26.2 miles vs Naomi

Since I've been gone

2009-12-12T04:17:00.001-05:00

(Can anyone read this post title without singing that Kelly Clarkson song? Can you still, now that I've brought it up? You're welcome.)

An astute anonymous commenter noticed that my "starting over" attempt has pathetically fizzled.

Yeah... About that.

Honestly? I couldn't figure out what to write. Not like that used to stop me.

But: lazy. Also: perfectionist.

So rather than writing something lame (again) just to kickstart the process, I... slumped. Further.

Oops.

Not like I haven't been up to anything exciting in the past couple years.

I got married. (Didjahear?)

My husband got a green card.

I don't have links or a peppy picture at hand to prove that. But he did.

Actually, that was pretty interesting. Not really because of what went on during our application, which was astonishingly easy -- or maybe not so astonishing since one of the "questions" during our "grilling" to determine whether we were a for-real couple or just a for visa-one was "which consular officer was a guest at your wedding?" (My husband: "that one. Hi!" )

Of course, grade grubber that I am, I totally interpret our easy road to legal American residency as an objective assessment of the awesomeness of our union.

Theo + Naomi: A+++

If this were an AP exam, we would get a 5.

Gold star!

Anyway, my favorite part of the process was where we got to listen in to everybody ELSE's fascinating roads to legal American residency. Or, you know, to somewhere else.

People, not everyone used the study guide.

Like the one group of children trying to rejoin their father who was a naturalized U.S. citizen. Except he was not the father listed on their birth certificates.

Family representative: Oh, they changed their names.

Consular Officer: Huh?

FR: No, the father changed his name.

CO: What?

FR: Everyone's name changed.

CO: I think we're going to need a DNA test.

Or the lovely woman from Mauritania, a legal U.S. resident, who wanted to bring her new-ish husband back with her to the states.

CO: When did you get married?

Wife: 2006

CO: But it says here you got divorced in 2008.

Wife: That was my first husband.

CO: But how could you get married again if you weren't divorced yet?

Wife: It was in the village.

CO: Also, it says you were in the U.S. from 1994 on. Did you ever come back to visit?

Wife: In 2007.

CO: But you said you got married in 2006. Did you go back for the wedding?

Wife: Nope.

CO: We're going to need some further documentation.

It's probably totally illegal to write about other people's visa issues on the internet, but if it is, the embassy should stop using microphones to be heard through the glass.

And actually, I could totally believe that, in both those cases, everyone was being totally honest about their relationships and the timeline of events.

Like the names on the birth certificate. In Senegal, at least up until a few years ago, if you were held back in school or lost your ID card or hoped to become a professional athlete or weren't growing fast enough (okay, not sure about that one), they'd just write you a new birth certificate, with a new birthday -- and, I could totally believe, different parentage, if you felt like it.

Or the wedding, in the village, with the still-legally-married, not-present bride. In many traditional weddings, at least in West Africa, neither the bride nor the groom needs to be there.

My (female, non-Senegalese, non-Muslim) friend once stood in for the groom in a Senegalese Muslim wedding, because he was a well-known musician and didn't want to face the demanding public. Mostly because in a Senegalese wedding, the groom, as "host," is supposed to show -- and spread -- his prosperity with all the guests. So it's totally legit for guests to demand money from the newlyweds. And most people can get away with small change, but this musician was successful enough that everyone knew he had real money. Also, there's no such thing as an invitation-only wedding. Which is why, although Theo WAS present during our vows, I only caught glimpses of him during our party-in-the-village. He filled his pockets with small change and bills and then when it started to run out quickly... he hid.

And in Senegal, the legal wedding and the religious/traditional part are separate, so plenty of people have a mosque or church wedding and don't bother with the legal paperwork. No one would care if you weren't actually, you know, technically, like, legally, divorced from your last husband. (Or if you had checked the "monogamy" box on the marriage certificate but later decided you did actually want a second wife. And yes, my favorite part of my marriage license is the part where it says: "The Spouse has opted for monogamy." Because the other choice was polygamy, and that's totally legal, common, and accepted in Senegal. Because everyone's entitled to the marriage-style of their choice. As long as they're not homosexual, apparently, but that's a rant for a different blog. Or at least a different digression.)

So fortunately (or not, depending on your commitment to the narrative arc) our visa application was approved, which means we weren't around find out if this crowd got their visas or not.

I think what we need is a Maury Povich-style, "You are...........

[longer dramatic pause]

[commercial break]

NOT THE FATHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

to bring us the conclusion. I'll have my people call his people.

And there you go. I wrote a post. It's like a real blog! Stay tuned for all the other things I've been up to besides becoming coupled.... I swear there's something. I'm a little grossed out by myself right now.

Starting. Again.

2009-09-12T01:18:00.010-04:00

There's nothing harder than getting started.

Except maybe starting over.

I know all the steps. I know how much I liked it before. And every day another day goes by and I don't.

I've lost all my readers, anyway.

I'm completely out of shape.

Watching TV is always fun.

I'm in a rut, y'all.

I didn't expect this to happen. Actually, I was working hard making sure that whatever else I achieved (or didn't) that I would feel like I was *living* every moment. That I used every moment I had, and wasn't just treading water.

Almost exactly a year ago, I was in a bush taxi in Cape Verde careening around hairpin turns with a driver who was, by all available evidence, either completely drunk or else equipped with a death wish.

I've never been so convinced I was going to die. (Except maybe the time I was driving on mountain passes in a dark forest in pre-dawn Guinea in a bush taxi with no headlights.)

I was utterly panicked. My heart was pounding, I was desperately clutching the seat in front of me, slamming my feet on imaginary breaks, and dreading every uphill because they were followed by downhills, during which the driver accelerated on straightaways and didn't seem to find the breaks even for 270 degree switchbacks.

Until I stopped. Because I took a couple deep breaths. And I thought about my worst case scenario. We could die. The knocked-out guard rails on some of the deadlier turns proved that car crashes do happen, even in idyllic Cape Verde.

So... I didn't want to die. There are still plenty of things I want to do in my life.

But if that was going to happen, I couldn't stop it. And if I died, well, I was okay with that. Because I was utterly, completely happy. I was sitting next to the love of my life, a month past our wedding, having just had a lovely vacation, birthday, honeymoon. I had followed my dreams and was living in West Africa, earning my living as a professional journalist with articles that had been printed in things I actually read, on purpose, and not just because my name was in there. I ran two marathons. I had been to dozens of countries. I had met and befriended wonderful people.

And I knew that I had taken every opportunity I saw, and couldn't think of anything wasted or regretted.

So I grabbed Theo's hand, closed my eyes (and opened them again when I realized that made me carsick), and went for the ride.

I didn't die. Thank god.

But now a year has passed and if I were in that car today, I don't think I could find that same zen.

I hate freelancing.

I am not running.

I feel like I spend far too much of my time alone, on my couch, working (or pretending to) and wishing I was somewhere else. And when I have the choice to be somewhere else? It all sounds too stressful or tiring or, well, too much like not sitting on my couch.

I have watched all of Hulu.

I have read the entire internet. Twice.

I'm still married to the entirely wonderful and extraordinarily gorgeous Theo. And he's happy to see me even when I've only managed to get out of my pajamas a few minutes before he swings through the door from work at 10 pm. (I don't always tell him though.)

But happily married is not a whole life. (Groundbreaking, I know. I'm ready to join the feminists of the 1960s.)

So I'm working on it. I need to stop spectating and start doing.

That's a lot of words to say hi. I'm back. I missed you.

Marie-Suzanne Schools Mont Rolland

2007-11-21T09:40:00.000-05:00

We had our doubts. At 4:30, when only a handful of people had shown up for the workshop which had been advertised to start at 3, and all of those people were Marie-Suzanne's cousins, siblings, aunts, and parents, we got worried.

But there's on time and then there's Senegalese time. By 5 pm, the second speaker had finally shown up, and as they began, teens from the village continued arriving. By the end, a standing room-only crowd scrambled to get their hands on the free condoms, female condoms, and cool necklaces designed to help women keep track of their cycles.

(Go here to see more photos from the day.)

Rappers performed songs written especially for the workshop (and one of which will appear on the rapper's next album) and village kids danced and sang for the crowd.

From my perspective, I was disappointed with the focus on abstinence from the speakers. Plus, the organization that donated condoms only sent one box of about 50-60. They told Theo (who handed them out) they didn't want to encourage young people to have sex (Gah.) It seems to me, with all the young girls getting pregnant, that ship has sailed.

But it opened the discussion, and inspired Marie-Suzanne, who is planning to organize round two for next year's festival.

Thanks again to everyone who contributed. Marie-Suzanne also sends her heartfelt thanks for your help.

You know you want to come on vacation with me...

2007-10-23T15:03:00.000-04:00

... don't deny it.

Among my many, many (bad) reasons for not posting lately (or ever) is that I spent three weeks last month crossing the Sahara.

Theo and I flew to Casablanca and bit-by-bit, train by crowded (and sometimes less crowded) bush taxi, by bus, we made our way back to Dakar. Our own private Paris-Dakar Rally, if you will, with less speed and more cookies. Although maybe the people on the Rally like cookies. I do.

Anyway, we took a brief detour inland to the Atlas Mountains where we met up with the ever-fabulous Julia and her cool-chick friend Alden. On the way inland, we stopped in Ait Ben Haddou, home of a famous (or INfamous) Casbah, where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed (also Gladiator. Who knew?)

And there we did something NO ONE in the history of EVER has ever done.

Everything is Possible, Nothing is Simple

2007-08-13T08:17:00.000-04:00

Sierra Leone has to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful places I've ever been. And one of the friendliest. People in Senegal are very friendly too, but sometimes it seems almost aggressive and maybe motivated by self-interest.

But Sierra Leone has a low key vibe that expresses itself in friendly helpfulness. Walking through the seemingly never-ending rain (Sierra Leone's rainy season is for real, not like Dakar's occasional drizzles) I can't count the number of times complete strangers shared their umbrellas with me.

And when I left my wallet in a taxi, I was utterly shocked, before I knew it was gone, to find the taxi driver honking in front of my hotel, waving it out the window for me. Considering he'd dropped me off at a nearby intersection and I'd never told him where I was staying, it was an especially impressive feat of good samaritanism.

Many of my fellow Dakar journalists began grumping about the flat, brown of our city, and how it compared to the lush, hilly city on the beach where we were staying.

And then we tried to leave.

For reasons no one has been able to explain to me, the airport in Freetown was built across a wide bay from the rest of the city. There are four ways to get there. A three-hour drive on bad roads, around the perimeter of the bay; an even longer, crowded, delayed ferry ride across the water; a short, but expensive, and not entirely safe helicopter ride; or a pretty expensive, not too long hovercraft ride.

We opted for the hovercraft.

But when three other journalists and I arrived 20 minutes before the airline had told us the hovercraft was scheduled to leave, we were greeted with unfortunate news: the hovercraft wasn't running that day. We learned later that the operators of the hovercraft decided to give their employees vacation during election weekend. Who cares about the people who might have to fly? They should have known to take the ferry.

But there's always a solution. Next to the hovercraft dock, there was a guy with a speedboat.

Well, more like a guy who works for a guy who owns a speedboat. But he said he could take us across, as long as we cleared it with his boss.

With the minutes ticking by, we were starting to feel stressed. The airline we were flying routinely overbooks their flight, and if you arrive late, you are guaranteed not to have a seat, even if you have reconfirmed. But things happen on their own time here, so when we called the speedboat owner, instead of discussing things on the phone, he just said he'd come on by.

"Where does he live?" we asked the speedboat driver of the speedboat owner.
"In town," he told us. 30 minutes away.

We tapped our toes and tried to seem patient.

Eventually Ivan showed up.

And so did Alan.

As two of my colleagues negotiated with Alan, a third colleague and I negotiated with Ivan, not realizing what the others were doing. Alan had a speedboat. Ivan had a giant boat. Both were willing to take us, but Alan said his boat was ready to go and Ivan said he needed to wait for his captain.

Speedboat it was.

Thirty minutes later, as we sat on the boat and drifted in the shallow waters near shore waiting for the speedboat driver to show up with gas, and all the speedboat crew had disappeared, we began to get angry.

And so we started shouting for the drive. Four white chick journalists stuck on a boat with nowhere to go and a plane to catch.

The upshot: we got to the airport, even though nobody showed up with gas (the nearest gas station didn't have any, from what we understood).

And we got on the plane, unlike twenty or so others who had to cross the bay back to Freetown and wait until Tuesday. Even though one of our crew was NOT ON THE LIST of reconfirmed passengers. In Freetown at least. She was on the list in Dakar.

It pays to be pushy. And everything is possible, even if it's not simple.

The airline manager refused to back down, even though his list was wrong and her ticket was right. But after two hours of arguing, he agreed to put her on "standby". With a grin on his face, he issued the very special, only because he was so nice, entirely irregular "standby" ticket. That looked exactly like our boarding passes. And worked exactly like our boarding passes.

It's important to know when you've won a battle, and sometimes that requires letting the other person claim victory.

And so I'm back in Dakar.

After that ordeal, I may revise my plans to head straight back to Freetown for a vacation on the city's fantastic beaches. And I may hold off on pitching a travel story on why everyone should visit Sierra Leone (there's no war anymore, I swear!)

Besides, after what I discovered in my purse this morning, I'm not sure I could show my face in town again.

It seems I have stolen the cell phone of the speedboat driver.

Sierra Leone is one of the world's poorest countries. And I stole someone's phone.

I thought it was Selah's one of my friends on the boat. I asked her. She said yes. I threw it in my bag so she wouldn't forget it, and it was still there this morning.

But I saw her using her phone last night, and it was in her purse.

I'm not sure, but this might be one of the stupidest and meanest things I've ever done.

I'm working on a plan to send it back to him, with my apologies. Anyone know how reliable mail is between Senegal and Sierra Leone?

Err... Hi?

2007-07-17T10:07:00.000-04:00

So I doubt anybody is still reading (because who would? I never post), but I figured I'd check in. Because I want to ask for something. (Figures.)

I actually started writing a post about a month ago. I got as far as saying, "I suck for not posting, but apologizing is uninteresting to read about, so here's a funny story:"

And then... It turned out I didn't HAVE a funny story.

Life here has become sadly (or comfortingly?) routine.

Although the next week I went on a reporting trip to Burkina Faso, where my new friend/colleague took me to get grilled chicken, promising me that the chicken would still be alive when we got there.

I told him he was kidding.

He said, "Okay."

He wasn't kidding.

So sometimes life can still surprise me.

But in the meantime, I'm writing to see if you all want to help my friend Marie-Suzanne do something really cool.

(FYI, if this looks familiar, I asked star bloggers A. Maria and Jeanne to post about this as well, since I don't really think anybody still comes to my blog...)

Anyway, I'll let Marie-Suzanne tell you about the project in her own words (which I translated from French):

My name is Marie-Suzanne Seck. I live in Mont Rolland, a village in the Thies region. I am twenty years old.

I have found that the girls in my village are not very aware of AIDS and early pregnancy. I want to do a workshop for this in August, because all the young people are there for a festival. I am writing to ask for help.

In my village, I know 15-year-old girls who have gotten pregnant. At fifteen, you have many boyfriends and you do not know which one got you pregnant. If you say to one that it was him, he will say it wasn’t me. If you say to another, he’ll say it wasn’t me. And then you will be obligated to raise the baby on your own. Sometimes the family understands, sometimes they don’t.

As for AIDS, I had the idea because we did an anti-AIDS workshop one time in Mont Rolland for that, and I thought to myself that we should organize many to help young people and speak to them about illnesses.

For the activities, I would like, first of all, that the young people discuss together. Afterwards, I want to have two skits, one for AIDS, one for youth pregancy. After that, we will pose questions, and if someone gets it right, we will give them a present (for example, a condom, or a ticket for a dance night that we are organizing that night). We will also have some singers. I have asked a friend to write two songs : one for AIDS, one for youth pregnancy.

The evening, I want to have a dance party for the young people to encourage them to come. It will be free for everyone who came for the day’s activities. If someone else would like to come, they will have to pay 500 CFA (about $1).

I have already reserved the hall and I have started to organize the details. But I don’t have enough money to do it all. I have compiled a budget, and in all, the workshop and party will cost about $200. I hope that you could help.

Thanks for your understanding.

We wrote that letter to send to local NGOs to ask for funding and help. One of them is going to provide logistical support and free condoms, but they aren't able to help financially.

But I think this is a fantastic project, so I thought I'd ask my friends in the computer for some help. If you would be willing to chip in $5 or $10, it would go a long way towards helping Marie-Suzanne reach her goal.

If you're interested, you can send money to me (naomims at the email run by g0ogle, and damn you spammers) through paypal.

And in the meantime... What's new?

Last

2007-03-17T16:07:00.000-04:00

As in, there were no people running behind me. As in first, only the inverse.

But also, 2:23.

And (give or take), among top 10 female finishers. (As of Wednesday morning, I was the 9th woman to sign up. "20 kilometers is a little long for women," the secretary told me. I didn't remind her that it was 21.1)

What's in a number.

****

It's actually really hard being last. I knew I was running the right pace for me, and I knew that in another race there would have been plenty of other people around me.

I knew I couldn't run any faster, but that if I kept going, I'd finish.

But there was a tiny voice screaming inside my head: last? LAST? Run faster, you idiot.

Then I ran past a man collapsed on the side of the road. Less than five kilometers in.

Be the tortoise. Love the tortoise.

Theo met me at 7.5-kilometers on my bike, with a backpack full of provisions. I didn't expect to see him so early. I did expect him to say hello, and then jet off to a later part of the course.

But did I mention I was last? All alone? So when he just kept riding next to me, you'll forgive me for not complaining. I felt slightly ridiculous to have my own personal support crew, except also? It was awesome. And he was fantastic. He handed me my iPod (which I'd left at home, and which he'd gone back, on the bike, to get for me), and just hung out, being there.

Around 10 kilometers in, a guy in front of me pulled a blue t-shirt on over his lime-green-race-issued tank top and walked off the course.

And a few kilometers later, we saw another guy walking. "You can totally catch up to him," Theo said. "Not gonna be last," my inner voice cheered.

He ran for a bit when we caught up to him (Theo, far too nice for my own good, kept encouraging him to keep going. My inner voice: Idiot! We can beat him!). But eventually he also dropped out.

And so for the next 8 kilometers or so, I ran a few feet in front of the sag wagon, with ever supportive, but brutally honest Senegalese people cheering me on. "You're last but it's okay!"

So I kept going. And when I started to flag, Kari and Rick, my new roommates, appeared out of the blue with oranges.

Finally, with only a few kilometers left, I saw another man straggling. But I was starting to hurt too, and twice I almost caught up to him, only to have to start walking because of cramps (in my left ankle, of all places).

But, and here's where I admit that I was lying in the opening to this post, with less than a kilometer left, I caught up to him. We ran together for a little bit but somehow I found a final kick and I totally smoked him.

But I'm still claiming my title. Last for 20 km out of 21 is close enough.

(P.S. I have the best friends. Julia was there at the start, including buying a last minute bottle of cold water, after the start was delayed more than half an hour. And Naw was waiting at the finish line to cheer me on as well. Yet more people to add to the long list of people who have been incredibly generous with their time and support in my various attempts at athleticism. Thank you!)

(Also P.P.S. After rumors that the entire Reuters bureau, a fun bunch of guys, were going to run the race, only one showed up. We warmed up together, but he soon took off in front of me, and ran a fantastic first half-marathon. He finished in 1:59! Pretty impressive, no?)

Dead man walking

2007-03-17T07:09:00.000-04:00

Here's what I was going to write, half an hour ago.

"Y'all, I'm NERVOUS.

For real, butterflies in my stomach, frenetic nervous energy, when will this be OVER already NERVOUS.

Last night, I was talking to two friends about all the various voodoo and alchemy I have planned for this afternoon. The important things, like what snacks I was packing for mile 8 and what breakfast I had planned.

And I played it off like I was only acting this way because I'm so undertrained, that since I couldn't count on fitness to carry me across 13 miles, I'd have to count on gummy worms.

But y'all know: I'm neurotic.

So don't tell me that pretzels are not the difference between utter failure (hot sun=sweat=dehydration=cramps) and a triumphant finish line photo (pretzels=salt=balanced electrolytes), unless it's because you're telling me that because in fact potato chips are the answer.

Oh god. Potato chips ARE the answer.

I'm doomed.

And if Senegal were just a NORMAL country, with a normal race-time start, I'd be done by now, instead of sitting around my house wondering how Theo is going to manage to keep cold my sports drink and if he'll ever manage to find me, considering the race route appears to be a squiggly line on plain white paper.

And also why they are making me wear a lime green singlet? Are they kidding? Does everyone else know that it doesn't matter, and I'll be the only fool in chartreuse?"

Except I wasn't going to write that because I was feeling just a *tiny bit* ridiculous, and lots of people I know in Dakar read this blog, and they might not realize yet just how ridiculous I am.

So instead, I trolled around on the internet, reading my favorite running blogs, and I came across this post.

And... I dunno. Somehow it just reminded me why I started all of this, way back when, and how glad I am that I did.

It's not going to undo the weeks of skipped runs, but well... I'll still be out there running today.

That's all. And that's enough.

A Doom Deferred

2007-03-10T14:10:00.000-05:00

After months of (not-)training in preparation for tomorrow's half-marathon, my (entirely self-imposed) sentence has been commuted for another week.

Thursday was the Grand Magal, one of Senegal's biggest holidays. It commemorates the return from exile of Cheikh Amadou Bamba, the founder of Senegal's most powerful Sufi Islam brotherhood, and what feels like ALL of the country heads out to Touba, the brotherhood's holy city, to celebrate in a feast and frenzy of hospitality and chanting.

All of which meant that, this weekend, things still aren't quite back to normal, so the Powers That Be decided to wait a week for the marathon.

Although I'm pleased to have an extra week of (not-)training, I'm starting to get worried about the temperature factor. It's getting hot, y'all, and the 4 pm race start isn't going to do much to help me out.

Eh, I'll survive. Probably.

***

It's been kind of a long time since I've posted here, huh.

It's not for lack of stories.

There was the time my guardian/super thought I was a... woman of ill repute? And tried to take advantage of my services?

See, I moved last month, but my new roommates didn't arrive until the first of this month.

Which was fine, though it did mean that I was a single girl, living on my own in a big fancy apartment. And, well, you KNOW what white girls are like (have you seen the movies?) Plus, several of my friends came to visit. One of them was Theo, of course, but the other two also happened to be guys. And they came separately, and hung out with me ALL ALONE, with the DOOR CLOSED. Honestly, who could blame the guy for thinking we were UP TO NO GOOD.

So the night before my new roommates moved in (they had dropped by some stuff earlier that afternoon), the guardian knocked on my door.

He had always seemed very friendly and helpful. He helped me when I was moving my stuff in and explained where the trash went and stuff. Plus, he only speaks Wolof, and was very good at managing to explain things in words I understand, and also at deciphering meaning from the words I managed to string together.

Overall, I was of the opinion: Zal, generally good guy.

So when he knocked and told me he had something he wanted to talk to me about, I figured it was something house related. As he continued talking, I began to suspect it was something else, but I didn't really understand the words he was using (remember: all Wolof) and I didn't want to jump to conclusions.

At some point, he gestured inside, and I thought he was talking about my armoire that had been delivered earlier that day. He seemed to indicate that it would be easier to explain if I let him in.

It did in fact become a lot clearer at that point.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, LOCKED IT, and started walking to my bedroom.

Yeah. Baaxul. (Bad.)

I quickly chased him back out and, properly chastened, he backtracked quickly and told me he wasn't going to do anything, and (and this was the one phrase he knew in French): I respect you a lot.

Wonder if he knows what that means?

In any case, he apologized the next day, and Theo gave him a stern talking to. Anyway, I'm much more respectable now, given that I have two roommates. Of course, they are living in sin, but he doesn't have to know that.

And I keep the door locked.

***

In perhaps less dramatic news, my candle quest continues.

After the mixed success of my Hannukah menorah, I decided to go for broke and make Shabbat candlesticks.

A few months ago, Theo bought me candles. I'd taken him to a Shabbat dinner at a friends house, where I explained that it was our Sabbath, and that every Friday, among other things, we should light candles.

He was all, "But you never do."

"Right. Well, no, not here. But I used to. And in my family when I was growing up, we had Shabbat dinner every Friday night."

To which he not unreasonably responded, "so why don't you do it here? We have candles in Senegal."

Theo, in general, is pro-religion. Also he's seen that when I do manage to celebrate holidays here or participate in some Jewish community, it makes me happy.

So every Friday (when he's not reminding me to call my grandmother) he asks me if I've lit candles and said the kiddush. And one day, he came over with two boxes of candles, saying that if I had them in the house, maybe I'd remember to light them.

But the only candle-holders I had were empty bottles of beer, and somehow, that didn't seem right.

I decided to get something made. This time I decided to skip the flammable materials, and try for something, you know, inflammable. HA! Ba dum bum! (Okay, that was cheap. What can I say. Look at that S-Car Go!)

One of the crafts I enjoy here is when people make things out of found objects or scavenged trash. They can get pretty creative, and not too long ago, I bought myself this:

In this case, they've taken useful things (a teapot for attaya, fanta cans) and turned them into something whole-ly useless (a model of a traditional instrument). But you know... It's pretty.

So when I bought it, I asked the man to make me a pair of candlesticks out of tin cans. He told me to come back in two weeks. I was very excited and telling lots of people about my soon-to-arrive treasure.

I won't swear I knew exactly what I had in mind, but, well...

It wasn't this:

They put cans in a box. I could that. And y'all know. I'm no artist.

The worst part was that I hated them so much, I was embarrassed to bargain. I just wanted to walk away, but somehow I found myself paying far too much to bring these... treasures home.

I was hoping that when I got them into my apartment, I'd be more inspired, but... Not so much.

And they looked even worse when I put the candles on them.

So I took the only solace possible: I complained to lots of people. It helped.

But when I complained to Theo, he said, "I had this idea."

And two days later, he showed up at my house with this:

Isn't it great? He made it out of copper pipes.

Who knew? Date a plumber, and there are all sorts of perks.

Doomsday awaits

2007-02-02T18:11:00.000-05:00

It's 11 pm on a Friday night, and I'm at home.

Orchestra Baobab is playing at a club downtown. It doesn't even start for another hour. I could get up right now and go and I'd be early.

And Youssou Ndour, who is probably Senegal's most famous musician, and who plays here every weekend he's not on tour, and who, after nearly a year of living here I STILL haven't seen, won't hit the stage for another three hours at least.

And yet?

I'm staying home.

There's something very wrong with this picture. And also? Terribly right.

Because tomorrow, I'm waking up and I'm going to run 10 miles. Or so. (I would give a lot for a mile marker somewhere or other...)

Ah, runner-girl-with-no-life-Naomi, I actually miss being you.

Today, I called the discount running store where I've bought all my running shoes and I ordered a new pair. And you know what the best part was? The woman on the phone was not even a tiny bit fazed that I was calling her from Senegal to ask her to mail (to my parents in NY, who are coming to visit) the exact right brand, model and size shoe.

I'm only kicking myself that I didn't think to ask her to put some chocolate Powergels (with caffeine!) in the box.

March 11th is the Dakar Half Marathon. I've been telling people for MONTHS that I was going to run it.

And I meant it. Except for the part where I did any training. I've been riding my new bike. Which is awesome, by the way: bright yellow (like a taxi!) and a great way to get around. But ten and twenty minute rides do not an IronGirl make.

I've also been running. Sporadically. Up until about two weeks ago, I ran about 3 miles at most, maybe three times a week. (In the alternate reality universe in which three times a week means, oh, I don't know, once in a blue moon?)

Most of me knew that was going to be a problem. I could see myself clearly: I was the potbellied forty-five-year-old former high school football star trying to recapture his former glory. The one who plays a pick-up game with the current football stars. The one who ends up having knee surgery.

And I'm not trying to say that you can't be in the best shape of your life at forty-five. Because forty-five is young and I plan to be both very hot and very fit when I'm forty-five. Even if I (continue to) have a potbelly.

But the former football star in my story? Not fit. Out of shape.

Which is, funnily, enough, something that I am also. Out of shape.

But.

That girl. The one whose voice, BY THE WAY, isn't loud enough to get me into my running shoes? Is plenty loud enough to be all, "13 miles? What's the worst that can happen? You can always walk a little."

The worst that can happen, indeed.

And so I march toward my doom.

But the strange thing? I think I might actually be able to pull this off. I'll tell you, the fear of utterly failing in front of new(-ish) friends can really get you out the door. The craziest part is, it's not that bad.

On Thursday, I ran for 80 minutes. It was pretty great, actually. I wasn't breaking any landspeed records, but I wasn't collapsed in a heap either.

It helped that it wasn't hot. It helped A LOT.

And it helped that I hadn't eaten white rice in the preceding 24-hours. (I'll just leave it at that.)

At the end, I was kind of convinced that, if I keep this up, I might just live through this disaster.

I mean, really, 13 miles? What's the worst that can happen. Right?

right?

Note to mom: just kidding!

2007-01-27T13:28:00.000-05:00

So. Lessons learned today:

1) Tear gas? Not so bad. But when packing a bag to go to a banned political protest, not a bad idea to throw in a scarf (for face protection purposes).

2) The boom of exploding tear gas cannisters? Really fucking scary.

3) Being a person who is supposed to run TOWARDS the clouds of tear gas and exploding sounds? Not necessarily my cup of tea.

4) Dumb luck and following around other people can take you far.

This morning was my first "on call" day at VOA. News, you may be shocked to learn, happens EVEN ON THE WEEKEND. Which is when normal people (by which I mean me) are going to the beach.

But somebody has to cover the weekend news, and today it was finally my turn.

I figured I'd go to the office, make a couple phone calls to update the situation in Guinea, and maybe follow-up on my Very Important Story: Guerillas Eat Gorillas, with the even More Important: Guerrillas promise not to do it anymore.

And then maybe sit by the pool for a while.

Then my boss called. Turned out there was going to be a political opposition protest in Dakar this morning. He thought it could be interesting to report some actual news first hand, since most of what we do is reported by phone.

Why not, I said. Could be interesting.

But when I called a Senegalese contact and he told me the protest was banned, I figured I was off the hook.

Cut to this morning, as I lazily woke up and contemplated going running before heading to the office.

Then I got a text message from Rick, a friend and photojournalist. "What time are you going to the protest?"

Crap. Called the contact: yup, protest is happening. And be prepared. The police plan to enforce the ban.

Then I got a call from the Congo. Our stringer was sending sound for a story, but didn't have time to write it.

Meanwhile, who was going to update Guinea? And what about the gorilas?

Turns out my version of "on call" means calling someone else and making them do the work. (Thanks Kari!) I was going to the protest.

* * * *

Y'all, I don't do this kind of reporting. I sit at a desk and make phone calls. I wander around the trash dump talking to people recycling cans.

Rick was with me though. He'd never done this kind of reporting either, but, unlike me, he has the right kind of instincts for this kind of thing.

Ergo:

Naomi, interviewing a random protester, ignoring what's going on around her.
Rick, surveying the scene.

Suddenly, Rick taps Naomi's shoulder. "Tear gas." And he jets towards it.

Naomi: Oh my god. I should follow him. Fuck, do I have to go TO the tear gas? [Starts running after Rick.] Wait, I'm in the middle of an interview. [Runs back to interviewee.] No, wait, I have to go where the action is. [Runs back after Rick.] Seriously, I'm going TOWARDS the tear gas?

On the scene, there's a major fracas between riot police and protesters. And there about a million journalists pushing up into the fray, taking pictures and asking questions.

I'm... A good ten feet away, holding out my microphone to get some of the ambient sound.

Finally, a few minutes later, the crowd is dispersed. I get a couple interviews with protesters. Rick wants to go back to the office to file his photos. I want to talk to an opposition leader or a protest organizer.

Which.... How the hell am I going to find one of those? Seriously, like I know who the leaders are.

And as I'm standing on the corner, a man in a flowing blue boubou walks up to me.

"I'm a leader with [one of the main opposition parties], and I want to talk about what's going on."

Well, all right then.

So I got my story. It's like I'm a real journalist.

Except for the part where I have any clue how to do any of this. Like I said:

4) Dumb luck and following people around can take you far.

[singing] Hanukah, oh Hanukah, come light the menorah [/singing]

2006-12-21T12:45:00.000-05:00

As is my fairly inconsistent and unpious custom, I made it a point to prepare not at all for Hanukah.

I told various friends that I wanted to have a latke party at my house, but didn't actually invite anyone or buy potatoes.

And I told Rose all about how I was going to have to light lots of candles every night, and that I didn't have a menorah, but didn't think too hard about how I was going to solve that problem.

Suddenly, it was the day of Hanukah eve, and I had no plans and no menorah.

Surely it was hopeless.

But no!

As I lay around in my pajamas on Friday morning pretending work on my computer, I got a phone call. It was EmbassyMan, and he was inviting me for a small-dinner-with-latke-and-menorah celebration at his house.

Perfection. Except the holiday lasts eight days and I still had no menorah of my own.

Newly energized, I threw on some clothes and went out to Naw.

Take me to the wood guy! I proclaimed with vim.

It shall be done, he intoned.

Or maybe I just explained what Hanukah was, and told him I needed something to hold my eight candles (plus the other one). Either way, I drew a fabulous schematic of what I had in mind.

To wit:

So off we trotted to Abdoulaye, our neighborhood wood guy.

I showed him my technical drawing and explained the concept.

He was getting fairly excited. He pulled out drill bits and matched them to the candle stub he had lying around, and made practice holes and discussed logistics of length and width. You can usually tell when someone is just nodding and thinks you're crazy and when they really get it, and Abdoulaye really got it.

Now, I was just picturing a plain block with holes for candles, and one elevated part for the shamus. Simple, utilitarian, disposable.

But Abdoulaye is a craftsman, and he had other ideas. And when he started talking, I just told him to go wild. Just as long as it had the spots for all 9 candles, and was ready by 5 o'clock that afternoon.

Y'all. I had no idea.

Abdoulaye, who has never seen a menorah in his whole life, who has probably never met a Jew in his whole life, made me the coolest menorah.

Right?

Except... Well, wood burns. And so now, my beautiful, NON-disposable menorah is getting ruined.

So I'm going to find an alumninum guy to make me some candle holders.... It's a work in progress.

A First

2006-12-11T16:47:00.000-05:00

Last week, Théo and Marie Suzanne’s cousin, Juliet, had a baby.

