Dakar, Day 2

Today was to be the day of visiting Iba's work and shopping with his sisters.  I set my alarm for a rendez-vous with Iba at 10:30.  Getting anywhere in Dakar by car makes traffic in Boulder laughable.  The congestion is breathtaking, or rather, breath removing, as cars belching exhaust inch their way along the main highway.

Iba's boss, Mr. Diop, pronounced "Top" has a small startup distributing motors, bearing and other mechanical parts for industries around the country.  He had lived in the U.S. for several  years but came to Senegal to help grow his country.  Two of his young employees explained to me in darn good English about the business.  In Senegal, no one can be in a rush, and my visit took about two hours.  His business was on the second  floor of the family house.

On the first floor is the boutique of his sister, a spectacularly beautiful woman dressed in vibrant fabrics.  Have I mentioned that the women here are very beautiful, many in colorful traditional dress.
Of course, I had to try on various items of clothing and I purchased a dress, a blouse and a wrap.  She employs six tailors (all young men) and they all work in the back in clean conditions.  Definitely not luxurious, but in this country, to have work is already quite a lot.  Many are on the streets, wandering, selling "you name it".  It's a poor country.  In my mind. recognizing that I could find less expensive clothing elsewhere, I wanted to support not only her but also her six employees. And the clothes are indeed very lovely and well made.

Then, on to the sisters.  Iba and I had talked about eating for at least two hours but after another two hours of animated discussion, a break for the women to pray, donning appropriate full coverage clothing and spreading their prayer rugs, we finally headed out, dodging cars at every step, sand now deep within my shoes, talking and laughing to a "fast-food" restaurant.  I paid for all five of us to shared five plates of chicken, french fries and cooked vegetables (yummy) and three sodas for $20.

I declined a visit to the Statue of the Renaissance or other site seeing.  I was exhausted, recognizing that my trajectories today are NOTHING compared with what Iba, Badou and Saliou endure everyday.

I collapsed upon arrival back at my room and am waiting for Saliou  to come with food.  How is that for a spoiled American?

Dakar

I slept.  Waking up to the bleating of goats beneath my window, laundry flapping in the wind, the sound of the sea. The sounds of lives being lived.  The sun streams in my window, the bed is warm.  The breeze is cool. It's 11 am.

Saliou hails a taxi and starts the bargaining  The offer: 2500 CFA ($4.29) to downtown.  The driver eventually backs down from his offer of 3500 CFA.  I laugh.  It's a long drive.  We stop to visit with his big sister, a seamstress.  If I bring her fabric, she will make me a dress.

Saliou's dad in a crowded office supply store, a room really, packed with copy machines and ink cartridges that Saliou had shipped from China.  No love lost here - not a cent passes from father to son.  Saliou is a self made man, selling ink cartridges, building a client base.

The other accomplishments of the day:  Getting CFA, finding a bank to change to small bills, getting a SIM card, finally eating lunch in a small restaurant, a broiled fish, rice and cooked vegetables.  I'm exhausted, dodging cars and street merchants - the air is thick with particulate pollution.  The same bargaining applies for a taxi.  I explain to Saliou about space junk and the driver asks Saliou in Wolof for a futher explanation.  He understands French, he listens but cannot speak French.

And finally, my sons join me at my room and we eat grilled meats, them standing over the papers of food, no plates, no silverware, we all gorge ourselves.

Their T-shirts from Boulder fit well, the "boys" set up Saliou's computer (gift from Jacques).  We are all very happy.  11 p.m. and I fall into a deep sleep.

Leaving Boulder, onward to Dakar

I felt a weight lift from my shoulders as soon as I walked out the door.  For the next three weeks, no responsibilities at home or work.  Freedom of a sort I had not experienced -  no husband, no garden, no dog.  I was surprised at the feeling. Two girls took this photo of me.  I was to find out later that my T-shirt, any short sleeve shirt, was not warm enough for a rather brisk Dakar.

With the help of a magic small white pill that dear brother gave me, I was able to sleep on the plane, deeply, until Boris, my French seat mate, who migrated to the U.S. nudged me hard enough to wake  me.  I was grateful he swapped seats with me to give me his aisle seat!  no complaints on being woken up!  Boris, born and raised in Paris, now working remote as a software engineer in Grand Junction, Colorado!

chained to my desk

Chained to my desk out of harm's way,

I'd first weigh each of them and check the swings.

the burliest child would be at my end,

the smallest at the far end

the experiment should start this way.

I would wear my white lab coat, my 

stop watch in my pocket, a lab notebook

on the ground for notes on each trial.

I can only watch out the window and dream,

I am chained to my desk, to keep them from

harm's way.

doing nothing

perhaps doing nothing has a certain nobility
permission not to sift through all the possibilities
assessing the value of this versus that, as if we
would be rewarded in the end for productivity.
dogs don't worry about such things.
I listened to a poet on NPR on the way to work,
her poem sounded hard to write, carefully edited,
a labored work, I hope her words are remembered.
mine will not, as they are not even read today
they will not be read in the future
even I don't read them after they are written.
I am doing nothing right now but writing,
sipping a cold tea, having written labored sentences
in French, that I love.

Collecting dust

just a dust collects underneath the bed

so does it settle onto poems,

resurrected, it asks to be heard again:

The flowers

Red, wilted

Lay on the floor

Poking out of a 

Slightly crumpled 

Brown paper sack.

They were no doubt 

For someone,

Asking forgiveness.

They never arrived.

Patiently waiting

She smells chicken fat.

She knows that behind the screen

is a pot full of chicken and if she waits

She knows

She knows that the screen will open

and a plate, maybe even a pot,

will appear, smeared in chicken fat.

She knows all this so she can wait

patiently, persistently behind the screen

Good things come to those who wait.