partir

that's the title of the new pape diouf album, which is practically playing in stereo on every set of speakers we come across. we just secured a copy, and it is a copy, since original cds in dakar can run up to $50. our version, complete with xeroxed packaging, $6. that's thanks to paul's bargaining skills and the help of a guy wearing a completely yellow outfit who materialized just as we left our hotel this morning.

to get online, we had to purchase a 2" by 3" sealed envelope, simply a corner of a legal-sized envelope that's been chopped down, which contains our timecode. it takes several minutes to navigate the glue, but then you're on and the countdown has begun. your time is good for several months, should you manage to space it out for the duration.

it is our last day in dakar. it's funny how that works: since it's our last day, time feels that much more salient. what do we do on our last day here, after a month in the continent? we may try to do the IFAN museum, this time with a different cab driver.

one thing we forgot to mention yesterday: a common phenomenon here is vendors who frequent highly trafficked areas. when your car stops, expect to be invaded by arms, heads, anything that can fit through a car window, attempting to make a sale. our cab driver yesterday was shopping while driving--pants, jackets, cell phone cases--as we made our (de)tour around the city. consider that. we're lost, everyone's frustrated, he keeps saying "no problem" to us between bargaining in wolof with salesmen. we keep saying "yes, problem," and he's beckoning vendors over from across the street to flip through their merchandise with what seemed to be his meter-long fingers.

our travel consultant, who administered our vaccinations before leaving, seriously advised us to avoid africa's street food, especially given the recent cholera outbreak in senegal. we did that, at first. now, we're popping into every chopshop and drink stall we come across. some of our favorites: sweetened ginger juice in a big plastic bag, ruby red bissap (hibiscus) juice, dark gunpowder tea syrupy with sugar (ataya), nescafe with two inches (they just keep pouring) of sweetened condensed "fat-filled" milk, and lakh, a thick and sweet cow's milk with balls of couscous (in a bag). it's beginning to feel more and more like home.

more than mosquitoes

walking down the street in dakar is truly an exercise in etiquette. vendors will follow you for blocks with boxes of counterfeit perfume -- "real fake" -- and dolls, bracelets and other baubles. if you don't want to buy, no problem, just go to their shop and look around. no matter how emphatically you say "no," it's almost impossible to shake them, and the swarm just grows and grows. imagine 12 bottles of perfume from seven hands reaching in from every direction. other hands with other goods hang back waiting for their chance to "do business." as if they're going to make you want that padded africa-print bag or "adilab" track suit.

tommy hilfinger briefs are also available.

today we tried to visit what's known as the best african culture museum in west africa, IFAN, but were stymied by an absolutely mad taxi driver who tried telling us a construction site miles north of dakar was our requested destination. he then wanted us to pay for the return trip back to the proper IFAN site, southwest of the city. the ride was supposed cost 1000 CFA ($2). he wanted 3000 cfa for his troubles.

the ensuing dialogue:
"we're not going to pay more than 1000."
"ok, no problem -- you pay 2500."
"no, really, we won't pay above 1000."
"ok. no problem, no problem. i don't have a problem. 2500 cfa."

it went on and on like this for the hour-long ride, which ended up blocks from where we'd gotten into the taxi, having never reached the museum. we thought the ride should be free at that point, since he'd wasted our time. our threatening to go to the police was the clincher. he agreed to 1000 and kicked us out of the cab, but circled around a few times to glare at us from his window.

as we type this there may very well be a man covered in dyed-indigo fabrics lurking out the door to convince us to buy his material ("very expensive, from guinea!").

if you happen to end up near dakar's sandaga market, you'll see rows upon rows of vendors with similar products for sale. what makes the difference is the price and the personality. we ended up at a very nice shop in the centre commercial el malik with cheike kadam -- who gave us very good prices and some good quality materials. if lost, ask around for ehaj douf, who guided us there and to other fine places. his english is great and he is a straightshooter, highly recommended.

on another note, today is our 3-year anniversary. morning started with french-style pastries, some of the best we've ever had. one was a sort of brownie truffle and the other a carmel pecan tart. if we're lucky, 2005 will be as sweet.