This family is as close as it comes for me to having a family of my own here. I still have only met a fraction of the extended family (African families are BIG, y’all) but the fraction I’ve met have been wonderfully welcoming to me. I’ve spent holidays in their village and accompanied them of a pilgrimage. They stop by (thanksfully not very often, says the toubab in me) when they’re in the neighborhood, and invite me to parties.

And, on this baby’s eighth day of life, I got to introduce it to the world.

If this were a Muslim family, I think this would have been called the baptism (I haven’t actually been to a Muslim baptism yet, so I could be making that up) and been a much bigger deal. And they, I’m sure, would have had it’s own customs and traditions.

But for Christians, baptism means something different, so this was just… kind of a coming out party, really.

I got to Juliet’s house at about 4 pm. She was there with her sisters, her mother, and her best friend—the baby’s godmother.

I sat down and started watching. The conversation was flowing fast, but it was in Wolof and Serrer and I didn’t really catch any of it. It didn’t help that I had no idea what to expect, and everybody else knew all the steps without question.

Juliet’s two sisters put a kola nut, water, and some millet couscous in a large gourd. They unwrapped a brand new bar of soap, and Juliet handed the baby to her older sister. Her younger sister held the gourd and the bar of soap, and the older sister began shaving the baby’s head.

It took a while, and was interrupted briefly when the head-shaving sister (whose name I’m mostly, but not 100%, sure I know, so I’m not going to use it here) got a call on her cell. And while all this was going on, all the boy cousins showed up.

Then it was my turn.

They cut up the kola nut, sharing it to everyone around.

As I was leaving the office today, I told everyone that I’d be carrying a baby on its first trip outside, and joked that, anyway, at least I’m pretty sure I know how to carry a baby.

What I forgot, of course, is that we’re not in Kansas anymore.

In Africa, baby’s are carried on your back. Which I’d never done before, let alone with a teeny, tiny, one week old baby, in front of the entire damn family.

But in the end, with help, the baby was strapped on, and I headed outside.

“You have to show her what’s around,” Juliet told me. “She’s never been outside, so you have to explain what everything is.”

“What should I show her?”

“Whatever you want,” she said. “Show her where America is,” she joked.

And so, trailed by kids and friends, I walked up and down the street in front of the house. I was feeling bashful, so I don’t think I put on a very good show of giving the grand tour, but I’ll be ready next time (if it comes up).

Welcome to the world, little Orella.

Ti a yebi, mbada warga.

2006-12-04T10:33:00.000-05:00

If you're lonely, make tea.

I saw the truth of this Fula proverb first hand yesterday morning.

A lazy Sunday morning found me sitting in the shade, across the street from Naw's shop.

"Dafa weert," Naw complained. "It's so quiet."

Our street is full of foreigners, and even the Senegalese who live there act like foreigners--which means they don't hang out on the street. Being home, means being inside, and on our dusty road, on a Sunday, tumbleweeds would not be out of place. A ghost town.

On a weekday, there's decent foot traffic. Maids, drivers, taxis, construction workers, random people with things to sell.

"Madame? Madame, vous vous maquillez?" (Madame, do you wear make-up?)

An extremely polite cosmetics dealer wandered by about a week ago, and displayed his wares with all the aplomb of central casting's door-to-door salesman. He pulled out from his duffel bag all manner of fancy perfumes, lip balms (à la base de fraise--strawberry-based), and an Aveda make-up kit with eye-shadow, blush, and assorted brushes.

It cracked the boys up, and they snickered equally at my polite dismissals ("thanks," "merci") and my response to his earnest "Do you wear make-up?"

"No, not often."

It's become Naw's favorite joke. Every time he sees me, he turns to me with a disingenuous expression and asks, "Madame? Madame vous vous maquillez?" with his terrible French accent.

Friday is prayer day in this Muslim country, but Colonial habits are hard to break, and so Sunday is the day of rest. People stay home from work and that happens in neighborhoods far from where I live.

So Naw and I sat, just the two of us, chatting about our lives, loves, and relationships, for nearly an hour. Just before 12, he said, "let's make tea."

And in the time it took to gather the ingredients from his shop, and pull over the charcoal grill to our other shady sitting spot on the stoop at the corner, the world appeared.

Before the water boiled, there were no fewer than five people sitting on the mat with us on the stoop, and more people wandered back and forth.

Tea is a ritual that takes at least two hours, from start to finish. The tea, a matchbox-sized carton of green tea, is boiled strong and dark, with a lot of sugar. It's served in three rounds, each one less strong and more sweet.

But the most important part is the frothy foam. The pictures from my last post show the intricate process, which involves pouring the tea from one glass to another, back and forth, from as great a height as possible. It incorporates air into the tea, and eventually as much as half the tiny glasses fill with the foam.

After the foam is ready, the tea goes back in the pot for reheating, depending on the preferences of the tea maker. Then he—very carefully, to keep the loose tea leaves from pouring out—pours the hot tea into the frothy glasses. He passes around the glasses, and each person slurpily sucks down the tea, leaving the foam in the bottom of the glass for the next person's serving.

I stuck around for an hour and a half, through the first two rounds of tea. But the third round is too weak for my tastes, and it was time for lunch and to get ready for my afternoon activity.

But I left Naw in good company—surrounded by cousins and friends teasing each other in Fula.

In which I fold

2006-11-29T04:34:00.000-05:00

Saturday. The weather was gorgeous. We were having friends over for dinner. Rose and I went to the grocery store in the morning, and then went to sit out on the street with our friends.

Rose was cleaning and fixing up her bicycle.

I sat, watched, and drank tea.

My computer was tucked away on a shelf in my room. And I... couldn't bear to turn it on.

All day, I told myself I'd write a post later. Or just post a picture. Something. I wasn't going to quit now.

But I didn't.

And lord, what a relief.

I love posting here, and the past month of constant posting has been an interesting exercise in examining and writing about my life. I know that I've given a more rounded picture of what I do here, and what it's like, and that most of my favorite posts from the last month would never have been written if I hadn't committed to writing every day.

But then there were the crap days. Where I had nothing to say, and it showed.

Eh voila. Not the end of the world, to be sure, though it does mean that I have forfeited my chance to win this prize.

Here's to more frequent (if not daily) posting in the coming weeks.

Pizza's here!

2006-11-24T17:37:00.000-05:00

Snoskred asks:

How's the food in Senegal?

This isn’t the answer that I intended to write, but it’s the answer I feel like writing today.

Tonight, Rose and I have embarked on a great adventure. At time of writing, I’m still not sure how it will turn out, but I’m highly optimistic.

Rose says that she cautions me against being overly hopeful, but that she appreciates my positive attitude.

We have decided… to order a pizza. To be delivered at home.

I know. It can’t be done.

For starters, there’s no such thing as a street address in this country. Mail goes to post boxes in post offices, roads aren’t marked, and there are no names or numbers on any of the buildings.

Usually, when someone is coming to our apartment for the first time, we just tell them to go to the pharmacy at the corner (which is where the bus stops) and to call us. Then we walk them to our door.

But that would completely ruin the point of delivery.

And we have it in our heads that we will sit at home, eat pizza on the couch and watch Office Space on DVD.

We’ve both been working like crazy for the past few weeks. We’re exhausted, stressed, and although we love going out to the jazz clubs at midnight on a Friday night in our prettiest high heels, we thought, for a change, we’d stay home.

It started out poorly. I wanted a veggie-filled pizza.

Not on the menu.

Me: Do you have vegetables?
Them: No.
Me: What about mushrooms?
Them: Yes, those we have.
Me: What other kinds of vegetables?
Them: Like eggplant or zucchini?
Me: Yes, exactly!
Them: Yeah, we don’t have that.
Me: I’m going to have to call you back.

So I moped a bit, and tried to convince Rose to order pizza from the farther place that she hates, to no avail.

So I called back.

And felt a ray of hope. There are two kinds of customer service people. Those who look for a solution, and those who… don’t.

If you tumble on the first kind, anything is possible, and they’ll go to surprising lengths to help you.

Then there’s the other kind. The ones who tell you they couldn’t possible mix two kinds of juice (both in large pitchers at the counter, sold for the same price) because it’s not safe.

The woman at the Boite à Pizza, it turned out was the first kind.

Me: Can I have a pizza with mushrooms and onions?
Her: And tomatoes?

Then she passed me to the deliveryman, to whom I gave my most detailed directions and my phone number.

I hung up feeling encouraged.

And it turns out, now that I'm completing this entry three hours later, my optimism was entirely warranted. Less than half an hour after my second phone call, a motorbike pulled up right in front of our house.

“That wasn’t hard to find at all.”

And he had change for my big bill.

We made sure to get his name so that we can ask for him next time.

I think I might be getting a bit jaded, here. I’ve started assuming people being difficult when they’re not giving me what I want, instead of maybe just… doing their job. And maybe I’m asking for something unreasonable.

In other words, it’s not the woman’s fault there were no zucchini or artichoke pizzas on the menu.

And when I opened the pizza, it was covered in mushrooms, fresh tomato, and onions, just like the woman had promised. As well as unadvertised green peppers.

Turns out, the only flaw in our evening was… my fault.

The Office Space DVD was broken.

Luckily, the School of Rock DVD worked like a charm.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-23T16:06:00.000-05:00

No turkey for me, today, but I'm cool with that.

It's always a little sad when I know that my whole family is together without me, but that's the choice I make to be here. And so when I'm done with this post, I'll plug in my headset and call them on Skype.

Enjoy the holiday, everyone. Eat well, be thankful, and have a nice day!

I thought I had an out...

2006-11-22T17:49:00.001-05:00

When I came home and the internet wasn't working, I thought about how that was the end of my perfect attendence record and I was disappointed.

But, y'all? I'm sleepy. And I just bought new pillows and pretty lilac pillow cases (remember Bed, Bath, and Beyond?) and my bed looked awfully inviting.

And the next question is about food, and I have plenty to say about the food here (yum! also yuck! and again yum! except for gah, isn't there anything else?) but... not tonight.

I sat down at my computer to shut it off. But the voice recorder was plugged in, and I needed to upload some interviews and figure out what other files were. And by the time I'd done all that, there was a crow from across the hall: "Hey, the internet is working again."

It wasn't a crow. It was Rose. She crowed. It's a verb.

Y'all. I'm going to bed.

Ba suba, inshallah. (See you tomorrow, god willing.)

Just imagine what IKEA looks like...

2006-11-21T17:56:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the neighborhood...

2006-11-20T15:09:00.000-05:00

Anna asks:

Did you know the president of Iran recently visited Senegal (I just found out tonight... Brother was showing me his website)? Which means that my two favorite dictators have visited your fine country. Does that excite you as much as it does me?

Crap, is it time for another blog post?

I'll tell you, this having work to do really cuts into my sitting around time. And then the next thing I know it's dark, and I'm tired, and I still haven't written word one for you all.

Luckily, today question is perhaps my favorite of them all.

Of course, Anna has the advantage over many of you that she is my oldest friend in the world (oldest in duration of friendship. Age-wise, she's a month younger than me.) Point being, she can skip over the getting-to-know-you-type openers, and go directly to the heart of the matter.

So, Anna, yes, I did know that the president of Iran recently visited Senegal. But I only found out after he was already gone, so I didn't get to see him.

(For those who are curious, the other leader of state Anna mentions is the President of Libya, who stopped by in April, for Senegal's Independence Day celebrations.)

But what I bet you don't know Anna, is that Iran is also building a car factory here in Senegal. Who knew Iran even had a state-brand of cars? Not me!

What am I doing here?

2006-11-19T14:49:00.000-05:00

Margaret asks:

How did you land in Senegal? Did you find work prospects first? Didn't you mention you write for Voice of America? How did you get that gig?

Actually a bunch of people asked pretty much the same thing.

The first bit: Why Senegal? I get all the time.

To wit:
Naomi: I’m a freelance journalist in Dakar.
Other Person.: [blank stare]
Naomi: That’s in Senegal.
Other person: [blank stare]
Naomi: In West Africa. You know, the continent? Africa? It’s in the western part.
Other person: How’d you end up there? [insert tone of bewilderment and possible derision]

Occasionally, the conversation goes a bit differently. Say, for instance, I’m talking to the foreign editor of a newspaper.

Naomi: I’m a freelance journalist in West Africa.
Foreign Editor: Oh great. Where are you based?
Naomi: In Dakar. Senegal.
Foreign Editor: Senegal? What happens in Senegal? How’d you end up there?

Or sometimes:

Naomi: I’m from America.
Senegalese Person: I’ve always wanted to go to America.
Naomi: Yes, America is very nice.
Senegalese Person: So why’d you decide to come to Senegal?

Although to be fair, there’s also a plenty of:

Naomi: I live in Senegal.
Other person: Oh wow!
Other person: Tell me all about it. What’s it like? How’d you end up there?

And clearly, the people reading this blog fall into the latter category.

So the short (and probably truest) answer is that I’m in Senegal because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I’d been working as an editorial assistant at a really cool magazine for a couple years. I got to meet amazing people who were traveling the world and writing stories about it, and it confirmed the idea I’d had all along: that was what I wanted to be doing.

But Really Cool Magazine was never going to give me the opportunity. So I decided to make my own opportunity.

Worst case, I’d hate it or fail miserably and go home.

Best case, I’d be living in an interesting place and doing the work I’d always dreamed of doing.

I spoke to anyone and everyone I could find who could give me advice. Anyone who’d ever been in, near, or heard of Senegal, anyone who’d ever worked with, for, or next to journalists, or watched the news on TV, and anyone who seemed the slightest bit interested in hearing the details of my neuroses surrounding this scary decision.

In the beginning, all I knew was I wanted to go to Africa. After the first couple of conversations, where people mentioned that there were fewer journalists based in West Africa than elsewhere on the continent (official bureaus, for instance, tend to be located in Nairobi or Johannesburg), I settled on Dakar.

Thanks to Really Cool Magazine, I had a lot of contacts in the journalism world. And almost every time I called a friend, they gave me a bunch of other ideas, names, and suggestions.

I made a million phone calls. I met with any editor or journalist who would meet with me. I looked for ideas from people who’d spent time in Senegal.

And basically, that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.

The Voice of America work is a bit of an exception—the West Africa bureau moved from Abidjan, in Ivory Coast, to Dakar, and they advertised on Journalism Jobs that they needed new stringers. I wasn't even looking, but a friend was, and she forwarded the link to me. None of the other work I’ve found (ever, really, including any of my internships or previous jobs) has been advertised anywhere.

I wouldn’t say I’ve really figured this out yet. I still feel like I’m pretending when people ask and I say, “I’m a journalist.” But, it’s less pretend than it was six months ago.

It’s not easy. Imagine sitting at your laptop all by yourself, staring at the screen and trying to figure out how you’re going to convince someone you’ve never met to pay you to write about something they’ve never seen and probably aren’t that interested in. No one is going to tell you what to do with your week, where to start, or when you’re done.

But then, life isn’t about looking for easy.

It's about--

Hell if I know. But if it involves a beach within five minutes walk and hanging out and drinking attaya, then it can't be all wrong.

Ways of Seeing

2006-11-18T16:19:00.000-05:00

Hmm. Turns out this one is a bit more hot than I wanted.

Please remember that I am just one person, that I speak for no one but myself, that my perceptions are flawed and of the moment.

And please also remember that there is a whole range of people in the world, in America, and in America's government.

We are not all perfect, but one or two bad eggs does not spoil the lot.

I lied

2006-11-17T08:54:00.000-05:00

Thanks for all your lovely comments.

I felt kind of cheap, but that, apparently, didn't stop me.

I know I promised a better entry today, but it's not going to happen.

So instead, let's take a brief break from Africa and look at the pretty:

The dam for which my town is famous. Well for which it would be famous if my town were famous.

Another shot of home.

Far away from home, in another place I love.

Tonight I'm off to help make a Shabbat dinner with a friend from the US embassy. Good shabbos, happy weekend, and I'll be back tomorrow.

Where are you

2006-11-16T13:01:00.000-05:00

I gotta tell you, y'all are falling down on the job.

Here I am, posting every day. Baring my very soul for your amusement and gratification.

And no comments?

We all know I only do this for the attention.

Sure, I could tell you that it's all an exercise in improving my writing. That writing down my thoughts on a (until recently very ir-)regular basis is cathartic. That it's about what it means to me.

But I could do that on paper, and not have to worry about the damn cuts in electricity.

There's only one reason to publish your thoughts in a public forum. It's so people will read them.

And then tell you what they thought.

I suppose one could argue that I leave approximately zero comments on anyone else's site.

And I suppose someone else might suggest that I'm only writing this as my entry today, because I'm exhausted and not in the mood to write anything else, but my innate fear of failure and of not following through obliges me to continue with NaBloPoMo.

Did I tell you, by the way, that Monsieur le Directeur de l'Hopital has refused his permission or me to meet with patients for my article? But that the charming communication director called me yesterday afternoon to tell me, thus saving me yet ANOTHER trip to the hospital? But that I was rude to him anyway, because I was pissed that they were fucking with my story?

I could tell you about today's exercises in futility, but, even though it took all day, and there was some ridiculousness, I did manage to get the information I needed, and actually met a seriously impressive woman, who I kind of wish I could be friends with.

Okay. Tomorrow is a writing day, and I promise a better entry, and to finally answer the next question on the list.

Now? I'm going running.

The saga continues

2006-11-15T11:10:00.000-05:00

I know you didn’t think it was going to end there.

This morning, I roused myself at the unconscionable hour of 7:00 am. (A benefit of working from home in a time zone 5 hours later than EST: no commute and slow mornings).

I dragged myself to a taxi and negotiated a decent fare.

When I walked into Dr. Liar’s office he didn’t bat an eyelash over his supposed presence in Mali.

He didn’t try to explain why he was in Dakar or apologize for his lie. He jumped straight to rude.

“You will have to write a formal letter to the director of the hospital to request authorization to speak with the patients.” The magic was in his tone. It simply sang with subtext: get out of my face.

I remained polite: Yes, but could you possibly speak to the patients and ask their permission directly?

No.

Could I meet with the directly personally to ask his permission?

Sure you could, but his office is all the way at the other end of the hospital. Again the tone, screaming the ludicrousness of such an idea.

Me=unfazed. “Okay. And his name is?”

“Monsieur the Director of the Fann Hospital?”

“Right but what’s his name?”

“Monsiur. The Director. OF THE FANN HOSPITAL.” [screaming subtext: get the FUCK out of my face]

Yes, but how can I write him a letter without his name? Without an address.?

“You must go to his office. It’s at the other end of the hospital.”

And then he stormed out of his office, shouting at his secretary on the way.

*****

But of course, M. le Directeur was not available. I did manage to find the Communication Director for the hospital who was very friendly, although he could do nothing to help me.

It seems there was an all day meeting that was starting right that minute, and there was no way the director could give me his authorization. Come back tomorrow.

And so I will.

Welcome to my life

2006-11-14T18:01:00.000-05:00

Didn't think I'd make it today. I was just about to go to bed when the electricity finally came back.

Luckily, I'd already written my post using the battery on my laptop. Oh the lengths I go to for you, NaBloPoMo...

******

I’m working on a story right now that requires a visit to a certain hospital clinic here in Dakar. I want to meet some of the patients, to give a bit of a human face to what otherwise would be a dry health story.

After a bit of chasing, I finally got the cell phone number of the doctor in charge of the clinic. Cell phone number because no one is ever in their office and the art of returning phone calls is as rare as it is treasured.

So I called him.

I explained who I was, what I was doing, and that I hoped to visit his clinic.

And he politely explained that he was in Bamako (the capital of Mali, a neighboring country) for a conference but he’d be back on Friday.

“So I can come visit the clinic next week?” I asked.

“Of course. Call me next week and we’ll coordinate.”

And so I hung up, annoyed at being put off another week (this story has dragged on for weeks already), a bit mystified that his Senegalese cell phone worked in a different country, but on the whole fairly satisfied.

But after talking with Rose, we determined that the missing piece was the clinic and its patients, not that particular doctor, and surely even if he was in Bamako, the clinic was still in Dakar. So I determined to call him back and get a number or a name of the person running the clinic in his absence.

“Huh?”
“Who are you?”
“What do you want?”

“We spoke yesterday. I’m a journalist. I know you’re out of town, but can you give me the name of someone who is in Dakar now?”

“Huh?”
“I can’t hear a think you’re saying.”
“What do you want?”
“Call back in an hour.”

It wasn’t exactly, “I’m going through a tunnel, csdroushsldfafjoai… You’re crsshhhedlkjlckagoid up! I think caaoseiruadskjf cut off.”

But it was close.

So I called back in an hour.

“I’m in Bamako. I’m very busy. I can’t possibly help.”

“Yes, I know, but do you have the number of someone at the clinic in Dakar? Someone who’s there now.”

“Call this number.” And he rattled off the digits.

I dialed.

Charming Receptionist: [answers phone]

I explain who I am, what I’m doing. That the doctor gave me this number as he’s in Bamako this week.

CR: What do you mean? No he’s not. I just saw him this morning.
Me: [Mute surprise]

The conversation continues.
Me: But this is the Right Clinic, is it not?
CR: No this is the psychiatric clinic. I’ll give you the right number.

Liar. Big, fat, baffling liar.

So tomorrow, I’m going to just show up at the Right Clinic. At 8 am, as that’s when Friendly Receptionist at the Right Clinic says he’ll be there. Because he’s the only person I can speak to as, she claims, everyone else is away on a trip.

I predict wild, raging success. Cooperation, inspiration, and efficient productivity.

And I wonder why it takes me so long to get anything done.

Scenes from my world

2006-11-13T16:54:00.000-05:00

I'm working on a long posting about why I'm in Senegal and what I'm doing here.

Well, I'm working on figuring out why I'm in Senegal and what I'm doing here. Then I'll write the post.

A full day power cut and a bit of blogging burn out means today: pictures.

First off, the view from my bedroom window.

And really, if you want to know why I'm in Senegal, that's as good a reason as any.

Of course, we should probably temper that reality with the view from the balcony at the front of the apartment.

After months of (very loud) demolition, they've now built almost the entire house in the space of about two weeks. Rumor has it, the owner was getting antsy. And considering these boys now work on Sundays, I think I believe it.

Meet Fire, or Ahmadi, as he's also known. Neither of which are his real names. He is a constant presence in our neighborhood. A relative of Naw's I believe, with no job or prospect of one, it seems. But he's friendly and funny and makes the best attaya (very sweet, strong Senegalese tea).

And he's desperate for an American wife. Any takers?

And of course, the infamous Naw.

Sitting in front of his shop, swatting at mosquitoes. He lets me jaay (sell) sometimes. Ostensibly to give me a chance to practice my Wolof, but also because it is a never-ending source of hilarity for all involved.

Click on any of the photos for a link to my flickr page, where there are more photos to be seen.

Least Favorite Thing: Blogger Beta

2006-11-12T08:10:00.001-05:00

First off, the new blogger beta sucks.

I switched over like the obliging sheep that I am, because they asked. Why not update, said I? New is better, no?

No. Worse. New is worse.

I wrote my post last night at 10 pm, and was racing to finish, post, and shower before going out for the evening. Couldn’t not post. NaBloPoMo. Not going to give up now.

But the blogger beta kept telling me it was unable to process my request, try again later.

There is no later. Today was ending and tomorrow would be too late.

Frantic, I hit publish again and again. And again, again, again, and again. Apparently. Because today when I checked my blog, there were at least six postings of last night’s entry, all neatly in a row.

Oops.

Anyway, that’s fixed now. Let’s hope BloBeta gets its act together equally.

**********

Habeela asks:

Two questions in one: what is favorite and least favorite thing about living in Senegal?

These are always the hardest questions. And I might have a completely different answer tomorrow or three days ago or next year.

Least favorite is easier. Rose and I have a running tally of pet peeves, and they take turns being my least favorite things.

People who speak terrible French telling me, in French, I should really “make an effort” to speak a little French. You know, since I live in a francophone country.

People asking me if I can cook rice and telling me that NOW I could finally get a Senegalese husband.

People testing my Wolof with the same inane script, “how are you”, “what’s your name”, and then telling me, in the most condescending fashion, “ahh, you can speak Wolof really well!”

People testing my Wolof by saying something insanely complicated and fast, and then saying, “You don’t understand a thing!”

But those are just little things. For once, I’ll try to go a bit deeper.

Gonna have to resort to another spider story.

Before the enormous spiders of my doom (ESOMD™) appeared, there was a little spider. A jumping spider. Holding its ground between me and my apartment.

I had just come home and tromped up the steps with my key out ready to burst inside, dump all of my stuff, and collapse into a cold shower. Or plant myself under a fan and not move for the duration. Of the hot season.

But there, right on the doorframe, was an ugly, hairy little spider. And before my very eyes, it leaped—LEAPED, I tell you—from one wall to the other.

I don’t need to tell you the inherent danger in such a beast. I could be standing meters away and still be at risk of an assault. Not. Good.

I stood in front of the door for a minute or two, trying to figure out how to resolve this situation.

Had I been living in DC still, I’d probably have had to move. No other solution really. The spider had the high ground. Key be damned, there was no way to get into the apartment.

Here in Senegal, however, there was hope.

I turned right back down the stairs, walked over to Naw’s shop, and swallowed my (tiny remainder of) pride.

“I need help,” I said, and explained the standoff at my front door.

Giggling uncontrollably, he nevertheless stood immediately and agreed to come to my rescue. He called to one of the boys sitting around the shop to mind things and that he’d be back in a minute, and marched with me back up my stairs.

The spider was hiding in the doorframe, but we found it. And it hopped a few times, but Naw was quicker, and soon the spider no longer had any high ground. Except maybe moral high ground.

And Naw, through his tears of laughter, said, “If you’re afraid of that, you must also be afraid of flies.”

And then he went back to work.

The point of this story is not that spiders are my least favorite thing about Senegal. Nor is it that Naw is my favorite thing.

It’s about community here, and the way people are seemingly endlessly willing to go out of their way for you.

Badji and Matar come miles out of their way to run at a snail’s pace with me on a nearly daily basis. And hardly blink an eye when I have to cancel at the last minute because of guests, exhaustion, or poor planning.

Marie-Suzanne called me the other day to tell me she was making ngalax, and that she’d save me some until I could come over.

I get invitations to every holiday from every friend.

The shopkeeper near my old house yelled with welcome when I came back for a visit.

I lived in the same apartment in DC for nearly three years, and I never once met any of the people who lived on my floor.

Here, there is no anonymity. People know you, remember you, and keep track of what you’re up to. Because you live in their community and so are a part of their lives.

It’s nice. (Mostly.)

Least favorite.

There is no anonymity here.

Heh. That was cheap.

Okay, Rose covered sort of the same topic in a recent posting, and wrote about it much more thoughtfully and insightfully than I will.

But basically, I find it very tiring to be white all the time.

When I lived in France, there were days that I could pass as French, at least until I opened my mouth. If I walked down the street, got on a subway, sat in a café, I could do it without a big neon sign over my head flashing: DIFFERENT.

Of course, I was a foreigner, and spoke with an accent, and had to adapt to differences of culture and cuisine and all the rest. And I revel in that. It’s why I love living in foreign countries.

But at least there, it was vaguely possible to have encounters that did not have, at their core, the fact that I wan’t French. It was vaguely possible, when I was tired of celebrating the differences, to blend.

Here, not so much. I’m a toubab, I will always be a toubab. I could live in Senegal for the rest of my life, learn to speak every local language, and dance sabar like a pro. I will still be a toubab. And the fact that I could do those things would still be somewhat comical.

I don’t want to change who I am. And having black skin wouldn’t change my American-ness.

But it would be a relief, if, just sometimes, I could take off the toubab costume, and just be a person on the bus, instead of a white person on the bus.

Under the wire

2006-11-11T16:56:00.005-05:00

As Rose and I raced to the taxi with our new friend John, in town for a couple days, we tried to explain how unusual this level of stress was.

"But this ferry," the one to Goree Island, "is the only thing that runs on time."

"Actually, it's the only thing in Senegal that has a schedule, full stop."

There's no such thing as a bus schedule, it goes when it's full. And the one train running in Senegal (that I know of anyway), from Dakar to Bamako, Mali, is famous for being days late.

But the ferry runs many times a day, and sticks to the schedule.

Unfortunately, we thought it was scheduled to leave at 8:30. We were wrong. At 7:10, we got a text message that it was actually leaving at 8:00.

We were going to Gorée for a music festival. Tons of big names — Vivian N'Dour, Daara J, Ismael Lo — were playing, as well as a fairly famous reggae singer, Dread Maxime, who I've tried to see at least three times, and always missed.

The ferry leaves from the very tip of downtown Dakar. We live about as far from that as possible, without leaving the Dakar-peninsula. On a good day, with no traffic, it takes about half an hour.

It was not a good day with no traffic.

So long story short (skipping the cellphone updates from Théo, who'd actually left on time: "the boat's waiting for someone. Hurry and you might make it" and the moment where we arrived at the dock to watch it pull away) we missed the boat.

The next one wasn't until 10:30, putting us on the island by 11:00. We missed all the big names, including Dread Maxime (of course), but arrived in plenty of time to see the oldest troupe of Moroccan musicians anywhere (they were actually very cool). Also on offer, a band featuring every living resident of Martinique, dressed in matching red, green and yellow jester outfits (actually, also fairly cool, especially the faux-martial arts dance).

And then we tried to board the 1 am ferry to come home. It was the last scheduled ferry of the night, and we were ready to go home and go to bed.

Nope. The ferry was going to wait until the concert ended. At 3:45 am. We rolled into our apartment at 5:15. So much for sticking to the schedule.

All of which is a long way of saying that I was tired y'all, and didn't get around to writing my real blog post.

Return to question-answering tomorrow. Have a great weekend, y'all.

Hear me roar

2006-11-10T11:03:00.000-05:00

LeacC asks:

Is life different for women there than in the States? Since I started reading recently...what is your job there?

There’s a lot to say here and a lot of ways to go with an answer.

Do you mean is life as a Senegalese woman in Senegal different than life for an American woman in America? Or do you mean is life as an American woman in Senegal different than life as an American woman in America?

I’ll try to answer both.

Looking just at gender relations, there are some major differences for women born here versus women born in the states. For one thing, polygamy is widely practiced, so many woman have to get used to the idea of sharing their husband with as many as three other women.

In poor families, when there isn’t enough money to keep all the children in school, education for sons is often prioritized over that for daughters. As a result, women are much less likely to be found as skilled laborers (tailors, electricians, plumbers) which can pay a lot more than unskilled jobs, like being a maid or a cook.

And the birth rate is very high in Senegal, on average more than four children per family, so most women spend a lot of time taking care of babies.

That being said, Senegal is not the worst country in the world to be a woman. Women hold key government posts and jobs at various levels in private business. In cities, at least, women can wear whatever they want, go wherever they want, and do what they want. The more remote villages tend to stick to traditional dress, which isn’t any more or less restrictive for women than for men.

Women are often the most creative entrepreneurs and the real force in families. Recently, Senegal has made headlines because tens of thousands of its citizens have boarded rickety wooden fishing boats in the hopes of reaching Europe (usually via Spain’s Canary Islands off the western coast of Africa). They pay small fortunes to get their place, and yet many die en route. And even if they reach the Canary Islands, many get send home with little more than a sandwich and $20.

It’s a huge deal here, and in recent weeks a group of women in an impoverished Dakar suburb, many of whose sons have died trying to reach Europe, have begun advocating to slow the exodus.

Women have a voice in Senegal and they use it.

For me, living in Dakar, again, just talking gender, my life isn’t much different than it would be in DC. I get more marriage proposals than I used to get in DC, and that is gender specific. Women don’t hit on men as blatantly, not by far. But the desire for a toubab boyfriend/husband seems just as strong, just expressed a little differently.

I sometimes wonder, though, how I’m perceived.

In some ways, Senegal is a very socially conservative country. Most people live with their families until they get married. You don’t see people kissing in public, and in households crowded with tens of people, it’s hard to imagine how people get any alone time (although there are plenty of babies being born out of wedlock, so you know it’s happening).

Rose and I live on our own, with no family. I have a boyfriend who comes into my house, even when there’s no one else home. I go out late at night, to parties and bars, sometimes on my own (if I’m meeting friends) and come home even later, again on my own.

And there seem also to be some preconceived notions of western women and promiscuity, maybe because of what people here see in movies. That’s another part of the reason white girls get hit on so often, I think.

So I wonder. Am I respectable? I don’t mean, do my friends respect me because they do. And I don’t mean that I’m doing anything I feel is morally wrong or that I think I should change my behavior.

But Théo kisses me good-bye when he walks me to a taxi. Northing racy, but I still wonder, would he do that if I were Senegalese? Would a Senegalese girl do that?

It doesn’t so much matter what people think of me. As opposed to my friends who are Peace Corps Volunteers or missionaries, whose work depends on their reception by the community. And even if they wouldn’t let their daughters behave the way I do (which may or may not be true), nobody’s going to get in my way. Aside from the fact that I’m an independent adult, I’m a foreigner, and most people seem fine with believing that’s just how it’s done where I’m from.

So that was a fairly esoteric answer. Tomorrow will be more fun, I promise.

As for question deux, you’ll have to wait. Margaret asks kind of the same question, but wants a lot more details, so you’ll get your answer then.

You’ve got questions

2006-11-09T13:15:00.000-05:00

First of all. Check out the number one cool thing about Senegal. (Found via my referral log).

My brother claims that I am now officially a big fish in a small pond, and that I need to find a bigger pond or else I'll end up like a tiny, stunted goldfish who never realizes her potential. He suggested Antarctica.

But I promise: I won’t let this go to my head.

****

Meanwhile, Dear Interweb,

Thank you for your questions. You made my afternoon.

Please continue to ask more questions.

I heart you,
Naomi

P.S. Doomu Senegal, you didn’t ask a question, but you totally left the world’s most awesome comment. Ak beug na ko bind ci Wolof, waaye xamuma…. (And that’s probably totally ungrammatical…) Dinaa lekk theibugen pour yow. (Eek, more ungrammaticality!) Jangal ak jamm ci Amerik!

****

For lack of a better system, I’m going to answer one question a day, in the order in which they arrived, until I run out.

So without further ado, Lauren asks:

You wrote a few months back about being in a relationship with a Senegalese man. Do you have any current prospects? How is the love life? Do you miss dating American men?

Dearest blog friends,

There's something I've been keeping from you.

Remember when I made a big deal about a certain dreamy Senegalese boy?

(He's the one not wearing sunglasses.)

And when I made an even bigger deal about breaking up with him?

Well, here's what I never told you. It totally didn’t stick.

We were broken up for a month or so, during which time I had a big ol’ crush on a Senegalese boy whose family came from Benin, and went on a date or two with a different boy, actually from Benin.

