not the "real" africa?

in the streets around the place de l'independence, dakar's centerpiece, people sell the most unlikely objects. we passed one man on the corner whose only ware was a wrinkled pair of trousers that he was silently holding up for purchase. there are boys, covered in dirt, who carry rusty cans full of sugar cubes, trying to make a few cents. the vendors follow you down the road to make a sale. even in the capital where opportunities are at least possible, desperation is palpable.

we return to the states 9 january and will stay in dakar until then.

though new year's eve in ziguinchor, what is most likely senegal's hippest city, would have been the obvious choice, we were ready to get moving. a day's travel found us far east of ziguinchor, in the south-central region of senegal. we stayed in kolda's hobbe hotel--complete with $2 cokes, a posh swimming pool, and a black-crowned crane held hostage near the water by a broken wing.

we wandered around after dinner looking for different happenings. people were walking in every direction. we looked inside a catholic mission that was hosting one of the poppier and more popular parties, but the cover was steep and we didn't like the door guy's attitude so we walked on. before we knew it the bell in the steeple above our heads was knocking out midnight's heavy clangs--the percussive sound of metal hitting metal then resonating across town.

we continued wandering the street, poking our heads into various businesses and making small talk with the local residents whose pace would inevitably fall into phase with ours.

"Where are you from?"
"America."
"Oh, America. Nice country."
"Yeah, but Senegal is very nice too."
"Sure. And how do you find Senegal?"

there's a definite communication lag, but everyone ends up understanding each other. paul doesn't speak french, but if he's bargaining he raises his right hand and points to the sky to indicate that the price is high, much too high.

eventually we come across one of the ubiquitous photo studios scattered throughout kolda's streets. most people cannot afford their own cameras (photographs are still a treasured commodity) so they'll make their way over to a photo studio, should time and money permit. since it was new year's eve, individuals and groups wanting to record the first moments of 2005 thinly trickled in. the studio was a dimly lit scene, and one had a choice of posing in front of either two balloons or one, both sets attempting a festive pink (but more successfully looking depressed and deflated) and each with a slightly different background.

a young boy, maybe 16 years old, walks in alone. wearing an oversized sportcoat and a tie, he is dressed to impress. he checks himself, chin-raised-eyes-squinting stare, in the small, darkened mirror thoughtfully placed outside the studio. he steps first in front of one set of balloons, never smiling, eyes firmly locked. the photographer snaps once, not a word is spoken. the ritual proceeds (he's paid for two shots), and the boy reflexively shifts right. he's now nestled into what seems to be an uncomfortable corner. different background, different balloon, same expression.

what will he see when he returns tomorrow at noon to collect his photos? the beginnings of what will soon be (things seem to age incredibly fast in africa) a browned, curled photograph, carefully tacked onto a shop wall to commemorate life before it had become realized, when opportunities still existed?

while he looks at his photos, sitting on the dusty steps in front of the kodak store, he may drop the envelope holding them to the gutter, or leave behind a plastic bag or black polaroid backing.

in another city, days later...

solomon--seven years old, hungry and tired of following us through georgetown's dusty streets (back in gambia)--rifles through a garbage heap and picks up a similar item, the tattered backside of what is peeled from an exposed polaroid. he finds only traces of some other kid's new year's or birthday, a kid who has been able to scrounge, save, or otherwise arrange the amount necessary to preserve time.

he carries it with him down the main, and only real street, in georgetown. he has no father, and can't attend school because he can't afford the uniform. he'll probably never leave this tiny island.