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.