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.

All in a day

It's still Ziguinchor, but that's not to say there's nothing to report. Two days later...

Tomorrow we head east to Tambakounda, where we'll stop for the night and celebrate New Year's before heading on to the big game park.

We made our first purchases in the city's Artisanal Village. Today we took a four-hour pirogue ride--negotiating the deal for the expedition could be a chapter on its own--it took an hour but we got the price we wanted. We got to see flocks of pelicans, flamingos, falcons of different shapes and sizes, mangroves, jellyfish, jumping Capitaine fish, and a failing tourist attraction on a remote island.

Today the President of Senegal spoke to the residents of Ziguinchor, and residents nationwide via crackling radios, to commemorate peace in the region. Step foot outside the internet cafe and you'll see people rushing to catch a glimpse, some wearing Senegalese soccer jerseys, others carrying national flags.

The Yossou N'Dour concert was incredible. The wait was long. Finally, after it got dark and the moon rose red, N'Dour leapt onto stage, at which point the exhausted fans filling the stadium exploded into excitement. They screamed, danced and sang along to his songs. As did we.

Yesterday, as we returned from the market, we ran into a group of maybe ten young men, all gathered around and focused on a central table. What were they doing? Watching four kids play scrabble. Misspellings were abundant, and the game seemed to be a mixture of french and wolof vocab. There's a bustling street scene in Senegal, which makes sense since there are not many television screens in homes around which families can huddle to pass the nights. Instead, the sidewalk comes alive when the sun goes down. You'll find groups of small children gathered around old and rickety wooden foozball tables.

Last night, we went on a walk around the neighborhood. The initial goal was to find some pastries, which are practically impossible, no, impossible, to find. (Unless you're looking for beignets, a mildly sweet donut, fried in oil and sold on the street for cents, usually by women vendors...but only at certain times if you're looking for them fresh; otherwise they come in plastic bags, soggy and stale with moisture.)

At nights, you can find Nescafe vendors perched on street corners. We hit one of them up for a dose of caffeine at the main traffic circle. A spoonful of coffee, a pinch of sugar (much, much more if you're Senegalese), a series of flamboyant pouring/mixing maneuvers, and you have one of the tastiest shots of espresso you've ever had. Frothy, too.

On our walk we ran into a group of kids. One of the many wandering gangs of pre-teens you can find parading the streets at all hours, especially at night. If you're toubab, they'll taunt you with that until you attend to them. For their time, they'll accept donations of candy or cash, depending on what you have. This group was different (video to follow) and we ended up spending the evening with them. One bestowed a seashell necklace upon Emilie. With gifts here, you really have to make sure nothing is expected in return. Otherwise, once you've taken the necklace, bracelet or shirt collar (as the case may have it), you better pay up with a cadeau too. We bought them loaves of fresh, hot bread from the 24-hour bakery.

The discovery of the night was a place that sells ice cream. At exorbitant prices, yes, but ice cream, in the middle of Africa. For a mere $12 a gallon, and if you can find the rootbeer, you've got yourself a night to remember. We had neither, so we bought some individually wrapped bars. Half of them ended up in the kids' bellies, but that's ok--I don't think they'd ever tasted ice cream before. You should have seen the look of surprise on each face upon first lick. I think we'll go back tonight.

On a final note, Ziguinchor is blossoming with a new kind of cool. It's hip, for real. The buildings and roads are crumbling with age, patina everywhere, but once you get past that veneer you find a city bubbling with creativity and flair.

French pop is playing in the background, so we're going to leave. One foot out the door and you're back in the night, walking the darkened streets, enveloped by dust and car exhaust.

Tonight: Yossou NDour live in Ziguinchor stadium

We arrived a few hours ago. Left Abene at around 8:00 am, taking the Gelly-Gelly direct to Ziguinchor. This is the capital of southern Senegal and the largest city in the Cassamance region.

