(story continued from prior post: curvy)

Now I pulled this same idiot move in Guatemala when I spent a day working at a coffee finca and was baffled by the red and green candy-colored skins masking my coffee-shop bean incognito.

Again, I have no excuse except for unadulterated ignorance. Perhaps I was misled by the airs of that top-hat-ed, cane-tapping, Mr. Peanut, who looked down at me through that funny one-eyed looking glass from the TV. Perhaps he was rather happy to bury that part of his history, now living the American dream of pulling himself from the working-class earth and earning himself the prestige of a truly refined peanut. I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting peanuts to tap dance out of the bushes, but I just didn’t expect them to be uprooted from the earth either.

But they there were. A more petite and varied version with each shell distinctively claiming its own separate space and style. Some holding the double curve of two nuts, but just as many proud to claim only one, And none afraid to protrude in any way out of whatever could be construed as, “ordinary.” Have even the nuts in my country subscribed to unquestioned conformity? Am I reading too much into my peanuts? Perhaps.

I squat, observe, and easily tug a few nuts from the root. I roll them in my hand and then look up, to my hosts, for permission to investigate with a third sense.

Now which is more ridiculous: that this white girl has traveled from her country of *purported* milk and honey and asked to work in the fields, that she didn’t know a peanut field when she was standing in the middle of one, or that she’s asking for permission to eat a nut she picked herself from the Earth? Do I have to continue to describe the faces contorted in questions of absurdity?

So put whatever expression you’d like on their faces as they witness and realize that it’s the first time this silly toubab ever seen or tasted a raw peanut. And if you also were fooled by the costume of our American ambassador Mr. Peanut, you too should know that a raw peanut has green undertones and is a little chalky on the tongue, but is just as tasty in its un-roasted form. I bite. I chew. I hum my delight. My hosts, in turn, briefly smile their happiness with my approval of their humble and naked nut, but this game is ridiculous and over and it’s time to get to work. I’m handed the shovel.

I don’t get to use the shovel long. It was a test. And I failed. I tried to mimic the sweeping motion that the younger boy was modeling, but there is clearly experience-earned skills that the expert has mastered in order to not slide deep enough under the earth to expend extra effort but sweep low enough to clear the roots and not damage the shells – like I am doing.

After 15 minutes, the older man sighs heavily and takes the shovel from me. He indicates that I am to take his job of rounding up the scratchy bushes into nice organized mounds while pulling out all the weeds and vines belonging to anything other than the peanuts. This, is quite a task at first; my eyes blind to the discrete details defining one from another. But slowly I begin to recognize the jagged shape of a leaf, the tiny thorns, the soft felt of a vine, or the darker shade of green; all cues that identify the invaders of the field from the harvest.

In this way I sift, and sort, and bundle; every hour passed proving further my durability and earning the soft and curious respect of my hosts till finally the older man comes over and claps me on the back and shouts in Wolof to the younger boy.

The boy smiles and translates to me, “He says you work HARD for a woman.”

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

“So where are the peanuts?”

That’s probably your question.

And it was mine as well as I waded through a knee-deep sea of weeds toward slumped shadows seeking refuge, from a strong Senegal afternoon sun, in the shade of a Balbao tree.

A moment earlier, the bush taxi had stopped and the dust of the dirt road mushroomed in delight of catching up to the car. Mbouille, late for the class he was to teach in the rural school, had only time to stretch a long arm out the window and point, “Those are the peanut farmers. I told them you wanted to work with them for a day, so they know you’re coming. I’ll see you at lunch? Have fun!” The taxi lurched and the dust took to chase again.

Now I bring a hand up to my forehead and squint in an attempt to better define the shadows under the tree: two men, one bigger, one smaller, both casually watching me back and guessing at my own outline.

As I approach the tree, it reaches a kind branch out to block the glare of the sun and this has the effect of turning on a light. When I enter the shade walls brimming the house of the Balboa, my hosts barely move. The older man is leaning his relaxed body against a type of shovel, chewing something slowly in his mouth, and there is no pause indicating that my arrival has been noted. He just looks at me and chews. The other does not move either, but his eyes, filled with youthful curiosity, betray him. I’m not an accurate judge of age in countries other than my own, but my guess would put him somewhere in the mid-teens. I wonder if his identical response to my arrival is mimicked or inherited.

The older man shifts his weight from the shovel to his legs and the boy, less suspicious of the stranger than his superior, is excited by the permission to move. They both take a step towards me. I say my Senegalese name and reach out a hand. The older man says his name, puts the shovel into my open hand, and walks out the shade-door of the Balboa.

No longer under supervision, the boy smiles a toothy grin and tries out three lines of surprisingly good English. I compliment him on his language skills and he shrugs embarrassedly. I respond by confirming that he speaks more languages than me (Wolof, French and English) and this makes him blush and kick the dirt.

I squint outside the shade of the Balboa tree and ask, “So where are the peanuts?”

The boy looks at me blank. He calls to the older man in Wolof, who turns around and gives me the same incredulous look. Then the man waves for me to take the few steps out from under the tree to join him. He takes the shovel from my hand, gives it an expert shove just under the dirt beneath the weeds that were just scratching up my shins, and turns up the roots, along with a jumble of dusty and curvy nuts, right upon my feet.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

“Senegal! I’m in Senegal!”

Untangle from the sheet, search for the seam in the mosquito net, escape the tent, slip into clothing, sneak out the door, silent steps up the stairs, through a creaky door – and catch the sun tiptoeing its own way up the horizon and over Senegal…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TtJZ7JhHz1s]

I’m so excited to have a perch from which I can inconspicuously watch that I do rotations around the roof, excited by the spy of the most mundane; colorfully-clad women expertly balancing baskets or basins on their heads, bare-boned horses drawing equally rickety carts, sauntering men shaking hands and exchanging animated greetings, small gangs of siblings scavenging for wheels, balls, string and anything else that might function for the purpose of play.

After fully scoping my surroundings, I draw out my mental plan of day-attack. It’s not particularly courageous or sneaky but much more simply: “Get local currency. Find local market.” And yet these simple tasks still inspire a small tremble of stomach stomping nerves.

I skid down the stairs and into the kitchen and try all my French greetings on the cook who, after politely and patiently listening, explains to me that he’s from Ghana and English is his first language.

Oh.

One of the American journalists from the house finally stumbles down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning morning’s greetings. I attack him with a barrage of obvious-answer questions and he is only slightly (and rightfully) appalled at my too-early, over-eagerness. If not amused, he is still patient and handles me like he would an overexcited puppy. When I ask for his help in putting into action my intricate, double-objective day plan, he waves a hand and says, “just take the driver.” But I insist that walking is more my mission than the destinations, and to this he flutters his eyes at me but still kindly consents to my requests for hand-sketched maps.

