Last night while skyping with my sister I told her that I thought blogging was “unnatural.” She told me to blog about it.
I’m not saying I think blogging is unnatural for everyone. There are so many people with interesting things to say, and they say them eloquently, beautifully even. It’s just that blogging isn’t natural to me. Why would you want to listen to me ramble? Who cares?
It’s a funny thing for a writer to say. Who cares? Really, who cares? When I write fiction I love my characters; it is a relief that “I” don’t enter into the equation at all. I must step out of the way; let their stories unfold. At the best moments “I” don’t exist in the process of writing at all. I transcend myself…I feel wholeness. But blogging?
I woke up this morning, thoughts swarming my head like a million bees. I am across the Atlantic in a world so unlike my own. Everything is different, even small things. Like how survival seems to be in your own hands. Cars do not stop for pedestrians—they do not slow down when someone crosses the street; they don’t even swerve to avoid them. When I teeter on the edge of a busy road, inches from traffic, and a man or woman is walking in the other direction, do we pass each other on the right or the left? Neither. Every time I meet someone on the road like this they will stay strong on their path, doing whatever it takes to keep the safest course. Often that means forcing me into the road or the ditch. Few people spend their days inside on computers; they are outside, sitting in the sun or shade greeting people. They greet people on the street. They light fires with small bits of paper and cook their lunch inches from traffic passing by. Maggie is expected to greet elders here: to say hi, how are you? She is only two years old. Things are different; that is not to say better or worse. Different.
And it isn’t a gift to be stolen from your world for a time? To see it as I do, from a distance, across a large ocean? I have been reading “That Thing Around Your Neck,” a wonderful collection of stories by Nigerion author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Her observations about the gap between American culture and the African characters in her stories have only made my experiences here in Senegal more poignant.
All I want (I am a pregnant lady, more than halfway until new baby) is to make a home. To unpack. To cook food that is familiar. To garden. To go the farmer’s market. To be with friends and family. But I hope that I can take this with me when I return home…remember how fortunate I am. Remember how happy people in Senegal seem to be with so few material things.
The truth? Some days here are very hard. Some days are ok. I wake up each morning and I can honestly say I look forward to seeing my daughter. I hear that little voice and her excitement that it is day. I want to get up and see her. It’s pretty awesome being a mom. The state of things? Pretty darn good.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 2, 2011
Feb 28, 2011
Top Ten?
According to latest livability index compiled by The Economist, Dakar, Senegal is one of the 10 worst cities to live in the world. the worst city to live in the world is Harare, Zimbabwe, followed by Dhaka, Bangladesh, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, Lagos, Nigeria, Algiers, Algeria, Karachi, Pakistan, Douala, Cameroon, Tehran, Iran, Dakar, Senegal, and then, the best of the worst 10 cities on the index, Colombo, Sri Lanka.
The Economist Intelligence Unit survey ranks cities based on 30 factors such as healthcare, culture and environment, and education and personal safety.
Well, Dakar is definitely not the easiest place to live, but almost every ex-pat we've met says they have been stationed in far worse places--in fact they like Dakar. hmmm.
The Economist Intelligence Unit survey ranks cities based on 30 factors such as healthcare, culture and environment, and education and personal safety.
Well, Dakar is definitely not the easiest place to live, but almost every ex-pat we've met says they have been stationed in far worse places--in fact they like Dakar. hmmm.
Feb 19, 2011
Ngor
You never know where you'll end up when you get into a taxi in Dakar.
Taxis are everywhere. Empty yellow cabs, exhaust pouring from tailpipes rattle by on almost every street. They pause or honk as if begging you to take a ride.
Taxi fares are negotiated, and the negotiation usually involves a performance by both parties:
Taxi driver "3000 CFA"
us: "No, no, no. That's way too expensive. 1000 CFA."
Taxi: "That's not enough."
Us: "its not far..."
Taxi: "2500 CFA."
Us. "No, no. 1500."
Taxi. "2000"
We begin to walk away.
Taxi "ok. 1500 CFA."
All this before we even step into the car.
Actually getting to your destination is another matter entirely. The strange thing about taxi drivers in Dakar is that they seldom know how to get anywhere. There are very few "real" addresses in Dakar. Don't try to send me a letter because it probably won't get here. Instead you must direct the driver by landmarks, which means you have to know where you're going.
