Fanale

Been sick with the fever, but have been taking my paracetamol and ibuprofen, so was functional to go out for our last dinner here. The Waaw Centre is closing for a couple of weeks, and I'll be in Dakar for a few days.

There was a real restaurant buzz tonight at Siki's - more people in town post-Noel? As last time we were the only ones there. Tonight is the annual Fanale. It used to be the procession before Christmas Mass, but now it's on another date, and doesn't have to do with Mass. I also hear the 'procession' is not as neat as it sounds. Possibly more like bleeding through the streets. It starts at midnight, so taking a nap before.

Sump

Have just returned from a walk around the markets of Ndar across the bridge, and have a 'sump' nut in my mouth. I thought it was a date. Except for a thin bit around that is mostly collects dust it is almost entirely a stone. My mouth doesn't really know what to do with it, but it doesn't seem to pose a problem. The area was generally a visual overload. I learned that if I want to take pictures, the thing to do is greet them, ask for permission, and thank them and then wish them a good day. This I learned from the Wolof apothecarist. If only we all had good manners!

New exhibition of Malian bogolanfini at the gallery, so S&J have been busy with that. I went on a bit of a shopping spree, and among things have ordered a pagne (wraparound fabric) to be made, exactly per a 100-year old piece I saw in the traditional weaving exhibition. Quite pleased with this. Anyways, a fabricky day.

A lot of wind today. Harmatten. Dusty everywhere, and it is thick and yellow. All the shutters are shut, and today is no day to hang laundry. Swept the floors. Tough to think the Sahara could be put in a bin - futile exercise but we do it anyways.

Random things sprinkled in a normal day. We saw a couple of 'fake-lions' (guys in lion character) on the streets. And last night was stadium-sized party noise until dawn, but it was far away so no issue. Have a feeling that I do not see an entire subset of the population that is up at night.

Du velo fou

A strong wind this morning, and I sniffle. I should be so fortunate to not succumb to anything worse while I'm here. One's health is always on borrowed time, and regular gratitude would not be out of place.

A nice ritual these days, with breakfast at Delices du Fleuve, and lunch at La Linguere, The Queen in Wolof. Apparently there have been some Drama Lingueres here - I mentioned that actors and actresses would be good residents here. So much here is about the mask, as anywhere else.

A kora concert yesterday evening in the cathedral, by Ablaye Cissoko. A short concert to a captivated crowd, and by the time we realized it, the cathedral choir sang the last half to a captive audience, or at least me, as they say all the tunes from Christmas Mass, though they did add more local songs which was nice. We then all went for dinner, only to be served by a woman who sung in the choir. Small world!

No evening chanting. Bon Al-Jouma. We are making up our own neologisms as we speak here. Good Friday, we hope to express. Good Mosque, we are probably saying. The waiter at La Residence seemed to enjoy saying 'kittos kee bitte' (kittos < thank you, in Finnish; kee < (of unknown origin); bitte < please, welcome, in German). I'm not quite sure if there is a weekend, or if there is one or the other, or a bit of both, signalled by the lack of chanting.

Visited Meissa Fall yesterday, who I am calling a magician. I suggested to S&J that they should consider expanding the scope of resident activities to magic. In the cool shadow of a street on the south part of the island is this oasis of black(smith) magic. What seemed to be the best boutique on the island, I told him, is also a storage space, a sculptural workshop, a bike repair shop, and a first-class metal dump. From a pamphlet he gave me is a poem by Louis Nucera:

On a le sens du velo
Comme on a l'oreille musicale.
Il y en a des velos
Dans la litterature,
Du velo passion,
Du velo poesie,
Du velo humour,
Du velo fou,
Du velo tendresse.