But throughout, Théo refused to disappear. I’d told him we could be friends, so he’d send me text messages, and sign them, “your friend, Théo.”

One day he came over to surprise me with mangoes from his aunt’s backyard tree (but I wasn’t home).

Another day he invited me to dinner—which he cooked. (Which is especially impressive considering that Senegalese boys? Do. Not. Cook. Ismaillah told me the other day he doesn’t know how to make white rice.)

And I kept pretending (mostly to myself) that I wasn’t totally thrilled that I got to hang out with him still, and that I wasn’t still thinking about him all the time.

And then I came home from Israel, and went to celebrate a big summer festival with his family (ostensibly the guest of his sister, my good friend). Of course, just as I was admitting to myself that this whole broken up thing wasn’t working out for me, he decided to give up on me entirely. But… we worked it out.

He’s the one, by the way, who bought me ngalax the other day.

He’s also in one of the pictures in the posting about giving away the shoes.

So do I miss American boys? Well, to be honest, I didn’t date a lot of American boys when I was in America, so I don’t know that I can say that I do.

There are definitely challenges to dating Théo. For one thing, even though French is our common language, it’s neither of our first languages.

And there’s baggage that comes along with a relationship between a Senegalese person and a westerner.

You can only have complete strangers declare their undying love to you simply because of your white skin and supposed riches so many times (I had one taxi driver tell me, flat out, that he wanted a white wife so he would never have to work again) before you begin to develop a bit of a complex.

And on the flipside, Théo hates the assumption that he’s a kept man, only in it for the money. But what I earn for a single day’s work at VOA can be more than he’ll earn in an entire month. So it can be… complicated.

But then he comes over and we cook dinner together and watch a DVD (dubbed in French, with English subtitles) curled up on (what passes for) the couch, and…

Well… He makes me happy.

Dreams of fluffy blankets and frozen toes

2006-11-08T10:12:00.000-05:00

My favorite thing about having seasons is the changing over between them. Because after a long, cold, gray winter, that first moment of sunny, green, warm spring is a revelation.

And after months of heat, humidity and tank tops, who doesn't love pulling on a brand new sweater in September or October?

So okay. There's not quite the same range of difference between winter and summer around these parts. It's November, and I'm still wandering around in tank tops and shorts, and sleeping with the fan on at night.

I won't deny that there were cold February days in DC that prompted me to muse dreamily of living in California or else anyplace where I'd never contemplate walking down the street with my eyes closed because the frigid air was stinging my corneas.

But I miss being cold.

I miss wearing long sleeves. Or hell, long pants.

I miss snuggling under blankets and never wanting to get out.

I miss the relief of stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, finally able to shed layers of hats, scarves, gloves, and coats.

But in the interest of staying positive, and also of giving credit where it's due, I will admit that, if you were inclined to notice, you'd have to admit that we have clearly changed seasons.

This may not be autumn as I've been used to recognizing it, but the signs are there.

Last week, I turned the water heater back on. After months of frosty showers (twice a day, at least, and easily the best moments of any day) I found that I didn't want to submerge myself in cold water anymore.

And for the past couple of weeks, I've been able to sit in my living room at night with the balcony door shut. It can be a bit stuffy, but it's bearable. And it also means fewer mosquitoes get inside.

Speaking of which, and last night's THREE mosquitoes in the mosquito net notwithstanding, there are fewer mosquitoes in general. Although I'm not ready to declare victory on that one, because THREE MOSQUITOES. IN MY MOSQUITO NET. It was brutal.

I know there's more to come. When I arrived here last February, I wore long sleeves and closed shoes and slept with a blanket. It seems like a distant dream, but I have faith that it'll happen again.

*********

In the meantime, I have to admit, that this EVERY DAY blogging thing is NOT easy.

I know you all believe me when I tell you that I'm an exciting adventurer of international fame, and my every moment is filled with unbelievable moments of discovery and wonder.

But I gotta come clean. Most days, my life is pretty... boring.

So to kick off Week Two of the Incredible NaBloPoMo Challenge, I'm instigating:

Naomi's Blog: Full Disclosure

Email me or comment with questions, and I promise to answer every one. Questions about life in Senegal? Obscure Senegalese Muslim holidays? My social life? My professional life? Whether those pants *really* flatter your figure?

Full disclosure.

Yeah, I know, you probably don't have any questions. But try to think of one. It'd be a mitzvah!

A big, giant hypocrite

2006-11-07T11:06:00.000-05:00

Or, Noames gets political, sorta, for the first and last time

Elections are a big deal, over here on the dark continent.

You know, what with all the coups and dictators and wars, and stuff.

So when a country manages to pull off the grand ol’ process we like to call “democracy,” there are all sorts of people who made a big deal out of it.

Senegal happens to have a robust democracy. There have been three presidents since independence, peaceful transfers of power, vocal, independent media, and no coups. And when the incumbent lost to long-time opposition member Abdoulaye Wade in 2000, he respected the results and stepped aside.

So when my friends here tell me that they’re not going to bother voting in the elections next February, because all the politicians are the same, and it doesn’t make any difference, I get all preachy.

You have to vote. Democracy is a privilege! If you don’t take your chance to have your say, how will things get better?

And all sorts of obnoxiosity.

Of course, I’ve given the same speeches to friends in America who didn’t bother to vote in 2004.

And so, today’s election day. Surely I filed my absentee ballot months ago, right?

I mean, right?

Right.

Not even a little bit.

I’ve been getting reminders to apply for an absentee ballot from the embassy for months. And I’ve ignored all of them.

If I have an excuse, it’s that I was registered to vote in DC, which doesn’t have a voting representative in the House or any Senators.

And that I don’t live in DC any more. Officially I live in Florida. That’s where my mail goes, anyway. But I’m not registered there. And I know nothing about local politics. And that absentee ballots don’t count for anything anyway.

I’ll just go be quiet now.

What's cooking?

2006-11-06T07:37:00.000-05:00

In the neighborhood by the Voice of America office, you can buy a bowl of really tasty peanut butter beef stew with white rice for less than 75 cents.

But you have to know where to look.

If you look at the corner with American eyes, you might only see the French-style bakery across the street, where you can by pre-made ham and cheese (and LOTS of butter) sandwiches for $2.

If you look with Senegalese eyes, you'd know that the makeshift tent with a roughly-hewn wooden table and a bored-looking woman sprawled on one of the benches is a restaurant and the woman is the proprietor and chef. It'll be easier to see it at 1 pm when the food is ready and the benches are filled with people eating.

If you know to look for it, you'll see the small room with a roaring fire in the fireplace, with giant logs sticking out and a grill stretching across the flames. You'll see the man with the 14-inch knife hacking an animal leg into bite size chunks, throwing them on the grill, dousing them with mustard, and wrapping it up in brown paper for customers sitting outside.

But don't look for the stew-lady at 10 pm. And don't look for the barbecue guy at lunchtime. That's just not how it works.

There are no Golden Arches. Signs of any kind are just not a given. Sometimes they're there, sometimes not. Sometimes you just need to know that the private house down the street serves lunch. Someone will tell you if you ask. But you have to know to ask.

And so, even after nine months, Dakar still holds plenty of surprises.

Last night, it was ngalax: couscous served with a sweetened peanut butter sauce.

I hadn't had it since Easter, when all the Catholics I know cooked up huge vats of it to serve to family and give away to friends. I loved it, and looking at pictures from the holiday featuring some shots of its preparation, said so.

"Really?" my friend asked. "Well they sell it just behind there." He gestured vaguely.

And then a little later, he disappeared without telling me why, and came back with two pastic baggies filled with ngalax, and a third with Bissap juice.

So it's still a mystery. But now I know, somewhere around there, someone sells it nightly. Probably some woman or group of women, sitting around coolers, chatting with each other like that's the only reason they're there.

I'll have to look.

The African Way

2006-11-05T07:34:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I had invited a friend over for the afternoon.

I had to pay my rent in the morning (a 2-hour process that involves getting the entire sum in cash, going to the rental agency office in person, and taking home the handwritten receipt) so I told her to stop by after lunch. "2 o'clock or so?" I said.

And so at 10:30, I headed out to West Foire with a wad of bills. By 11:30 the deed was done, and I was on my way home. I stopped at a bakery at N'Gor, where I have to switch buses anyway, to pick up some snacks for N'diare (the friend) and I to munch on. I went with some fattening but tasty looking mini-quiches.

Once back in my neighborhood, I went to all the little grocery boutiques (and one private home) looking for Bissap juice (a local fruit that makes a tasty, red juice). Then, unsuccessful, I made a second circuit looking for Fanta. And, finally, I bought a box of mango juice.

Finally back at my apartment, parched and sleepy, at 12:45, I made myself a quick sandwich, and took a shower, and took to my bed to read and rest. Which quickly turned into a nap.

When my mother called at 10 past three, I was dead asleep.

When I finished checking my email and chatting with people online at 4, I was hungry.

I putzed around on the internet for a little while longer.

But the quiches, they were calling my name. So I cut one of them in half, brought it back to the computer, and started munching.

And then went right back into the kitchen and finished both baby quiches.

Which is kind of gross (BOTH quiches, I needed?). And also a problem because now all I had to serve my guest was some mango juice in a box.

Except it was after 4:30. I'd expected her around 2. She hadn't called to indicate she was late or on her way. Surely at this point, I should just assume she wasn't coming.

At a quarter-past five, there was a knock at the door.

There she was, with her adorable, incredibly tall 2 year old son. More than three hours "late."

Except she wasn't late. She'd prepared lunch for her family--untold dozens in two houses across the street from one another; the women take turns preparing meals--ate with them, and then come straight over. That was just how long it took.

And so I welcomed her in. I called my running buddies, who I had been supposed to meet an hour later, and told them I'd have to cancel because I had a guest. And I prentended that I'd never meant to serve baby quiches (pay no attention to the cheesy, flaky pastry crumbs on the dish on the coffee table).

Small victories

2006-11-04T10:57:00.000-05:00

At 10 past three, I was racing out my door, in the sticky afternoon swelter.

I had already filed a story for Voice of America that morning, and was now on my way to being late for a swim date with my friend Cecilia.

We were supposed to be meeting at 3:30, and the only way I’d come close to making it was by taking a taxi, and I was still at least a five-minute walk from the corner where the taxis passed.

But there was a taxi right in front of my door, just sitting there. Hoping that he had just dropped someone off and would be willing to take a new client, I asked him if he was on his way out. No, he said, he was waiting for someone.

No worries. I raced onward. But then Gallo called to me and asked me where I was going.

Thinking he just wanted to go through the greeting process, I sort of glanced over my shoulder and shouted “the pool, the Olympic pool” without stopping. I didn’t want to get stuck discussing the finer points of the heat.

But he surprised me. “Get in!” he shouted after me.

It turned out that the taxi was waiting for Ismaillah, who was on his way to… the Olympic pool! The woman who owns our building has a beauty shop there, and he’d been working all day carting things back and forth. And now he was on his way back, and Madame Landlady was footing the bill.

Should this not have excited me that much?

*****

I’ve become fairly accustomed to my pool-flailing manner. It is, you could say, what I do. Who I am, really. Others swim. I flail. It’s nice to have a mark of distinction in this crazy-mixed-up-world we call Earth.

So imagine my shock when I kicked off the wall at the same time as Cecilia only to discover that we were smoothly swimming side by side.

Granted she was doing a breaststroke, and I was doing (my attempt at) the front crawl. But for a good three-quarters of the 50 meter pool, I managed to keep at the same pace as her, without particularly meaning to.

I had switched to breathing on every fourth stroke, instead of every second. And something seemed to have clicked, and the whole movement suddenly seemed natural.

Of course, then I ran out of breath, and had to stop, sputter and tread water. Cecilia left me far behind and I never caught up.

But it was pretty cool while it lasted.

So here’s my question to all the swimmers out there:

In theory, and now occasionally in practice, I’ve got this breathing thing down. It’s a major improvement over where I was even a few weeks ago. But. The breaths I take are fairly shallow.

You know that feeling when you take a deep breath, and your lungs fill until you reach a sort of threshold and your whole body is like “ahhhh, NOW I have enough air?” And you don’t need to do that on every breath, but after a while you just NEED a deep breath of air?

Well, when I’m swimming, I don’t get those deep breaths, and so after a while, I just… run out of air. Even though I’m breathing fairly often.

So… How do I fix that?

I’m perfectly willing to believe it’s just a question of not being in shape. Because I’m definitely not. In shape. (See: collapsing after attempts at jogging; see also: being lapped by neighborhood snails).

But if there’s a technique issue, I’m all ears.

Because I am SO conquering this learning to swim thing.

I'll take a third wife, with a side of fries and a coke

2006-11-03T09:18:00.000-05:00

I came home from the office yesterday to the sounds of Naw and Ismaillah making fun of Gallo in Wolof.

Naw runs the boutique in my neighborhood. Aside from being my source for all things snacky or useful, from chocolate-filled cookies to bleach to bug death spray, he is one of my favorite people in Dakar.

Rose talked about him endlessly, before I moved into this apartment, but it wasn't until I had been living here on my own, while Rose spent six weeks in Europe, that I learned to fully appreciate him. He knows everybody and everything that goes on in our neighborhood. And he's got a perceptive and analytical eye for Senegalese culture, a fairly rare trait. Plus, having spent most of his childhood in the Gambia, a former British colony, he speaks English fluently.

Ismaillah and Gallo are the "guardians" for my building and the one next door. Sort of a cross between a doorman, super, and night watchman. They're both around all the time, and thus are some of the friendly faces in my neighborhood. Whenever I come home, whether from an afternoon downtown or a month in the US, they greet me like they haven't seen me in forever, and ask me how it was.

And Ismaillah has the addition honor of being my cockroach killer (only for the really enormous ones).***

The Wolof was too fast and complicated for me to understand yesterday afternoon, but the tone was obviously teasing, and Gallo was obviously on the wrong end.

Afterwards, Naw explained.

"Gallo has a third wife today. And so we had to laugh at him."

"I didn't even know he had a second wife. I thought he had just the one."

"Me neither. He's the one who told me that he has two wives. But now he says he got a third one yesterday."

Polygamy is legal and common in Senegal. According to Muslim law, men are allowed up to four wives. In villages, where traditional African customs sometimes still hold sway, I've heard of men with six or seven. I've even heard of Catholics with multiple wives, although the Catholics I know will tell you that their religion only allows them the one.

Gallo lives in a small room in the house next door, where he's employed. His wife, the one that I knew about, lives in the village he came from, not far from Dakar. I couldn't tell you where the second one lives, but I'd guess she's also in the village.

And the third one?

According to Gallo, who I asked a little while later, was picked up by his father on Sunday. He claims he had no idea he'd acquired this extra spouse until the day before yesterday, when he went to his family's house, and his father broke the news.

I'm not sure I believe him though. People will tell you anything, especially when they think you'll disapprove.

And all Senegalese people know that white people are incredibly weird about polygamy.

*** Lord, I talk about bugs a lot here.

Last time I'll mention them, I promise

2006-11-02T09:41:00.000-05:00

Please note the relative size of leaves and spiders.

That's all I'm saying.

Running out of steam

2006-11-01T04:51:00.000-05:00

There was a time when running four miles on tired, cramped legs didn't seem all that big a deal. After all, I'd already run 14 miles that morning.

I'm just saying.

Because today I saw girl collapse in a near faint on her kitchen floor after running for a grand total of about 50 minutes.

And that girl? Was me.

{{{{cringe}}}}

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm training for a half marathon. It's not until March or so (not sure of the exact date) so I have plenty of time. Which is good, because I'm going to need it.

Pape Badji, my friend, running buddy, and (sort of) coach keeps me honest and keeps me running. We run together about 4 times a week, and he's recently recruited his cousin, Matar, to the cause, who runs with us sometimes, and also runs with me on days when Badji has work.

Which means that I barely have to motivate myself out the door, because there's pretty much always someone waiting for me. Someone who keeps me company, as well as protecting me from crazy drivers (not so necessary, but nice) and from scary spiders (mostly by laughing at me while I dash across the street to avoid coming within two feet of one of their web mansions).

But until this morning, our runs have averaged 30-35 minutes. Which, you can imagine, means the distance falls somewhat short of a full half-marathon. So today I determined we were going to run for an hour. And, instead of running in the evening, as has been our habit, we were going to run in the morning.

I prepared very well for this "long" run last night, by eating almost nothing for dinner, capping off a day when pretty much all I'd eaten was a banana, a bowl of cereal, and some white rice (with a bit of peanut butter stew).

And so I couldn't claim to be surprised when my legs felt leaden and I had no energy. I also cleverly chose not to bring any water or gatorade on the run.

Because apparently, I forget quickly, and need to relearn every lesson the hard way. Every. Single. Time.

Here's the best part, though. As I was pathetically flailing and simpering, Badji was chipper, encouraging, and, clearly, hardly even winded. This, despite the fact that he hadn't slept that night, because he had the night shift at his guard job.

Cool.

Anyway, we're going to try again tomorrow. I going to eat well today, including pasta with tomato-zucchini sauce for dinner, and, inshallah, I will perform more respectably.

In other news: Someone has determined to make this month "NaBloPoMo". Which stands for National Blog Posting Month. Like NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month.

Okay, I know. Normal people have never heard of any of those things. But here's the deal. During the month of November, if you sign up for NaBloPoMo, you have to post at least once a day.

And because I like jumping on bandwagons, and lots of blogs that I respect seem to be doing it, and if they jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge then it must be because it's FUN dammit... Well, because of all that, I'm gonna try it too.

So check back often, and see how boring I can be (on a daily basis!) for the next 30 days.

Leave it to the NGOs

2006-10-30T06:33:00.000-05:00

So.

The shoes.

An interesting experiment, and in the end, I’m going to go with a qualified success.

Success because look at all those shoes up there. All different sizes and brands and some that had never been used and others that had been used to train for an Ironman but still had plenty of life in them and another pair that helped one woman take first in her size group (apparently that exists in some races?) in what was also her first race.

They more than filled the largest duffle bag I could find. And because running shoes are built for speed and portability (because who can carry lead weights on their feet for miles?) the largest duffle bag I could find was still only half as heavy as my regular old suitcase (which was filled with many things you might not expect to find, such as salsa and black beans and dried mushrooms (which are very light, I promise) and all sorts of things I apparently couldn’t leave America without taking).

So a second success: I carted all those shoes onto a trans-Atlantic flight without having to pay extra-baggage fees.

And then I had completed the trans of the Atlantic. I was in Africa with hundreds of dollars of (used, donated) shoes, and a customs service that’s not nearly as corrupt as customs services in other African countries.

In Senegal, bags get X-rayed coming and going. So after your passport is stamped and you’ve gathered your luggage from the conveyor belts (and hefted an enormous duffle bag into a careful balance, strapped to your way-too-fucking-heavy suitcase on wheels, thereby avoiding the suspect or at very least expensive “help” of the various airport hangers on), you must lift the bags onto a second conveyor belt, to pass through the X-ray machine (unhook, heave, grunt, no one wants to help you here).

My suitcase of treasures (throat lozenges and hair gel and batteries) thuds through without question. And then:

“Can you please open this one?”

I do. “They’re running shoes. They’re donated by people from America who want to give shoes to people in Dakar who run. They’ve all been used already.”

He paws and looks.

“You should give some to me.”

Heh. Heh. “Next time.” (Which I say all the time here. Next time. Tomorrow. We’ll see. All of which mean no, because you don’t say no.)

“No. You should give me a cadeau. A present.”

“They’re for people who fait du sport. Who do sports.”

All the while, pawing through, picking through the pairs with their laces carefully tied together.

“I have children. They do sports.” More picking, looking, shopping.

“You will give me this pair.” He has a pair of pink running shoes. For his daughter. “A cadeau.”

Defeated. Hopeful. “Fine. D’accord.” I zip up as he turns to his colleagues, showing off his bounty. They look on jealously. But now I’m free to go. One pair only. The other officials will get theirs benen yoon. Next time.

And so I have imported the shoes. Phase one: Collect. Phase two: Transport.

Phase three: Distribute.

Here’s where the qualified joins the success. For one thing, when I got back to Senegal, it was the middle of Ramadan, the holiest time of year for Muslims. A month-long holiday. A month-long fast. No eating or drinking during daylight hours. Which, you can imagine, seriously cuts down on the number of people doing sports. So the streets filled at dusk with runners, to whom I imagined giving shoes…. Not so much.

Although it doesn’t stop everyone. My running buddy, Badji, still runs with me as the sun is setting in the evening, with not a drop of water or a single calorie to keep him moving. And now he does it in a pair of lime-green Nikes, European size 43.

But the shoes get distributed. Word spreads, requests come. People love the shoes, are thrilled with them. But.

A friend of a friend, who walks, takes home a pair of red Asics, size 45.

But.

The mother of a friend who got shoes called me last week. “I only just found out that you gave Valentin shoes,” she cried apologetically. Then, “thank you for giving them to him. He loves them. He wears them every day.”

“You’re welcome. I hope he can do some sports in them.”

“Sports? No, he uses them every day!” That’s better than saving them for running. All the time is better than some of the time.

Right.

And the red Asics, size 45. “He cleaned them up and wore them to his (estranged) girlfriend’s house. He told me,” says my friend, “that he would never waste such nice shoes on sports.”

So.

These are not swollen-bellied, starving children. They are not dressed in dirty rags. They are students and employed adults. I don’t want to give the wrong impression of what I see here.

It’s not that they’ve never seen fancy sneakers before. But almost new Nike’s and Adidas and Asics? Are high fashion. The same way they are in some places in the states.

I’m not sure there aren’t plenty of runners in Dakar who wouldn’t appreciate these shoes for what they are, and use them as intended. But I’m not sure I’ve done a very good job finding them.

So I’m not sure I’d try this again. Might leave it to the professionals. And keep my eyes open. Because in March there’s a half-marathon here (which I’m going to run in). Maybe there are some running groups or teams or something which could help distribution next time.

Thank you, all the same, to everyone who donated. Rest assured, at the very least, your shoes are not collecting dust in a closet.

Uppity but good

2006-10-25T13:32:00.000-04:00

Way back when I first came back from Botswana, I feared I’d become “one of those horrible people who says things like, “well, in Africa, things are completely different.” And, “everything is so commercial in America.” And, “you wouldn’t understand. It’s an African thing.”

Actually, I wasn’t sure what I meant by that.

I knew there was a type though. Something about people who’d been someplace exotic and were far too smug about it. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on what changed when they came home.

Well now I’ve spent nearly eight months in Senegal, and I’ve finally understood. It’s not that they come home different. It’s that they GET home differently.

They (and by they, let’s be clear, I mean me) don’t need no stinking airplane, because they (and, remember, I mean me) are far more comfortable on their high horse.

You think you got troubles? Well me and my high horse are here to tell you, it’s NOTHING compared to what we deal with over ‘n Africa. (Which, for the purpose of this moment, I will fail to point out is actually comprised of dozens of countries with thousands of languages and ethnic groups and widely varying economic statuses and levels of development. Because that is a horse of a totally different smugness.)

Daily grind getting you down? Well at least you have a JOB! And MONEY! And ELECTRICITY! Not like the POOR, UNEMPLOYED MASSES in Africa.

Annoyed that you now have to spend hours in line at security at the airport, and then they threw away all your make-up? Well cry me a river, baby, because there may be no security screening for the bush taxi, but you’re still going to wait hours for it to go, and your make-up’s all going to melt anyway, because it’s HOT here and those cars don't got no air con.

Can’t you just picture the fun that I am to be around? Th-------is much fun. Times a hundred. Am I right?

But sadly, only a select few of you got to see my charming smuggery in person. So, to share the joy all around, I thought I’d blog it.

And thus, without further ado, I bring you:

The Five Things You (Yes, YOU, the person I’ve never met, whose life I know nothing about, who could very well never have even been to the US, YOU are the person I’m judging) Don’t Appreciate Enough About America

1)

Okay, so here’s the thing.

I pretty much wrote this post in my head back when I was in America. And I had all sorts of things that I was going to include in this list.

I vaguely remember something about well-paved, multilane highways, and the joys of cruising at 65 mph (not a hair faster, thanks Mr. Traffic Cop) with terrible American radio blasting at full volume.

And I’m sure I was going to say something about summer fruit (which I caught the tail end of ). Farmer’s Market peaches. Yum.

But frankly, I’m annoying myself with all this high horsery, and I’m afraid the humor impaired among us might miss the irony, and think I’m really this horrible. Out loud.

Plus, I’ve been back for about three weeks, and it just doesn’t seem that important any more.

I hereby promise (completely insincerely) to post far more frequently in the coming weeks. I need to update y'all about the shoe drive, of course. Plus I have lots of stories.

If I'm feeling REALLY brave, I might even take a picture of the world's scariest spiders that have invaded my neighborhood. They're bigger than my hand, and their webs are bigger than my apartment. For a girl who has always been spider-phobic, this is pretty much my worst nightmare made reality. The pinky finger grasping desperately at my sanity has only held on this long thanks to the fact that these monsters (SO FAR) have only been spotted outdoors. Heaven help me if I ever find one in my apartment.

Shudder.

No seriously. Gah.

Anywho, in the meantime, if you're looking for more of my wit and charm, feel free to news google me, where you'll find several more Voice of America stories, and, inshallah, articles published elsewhere in the not too distant future. (If I don't pimp me, who will?)

It's nice being back.

Africa vs. Naomi — The Mosquito Battle

2006-09-07T06:16:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite things about my bedroom is my bed. Specifically, the four bamboo poles and the mosquito net they hold up. What girl hasn’t wanted a four-poster, canopied bed? And tucking myself in at night by drawing the bed curtains, as it were, feels incredibly decadent somehow. The kind of thing they’d have done at Versailles, back when Marie Antoinette was enjoying cake.

Plus, I have an entirely irrational fear of creepy, crawly things. It means that in the past, I’ve never liked sleeping without a cover, because that leaves me entirely DEFENSELESS while my defenses are ALREADY DOWN (because, sleeping). Except, when the mere act of eating allow me bathed in a thick lather of sweat, as is currently the case, even a sheet is too hot. But the mosquito net is even better protection than a cover—frankly, I don’t know why I haven’t been using one for years already.

Of course, all of this leaves out the intended, and most important function of a mosquito net — namely protecting one from the curse of mosquito bites. And my mosquito net performs admirably (though it can do nothing about the bites I get while in the living room, or at an open-air bar, or crossing the street or, fuck, the two bites on my leg and one on my shoulder that I just got while writing the previous two paragraphs). (Yes, I use insect repellent. Yes, it helps.)

So, in the battle of Africa vs. Naomi, the mosquito net definitely puts a point in my column,

Except. Well, the system is nearly, but not entirely, perfect. Because sometimes, despite your best attempts, a mosquito gets IN the net.

There’s almost nothing worse. One tiny little mosquito can keep you up all night swatting and scratching.

The other night, I was reading in bed, and a couple of times, I thought I saw the tell-tale black dot of a mosquito cross the edges of my field of vision. But my glasses were off, and I was tired, so I decided to pretend I hadn’t seen. After a couple more pages, I turned out the light and hoped for the best.

10 minutes later, with angry welts across my legs, feet, hips, and back, I couldn’t ignore the beast any longer. So I turned back on my light.

It’s harder than you think to spot a single mosquito. There’s a lot of space above a double bed to keep your eyes on, and if it’s moving around, it’s almost certain to avoid your gaze. But when I sat very, very still, the mosquito would stop moving and land somewhere on the net, and I could spot it.

Which turned out to be entirely useless. Because as soon as I moved to kill it, it would lazily flit off, and I’d lose sight of it for another five minutes. The problem was I had no real strategy. You can’t swat a mosquito against the soft sides of a mosquito net, and capturing it in your hand hardly ever works.

I tried killing it with a clap of both hands. I tried waving my book behind it to herd it under and out of the mosquito net. I tried catching it between a fold of the net. In the midst of my incredibly ineffective attempts, all I managed to do was discover that there were actually two mosquitoes in the net.

I kept it up for about ten minutes, stalking and pouncing and always missing my prey, innovating all sorts of creatively useless solutions, until eventually I was sitting outside the net and the mosquitoes were both still inside.

That was when I realized that I’d lost. It’s not over, the battle of Africa vs. Naomi. But this round? Definitely not mine.

******

And this, dear zebras, will be my last posting from Africa. Until October, anyway.

Tonight I’m catching a jet plane headed east. By tomorrow morning, I’ll be somewhere where electricity doesn’t cut all day, every day, where cereal doesn’t cost six dollars a box, and where my sister is getting married (on Sunday).

It’s my first visit home since I moved here, and I’m very excited.

I’m also excited because this has been a very good week for Journalist Naomi. My very first commissioned article finally appeared in print, and I officially became a radio journalist.

And finally, because yesterday was my 25th birthday (send DVDs!), celebrated in style with chocolate risotto, Moroccan stew, and an African reggae concert.

But most importantly, I need to thank everyone who has written to offer me shoes, and all the bloggers who have publicized my shoe drive on their blogs and on Complete Running (and, in some cases, to friends, offices, and book clubs). The response has been amazing, and if I get even half of the shoes that have been promised, I’m going to have big problems carrying them all back. Which, in this case, is the best kind of problem to have. I’ll keep you posted as the shoes come in, and as they go back out in Dakar. Thank you all so much!

Breaking News: I still suck at swimming [PLUS A CHANCE FOR DO-GOODERY AT THE END]

2006-08-24T14:14:00.001-04:00

We interrupt your irregularly, long-delayed, unscheduled updates with this breaking news bulletin.

Travel- and erstwhile running-blogger, Naomi, has returned to the pool. After three separate visits, the conclusion appears incontrovertible: Naomi swims like a drowning pigeon. Witnesses report snickering, pointing, and a collective shaking of heads.

It’s true, my friends. You might think that months and months of *not* swimming, except for sporadic bouts of sea-bathing and flouncing around tiny pools, would be a recipe for miraculous improvement. But you’d be wrong.

The cleverer among you will have been following Rose’s blog, and therefore will already be aware that she has taken an endurance challenge: she is going to swim in a 5 km race between mainland Dakar and nearby Goree Island.

In support of this goal, and because I still harbor dreams of triathlete goddesshood, I decided to join in the training. I never doubted my complete inability to swim the 5 km race. But I thought it’d be a good excuse to break out my Serious Person Swimsuit again, and see what I could do.

On the plus side, the floating issue seems to have been resolved. I have conveniently lost significant muscle density, rendering myself pleasantly buoyant. I’m trying to be happy about the benefits to swimming and the fact that I had muscle density to lose. It’s not working.

On the downside, just because my body is able to float placidly along the surface of the pool doesn’t mean I can’t fuck it up with my flailing. And so, chubbily and floatily, I still bounce up and down through the water in a picture of ineffectual movement.

There’s actually a fairly simple solution. I can either stop breathing or use a snorkel mask. Because my stroke is getting pretty good, and I can stay level and move forward pretty well, as long as I don’t mess it up by trying to take in extra O2.

I know it should be totally natural to turn my head into my shoulder with my stroke, gulp in a bit of air, and continue onward. But I always want to pick my head up too high or try to crane my neck forward, in which case my whole body sinks, and I have to wait to float back up. Or else water gets in my nose or my ear or I forget to actually BREATHE in or who knows what, and all of a sudden I’m gulping for air and treading water in the middle of the pool.

I’m damn stubborn, though, and so I’m not giving up. Swimming a half kilometer three times a week (as I did this week) feels fairly impressive. And against all evidence, I think I’m making progress. Plus my arms are pleasantly sore, so I feel like that can only mean good things.

And as long as we’re talking Project: Get Back in Shape, let’s not forget to mention that in addition to swimming three times, I’ve been running, and had dance class twice. Goal: run twice more before the end of the week. Who’s with me?

*********

IN OTHER NEWS:

I have this idea. And I’m hoping all you running bloggers can help me.

I haven’t talked much about the fitness scene in Dakar, but it’s pretty cool. Every afternoon, you see scores of people running along the sides of the road and doing push-ups and running (bizarrely tiny) laps on the beach. There are amateur volleyball leagues and impromptu soccer matches, and all manner of “entrainement.” It’s mostly boys, but there are women out there as well, and that’s extra cool.

I think it’s great. I especially like how many people run. I even kind of, secretly, despite myself, enjoy how when I’m running, all the boys shout “courage!” and “allez!”

But here’s what kills me. Almost none of the runners have proper running shoes. They run in these horrific, cheap, plastic sandals. These jellies are such the standard for athletic shoes that when I was away in a village last week and hadn’t brought my running shoes, my friends immediately offered to go with me to find myself my own pair of plastic knee pain for $2.75.

And thus, finally, my idea. Runners in the states go through A LOT of shoes. We put them through a lot, and expect a lot out of them. But after 500 or 700 or even 1000 miles, when we retire those shoes… What do you do with yours? Mine sat in my closet for months (including a pair that had less than 200 miles on them, because they had never been comfortable for me). I couldn’t bear to throw them out, because they were still practically brand new. But I couldn’t use them for running anymore either—they hurt my knees. Eventually, when I cleaned out my closet to move here, they were stuck in the bag and dropped off at the charity bin.

So okay, they’re no longer optimal running-support machines. But better than plastic jellies? I think yes. And I know a lot of people who would leap at the chance to trade in their jellies for some second hand Asics.

This is where you all come in. If you’re like me, and you have some shoes you’re not using anymore, would you consider donating them? Anyone who is interested can email me for a mailing address in NY. Then, when I come back to the States next month for a visit, I’ll collect any and all shoes, and bring them back here.

Crazy? Or so crazy it just might work?

Keeping my virginity

2006-08-20T16:19:00.000-04:00

HAH. I bet you didn’t expect me to leave tantalizing clues of future blog posts and then disappear entirely for weeks, did you! I sure am funny!

Or… not. Sorry y’all. But I have been a busy bee. Soon after the last post, I skipped the country on a jet plane (gotta say, much nicer than a bush taxi), heading from bucolic Africa to bellicose Israel. (Look at me with the big words. I=smart!)

Except really, the whole “war” thing was very much a non-issue. I was there for a family wedding, and was therefore blissfully politically unaware. I spent my time running between buffet breakfasts at multiple hotels (visiting all the cousins—I slept on a friend’s couch), hanging out at various pools (see above re: cousins’ hotels) and enjoying the life of a non-African city (air conditioning, like EVERYWHERE! Shocking lack of sand/dirt roads! Not a single power cut in 10 days!). But aside from that, Israelis are fairly used to dealing with war, and in Jerusalem, the situation felt very far away. Much of the north of the country has been evacuated, so a lot of hotels are full of refugee Israelis. And, since military service is obligatory, a lot of my cousins’ friends had been called up from the reserves. But in terms of direct danger, not so much.