We'd never been to the beach at Ngor which meant when we hopped into a taxi last Saturday morning, we did't know where we were going. After taking us to the wrong beach a couple miles north, the driver turned around and finally stopped by a small hotel, promising that the beach was just beyond the buildings that lined the road. We saw a path leading to blue. We had arrived. Or so we thought.
The beach wasn't what we expected. The tide was in and there was a small strip of sand covered in bottle caps, cans and other bits of trash. We walked, a bit demoralized. Where was the white sand beach we had been promised? Or even just a bit of clean sand for maggie to shovel into her pail? We've been to some beautiful beaches in Dakar; this just wasn't one of them.
Jon stopped and asked a man if there was a nice beach nearby. And this is when our true adventure started.
He was young, or at least young to my eyes, late twenties, perhaps?--clearly I'm getting older here for I find myself talking about the peace corps volunteers as "kids". After we had been talking for a while he took out a pack of cigarettes and started smoking--something I seldom see in Dakar. It was as if he wanted to demonstrate his affluence, or at least show us that he was cosmopolitan. He said that if we waited until the afternoon the tide would shift and take with it all the debris that had gathered on the beach. I imagined all those bottle caps and plastic bags floating in the water. Somehow it wasn't appealing.
To be fair, the true draw of Ngor is the island beach that sits a small distance from the mainland. Boats ferry passengers over for a couple of dollars. That day the water was choppy. The wind blew sand into our eyes and carried debris along the beach. We decided to leave that trip for another day.
The man offered to show us the way towards a hotel a little ways down the coast which we knew had a small beach and playground. We agreed, and followed him into a narrow alley, its small path made entirely of sand.
Buildings rose around us, their windows open, walls covered with laundry-fabrics and jerseys and skirts drying in the sun. Sometimes the path tightened and we stepped aside to let others by. Men were out walking the maze like paths; their children darted past with bare feet. The path opened and we passed a woman with tin pots ladling food into small bowls and passing them out to the children and men.
The village of Ngor truly was a maze. I don't that we could have found our way out without help. Occasionally I smelled the salty sea air blow through, but mostly the smells were those I've grown accustomed to: a mineral smell that permeates everything in Senegal, cooking onions, spices, and the not so pleasant scents of sewage, exhaust and rotting animals. We followed our guide for awhile, and I began to wonder, where is he taking us? But suddenly we ducked through a low door and we were inside his home.
We entered and I thought immediately, so this is where all the women are. Young women cleaning floors with bleach, wiping ledges, and taking care of children--the house was full of women, and they all seemed to be in some way related to the man who was our guide.
He showed us his family's house with pride. His eyes were bright and happy, and though at first I felt like we were intruders in a family's private realm, I couldn't help but feel happy and privileged as well. He introduced us to his sisters and then led us upstairs. We entered a small room and found more family: three sisters and their mother. His mother was not there, but he told us she was one of his father's four wives (!!). Truly it was a big family. Then he took us into his room, and again, he beamed. It was a big room, made bigger by the scarcity of furniture or other items: only a mattress, several small items, and in the corner there was a painting. It was a painting of his grandfather. We finished the tour on the roof where the air was fresh and the ocean seemed to be all around.
He certainly had not taken us to a place we expected to go, but I truly felt the blessing of the simplest things in his life, and the pride he felt in sharing that with us. It was pretty wonderful.
He took us back outside, but there were a couple more things he wanted to show us: the cemetery, filled with the history of his village and his family, and one incredible Baobob tree growing up from the maze of houses. He pulled some leaves from the tree and told us to make a prayer and give the leaf back to the tree. As I tossed my leaf towards the tree I already felt the gratitude for everything in my life. Blessings all around.
The Baobob prayer tree:
Our guide taking us through the narrow paths of Ngor:
Taxis are everywhere. Empty yellow cabs, exhaust pouring from tailpipes rattle by on almost every street. They pause or honk as if begging you to take a ride.
Taxi fares are negotiated, and the negotiation usually involves a performance by both parties:
Taxi driver "3000 CFA"
us: "No, no, no. That's way too expensive. 1000 CFA."
Taxi: "That's not enough."
Us: "its not far..."