Baa

Dinner at La Residence yesterday, I think the finest hotel here. The public streetscape leaves much to the imagination; it is without doubt what is behind the deuils, the veils, that there is sensory treasure. Again, where on a normal year the restaurant would be packed, here it is barren of guests. The style is Art Deco, and the effect of the ceiling to the skies, dim lights, wood bar, white walls, and generous rattan chairs tries to bring out the languid Humphrey or Lana in all of us. A fitting frame around the middle-aged man in a suit, nursing a drink as he waits for his companions. I try a part of S & J's mbarouk'e (?). _This_ is my madeleine. Things in powdered form bypass visual cues to their origin and identity. Peanut-ish. Possibly chicory, but the taste-memory lies in the unconscious. Dark-brown, maybe roasted, but not burnt.

On the table is a bottle of water. Bon Magal, it says, referring to the annual pilgrimage to Touba in respect of Shayk Ahmadu Bamba, founder of Mouridism here. His image is found on many walls in town, a man with a scarf around his mouth, after the only photo of him. There also seems to be an ad for a prostitute in town, but these two don't meet on the same wall. The role of the intermediary runs pervasively here, like signares here in St. Louis and magicians outside, and Ahmadu Bamba is perhaps the prime intermediary that binds and unifies the country. No small peanuts.

The atmosphere is conducive to chatting well beyond dessert, our talk a bubbly kind of digestif. The waiter asks twice if we want champagne, as if we came from the land of Saunders and French. We talk about past residents. The pioneer was a Korean woman who came on a sept-place, stayed for 3 months, knew no French, learned a significant amount of Wolof, and worked with the street cleaners at 5am. In the end, cleaned a park and made an exhibit of the trash, to heighten people's appreciation of the work of the street cleaners.

We leave what felt like our cruise boat. The actual cruiseboat is docked, and we had thought that maybe passengers would come in. It is a small boat that looks like it would be home on the Mississippi. For 700 €, passengers can spend five days on it going up the river, probably a pretty nice experience.

We head back, find the centre much the same as we left it 3 hours ago. The music starts again, this time with a kind of call and response 'hour', where people learn tunes. After that, wayward sounds with what really sounds like sheep baaing as backup singers.

The Love Pirogue

Happy first day of Christmas!

We had a lovely Finnish Christmas dinner here, presented by the Finnish residents. Rice porridge with a peanut instead of an almond, pancakes, potato salad and rye bread, glogg with Garrouane wine from Morroco. It all started with the theme song from the Love Boat. Of course.

I bought a bottle of wine last night, Dec 24th, at about 10 pm. First time for everything, J says. I think that it is not so much that there is this crack of opportunity between a Muslim, Christian, and neither/Wolof community, that space perhaps a foundation of possibility that has always been.

At 10:30 H and I went to the Catholic cathedral, reportedly the oldest in Africa. (This blog is not a repository of fact). J and I agreed that between Senegal and Mali, this place is more developed but it is more chaotic. Mass was no exception. A cat paid a visit to the alter, and a bird also swung by, none too intelligently. The French songs do no justice to the voices of the choir; the 3-4 songs of local flavour and djembe drumming rocked out in a proper way.

At midnight, the streets were packed with young'uns, and firecrackers. What I thought was koranic caterwauling that began when I got home, lasting until morning birdsong, was not; apparantly it's just a bunch of guys that go around with megaphones at night.

Proud reader of a Wolof dictionary. In the 'l's and  'm's.

- look (for): wut. Yow la alkaati biy wut. You are the one the police are looking for.
- lung: xeter gi. Man duma lekk xeter. I do not eat lungs.
- massage: damp. Damay damp sama ndigg ak karite. I am massaging my lower back with shea butter.

A landscape of madeleines

A lazy morning today. I haven't had much jetlag, possibly because I started out in less than perfect form. This morning the bones seemed heavy. S knocks on my door to check in, as I didn't arrive at their apartment for breakfast. They are off to do some work, and I yawn and mention 'cafe.'

Breakfast is a classic affair here. It starts off with a dozy walk along the backyard of a water's edge in, lately, beautiful silky light. It has been unusually cloudy, but there are shadows. Perfect for photos, but this trip isn't about snapshots too much. Four-packs of guys sit - a world-wide phenomenon - and street booths set out their stuff.