So, back to the subject at hand. I have to say, I like this whole “poll” thing. I may have to do it all the time. I heart feedback.

That being said, votes were…. Kind of all over the place, really. But based on my highly scientific statistical analysis, (by which I mean, given what I feel like writing about) the winners are B) Hash House Harriers and D) Naomi=fashion queen.

And so we begin.

Now, to be honest, I hadn’t ever given it much consideration, but upon reflection, there are several things I don’t want to hear when joining a new running group.

One is: “you’re cool with taking it easy right? We want to keep it around 8 minute miles.”

Because I am not fast, you see. But don’t worry, that is not something that the Hashers said.

Here is something they did say: “Hahaha! You have new shoes! Look everyone, the new girl has brand new shoes! Ice! Ice!” Everyone else: “Ice! Ice!”

Because, you see, Rose has just bought a new pair of Asics. Which is apparently weird and wrong, and not a reason to start dorking out about brands and models and how many miles you got out of your last pair and whether it’s wrong to think the red is really, really cute, even though, no, you didn’t pick them because of that, but seriously, how cute are these running shoes?

And here is something else they said: “Are you a virgin?” Followed by “Don’t worry. You’ll learn all the songs in no time!”

There is oh so much wrong with that. By “virgin”, of course, the guy in question meant “is this your first time with this group.” And if there’s one thing I love, it’s organized groups with their “in” lingo and jargon. But whatever. I knew what he meant.

No. Far more problematic was the second statement. I will learn the songs? Learn the SONGS? I thought he was kidding. I laughed. He did not.

And that is when I became sure that me and the H-3 were through. And so when the organizer came over to ask us to pay in for the beers (virgin boy: we’re drinkers with a running problem! He laughed. I did not.) which we hadn’t known about, he said, ‘don’t worry about it, just remember for next time, we simply nodded and smiled. (Naomi and Rose: Shyah. As if.)

Now here is where you’re all, “Sheesh. Get over yourself. They’re just trying to have fun. We’re not all running marathons out here.”

And I’m with you. And in the right mood, maybe I’d have found the campy lingo and the non-threatening “we don’t like running either!” thing charming.

But I wanted a running group. You know, people to run with. For the running. With other people.

And the trip-H? No running. Standing. By 6:30 (after a rendez-vous set for 5:30 “on the dot”), all we had managed to do was amble from the meeting point to mill around at someone’s house 5 minutes away.

Even that I could have forgiven. Note to self: next time show up very late. Done. Right? Because eventually, we’re going for a run.

Sure. A “run”. Really? Not so much. Here's what happened: the son of a group member had marked out a route with chalk hash marks, and off went the group down a hill. Rose and I followed.

Before we knew what happened, there was shouting and laughing and everyone turned around and started running back. And then at the top of the hill, they fanned out looking for the next mark.

This wasn’t a run. It was a scavenger hunt. The marks were hidden all over, and you had to run around blindly until you found one.

And so when the group fanned out, Rose and I fanned in the direction of home. And when we heard the shouting that the hash mark had been found all the way over the other side, we just kept going, laughing hysterically.

Naomi: Don’t look back, Rose!
Rose: They’re coming after us.
Naomi: They’ll never catch up. Run, Rose, run!

And so we ran. They shouted, (guys! It’s this way, guys! You guys!) and we waved (so long suckers!).

We decided to go on our own route, hoping desperately not to run into the Harriers.

Of course, not ten minutes later, the group ran by, chanting “Ice! Ice! Ice!” (because of Rose’s new shoes. Hilarious!) and we refrained from chanting “you’re all fucking crazy!”

So I’m still a virgin. And, with any luck, a virgin I will stay.

Finishing a thought

2006-08-01T07:50:00.000-04:00

Due to some technical difficulties, the picture that I took of my (now quite ancient) haircut only just got uploaded today.

Here I am, in all my uneven, choppy, frizzed out glory:

Actually, it's not a terrible photo. Sadly, combine the 10,000% humidity with the shaggier hair (as it grows out) and you don't end up with America's Next Top Model. Whatever: it's just hair.

In lieu of a proper update, I have uploaded a bunch of pictures to Flickr.

In other news, I have lots of possible topics to write about, but never enough time (or motivation, apparently). So now we'll harness the interactive power of the internet. Tell me—and death is not an option—would you rather hear about:

A) my (semi-)triumphant return to running, in which I conquer (most of) the dreaded lighthouse mountain.
B) The disaster that was "running" with Hash House Harriers, and how we ended up running AWAY ("don't look back, Rose! Don't. Look. Back.")
C) My trip south of Gambia (check out the map on the sidebar) to tropical Senegal
D) My battles with tailors and the successes and failures of my nascent career as a clothing designer—WITH PHOTOS!

Allez! Choisissez!

Breaking up is hard to do

2006-07-11T11:11:00.000-04:00

On Saturday night—for a lot of reasons and for no reason, because these things happen, and because some days were still great, but others weren’t, and, three months in, I felt like it was time to get out—Théo and I broke up.

There’s a lot that’s different about dating someone in Senegal. In a lot of ways, it’s far more straightforward. Which you would have to expect from a culture in which it is completely normal to tell complete strangers you love them—and mean it.

It makes the beginning of relationships a whole lot easier. You can forget about the entire, “we’ve gone out twice and I think he likes me, but I’m not going to call him for three days, because I don’t want to scare him off” thing. If you’ve gone out twice, you’re a couple. If you’ve gone out once, you’re a couple. If you’ve smiled politely, and said, “maybe, we’ll see” when he asked you out, you’re a couple.

But I didn’t expect it to be easy to tell him it was over. “It’s not you, it’s me” doesn’t translate culturally. Besides, he was in this for the long-haul, and so even when he was willing to concede that things weren’t perfect, he thought we could just talk it over and work it out.

Nevertheless, I’d made up my mind, and even if, in the face of his best moves, persuasive charm, and puppy dog eyes, I couldn’t quite remember why exactly I’d been so sure I needed to end things, there was a voice, buried deep in my brain, that, despite all attempts at muffling, was screaming at top volume, “don’t cave. You have your reasons. THIS. IS. THE. RIGHT. DECISION.”

So I dropped the axe on Saturday night. It wasn’t a fun or easy conversation, and it wasn’t any better when he forced me to tell his good friend and his cousin (in the next room) that I was leaving him. “Take a good look,” he told them, “because you won’t be seeing her around anymore.” Nor was it not awkward when they responded to this news by saying, “I’m really sorry to hear it, and I hope you work things out. But you’re our friend now, part of the family. Just because you’re breaking up with Théo doesn’t mean you don’t want to see us anymore, does it?”

Sunday morning, Théo called and asked to come over to talk about it more. He was even more convincing, charming, adorable, and sweet, but the tiny, insistent voice wouldn’t be silenced, and I sent him on his way.

The next morning, his aunt called.

“Naomi, what’s going on? What’s happened with my little Théo?”

Er…. Uh… Well…

“Come over tonight. Let’s talk about this. Come over for dinner. There are things I need to explain to you. You’re part of the family, things shouldn’t turn out this way. “

“Well… Sure. Of course. What time should I come over.”

If you haven’t picked up on it by now, dating in Senegal means dating the whole family. This was actually one of the things I loved about being with Théo. Our relationship gave me access to a whole social and family network, in this city far away from my own family and friends. And it made me feel very connected to Senegal. It was one of the things I regretted about ending things—that in losing him, I might be cutting myself off from a huge part of my Senegal world.

But do not assume that any of that sweetened the prospect of breaking up with Théo for the third time in as many days. Besides which, Théo’s aunt is awesome, caustic, and hilarious—but I was not looking forward to being on the wrong side of her wrath.

The conversation was actually less awkward than I expected. We went in circles for a bit, until she ended with, “If you haven’t found someone else, and you can’t tell me what Théo had done to hurt you, then there's clearly no problem. You should march into the other room to make up and put things back to where they were before. EXACTLY as they were before. None of this talk of friendship. JUST LIKE THEY WERE BEFORE.” And then, that settled, (no need to hear my response) she turned back to the Colombian soap opera on TV.

So I turned back to the soap opera as well. Théo came in a few minutes later (he’d been showering and changing out of his work clothes) and caught my eye to see if his aunt had convinced me, and then he sat down and watched the soap opera with us.

When the show was over, the aunt got up to make dinner, I got up to help, and Théo came in and put away the dry dishes. The phrase, “anywhere but here” may have flitted through my thoughts, but the potatoes needed peeling, and I’d been invited for dinner, so… there I stayed.

It’s over now. I think. Or at least, I’m pretty sure. Unless his mother comes to town and wants to give me a piece of her mind.

Not as cool as a beehive

2006-06-20T09:19:00.000-04:00

I tend to get my hair cut about twice a year. I’ll be merrily going along my way, my hair a glorious halo of split ends and uncontrollable frizz, when one day, the stars align, the mood strikes, and the conditioner runs out, and I know—really, truly, in the fiber of my being—that I need a haircut.

And when such an insight strikes, delay is impossible. Did Einstein roll over in bed and say, E= something squared, but I’ll work it out in the morning? Did Julia Child say, I’ll cook up those leeks tomorrow, let’s get take-out?

No more can I look at the stringy ponytail in the mirror and say, I should make an appointment to get my hair cut next week.

Thus, in December, when my regular stylist in DC (by which I mean she’d cut my hair twice before) was unavailable when I called at 10 am looking for an appointment that day, there was no choice but to take whoever was available.

To my great advantage, it must be said, as it turned out to be one of my best haircuts ever. Not because of how my hair looked at the end (my hair always looks the same, except sometimes it’s shorter). But because somehow, despite having almost no hair of his own, this man truly understood mine.

I arrived in his chair, in my typical way, with a vision. A vision of smooth, silky hair, flipping about my face in a stylish, elegant fashion. I sat in front of his mirror pane, tugging at strands, marking off lengths, and describing the celebrity I would resemble, as he stood behind me, watching my reflection in the mirror and listening seriously.

“Except,” I finished, in a nod to modesty, “my hair is kind of curly” (modest, but still maintaining my positive spin) “so I’m not sure it will really work.”

The stylist “uh huh”ed and said, with complete sincerity, “Of course it won’t work. That would look terrible.”

My hopes shattered, I laughed lamely and tried to recover. “Right. But, I just have this dream, that one day, I’ll get a haircut, and it will magically transform my hair into something fabulous.”

He laughed with me, and said, “but in the end, all I can do is cut the hair. When I’m done, it’ll still be the same hair. Just shorter.”

He was right, of course. And so when he described what he could do with my hair, I calmly agreed, and walked out with my hair looking exactly the same, only shorter.

*****

For a while, in Senegal, I had pretty good hair. That was when I first got here, and rain was a long way away, and I slept with a blanket at night. These days, even though I’ve still only seen rain twice, it’s hot and humid, and the frizz factor is high.

After months of gigantic hair and ponytails, the Moment struck last week. I needed a haircut, and I needed it that day.

There are salons de coiffeur on every corner in Dakar, and if I wanted braids or a weave, I’d have a sea of choices. Of course, when I wanted braids, I just bought the fake hair and Marie-Suzanne got to work in the living room.

A haircut is more of a specialty item, although many of the salons also offer coupes. The question becomes, however, do they cut white people hair.

There exist salons in Dakar that cater to white people. Or so I’ve heard. Rose and Michelle have both gotten haircuts in Dakar and each recommended their stylist—Rose more highly than Michelle. But I didn’t really know where to find them. Directions in Dakar tend to be along the lines of, “it’s in Neighborhood X, sort of across from landmark Y, down the third little street on your right.” All the streets have names, but no one knows them, and if they do, they know the name from 5 years ago before somebody or other decided to put up pretty new street signs with brand new names.

So on a sunny Saturday with Michelle in Toubab Diallo and Rose off with a friend, I figured I’d just try my luck at the place around the corner, whose sign advertised “coiffeur mixte” which I’d heard was a euphemism for “we cut white people hair.” Plus, I’d seen the shop featured on “Elles sont Toutes Belles” (Ambush Makeover: Senegal Edition). Admittedly, the girl in the episode was Senegalese and got braids, but overall, I had a good feeling.

I collected Yolande, a Senegalese friend of Marie-Suzanne’s (and mine) for moral support, and headed over there. Where we were promptly informed that the appropriate coiffeuse was on vacation and we’d have to go elsewhere. They suggested another place down the street, and we toddled off.

This place did not advertise their expertise in white people hair, euphemistically or otherwise, but Yolande assured me that they’d promised her they knew what they were doing. Except then they handed me three “look books” to choose a model for the hair that I wanted, and it was full of black people with braids and weaves, and the occasional chemically straightened hair.

I flipped through the books, my dread growing with each fabulous up-do and creative braiding. I even grabbed a French Elle and scanned the high fashion shots to see if I could find something approximating my would-be-glamorous look, but after a few minutes, I fled.

Yolande made my apologies and I started to question the sanity of this project. I had a pretty good idea where to find Michelle’s stylist, and if I hopped in a taxi right then, I’d probably be there in 10 minutes.

Two things stopped me. First, the cost. Not only would I potentially have to pay for TWO taxis (at least $2 round trip) but Michelle’s white person salon charged white people prices—somewhere in the neighborhood of $30 for a haircut. The salon I had just fled would have charged me $10. (Yes, I know. I suck. But remember, I’m skating the edge of unemployed here, and while I still take my fair share of taxis and all, I was tempted by saving money).

The second was… Well…. Say it with me: “I was already committed.” For better or for worse, once I’ve started something, even when I begin to see disaster looming, even when the skywriter finishes spelling out “D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R” and the plane flies by with the banner behind it reading, “This wasn’t a good idea, Naomi, seriously” and the little birdie on my shoulder chirps “nobody will be mad if you change your mind”… Well…. I’m already committed. That’s just all there is to say.

So when the second salon Yolande led me to didn’t offer haircuts, but the third did (for only $6!), I ignored the tremor in my gut, and sat right down.

What’s the worst that could happen? I thought to myself. It will make for a funny story.

And anyway, my hair always looks the same after every haircut. Just shorter.

And when the stylist didn’t seem to realize that wetting my hair with a spray bottle wasn’t quite the same as washing it, and when I had to ask specially for conditioner, I still didn’t flinch.

And when she did a passable job of cutting it straight across the back (very, very carefully) and a not completely terrible job of cutting some angles in the front in my bangs, I didn’t collect my chips, and walk away from the table.

I said, “I’d also like you to do some layers in the back.”

Now, perhaps if at this moment she’d said, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about” I might have had the courage to walk away. But in Senegal, in all cases, people give you the answer they know you want to hear, regardless of the truth. “I’ll be there in ten minutes” even though they’re an hour away and don’t have transportation. “The bread is oven-fresh” even though it’s the same bread that was two days old yesterday.

And, in this case, “Layers in the back? Of course! That will look really good!”

And so she began to cut. A second layer. Not “layered”. Not “angled.” Just two lengths of hair going around my head.

She began in the back, and I had an inkling of what was happening. But it wasn’t until she got to the side that I could see what she was doing, and my fears were confirmed. With the pit in my stomach now rock hard with regret, I stopped her and tried to explain what I wanted and what she was doing wrong.

But she had no idea what I was talking about. And faced with the hard facts of my hair and her scissors, she had no choice but to admit it. At this point, everyone in the salon had circled round, and they were all trying to interpret my weird white girl, broken French, descriptions. Even translated into Wolof, I could tell that none of them had gotten it. And besides, it was too late. She’d already cut half of my hair that way.

So I just said, “don’t worry about it. It’s fine. It’s great. Just finish.”

She looked slightly offended and kind of worried, but she kept cutting. Three-quarters of the way through, on the other side, I finally saw her cutting a gradual layer. When she’d finished the bit, she grinned at me sheepishly, and said, “that was what you meant, wasn’t it?”

I laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. But it’s not a big deal. Anyway, the other side is already cut.”

“No, I can fix it. The other side is a bit longer. I can even it all out.”

With no other options, really, I agreed. And when she was finished, she was so pleased with the result that I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. “It looks great!” I said, wondering if it was still long enough to pull into a ponytail, and if I should just buy some fake hair on the way home so I could braid my hair until it grew out.

I got home and examined it in the mirror critically. Then I called my friend and my sister on SKYPE and we laughed at the disaster and at how typically ME this particular disaster was.

But a week on, I have to admit, that I’ve gotten over the hate. It’s short, which is nice in the heat. And it’s kinda cute, in a curly, short hair kind of way. When I fluff it up and wear earrings, I even kind of like it.

And anyway, it looks like my hair always looks. Just shorter.

The times, they are a-changing

2006-06-15T11:17:00.000-04:00

Last night, it rained. Just a sprinkle really, with some impressive sounding wind. Not that the scattered drops weren’t plenty to leave the kerang-kerang** road in front of my apartment a muddy, puddly mess. The only question now is whether we’ll need boots to slosh through the mud once the rainy season really picks up, or if we’d be better off with hip waders.

This was only the second time I’d seen rain in Senegal, and I may sound properly wary and cynical of the impending disgustingness that will be Dakar: Version Wet, but it’s a front. I’m still giddy and excited to see rain, feeling the need to point it out to everyone I pass (I am nothing if not a master of the obvious), and happy to walk through the drizzle without a jacket or umbrella for the sheer pleasure of feeling the drops on my skin.

In other developments, I’ve moved. In keeping with my plan to do everything Rose does, (including the part where I become a successful, self-sustaining journalist), I took over the second room in her apartment after her previous roommate left Dakar. Which makes it sound like one or the other of us chased her out of town. Totally not true. I swear. I’m pretty sure it was the maid who left the sheep’s head in her bed. And it was just a cultural misunderstanding anyway.

Regardless, the room was empty, and I pounced. I now live a five-minute walk from a gorgeous beach. You can see the ocean from my bedroom window.

I love living by the ocean. LOVE. And, because I don’t really have much work on at the moment (let’s not dwell, m’kay? Freelancing is hard. I’m working on it.) I have plenty of time to take advantage.

Today, for instance, I will be heading over there (as soon as I finish this blog entry) for some attaya and djembe drumming.

See, I’m not the only person in Africa with a little time on her hands. There’s one or two others who are… underemployed. (Is that considered an understatment if 40% of Senegal’s working age population don’t have jobs?) So when I showed up at the beach on a weekday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, I met a beach bum/musician who hangs out there all day, everyday.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, he was teaching me djembe drumming. (One thing being an invitation to sit over by the parasols near a snack/drinks shop, and another being an invitation to teach me djembe drumming). I was somewhat wary, but he neither declared his love for me nor did he ask for my phone number, so I think we might actually be able to be friends. Friends who teach each djembe drumming. Rock.

Before I go, however, a random story that will only interest those of you who have seen my hands.

I have… sort of weird thumbs. They’re kind of… Toe-like. Or, the one on my right hand is. The one on my left hand is closer to normal.

I’ve always been vaguely embarrassed about it, but then, I figure everybody’s got their own toe-thumb deformity (double-jointed this, extra long toes that, what have you). Plus, people tend not to notice until I point it out. Not like a sixth finger (which, by the way, a woman in one of our Guinean million-places had, growing right out of her pinky. Now that was freaky).

But yesterday, I was hanging out with Michelle and I discovered the she ALSO has the sameweird mis-matched toe thumbs. No wonder we’re friends.

**kerang-kerang: Wolof for… a bad road. Bad pavement, potholes, poorly graded, what have you.

Yes. Yes, it can always get worse.

2006-06-13T11:52:00.000-04:00

Rose and I are sitting on the gravelly shoulder of a road. Again. Some more. This time in Senegal at 11 o’clock at night.

The other passengers of the 7-place are arranged along the shoulder or sprawled out on the rocks further off the road. The driver, a couple of the male passengers, and a driver from another passing 7-place are fussing under the hood, an activity that has occupied them for at least half an hour.

We’d been on the road for nearly 40 hours. The glamorous coating of dried sweat and red dirt gave us the healthy glow of a fresh mystic tan. The last real meal we remembered was some rice and sauce in a town 25 hours back during another breakdown. Since then it had been bread, mangoes, and, because I couldn’t—COULD NOT—eat more bread, a box of hard-to-find (in Guinea) imported Turkish cookies. And, just before crossing back into the luxurious arms of home, sweet Senegal, there were grilled beef skewers.

And. In Labe. Cold Fanta Citron. We’d been dreaming about it since the walk to Guinea, when I’d promised Rose I’d buy her the coldest Fanta Citron in all of Mali, if only the mountains didn’t kill us. There was no Fanta Citron in Mali, nor, for that matter, were there any cold drinks at all. But three days and hundreds of kilometers of terrible mountain road later, I made good on my promise. We bolted them down in 35 seconds while the driver gestured impatiently (not at us, it turned out). It might have been the best 35 seconds of the trip. Certainly the best 35 seconds of that day.

Now, nearly 30 hours later, we were so close to Dakar, I could taste my bed. The hot shower. The clean clothes.

Rose: I’ve never been on a trip like this before. I mean, you get the occasional landslide—

—she was being literal, referring to a trip in Asia, where she escaped a midnight landslide by hitching a ride in the pouring rain on a tractor with no headlights driven by a drunken Chinese man—

—but not landslide, after landslide, after landslide. Every time I think it can’t get any worse…

But every time, it did get worse. This was our 4th 7-place in two days. Except in Guinea, they put 11 people (not including children) in the same car, plus any number of people on the roof. We’d spent the entire previous day and night crammed into the middle row of the station wagon so tightly our hips were bruised and the people on either side had to lean their heads out the windows.

We’d broken down so many times we’d lost count. We’d crossed a river on a hand-cranked ferry at midnight-—and watched two other cars stall out every time they tried to drive onto the ferry, until all the men had to hoist one them from a dead stop with chains and brute strength. We’d spent two hours the previous night sleeping in our Guinean 11-plus-place on the side of the road, while we waited for our driver to come back with a spare part to fix the car that he couldn’t get moving anymore, even with all the tricks he’d used the previous 25 times the car wouldn’t start. Then we spent 3 more hours sleeping in the next town, 45 minutes on, waiting for the sun to rise, because he’d given up on trying to get the headlights working.

And, finally back in Senegal, in a car with the same number of passengers as seatbelts (if the car actually had any seatbelts), we’d grown cocky.

When we’d stopped at sundown for the Muslim passengers to pray, I’d called Théo.

Naomi: Guess where I am!

Théo: Are you back?

Naomi: Well…. No. But I’m close. I’ll be sleeping in my bed tonight. We’re supposed to be back in Dakar before 1 in the morning.

At 8:30 am, dirty and exhausted, traumatized, near tears, and laughing hysterically, I finally collapsed into my bed.

“How was Guinea?” people kept asking over the next few days.

“Well…” I’d say, and pause. “It was beautiful there. The mountains are spectacular.”

It can’t get no worse

2006-05-20T12:36:00.000-04:00

Blood thundering, echoing through my ears. Sweat pouring off my face. Heaving, rasping breaths.

And we’ve only been climbing this “mountain” for 10 minutes.

I reason with myself. Everyone else seems to be fine. I can’t need a break. If I ask to stop, everyone will know how out of shape I am.

I chug down more sun-boiled water.

Rose: Shall we take a moment?

Naomi: [Be cool. Be cool.] Oh dear God, yes. I think I’m dying.

We stop, and our entourage of ten-year-old guides waits patiently for us to recover. It’s not yet 9 am, and the heat is already breaking us. It’s our second day in Dindafalou, and we’re heading up one of the nearby mountains to see some caves and the source of the waterfall. We’d heard about the hike from our new friend Ricard (his nickname), who we’d picked up in the village the night before.

Naomi and Rose: What do people do in Dindafalou on a Saturday night?

Ricard: Dindafalou? This village on the Guinean border? In the middle of the bush? With no electricity? Or roads?

Naomi and Rose: Right. That’s the one. Where’re are the cool kids hanging out tonight?

Ricard: [Oh lord. How do I always get stuck with these crazy white people?] Well… You should probably just hope that someone invites you to their house. [Damn. Now it’s hanging out there. Stupid Senegalese hospitality.] Soooo… would you like to come over for Senegalese tea tonight?

Naomi and Rose: Yeah, sounds great!

Ricard, who also worked at our campement, turned out to be a font of knowledge and suggestions. Not unlike most of the other people we met along our way, who also had plenty of ideas of where we should go, and how we should get there. But Ricard’s information was different, in that it was all true.

To wit:
Rose’s taxi driver in Dakar: You’re going to Mali! That’s where I’m from! The road there is fantastic, and there are cars that go all the time!

Road to Mali: He’s lying. I don’t exist.

Everyone we asked besides Ricard: The market in Dindafalou starts first thing in the morning, by about 8 am.

Ricard: It doesn’t get going until around 1 pm, when all the out of town vendors arrive.

Market at 8 am: What? You’re here? No, I’m up, I’m up. I swear, I wasn’t sleeping. I’m just… Can you come back in a few hours?

And thus we found ourselves following his suggestion of hiking up the mountain in the morning, before it got “too hot.”

We’d picked up our guides in our usual way. We started walking (in the wrong) direction, and stopped the first friendly face we saw to ask.

Naomi: Which way do we go to get up the mountain?

Little boy: [Points back the way we came, in the direction of the rocky mountain.]

Naomi: Right. So… That way?

Little boy: [Nods]

Naomi: You wanna come with?

Little me: You want me to come with you?

Naomi: You know… if you want to….

Little boy: [shrug]

And then two of his friends materialized to keep him company, and we were off. And up.

I guess I expected a hill. You know, maybe a bit steep in parts. With a few good spots to enjoy the pretty view.

What we got was essentially vertical rock climbing. Any steeper and we’d have needed crampons. During our second break, I asked an ill-advised question: Is this the same hill you climb to get to Guinea?

Because, after talking the night before to Ricard, we’d determined that we’d probably be walking to Guinea. We’d always considered it a possibility, and despite the unexpected presence of real mountains and the soul-melting heat, we still thought we could handle 30 km in a single day. Word was, you climbed the first hill, had a long, flat walk, and then climbed a second hill right before the end. Seemed doable.

Little kid: No, you don’t have to climb this hill to get to Guinea.

Naomi: Phew!

Little kid: You climb that one [points]. It’s bigger.

At this point, I began to doubt our walking to Guinea plan. How would I survive a hill bigger and steeper than this one, while carrying my backpack, and my share of the many liters of water we’d need?

I silenced my doubts (though not my pounding pulse or hacking gasps for air) and kept climbing.

****
Rose: So we’ll just ask around the market. Someone’s got to have a car or truck and be driving back towards Mali.

Naomi: Absolutely. And that way, we’ll probably get there tonight, and have a whole extra day in Guinea.

Rose: It’s not that we couldn’t have walked.

Naomi: Oh, we totally could have.

Rose: It’s just that it’s so hot. And carrying all that water!

Naomi: We’re still totally hardcore.

Rose: The hardest.

****
Naomi: So….

Rose: What if we bribe the Senegalese border guard to just give you a new stamp in your passport?

Naomi: The blind one?

Rose: Yeah. He won’t care. And then we’ll go to the National Park near Kedougou, and who cares that we didn’t *actually* leave the country.

Naomi: Right. What were we going to do in Guinea anyway?

Rose: Plus, we can always tell everyone we were there. What do they know?

****
It was hot. Really hot. There were cars going to Kedougou. But nothing going to Mali. There were rumors that cars might possibly go to Mali from nearby Segou. We might just have to wait a few days until one passed. Or a week.

We’d had lunch (bread, avocado, mango) and cooled off with a drink of refreshingly tepid bottled water (ahhh!), and it was decision time.

Were we going to go backwards? Back to Kedougou (and the amazing steak frites dinner)? Or were we going to brave forward? Cross the frontier?

Suddenly Ricard—friendly, knowledgeable, bald, Ricard—appeared at our side.

“How’s it going?”

We spilled our fears, our hopes, our dreams of reaching Mali, and the obstacles in our way. Could we make it to Guinea? Would someone carry our stuff?

And Ricard, a man of few words, but who made them count, took charge. We would spend the night at his house, and leave at 4 am with Muxtar, our newly-hired guide. There would be a bicycle waiting at the top of the first mountain, and Muxtar would use that to carry our backpacks and water across the 30+ km. We’d buy bread and sardines and 15 litres of water and spend the hottest part of the afternoon in a village at the base of the final mountain (if we were good walkers). We could be in Mali by 10 pm or earlier. If we walked slowly, we’d spend the night in the village, and climb the mountain the following morning.

Rose: Okay, sure, the mountain was tough this morning. But we didn’t ACTUALLY have heart attacks.

Naomi: And it was over in 45 minutes. Plus, it’ll still be dark at 4 am, so it won’t be so hot.

Rose: The flat part won’t be a problem at all. So just two little mountains at the beginning and end.

Naomi: We can so do this. .

Rose: Totally.

And that, my friends, THAT is how I ended up climbing up the rocky face of a small mountain in the pre-dawn, our path lit by the moon and Rose and my headlamps. And though the brutal heat of the sun was hours away, it was already hot and humid, and I was already covered in a greasy layer of sweat.

And here’s where I’ll finally get back to my original point, which is that, if I had never run a marathon, I would never have believed that I could climb two mountains and walk 30 or so kilometers. I wouldn’t have entertained the possibility, and I would have found some other way to leave the country. But post-marathon-Naomi? Scoffs at physical pain. 30 kilometers? Is that all, she says?

You know what? Despite those niggling early morning doubts, the truth is that 2 little mountains and 30 km really is entirely doable. What I didn’t know then was that Ricard, reliable, informative, Ricard, had employed a wee bit of… understatement.

The first “mountain” was small. The second was… well, to be blunt, enormous. Our first clue came when the sun rose, and Muxtar pointed to the giant mountain range looming far ahead.

Muxtar: That’s the mountain we need to climb to get to Guinea.

Rose: He’s joking.

Naomi: I don’t know why you think that.

Rose: Ricard said nothing about such a big mountain. Ricard never lies.

Naomi: Oh…. Kay.

On we marched toward the mountain that loomed ever larger with each step.

Muxtar: Actually, we have to climb 3 mountains.

Rose: That’s not true.

Naomi: Why would he lie?

Rose: Why would my taxi driver tell me there were cars to Mali? Everybody lies.

Naomi: So… Right.

It turned out that Muxtar wasn’t telling the truth about there being three mountains to climb.

There were four.

And when he told us later that we’d have to walk a bit farther from the peak to arrive at Mali, that wasn’t true either.

It was two hours of scrambling into and out of dry riverbeds, up steep hills (the kind I thought passed for “mountains” in West Africa, until I was confronted with the real thing), downhill for a moment, and then up even more steep hills.

As Rose began to question whether Mali even existed, I began to argue with Muxtar about the remaining hills.

“We only need to go up, and then down, and then up, and then down, and then up one final time,” he reassured me.

“But you said that half an hour ago, and we’ve already gone up and down twice since then. So this has to be the last hill.” I reasoned, very logically, and not at all petulantly, as if I could argue away the existence of the three hills that remained between us and our destination. It was nearly 10 pm. Muxtar, who was still carrying all our stuff, just smiled patiently, and said, “It’s not far. We’re almost there.”

****
This is an awful lot of whining for what was, in reality, a beautiful hike. We passed through tiny villages, and admired the sunrise (and the sunset). We stopped in one village and offered a man 40 cents for some mangoes from his tree. He started picking, and before we understood what was happening, Muxtar was piling more than twenty mangoes into the already outlandish load he was leading on his bicycle.

We spent a couple hours resting (in a sweaty, sore, heap) in a village at the base of a mountain, where they shared their lunch and their tea, and cheerfully wished us well on the rest of our journey.

And, at first as a distraction against fatigue and the heat, and later because it was so entertaining, (and as a distraction against the exhaustion and pain) Rose and I told each other story after story from our lives and those of our friends.

Rose: Everything you’ve ever heard about boarding school is true…

Naomi: … just as she was about to get deported…

And when we finally arrived in Mali near 10 pm, a mere 18 hours after we’d left Dindafalou, we were tired. We were upset that people had so understated the mountain and the subsequent 10 km. But we weren’t broken.

Yet.

****
Random boy from village: Hello! [Knock, knock, knock] Grand! Hello!

Naomi: HELLOOOOO! [BANG, BANG, BANG.] HEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLOOOOOOO!!??

Rose: There’s nobody there.

Muxtar: There’s nobody there.

Naomi: [BANG. BANG. BANG] HELLLLLOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

We knew of one hotel in the village of Mali. It was called the Auberge Indigo, and a Peace Corps volunteer we’d met in the village before climbing the last mountain had told us about it.

It’s right by the entrance to the village, she’d assured us.

Of course, she’d also told us that from the peak of the mountain, it’d be an hour’s flat walk to Mali. Everybody lies.

When we finally arrived in the village, we asked for help finding the hotel. 30 minutes of (hilly) walking later, we’d finally arrived at the Auberge. There was a light on inside, but the gate was locked.

Muxtar: There’s nobody there.

Naomi: [BANG. SOB. BANG.] Hello?

Rose: Where else can we stay tonight?

Muxtar: I know a place.

It was a block or so from where we’d been when we arrived and asked for directions to the Auberge. It was also pitch black and deserted.

Rose: And here I was wondering how tonight could get worse.

Muxtar: There’s nobody there.

Rose: Where else can we stay tonight?

Muxtar: I know a place.

We started walking again. It was now after 11 pm.

Rose: All I want is a bed and a place where I can wash off all this sweat.

Naomi: I caution you against getting your hopes up.

And here is where deliverance appeared, in the form of two boys on a motorcycle. They stopped to talk to Muxtar.

Rose: I’m going to ask them for a place to stay.

She meant at their house. Amazingly, however, there was a guesthouse. A weird, almost complete hotel/apartment/villa with tiled, fitted bathrooms, (including large tubs and bidets, in a place with no running water) and built-in light fixtures (in a place with no electricity). There was also a giant, king size bed, with a real, toubab mattress. And while Rose broke down in the bathroom, I settled the details with our well-meaning, but slightly clueless hosts, who wanted to know if we’d be ready to go sightseeing at 7 in the morning, and if maybe we wanted to look at the other rooms before deciding which one to sleep in. (Rose: JUST LEAVE! NOW!)

And we finally settled into bed, hysterically, desperately laughing at our exhaustion, at the employee from the Auberge Indigo who had chased us down right before we found our new hotel, and who wanted us to follow him 45 minutes in the OTHER direction back to his hotel (“But I’m here now! I went out to get some bread! But I’m here!”) and at how much we wished we were back home in Senegal.

