A handful of hands is what the French call a handshake. It’s both poetic and ridiculous. I like it.
[Photo: Julia Taylor]
Monthly Archives: March 2016
The Chocopain aisle is a thing to behold
No, this is not an Andy Warhol. This is an expression of the Senegalese love for chocolate spread.
May the horse be with you
Notice something unusual about this motorcycle? Well, it’s not so unusual in Dakar. I’ve seen a million taxis and motorcycles with manes tied to their bumpers. Superstition? A nod to tradition? Qui sait? Well, I’m sure Google does, but unfortunately I’ve earmarked what meager Internet time I have for more important tasks. Could someone else figure it out and get back to me? Thanks!
Contamination is a state of mind
I was lost in thought while brushing my teeth last week, trying to puzzle something out, when I stopped short in horror. I was rinsing my mouth with tap water. In panic, I spit it out like it was Liquid Plumber, rooted around in my bag for my travel-sized mouthwash, confirmed alcohol was the main ingredient, swished it around in my mouth until my cheeks went numb, and then swallowed two probiotics that are useless since my antimalarial antibiotics wipe them out in seconds (along with any harmful water-borne bacteria – but don’t try telling that to someone whose brain can only process worst-case scenarios).
I realize there is very little risk in consuming very small quantities of the local water, but I am one who follows safety instructions to the letter (especially when those safety instructions can result in not puking). So it’s a big deal the first time in my life that I put tap water in my mouth in a country where “don’t drink the water” is protocol.
The next day I was talking to a fellow student at the language center about my fear of food and water-borne illness. He spent the last five years working in humanitarian aid in Uganda and South Sudan, always brushed his teeth with the local water, and never got sick from it. He said something about how liberating it is to just say, “Ahh, fuck it,” sometimes and throw all caution to the wind. Hahaha, he has no idea who he is talking to.
But I have too much pride to be that self-deprecating, so I will add that week by week, in my own very small way, I’ve been loosening up on the restrictions that are just not feasible for long-term travel. Much as I would like to be more of a badass, baby steps work much better for me than the “Ahh, fuck it” approach.
[Photo: JG Sobez]
un petit périple
Tomorrow I’m starting my first video job in Senegal / with my new camera. I’m a wee bit stressed but also looking forward to the work and to seeing more of the country. We’ll be visiting sites around Saint Louis and Kaolack. I’ll share photos when I get back in a week or two (it’s still unclear how long the shoot will be), but in the meantime I’m scheduling a bunch of the posts that I wrote but couldn’t publish last week because of the Internet access situation.
a catch-22 of my own design
Every morning I pull the four corners of my mosquito net up over the four posts of my bed, so that during the day I don’t have to avoid a massive fenced-off area in the middle of my room. Every night I bring the mosquito net back down and tuck it in securely to the bedframe.
Last night I found myself in a bit of a pickle. There had been a mosquito floating around somewhere in the room – it had already bitten me twice – but it was nowhere to be seen at bedtime. What if it was hiding out somewhere on my bed, and when I put the net down I trapped it in with me? That would be a bit like those horror movies in which the killer calls the victim on the phone but it turns out the killer is actually in the house about to chop them to bits.
The funny thing about this situation is that I don’t even think malaria is a problem in Dakar. This whole net up, net down, net up, net down ritual is just practice for more rural areas. I think part of me enjoys feeling the thrill of danger when the back of my mind knows there is actually very little danger.
Ahhh, frustration
I have only one memory of learning how to read, but it’s a very clear one. I was reading aloud to my kindergarten teacher and I got stuck, yet again, on a word with “ough” in it. I could not for the life of me remember how to make that sound (or rather, sounds, since the ough’s in though and through and thought are all pronounced differently). Phonics were of no use to me with such a complicated combination of letters.
I think that moment became lodged in my long-term memory because of the emotions associated with it. I remember being very aware that my teacher knew this was a problem area for me, and feeling both embarrassed and frustrated that I was having the same trouble over and over again, many times beyond what I perceived to be acceptable. I really didn’t want to disappoint her by not learning what she was teaching, and I really didn’t want to disappoint myself by being anything less than whip-smart.
That memory was called to mind this past week as I struggled, for the millionth time, to properly pronounce euil/oeil/ueil sounds in French. They are my Achilles heel. I cannot for the life of me ever ever ever remember how to pronounce, let alone spell, words like feuille (leaf), accueil (welcome), and oeil (eye), except that there is a general sound of vomiting involved. (It is purely coincidental that I have the most trouble saying the words that I also find the most hideously guttaral.) Every single time I come across a word with one of those crazy mixtures I just say it three different ways back to back and hope that one of them is approximately correct.
My inability to put proper French pronunciation in the vault fills me with the same despair I had as a five year-old. The difference, though, is that as a 36 year-old I can remind myself that I just used the word “though” effortlessly, without a second thought (there it is again!) and have been doing so for three decades. Eventually, if I stick with it, I will do the same for French.
[Photo: Janna Lauren]
Nuts for Nespresso
It’s not that my disdain for Nescafé comes from being a coffee snob. It’s more that it just doesn’t work. As I’ve noted before, I’m super sensitive to caffeine, but I can drink seven cups of Nescafé and still feel no more awake than the second after my alarm clock goes off.
But there are really no other coffee options here, apart from a drink called Café Touba, which is sold in mini plastic cups at all the road-side kiosks (like the ones in the photo above). The coffee is ground with peppery spices and mixed with lots of sugar. I tried it. It tasted okay – though it smelled uncomfortably like Robotussin – but it had absolutely no effect on my level of alertness.
On my first Saturday here, during my stroll along the Corniche, I stopped in at a fancy hotel to see if they might have honest-to-goodness coffee. My desperation for caffeine was such that I was overjoyed to find them serving Nespresso. It tasted frothy and delicious, and more importantly, I spent the rest of the day properly wired for the first time in a week.
Since then I’ve found a pan-African / Caribbean restaurant a couple blocks from my house that also serves Nespresso, and I’ve been going every day for my daily fix. I thought the problem was solved… Until I went to the restaurant this morning only to find it closed on Saturdays until later in the evening. I am literally beside myself in my longing for a Nespresso right now. I know this is utterly ridiculous in quite a number of ways. And yet the fact remains that I about to lose it.
Last Saturday, or: the honeymoon may be over
Having studied my map diligently, I set out on foot at about 1pm in the direction of downtown. It was supposed to take about an hour and fifteen minutes. I saw a lot of familiar sights and a lot of new ones; it was a nice walk. After about an hour I decided to stop in at a supermarket for a drink and to check where I was. I had not busted out my map before then because being seen with one would make me susceptible to all sorts of propositioning I didn’t want. Continue reading
For God’s sake
Apparently I’ve been saying, “It’s not worth the ass,” instead of, “It’s not worth the cost.” Well, what can I say, perhaps sometimes it is truly just not worth the ass.
[Photo: Tim Green]
talk foreign to me 