And so with these maps folded up in my pockets, and covered modestly from arm to ankle as the Islamic culture requires, I shake hands with all the guards as they unlock the door, wave goodbye with huge grins, and wish me a happy day’s adventures.

Once out the door, I’m hesitant to look at the directions in my pocket thinking, ridiculously, that more than my glaring white skin, it will be the maps that will identify me as a stranger. Spontaneously, I ignore all my instructions; instead following the scent of a salty wind, in the direction of the sea that I spotted at sunrise, having learned from experience, that my most reliable compass is a coastline.

But as is the custom of dependence on anything too comfortable, I find myself suddenly turning circles on sign-less streets, having lost the scent of sea, and hearing a voice in the back of my head having a rather hearty laugh at me. I wander down dusty paths, through rubble-stacked alleys, past row upon row of tarp-covered abodes, peeking back discreetly at the eyes peeking, through glassless-windows and doorless-doorways, at me. I pretend to walk purposefully as I wander down the streets and panic only for a minute when I take account of my resources and realize that I left the house without a phone number or physical address. Leaving without a phone number, I admit, wasn’t bright. The address part, however, I requested twice from my host to which he finally replied, “Address? No. It doesn’t work like that here. There is no house address. It doesn’t exist.”

So I amble, with confident stride, for over an hour, and give thanks all the while, that if I’m sweating any anxiety, it’s conveniently masked incognito by the heat of a tropically aligned sun. Finally I spot a lot of taxi drivers and, remembering an echo of words putting their place somewhere just off the border of my map, with relief realize that while I’m far from home, at least I now know its general direction.

With no hesitation now, I blatantly unfold my map from its twisted and damp form wetted by my anxious and clammy hands. I excitedly recognize my direction, swivel on my heels, and make haste homeward.

By the time I return, two hours have passed. When I walk through the gate, the author of my map greets me, “Oh there you are! I was just starting to wonder about you. Did you find the bank? And the ocean? And the market?”

When I tell him, no, no and no, he looks at me incredulously but politely excuses my absurdity, shakes his head and says, “I told you to take the driver.”

My misadventures under extreme midday heat have exhausted me, so I stumble up the stairs, into the bed, and fall asleep. When the sun has passed its most violent hours, and the shadows have grown long and bearable, I stumble back down the stairs. This time I ask for a phone number and scribble it down along with little clarifications on the corners marked within my map.

“Really? You’re going to go at it again?”

With resolve, I shove the edited map into my pocket, grab a mesh market bag, and insist, to him as much as to myself, that I can do it. And out the gate I go again.

Turning right at the dirt field, keeping the swampy pond of stagnant water to my left, crossing a paved main street, passing the hair cutting stalls, to the main taxi drop-off turnabout, crossing towards the bakery, following the traffic to town, I finally find an ATM. I do some fast but poor math and pull out too little money. And then I pass the market indicated on my map, but find another that is smaller but still suits my shopping list. I decide to count these both as successes. For a few bonus points, I even manage to haggle, in French, with the women working the stalls along the street and, with quicker and correct calculation, fill an additional bag with fresh fruit.

When I return to the house, arms loaded with the evidence of my mission accomplished, I am happy for the pats of praise I have earned, “Well. Look at you. Looks like you managed after all.” As I grin happily and drop all my groceries on the kitchen table he puts a hand into the bag and pulls out a plain glass jar with a loose lid and handmade sticker, “What’s this?” he asks me as he holds it up for closer examination.

“Peanut butter,” I state.

He shoots a shocked look of perplex at me, “What? Peanut butter? I had no idea peanut butter was sold here. I’ve been having my family send shipments from the States!”

And it is this comment that I smile over and consider my final success of the day.

(to be continually continued again)

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

But as I pull down the seat tray and flip open (for the first time) my Lonely Planet Senegal, I learn that in addition to an average life expectancy of 56 years, and being 94% Islamic, one of Senegal’s principal exports, is, of course, the peanut.

Now, contrary to what many might embellish me to be, I am not fearless. Although some have so *kindly* depicted me as so, I am actually not a sculpted and belly-bearing, heroine who cuts through the unknown without hesitation, armed with nothing but a machete, digital camera, laptop and bottomless flask of courage.

Oh no, no. I have come to Senegal with a long list of phone numbers – belonging to friends-of-friends, both local and foreign – and addresses detailing directions to respective houses roofing couches I can crash. As well, I have had the entire country mapped out for me on bar napkins as co-workers and friends, who have spent months making cultural mistakes in the country while working for various NGOs, laid out for me straight, the rules of Senegalese social engagement. And despite all these briefings, in-country contacts and prearranged dates, on my red-eye to Dakar, I still drink two cups of coffee upon which I can conveniently blame my hands’ shake.

I’ve never actually looked into the matter, so I’m not even certain as to if hostels or other low-cost accommodation for travelers exists in the city of Dakar. I’ve only been advised that if I arrive in the night, it is not wise to be ambling about the streets seeking accommodation. Same for all cities. Luckily, one of the names scribbled into my journal has organized to have “his driver” pick me up at the airport. To those for whom the vision of the above “Rambette” sketch was shattered, let us also not swing the pendulum too quickly to that of high-maintenance, socialite-swinging, princess. For neither to this type of 1st class treatment have I ever been accustomed.

After clearing immigration, I enter a hall cluttered with taxi drivers and hotel attendants waving signs and am shocked to recognize my own name, typed in capital letters, within the clutter of ads and banners. I quickly seize the sign with embarrassment for the boldness such block letters command and, reveal, behind the sheet of paper, a man smiling wide with equally obvious intention.

He giggles. And sensing his amusement with my discomfort, I know the joke is on me.

We swap excited introductions, shake hands enthusiastically, and despite his attempts, I dance my backpack away from his grasps. He barely gets away with opening a door for me on way out to the airport parking lot.

It’s two in the morning and totally dark outside, which has the effect of turning our car conversation inward and keeps my first hour in Senegal comfortably confined to the small and cozy space inside the auto. My first challenge in the country is that the Parisian French I’ve been studying and speaking for the last two months falls flat in function as my ears strain to understand the new song of African French that he sings to me. Still, nothing is lost as all that goes over my head – in my inability to comprehend this new intonation – is replaced by the warmth and excitement of his animated welcome, which I will eventually recognize to be a defining characteristic of local greeting.

We chatter on until we reach a gate that quickly slides open upon expectation of our arrival. I step out of the car and shake hands and exchange introductions with a few security guards who, despite their disturbed slumber, are excited to meet the new houseguest.

The house is dark and its inhabitants asleep, so I’m quickly shown to the shower and my room. It’s a beautiful house full of verandas promising equally exclusive views; certainly far beyond the norm of Senegalese; owned and occupied by a small group of foreign journalists stationed in the country; one, among the few groups, who possess such means.

