Nothing to it

When things make sense and they don't, when no explanation is adequate, when I have no choice but to wait, when no question is answered/understood/ interpretted, when I have sand in my teeth and my feet will never be clean, when every world feels so far away, when I drift between being me and being what?, when I feel there's no before or after, when my heart hurts and it doesn't, when I feel the ground is solid and unsteady all at once, when I could go on with all the ways I feel scared, uncomfortable, awkward, uncertain, suddenly and remotely familiar, when I vaguely comprehend and lose it soon after, that's when I know I'm in really "living a moment" (see first blog entry) in Senegal.

I spent the weekend drifting between Africa and Europe's version of Africa. Between holes covered with yellow plastic freesbies for toilets, fly-infested fish filets and the other version with blue pools, caged monkeys, toilet paper, and three dollar beers. One was a village not far from Dakar (50 km, a world away, and a two-hour, 40-cent car rapide ride) and the other the touristy Lac Rose not far from the village.

The village: huts made out of concrete, sand everywhere, yes to electricity, no to running water, no to speaking French, yes to speaking Wolof and Pulaar (two ethnic groups), yes to listening to the xalam, a traditional musical instrument with three strings and made out of goat skin and wood. Our host: Ibrahim, as he paraded his toubabs around, alternated between knowing the world and not, being Muslim and not, drinking alcohol and not, eating bread and not, smoking and not, fasting and not, between accomodating and over-accomodating, interesting and sketchy and yes, money, always a question. His favorite expressions: "Take it easy" and the one we taught him somewhat mockingly (during a particularly exasperating moment) "Chill out, man."

Lac Rose: a lake of salt and minerals and hot water that seeps through the sands and seashells at the bottom of the lake. Home to a salt-mining industry, home to the final destination of the Paris to Dakar Rally (where people drive motos/cars/buses/anything all the way from Paris to Dakar through the desert and all). The water is like an epsom salt bath and in the dry season (November to February), the lake has a pinkish hue.

Things to remember: Laughing hysterically about taking a "shower" with a blue plastic cup as the professor Ib. sits outside the door, wondering why "Tuesday" was written in the concrete and coming up with our own satirical explanation, speaking the words "Michelle, I got bit by a monkey today" (who says that?), and this, "what would I be doing if I was here alone?" The first time sitting in Chez Ibrahim's compound and letting my ears adjust to the nature quiet, the no-Dakar feeling, the roosters crowing, the donkeys willy wail. Writing in Steph's journal and reading it moments later to laugh some more "I'm driving in a car rapide squished in with 39 other people (Michelle counted), and my professor turns to me..." Falling alseep with the sounds of the xalam under the stars in a mosquito net... for awhile anyway until it got cold and Stephanie got jostled and the morning came and we realized we hadn't really slept at all. Speaking wolof knowing nothing and knowing something.

What the weekend taught me...

I can always expect: Bug bites, sun burn, dirt so far under my nails it'll never come out.

What I can't expect: Everything else.

Something from the journal from Night 2:

"Sand. I can't seem to get it off me. My toes, fingernails, scalp. I roll over on my pillow, sand grates my face. It rains and the winds blow and I hug myself against the sand storms in my dreams. The roof begins to leak. Drops. Here on my cheek. I turn. It's here too. I cover myself with the pagne and smell musty wetness. I think (dream?) about the mosquito net outside that we didn't sleep in. Why does the rain seem such a jolt in the middle of the night? I worry the roads will be impassable in the morning back to Dakar (fear?). The rains stop. I sleep. It rains again. It drips more. It's morning."