We just learned that Senegal's most famous musician, Yossou NDour, will be performing in the stadium tonight. Entrance will cost us about 1000 CFA each, about $2.

Lunch was delicious -- skewers of an amazingly tasty fish called capitaine, 6 huge juicy chunks each person -- with crispy potatoes and salad -- $10 -- not the cheapest but worth the splurge.

We're economizing with the room, which is one of the only ones we've found with a toilet. The toilet has no handle but there are ways around that. Probably better we leave that part up to your imagination. However, the room, for comparison, is less than our lunch cost, and clean with three beds. Paul estimates it at being approximately 4.5 times better than most of our lodging thus far.

Ziguinchor is relaxed and cheap, just like we expected. None of the rebel activity commonly associated with the region. There's a good possibility we'll go fishing tomorrow.

moments since Joal, in brief

toubakouta: explaining american culture and reality TV to shocked residents of senegambia -- our new friends Momo (who we hope to show you on video when we return) and Fams, a gambian who guided us through a river on pirogue (wooden boat with motor).

banjul (The Gambia's capital): noisy dirty and very dark at night. the only clean place was a monstrous european resort-hotel called the atlantic -- nothing like africa at all but that's where all the toubabs (white folks) were spending their evening and their money. very happening place. fascinating but we couldn't wait to get out. We did, in a rush, the next morning.

brufut (laid-back coastal village): ended up at a campement called Elephant House (none in site). This was managed by the local toubab, Mohammad, a British expat. We met several British people there, all of whom seemed to drone on and on, as if we were the first people they'd spoken to in years. In the course of these conversations, Paul would begin to feel excruciatingly claustrophobic, and would begin fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. Mohammad considered Elephant House to be his own private kingdom. He instructed us to "send the boys" if we needed anything from the store or water from the well. Garbage? "Throw it out the window." Electricity was non-existent, so was running water. Oh, and so was toilet paper. No problem. Met a lot of very smart and cool local youth--had a great evening relaxing with them at the local hangout, the Blue Bar. The beach was amazing, with clean, white sand and a calm, warm surf. Only one downside: We spent the day there and both left with incredible sunburns. We could barely sleep for several nights and only now are beginning to recover. Paul had blisters all over his back, chest and arms. We think it is because of the Malarone we're taking, which supposedly renders you vulnerable to the sun. One final note: Everyone, and we mean everyone, from the 14-year old water fetcher to the chief of security, smoked the local Kouchum Paing, or Bob Marley cigarettes, depending on who you talked to. The papaya was scrump.

kartong (southern Gambia, just before the border): spent three days relaxing and recovering from traveling at Boboi Beach Lodge. early morning walking the shore, scanning the tideline for shells. Found an assortment of beautiful ones. Swimming and boogie boarding the tall waves. Spent lazy hours laying around in a treehouse-loft reading, playing backgammon and drinking West African colas and Nescafe. (The local coffee, Cafe Touba, is great but hard to find.) Celebrated Christmas with a buffet and drumming, dancing and singing on the beach. A funny scene, with Toubabs on one side and Africans on another, groups separated by a roaring bonfire of Palm fronds. The highlight of this scene--everyone singing, to the Djembe, "we wish you a merry christmas and a happy new yahr" for what was close to 15 minutes.

abene (back in Senegal, northern Casamance region)--met up with our good friend from Toubakouta, Fams. Spent yesterday doing what we call town hopping, where you spend no more than 5 minutes in a village before moving on. Our goal: to get our passports stamped by the closest Senegalese border officer. We needed the stamp because we'd come through "The Bush" from Kartong (a bush taxi from Gunjur to the river, a canoe across the river, picked up in a beat-beat-beat-beater by three guys from our campement) and, as a result, had not gotten stamped for entry into Senegal. The ride to Abene was through a windy, meter-in-width, dirt track through what was literally a jungle (again, it is on tape). Abene hosts a yearly Djembe festival. We stayed for two nights and saw performances like none we'd ever seen before--really, something out of a dream, a la Lynch. A sister of one of Fams' friends prepared us a meal of Ladyfish and rice--we all partook, gathered around a large platter set in the center of the table, each of us digging in with a spoon. She was pregnant that night and could barely swallow; she had the baby yesterday. The Kora player last night was one of the best in the region--surreal and moving. Sometimes the air in Abene really smelled like rain.