Knowing the tropics, and the insomnia such heat can arouse, I know the trick to solid rest is a very cold, pre-bed, shower. So I step into the tub and wash France off my skin. Despite a single shiver that a slight breeze through a small window shoots across my skin under the chilled water, as soon I step out of the shower, I begin to sweat, and feel Senegal begin to seep in.

Because there isn’t another more practical option, naked, I crawl within the mosquito net and tuck its four corners under my mattress. While normally I am the type to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, tonight I lie wide awake, listening to the curious anthem of a county’s creatures and critters to which I am foreign, and watching the night through the windows of my room, thinking only of the parallel to the obscurity, that is at once, both my reality and understanding of this country.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Nothing strikes me as particularly interesting or memorable about the US embassy in Dakar. It’s a formidable building, with the same broad shoulders of those that neighbor it, identified by a simple gold plaque on the wall, a red, white and blue flag flapping above, and a few extra men in uniform standing watch on its more exposed corners.

There is nothing special about the building, but there is of the day. Almost six months ago, subconsciously searching for a good reason to go to Senegal, I jumped at a mission mentioned casually by a co-worker in an email. She wrote:

“Hey! I heard you’re interested in visiting Senegal! Quick plea: I’m, right now, sitting with Mbouille, and we’ve been trying really hard to organize a visa to the United States so that he can attend our instructor orientation and then fly back with the group to lead the program here in Senegal. He’s already been rejected a visa two times. And we think that if there were a representative from the company here during his interview, to verify his employment and good character, then it might help him get the visa he needs for the short visit. What do you think? Would you be able to sit with him during his interview at the US embassy if we make an appointment and set a date?”

I grabbed onto the task like a winning ticket; the request may have been only a little physical push, but it provided lofty mental momentum in moving me to secure a seat on a plane to Africa. I didn’t have to seek my adventure; it had found me. I had no excuses now (nor wanted any); I could rationalize the entire trip as a favor for a friend! With no choice but to happily take haste on — what in my overly-optimistic mind I had decided to interpret as — a “clearly” auspicious omen, I purchased my ticket to Senegal.

Before leaving, my boss pulled together an impressive looking presentation of materials: catalogues, proposals on letterhead, business cards, program materials, employment contracts, evaluations of Mbouille’s past work for our organization; all clipped together in a professional little binder. The contents combined to sing a pretty little song of the merits of Mbouille’s exceptional record of service for our American company. The chorus ended with a request for his presence at a 10-day training seminar (all expenses paid by the company) in the United States, “essential to his professional development and our organizational objectives.”

Now, as I amble around the cemented walkway in front of the US Embassy in Dakar, I clutch onto this tight little package of proof. As well, tucked away in my deepest pocket, is a folded wad of cash amounting to 100 US dollars – the “processing fee” to apply for an American visa. The day before, I had to scrounge the city for three separate ATMS, pulling the maximum withdrawal from each, in order to come up with this amount. This withdrawal limit is quite logical under the consideration that the $100 US dollar fee is roughly equivalent to 15% of the annual GNI per capita in Senegal.

I glance at my watch, as it’s notably abnormal for Mbouille to be late; especially for our date with an Embassy official. As I sink down the wall into a cross-legged sitting position, a stocky white man, with a close-cut of fair hair, briskly approaches me. He looks concerned and leans down to ask, “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Can I help you with something?”

I smile, shake my head and explain to him that I’m simply waiting for a friend of whom I hope to help organize a visa. His eyes narrow just enough to make wonder why. But before I can investigate, he makes a quick dismiss and enters the Embassy. Had I time to ponder his expression, I would have caught a clue, but I am distracted by a full-body wave of Mbouille’s extended arm in the air.

“Maimuna!” he mouths my name and shows me a smile that can barely be contained by his face.

I move to get up and he hand signals me down, motioning for patience.

I’m confused. And I feel ridiculous. Because I don’t understand what I’m seeing.

Mbouille is in a line of, perhaps, 30 or 40 persons. They are almost marching, single file, from some unidentified meeting spot, that I suppose to have originated from somewhere behind the Embassy. There are guards in uniform, and they actually shout at the people in line, urging them into a tighter row, instructing them, that if they move, they will lose their place and appointment. The commands seem especially demeaning, as those in line appear dressed for a fine dinner party. To the heel and with deliberate consciousness: shoes are shined, dresses pressed, shirts tucked, hair pinned, and finest jewelry presented. Mbouille himself is wearing a crisp and dirt-defying white dress shirt tucked into pressed pants with freshly shined shoes and a black briefcase.

As they march, the people fidget: adjusting ties, touching gold bracelets, fixing hair, holding tightly onto their own little matching folders of equally crisp, clean and organized papers.

I stand up and move to approach Mbouille, but one of the guards immediately barks at me to back off. As it is always Mbouille’s inclination, he wants to protect me, but he is not allowed out of line and so, without making a sound, he smiles softly behind the guard’s back and shows me hand signals to, “please, sit and wait.”

It’s my turn to fidget, and I pick at my fingernails and twist my ring in anxious confusion.

When the procession has lined up against the wall to the satisfaction of the guards, and after they have rattled off a new line of commands, Mbouille finally motions me over.

“Ah! Maimuna! I’m so happy to see you! No. No. No. Don’t worry about them. They are only doing their jobs. No, no, no. It’s okay. See. I’ve done this before. Why are they shouting? They are just giving instructions and explaining the process. This is just the way it works. Yes. I have to stay here in this line. Yes. I’m well. Please don’t tell anyone, but I have to confess, I am a little nervous. I don’t know why. I have no expectations. I hope my papers are all in order. Ah. You like the picture? One time I went through this whole process, and when I got up to the desk, they sent me away because the background of my picture was not white. Then they cancelled my appointment. I feel bad because there are no instructions that say the photo has to be on a white background, and I see others here who will be turned away today. Oh no. You shouldn’t get mad. It’s just part of the process. That’s the way it works. Today I know and have a proper picture, so it’s okay. Look! I brought a picture of my wife and son too. I hope it will help now that I am married, to prove that I would never leave my beautiful family and try to stay in the United States. Maimuna. The guards don’t want you to wait in this line with me. You must go wait by the door. When it is my turn, we’ll go in together okay?”

I squirm in my white skin as he hushes me away towards the front of the line and entrance to the Embassy. Our segregation, and my unquestioned “place” at the front door of the Embassy, makes my stomach turn. So I drag my feet as I reluctantly leave the line, turning every once in awhile to let Mbouille’s encouraging smile push me forward.