Taxi: "2500 CFA."
Us. "No, no. 1500."
Taxi. "2000"
We begin to walk away.
Taxi "ok. 1500 CFA."
All this before we even step into the car.
Actually getting to your destination is another matter entirely. The strange thing about taxi drivers in Dakar is that they seldom know how to get anywhere. There are very few "real" addresses in Dakar. Don't try to send me a letter because it probably won't get here. Instead you must direct the driver by landmarks, which means you have to know where you're going.
We'd never been to the beach at Ngor which meant when we hopped into a taxi last Saturday morning, we did't know where we were going. After taking us to the wrong beach a couple miles north, the driver turned around and finally stopped by a small hotel, promising that the beach was just beyond the buildings that lined the road. We saw a path leading to blue. We had arrived. Or so we thought.
The beach wasn't what we expected. The tide was in and there was a small strip of sand covered in bottle caps, cans and other bits of trash. We walked, a bit demoralized. Where was the white sand beach we had been promised? Or even just a bit of clean sand for maggie to shovel into her pail? We've been to some beautiful beaches in Dakar; this just wasn't one of them.
Jon stopped and asked a man if there was a nice beach nearby. And this is when our true adventure started.
He was young, or at least young to my eyes, late twenties, perhaps?--clearly I'm getting older here for I find myself talking about the peace corps volunteers as "kids". After we had been talking for a while he took out a pack of cigarettes and started smoking--something I seldom see in Dakar. It was as if he wanted to demonstrate his affluence, or at least show us that he was cosmopolitan. He said that if we waited until the afternoon the tide would shift and take with it all the debris that had gathered on the beach. I imagined all those bottle caps and plastic bags floating in the water. Somehow it wasn't appealing.
To be fair, the true draw of Ngor is the island beach that sits a small distance from the mainland. Boats ferry passengers over for a couple of dollars. That day the water was choppy. The wind blew sand into our eyes and carried debris along the beach. We decided to leave that trip for another day.
The man offered to show us the way towards a hotel a little ways down the coast which we knew had a small beach and playground. We agreed, and followed him into a narrow alley, its small path made entirely of sand.
Buildings rose around us, their windows open, walls covered with laundry-fabrics and jerseys and skirts drying in the sun. Sometimes the path tightened and we stepped aside to let others by. Men were out walking the maze like paths; their children darted past with bare feet. The path opened and we passed a woman with tin pots ladling food into small bowls and passing them out to the children and men.
The village of Ngor truly was a maze. I don't that we could have found our way out without help. Occasionally I smelled the salty sea air blow through, but mostly the smells were those I've grown accustomed to: a mineral smell that permeates everything in Senegal, cooking onions, spices, and the not so pleasant scents of sewage, exhaust and rotting animals. We followed our guide for awhile, and I began to wonder, where is he taking us? But suddenly we ducked through a low door and we were inside his home.
We entered and I thought immediately, so this is where all the women are. Young women cleaning floors with bleach, wiping ledges, and taking care of children--the house was full of women, and they all seemed to be in some way related to the man who was our guide.
He showed us his family's house with pride. His eyes were bright and happy, and though at first I felt like we were intruders in a family's private realm, I couldn't help but feel happy and privileged as well. He introduced us to his sisters and then led us upstairs. We entered a small room and found more family: three sisters and their mother. His mother was not there, but he told us she was one of his father's four wives (!!). Truly it was a big family. Then he took us into his room, and again, he beamed. It was a big room, made bigger by the scarcity of furniture or other items: only a mattress, several small items, and in the corner there was a painting. It was a painting of his grandfather. We finished the tour on the roof where the air was fresh and the ocean seemed to be all around.
He certainly had not taken us to a place we expected to go, but I truly felt the blessing of the simplest things in his life, and the pride he felt in sharing that with us. It was pretty wonderful.
He took us back outside, but there were a couple more things he wanted to show us: the cemetery, filled with the history of his village and his family, and one incredible Baobob tree growing up from the maze of houses. He pulled some leaves from the tree and told us to make a prayer and give the leaf back to the tree. As I tossed my leaf towards the tree I already felt the gratitude for everything in my life. Blessings all around.
The Baobob prayer tree:
Our guide taking us through the narrow paths of Ngor:
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