But then I stopped laughing. “We can’t just leave here and go back to Senegal tomorrow,” I told Rose. “We have to stay here, and we have to have fun. This trip can’t just be about having an awful time. We’ve come so far to get here. Things have to get better now.”

To be continued…

It's Getting Better All the Time

2006-05-14T14:56:00.000-04:00

There was a moment, as I climbed straight up the rocky face of a small mountain, two hours before the sun would rise, carrying a plastic bag with seven loaves of bread, behind Rose with her backpack, who was behind our guide, Muxtar, with my backpack and 15 liters of water on his head, that I regretted ever having run a marathon.

Bear with me here. This makes sense. Eventually.

We were in the farthest, southeastern corner of Senegal, on route to a brief jaunt to Guinea. I needed to get out of the country so I could come back in and get a new stamp on my passport—and therefore another three months to live here on a tourist visa. Rose was there because… Well because naïve as we were, we thought a brief jaunt to Guinea sounded like the makings of a rocking good time.

Universe: Did you miss me?
Naomi: Do you really want me to answer that?

“It’s supposed to be beautiful over there.” Rose told me when we were planning this trip. “Hills and forests. There’s a National Park with lions! And the Bassari people!”

We pulled out my Lonely Planet and read about southeastern Senegal.

Lonely Planet: It’s beautiful there! Hills and forests! And a National Park with lions! And the Bassari people!

Naomi: And Guinea-Conakry is right there, so we can just head over to Maliville, get a stamp in the passport and I’m golden.

Lonely Planet: And Guinea-Conakry is right there. Maliville is the closest town. (This one woman hiked and biked between Senegal and Mali (it took her 13 hours) and she had a great time!)

Rose: We can walk to Guinea! And it looks like it’s only 30 km. That’s doable, right?

Naomi: Totally. How did it take that woman 13 hours to do 30km on a bike? We could do that in half the time and still not rush.

Rose: Absolutely.

Universe: It’s not even fun when you make it this easy.

Naomi: Did you hear something?

Rose: Hmm? They have good indigo cloth in Mali!

Naomi: Ooh!

And so, with a brief stop at the Guinean embassy to pick up a visa, we were off at 9 pm on Thursday night. We planned to take a 7-place to Tambakounda through the night and then take a second one to Kedagou, our first destination. 7-places, also called Bush Taxis, are ancient Peugot station wagons with seats for 7 plus a driver. They are fairly cheap, go everywhere, and go direct to their destination, just as soon as it fills up.

Rose: We need a car to Tambakounda.

Senegalese 7-place drivers: That’s interesting.

Rose: Is there a car going to Tambakounda?

Senegalese 7-place drivers: Not tonight! Want to go to Banjul instead? Or how about St. Louis?

Rose and Naomi: Right. So we’ll just go home for a bit and try this again tomorrow. Actually, this is a GREAT plan. We totally MEANT to leave tomorrow morning at 4 am.

And so at 4 am on Friday morning, we were off. For real. Nothing could stop us now.

Peugot Station Wagon: [cough] Actually… [sputter] I’m really sorry, but [cou-sputter] I’m not feeling very well.

At 9:30 am on Friday morning, our car broke down. It was already brutally hot (or so we naively thought. Much hotter days were coming) so we ambled over to the shade of a near tree, and admired the gigantic gash I had ripped in my pants while climbing out of the way back where we were crammed with a typically enormous Senegalese dame "of a certain age," and her four-year-old son (grandson? Nephew? Who knows).

The driver and two of the male passengers were fussing under the hood, and after about 45 minutes they called us back over, and we all pushed the car while the driver pumped the gas and turned the ignition until eventually the engine turned over, and we were off.

Peugot Station Wagon: I think I can, I know I can. I think I can, I know I can. I think I can, I… oh god. Ooh. [splurgh.] I don’t think I can.

An hour later, we broke down again, about 100 m outside of some tiny village.

Naomi: I’ve always wanted to see a water tower created with the cooperation between Senegal and Japan!

Rose: What luck! For there in front of us is a water town created under cooperation between Senegal and Japan!

We pushed the car to the village, and the driver started fussing with the engine again. And then he flagged down a bus, negotiated a fare for all his passengers, handed us our bags, and send us on our way.

Naomi: I’ve always wanted to be crammed into a bus with an extra bench jammed into my knees with people packed in like sardines on my way to Tambakounda!

Rose: What luck! For here we are, crammed into a bus with a furnace-exhaust breeze washing over us, stuck on a bus stopping every 5 km, crammed in with a bazillion people on our way to Tambakounda!

But arrive in Tambakounda we eventually did, and our 7-place to Kedogou left soon after, and we were there before nightfall. We checked into a lovely hut at an inexpensive campement, where we had a phenomenal dinner of steak frites and tomato-avocado salad. And when Rose sighed cutely at the proprietor that she really wanted a mango for dessert, someone hopped on his bike and went and got us one.

Rose and Naomi: Okay, so today didn’t start off great, but it’ll only get better from here on out.

Universe: Define “better.”

Naomi: I swear I heard something. Did you hear that?

Rose: What? Check out this thing about a waterfall in Dindafalou. It’s right on the border with Guinea so it’s totally on our way. We can spend the night there, hang out at the waterfall, and hit the market in the morning, and then continue on to Guinea the next day.

Naomi: Ooh! Sounds great.

And so we hit the road again at 7:30 the next morning, found out where we’d need to go to get our exit stamps from Senegal — a village on the way to Dindafalou — and went back to the bus station.

There was a bus going to Dindafalou, but after sitting in it for a half hour or so, they admitted that it certainly wouldn’t fill up and head out until late in the afternoon. Or maybe not until the next day, when people would be going to Dindafalou for the market.

Rose: Hmm…

Naomi: Maybe we should see if we can get a taxi to take us?

Rose: Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. We can always come back here, the bus isn’t going anywhere.

Taximan: Sure. I’ll drive to Dindafalou with y’all. For one meeeeeeeeeellion dollars! Hahahahah!

Other taximen: Hahahaha!

Rose: Seriously, what’s your best price?

Taximan : Hahahahaha.

Other taximen: Hahahahaha!

Rose and Naomi: New plan. We go find the road to Dindafalou and see if we can find any cars going out there.

Taximan: It’s over that way. Hahahahaha!

Other Taximen: Hahahahahaa!

Universe: Oh this is just painful. Go on then.

Naomi: Hmm? Did you say something Rose?

Rose: No, but this family is going to Dindafalou in this 4x4 and they say we can have a ride.

We’d been sitting under a tree for an hour or so on the road towards Dindafalou, with a couple other people looking for rides in that direction. We were directly across from the Peace Corps headquarters, where we’d gotten a decidedly chilly reception from the dude hanging out there. But the magoes we bought from woman who wandered by a bit later washed the bad taste of that encounter out of our mouths. And then we were back on the road.

Well, road might be a generous term. As we bounced over a narrow, rocky trail that wound around trees, through dry riverbeds, and back up the steep riverbank, we understood what the taximen in their ancient little cars were laughing about. And then we looked at each other.

Rose: How the hell does the bus get through this trail?

Naomi: There must be another road. Right?

Guy in 4x4: Nope!

Rose and Naomi: Thank god we’re not on that bus!

Nearly three hours later, after a (unduly long) stop to get our exit stamps from a blind (or possibly illiterate) border official, we’d finally traveled the 35 km to Dindafalou. Our 4x4 dropped us right off at the village campement and we checked into our second cute little hut.

And after getting ripped off for a greasy omellete for lunch, we picked up a random village kid who offered to show us the way to the waterfall. Where for the first time in two days, in the forest-y shade and splashing around with 50 or so village kids in the cool pool of water at the base of the waterfall, we felt cool and not sweaty.

Rose: This is amazing.

Naomi: Right here, this spot. Pure joy.

Naomi and Rose: And this place is so beautiful.

To be continued….

He's Got Game

2006-05-02T14:26:00.000-04:00

On the way over to the party, Jenna (an exchange student from San Diego who has been in Senegal since August) and I joke about how she is going to behave. She is dressed like a man, and she is looking forward to playing up the role.

“Oh, la belle gazelle! Do you ever get that one? I HATE that one?” she laughs.
“Yes! Yesterday! I just heard that one for the first time yesterday!”

She is going to try out all the lines we’ve been getting, incessantly, from Senegalese men since we got here. Preferably on all the ones skimpily (cross-)dressed as women.

“Except,” I say, after we’ve gone through all the best possibilities, “they might like it. They’ll probably think it’s great and end up wanting to take you home to meet their families.”

And, snickering, we walk into the party, where the music is already blasting, and there are scores of young Senegalese Catholics in seriously improbable outfits celebrating Mardi Gras.

I am there with Suzanne and three other toubabs—Jenna, and Katherine and Drew, who are students from Georgetown. We mostly stay together—it was only a few weeks after I’d gotten here, and I didn’t really know that many people—dancing, and laughing over the most ridiculous costumes.

And then.

“Okay, who is that guy who is just STANDING there? He’s totally staring at me.” I use the playful tone from before. The “god don’t you hate how aggressive the Senegalese men are” tone. But my eyes have been drawn in his direction more than a few times since I noticed him looking. Amid the crowd of silly dancing and sillier costumes, he’s standing still. Observing, with gorgeous eyes and a hint of a smile.

“Him?” Jenna looks over. “Isn’t that Théo? Suzanne’s brother? He’s not usually like that. I don’t know what’s up.”

“Oh wait. I met him before. It’s probably nothing then.” I look over, make eye contact and smile. He smiles back. And then stops watching me.

And later, Jenna says, “You’re right, now he’s staring at me.”

“You see what I mean? It’s a little weird right?” Right. He wasn’t watching me. He was watching people.

The costume contest/parade begins and the whole party flocks to find a good spot to watch. I pull over a chair to stand on, but plenty of other people have had the same idea, and it’s hard to see. Most of the entrants are guys, and they play up to the heckling and the cat calls, sashaying down the makeshift runway with artificially padded hips. There’s a mock kiss between a mock couple and the crowd squeals. It’s loud and hilarious, and would be even more so if I had any idea who these guys were. As it is, I can’t decide between the guy dressed as a conservative granny (complete with hair net) or the guy dressed in a micromini that he easily pulls off better than I would.

The voting is done by applause, and I have no idea who we’re voting for, or who ends up winning.

Somehow, I always know where Théo is, and somehow it’s always just a little out of speaking range.

The contest finished, the dancing starts again. I find Suzanne, Jenna, Katherine, and Drew. A girl wanders over. I’d joked with her when we were paying our admission (“Are you going to dance?” “Hell yeah, I’m going to dance.” “Show me your moves.” “After you.” “I’ll see you inside”). We dance together for a few counts, and she laughs. “You dance really well.” And she wanders off.

And then Théo is there, dancing with us, saying hi to Suzanne and Jenna. I wait for him to say hi to me. He doesn’t. I turn a little and dance in his direction. He smiles. A little kid comes over during an Mbalax song, which is a particular type of Latin/Senegalese music made popular by Youssou N’Dour. It goes with a very bizarre Senegalese dance that involves some sort of cross between the Charleston, the twist, and the running man. The little kid shows off some of his mbalax skills, and I copy him a little (as best as I can in the long Senegalese pagne I’m wearing as my costume). Théo seems amused.

Around midnight, the music stops and the party is over. Everyone swarms towards the exit en masse, and I’m certain that now Théo will talk to me. I nonchalantly walk towards the exit. Outside, I realize that Théo has walked off, and now I’ve also lost sight of Suzanne and the others. I find Suzanne a moment later, but Théo is nowhere to be seen.

***

When people asked me why I was single, which they asked A LOT, I told them that it was because I didn’t want a boyfriend. That if I’d had a boyfriend or a husband in the States, I probably would never have come to Senegal. That I’m here to work and to learn and not to date.

A lot of people accepted that answer, although it did set me up for my share of, “how can you learn all about Senegalese culture if you refuse to experience EVERYTHING about Senegalese culture?”

Sometimes they’d ask me if it was because I didn’t want to date a black person. I told them that wasn’t it, although I would prefer to date a Jewish person. That was something people understood: everyone is very religious here and they tend not to date across religious lines (although it happens).

If all else failed, I could usually put an end to the conversation with: “I’m not saying that I would never date someone here. But I’m not looking for anyone.”

Most of it was true, and some of it was convenient. Mostly I was saying, to whoever I was talking to, that I didn’t want to date them, and most of them got it without my having to be more explicit. A couple times, I tried lying and telling people I was married, but I wasn’t any good at that, and people could always tell.

***

A few weeks after Mardi Gras pass, and I mostly put Théo out of my mind. I know that I’m going to see him at Easter, which Suzanne has invited me to share with her family. If I’m honest, I know that I’m looking forward to it. But I’ve never really even spoken to him. And I remind myself that—even if it felt like the not-talking at Mardi Gras was very calculated or at least very shy—there’s sometimes a much simpler reason for not talking. And the fact that I haven’t seen him since? Tends to support the “he’s not that into you” theory.

Anyway, I’m not looking for a boyfriend.

Except that one day Suzanne comes back from her day off and says that Théo asked about me.

I knew it.

***

And then it was Easter.

I could tell you all about the little flirtations and the continued not-talking and the smiling from far away and about how he drew it out until the last possible second, when I was leaving at the crack of dawn the next morning. When I was finally convinced that I’d completely imagined the whole thing, and that I’d managed to pick the one guy in Senegal who had no interest in dating me. (You’ll excuse the frustrated exaggeration of a girl with a crush.)

But the important part is that, all of a sudden, the smiling continued, and he wasn’t far away. The not-talking stopped, and a few other things started.

And I'm not going to lie (I was never any good at that anyway). It's an awful lot of fun.

Where's a matzah ball when you need one?

2006-04-30T12:11:00.000-04:00

It was bound to come up eventually.

On Friday, I ventured, for the first time since arriving in deep, dark Africa, to the doctor.

I got her name from the US Embassy website for Americans living in Dakar, (and found her again on the French Embassy website) and I called first thing in the morning to make an appointment. This was, by far, the most difficult part of the operation, as the receptionist kept asking me whom the appointment was for, and I kept saying, “for Dr. X. I want to make an appointment with Dr. X.” Apparently she knew that part already.

I’d been sick for nearly a week, with what I kept insisting was “just a cold.” I don’t really like going to the doctor or taking medicine, because I’m young and healthy and antibiotics are overprescribed and that’s why God gave me an immune system. Also, I have an unreasonable fear of being told to quit being such a big baby, there’s nothing wrong with you. But that might (possibly?) just be one of my Issues.

So instead of going to the doctor, I chose to whimper and whine my way from Saturday through Thursday, with a fever, a sore throat, and a cough. I alternated between pretending there was nothing wrong (of COURSE I will still go to the outdoor dance party until 4:30 am on Saturday night. Why wouldn’t I?) and writing out my will (to the intestinal parasite in my belly, I leave my favorite sandals, because they’re BROKEN, and it serves you right you wormy bitch!**). On Wednesday, I felt enough better to go to dance class and to go running on Thursday morning. On Thursday afternoon, I learned that had been a Bad Idea, as by lunchtime I was back in bed lamenting my fate.

Thursday night, I moaned to Suzanne, “when will I feel better?” and despite having listened to nearly a week of such charm, she managed to refrain from kicking me in the shins. She merely replied, very sensibly, “when you go to the doctor.” And then she went back to watching the Columbian soap opera we’re both addicted to.

Well-played.

And thus we return to the beginning of the story, in which I confuse a receptionist, read about crocheting a dress in the latest summer 2004 styles, and finally see a doctor. She was kind, competent, efficient, and charmingly understanding as I attempted to explain my symptoms in French.

“What does it sound like when you cough?” She asked.
“Err.. It sounds like… [cough]…. That. “
“Ah yes. Of course.” And she nodded and made a note.

She looked in my ears, nose, and throat, and said, yup, you're good and sick all right. She even pointed out (warning: grossness ahead) that I had white spots on the back of my throat, which constitute Not a Good Sign. I, of course, had to get my flashlight and look for myself as soon as I was home and in front of a mirror, and sure enough, it was like I was incubating horrible, white, people-eating mold back there. Turns out it was dead white cells from my immune system's futile attempt at Operation: Heal Thyself, and not evidence of a losing battle with death (thank you Google) but all in all, I was not pleased.

So she (the doctor) prescribed me some antibiotics and some antibiotical throat lozenges which are doing wonders, and also some unnecessary Other Stuff which I have promptly stopped taking (why she felt I needed an antihistamine for an infection is something I don't really understand). I am, however, taking aleve (pain killer/fever reducer), echinacea (to boost my immune system), Halls Mentho-lyptus, and chicken noodle soup (home made!), so I've got all my witch doctoring ducks in a row. But the end result is that I can now swallow without wanting to scream, and I even have the energy to type this blog post. Which is perhaps unfortunate, because now I no longer have an excuse to avoid my work.

So voila. I was sick, but now I’m feeling better. And I promise a more exciting post soon.

** I do not have an intestinal parasite. But tell that to a girl with a fever, a cough, and a stomach ache who lives in Dakar and you might get a kick in the shins. Tell her that when the stomach ache goes away and you might have a more receptive audience. I’m just saying.

Just visiting

2006-04-22T13:44:00.000-04:00

ETA: This felt very true when I started writing it yesterday morning. Now it just kind of feels self-indulgent and overdramatic. But I believed it when I wrote it, so I'm posting it anyway.
---

Yesterday I asked my friend Théo about his childhood.

“I left school in ‘89” he told me. He’s somewhere around my age, so he would have been about 8 years old then. “I went to work in the fields. I did that for about six years, but I didn’t want to do it anymore. I made some money, but not enough. So I decided to come to Dakar to learn a trade. And that’s what I did.”

He says it with no trace of regret or self-pity. No sense that things could have been any different. He is the oldest of six children and the four oldest all live and work in Dakar now and send money home to support their parents and younger siblings. Although I think, to varying degrees, they were able to stay in school longer than Théo, none of them made it to high school. But their youngest brother is nearly 15 now and still in school—his sisters pay his school fees.

When I was eight years old, I took the yellow school bus home from my suburban elementary school every day with my best friend, Sarah, and we spent the afternoons playing games with our cabbage patch dolls (my favorite was when the dolls bungee jumped from her second floor). The biggest injustice in my life was that Sarah had a key to her front door, and my mother refused to entrust me with one of my own (nevermind that I regularly lost lunchboxes, spring jackets, and who knows what else).

We stopped by the apartment Théo shares with two other guys, which is just down the street from mine. It consists of two small windowless rooms with two mattresses and not much else.

My apartment here also has two rooms, if you don’t include my private bathroom with shower and hot water. It is bright and airy with big windows and my monthly rent is a third of what I paid in DC and probably five times what my friend Suzanne, Théo’s sister, makes working here as a maid. When I was having problems with my ATM card, my parents wired me money to keep me going until I could work it out. When we went to Suzanne and Théo’s family for Easter, they brought home money, food, clothes, and a radio to give their parents and brother.

Awa, the other maid here, is a trained seamstress, but can’t afford to buy a sewing machine. Suzanne, who braided my hair, and Anna’s hair, and regularly braids the hair of her friends, cousins and sisters, for free, would love to open a salon with her cousins who also love braiding, but she can’t afford the course to get certified, let alone start a business.

On our walk, I complained to Théo that I’d been up since 6 am working. I hated myself a little for saying it, for needing to prove that there was something valid and difficult about my work, which involved sitting in front of my expensive laptop in my pajamas writing about politics and mining in Senegal. I hated myself even more when he gave the response my comment obviously demanded, “Wow, you’re so dedicated. You must be exhausted.”

There is nothing about my life that is the same as Théo or Suzanne or Awa’s. I don’t really want to believe that. I want to believe, because people dress like they stepped out of a music video and can sing along to Black Eyed Peas, and I live in Dakar and take the cars rapides (buses), that it doesn’t really make a difference that I was born in America and they were born here. I introduced Anna to people as my oldest friend from my village, as if the yuppified New York suburb we grew up in has something in common with the villages my friends here come from. I talk about how I’m making no money, as if my cashflow worries as a freelancer are comparable to my friends’ struggles to earn a living and support their families.

Okay, I know. I get it. You get it. This is Africa. People are poor here. Not exactly breaking news. And there are plenty of Senegalese whose lives are more like mine. I know university students and musicians and a journalist and a photographer. And America has unfortunately far too many people whose lives are far too difficult. I’m just not one of them.

It’s not like I didn’t know this before coming here. But what gets me is this: part of the reason I wanted to live in Africa was because I didn’t just want to come here as a rich, American tourist, staying in western-style hotels, traveling in hired buses, and never penetrating beyond the artificial veneer put on display for Westerners: a stranger who points a camera at the pretty animals and gawks at the primitive huts.

But as many weekends as I might spent in a rural village dancing to tam-tams, as many Muslim pilgrimages I may attend, as many lunchtimes I may spend in the kitchen with Awa and Suzanne hearing their gripes about life and work and boyfriends, I will never not be a rich American who is just visiting. I’m still gawking, I just have more to gawk at. All these wonderful people are opening up their lives to me, and I’m just sitting back and taking it all in, offering nothing in return.

I’m not saying my friends should or do expect anything more from me than friendship. And I’m not saying that they are somehow noble for the facts of their life. They’re just living their lives like I’m living mine, enjoying what is enjoyable and bitching about what sucks, and cracking up over everything in between.

Except that, by accident of birth, I have access to a life of wealth and opportunity and incredible freedom, which I am using to do… what, exactly?

The thing is, I’ve never wanted to change the world, and I still don’t. I have lots of friends who are searching for ways to contribute in some positive way, and while I admire them for it, I’ve never felt driven in that direction. All I’ve ever wanted was to see the world.

Well, now I’m looking.

I'm like Miss Africa 2006 over here - Edited

2006-04-13T14:23:00.000-04:00

Today I woke up with the best of intentions to spend a busy day at the computer, on the internet phone, and in general being a productive freelance journalist. I have a gigantic project due a week from Friday, and needed to get cracking.

Murphy's Law being what it is, I sat down to my computer at 8 am, only for the power to cut out two minutes later. We'd been having such a good run—the last power outage was on Sunday, I think—that I'd not anticipated this possibility.

Well, damn. There's an internet cafe that magically always has power, but I can't really afford to spend an ENTIRE day there. Since i had a phone appointment at 3, I figured I'd go after lunch, and spend the morning doing the other Very Important Project on my to do list.

Laundry.

I hate doing laundry. In DC, I used to wait weeks until the hamper was so densely packed with (smelly running) clothes that it verged on becoming a black hole. And yet the task was fairly painless. My building had a laundry room three floors down with twenty washers and twenty dryers (driers? both look wrong) and within two hours, most of which were spent on my couch watching TV while I waited for the loads to finish, I had dry, fluffy laundry.

Here, it's a little different. As far as I can tell, there are *no* washing machines. There are a couple dry cleaning places I've seen, but really, everybody washes by hand. It's not like they haven't heard of washing machines, but if you ask them, they'll tell you that a machine could never work as well as hand washing.

That may be true, but it turns out that it's also a huge pain in the ass. But the only other option is to pay someone else to do my laundry, and I just can't bring myself to do it. Partly it's the money, but also, I kind of feel weird about asking someone else to scrub my dirty underwear with their bare hands.

Plus, Awa and Suzanne get a huge kick out of watching me scrub away. And between yesterday's cooking and today's laundry, I'm turning into a model African housewife.

Note also my braided hair and sarong (called a "pagne" here). Am I the African-est or what?

I confidently told Awa and Suzanne that the power would be back by the time I was done with my laundry. I didn't really expect it would be, since the usual pattern is for it to stay out until at least 4, if not until after dark. But lo and behold, at 1:30, just as I was gearing up to head to the internet cafe, the power was back. Hurrah!

To see a few other pictures (really very few, it takes forever to upload, and I'm lazy), go here.

ETA: I got ambitious, and uploaded some more pictures. Now you can see vistas of Dakar and scenes from my neighborhood and even Anna standing in a pink lake.

I throw kick ass seder

2006-04-12T20:31:00.000-04:00

All Senegal is celebrating this week. Between the prophet (Muhammed) 's birthday on Monday, and the messiah (Jesus) 's resurrection on Sunday, it would be easy to overlook the third people of the book. But not if you're hanging out with me. I may not know any other Jewish people here, and I may not be cool enough to get invited to the Israeli embassy (or rather, I may have waited too long to call and they didn't have any space left), but that is not going to stop this Jewish girl from commemorating the Exodus. We were slaves, yo, and now we're free, and in my world, that means one thing: dinner party.

A brief explanation for those who are unfamiliar: Passover is one of the most important Jewish holidays. Unlike the other very important holidays, however, the main observance is not in synogogue. Instead, families gather for a ritual meal and retelling of the biblical story of exodus (think Charlton Heston and The Ten Commandments).

This is only the second time in my life that I haven't been home for Passover, and I may not be the most observant Jew in the whole world, but I needed to have a seder.

Y'all. I have never hosted a dinner party in my life.

Okay, that's not really true. In college, my roommates and I used to have people over for dinner all the time. But in a quasi-apartment-dorm kitchen, there's not a lot of pressure. Plus, we used to cook together. Which actually had a tendency to cause more problems than it solved, but still. I've never cooked an important or a fancy meal. My sister is the master chef of our family, and has been cooking all our family meals (Thanksgiving, Passover, and everything in between) since she was in high school. Which left me free to specialize in what I really loved: dessert.

So the prospect of feeding the nearly 10 friends that I invited (to my friend's apartment, since I don't have a kitchen or dining room) was slightly terrifying.

I planned a fairly simple menu, conveniently leaving out or changing the traditional foods that i didn't like. Such as: in my family, Charoset—which symbolizes the mortar the Slave-Jews used in Egypt—is made with apples, walnuts, raisins, and wine. I think. I never eat more than the tiniest taste, since I think both walnuts and raisins are gross. Since all the other recipes I found called for things I didn't think I could find here (candied ginger? pistacios? err...) I figured I'd improvise. So my charoset had apples, dried apricots, orange, and a little wine. It looked nothing like mortar, but it was delicious.

Of course, not everything turned out like I thought it would. But the secret to a good plan is to be flexible. So they don't sell meat for pot roast in Senegal (the butcher looked at me like I was crazy). Roast chicken! And so what if everyone you've invited suddenly wants to invite more of their friends? Three chickens it is.

In the end, I fed 15 people, including four people I'd never met before, and one I still haven't met (he shook my hand and thanked me very sincerely when he left). There was enough food, but not a scrap extra, which is a shame, because I wanted to bring some home for Awa and Suzanne, who were working and couldn't come.

And y'all, it was GOOD. I don't even like roast chicken, but this was some tasty roast chicken. I also served salad, roasted potatoes, zucchini, all the ritual foods, and fruit for dessert. My friends brought the wine and the fruit, and Lena made an additional vegetable side dish. But I cooked for 5 hours. (Can you tell how proud I am? TH------IS proud.)

Once the food was on the table, I had to explain what it all meant (in English and in French), which people didn't find nearly as boring as I'd feared. I even asked (and answered) the Four Questions. (That's only funny if you're in my family, but it's late and I don't feel like explaining.)

Anyway. I felt the need to share.

Next year in Dakar.

Naari weer laa fii am***

2006-04-12T08:46:00.000-04:00

*** I told you the Wolof would start eventually. This one means, "two months am here have." Or rather, I've been here for two months.

You can blame the lack of recent updates on Anna, who was visiting for the last ten days. Anna is my oldest friend in the world (in duration of friendship. In age she is one month younger than me). We car-pooled to nursery school together, and ate grilled cheese sandwiches and played with shaving cream at each other's houses (we were three), and weathered adolescent death-ray looks and quasi-adulthood living on opposite sides of the world, and still managed to stay friends.

Which is pretty cool, actually. (Also actually, I should mention that my second oldest friend in the world, Sarah, who is only four days younger than me, only loses this game by about a year. And when Anna was off in Jewish day school, and we only saw each other at birthday parties, Sarah and I made up for that lost time with hundreds of hours of Charles in Charge and Saved By the Bell reruns.)

Anyway. Anna was here, and I should really write all about the fabulous time we had. And I will. Eventually. I swear. But I also have some pressing work, and a seder to cook, and so it'll have to wait. Check out her blog, though, for her version of events. (Which makes things sound much more adventurous than it seemed to me at the time...)

How are you all?

Oh, la honte*...

2006-03-29T17:31:00.000-05:00

Nearly three weeks ago, my life came full circle, as I sat in a taxi in the midst of a horrific traffic jam. A traffic jam very like the one that kept my family from arriving on time at mile 16 in Miami. Caused, fittingly enough, by the Dakar Half Marathon. Which, you, my very smart readers, will have noticed I was NOT running.

The guardian for the woman next door, however, did run it. In about an hour and a half, if he's to be believed. And although I barely remembered meeting him, he earnestly invited me to come cheer him on. I think. I'm not always clear on what people are talking about—not because I don't understand the French, but because people so often seem to be doing things I find completely unexpected. (And now that I've gone running with him, does he think I'm his girlfriend? So hard to tell with these Senegalese boys...)

Anyway. He invited me to come watch, which I couldn't do, but in the process of the conversation I revealed my incredible sporty-ness, my deep abiding love for running, and the incredible feats of endurance of which I am capable. Which is to say that I bragged about having finished two full marathons.

It seems that Malik, for thus is his name, runs weekly with the teachers at the French high school, and he invited me to join them. Tonight was the first time I was able to go.

I knew full well that I'd fallen pathetically out of shape these last two months. The stomach flab I could handle, and the tighter clothes haven't reached crisis-level yet. But what really makes me sad is to feel the atrophying muscles in my legs. Run two marathons in a year, and you develop some pretty rocking calves, quads and glutes, and they were a constant reminder of my accomplishment. Those muscles were the direct result of my hard work and long hours, and I was damn proud of them.

But if it takes 20+ mile weeks to build those muscles, it takes far less effort to lose them. And my irregular half-hour runs seemed to be doing the trick nicely.

So I was excited for tonight's run—which, from what Malik said, sounded like it'd be 8-10 miles—even knowing that I'd probably lag sadly behind. Lena, my good friend and regular running buddy, joined us as well. Before tonight I would have sworn I ran faster than her (NOTE! Foreshadowing!)

We met at a little restaurant parking lot to the north of the city, right on the beach. It was a low turnout—besides Lena, Malik and me, only two others showed up. They were both seriously nice, even though, as Lena noted, they are French. (Heh.) We ran a short out and back—so that they'd get home in time for a big soccer match, they said, but it was fairly clear that they ran a distance and a pace designed to make Lena and me comfortable. So off we trotted, in the late afternoon sun, as the day's heat was starting to dissipate.

We jogged along at a very comfortable pace, along a road, then cutting through a construction site, scampering over some rocks along the beach, and running for about 200 m on the sand.

And then. There is exactly one hill in all of Dakar. One. Everybody knows about it, and it's where you go if you want to get a good view of the city. And that, of course, is where we headed. City-level, and thus the main road and where we started, is about halfway up the hill. The beach, being sea level, is all the way at the bottom. So first we ran all the way to the water's edge. And then we climbed.

About halfway up, we reconnected with the road, but for the first bit, we ran up a narrow, rocky trail that wound steeply up the hill. Or rather, they ran. I tried. I probably walked about half of the hill—I'd catch my breath and start jogging again until the pounding in my chest and the heaving gasps forced me to stop again.

I can make a million excuses (and you'll note, I've already woven a few in... it was hot! it was on a trail! there were rocks!), but there's only one reason I couldn't make it up that hill, and that's because I am out of shape. And the worst part? Lena didn't even get winded. Horrible.

But you know what? This is good news. Because now I have a goal. It may take me a while, but before I leave Dakar, I will race up that hill.

And in the meantime, I'll have some good company while I train.

*** La honte: Shame

Adventures in shopping

2006-03-27T18:25:00.000-05:00

I need a new purse. For some reason, when I was packing to come here, I convinced myself not to bring any of the purses that I used on a daily basis at home. I had a least two that I loved, and several more that I kind of liked.

But somehow, I was under the impression that I wouldn’t be carrying things like a wallet, keys, or a cell phone here. That’s the only explanation I can think of, because when I packed, I brought a messenger bag, a giant backpack, a tote bag, and a supremely ugly purse that my aunt got for free for renewing her subscription to Self magazine, and foisted on me, one night when my defenses were down. Somehow, none of the purses I liked made the cut.

It turns out that, in fact, sometimes I want to carry a purse. So today, since I had to go downtown anyway, I decided to try to buy one. Which, in Dakar, means braving Sandaga Market. Which, until very recently, was a place I found entirely terrifying.

There’s actually a building called “Sandaga Market,” in which you can buy many things, mostly food-related, I think. But the market has spread into the streets and allies all around the building, and now the whole neighborhood is called “Sandaga”. There are stands and shops and tables and people spread out on blankets across the sidewalk—and, in case that wasn’t enough, there are people carrying their wares around on their arms, heads, and backs.

Walking through the market is… a mite intimidating.

Every step of the way, there are people accosting you from all angles. “Loo begg” What do you want? Someone else: “Tu es belle. Tu es francaise?” You’re beautiful. Are you French? A third, fourth and fifth: “C’est pas cher.” It’s not expensive, as they thrust beaded necklaces, horrid souvenir t-shirts, cheap knickknacks into your line of sight. The people with the least appealing stuff tend to be the most insistent. Last time I went to the market, a man followed me for more than 10 minutes, begging me to buy a cheap souvenir kora (traditional instrument). It was the Friday before a huge holiday, and most people had already left the city to head to the celebrations, so the market was half-empty. His trinkets were atrocious, but I felt utterly heartless as I refused to buy them in the face of his desperation.

If you stand still for a moment, the crowd swarms. A man selling jeans pulls out a pair and holds them up to you, tries to get you to take them in your hand. “C’est tres jolie. Ca te va tres bien. Je sais que c’est ta taille. Attend, je vais chercher un autre.” It’s very pretty. It looks good on you. I know it’s your size. Hold on, I’m going to find another.

It’s psychological warfare. You hold all the cards—nobody can make you buy anything. They can’t even make you listen to their sales pitch. But they keep talking, showing you different items, hoping you’ll forget that you can just walk away.

And then there are the people who just want to help. Follow me. You’re looking for a purse? There are tons more over here. Hang on, I’ll give you my business card. Just come over here to my store, and the next time you’re looking for something, you can give me a call.

In the past, I’d venture into the fringes of the market, and within five minutes, I’d beat a rapid retreat.

The last time I went to the market, however, I went with Bamba. He’s one of my closest friends here, and when I told him how much I hate Sandaga, he just laughed. He designs and sews clothing, which he sells at Sandaga, and the market is his home away from home. He knows everybody, can find his way to any corner backwards and blindfolded, and can’t imagine a better way to sell his clothing.