Finally he is called forward, and I run to his side as we are finally allowed to enter. Guards take our cell phones and my laptop and digital camera. After we empty our pockets of coin and step through the metal detectors, I’m given a cardboard number in exchange for my personal belongings, which I’ll be allowed to recollect on my way out.

We are ushered into a large waiting room full of chairs with corner-mounted televisions echoing mechanical instructions on how to proceed. People line the walls and shuffle their papers nervously.
Eventually we are called into a smaller room where ten chairs line a wall facing three booths. The booths are partially enclosed by flimsy dividing walls, and above each is an electronic box with a red number.

We are the day’s first round of applicants. All ten chairs are full of fidgeting, and immaculately dressed, people. There’s a clock on the wall that we watch until it tells us that we’ve waited three hours. An ever-excited and conversation-full person, Mbouille falls into an unusual silence as I watch him wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck and then clasp and wring his hands together.

I touch his shoulder and tell him not to worry. His case is totally solid. Why would there be any reason to turn him down? We have a letter of invitation from a US employer. He has three years of experience working for the company. We have all kinds of fancy paperwork. He’s married and has a child and a permanent job in Senegal. He is contracted to work this summer for us in this country. He has no reason to stay in the States and every reason to return to Senegal. And I will explain everything. They’ll listen to our case and everything will work out.

Finally, a window slides open and a name is called out.

An anxious young man jumps up, takes a moment to shake out his clothes, and then approaches the window. We all watch him nervously and, at once, wish and dread, the call of our own name.

The young man goes into the flimsy booth and introduces himself, and to my horror, I realize that we, in the waiting room, can hear everything: the curt introduction of the officer, the quick fire of personal questions, the stuttering replies, a very short pause and then…

“I’m sorry, but you are not qualified. Thank you for your time.”

*thump* *thump*

Papers are stamped with this final declaration.

The young man turns around with his shoulders slumped and face down. His nervous hands, emptied even of their paperwork, are left with no retreat, and are instead shoved embarrassedly into his pockets as he leaves.

No one in the waiting room has the courage to look up from their feet when the next name is called.

No more than five minutes pass…

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry…”

As the row of applicants each take a turn at standing, approaching the window, and shuffling sadly away, it becomes apparent that there is no variation to the theme:

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry.”

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry, but you are not qualified.”

Mbouille and I no longer speak. Silence demands all the space between us.

“MBOUILLE? Is there an Mbouille here? Please come to the window.”

Mbouille stands up proudly. He shakes himself into a confident stance. With admiration, I do the same. And together, a united front, we approach the window.

To my surprise, it’s the same young, fair man that approached me in the morning. For a naïve second, I cling to the hope that our prior meeting will open an unseen door into this interview, but these wishes are stomped when he shortly states, “Mam. You can take a seat. I will call you if I need you.”

Shoving my foot in a door too-quickly closing, I plead, “but we were told I would be able to join him for the interview. Is that not possible?”

He looks at Mbouille and asks, “Do you speak English?”

I can’t handle the belittling tone, step fully into the box, and before Mbouille has a chance to answer say, “Yes. Actually he speaks nine languages. I’m not here to speak for him. I only want to explain to you my company’s role in this request. Please, can I just have only a minute to explain the importance of this requested visa?”

“Mam. I will review all these documents. But you can sit down. I will call you if I need you.”

He shows me the front of his flat palm indicating that there will be no further discussion on the matter and then turns to Mbouille.

Mbouille smiles warmly and gives me a push with his eyes, knowing that only his instruction would move me.

Rejected and with no other option, I fall back. Dazed, I collapse limply into the nearest chair and have no choice but to listen to the conversation…

“How do you know that woman?”

“She is a Director of the American company for whom I work. Here are my completed forms. This is my letter of invitation….”

“Yes. Please just give me everything. Thank you.”

Papers are shuffled for 30 seconds.

“What is your profession? You are a teacher, huh. And this is your salary? Do you have a bank account statement?”

Papers are shuffled for another 30 seconds.

*thump* *thump*

I can hold back no longer. I stand up and jump back into the box.

“Please! Wait! You haven’t even had time to look over these papers. Please let me explain!”

The officer ignores me.

“I’m sorry Sir. But you are simply not qualified.”

I interject, “Wait!”

The officer looks me in the eye and says, “MAM. I’m sorry but this applicant is simply not qualified.”

Mbouille smiles softly at me. He turns to the officer and warmly replies,

“Thank you so much for you time and consideration Sir. Thank you very much.”

Mbouille gives me a little half laugh and picks up his briefcase, closing my gaping mouth and ushering me out the door. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat from his brow and neck, smiles at me, and says, “Whew. That’s a relief isn’t it? To have that over? Yes. Maimuna. Don’t worry. I didn’t get my expectations up. It’s okay.”

I haven’t the energy to keep up with his quick step, and fall back one behind him.

We collect our belongings from security and step outside. He tries to keep his smile on for me, but I can see a sadness behind his eyes that threatens to fill every moment not preoccupied with reassuring me that he’s okay. We walk fast through the city crowds. With our thoughts running as well, it feels that no time has passed before we reach our bus. We jump on through the back door, push our way through those standing, find an open seat, and fall, side-by-side, onto the shared bench.

Having stopped walking, our chasing minds catch up to us and a heavy silence fills the space between us.

I look out the window. I remember the line, the barking commands, the nervous people, the three hours of waiting, the curt questions, the humiliating open-aired booths, the ridiculously priced “processing fee”, the insulting interview….

My eyes well up with shame and embarrassment for the flag that colored and claimed the system through which we were just processed and spit out…

“Mbouille. The way they treated you…they didn’t listen at all…I’ve failed you….how could they….I’m so sorry…for my country….the way they treated you…”

He takes my hand and cuts my stutter, “Sister. Please. I’m okay. But your sadness will make me sad. Please don’t. Maybe I can apply again, yes? They never asked me the income question before. Maybe now we have learned something new and will be better prepared next time, okay? Now please, Maimuna. Don’t be sad. See? I’m only so happy that you are here. And that you are coming to my house to be with my family. And that is all that matters. But please, I can’t bear your sadness. Okay? Let’s not talk about it.”

He ends his plea with a smile and I agree.

I turn to the window to hide the tears that are welling again, wipe my eyes when I think he’s not looking, suck in a breath, hold it, swallow it, and follow his lead.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

getting to the period

Africa is a guru, of whom any and every encounter provides another opportunity to master grace in the practice of patience.

And just as my lids close down and wipe clean the board of expectation with a limp rag of exhaust, our 5th, 6th and 7th passengers arrive simultaneously — confirming that lessons can’t be bothered with run-on endings; once they are got, they get to the period.

A hasty duo of a man with a young boy wearing a fresh cast on his arm take over the middle seat. A young girl squeezes into the seat next to me.