Tiger Beatle, island of Fadiout

joal, c'est la meilleure

the hustlers at the dakar train station fought over our business. after we got through that, the rest of the journey was a breeze. we were stuffed into the backseat of a peugot.

in joal, the traffic competes with the ocean outside the door of the internet cafe. there are faded pictures of arnold as "commando" on the window. somehow the information that he is now the california governor is already known here.

And so.

Joal is a small fishing village two hours south of Dakar. It is known for being close to an island, Fadiout, composed entirely of seashells deposited over the centuries. two long, wooden bridges connect joal to fadiout. from the island, another bridge leads to a bleached-out cemetery where we spotted long-horned beetles, 4 inches long with bee-style stripes.

in one hour we'll go to the shore to watch the fisherman return with the day's catch. some very interesting things wash up on the shore: a puffer fish, baby sharks, exotic seashells...

yacine balde, son of the owner of Relais 114, offered to take us. he is a genuinely kind guy, with flawless english, a sincere smile and a warm sense of humor. he'd be a great guide to anyone in the area.

City of Yoff

Ok, our hands are covered with what feels like animal fat.

And that is just from dinner, when we washed our hands just before eating.

Spent the day travelling to and from the nearby "tortoise village" reserve with a taxi driver, mumudou, who saw fit to join us everywhere we went and expected us to pay. that seems to be the senegalese way--at least, the way people seem to behave in a city near the capital where travellers aren't rare.

that's one reason why, tomorrow, we plan to head south one way or another. the plan is to have the ocean on our right as we make our way south to banjul.

tonight we wandered through the dusty, well-trafficked streets of yoff. ran into some local youth with an out-of-commission djembe. they said they were the core members of a crew called "homeless" -- not because they were, but because they live without constraints, freely. one member's talent was the issuing of a stunning, ringing, gutteral throat emission. another rapped, in english because he was half gambian. he offered to travel with us to show us "la bonne route", the good way. we said perhaps but already learned our lesson today about how that works!

as a side note, here is how a sentence would look if we typed in the way we're accustomed: Pqul found q cockroqch in his chqwqr,q todqy qnd hqs forever been turned off his fqvorite food:

thqt is; the qfricqn keyboqrd is different in so,e key zqys; npt to ,ention difficulties zith the spqcebqr qnd delete keys:

until nextti,e:

estamos en Madrid

It´s been less than 24 hours since we set out. En route to Madrid from JFK, we sit next to a self-identified ¨caballero¨--Spanish for cowboy--named Luis. One question we asked: ¨Have you seen the Horse Whisperer and, if so, did you find it true-to-life?¨ He´d seen it three times and, being a horse whisperer of 30 years himself, found it incredibly accurate. He also passed on his secret recipe for creating mouth-watering Spanish tortillas. We both took careful mental notes throughout our interaction. At the end of the flight, as everyone else clamored to get off the plane, Luis pulled out a couple of horse-breeding magazines (I had no idea these even existed--they were in Spanish) to show us the sorts of horses he trains. We parted ways in the airport.

Now, we´re seated in an internet cafe in downtown Madrid. We spent the morning in the Prado viewing portraiture by the likes of Picasso and Goya. Not much time left in the city. We´re both in the process of figuring out our new cameras.

Paul says his video camera, set at f/1.6, captures Madrid´s patina nicely.

Next time from Senegal...

hours#2

only hours to go

Beat in the corner