The side streets are encadrements of desert sand. I can smell in my room what I imagine is the Sahara. We got a dump of sand not far from our front door, for the neighbour's wall work, a temporary traffic calming measure. Long streets are paved, but they are crumpled in spots, like the tops of madeleines. I embody the five-year old in me, hum a tune and hop along the ridges.

The cafe has the ambiance of Our Town cafe at Main and Kingsway in Vancouver but with the patisserie quality of The French Bakery at the same intersection. A casual interior decor, by one who is attempting something but could probably be more skilled in making the necessary visual calculations. The bread which comes gratis however soars above anything I've had in Vancouver. The softness within is second to none - does that speak of a softness of spirit, within the hard outer shell of us all?

There are two single women and a mixed couple. Yesterday was a woman that smoked in the cafe. She looked pretty good taking a puff. On the plane from Brussels, I recall them saying that it was a non-smoking flight. Wait till your get off, marginalized smokers, you will be able to increase your chances of cancer here at your leisure.

I pick up an events notice at the counter - there's an interesting event each evening this week. I tell J this and he says that they typically start at 2. One time, some people went to a concert at midnight, only to have the musician start at 3. Things happen at night here. I wandered with J yesterday as he tried to take footage for 'empty space' in his documentary project. We saw loads of pirogues by the river, with fishermen ready to head out in the night to fish.

The day was a big one for S and J, and so in the evening we went to a very swanky restaurant for dinner. At a time of year when it should be packed, but we were the only ones there; the tourism industry has been all but completely devastated by the hands of a single Guinean earlier this year.

We chat about how S got his laptop screen fixed that day. No 'we have to get a part from Dakar.' No 'it's not worth fixing' if in Brussels. There was a book fair earlier this month, and we talk about how some writers tend to write from their own experience.

 'Except for science fiction writers,' qualified J, as he takes an ikea spoonful of potage de legumes.

'I hope not.'

SeneGal

There was no 'first sign' of things to come. It came gradually, like the minute adjustments of the beating of the drummer boy. Perhaps it was the delay, the plane having arrived late and therefore delayed itself by some 90 minutes. We are given a letter as we board, given with the question, 'Have you received this?' as if I had checked my mailbox lately. It informs that the plane and carrier has been changed from Brussels Airlines to Blue Panorama, on a 767-300ER. For those who know of the Vinyl Cafe's Christmas turkey, this plane type is literally the B-grade, bruised turkey that tried to make a run for it.

This plane could socially engineer unhappiness. The service on the plane understands this, and as in the art of war, they try to diminish perceptions, and we are offered nut and chocolate-coated ice cream sticks to palliate the experience. For those whom this care meant something. This certainly did not stop the constant, constant, ringing of the service bell throughout the flight. An interesting button for a child? A life-long disgruntled human? I was surprised that at the end, all the flight attendants did not simply open the hatches and slide down to freedom. But perhaps they did upon their return to Brussels.

The feeling in the air was restlessness. Like restless dust. Like the coating of a sawmill with that fine coating of small particles, where an instant explosion was imminent. It felt as if the only thing that kept all the buckles intact was the lack of Senegalese music on the PA to bring harmony to the system. Whereas on my first flight, it seemed to have unloaded off international students back on EU soil, this one simply had kids. Lots of small kids. People asked questions at the wrong time - a bit of water? No, we are now doing this job, you have to ask when we are doing our drink service.

At the airport, we take the bus for about 200 m. I am told later it is worthwhile to spring ahead. The consequences otherwise was a 2 hour wait for the final act of official visa-dom. Before this however I am greeted by a health worker who zaps my forehead. Perhaps they are trying to find out who in their right mind wants to enter this country.

I am driven to the guesthouse by Ibrahim, of Thies. The 'th' I note us something between a soft ch and a th. Chthies. The guesthouse is perfect and has the essentials of quiet etc and the bonus of nice guests. I meet a women researching the revolutionary movement if 1968, and is here interviewing people who were part of it. A family of three from Holland, one originally from verdant Casamance; they scurry off to go to do some paperwork. Ornaments, Senegalese-style thingies made of colourful re-used scrap metal, each given a wig of tinsel, hang from the courtyard roof. I am initiated in the mysterious bounty of la brousse, given a hint of how good preserves are from local fruits.