*dhunk* *dhunk*
*dhunk* *dhunk*

Four doors suddenly slam. An engine shakes awake. Bodies assort themselves into the first bearable arrangement of interlocking limbs. And we are on our way.

The girl sitting next to me is different. Is it her fashion jeans? The bottled water she sips on? Her quick and confident manner? That she’s traveling alone? Or her indifference to my presence? She finally takes note of me, casually offers me the bottle of water, and asks me if I’m a Peace Corp volunteer.

This, by the way, is the common assumption of any single traveler in Senegal. If fact, because Peace Corp volunteers do predominate the toubab population pie, they have created a rather unfair assumption and expectation that all foreigners in Senegal should speak Pulaar and/or Wolof (the local languages of the country). Quite contrary to the lovely, little, warm back packs I’ve received by locals for my petty attempts at Hindi, Nepali, Tibetan and Thai, the most common response to my greetings in Wolof has been:

“What? You speak terribly! That is pathetic. If you are in a place that speaks Wolof, you must speak Wolof! Your attempts at our language are a shame.”

No harm is meant by the bite in this criticism. Like Africa, Africans like to get to the point and, unlike Americans, feel no need to cushion criticism inside a sandwich of fluffy white-lie compliments. I can respect that. Besides, my Wolof, frankly, IS a shame.

But I’m not speaking Wolof with the girl; we’re chatting in French. And her clear pronunciation and patience confirm my suspicion; she deals regularly with the toubab population and is quite accustomed, perhaps even to the point of boredom, with the presence and manners of foreigners. It turns out that she manages one of the small guest houses that accommodate those travelers venturing inland and into “the bush” for a little more colorful experience than that provided by the white sandy beach resorts of Senegal’s coastline.

I’m not a Peace Corp volunteer, but I do work for an organization that brings students from the States to Senegal, and, oh yes, she knows my company because her little brother was adopted by our group when they came through last summer, and what a small country and community this is, because, look, I have his (her brother’s name) written right here on my notepad of people I’m supposed to seek and meet!

Small indeed. But let’s get straight to the period on a case demonstrating, perfectly, the simultaneous small, big, and all-around-ness of African community.

We actually don’t have to even get out of the car, because it IS the next stop on this taxi ride, and stopping is where this chapter starts…

a community affair

Please, try with me, to follow this next sequence of events:

The taxi pulls over. The man with the boy with the broken arm gets out. They get their bags out of the trunk. Someone approaches and talks with the man. He looks frightened. He wants to get back in the car. He puts the boy in the car. The boy starts to cry. The two men start to fight. The taxi driver starts to get impatient. He gets into the driver seat and makes to leave. The man jumps into the car and shuts the door. We drive a few blocks. A woman runs into the road screaming. The taxi stops. The screaming woman is followed by two more women. One is crying. The other is holding the crying woman’s arm in support. More people follow the women. The father of the boy with the broken arm averts eye and generally appears to be at fault for something very bad. The screaming woman is yelling at him. The crying woman cries louder. The boy begins to wail. One of the women in the crowd opens the door and starts to pull on the arm of the boy. He shakes his head and screams. The dad gets out of the car. The crying woman lunges at him. She stops crying and starts screaming. Neighbors pour out of the houses and encircle the taxi. The dad starts to scream back. The boy wails.

The mad woman. The people behind her. The passengers from the taxi. The father of the boy. The neighbors. Everyone is throwing around animated gestures heavy with accusation. The taxi driver thumps his head against the roof of the taxi and throws desperate motions back. Suddenly a man, whose presence commands attention, parts the circle. He stands in the middle, between the screaming dad and woman. He talks to one. Then the other. Both scream out their cases. The mediator eventually turns to the man and with a calm hand chops out a declaration with which the father of the boy is clearly unhappy. Fifty minutes have passed and the taxi driver is livid. A few kids from the village point at me and sing out, “toubab! toubab!” I ask the girl what’s going on, but my French is simply not good enough to make sense of the story. I ask her to repeat the story. But still follow nothing. So I pretend to understand and she tells me that she’s going for a walk and starts to stroll down the street. The big mediator man talks to the taxi diver, talks to the screaming women, talks to the dad. And then the Dad and the crying/screaming woman get into the car. The boy wails. The taxi driver slams all the doors. We part the waves of what must be the entire town, and drive down the street. We stop at a house. We pick up the girl who was sitting next to me. The man and the woman get out. They come back after 15 minutes. We all squeeze in. And the frothing and fuming taxi driver slams his foot on the gas.

mad feels good

We do not drive. We FLY. Wheels spend most their time suspended by the strings of fast turns and risky overtakes. Not a single word is spoken as the anger of the taxi driver fills every inch of space not taken up by body.

I’m alert. And quite scared for my life by the speed and jolty punches that the driver is throwing at the road in absence of a human recipient. There is something about his driving that feels…. entitled. Yes. Entitled and excited. Like this is the way he has always wanted to drive and isn’t it nice to be entitled to a little madness in life every once in awhile? I think about the doors I’ve slammed in my life, and wonder what it is about total loss of control that makes the swing and sound of a slamming door feel so strongly satisfying. Yes. Mad feels good.

After forty minutes of daredevil passing and drag racing, we screech to a whip-lashing stop. The mad taxi driver slams open the door (which I think is possible), slams it shut, slams open the trunk, slams luggage onto the ground, slams the trunk shut, and slams himself back into the driver seat of the car.

Even the crying/screaming woman recognizes that the driver’s anger-entitlement trumps her own and not a squeak escapes her as the three slip their way out of the taxi. The boy’s cast arm has barely cleared the door when the taxi peels off the side of the road living the family in the dust of the taxi’s final sigh of anger and disgust.

a community affair

So it took me two weeks to figure out
what happened that night. And not because I finally logically put together the clues and puzzle pieces, but because, to my incredible luck, a half a moon later, I just happened to find myself in the company of a friend fluent in French AND the girl that sat next to me in that car that day. And yes. The circles in Africa are just that small.

Now proceed with caution. And if you find that the answer is as confusing as the question, we share a boat. Also, I might have gotten some of the facts in this story wrong, but I’m pretty sure that it doesn’t matter.

My friend translating:

Okay. She says, do you remember the boy with the broken arm? Well he had just broken his arm. Did the Dad break his arm? No. She doesn’t know how the boy’s arm broke. But the Dad took the boy to the hospital, which was in a town a few hours away. And the mother of the boy was angry because the father went without her. So she got on a bike and started riding to the town. She ended up riding into the night. The dad and the boy spent the night in town. And when the dad found out that the mother wasn’t in the house, had left it, he began to assume that she was having an affair. Since it is illegal, in Senegal, for a woman to have an affair, the man called the police and asked to have her arrested. The police found the mother, arrested her, and put her in jail. The mother was livid, and supported by her family, because she had been in jail and accused of having an affair when, as she claims, it is the father having the affair, multiple affairs actually. The big man who appeared and parted the crowd was doing a little community mediating; a common role for the village leader.

