which advertises giraffes and rhinos (shipped in from East Africa, don’t worry). After paying an exorbitant amount of money to get in and buy an auto permit, we drove around with a guide for two hours of bumpy roads and hot sun. We were actually better at spotting what few animals there were than our expensive guide. For most of the time I wanted to claw my eyes out in boredom, since there were no creatures to ogle at. Even the landscape was boring, having been completely burned down in an accidental fire the month before. Anyway, we luckily were able to see two rhinos and two giraffes, along with many antelope-like creatures and plenty of warthogs. Overall, though, a sad, lonely journey through the savanna.
Then to the restaurant for a really good, sweaty lunch. We each had 5,000 CFA to spend, so we basically kept ordering Fantas and french fries and beers. Not a bad deal, especially since the chicken was delicious and meaty. Then we hopped into the van for the exciting SIX-AND-A-HALF-HOUR ride back to Dakar on some lovely roads/non-roads. By the time we hit the Dakar metro traffic, I wanted to die. But at least it was finally less than 100 degrees, even if the air was chokingly polluted.
Moral of the trip: Baobab Center sucks, and must be cut out of the loop as much as possible.
I went home exhausted and dirty, but was immediately cheered up by the awesomeness that is my host family. They’re just so goddamn friendly and funny. Papisse (one of the sons) was back in Dakar, home on a week’s vacation from his job with the World Food Programme in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire. Mama, Papa, and him had gone to Touba for the day to do some fun Muslim things, so I hadn’t even missed dinner. And we had maafé, which is probably my favorite Senegalese dish, so I devoured that. Life was good.
And now the class schedule is up, the Hoyas are in the Final Four, my bowels are doing really well, my cousin and his wife had their baby, and I’m leaving tonight for a disgustingly luxurious two-week European vacation! Life is even better.
I actually have a really funny story about the horrible movie I watched with Tico last night, but that will have to wait for another day. I also won’t be uploading/stealing other people’s pictures from the Siné-Saloum trip for a couple days, since my camera battery died on Sunday and I haven’t had the chance the charge it. Be patient.
In other news: when I left this morning Papisse was cleaning a goat in our courtyard. I said something to the effect of, “Who’s your friend?” and he replied “Don’t get too attached to him, he won’t be around for long.” So when I get home there will probably be a dead sheep carcass blocking the stairs. Downside: blood everywhere. Another downside: lots more mutton in the near future. Upside: I’m going to Europe tomorrow.
This turned out to be the longest post in the brief but illustrious history of this blog. I’ve really run out of things to say, and my stomach’s grumbling, so I’m headed home for (a possible maafé) lunch.
Next posts from Rome, Florence, and Paris!