For me, the market always felt so antagonistic, a full-bore attack from all sides. Walking through, I put up all my defenses---clutch bag tightly, avoid all eye contact, walk fast, stop for no one. But soft-spoken, mellow Bamba is one of those guys in the enemy’s front line. It was perhaps time to re-evaluate. Maybe if I let my guard down a teensy bit, I’d be able to see past the machine gun sales pitch, to see the salesmen instead.

Of course, walking through the market with Bamba is completely different, by virtue of the fact that he is there. Even aside from the fact that we run into his friends every two feet, his presence wards off some of the more aggressive salesmen (and if not, he can easily send them away with a few words in Wolof). But after an hour or two hanging out there with his friends—who all chatted with me, offered up their seats, and were perfectly content not to sell me anything I didn’t want—my hatred had greatly dissipated.

Thus it was that a week or so later, I felt brave enough to endeavor actually to buy something. Namely, a purse. I intended to go alone, but I ended up heading downtown with Awa’s cousin (who I’d just met) and when I confessed my intention, she easily offered to come with me when we'd finished our other errands.

And thus began the world's most epic shopping trip. We walked through the entire market at least three times, looking at all the bags, with all the different vendors chasing after us, showing us bags, promising that there was MORE! BETTER! just up ahead.

In the middle of the first loop, we ran into Bamba, who decided to join the expedition. With him along, there were even more people stopping, chatting, trying to help, and sell, etc.

I was feeling incredibly picky—I think partially as a response to how overwhelming the experience was. As if, without a very specific idea of what I wanted, I’d get strong-armed into something I didn’t want. So with armies of people trying to please me, all I kept saying was, “no, that strap is too long.” “No, that one’s too big.” “No, I don’t want a black one.” “No, I REALLY don’t want a white one.” Until I was afraid everyone would just walk away in exasperation.

On the second loop, I finally saw one bag I liked, but the guy wanted more than $50 for it. Right. I've never spent more than $30 on a purse in my life, and I wasn't going to start today. Anyway, I only had $20 on me. And for the record, my friend's purse cost her $6. So we walked on. And the next bag I saw that I liked? The guy asked for $70. That, of course, is what happens when they see white. Not that he expected to get that much—you’re meant to bargain. But when the starting price is that far from the neighborhood of reason, it’s fairly unlikely you’re going to find a mutually acceptable price.

So after almost two hours, I walked away empty-handed. And my poor friends, one of whom I'd only met about five hours previously, had stuck through it all with me.

The thing was, though… It was kinda fun. I mean, I really didn't intend to spend that much time looking, and I still wish I’d been able to get that first purse down to $20, but…

Okay, it’s not the mall. But I definitely didn’t hate it. Which is good. Because I still need a purse.

Naomi to World: Still not dead

2006-03-24T17:02:00.000-05:00

Oof. It's been a while. On the plus side, I have a million stories, and the reason I haven't been updating is because I've been too busy doing the things that lead to the having of a million stories.

On the down side, I'm exhausted, and I miss updating here.

I've got a long post ruminating in my head, but I haven't written it yet, and it's going to have to wait until certain other things get sorted out (ooh, mysterious. Don't you hate it when bloggers do that? I do. I used to read a blog of this girl in Seattle, who was in the midst of some big thing, but she couldn't talk about it online. Which, fine, don't talk about it. But instead she would constantly refer to how stressful her TOP SECRET PLANS were. In the end, I gave up and stopped reading).

So, because this post will not be interesting, I will instead be brief.

Things that currently make me happy:
-- I have wireless internet at home.
-- My ATM card works.
-- It's Friday, which means I got to eat Laax (millet porridge with yoghurt. Delicious).
-- The amazingly delicious mangoes that are currently in season.
-- My friends, here and where you are, who are, in a word, the coolest.
-- I have a running buddy, and starting next week, may have a weekly running group.
-- Two phrases in Wolof: Graoul and Amul probleme. Both mean the same thing, "no problem" and both are a fun melange of French and Wolof. Graoul, from French "C'est pas grave". In Wolof, to negate something, you add -ul. So graoul is grave + -ul. Amul probleme is simpler. Am is have, ul is negative, and probleme, well, that's easy.
-- The fact that I'm finally starting to understand a little Wolof, if people speak to me really. slowly. In really. short. phrases. And repeat themselves two or three times. That's progress, baby.
-- Of approximately five ideas that I have pitched to various editors since I became a freelance journalist, four were accepted, and I'm still waiting for a verdict on number 5. That's a hell of a track record.

Things that currently make me unhappy:
-- Dakar is in the midst of an electricity crisis, which means that I have power approximately never. Which, by the way, renders the wireless internet far less useful. It also means that it's fairly hard to get work done, and impossible to keep milk fresh, and I don't even want to think about what it's doing to business owners in the area. How exactly do you run a cyber cafe if there's no electricity between 8 am and 7 pm, which is fairly average for my neighborhood currently? How do you run a grocery store?
-- Tonight I have power, but I don't have water. Sigh.
-- Between last Friday and Wednesday night, I slept about 15 hours, total. Including naps. Because of various reasons, mostly work related. Plus I had (have) a raging cold. Plus my period. I thought I was going to die. I kind of wished I could.
-- Of the four articles I have written, none have yet seen print (or internet, in one case). Most will, eventually, get published. I think. But until they do, this doesn't feel real.
-- There is absolutely no money in this. Will explain more later.

Eh, voila. What's up with y'all?

The Third Kind of Welcome

2006-03-03T11:30:00.000-05:00

Last night, I didn’t feel like cooking so I went out to buy a sandwich. As the woman was preparing it, a man bustled in with his cell phone ringing and his bag half open. He still managed a very proper, “bonjour”. He seemed to be in his mid-forties. Bald. Very tall. Dressed very meticulously in a sweater vest and slacks. When his phone call ended (it got cut off, actually), he corrected himself, “actually, I should say bon soir.”

I said, “yup, it’s evening,” and then his phone rang again. He spoke mostly Wolof on the phone, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was his wife, because the words I caught sounded like, “I’m coming, I’m coming. I’m at the house.”

My sandwich was ready, so with a quick, “have a good evening” as I left, I began to walk the two or three blocks home. Halfway there, I began to hear a piercing “psssst.” Around here, that’s the usual way of getting someone’s attention. (As opposed to the American way, I suppose, which is to yell, “hey! Yo!” )

In my limited experience, when the “psst” is directed towards me, it’s rarely something I want to hear. So I pretended not to, and kept walking. But the “pssst”s continued and got louder. I turned my head to see if I recognized the person. Way back, practically at the sandwich stand, there was someone waving madly.

With a sinking feeling, I turned back forwards and continued walking. I knew where this was going to end up, and I was still hoping that if I ignored him, he’d give up.

But no such luck. He started yelling. “Hey. Hey!” So I stopped. I turned around, and waited for the waving man to catch up. When he saw me finally stop, he started running. It was, of course, the man from the sandwich shop. Still sort of officiously bustling, saying something about why am I, uh huh, and of course you wouldn’t, and then, “But you remember me, right? We just met?”

“Yes, I remember.”

And then began the script that I’ve become all to familiar with these past couple weeks:
"How long have you been in Senegal?”
“A few weeks.”
“Where are you from? Are you French?”
“No, I’m American.”
“Oh! I… uh… I don’t… uh… speak very well… very well English…”
“That’s fine. It’s no big deal.” (I’ve been speaking French, and continue to speak French.)
“I’m ----“ (I don’t remember his name.) “You are?”
“Naomi,” I say, wearily. Warily.
“Ah. It’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to make your acquaintance.” He proffers his cell phone. “Can I give you my number? Will you give me yours?”
“No. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” My standard response.
“But we might never run into each other again. It could be two years.”
“C’est comme ca.” And I walk off.

I should emphasize, and not just because my mother is reading this, that none of these guys are scary or threatening in any way. They’ll tell you they love you (last night at the stadium, I happened to glance right, which was the perfect opportunity for the guy sitting next to me to profess his undying devotion), they’ll ask you over to meet their families, they’ll tell you they want to teach you Wolof. Sometimes they’re persistent—but they take the rejection well. They’re just trying their luck, anyway. I might have their golden ticket, and if they don’t check, how will they know?

None of which makes it any less annoying. You might think that being hit on all day by random strangers would be flattering, would swell your ego, make you feel like hot stuff. But really? Not so much.

I complained to one guy, a friend of a friend, who was obnoxiously hitting on me all night, that it was incredibly annoying being hit on by all the Senegalese men. He was incredulous. What’s the harm? He wanted to know. They’re just being friendly. They’re just trying their luck. And anyway, a lot of white women like it.

I haven’t met one who has. Some, though, handle it better than others. My friend Nina laughs it off. Earlier this week, after Wolof class, I had lunch with her, Lena, and Kristian. After lunch, we stood outside the restaurant for a few minutes, discussing where we were going next. A guy walked up to Nina and started in. When he got to “je t’aime, quoi.” (which is a slangy, very informal construction, and hardly appropriate for a declaration of love), Nina laughed.

“You love me? Are we going to get married?” He was somewhat bewildered, but he played along. “Yeah, sure.”
“When? Is Saturday good for you?”
“Yeah, Saturday’s good.” We were all listening now, and snickering.
“Can I come?” Kristian asked.
“Sure, of course,” the guy replied.
“He’s my husband,” Nina told him.
Now the guy was completely befuddled. “You’re married?” He turned to me. “What about you? Are you married?”
“Me? Yeah. I’m married to him too.” Polygamy is very common in Senegal, although they know that it’s not something Westerners do. The guy was starting to get that this was a joke.
All three of us are married to him. He has three wives.” That was Lena.
“You can’t have three wives. You’re too young,” the guy said.
“I’m rich,” Kristian replied. “Anyway, I’m 36 years old.” He’s 21.
“Well you don’t need all three wives. Why don’t you give me one?”
“Sure, that’s fine. But what are you going to give me in return? I can’t just give up one of my wives for nothing.”
“I’ll give you my sister.”
“Nahh. Why would I trade away one wife for another one? I’ve already got all the wives I need. How about a motorbike?”
The negotiations continued. And then, “but which one can I have?”
“Any of them. Take your pick.” The guy turned back to Nina, hopefully.
“Nah,” she said. “I’m sticking with him,” meaning Kristian. “He’s rich.”
And, laughing, we walked on.

I want to rock and roll all night, and party every day.

2006-03-02T12:06:00.000-05:00

If I haven’t posted lately (and, let’s be honest, I haven’t posted lately) it’s only because I’ve been far too busy, and having far too much fun.

Actually, I feel a little guilty. This isn’t supposed to be a vacation. I’m supposed to be a journalist. And I have been working (she says defensively). I’ve written a short article for that magazine in Pennsylvania. I’m writing the article about the Peace Corps volunteers for my alumni magazine. I’ve written two pitches, and I’m waiting to hear back. Tomorrow I’m meeting with a woman at IRIN, a UN news web site.

But if you ask me what I did this week, I’d be much more likely to tell you about the amazing concert I went to on Saturday night. It was a in a small bar, and the band was PBS Radicale. Or part of PBS Radicale, anyway. The other lead singer was sitting at the table across from us with a very pretty lady at his side. The part that played that night did acoustic African music. There were drums and a kora (stringed instrument) and a guitar, and the singer’s voice was out of this world.

But that was ages ago already. Instead, I might tell you about the Mardi Gras party I went to on Tuesday night, at the church hall behind my house. I went with Marie-Susan, who is one of the maids here, but who is mostly my friend. Her aunt lives nearby, and is hosting three American exchange students, too, so we all had dinner at the aunt’s house, and got dressed up in costumes for the dance party. Marie-Susan lent me a beautiful blue boubou to wear—a long blue skirt with a matching tunic top, and a scarf wrapped around my head. I have pictures. I thought I’d feel ridiculous, but actually, I felt very pretty.

Two of the other Americans also dressed in Senegalese clothes, but in these parts, Mardi Gras is mostly an excuse for cross-dressing. Marie-Susan and Jenna, the third American, decided to join in the tradition, complete with drawn-on facial hair and ridiculous rain hats. But they were nothing compared to the Senegalese boys in full-transvestite splendor bringing down the house in the church hall. Tiny skirts, tons of makeup, fancy wigs. And, this being Senegal, there was as much padding around the, ahem, “jaayfunda” as in the bra. (“jaayfunda” is Wolof for “sell porridge” and is a euphemism for a big/nice ass. The theory being that if you sell porridge, you’re either going to be rich enough to buy good food or else you’ll eat all the porridge you don’t sell. Either way, you’ll be well endowed.)

Last night, all of Dakar was at the stadium (or glued to their television screens) for a friendly football match between Norway and Senegal, and a star-studded concert lineup. I was there, too, with Rose, my new freelance journalist friend, ostensibly covering the event, but really just enjoying the free all-access pass (or almost all access—we couldn’t get backstage). With our green wristbands, the guards wouldn’t let us in the main entrance, (okay, so really not all-access at all) so they directed us to a side entrance, where the access started kicking in, and before we really knew what we were doing, we were standing on the sidelines of the pitch. We looked around a bit, waiting for someone to chase us off, but eventually we found some stairs leading up into the bleachers, and took a seat.

The game was uninspiring (both teams have dismal records this year) but Senegal won, 2-1. The most exciting moment was when the electricity went out with only minutes left in the second half. It may have just been a blown fuse, though, because the lights by the concert stage stayed lit, and the power came back on in a few minutes. During the darkness, everybody pulled out their cell phones and lit up the crowd with tiny, multi-colored stars. Quite pretty really.

My favorite moment of the concert was dancing to “Take on Me” by A-Ha. The Senegalese had no clue who A-Ha were , although they gamely sang along when the lead singer made them. But Rose grew up loving A-Ha (“A-Ha-er for life, not just for Christmas!”) and she, her flatmate, and I had fun rocking out to the 80s music, and looking for the other Toubabs in the crowd, who were dancing too.

The Senegalese singers got much better reactions, and I enjoyed their music as well. But it was freezing cold, (there were people building fires in the bleachers to stay warm) and I was under-dressed. By 11:15 the concert was only half over, and I was ready to go home. So I did.

And what I really want to do right now is complain about the ridiculous number system in Wolof. We’ve been learning it in class this week, and I refuse. I’d love to learn Wolof fluently, but this number system is just wrong.

I have a master’s degree in linguistics. I know all about how there’s no right or wrong in language, there’s just communication. I get that. I believe that. I will never correct someone for splitting an infinitive in English. I make up words and constructions all the time. I think that’s what makes language interesting. But this has crossed a line.

Let me explain. There are only words for about five numbers in Wolof. Once you get past five, you start adding (6=five one, 7=five two, etc.) Then there are words for orders of magnitude (10, 100, 1000, etc.) So 786 is five-two-hundreds, five-three-tens, five-one. (Juroom naari teemeer juroom netti fukk, juroom benn.)

It’s a bit cumbersome, but I can handle it. Most things are rounded to 5 anyway, and it means fewer words to memorize.

The problem comes when you start talking about money. For money, the basic unit is the derem, which is five francs. So two derems is 10 francs. And three derems is 15 francs. So if you ask how much something costs, and they say 3, they mean 15.

Of course, nothing costs 3 derems. There are 500 francs to a dollar. Prices are frequently in the thousands of francs.

Based on this system, you’d think that 50 francs would be 10 derem. You’d be right. After which, the base switches to 50, so you take any number you hear and divide it by 50. And then after 1000, the base switches again, to 500. God help you if you need to talk about something that’s not rounded to the nearest 500. You need a cipher book.

And actually I may be explaining the nuances wrong. I don’t remember all the details. It doesn’t matter though, because I’m pretty determined never to use Wolof numbers to talk about money. I refuse. It’s dumb. My way—the English way—is better. I’m sorry. I know that’s very culturally insensitive of me. Take away my gold star. See if I care.

P.S. Several people have asked me who Michelle is and how I met her. Michelle is an exchange student who has been here since September. I found her blog before I left, and I sent her an email. She was unwise enough to write back.

Baay Bia

2006-02-21T11:52:00.000-05:00

This weekend. Where to start….

Pop quiz:

Which of these is least likely to have been true of Naomi’s Sunday night?
a) She spent the night reading a memoir of a Peace Corps volunteer in China, by the light of her headlamp, because the electricity had gone out again.
b) She was out until 3 am partying with a Senegalese rap star and his fashion designer friend—and cut the night short after only one dance club, because she had her Wolof class to attend the following morning. At which point, she was escorted to her door with cries of “Good night my sister!” and “Saturday we’re really going to dance!”
c) She went to a dinner party at the house of Michelle’s Senegalese friend—a musician, music teacher, and talented artisan who builds a wide range of beautiful traditional instruments. We ate grilled fish and salad, and were serenaded by beautiful African folk tunes, played and sung by many of the other guests, who were also musicians.

Clearly, b) is the least likely to be true. As we have discussed previously, I am not what you’d call a “fly” girl. I don’t hang out with rappers. I don’t stay out until 3 am on school nights.

And, of course, the rules of dramatic narrative require that, in fact, my Sunday night was occupied by the activities described in b).

(For the record, a) is what I did last night, and c) is what I did on Friday night.)

The rapper is Baay Bia, the husband of a woman in Seattle, whom I spoke to before I came to Dakar. She is the friend of a friend of my African dance teacher and she is also an artist and a dancer.

Ask yourself this: if you got a phone call from a stranger, some weirdo foreigner who’d spoken once to your wife, and she wanted to meet you, what would your reaction be? Would you vaguely agree to meet up for coffee at some point? Would you invite the person over for dinner one night, and complain to all your friends that you’ve got to host some stranger for dinner, and what on earth are you going to cook, and what could you possibly have to talk about?

Last September, my cousin came to visit me in Washington for a week. Although I was glad to see him, I complained endlessly about the invasion of my space, and the weighty responsibility of keeping him entertained.

Baay Bia, before having met me, immediately offered to let me live in his house indefinitely. This is what I mean about how friendly people are here. It’s ingrained in the culture, and guests are given the best of everything and welcomed with open arms. After all, the guest would do the same for someone else who was a guest in his country.

It’s a lovely cultural trait, and is great for me as a newcomer. When I went to interview the peace corps guy in Fatick, his host family invited us for lunch, where they served a giant bowl of meat yasso (a traditional dish). Normally they eat fish, which is cheaper and more readily available, but for me, the white visitor and friend of their friend, they served meat, and chided me constantly to eat more, and get more of the meat.

But this trait is also partially the source of some of the biggest culture clash. Senegal is a poor country. People here know that, and feel it. They also know that white people’s countries are much richer, and so by extension, all white people are rich. And if white people have so much, why wouldn’t they share it with the impoverished people in the country they’re visiting?

On Sunday afternoon, I was meeting up with a freelance journalist who has been here a few years already, and I ended up waiting a corner for a few minutes before she picked me up. This was pretty far out from the city, near some of the bigger, fancier resort hotels. It wasn’t a commercial area, and there weren’t many people around. But there was one guy, standing on the corner next to a bench. I got out of my taxi, and he immediately called to me. Welcomed me. Invited me to come sit on his bench.

Lovely and friendly, right? Except that there’s always a catch. I wasn’t sure what it was (although it’s usually money), and I wasn’t sure how to say no. I told him I’d prefer to stand in the shade. But there was a bench there, too, so he came over and invited me to sit with him. I didn’t want to get into this, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. So I sat down. Where are you from? How long have you been here? What are you doing here? These are the questions that everyone asks, and they’re very polite.

And then the guy pulled a little, ugly, beaded necklace with a shell as a pendant from his pocket, and told me it was a gift. No thank you, I told him. But he insisted. Take it. It’s a gift. Enjoy it. It’s from Senegal. So I held it in my hand, wishing the woman I was meeting would hurry up and get there already.

But she wasn’t there, and the man was looking at me expectantly. Didn’t I have a gift for him from America? 100 CFAs maybe? And there it was. This was the point of the entire encounter, and I was annoyed. Could I have given him the 100 CFAs? Probably. It’s only about 20 cents. But I didn’t want his necklace, and I hadn’t asked for him to chat with me. This was an area full of Toubabs (white foreigners) and this was his racket, and I didn’t want to pay into it. So I told him no. And I got up and walked towards the corner to wait in the sun. And he asked for his necklace back.

So there are two sides to the welcome here in Senegal, and it’s sometimes hard to figure out which kind of welcome you’re getting. And the friendlier someone is, the more worried I get, because I don’t always know what they’re going to ask for in return.

Still Baay Bia seemed genuinely friendly, and his wife in Seattle was an American (which means something about his ability to cross the cultural barrier, I guess) and he invited me out with him and his friend for Sunday night. We taxi-ed downtown, where he bought dinner. And then we picked up some drinks, and headed towards the main square to hang out and chat for a while. It was about 10:30, and apparently in Dakar, it’s not worth going to the dance clubs until at least midnight. I’ve heard from others that on a Saturday night, things don’t pick up until 2 am at the earliest.

Baay Bia, with his neatly-twisted dreadlocks (covered by his rasta-themed wool hat) and his pimp walk, Bamba, his friend, in fashionable jeans and a black zip-sweater, and… me. Drinking in the empty square. On a school night. Baay Bia pulled out his discman at one point, and played his upcoming album for me. It’ll be released next week—his second solo album, with tracks accompanied by Youssou N’Dour and Baba Maal, two of Senegal’s most famous musicians. Youssou N’Dour has won (one? or two?) grammies.

So okay, now you have an image of Baay Bia the rapper. Take a moment to shift gears, because he is also an environmental activist. He walked me past the Presidential Mansion and the office building for all the ministries, and he told me about how he worked for a year with the Ministry of Fishing on a water clean-up project. He organizes a free concert every year in his home village as a fundraiser for the environment. And each of his albums features at least one song discussing environmental issues.

But shift gears again, because Baay Bia is also a devout Muslim, in a very Senegalese manner. Remember those dreadlocks? In Senegal, that’s a sign of Baay Fall, a very unorthodox brand of Islam, very popular among young Senegalese, and practiced only here. They don’t pray, they allow their followers to drink alcohol and smoke, they don’t learn the Koran. Baay Fall see their role as supporting the marabouts (spiritual leaders), whose learning and charity they can then be a part of. So Baay Fall donate a portion of their earnings to the marabouts, with the understanding that it will be distributed as aid to the truly needy. Baay Bia spent nearly an hour telling me stories from Senegal’s muslim history and of upcoming pilgrimage to honor one of Senegal’s heros, Serigne Touba, and of his beliefs as a Baay Fall Muslim.

And then we started teaching each other tongue twisters in Wolof and English (“Said the flea to the fly to the floo, oh what, oh what should we do? Said the floo to the fly to the flea, we must flee. Said the flea to the floo to the fly, we must fly. And they floo.”) Which is one of my favorite things to do with speakers of foreign languages. Tongue twisters sound so cool when you don’t understand what the words mean. Just sounds and rhythms that are impossible to remember and even harder to say.

And, finally, when I was ready to go home and go to sleep, we headed for a night club. Which was much less foreign seeming than the dance club in Bostwana (and much emptier), but equally fun.

And I haven’t even told you about the softball tournament organized by the US Embassy. Softball, y’all, in a country that has never heard of the game, played on grass fields growing within driving distance of the Sahara Dessert. Professional stadiums in Africa sometimes don’t have grass. And we ate hot dogs and Doritos specially imported from America, and watched drunken Peace Corps volunteers from all over the region (Mauritania, the Gambia, Benin, Senegal, Guinea, etc.) play against each other and lose to local international school teams. The back of the Gambian tshirts said, “Je ne sais pas French.” Because they speak English in Gambia. That might not be funny, but it cracked me up.

And on Sunday afternoon, (after a day of hanging out a pool at the American club, which was open to the (American) public for the duration of the tournament) I went for a late lunch with a bunch of foreign correspondents and freelance journalists, at a little restaurant on a beach next to Club Med.

Welcome to my life.

La Ville

2006-02-19T05:28:00.000-05:00

I know that I’ve promised photos, and I’ve taken a few of my apartment and the courtyard and of my landlady, but they were taking forever to upload, and I got annoyed. The internet connections have been pretty good—all DSL, I’m pretty sure—but the pictures weren’t working.

In the meantime, I’ll describe the city a bit. Keep in mind that these are just first impressions, based on a few days of wandering around. And I've been known to be less than 100% observant. In my freshman dorm, I didn't notice that there were trees growing in the atrium until after Christmas break.

Dakar is broken up into small neighborhoods, each with a name. Mine is called SICAP Baobab, which is in an area with a bunch of other SICAPs (SICAP Liberté, SICAP Karak, etc.) in the north of the city. There are a number of wide boulevards that criss-cross the entire city (my house is on one of them), and that seem to form the boundaries of the little neighborhoods. Between the wide boulevards, there are lots of small, windy, narrow lanes with row houses and tiny shops (it’s a bit different downtown, but I haven’t spent a lot of time there). My house is on one side of SICAP Baobab, and the Baobab Center is on the other side. To get there, I could walk on the boulevards around the perimeter of the neighborhood, but it’s faster to go through. But there is no road that goes straight through. All the roads are on diagonals and curves, and lots of them end in dead ends. So that’s why I spent three days in a row, wandering around in circles for half-an-hour before I emerged on the other side.

This part of the city seems very well off. My house is an enclosed compound of sorts, with an elaborately carved wooden door at the entrance. There is a courtyard in the front and one in the back, and there are lots of lush plants (potted ferns, cactuses, leafy trees) and brightly-colored flowers. The house, the (home-)office, and my apartment open into the courtyards. Elsewhere, the houses seem to open directly onto the street. But of course, I haven’t been inside many houses, so I can’t really say for sure.

Most of the buildings are made of concrete (I think, I’m no architect), but these aren’t tin-roofed shanties. At a minimum, they are well-constructed boxes, with flat or peaked roofs. In my part of the city, nothing is much taller than three or so stories (in general). There is also a fair amount of interesting architecture and bigger buildings. There are gas stations every few blocks (Mobil, Shell, and Total, etc.) it seems. And, as you get further downtown, the buildings get taller, and more city-like.

There are paved sidewalks pretty much everywhere. Mostly they are asphalt, but in lots of places, people have tiled really pretty mosaics into the sidewalks. Or else they are cobble stoneed. There are also plenty of stretches that are covered in sand or dust, and again, as you get closer to downtown, they begin to become more full of venders and merchants selling all kinds of things. Mostly fruit and peanuts, but also fabrics, drinks, random household items, large pieces of wooden furniture, and chickens (still alive, sometimes clucking and walking around on the sidewalk, sometimes hanging upside down and perfectly still in the hands of a walking vendor).

There’s no grass or low-lying bushes—the ground is either paved or dirt—but there are lots of trees lining the streets with green leaf-filled branches, and lots of shade. Dakar is on the southern tip of a hook-shaped peninsula that sticks out west into the Atlantic Ocean, so there’s ocean on three sides. I have only been to the western edge of the city, to the western part of a long avenue (La Corniche) that traces the edge of most of the city. This is the part that’s near the University, and is, apparently, where you can find tons of runners in the morning. There’s also a canal that crosses east-west through the city (I’m guessing to try to help catch and drain the flooding when it rains?) that is mostly dry. Most of the city is very clean (dust, sand, and goat droppings, notwithstanding) but you come across pockets that are filled with trash, and, right now, the canal is one of them. Peace Corps guy says there is no trash collection in his city, and I’m not sure if there is any in Dakar.

A brief introduction to the people in my house:

Aby, my landlady, and the director of homestays for the students at the Baobab center. She has three grown children, all of whom live in the United States. One is a kindergarten teacher in Ohio, one is a med student in Ft. Lauderdale, and one is getting his master’s degree in IS/IT in Miami. I haven’t met her husband, but she tells me he is around sometimes. I don’t know what he does when he’s not here.

Awa and Marie-Susan are her two maids. They are both Serrer, but not from villages near each other. Awa is Muslim and Marie-Susan is Catholic. They are both around my age (vaguely, anyway) and are really nice. I hang out with them whenever I can, and they are pretty willing to help me out when I need it (for instance, Awa came out to negotiate a cab for me to the bus station, so I wouldn’t get ripped off).

Aby’s nephew also lives here. I’ve met him, and he seems really nice, too, but I haven’t spent much time with him yet. He came by my door the other night to invite me to watch TV with him, Awa, and Marie-Susan, but I was exhausted and about to go to sleep.

There’s also, I think, a groundskeeper and a nightwatchman, but I don’t think they live here. I don’t really recognize them yet, and I’ve been told, but I don’t remember, their names, but I’m figuring it out.

It's a hard knock life

2006-02-17T09:48:00.000-05:00

There’s always something to puncture my bubble. Remembering something from the Lonely Planet, I stopped at a corner store to buy bread for breakfast today. I went inside, and explained that I wanted something on the bread, and discovered that I could choose between chocolate and butter. As if that was a choice. So I bought a dime’s worth of break, with a dime’s worth of chocolate, and walked away, extremely content with my lot.

I headed directly to a new cyber, where I discovered that, for the same price as at my original favorite, I could have an hour at the computer with a QWERTY keyboard. So I happily typed away my hour, and then headed back home. I was still hungry, though, so I decided to stop again at the corner store. This time, I was going to buy a full baguette, which I’d take home and use later for a sandwich or something for lunch, and maybe for breakfast tomorrow morning. But the chocolate was so good, I decided to ask them to take a small part of it to spread with chocolate.

All was going well, I thought. I explained that I wanted part with chocolate, I showed him how much to cut off the end. And then he started slicing open the big piece. No, I explained. I only want this little one with chocolate. He looked at me, and nodded, and continued slicing. Then he brought out the chocolate. No wait, I said. I wanted the chocolate on THIS one. The LITTLE one. He looked at me, nodded, and continued spreading.

Oops. I need to learn some better Wolof, already.

Not that I won’t enjoy the whole, chocolately, bready goodness. Who needs vitamins in their food? I take a multi-vitamin every morning! And I had an orange. Very healthful, I am.

Anyway, to answer somebody’s question: yes, Wolof is a language. It’s the language of the largest ethnic group in Senegal, and has become the lingua franca of all the cities and larger towns. Which means that even if your family is, for instance, Serrer (another ethnic group), you’ll learn Wolof when you leave the village. And more and more, children are learning Wolof immediately, instead of their own language. In Dakar, most people speak French, but this is less true outside of Dakar (which I saw yesterday, on my trip to interview the Peace Corps guy), and even in Dakar, there are a fair number who speak minimal French, and speak Wolof much better.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about what is different and scary and overwhelming here (and see below for another entry of more of the same), and there is certainly a lot to say on that subject. But in fairness, I think I need to spend a minute talking about the many ways in which my life here is NOT hard. I don’t mean in some worldly, “when you look at how tough some poor people in Africa have it” sense. I mean, compared to YOU, reading this on your computer, in America or Israel or Australia or wherever, my life is a bowl of peaches and cream.

Let’s talk about Wednesday, for a moment. If I can be said to have a “routine” after less than a week, Wednesday exemplified that routine. I woke up around 9 am to yet another gorgeous, clear, blue-skied, sunny day. The temperature in Dakar is a breezy 65-75 degrees every day, and it won’t rain until July at the earliest (although starting next month, apparently, it will get much hotter).

I showered (in my private bathroom, attached to my bedroom), at some breakfast (yoghurt, I think, out of my mini-fridge) and walked to my 10 am Wolof class, at the Baobab Center, which is 10 minutes away.

(A moment of self-congratulation: for the first time, I was able to walk in a direct route to the Baobab center, instead of walking myself in circles for a half hour before finding it. Progress!)

I arrived at the center, said hello to all the people that I’d been seeing every day, and grabbed a cup of hot milk (they put out warm milk for coffee—Nescafe—but I don’t drink coffee, so I thought I’d try a “steamer” of sorts—hot milk with a sugar cube. It was yummy).

I went to class (two hours of elementary instruction in Wolof, with a 15 minute break in the middle). Wednesday, for the first time, I was able to join a class with other students. They are 3 Norwegian exchange students who arrived a week before I did. I took Wolof classes on Monday and Tuesday to catch up to their level, and now we’ll continue on together.

When class was finished, I explained that I was going to have to miss the class scheduled for Thursday, since I needed to go to Fatick to interview my Peace Corps dude. The Norwegians immediately offered to reschedule the class entirely, so that I wouldn’t miss anything. The teacher immediately agreed, and told us he was available to make up the class whenever we wanted. We agreed to tack an extra hour onto our class on Monday, and decide where to put the other hour at some other time.

After class, the three Norwegians (Christian, Nina, Lena) and I walked off together to find some lunch. We ended up heading towards the University (where they are taking their other classes), and going to the internet café there, before actually finding lunch. With a whole extra week under their collective belts, they are far more experienced in the ways of Dakar, so they explained lots of things to me, including the very scary (not really) car rapides (buses, kinda) and whatever else I asked about.

Lena and Christian planned to wander towards the ocean, vaguely in the direction of downtown, after lunch, and they invited me to join them. I needed to call my bank to try to work out the ATM card problem, and they decided to wait for me.

And so we wandered, and chatted, and wandered, and looked at the ocean, and when we got tired, we found a bar that looked out over the ocean, and drank a beer and chatted and looked at the ocean. When we were done, Christian helped me find a car rapide going to my neighborhood, and I went home.

So to recap: class, email, wandering, ocean, chatting. Tough day, right? And, not including my Wolof class, the entire thing cost me less than $4, plus another $4 or so to call the bank (unsuccessfully, it turned out, so part of that was my call to my sister to get her to try to fix the problem from her end).

See what I mean? La vie est tellement dure. Which means “Life is really hard”, and is a complete lie.

P.S. Remember how, on Sunday, I couldn’t find a bank for love or money? Well the little bank, the one that didn’t change money, was at the intersection of two main roads. When I left, I continued walking south. Had I turned west, instead, there would have been two full-service, international banks within about a five minute walk. Just thought I’d mention. For the record.

Progress

2006-02-17T09:44:00.000-05:00

It’s very tempting to continue telling stories of my confusion and general patheticness. There are, and will be for some time, plenty to tell. Tonight, for instance, I took a car rapide (actually, what I took was an “al hamda”, which is short for “Al Hamdulilay” which means something like “Thank God” in Arabic, and is painted on the front of a certain kind of bus here) from downtown to my neighborhood. In theory. And in fact, it left me off very near my apartment. Except I promptly started walking in the wrong direction.

But let’s not focus on that for a moment.

Or on the fact that the electricity just went out. Apparently that happens around here. It happened yesterday afternoon, but the power came back on before it got dark. But now it’s almost 8 pm, so it’s on the dark side. Oh well. The battery on my laptop is fully charged, I have my trusty head lamp, and it’s not like I was watching TV (there are two TV’s in my landlady’s house, but I don’t have one in here.)