First, I feel relief that it was beyond not only my French, but also my English comprehension to have understood this story the first time it was told to me.

Second, I ponder for a moment; I try to imagine my neighbors encircling my marital spat while the mayor mediates and a taxi driver waits. But I can’t. Because I don’t know who my mayor is or even who my neighbors are, and the thought of any public transport attendant paying attention to anything aside from the clunk of my quarter is just unimaginable. Let us not even get to the implications for half the general American population, including a lengthy list of past presidents, if it were illegal to have a marital affair in the United States. Although, I’m pretty sure it is only illegal for women to have affairs in Senegal, and in that case, Bill at least, in this dawdling daydream, is cleared.

But where are we going with this story? Have we arrived at anything? A destination, finale, ending, enlightenment or conclusion?

No we haven’t. And never do we. I’m exhausted with this ride. Aren’t you?

As is life, love, cake, kissing, laughing, walking, dancing and everything I’ve ever found pleasurable in this life; the story has little to do with the conclusion and everything to do with getting there.

And so I slam the door and let the end of this story wind off into the darkness into which our taxi disappeared that night.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

I’ll be back with another (final?) chapter on my bush taxi trip in Senegal soon, but if you’re eager to move forward with another story of African adventure, the following have each filled my free time and provided feast (but certainly not peace) for mind:

From Publishers Weekly
Colorful writing and a deep intelligence highlight these essays’ graceful exploration of postcolonial Africa. A Polish journalist who has written about the continent for more than three decades, Kapuscinski provides glimpses into African life far beyond what has been covered in headlines or in most previous books on the subject.

*****

From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. The late Ivory Coast author and political activist Kourouma (Waiting for the Wild Beasts to Vote) writes with a brutal and obscene frankness reminiscent of Celine in this powerfully tragic novel about a West African child soldier who learns early that “Allah is not obliged to be fair about all the things he does here on earth.” Unsure if he’s 10 or 12 years old, “rude as a goat’s beard” Birahima, a third-grade dropout, recalls how his once-beautiful mother became an amputee who “moved on her arse like a caterpillar” and that he suspected her of being a soul-devouring sorceress. After her death, the boy is entrusted to a roguish shaman and sent to live with an aunt in Liberia. En route, they fall into the clutches of a warlord, and Birahima joins their forces as a boy soldier, witnessing and participating in all manner of savagery.

*****

Book Description (From Amazon)
In 1947-48 the workers on the Dakar-Niger railway came out on strike. Sembene Ousmane, in this vivid, timeless novel, evinces all the color, passion, and tragedy of those formative years in the history of West Africa.

*****

The story of Shiva Naipaul’s remarkable journey through Africa.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

if it be the will

“Just pulled into Tamba. Don’t worry about me okay?”

I type in and send the text message to Mbouille on the cell phone that he insisted I buy. By now I know the phone isn’t actually necessary for my safety as much as it is for his emotional ease with my absence. But it has come in handy and I find it childishly fun to be so fussed over by such an unfuss-ing man.

My phone immediately vibrates back with a return text: “Sister! I’ve been waiting all day to hear from you! Late afternoon and only in Tamba? I will try not to worry. Please be careful. I hope you arrive before nightfall. Inchallah.”

*****
Wikipedia: Insha’Allah
Muslim scholar Ibn Abbas stated that it is in fact obligatory for a Muslim to say Insha’Allah when referring to something he or she intends to do in the future. If carelessness leads to the omission of the phrase, it may be said at a later time upon the realization of the omission.

The Spanish word ojalá and the Portuguese word oxalá (I hope, I wish) are derived from law šaʾ allāh, a similar phrase meaning “if God willed it” or “if God wished it”. In šaʾ Allāh is used for the execution of real actions (I’m going to the store if God wills it), law šaʾ allāh is used to express a wish or desire one cannot fulfill (If God wished [Ojalá] that I could go to the store, but I’m busy).
*****

Insha’Alla. As God wills it.

From my experience in Senegal, I’ve learned there to be an “inchallah” for every sentence: pre-emptive inchallahs, closing inchallahs, mid-sentence-pause inchallahs, and especially the stand alone, full stop, inchallah. In all its forms and spellings, I love this little word for its ambiguous but enormous presence.

I do think every sentence could stand for a little prayer thrown into the beginning, middle or end. And I wonder how English would fair with such a constant little reminder of its smallness, its interdependence, its….but I have to stop in the middle of that thought because it’s just too comical to consider. English with its arrogant pride, its overbearing sound undisturbed even by itself, its clumsy neglect of finesse; when it stands next to other languages it is THE EQUIVALENT OF TYPING ALL IN CAPS. No, there is no place for something so humble or sacred or respectful or softly recognizing of anything less than scientifically proven, in the English sentence. Poor English. I pet its ruffled fur.

There is a mantra (of which I’ve written before) that I stole from a Buddhist meditation retreat and toss regularly into my own sentence salads: the Sanskrit word, “Anicha.”

Which now that I rub my chin and squint my eyes until it blurs….

… might very well be birthed by exact same source.

Anicha. As it is.

Ahhh. I laugh out loud. Because chasing my tail is fun. For doesn’t it always come in circles and from the same? And I’m not the only one laughing, for while it is fun catching myself at my own tail, it’s just as much fun to catch someone else at theirs. And I always hear someone laughing with me at these moments.

So I have strayed far from my story. Let me return so that I may move just a little closer (at 40 miles per hour) towards the conclusion of this tale. Inchallah.

So I am striding gallantly, a little like the English language, through the bus station which doubles as a community market. Again, I am a glowing ball of whiteness to whom every person raises a hand and shades his or her eyes while staring curiously. The fact that I am white, and alone, overshadows even the fact that I am female. I resign. I don’t exactly know to or of what I resign. But there is a relief in letting go of whatever it was I was holding on to. Fear? Insecurity? Maybe it’s like getting onto a stage, naked, with a red feathered hat, and a painted mustache. Everyone is staring or laughing or horrified or whatever. And after this initial reaction, what’s left to matter? So what can I do but stride confidently?

So I stride. Through the market. Picking up a few bananas. Two scoops of peanuts signaled with two fingers to a young woman who is scared that I’ve chosen her but happy for the coins. A bottle of water from a vendor. A look into the kitchen of a wooden food stand. At painted walls and advertisements. I stride like through a dream. And finally ask someone where I can find the shared taxi to Kedougou.