Sandjery takes me off to St. Louis. A perfect driver, he has been hired for safety and speed. He is equally good at silence and answering questions. He laughs when I ask him if his wife is beautiful. He patiently tells me what a diderie is, and I tell that in my country we do not have griots. I ask him about something long sold by the road, which looks like a smudge stick times ten. He tells me that it is a kenkeliba, and that they eat it for breakfast, and that women have it when the baby is on the way. We stop often for him to buy toll tickets. They are not posted nor are the people he buys they from differently clad. It so happens that entrepreneurial peanut sellers figured this is a good place to offer wares. I have no fcfa, all 3 bank machines at the airport en panne the night before, one almost eating my card (hint:do not press 'cancel', breathe and press 'change transaction' to get the thing to spit my card out). I do a quick figure sketch and show it to her. She laughs, as if it struck a chord in her.

I arrive at the cultural centre Waaw which my two dear friends started some two years ago. We joke at breakfast that they are re-colonising St. Louis and that before long there will be an expatriate community of retired Finns that take over the entire old city here and will greet bewildered tourists from Japan. I am in a room that is twice as large as my own bedroom. The is a small community of artists and language learners. A quiet group, I am told, not the type that takes in the nightlife and brings in overnight guests. We go out for lunch, and I have the national dish, which also happens to be the dish of the day (everyday?) - theboudienne. We wander around until I get accustomed to the 7 blocks that will be my home for 10 days. I am able to extract funds, but only after a woman tells me the machine did not work for her.

In the evening we pack up baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and some sheep in a buch of buckets and head out. For Jesus will be born in a creperie this year. In the back, there is a library. It is owned by the eglise across the street, where we hear the choir singing. The library languished and was inaccessible until the creperie kitchen came along and presented its menu of savoury and sweet. Like a benificent, parasitic relationship, the library lives on and at the back of the creperie. Andreas, a designer who otherwise works with those in need in Helsinki, designed a creche of very effectively covered corpulant water bottles. We baa as the sheep go in the 6' wide by 5' high frame, which the crepe-master has prepared with care and concern for the incoming nativity scene.

At night, as I lie in bed, what sounds like koranic karaoke duets off the mineret speakers have me dreaming of quieter nights. By 11:30 I have the sense to close my windows, and then it sounds more like a muffled production of classic Chinese opera.

In the morning I awake by the sound of the same bird I remember from somewhere else. C-C#-D-F-C. I think, I want to think, that it came from Damascus. The courtyard is about half the width of the one I love the Damascus. A black-capped chickadee chips and chirps around, courting my attention.

I unwrap myself from the evening mosquito net. The gauze drapes a soft, white blur to the world. Of safety, of comfort, of a kind of princessness. It is chilly. About as cold as it can be before people start considering permanently insulating a building. I put on all my layers, glad for my wool cardigan. Waaw has some blue painted accents here - windows and doors. I connect it with the blue of Tunis.

We head off for breakfast. The menu is full ... of hope. It tells you what you might like. It won't tell you what they have. To make up for the difference, they will give you more of what they do have, but what you cannot enjoy, such as laying out 5 sets of cutlery for 3 people. To give peace to the rational mind they place ordered items randomly at each setting.

Because they know exactly what you have come here for. And offer it as if you didn't know.

Enroute to Dakar

Gate T64 at Brussels. Most everyone is dark-skinned here at the gate. I feel like now, I am going somewhere. Delayed flight, but it's my final leg.

The part of the airport here is fairly bleak. An extruded, grey hangar with mostly hard surfaces. Announcements by airport goddesses above echo slowly across the vast space. The Brussels Airlines logo tries to soften and warm up the environment, with a red 'B' logo in the shape of a heart.

Flight from YVR mostly uneventful. It seemed like half the passengers were international students returning home for the holidays.