Shall we focus on the guy who appeared at my screen door while I was on the cell phone with Michelle about a half hour ago, with what appeared to be very important business? I hadn’t met him before, but he was gesturing impatiently, and told me to come find him as soon as I got off the phone. (Awa, one of the maids, just came to light a candle for me. Yay Awa.)

So I finish my call with Michelle, and go into the house, where Karim (the guy left his name and cell phone number for me, so that I could call him if it was too much trouble to go find him at the house, two feet away) was eagerly waiting. To convince me to go out with him to Magic Land this weekend, where there will be a concert or something.

Maybe you want to ask my name first? (Actually, he did ask my name first. Formalities dispensed with, he proceeded directly to business.) Ahh Senegalese men. Charming.

I feel like I should clarify a few things. David commented that things seem very laid back here. They are and they aren’t. The bank closed at noon, but it was Saturday, and most banks in the US aren’t open late on Saturdays either. The taxi driver came back later that day for his money, but he was trying to avoid getting paid in dollars. He’d taken me to an ATM and two closed banks (it was 6 am) on the way from the airport, so he’d seen me trying to get cash. Most importantly though, he knew where I lived and he knew my landlady, so he was pretty sure he’d get paid.

People are extremely friendly, and there is a strong culture of hospitality. Greetings are very important, and everyone asks how you’re doing and how your day was. And if they know you, they ask how your family is doing and how their days are going.

But it’s also a big bustling city. People are trying to make a living, and that means trying to sell you something (at whatever price they can convince you to pay) and that also means getting somewhere else (so the roads and sidewalks are crowded with cars, bikes, merchants, and pedestrians).

Hey, the electricity came back on. 20 minutes, total. Not bad.

Another point to clarify—there are in fact numerous employees that live and work here. But, as far as I can tell, that is not the norm. My landlady is, quite clearly, loaded. And I’ve read, although I don’t know for sure that it applies here, that in developing countries, it is seen as almost a social obligation to hire people if you have the means. People need jobs.

In general, though, the story of today is that things are going well. I’m meeting people and making friends, which is a key first step to getting situated in a new place. And I talked to my landlady about staying in this apartment more long term, which she was very amenable to. I also came across a second option: today I joined a Wolof class with three Norwegians, two of whom are moving into an apartment not far from here. They move in on March 1st, and they will have 5 rooms (not sure how that breaks down into kitchen, living room etc), which they said meant there was definitely room for me to share the apartment.

Meanwhile, Scooter, you are hearby banned from making any comments about “working” or “journalism” or “how do you expect to support yourself young lady.” I’ve only been here for five days. I’m working on it.

Actually, today I had a frustrating email. I had pitched a story to a small magazine in Pennsylvania, for a story I wanted to do before I left. I pitched it in early January, and I intended to follow up and get it all taken care of before I left. But then I got busy and distracted getting ready to move here, and I didn’t hear back, so I let it go. Today, the editor wrote back saying she’d love for me to do the story. Which is going to be a bit more difficult to accomplish from Dakar. Right.

Meanwhile, life will no doubt become more interesting again tomorrow, as I head out of town to interview someone for the article I’m writing for my alumni magazine. It involves going to a bus station (such as they are here), which means negotiating a fair price from a taxi driver, and then finding the correct bus (actually, more like a van) and then getting off in the right place. But I have a cell phone, and if anything goes awry, I can always call the guy I’m meeting and ask for help. Very professionally, of course. (Yeah, I threw “professional” out the window about five days ago. I’ll go back and get it in a month or so.)

Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid.***

2006-02-14T08:13:00.000-05:00

*** Means, little by little the bird builds it's nest.

My first year of French class, in sixth grade, we learned a new proverb every week. This is the first one we learned (and the only one I remember, at least at this moment).

I hate it when other people throw in words from another language, as if you’re just supposed to know what they mean. Or else to make them look smart. I don’t know why I feel compelled to do it when I’m some place where they speak French, but I can’t seem to stop. I just like words--the shape of them and the rhythm. It's the same as when I use "y'all" or "dude" (which, rest assured sounds equally foreign coming out of my mouth). That sounded like a better reason in my head.

Anyway, today (meaning yesterday, now that I'm posting this) was a good day. I have a cell phone, which makes me feel connected to the world. Of course nobody has the phone number, and nobody needs to call me, and I hardly know anybody here, but. But!

And! Buying the cell phone! Triumph, I tell you. Of course, I probably still would be wandering the streets, too afraid to walk into a store, if it weren’t for Michelle.

Here’s a glimpse of Naomi, the Intrepid World Traveler. I have finished my first Wolof lesson, which had been scheduled from 11 am to 1. Fantastic. And actually, it went quite well. My French is starting to come back to me (especially as I start to relax a little—I lose the ability to form coherent sentences in English when I’m nervous or shy, so forget about it in French), and the lesson was conducted almost entirely in French. Which, before it started, I was wondering about, and had thought would make things difficult. But of course, I’m learning simple concepts in Wolof (What’s your name? How are you?) which I know how to say very well, thank you very much, in French, so it wasn’t confusing at all.

Okay, right, back to my story.

It’s one o’clock, and the lesson has been a raging success. I’ve packed away my lesson book, and marched myself back to my favorite cyber (i.e. the only one I’ve been to so far) and sit myself down at a computer to send off the last few bits of my Peace Corps acceptance materials (yeah, really). An hour later, I’m done with all my email, and I’m ready to grab some lunch before meeting Michelle at 2:30.

There’s a man selling fruit and nuts and other items right outside the cyber, so I quickly buy a banana. Success! But then I want something a little more substantial. Does it occur to me to walk back into the neighborhood behind the cyber, on which I’ve seen many a little bread stand? Ahh non. Instead I wander stupidly around the two blocks of main road nearby, where the only things I see are more fruit stands and barbershops. Does it occur to me to ask somebody if there’s some place to go? Does it occur to me to go back to ask at the Baobab center, where I had my Wolof lesson (a block away), which is an alleged cultural center and a resource for exchange students? Mais, bien sur que non. (I know, I did it again with the French.)

I see a Mobil station on the corner, with a convenience store. I scoff. Clearly I can do better than this. Clearly I can find something to eat. I am Naomi, Intrepid World Traveler.

I wander for about 3 minutes more, and then I go into the Mobil station. And what do I buy? Cookies.

I bought cookies for lunch.

NOT a raging success.

I went back to the Baobab Center to wait for Michelle, feeling a little chagrined. But the cookies were tasty.

So like I said, if it weren’t for Michelle, I’d probably still be wandering the streets with no cell phone. Or I’d have gotten home hours ago, having eaten nothing but cookies and a banana, and hid under my covers for a nice defensive nap.

Instead, we went to a lovely little restaurant for a real lunch, and chatted for hours about journalism (she wants to be a journalist, too) and traveling and whatever else. And we ran into, and chatted with, two of her friends from another University program.

Afterwards, we went to a little store she knew of to buy the phone. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough Senegalese cash to buy it. (Remember how my ATM card isn’t working? And how people don’t really accept credit cards here? And how finding a bank that will change money isn’t the world’s easiest task?) But the guy didn’t want to lose his sale. So when I asked him where I could change money, he ran off to see what he could figure out. And then he grabbed the phone, told us to follow him, and took us to a little newsstand/snack shop around the corner, where the guy gave me a better exchange rate than I’d found downtown, and even sold me a SIM card for the phone.

Unqualified victory.

So now I’ve made plans to head out of town on Thursday to visit the Peace Corps dude I’m interviewing for my story (should be an adventure, but he gave me very detailed directions, so I think I should be okay. And if I have a problem, I can call him on my CELL PHONE!)

And I’ve called another freelance journalist who I’m hoping to meet up with sometime this week.

Petit a petit... Yeah, I'll shut up. But just wait until I start throwing in the Wolof. THAT will get annoying.

Me voici

2006-02-13T08:35:00.000-05:00

After being here less than 12 hours, I discovered a huge flaw in my planning. Why did nobody warn me of this impending catastrophe?

People here speak French (wait for it, wait for it) which means that they *also* type in French (I’m getting to the point now). Which MEANS (aha! My point!) that they use Francophone keyboards.

It’s horrible. I’ve used these keyboards before, in France, and, you do start to get used to them, eventually. But man do they suck. I grew up with computers, and learned to type practically at the same time I learned to write. For me, typing is an extension of my thought process. I don’t think about typing any more than I think about speaking. I think the thoughts, and they appear on my screen.

Except when the “w” is where the “z” should be, and there’s a weird “u” with an accent where the apostrophe should be, and you have to hold down the damn shift key every time you want a numeral or a period.

To complicate matters further, I have my own laptop here, with its blessedly normal keyboard. But, as I just discovered, after my second visit to the cyber (internet café), where I finally got to the point where I remembered to use my right pinkie finger to type the “m”, I start making mistakes when I switch back.

Okay, enough bitching. Tell the truth, you would have been disappointed if I started off with anything OTHER than petty whining, right? I mean, here I am, finally in Senegal, after months of planning, panicking, and excitement. I’m living the dream, or at least what I’ve convinced others (and myself?) is my dream, and what? You want to hear about the beautiful courtyard, full of flowers and birds? You want to hear about my landlady/host, who is the world’s nicest woman? You want to hear about the kids playing soccer in the street?

Actually, you probably do. And they’re all here, and my apartment couldn’t be lovelier. (Pictures to come.) There is running water and electricity (not surprising in Dakar), and also HOT water (which was a bit of a surprise). I have a teeny little fridge, and a tiny, two-burner gas stove (but no oven). I also have a guest room, so feel free to stop by for a visit.

I don’t know how long I’m staying in this apartment. I planned for a week, and meanwhile, I thought I’d explore my other options. I think I could stay here longer, if I wanted, but I’d need to ask. I feel a little more like a burden than I’d expected. The apartment is completely independent of the main house, but I, most decidedly, am not. I’m full of questions, and helplessness, and my landlady (whom I’ve already started thinking of as a host mother, so that just goes to show MY state of mind) couldn’t be nicer about it.

Yesterday, after a morning full of napping, I wandered in the general direction of downtown, with a single goal: get some cash in the local currency. Actually, I was full of optimism that I’d get some cash, explore downtown, grab some lunch, and maybe get a cell phone. But I decided I’d count it as a victory if only I managed to find some cash—especially since I still owed my taxi driver from the airport, who was supposed to come back that afternoon to collect.

I *did* find a bank, only to discover, after waiting for my turn for nearly half an hour, that they didn’t exchange money there (it WAS awfully small). Unfortunately, by the time I got out of there, it was after noon, and the rest of the banks were closed. I hoped to find an ATM (even though my ATM card didn’t seem to be working at the first machine I’d tried on the way from the airport, or at the tiny bank) or a bureau de change or a hotel or something, so I continued on my wandering.

But, since I didn’t really know where I was, or where I was going, I didn’t really want to get too far off course and wind up lost. So I just stayed on the one main road I recognized. And, nearly 40 minutes later, I had not seen a SINGLE bank or ATM. I also had no idea where I was going. I was pretty sure if I kept going, I’d end up downtown, but I wasn’t sure how long that would take.

Finally, I saw a sign for a bank, pointing me up another main road 800 m. I contemplated the pros and cons of changing course. On the one hand, eventually there HAD to be a bank on the road I’d been walking, and the odds had to be in my favor, right? On the other hand, the sign looked very promising, and 800 meters didn’t sound ALL that far.

I gambled on the sign.

And, after only losing courage for a moment (I asked directions at a boulangerie (bread bakery) where they confirmed I was on the right path), I found the bank. Which was, no surprise, closed. But there was an ATM, and there were many comforting logos on the outside: Mastercard, Visa, Cirrus, Plus, Maestro, etc. Many of those logos also exist on my ATM card, so I felt relatively confident in my success.

Foolishly confident, it turned out. My card was rejected. I honestly don’t know what the problem is. I’ve used my ATM card everywhere I’ve traveled, including Botswana, and never had any problem. A neighbor from my hometown spent a few months here in 2003, and she said that she used her ATM card the whole time. I did bring cash and travelers checks with me, just in case, but with everything closed, they weren’t any help.

Thoroughly discouraged, I decided to head back home. A street vendor tried desperately to sell me some peanuts (he was willing to make any kind of bargain, and the peanuts looked pretty good), and I doubt he believed me when I told him I had no money.

I hadn’t managed even the simplest of my goals for the outing, and when the taxi driver came by, he had the choice either to accept dollars or to take a chance that I’d get my act together and finally manage to exchange some currency. He was very nice about it (if slightly disbelieving), but he took the dollars.

My landlady came home a little later, and she just pulled out her walled and offered me 10,000 CFA ($20) and told me to pay her back on Monday.

The point I’m trying to make, I suppose, is that it’s profoundly disorienting to be in a new place. This is not unexpected, but it’s always a bit humbling. And, the other point I was trying to make, I think, was that I’m not all that unobtrusive, living in this little apartment 2 feet away from my landlady’s house, and she may not want someone here long term.

Of course, I’ve only been here for (as I type) 36 hours, and, of course, things will improve. The plus side of my unsuccessful wandering yesterday was that, when I got home, I pulled out my giant city map, and was able to orient myself much better. Now I know where I am, and where that is in relation to other parts of the city, and this morning when I walked out the gate, I knew how to get to downtown. And I DID get there, and I FINALLY changed some money, and I even bought myself some lunch. (Let’s not talk about all the “rules of safe eating” that I forgot about, like how I ate the uncooked tomatoes in my sandwich, and used the ketchup and mustard in little cups that they put on my table, and the food was on the lukewarm side, and… Yeah, I suck at following those stupid rules. But at least I’m taking my anti-malaria pills, so that’s gotta count for something.)

And my landlady has invited me to join her family for supper, so that makes two real meals, in contrast to yesterday’s all Clif bar diet. Okay, I’m exaggerating—after my landlady lent me some money, I bought bread, cheese, and yogurt, and her maid had brought me some fresh fruit in the afternoon. (Oh wait, did I mention that she has a maid? Actually she has two of them. Plus a guard/groundkeeper type.) But I probably ate 4 Clif bars in total, before I managed to find alternate food. Today, so far, no clif bars at all.

By the time I post this (I’m typing at home, and I’ll attempt to save it on my jump drive and then use my jump drive at the cyber tomorrow…) I’ll have started my Wolof class, and maybe even met up with Michelle who is going to help me buy a cell phone and also be my friend (I’ve decided).

A bientot!

Tomorrow

2006-02-09T18:27:00.000-05:00

Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god.

I am leaving tomorrow. Less than 24 hours, if you want to get technical. I didn't think I would get this feeling until I got on the plane. But no. There I was, driving home from Circuit City (spending yet more money) and, oh yeah, I know that feeling.

It's a good thing, this vaguely nauseating rock that has formed inside my stomach. This is not real fear. There's nothing to be scared of. This is. I don't know what this is.

This is the moment on the roller coaster when, after climbing every single foot of the highest incline (very, very, slowly) you're about to hurtle back down. This is the reason you got on the roller coaster to begin with. Doesn't mean you're not terrified. I've seen people get off those roller coasters though, and they can't wait to get back on. Except me. I hate roller coasters.

Don't tell me I'll be fine. Don't tell me it'll be a great experience. I know all that. I believe all that. I'm excited.

And honestly, I hope everyone feels like this sometimes. This feeling has preceded all the fabulous things I've ever done. This feeling means I'm doing something right.

I'm as ready as I'll ever be. By which I mean, the plane takes off at 5:35 tomorrow night, whether I'm on it or not, and I plan to be on it.

In the meantime, ACK. And I'm taking it out on my poor mother, who didn't want me to go in the first place. And she's finally come to terms with the fact that I'm going, and is trying to be nice, and I would appreciate it except for the fact that I'm too busy being a snotty brat.

Anyway, i had lots more to say, like about how when people tell me they're going to miss me, I feel guilty and apologize, instead of the normal (and accurate) response that I'll miss them, too. Because I feel like they're all thinking, "If you were REALLY going to miss us, you wouldn't go."

But now I need to go pick up dinner (I requested pizza, and then bratted about what kind and from where, as if this were my last meal EVER and couldn't people please just do EXACTLY what I say for once?) with my mother, and try to make up for my obnoxiousness.

And I'm not sure what the point of this post was. But I gotta go.

Loose Ends

2006-02-05T12:20:00.000-05:00

Before I forget, thank you to all the lurkers for revealing yourselves. It's so fun hearing your stories. There's a lot of accomplished and aspiring marathoners and half-marathoners (not, I suppose, particularly surprising on a blog called "26.2 miles vs." something). How have your races been going? I'm sure I should go read all your fabulous blogs to find out, but I'm having trouble keeping up with my reading, now that I don't have a day job. (Heh.)

And of course, thank you to the regular commenters, whose responses I always love hearing. Riona, we should talk about the Gambia (like how much I adore that they passed legislation to add the definite article to their official name). I am hoping to travel there at some point. Also, Anne, you say you have lived some of my journalism dreams. Any advice?

Speaking of 26.2 miles vs. Something (which I was, a bunch of sentences back. Don't get all literal on me), it has been suggested that I need a new name for this blog. There are, as you can imagine, infinite possibilities.

I could go with a theme: 26.2 miles vs. Africa

or for a horrifying pun: Naomi is the SeneGAL!

or maybe plagiarism: Circling the Baobabs

But somehow none of these is singing to me. So please chime in with any suggestions. If there are enough good ones, maybe I'll conduct a poll.

Of course, a new title would require a new banner, and I don't really have the technology for that anymore (See above, re: lack of day job). So we may just stick with what we have.

****

In other news, I consider it a triumph of sorts that my announcement of marathon retirement has not prompted anybody to question whether I will stop running altogether. After the first marathon, that was a frequent (and entirely justified) question. Apparently, though, two marathons crosses some sort of threshold, after which people just assume you don't want to stop running.

Which, it just so happens, is true. I DON'T want to stop running. I. like. running. (I like to keep saying it, because it sounds so bizarre.)

Of course, I haven't been running since the marathon. This, as you all can guess, has not failed to cause a fair bit of panic in my neurotic brain.

Except not really. It's been a week. I've kind of loved the vacation. But I'm bringing running shoes to Senegal, and, unless I find out something about safety, I'll soon be running along the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

I know. Pity me.

****

I was going to write about how I'm going soft, and losing my cynical edge (which is true). This is particularly true in my African dance class, where I hugged people goodbye today, and promised to stay in touch, and gave my teacher a copy of a CD that I thought she would like, and didn't even cringe a little bit when she talked about relaxing into our breathing space, and how now we should add our hearts to a certain movement. It's a good thing I'm moving to Africa, because I'm dangerously close to becoming ungaurded, open-minded, and friendly.

But it's lunchtime, and I need to call my twin brother back, and I'm meeting friends for coffee soon, so I'll just have to save that for another time.

Another baseball term

2006-02-01T15:27:00.000-05:00

My brother was waiting for us and taking pictures at the finish line. (My mother and grandmother had stayed at mile 21 to cheer for a while, and then went home to wait for us there.) He and Deanna helped me stretch, and carry my things, and listened to me gush about how much less sore I was this time than after Anchorage. The three of us eventually managed to meet up with David, Rachel, and Brent (you've seen the pictures) and we sat on the grass, stretched, and gabbed for almost another hour. The weather, when not running, was actually gorgeous.

Everyone was starving, but I was determined to go to the ocean and let my legs soak in the cold water. Since we didn't really know where to go that was near the finish line, we decided to drive back to the beach near my dad's house. The traffic was still pretty bad, and I almost gave up, but I'm so glad I didn't.

I think there will always be a part of me that wishes I'd managed to keep running, and that I'd hit the finish line at 4:30. That wonders what would have happened if I hadn't stopped to walk through the aid station at mile 19, or if I'd thought to carry a couple salt packets with me. That wonders how the race would have been different if the temperature had been 10 degrees cooler, as it had been in previous years, and that calculates how if I'd shaved 30 seconds off this mile here, and that mile there...

But that's pointless. I can always come up with a calculation that would have resulted in a better time, and hell, if I'd run 4 minute miles, I'd have set a world record. Even if I had finished in 4:30, that same part of my brain (the dumb part) would probably be wondering why I didn't hit 4:22. It's the part of me that, when I'd get a 96 on a paper in high school, wanted to know where I'd lost 4 points.

I did the best that I could at every step of the way, and, for once, that's good enough for me. I can't swear that I'll never run another marathon ever. But right now, I don't want to.

I leave for Senegal a week from Friday. And Peace Corps sent me a letter inviting me to teach English in Cameroon, starting in June.

I'm not exactly sure if I'll end up doing Peace Corps. And I have even less of an idea of what I will be doing in Senegal. But I'm pretty excited to find out.

I plan to keep posting in this blog, but I imagine I will write less about running, and more about Africa. I hope you'll all stick around and keep me company. I'm going to need it.

In that vein, I'm going to ask a favor. I know there are a few people who read this blog, and don't comment. Which is totally cool. I hardly ever comment on other people's blogs. But I'm curious to know who you are. So I'm asking all the lurkers to say hi. Tell me where you're from (be general--I'm not trying to stalk you). Do you run? Ever been to Africa?

A hit

2006-02-01T10:51:00.000-05:00

I ran to the right, making sure to plant my foot squarely on at least one of the "marathon" cartoon footprints. Don't ask why. I'm also the girl who would avoid stepping on any cracks (to not break my mother's back) and who would step over the darker rows of tiles in my elementary school because, well, I guess I'm OCD.

With two-thirds of the runners heading for the half-marathon finish line, the field thinned considerably. This allowed me, finally, to use a porta potty. I'd wanted to for miles, but there was a line at all the previous ones.

Soon I was back on the road, and beeping over the mat at the halfway point, at something like 2:14. Well on target for my goal, and feeling pretty strong. I was two miles away from finishing my third 5-mile race, and three miles away from where I was supposed to meet Deanna and my family. My fuel belt was running low, but I had left two replacement bottles with my brother, and Deanna had filled one of her fuel belt bottles with additional gatorade for me.

I didn't really want gatorade though. Although I've never minded the sweetness in training, on race day, the sun-warmed, syrupy, orange concoction was driving me crazy. I hadn't taken anything from any previous water stops, but at mile 14 I grabbed a cup of water.

These next few miles were fairly residential and somewhat shaded. I was still loving my music, and, unlike in Anchorage, keeping mostly to myself. I'd spoken to Derek, and also to Angela (around mile 10), who was running her first half-marathon and determined not to have to walk. But I was mostly running my own race, and in fact I was running in sort of an empty pocket. If I have one complaint about the race organization, it was that they failed to post road closures effectively, and it was clear that non-running Miami was severely inconvenienced. There were cops directing traffic at every intersection, and cars lined up seemingly endlessly. Occasionally they would let a single car through ahead of or behind me. But there were plenty more cars, and the honking didn't seem like it was meant as encouragement for the runners.

Around mile 15, I fell into step with two runners in pink. I don't think they knew each other, but they seemed to be running together at that moment. We greeted each other, and I mentioned that I felt good, but wished we were about 10 miles further on. And in the process, I depressed myself by realizing that, 10 miles on, I would still be running. But I had started my fourth 5-mile race, and was about to hit my reinforcements.

In theory.

As I ran through the 16th mile marker, the water stop, and the general area of where I had thought I was meeting my family and Deanna, it became obvious that they weren't there. I held out hope until about mile 18, but to be honest, by the time I had hit 16.5, I already knew that something had happened and they hadn't made it.

At that point in Anchorage, I was exhausted and trying to keep up with LadyFab, and looking forward to meeting our families as a chance to stop and catch my breath. When we didn't see them at 16, I was horribly disappointed, and by the time I saw them 2 miles later, my legs had cramped and I was falling apart. This time, I was disappointed, but running comfortably on my own with my music, so I was determined not to let my family's non-appearance shake me. My only worry was that my fuel belt bottles were empty. But there were water stops every mile, and I knew I'd be okay.

It was getting brutally hot, though. I grabbed a cup of gatorade at the 17th mile, and downed a few gulps (and splashed a lot all over me). I grabbed a cup of water at the 18th mile, and drank almost all of it. But I was starting to worry about drinking too much. Also, I'd been fighting stomach cramps the whole time, and gulping down huge cups of water or gatorade every mile didn't seem like a good plan.

So at mile 19, I took a cup of gatorade, and walked through the aid station. I drank a few sips, and then poured the rest into one of my fuel belt flasks, filling it nearly to the top.

All to the greater good. Except, good lord, the walking felt good. It was so slow, and I had so many miles to go, but. Walking. Wow. Unbelievably good.

It was not easy to start running again, and even harder to keep running once I'd started. I made it to the next water stop at mile 20, and once again walked and refilled one of my flasks.

This time it was even harder to start running again. I passed through the water stop and tried to pick a landmark or feature in the near distance where I would start running.

But I kept walking.

Mentally, I think, I was losing the battle. I was so hot, and so tired, and I had six endless miles to go. All I wanted to do was stop (or walk, at least) and chug gallons of ice cold water. I envisioned running off the course to the beach and submerging myself in the ocean. I wished for someone to appear with an icy towel. Or ice. My kingdom for an ice cube.

A minute or so later, the lady in pink from mile 15 passed by. "Get a move on! Stop walking" she shouted. I grunted some sort of response. But as I watched her back, I realized she was right.

So I started to run. I told myself I'd run at least half a mile, but by the time I'd been running again for 5 or 6 minutes, I'd hit some sort of stride, and, though I was running slowly, I'd stopped wishing so hard that I could stop. I still had a full flask from the last water stop, and I told myself to keep running until mile 23.

The course took us through Coconut Grove, a ritzy suburb of Miami that I'd visited once with a friend. There were a lot of spectators (many lounging at sidewalk cafes) and lots of fancy store windows.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Deanna appeared at my side. Later, I heard about the incredible traffic, the roads closed without warning, the unhelpful cops, and the helpful race volunteer. About driving backwards the wrong way down a one-way street to escape the traffic jam where they'd sat stationary for more than 20 minutes, and about entering a twilight zone traffic warp, where no matter what direction they drove, they ended up at the Hyatt Hotel. About endlessly calculating and recalculating where I might be and where they could catch up with me, but never getting any closer, until, thanks to dumb luck and iron determination, they'd suddenly arrived exactly at mile 21, minutes before I would get there (they hoped).

They had been driving almost as long as I'd been running, and they felt terrible that they hadn't been at mile 16. I was simply grateful that they were there at all, and I squeezed Deanna's hand and managed to tell her "I'm so glad you're here!" before starting in with the whining. "I'm so hot. It's SO HOT."

"I know," she said. "But you're doing so well. You look great. And your family is just up there. Just a little farther up."

When they'd found themselves at mile 21, they'd hopped out of the car, and Deanna immediately started running towards mile 20. She only made it about a quarter mile before she saw me, and she kept telling me where my family would be and how happy they would be to see me. My brother was there, and so was my mother and grandmother. After finally managing to start running again, I was unwilling to stop, so I waved as I passed by. My brother had the camera, my mother passed off my extra fuel belt flasks to Deanna, and my grandmother cheered. I heard my brother try to apologize for not being there earlier ("You meant we should come later, right?" he joked) but I didn't stop.

A couple minutes later, though, I had no choice. My calves cramped.

The last five miles were like a--much less unpleasant--repeat of Anchorage. I'd walk until the cramps passed, and stretch my calves on the side of the road. Then I'd walk a bit more, and then start running again. After that first cramp, I was able to run almost the rest of the way to the next mile marker. I think I passed David somewhere around this point. He was walking, but he seemed in good spirits. Mile 22 was harder; getting from 22 to 23 took an eternity, and I kept having to stop.

I was sick to death of the gatorade, and I started drinking Deanna's Vitamin Water/Electrolite Water concoction because it was less sweet. And, at the aid station at mile 23, someone had pretzels, which, at that moment, were a chalky, dusty, piece of heaven. A little further up, some spectators had a bowl of cheez-its, which were even better, and a bit beyond that, another family of specatators were pouring bottles of aquafina on passing runners. Few things have ever felt as good as having that 20 oz. bottle of water poured over my head.

Whether it was the salt or just the mental boost of having only three miles to go, the cramps seemed to alleviate after 23, even if they didn't disappear entirely. The worst cramp I remember hit just in front of a Gordon Biersch restaurant that I'd noticed the day before. One calf seized up, but the other foot kept moving, and I spun around and yelped in pain. But that was the last cramp I remember. I'm pretty sure I ran the last two miles without stopping.

Every part of me wanted to let loose and speed through to the finish line, but my calves couldn't take it. Still, I ran those last couple miles in about 11:20 each, and I didn't even have to stop when we hit the last little "hill" (a tiny bridge over the Miami river).

I was finally able to lengthen my stride slightly as I hit the final straight-away, which I was dying to do, if for no other reason than to make my finish line picture look better. They haven't posted them yet, so I don't know how well my plan worked. And I choked up (with pleasure) when they handed me my medal. Which, I'm not going to lie, is one of the ugliest things that I will never part with.

The pitch

2006-01-31T09:28:00.000-05:00

Rachel told us to look for Brent in his white "Go Team Rachel.com" tshirt on the right. He was waiting to take a picture of the start.

We were all running in a little pack (just like the lead runners!) on the far right edge of the road, and saw Brent with his big camera up ahead. Unfortunately, he didn't see us. We called out as we passed, and he tried desperately (and unsuccessfully) to snap a picture.

Oh well, I thought.

I had severely underestimated Brent. He put his head down and sprinted around the other spectators and got ahead of us again. He set himself up, aimed his camera, and was ready when we got there to take the perfect shot.

But the shutter was delayed and he missed us again.

Once again, he sprinted ahead. This time, he set up the shot, and as we waved and passed by, the flash went off at just the right moment. Posterity preserved, he yelled some encouragement, and headed back to their beachfront hotel.

Running with David and Rachel I was able to avoid my usual mistake of starting way too fast. We ran at a very comfortable pace for the first mile, and hardly weaved around anybody. At some point in this mile, we spotted "Coatman", who was apparently featured recently in Runner's World, so Rachel jogged ahead to take a picture with her cell phone, and that was the last I saw of her. Well, I saw her back for about the next mile, but she was soon far ahead.

David and I ran together for the first two miles, but when we hit the second mile marker at 9:40, I knew I'd be in trouble if I kept up with him. By the third mile marker, which I think I hit at about 10:10, he was far ahead.

It was dark out, but I was already covered in sweat. Partly because it was muggy, and partly because I was wearing sunscreen, which always makes me sweaty. There was a nice breeze over the water, and except for a couple twinges in my knees, and the hint of some stomach cramps (which plagued me the whole race) nothing hurt.

I had been wearing my headphones from the start, but I didn't turn on the music until I fell behind David. By the fourth mile, I was still energized enough to laugh at the puns in my mix ("Run, Baby, Run" by Sheryl Crow. Am I brilliant, or what?).

The sun was up by the time we rounded South Beach, but it was overcast, so it wasn't quite the spectactular sunrise I was hoping for. I started running with Derek, who asked me what our pace was. At that point, we were averaging about 10:05, I told him.

Derek hadn't trained well for the marathon, he told me, and his friends all had a pool betting on where he'd give up. He was sure he'd finish, though. He planned to take the race in 5 mile increments, and start fresh each time. It was a smart strategy, because, as we all know, the hardest part of a marathon is the psychology. And, in fact, I used Derek's strategy, myself, as I paced myself through the miles.

"So,"I asked him, "Did you bet on yourself in the pool? Did you bet you would finish?"

"No way. I'm not crazy!"

"Really?"

"Do you know what my longest training run was for this marathon?"

"No. How far?"

"Six miles."

Derek stopped at a water stop soon afterwards, (I had my fuel belt, so I kept going) and I didn't see him again. I just searched the partial marathon results, though, and I may be remembering his name wrong, but no "Derek" popped up.

I wasn't worrying too much about my pacing. I hadn't printed out a pace band, but I knew that I had to average 10:17 miles to hit 4:30. My real goal, though, was to run at a sustainable pace, so I figured that as long as I kept my miles over 10 minutes and under 11, I'd be okay.

I was bouncing around, alternating slower and faster miles (mile 5: 10:40, mile 6: 10:05), constantly trying to correct my pace, when all of a sudden, the 10th mile marker appeared, and my watch said 9:30. That was even faster than mile 2 with David, and I didn't feel like I'd been racing at all.

The marker was just before a toll booth on a bridge, and as we ran through, I asked another runner if that mile felt short to him.

"Oh yeah. Every mile will feel shorter from here on out. Sure."

"No, really. I think the mile marker was wrong. Otherwise I'm running too fast."

"Well, I think that was a regular old mile."

So I slowed down. But according to David's race report, that was his fastest mile, too. Plus, the next mile wasn't just slower, it was a LOT slower. I hit mile 11 at something over 11 minutes (11:30 ish? Can't remember exactly). Which may have been because of the cheering station at 10.5, but I'm sticking with my original theory: mile 10 was short.

I started seeing runners with half-marathon finisher's medals, and I started to get very, very jealous. I also started to get very, very panicked that I would somehow miss the turn off and end up crossing the finish line at the half. I kept checking around me to see if there were still other orange bibs (the half marathon bibs were blue).

We passed the finish line on a parallel road and turned right, where I could see, about a minute up, two gigantic arches, labeled "half marathon" and "marathon. Plus there were volunteers yelling for the half marathoners to go left and for the marathoners to go right. Plus there were cartoon footprints on each side, labeled "marathon" and "half marathon."

Somehow, I managed to figure out which way to go.

The windup

2006-01-31T08:58:00.000-05:00

I'd say I was already awake when the alarm went off at 4 am, except that I don't remember anything before hearing the beeps. But there was no need to hit the snooze--my heart was racing, and my mind was going at full speed.

I'd laid out all my clothes and accessories in the bathroom so I wouldn't wake Deanna, who was sleeping in the other bed in the guest room. But once I'd gotten dressed, I had a wardrobe-panic, and when I went back in to the room to get different shorts, Deanna was already awake.

So, of course, she had to be consulted on the big crisis. I went with my original shorts. Whew. See how hard this marathon running is, y'all? Twenty-six miles, schmenty-six miles. The real question: what should I wear?

My father was waiting for me downstairs, and after grabbing a banana and a PB&J sandwhich (and a half), I was ready to go. Deanna decided to drive to the start with us, and she took some great photos.

The car was reporting the temperature at 73 degrees, which I didn't like at all. It dropped to 71 by the time we got to the start. Still plenty warm. I was wearing a long sleeve shirt that I'd hoped I'd need in the predawn start, but it was muggy and warm when I hopped out of the car, so I left it in the back seat to change into after the race.