When I arrive at the spot, clearly designated only by common local knowledge, I find the taxi driver leaning casually against the car. He pays me little mind. He waits for me to approach him, and expertly, he delivers me a price in a voice and tone that excludes all negotiation. Of course, one haggles for EVERYTHING in Senegal. But this man is clearly a specialist in swindling those who don’t know better. Looking over his shoulder, he blows off my return haggle with a sweep of his hand that removes a spot of dust on his shirtsleeve.

I complain, “is this the price for white people?” But he hasn’t time for my crap. Without emotion or interest, he flips open a small booklet and shows me the ticket underneath the one he is offering me and looks me in the eye for only the second it takes to say, “Look. See. Same price the last person paid.” And then he closes his little ticket book and squints his eyes into the distance for something more interesting than me.

He will wait for me, and he knows that eventually I will come around. And I know this as well. Because what we both know, is that he is driving the very LAST taxi departing today for Kedougou.

flirting with the other side

Having paid a shamefully full fare, I crawl into the backseat of the taxi and stretch my legs longwise, prop myself on an elbow, and start to read a book while awaiting the indeterminate arrival of the rest of the passengers. The trunk of the car is open and, as of yet, still empty of luggage, and so all those that pass by can easily see me inside. Word circulates that there is a toubab in town, and some gander over just to see it for themselves. Others stretch long arms through the back of the car offering teetering plates full of drinks in plastic bags, chunky necklaces made from coconut husks, homemade ice creams, piles of sliced watermelon, and bowl upon bowl of roasted peanuts.

A bit of a crowd gathers at the trunk of the taxi and I notice the driver taking a sudden and uncharacteristic interest in the events. He walks around to the back of the taxi and stations himself against a pillar to keep an eye on things.

Three young men, in a uniform dress of blue gowns and dreadlocks, duck their heads into the back of the cab with huge grinning faces. An innocent and youthful warmth fills the cab as they call me sister and ask me if perhaps I have any small change that I can spare in donation to their brotherhood. The boys, perhaps in their early 20’s, appear so authentically happy and caref
ree that I can’t help but enjoy their fresh presence. We banter back and forth for a bit, passing around introductions, sharing a laugh at my Wolof, and exchanging enthusiasm for a short break in the traditional roles we have been playing all day. In this welcomed pause in the asking of alms, we flirt innocently for a quarter hour before, to my amazement, I catch flashes of the taxi driver’s flushed face bobbing up and down and in between the unsuspecting three heads of smiles that crowd the back of the car. He pops his head up on the left and grimaces. Then he pops his head up on the right and shakes a puckered face back and forth. Then he pops up again, in the middle, this time looking directly at me, and shakes a dissenting finger back and forth.

What? Really? I wonder. Suddenly showing so much concern for the safety of she lower in priority than the dust on his shoulder? Ah. The bonding power of an external enemy. Fact or fantasy, this enemy, I recognize this tactic quickly for my president has employed this trick all too well by projecting the evil in his head onto a mysterious and ever-evading external element. (“The terrorist is in YOUR TINY, TINY LITTLE HEAD!” I want to shout; but now that would not be very mature of me, would it.)

Anyway, in THIS instance, I can’t help but laugh out loud at how swiftly the taxi driver has switched sides, and for some reason, I do take the slightest delight in the angst and defensiveness the cheerful boys have inspired. An idea crosses over the face of one of the boys as he dips into his pocket and dumps a small pile of shiny new Euros into my hand. He explains that passing Europeans have placed the coins on their alms plate, with which they can do nothing. This is too simple for me, because I can effortlessly make their day by simply exchanging the coins into local currency. I will be back in Europe in a just a few weeks, and while the coins are worth a coffee and croissant in France, they are easily the earnings of a few days work in Senegal. I do some quick math in my head, round up to the nearest CFA, and hand over the cash to the boys who are all the more joyous for the unexpected transaction. They shower me with prayers and I feel shy for the fact that I have done nothing. But they each shake my hand, wish blessings upon my head, and encourage me to make a visit to their sacred mosque.

After many hesitations, they finally leave, and a very angry taxi driver sticks a red-faced head into the car and with eyes that suspiciously swoop from left to right, tells me what terrible people they are to swindle me so. He saw the money I gave them and chastises me for being played for such a fool. I show him the Euros and explain to him the exchange. He narrows his eyes critically as he inspects the coins, but in the end, he is happier to just be mad and entitled; also a trick I have seen too many times before. He drops the money back into my hands with an uptight shrug.

I jingle the shiny coins in my hand, wonder where they’ve been, and love them for the secrets and stories they hold but will never tell. I know the coins are not fake. But I will not be able to prove that until I am later back in France sipping down an espresso with this especially sweet memory.

*****

This story is as slow as the taxi ride itself, but we’re getting closer!

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

It only takes one cross-country trip on local transportation in a developing country to learn that in addition to visiting a restroom before departure, it is equally essential to avoid all intakes of fluids and squeezable foods for a good three hours prior.

I have followed my own advice, but it is now late afternoon, and although the heat is giving an admirable shot at challenging this ratio, my body is still made up of an uncontrollable 70% water.

I have to pee. My legs, as well, knock knees against each other in an escalating debate over if they’ve ever been actually capable of extension, or if the idea is only a romanticized memory of a fondly recalled past that never actually existed. My screaming knees and bladder are silenced in a collective hopeful squirm when the taxi slows and pulls off the road alongside a tiny village shaded by Balboa trees.

The driver opens the door and leaves. The rest of the car sleeps. Not a single stir till I shake the taxi in a clumsy crawl forward and over the middle seat. I cannot believe that these six men, all with twice as much cramped leg and numb bum as me, are not moving! While normally I follow the lead of locals, I have no choice but to break file for I am at the command of my body which has as well as put a gun to my head.

“Where are you going?” A sleepy head lifts just long enough to ask me.

“Out. Out. Out. Please open the door.” I say softly but with the haste and determination of the white rabbit.

The taxi has warmed up by 20 degrees without the breeze of 40 miles per hour and I fall out of the car on a final suck of what I imagine to be the last molecule of oxygen in the carbon-filled chamber of air in the taxi. Eventually the men (except for the sick one), casually, and only because it seems there isn’t much better to do, follow.

After I shake my legs and swallow a few fresh breaths of air, I scout my surroundings for the alley that seems most promising of leading to a discrete corner.

I judge by the fact that all the people on shaded porches have turned their chairs and knees to face us, that this is not the typical taxi stop.

Four dark little bodies pile up from behind a tree, heads peaking out, one over the other, with wide white eyes emphasizing piercing curiosity.

Suddenly, the tallest one chirps…

“TOUBAB.”

And then two more follow at the same time,

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

And then the first again and the lowest little head in a squeaky voice chimes in,

“TOUBAB” “toubab!”

And having found their harmony, their heads begin to bob in time to their song, like the little choreographed umpaloompas of Charlie’s chocolate factory:

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

Toubab, by the way, is me.

Specifically it refers to Europeans. Historically, it might have meant “doctor.” Generally it means foreigner. Most commonly, it refers to any white person. And presently, it means me.

And just in case my whiteness was not seen from the few-mile radius from which it is strikingly obvious, I have an attentive little chorus calling me out on it.

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

Along with my knees, I may have once romanticized this adventure in Senegal and can quote myself firsthand, pre-trip, as saying, “How interesting it will be to feel, for the first time, what it is to be a minority!”

Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

“Toubab!” “Toubab!”

“TOUBAB!” “toubab!”

I am actually not disturbed at all by this song and dance. And I would only quietly laugh and or play curiously within the dimensions of this attention if it were not for the fact that my thoughts are more concerned with the pressing question of finding a “discrete” corner whilst a vocal audience calls constant attention to my presence.

To my unbelievable luck, a police patrol car pulls off the road and at the congruent pause in the toubab song, I jump at the timely distraction and duck down an alley relatively unnoticed. I find a corner and do my business knowing that the color of my bottom is flashing like a lighthouse beacon to those strolling the horizon a mile away. But at this point, I care far much less for modesty than relief.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

holes

Our seventh passenger halfway arrives.

He isn’t actually going where we are going, but his destination is along the way and if we’ll chip in, he’ll pay a little extra and we’ll all (three hours since my arrival) finally be on our way. Agreed and extra small bills piled in the middle of the car, we all suck in our breath, pull up our knees and squeeze in.

We don’t go far at first. Just long enough for a flashing hole between my feet, where I can see the road pass underneath, to catch and hold my attention and make me ponder what is actually essential to making a car run. Whatever “it” is; it and only it, is here. The gray blur passing through the hole steadies itself on oily, black, concrete. Even I know better than to wonder why the driver is, only now, going to the gas station: he collects our pool of money and uses it to purchase the fuel needed for the trip.

A man with a briefcase is suddenly at the passenger window catching his breath from chasing after us. He’s speaking Wolof and so I can’t catch any decipherable gist of what he’s saying but can see that whatever it is, it’s making the newest arrival squirm in his seat next to me waving “move along gestures” and the rest of the men in the car look around at each other for someone to take the lead they want to follow but not initiate. Everyone stalls. Finally one speaks. The others all nod. The man next to me squirms and shakes his hand again. The man at the window pleads. The others nod again. The man next to me keeps shaking his hand and looking straight ahead. There is silence.

And this goes on for 30 minutes; plead, squirm, agree, shake, silence.

I get it. I don’t have to speak Wolof to comprehend that a full paying passenger has arrived who will return to the rest of the passengers in the car the cash we just chipped in.

At 9 am, four hours after my arrival at the taxi station, my new neighbor has tucked his briefcase between his knees and we all pull out of the gas station and hit the road.

“Hit the road,” while perhaps less an expression in this case, is an exceptionally accurate description of what I will do for the next 12 hours of this overland journey. Through that little hole in the bottom of the car, I watch hundreds of foot-deep crevasses, cracks and divots pass. The driver’s spine is erect in attention and his eyes are squinted and focused intently on the road. I can’t help but think of that game at Chucky Cheeses’ where you slam the padded hammer on the gofers as they emerge from holes and they pop up faster and faster, sometimes even two or three at a time. We swerve violently; left, right, sometimes backwards I feel. Often we bang, bump and sink and quickly I understand how anything unnecessary would quickly shake off the frame giving birth to many such holes as the one beneath my feet.

a heavy little bag

Although it is inevitable, for some reason I am surprised when an unseen signal calls for the car to halt and one of the men in the seat in front of me opens the door and runs into the bushes. He swaggers back slowly, with his eyes closed and clutching his stomach. He collapses back into the seat of the car for only a second before he leans out the door and vomits again.

The first time everyone in the car is sympathetic. The fourth time in half an hour, the driver is grinding his teeth and everyone is sighing with either annoyance or aggravation.

Sometimes when I’m in another country, thoughts don’t hit me as quickly as they should. Perhaps because I’m the one out of place and there’s already enough attention on me, I avoid calling for more. But it isn’t out of disrespect but out of neglect that I wait for the forth stop before I tap the leg of the man with the suitcase and say, “Attente! J’ai la médecine!” He yells up to the driver and repeats, “Wait! She has medicine!”

The sick man rolls his eyes toward me, but hasn’t any energy to respond. The driver turns off the engine, walks to the back of the car, opens the trunk and starts pulling out all the baggage until he finds mine. He shoves my backpack into my arms.

The whole car empties out and all eyes are on me as I desperately search for my little plastic bag of first aid supplies. After a futile five minutes of searching, I want to lynch myself for putting myself into the aggravated-sighing-spotlight when, yes! I find it! My foiled little package of tiny Dramamine pills that I regularly disperse to sick students when I’m working as a guide. I hand the silver package to the driver like a golden ticket. He could care less for anything except getting back on the road. He gives it a quick glance over, hands it back to me, and starts throwing everything back in the trunk.

The sick man is propping his cramped body on the back of the car. I punch out two pills for him and hand them over. He looks me in the eye for a long second. I have no idea what he’s thinking or deciding, but at the end of his thought, he tosses the little pills into his mouth, nods and gets back in the car.

I am left alone still holding the little bag. For the first time, I really look at it. In addition to motion sickness medications, it holds anti-malarias, different sets of antibiotics for giardia, amoebas, urinary tract, and broad gastrointestinal infections. It has antibiotic drops for eye infections and prescription creams for skin infections. It has disinfectants, tools for cleaning wounds and sterile bandages.

The little bag suddenly becomes very heavy as I realize that it holds the cure to the diseases that kill hundreds (or thousands?) of the inhabitants of this continent on a daily basis. The thought makes my stomach hurt.

breaking bread and borders

The driver yells at me to get over my realization and back in the car and I snap back into action at his quick command.

The sick man quickly passes out against the window and after a half hour of relatively uninterrupted driving (for unfortunately there are no pills for potholes), everyone stops holding their breath and there is a collective sigh of relief. (The sick man won’t wake up till we arrive seven hours later.) People finally cozy down in their seats. The man with the briefcase asks me questions and offers me cookies. I pass around a bag of my own crackers as others laugh at my weak attempts at Wolof. I come to realize that our shared problem and my contribution towards solving it, has effectively broken down a social barrier that I hadn’t recognized earlier as erected. But I am thankful for finding my own seat suddenly a lot more comfortable.

(still to be continued)

*****

Since you all know Mbouille now, if you’re interested in seeing a love note video that we sent from Boulder to Senegal last week, you can watch it here.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.