It was 5 am on the dot, and I was still carrying two halves of the sandwhich. David and I had arranged to meet at the first aid tent at 5:30. You can tell that was my brilliant idea, because of course, there WAS NO first aid tent at the start. I still swear I remember reading that in the brochure.

For the past three days, I'd been driving my family crazy with my obsessive eating habits. ("Hey, Naomi, I bought some good cheese. You want some?" "No! Not until after the marathon!"/ "Want a glass of wine with dinner?" "Sunday! Not until Sunday.") And I'd been drowning myself in gatorade and water like it was my last chance to drink EVER.

So even though I didn't drink anything that morning, (I was trying to avoid having to stop during the race) I still made two trips to the portapotties before 5:30.

I walked back to the water and gatorade tables, hoping to spot David or Rachel. David had told me that he'd be wearing a sleeveless yellow shirt (surprisingly unhelpful when there are hundreds of AIDS marathoners in yellow singlets) and that Rachel would be wearing a pink top.

After a couple false alarms, I finally spotted David, who gave me a big, excited hug, and immediately took a picture for the blogs.

Can you believe I'm still writing, and the race hasn't started yet? Well, the good news is that a lot of the race is a blur (because I was hot and tired, not because I was going so fast) so I won't manage to be quite this detailed later.

Rachel didn't mosey into the corral until moments before the race began (something about spending time with her incredibly supportive, very cool, husband. Yeah, I don't get it either...) but David spotted her right away (and took a picture of the three of us.)

Finally (finally!) the flare guns went off, and the race began. It took about three minutes to cross the start line, and only about 10 seconds for me to remember to start my watch.

Still not the recap

2006-01-29T21:22:00.000-05:00

.
(Click on the photo to get to the rest of the pictures.)

I should mention, of course, that in addition to my lovely family and Deanna, I had the pleasure of running (the first mile or so) with David and Rae, two supremely cool runner/bloggers (which you already know).

Shown here with David's two O-town buddies.

All of which helped make this, my last ever marathon (why do we say things, if not to eat our words later?), as fun as can be.

I'd like to announce my retirement

2006-01-29T13:54:00.000-05:00

4:44:36—my official chip time. I'm tired, sweaty, and a little covered in sea salt (oh, the ocean, how do I love thee) but I'm very, very happy.

But no time for updating. The hot tub awaits.

T-Minus 33 hours and counting

2006-01-27T20:31:00.000-05:00

I've discovered the cure to my getting tired problem. It's called running two miles. Honestly? I thought about running in my street clothes--the time I spent changing into gear and showering afterwards outlasted, by far, the actual time spent running.

It was kind of fantastic. And I made sure to enjoy it as much as possible, since the next time I put those running shoes on, they're going to stay on for quite a bit longer.

Currently the panic-meter is on the low side. I've been worried about the how the temperature would affect me, but the weather has been gorgeous, and it is really quite cool in the morning. Add to that how much lighter I feel wearing shorts and a tank top compared to the multiple layers I needed to stay warm in DC, and I'm feeling good.

I think of this as my selfish marathon—I'm not raising money for any charity, and my reasons for doing this are completely self-absorbed (and kind of silly). Despite this, I'm am lucky enough to be surrounded by incredibly generous people, who are making this experience worlds better than I deserve.

One of which, of course, is Deanna, and if you're curious to know why I rave about her so much, go read the comment she left on my last post. The girl needs a blog, so she can be a part of the RBF, is all I'm saying.

She needs to join the RBF, by the way, because it is pretty much the best running community a girl could belong to, (did you like how I did that? Segue QUEEN is what you should call me). I will be forever grateful to the little RBF logo/link I followed from the (sadly, on hiatus) folks at Longest Mile, which led me to all you fabulous people. If you want to know why I rave about YOU so much, go read the comments you left on my last post.**

My family, though they continue to be baffled by all my running, are proving how supportive they can be (at least the marathon isn't in Africa, my mother would tell me, if she knew that there WERE marathons in Africa). If you could only see the grocery list I sent my poor mother of all the food I needed to have this weekend, including gatorade, whole wheat pasta, all-natural peanut butter, and many, many, many other things. And how much of the food am I actually going to manage to eat this weekend? Let's not worry about that, m'kay?

My older brother, currently sitting next to me on the couch, has flown all the way from NY (taking two days off from his busy life as a real estate lawyer) to carry extra water bottles and cheer for me. And he would do more, except that I have conscripted my father into many of the least rewarding jobs, including driving me to the start line on Sunday morning, BEFORE the crack of dawn. And he's coming back two-and-a-half hours later with my brother and Deanna, because I was afraid they would get lost in Miami and not make it to mile 16 in time. (I'm neurotic. We know this by now.)

He has also given me the world's coolest gift: his digital camera. (He has an electronics recycling program—whenever he wants to buy something new, he passes the old version to one of his children. Can you tell how spoiled I am?)

Ostensibly, the camera is for Africa. But I'm already putting it to use to bore you, my dear interweb readers.

Remember how I told you I brought two pairs of running shoes? And remember how you thought that was a stupid waste of space? And remember how I agreed with you, but couldn't bring myself to choose between my sturdy, reliable Asics, and my beloved Mizunos, which I wore in the first marathon, and which I've rotated in for my longest training runs?

Well I when I pulled my shoes out of my suitcase, I realized that I really shouldn't have bothered bringing both pairs. Sadly, the Muzunos are no more:

Rest in peace, my favorite, lime green sneakers.

Long live the Asics (shown here at a crrrrazy angle... I may have to get used to this new camera thing). They're heavier, and not as cute, but as of Sunday, they will have run a marathon.

Next time I type here, I will be wearing this:

As described on the Miami marathon web site: The most unique finisher's medal ever designed for runners. The 2006 medal is amazing, it has a double spin! The center spins and so does the bottom. Miami is the official home of the original spinner.

Tell me you're not jealous.

**Tim, for the purposes of this thank you, I'm counting you as a member of the RBF. You're a member of my running family, and you have blog. QED.

Florida-bound

2006-01-26T07:58:00.001-05:00

Okay, I have two confessions to make:

The first is that I still haven't packed one, single, solitary box. I have no good excuse--unless you think the fact that I fell asleep while watching Yes, Dear reruns in the afternoon sounds promising? No? I mean, that's not what happened or anything, but if it sounded like a potential excuse, I'd go with it.

Sigh.

The second is that I might (just possibly) be slightly more nervous for this marathon than I've been letting on.

I wasn't lying about how my attention was mostly focused elsewhere. Planning for Africa has been very time consuming. But it's also been a lot of fun, and I feel like everything is falling into place in a surprising, but very enjoyable way.

But this marathon... It occurred to me as I packed every single pair of running shorts I own and two (two!) pairs of running shoes in my very petite suitcase, that maybe, possibly, a very teeny part of me is just the teensiest bit nervous.

Every run for the past two weeks has felt terrible. My legs feel heavy. I feel tired. I can't finish five miles without wanting to stop. I don't stop, but I want to. Which bodes ill for the 26 miles I have to run in a few days.

But what are my options? Not running? Not likely. And do I really think that I won't finish the marathon? Well, not unless something really awful happens. So maybe it'll take me longer than I hope. Maybe it'll even take me longer than it took last time. That wouldn't be the end of the world, right?

If that happens, though, and then I sign on here and tell you how I have to run another marathon, so I can get my goal time, or some other similar nonsense? You have my permission to flame me in the comments.

Maybe I'll just stay here...

2006-01-23T15:36:00.000-05:00

So the marathon is less than a week away, and I have yet to pack a single box.

How, you might wonder, is box-packing relevant to marathon-preparation? A very good question, my very astute readers.

The answer is that it's probably not particularly relevant. But, my head, she isn't so much in the marathon-panicking, these days. She's pretty pre-occupied with the Africa-planning and the move-out-procrastinating. It leaves surprisingly little time for tapering. I haven't even checked the weather forecast once--although David sent it out on Saturday along with a weekend schedule (the man is impressively organized!). High 60s and rainy. I haven't decided how I feel about that yet.

Luckily, tapering is easy. My "long" run on Saturday was six miles. That's shorter than many of my weekday runs were during the peak of training. It was a total breeze.

Actually, that's an utter lie. It *should* have been a total breeze. It was a warm day. I lazed out of the house at around 11:30, and ran in Rock Creek Park, which is right by my house. Six miles is barely an hour of running, and that route is the flattest possible in my neighborhood.

And yet? Not so easy. I don't know what the deal is, but my legs felt leaden. I haven't been drinking enough water lately. And it was awfully humid, which is something I've become delightfully unaccustomed to, over the last few winter months. Plus, I'd been munching all morning (oranges, apricots, and carrots... can you overdose on Vitamin A? Because everything I eat these days is orange. And I have a sweet potato calling for me to eat it for dinner...)

So some of those are fixable. I will be hydrating to within an inch of my life for the next few days (that was needlessly dire, and also cliched. Hmm.) which should help. And I will have a reasonable pre-race breakfast of some sort.

But the heat and humidity? Well, there's nothing I can really do about that. I've decided that this unseasonably warm and humid weather in DC is a blessing, because I will be more used to it when I get to Miami. Don't know if it'll really help, but thinking it will can't hurt, right? I mean, right?

Meanwhile, back to the real point. I am moving out of my apartment two weeks from tomorrow, and I have yet to pack a single box. But I doubt that will be a problem. I'll just pack when I get back from the marathon. It should only take, what? An hour or two? Tops?

On another note, I'm hosting a party on the Tuesday after the marathon. It should be a rocking good time. I'll provide the music, the munchies, the... packing tape.... BYOB** Friends and significant others welcome!

**Bring your own boxes.

This just in....

2006-01-18T10:02:00.000-05:00

From the Boston Globe correspondent in Africa, re: living in Dakar:

One of the great benefits to being there is that it's almost impossible not to get swept up in the physical fitness craze. Thousands of young people every day run or work out along the water, especially near the university. So if you're a runner, or like volleyball, or lift weights, you'll find plenty of company.

It's fate, I tell you.

[/whiny rant]

2006-01-17T15:51:00.000-05:00

So I was really getting into my grump yesterday. I was on a roll, and I wasn't stopping, even hours later. And then I was on the phone with a friend, and I started to get really self-righteous about how I had a follow-up appointment with a travel doctor today, and (don't forget to imagine my withering tone) how I was paying HUNDREDS of dollars for the PRIVILEGE (said with devastating sarcasm) of having my arm jabbed repeatedly with pointy sticks.

Except that as soon as I said it, I realized that -- and I'm sorry for getting all, "Teacher says that every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings" on you -- actually it is a huge privilege to be able to pay any amount of money for these vaccinations. Because the reason I need them is that there are real people dying from these very real diseases, and because I was born here and because of some pretty amazing science, I will be protected from all of them, having suffered nothing more than a hit to my bank account and a few jabs from a pointy stick.

And the rest of my whining? Well, it's some pretty high class problems I'm facing, what with the computer and the car and the iPOD that are costing me SOOO much money, and...

So I'm done with the complaining, is what I'm saying. Or at least the complaining about money.

Which leaves me with not a lot to talk about right now. My running has been utterly routine lately. No funny stories there. There was the time that I ran in Pittsburgh and I did some drills on the track and... no wait, that's not interesting.

You know what? Go read the rundown. There's lots of runners with better stories than me. And Derek needs some hosts in the coming weeks, so if you haven't written a rundown before, consider volunteering. I've done it twice, and it's super fun.

Okay, this sucks.

2006-01-16T16:28:00.000-05:00

It’s not like I didn’t know I’d have to spend money this month. It’s not like I didn’t know that my rent would be due or my cell phone bill or that I’d want to go out with friends and that often involves restaurants and movies or that I’d need to buy stuff I needed to bring to Africa with me.

I planned on all of this. I factored it in. I have money. And there will be money being spent in Dakar, because despite what everyone thinks, it’s a big city, with big city rent and prices, and I knew this.

And then my iPod broke. (And by the way, all you marathon runners, hard-drive-based mp3 players break when you run with them. They didn't tell me that when I bought it. But it's true. They. break.) But I am Apple’s bitch, and I don’t want not to have an iPod. So I bought a nano.

But I need a voice recorder for the being a journalist thing, and the new iPods don’t work with the microphone attachments that were made for the old iPods (not that I had a microphone attachment for my old iPod, but I was going to buy one). So now I need to buy a tape recorder or a digital voice recorder or go without.

And then my car got towed. And then I was driving home and I backed into (VERY slowly) the front bumper of some guy from Sierrra Leone’s car and ended up giving him money (and by the way, he’s single and lonely, and would love it if I called him, as he said, “all the time”) and it’s a long story, and I was tired, and I would have handled it completely differently now that I’ve thought it over, but I didn’t know what to do and he took advantage of it, and well, there’s another $100 gone.

And then I noticed that my brakes were… whistling? I could describe it if I were on CarTalk and on the radio, but I don’t really have the words for it here, so that’s the best I’m going to do. But let’s just stop there and note that brakes shouldn’t make any noises, whether or not Click and Clack, the Tappett brothers, could decipher it on the radio. And I only need the car for another three weeks, but afterwards my parents need it, and I will not be the deadbeat daughter that hands over a broken car all, yeah, sorry, you’re going to want to get that looked at, and by the way, you’ll probably want to fill up the gas tank and get the oil changed, so that’s another $330.

And my stupid Powerbook that is tiny and perfect and wonderful, that I’ve hardly ever used since college because I don’t really have internet at home and I used my computer at work all day, but that is really useful now that I’m… what am I calling it? “Self-employed”? Well the battery doesn’t hold a charge, and it turns out that the battery isn’t covered under the extended service warrantee that came with my computer when I bought it, so that’s another $130.

And my vaccinations (Hep A, Meningitis, Polio) aren’t covered by my insurance, which I knew, but it turns out that each month of the malaria medication (which is not available in generic, so that’s $40) counts as a separate prescription (so that’d be 3 x $40), and the insurance will only cover a month at a time, so I may be able to argue for them to cover the second month, but I’ll probably have to pay for the third month out of pocket (since I don't want to depend on getting it filled once I'm in Dakar), and that’ll be $200.

And I still haven’t bought most of the things I need to buy for my trip, or the things I need for my move, or I don’t know, there are still three weeks for the transmission to fall out of my car or to get arrested or who the hell knows what else.

It’s okay. I can still pay for this. I will not end up penniless in Africa. But I forgot this feeling, when there’s nothing coming in and the outflow is more of a gush than an orderly, planned for trickle.

Gah.

Meanwhile, I haven’t updated here, and I haven’t been keeping up with all your blogs, but I’m thinking of you all and also excited for the marathon. I’m enjoying the taper much more this time around, and I have sworn this is the last marathon I’ll ever run (most people just roll their eyes and point out that that’s what I said the last time), and in a month I’ll be in Dakar, and that’s just incredible. And in the meantime, please note that Deanna, the world’s greatest running buddy, has started visiting and commenting on this blog, so please feel free to say hello to her in the comments. La vie courante (not sure if that means what I want it to, but oh well) est belle.

Burying the lede

2006-01-10T17:14:00.000-05:00

Here's why I like having friends. At last Satudays (super) long run, Deanna met me for the second half, and asked me how I had enjoyed my last day at work.

Naomi: It was great. Except... Dude, I'm unemployed! I'm not sure this was a good plan.
Deanna: Nuh-uh. You're SELF-employed.

See? Much better.

I've got to admit, I'm loving this carefree, work-at-home, go-to-Pittsburgh-to-hang-out-with-friends lifestyle. On Monday I didn't get out of my PJs until at least noon. This morning, my friends (Kate and Pat) and I went out for the world's most delicious crepes (filled with chocolate and bananas and pure joy). And yet? There is work getting accomplished. I am a contact-making, email-sending, freelance-work-looking-for machine. Part of me (a very small but insistent part) keeps thinking that this is going to work, this stringer thing. And the rest of me doesn't care, because whatever it is I'm doing, it's way more fun than going to work.

Of course, eventually I'll have to face reality and figure out how to earn a living. But for now? I'm loving life.

And this is when you should start to get suspicious. Or at least, this is when I should start to know better.

Naomi: Wow. Things are awesome. I am awesome. Quitting your day job RULEZ!
Universe: Oh wait. What? Sorry, that's totally my cue.
Naomi: Seriously. I've been gloating for like three days over here. What's going on? Hey, wait, are you... drunk?
Universe: NO! Okay, maybe a little. But it's the holidays. Champagne for EVERYONE!
Naomi: Dude. It's January 10th. It's time to get back on the wagon.
Universe: Nawwww. Aw. Fine. Anyway, I heard you, and I've taken care of it.
Naomi: THANK you. I was getting worried. Wait. What did you do.
Universe: Nothing. Just... Do you remember where you parked your car?
Naomi: Yeah, right in front of Kate and Pat's house. Total rockstar parking.
Universe: Mmhmmm.
Naomi: No, really? It's gone! My car. Is gone. It was parked there, and now it's not. Where the HELL is my car?
Universe: Later!

On Monday, when Kate and I went out for our run, the car was there. We double-checked the signs, determined that street cleaning wouldn't be an issue, and went on our way. On Tuesday, I was returning from a solo run, and there my car... Wasn't.

I walked further up the block, but still... no car. I went back to where I was pretty sure I had parked, and... it really wasn't there. For real. Not just making this up over here. Car was gone.

So... it was... stolen? Look. I have a bit of a reputation for losing things among my family. Things that I have lost, include (but are surely not limited to):
every single spring jacket I owned in middle school
my wallet (twice. or... three times? does it count if it everntually gets returned but you've already cancelled the credit cards?)
books
rings
earrings
a contact lens (or two)
socks (in singles and pairs)
my college ID card (but I think it was probably in one of the lost wallets, so it totally shouldn't count twice)

Of course, we should contrast that with things that i have (surprisingly) never lost, including:
my keys
my glasses
my sanity (debatable)

and—until this afternoon at about 4:45 pm—my car. (Although, there was one time when I forgot what street I parked it on, and panicked for about five minutes, until I found it a block over. But that definitely doesn't count.)

But today? The car was not there. (Are we clear on this plot point yet?)

I was cheerily panicked and pissed, and already contemplating how I was going to get home from Pittsburgh (bus?) and, on a scale of 1 to 10, how much it SUCKED to have your car stolen, right when you needed it to do stuff, like drive home from Pittsburgh, when Kate pointed out that there was a fresh tree stump directly across the street from the (now empty) parking spot. Maybe the car had gotten towed?

Kate decided to keep walking around the neighborhood to see if it had been towed around the block somewhere, while Pat and I returned to the apartment to call the police. 9-1-1 promised to pass the message on to the local precinct and have them call me, and I resolved to take a shower.

Twenty minutes later, the police hadn't called back, and Kate had returned empty handed. But I was determined. My car hadn't been stolen. It had just been towed. So back out the door we went, to knock on the door of the house with the tree stump and see what we could find out.

And, although there was no one home when we rang, another neighbor across the street informed us that she'd seen some signs that morning about the tree and about the no-parking. Riiiiight.

So... We eventually tracked down the tow pound (if I hadn't picked up my car in a week, would they have had to put it down?) where I was able to ransom it for $110. The woman claimed I could contest the ticket for $90 that I would find on my windshield, but with the whole, not living in Pittsburgh-thing, and the whole leaving-the-country-thing, I'm not sure how practical that will be. Of course, it's complicated, because there actually was no ticket on my windshield. Curiouser, and curiouser, I say.

My heart wants to believe that I just didn't get a ticket, and the $110 towing fee is the only penalty I'll have to pay for not checking on my car HOURLY, which is apparently what you have to do in this RIDICULOUS town. But....

Universe: No, totally. That's EXACTLY how it works.

Yeah, I didn't think so.

I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers…

2005-12-26T10:42:00.000-05:00

Ten miles in to my twenty-mile, out-and-back run, it was clear that I hadn’t brought enough Gatorade. I’d filled all three of my fuel-belt flasks (I lost the fourth ages ago), but the air was warm, and I was thirsty, and after ten miles, only a few sips remained.

Most of the Potomac Runners stick to 10 to 12 mile runs at this time of year—the majority ran in fall marathons and are in their off-season. They’ve taken to leaving the water stop out for me, even though I run longer and slower than almost everyone, and, on my really long runs, pass by it hours after the next last person. Maybe it’s not a big deal, and they may not even be thinking of me when they do it, but I can’t help picturing someone having to come back hours after they’ve gone home to collect the table from the side of the trail with a cooler and a POTOMAC RUNNERS sign in a plastic sleeve resting beside it. It makes me feel cared for, like finding a plate of dinner waiting for you at home after working late, or a parent tucking in a sleeping child after sending the babysitter home.

But the water stop is set up three miles from the start, and I had more than an hour of running before I’d get there.

I tried to savor the last drops in my flasks, and ration them out. But by mile twelve, they were gone. My wallet was locked in my car, along with the extra bottle of Gatorade I’d brought for afterwards. Anyway, the trail ran alongside the Potomac River (and a highway on the other side) so there was no place to stop to buy a drink. There are a few water fountains on the trail, but the pipes would freeze in the winter, so they were turned off.

I began eying the waterbottles of runners and bikers I passed on the trail. I would catch sight of someone in the distance, jogging towards me, with the tell-tale signs of a belt clipped around her waist. I’d turn my head as she passed, glimpsing the plastic bottles hanging on a slant off her back. My eyes sought out the crossbars of passing bicycles, where waterbottles—sometimes more than one—tend to be mounted. I pulled one of my flasks and tried to shake out another drop. I thought about the packs of PowerGel I still had left in the pouch of my fuel belt, but didn’t want to risk coating my parched mouth with the stuff.

I passed the thirteenth mile, and started picturing the shops I would pass in Alexandria in another four miles. I’d stop in and beg for a bottle of Aquafina. I’d leave my iPod as collateral. No, my watch. No. My iPod. Maybe they’d take my water belt?

I was thirsty. What was I going to do? What would you have done?

Me? I asked.

My friends tell me I’m a born “asker.” Who’s the person in your family who asks for a late checkout at a hotel? Or for a vegetarian substitution at a restaurant? Or if you can get a student discount for the movie tickets you’re buying for your friends, who are students, but who aren’t here yet, so you don’t have their Student ID on hand?

In my family, that’s my mother. But among my friends, especially a certain group from college, that’s me.

Most people seem happy to accommodate a special request, as long as it’s not too much trouble for them, and as long as you ask nicely. And usually I’m not too bothered if they say no. It never hurts to ask, I tend to think, because you’re much more likely to get what you want, if you do.

Soon after the thirteenth mile, the trail crosses through a parking lot near National Airport (the planes zoom overhead so low in the sky you feel like you could knock them with your hand, if you just stood on top of your car, and maybe jumped a bit). I saw two friendly-looking bikers stretching near an SUV—two bottles each. I veered off the trail towards the couple, pulling an earphone out of my ear with my left hand, and a fuel belt flask in my right.

“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you.” Apologetic smiling, directed back and forth between the two people, trying not to eye the water bottles too thirstily. “I still have about seven miles to run, and I’ve run out of water. Can I possibly get some from you?”

The couple laughs easily, and the man pulls a full bottle from his bike. “This one hasn’t been drunk from at all.”

I quickly begin unscrewing the lid from the flask. “Thank you so much. This is so great.”

He reaches over to begin pouring, and pauses. “There’s some Gu in here.”

“That doesn’t matter. Thank you so much.” He squeezes the water from his bottle into mine.

“I have some over here, too,” the woman says, holding up a bottle of her own.

“Thank you so much.” My flask is full, and I’m replacing the lid.

“Do you want more? I’m not going to need it.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” We laugh. I pull out a second flask. “Is yours Gu-free?”

“Yes.” I bring my flask to her.

“Thank you so much. Have a great day. Merry Christmas.” I’m already jogging back towards to trail, gulping gu-free water from my refilled flask.

My energy replenished, I fairly fly by the 14th mile marker, and forget that I’ve passed it until I reach the 15th, and realize I only have five miles to go.

The Potomac Runner’s water stop is waiting for me after mile 17, and I refill again. Who says it’s a cruel world?

****

Hi. I’m in an overly dramatic mood today. I’ve been reading Out of Africa, and Isak Denison’s writing seems to have inspired new heights of self-indulgence. Please don’t blame Denison—it’s hardly her fault. Did I mention that I was running on my own and my iPod was skipping all over the place—and then stopped working altogether? I had to amuse myself somehow, and planning a blog entry is as good an entertainment as anything else.

Anyway, long story short (too late!) the run went very well. My splits averaged around 10:00 to 10:20, which is just where I’d like to be for the marathon. My last monster run is in two weeks, and I’ve vowed to hit all my weekday miles in the meantime. Then a three-week taper, and it’s off to Miami.

Now, if only this unseasonably warm weather will hold…

Congratulate me

2005-12-23T11:53:00.000-05:00

I find it very hard to believe that people will PAY me to write stuff.

“But, I WANT to write articles,” I think to myself. “So clearly, that’s not going to work out for me.”

I don’t claim to know a lot about logic. But I do know that to want something really, really badly is scary. Because rejection and failure hurts, and it hurts more when it’s something that you really, really want.

So I shield myself by imagining the failure in advance. I inoculate myself against the embarrassment by accepting its eventuality—and by broadcasting it to the world. I doubt myself first so I don’t have to feel anybody else’s doubts (forget the fact that other seem to have many fewer doubts about my chances for success. They don’t know how much I want this.)

And I use the world’s best defense against failure: I don’t try. So these past two years, I have avoided writing classes, stopped short of pitching freelance stories, and steeped myself in my boring, unchallenging job. I looked for challenges elsewhere. I made myself at home in this new city, and I traveled to distant ones. I ran a marathon. I applied to the Peace Corps.

But I couldn’t quite forget that what I wanted was journalism. Boring and unchallenging my job may be, but in this office I am surrounded by people living my dream. It is possible, because they do it. And so I decided to try.

That’s the story behind my trip to Senegal. You’ve seen pieces of it unfold in my blog. And today is a big day. Because today I sign the contract on my first writing assignment. It is a story that I thought of, that I researched, and that I pitched. The editor was skeptical when I called, but I persisted, and emailed him a detailed proposal. And, two weeks after I had given up, he emailed me today with an offer and a contract.

It’s just a little article for my alumni magazine. 2,000 words. But it’s a start. It’s a project, and it’s mine.

Y’all. I’m a freelance writer!

Universe to Naomi: Merry Christmas

2005-12-22T17:41:00.000-05:00

Naomi to Universe: But I'm Jewish!
Universe to Naomi: Whatever. Just enjoy.

----

You know what I hate about exercise? There’s no way to make up missed time. If I don’t run on Tuesday, I can’t run twice as fast on Thursday to make up for it. I suppose I could run twice as long, but ultimately, there’s no substitute for actually putting in the miles on Tuesday.

Can you tell that I’m feeling a little guilty? Can you perhaps guess why?

Despite my best intentions, I skipped runs on both Sunday and Tuesday. I did go to an hour-and-a-half dance class on Sunday, so that probably counts for something. And if I weren’t training for a marathon, it would be plenty for a day’s worth of exercise.

Okay, more’s the pity. No looking back. And I used the time spent not running in a relatively productive fashion, talking to my West African dance teacher and other classmates about travel in West Africa and people they know who have been or are currently in Senegal. This is Useful.

I planned to make up the miles on Monday, now that my tap class has ended. I didn’t. But! I had made plans with Tim to run on Thursday, in addition to my regularly scheduled spin class on Thursday mornings. So all was not lost.

Then, Tuesday. Having given myself permission to skip two planned runs, I found it astonishingly easy to skip a third. I knew it wouldn’t be bad once I started. I had even been in the mood to run up until about 4 pm. And then, as I felt the mood slipping, I read lots of running blogs in the hopes of inspiring myself. (Can I say, by the way, that I am incredibly intimidated by Rachel—by which I mean impressed and in awe. While I pitifully complain about 18-mile runs, she has run a PR half-marathon, 21 miles, and 23 miles in the last three weeks. I don’t deserve to run in the same marathon with her.)

Last night I got my act together and ran the planned 7 miles (and remembered that I enjoy running quite a bit). But, this morning, knowing that I was running in the evening with Tim, I also slept through my spin class.

I=slacker.

And for all my complaining about the Universe’s sick sense of humor, I am really the child of fortune. Because in response to my incredible laziness, I have been given an amazing reward.

Remember Deanna, the not-running-blogger who makes me run faster and better on my Saturday long runs?

Last Saturday, towards the end of our two hour run (I only did 12 miles in preparation for this weekend’s 20; see above, re: Naomi=slacker), I joked, “are you sure you don’t want to come to Miami with me?” Joking because I never thought she’d be interested, not because I didn’t want a running buddy for the marathon.

To my shock, she said, “hmmm… when is it?”

We determined that it was too late for her to consider running the full distance (her longest distance to date is 14 miles, run a month or so ago). But when I suggested that she run the last 10 miles with me, she said, “I’ll look into plane tickets!”

Well as of about five minutes ago, she has booked herself on a flight. We’re going to eat pasta and watch Chariots of Fire, and then the next morning, around mile 16, she’s going to jump onto the course with me and keep me motivated until the end.

How great is that?

Answer: Pretty seriously great.

****

Happy Solstice, Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, or Friday, depending on what you do or do not celebrate! (Am I the PC-ist or what?)

Seriously, enjoy the holidays!

While we’re on the topic…

2005-12-15T15:38:00.000-05:00

So I’m not sure I mentioned, but I quit my job a couple weeks ago. Or, more accurately, I gave notice. My last day will be on January 6th.

I am thrilled and excited and I know that this is beyond a doubt the right move for me. It would not be good for my well-being or my career to stay longer in this job.

Not that I have a new job or anything.

Peace Corps, as I think I’ve mentioned, won’t start until June.

So what am I planning to do with my newfound freedom? Funny you should ask.

I’m going to Dakar, the capital of Senegal. That’s in West Africa. Actually, a couple miles west of Dakar is the westernmost point in all of Africa. There’s a plaque and everything. Or so I’m told.

Theoretically, I will be a “stringer”. Which is a jargon-y term for a freelance newspaper journalist. I’m working on figuring out how to do that. I’m talking to newspaper editors, and foreign correspondents, and everyone and anyone who has been in Dakar or West Africa, or you know, anywhere.

In reality, I have a feeling that what I’m really going to be is unemployed. But in Dakar! Which is far more exciting and less like being a bum than being unemployed in Washington, D.C. Right? Eh, maybe.

So anyway, I’m going for three months, after which I will determine what my next move will be. If I’m wildly successful at this “stringing” business then maybe I’ll just head straight back to Dakar and keep doing that. Or else I’ll probably follow through with the whole Peace Corps thing. Or maybe I’ll decide that I’ve had just about enough of Africa, thank you very much, and get a job in New Jersey. (The funny thing about that is that every time I tell people this, they all say, “Oh god. Definitely don’t get a job in New Jersey.” Cracks me up.)

And the (tenuous) connection to the previous topic? (The previous topic being “bugs, Naomi’s deeply-rooted dislike of.”) Let me explain.

Reading up on Dakar in the Lonely Planet, I came across the section on budget hotels.

At a Christmas party recently, I started telling some co-workers what I had read.

Naomi: So, the section opens with a little explanation that says, “A particularly aggressive strain of bedbugs seems to have infested Dakar, specifically in the city’s budget hotels. We searched hard, but were unable to find any hotels free from the infestation. We can only hope that by the time you arrive, the bugs will have moved on to some other city.”

Co-worker 1: Ewww.

Co-worker 2 [who did Peace Corps in Morocco]: Yuck. They probably just mean fleas, though. There are definitely fleas in all the cheap hotels.

Naomi: Yeah, but fleas aren’t nearly as bad, right? I mean, bed bugs, they get in everything. And they’re bigger.

Co-worker 1: True.

Naomi: Actually, the only thing I know about bedbugs is what I read in the New Yorker last summer, about a recent bedbug infestation in NYC. But there was no way to get rid of the bugs. The people in the article had to throw away ALL their furniture. So here’s my question: If I use my sleeping bag, will the bed bugs infest the sleeping bag? And then I’ll have bed bugs FOREVER?

Co-worker 2: Hmmm….

Naomi: And you know what else? So there are like 5 or so hotels listed in the section, right? And they all seem normal. You know, this one has air-conditioning, this one has private bathrooms, whatever. Except in the description of the fourth one, they say, all nonchalant-like, “Like all cheapies, this one’s a brothel.” What?

Co-workers 1, 2: [Laughter]

Coworker 2: Yup. I stayed in brothels all over Morocco.

Naomi: Does that mean that all the rest are brothels, too, and they just didn’t feel like mentioning it?

Coworker 2: Pretty sure.

Naomi: So, do I, a woman, traveling alone, want to stay in a brothel?

Coworker 2: It’s fine. You’re a foreigner, so they put you in a different category.

Naomi: But. A brothel?

Coworker 3: [just joining the conversation] Did I just hear you guys talking about brothels? [We fill her in on what she missed, with appropriate faces of shock, horror, and disgust, made mostly by me.]

Naomi: So, I think I might stay in a non-budget hotel. You know, just for the first night or two. Like maybe a “moderate” one. Because of the bed bugs. And the brothel.

Coworker 3: Apparently, Naomi wants to do the Peace Corps in Connecticut.

Cue laughter.

Okay. I recognize that I’m not choosing the path of luxury and spa treatments here. And it may be that last night’s Waterbug-Gate won’t be the most disgusting thing that I encounter in the next few months.

So I hope that Jessica was right when she commented, “Noames, I bet you will come back from the Peace Corps and read this post and laugh until tears come out your nose.”

I’m sure I’ll be fine, once I get there, right? I’ll just get used to it. I’ll soon become so jaded that I will blithely pull the wings off beetles and eat them whole. While sitting on my bed-buggy bed in a brothel.

Right?

True story:

2005-12-15T08:52:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was getting ready for bed. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, and I saw the bottle of vitamins that I bought over the summer, and that I stopped taking after about a month, because I hated swallowing the giant pills.

I decided I should start taking them again. I finished brushing my teeth, popped a vitamin in my mouth, and walked out to my living room (or, well, only room—it’s a studio) and took a big gulp of water from the half-full glass I’d left out a few minutes before.

Mission accomplished, pill swallowed, I looked at the glass.

Which had a big, disgusting waterbug (which is just a fancy word for COCKROACH) floating in it.

I DRANK the BUG water. I ALMOST drank the BUG. In fact, I may have drank a bug. Who knows? Maybe there were TWO in the water before I took my giant gulp.

Do cockroaches carry the plague? I’m probably going to die now, right?

Gaghaighah.