Again, a post that is past its expiration date as it is about the time I spent in vehicles and airports before I got to Sweden. What follows are streamy bits of consciousness from a consciousness in assorted states of disrepair. This sounds artistic, like maybe you'll read something sad or true or beautiful. You won't, I promise. Probably, you'll be bored and stop before you finish. This is because nothing terribly exciting happened. Also, I haven't edited these notes-about-the-journey-scribbled-while-journeying-orginally-intended-for-editing except to delete some stuff.
National Paints Honda generator a sheet of corrugate. If I wanted to I could buy toothpaste or laundry detergent from a guy with a box round his neck like the guys selling hot dogs at American baseball games.
I left the house in Basse and went to the shack where Kumba sells hot beverages and sandwiches. I bought NesCafe sweetened with sweetened condensed filled milk, poured out the remaining water in my water bottle and poured in the NesCafe. At the ferry crossing I was bored (I’d already napped, called Amadou, napped, talked to some teachers, napped, answered a call from my mom, and napped) so I bought a hard-boiled egg from a man whose last name is also Jallow. I cracked the egg against the hood of the car. I’d like to buy water, but I’ve already sort of got to pee.
On the bright side:
the teachers’ gelle transport to ff was free
a teacher gave me a mango in jjb
Kids for awhile were staring at me through the car window. Faces pressed to the glass, fogging it up. One kid was also chewing gum and his chewing gum got pressed against the glass and now there’s a smear. Pulaar is useful for telling the kids no I won’t give you 200 CFA, get out of the car.
10:27 Stopped because the car has a flat tire. Luckily the driver had a spare tire. The buildings, some of them, have gorgeous terra-cotta shingled roofs. And I mean gorgeous in a dilapidated kind of way.
10:55 We recovered quickly from the flat tire but twenty minutes later the car slows to a stop. The men (aka everyone but me) tried pushing it to get it to start, but that didn’t work. So I am sitting on a fallen mile marker (or kilometre marker, I guess is more accurate) and it is in the hot sun but there’s not much shade at this time anyway. At least I brought a head wrap so I rearranged that to cover my neck since I neglected sunscreen. I’m not too upset by this stopping because it’s still fifteen hours until my flight leaves. The breaks are nice, but I wish I were near food vendors instead of a eucalyptus forest. I didn’t eat breakfast.
We’ve pushed the car further down the road so I’m not sitting in the sun but am instead standing in the shade. I would like to lean against the tree that is providing this shade, but it is covered in thorns.
11:35 We’ve still stopped. I’m still not worried, because I’ve got loads of time, but I’m not nearly as content because I’m tired of waiting and I’m hungry. At the start of the trip I was playing “Where is My Mind” on repeat because I was in that kind of mood, and when I finally grew tired of that I listened to Christmas music.
12:38 a new car comes to rescue us
2:38 we’re in some traffic which is something I forgot existed
2:57 I think the traffic might have ended
3:28 I change my mind
4:45pm six hours and fifteen minutes until I can check-in, and then another three hours before the flight leaves.
Now it is 6:17pm and I have learned that the airport will fill with mosquitoes. Thanks to Doctors without Borders I can understand that Orange cellphone service provider is an option without border. Not only is there no one else in sight wearing a sweatshirt, there’s no one else wearing anything warmer than a short-sleeved t-shirt. I predicted this would be a problem, but I hadn’t expected to feel too cold before even leaving Africa. I think I will people watch for a bit. Or nap. Or listen to Christmas music…I’m so cold.
Even despite the mosquitoes I can still pretend like the airport is toubabado and practice my readjustment skills. So far, I am failing miserably. I just put on my sweatshirt and the Easter bunny socks Grandma sent me. And just before that I none-too-discreetly picked my nose in plain sight of countless of people. Oh, and I can’t bear to remove my headwrap, even though the only other person with a head covering is one Middle Eastern woman whose child keeps coming over to admire my notebook and bottled water. For one, I’d feel naked without my headwrap. For two, it’s probably helping to keep me warm.
Now it’s 7:34 pm. I attempted napping but some people sat down on my bench and at one point tilted it so I almost fell off and so I decided napping is a dangerous idea. So I’ve been people-watching and I forgot just how fun that can be. Now I’m bored, however, and at risk of spending my remaining CFA on something to eat just because if I have something to eat that’ll be something to do. According to the 20:1 conversion, however, that bottle of water and ham sandwich cost me 200 dalasis. So I’ll wait until I’m 100 dalasis worth of bored before I do anything rash. Like buy a miniature quiche.
The Middle Eastern lady left awhile ago, but since then a couple of other women with head scarves have passed through. And, just now, a toubab with a yellow sweatshirt.
An hour to go, inshallah. Just discovered that even in pretend toubabado it is possible to buy mystery food. At least, it’s possible to do this if one doesn’t speak French, which I don’t. So I thought I was buying a cinnamon bun (because I was actually hungry, not out of boredom) but it turned out it was a savory bun filled with ham and cheese that at one point in time had been melted. Seriously, are ham and cheese the only things the French eat? Anyway, it’s better this way because I’m getting more protein and less sugar. However, my stomach is still too nervous to properly eat it. I ate about half the bun and even though I’m still hungry, I can’t bring myself to take another bite. Bizarre.
11:48 pm Past security and am sitting by Sortie 4, otherwise known as exit 4. In this room there are no mosquitoes, but it is uncomfortably warm. So I’ve removed my sweatshirt and my argyle Easter socks and yes, even the headwrap. It’s okay that it’s gone, though, because with the socks and sweatshirt also gone I can see my Fula anklets and the red scrap that keeps my soul safe. I am sitting next to the Swatch kiosk, which is next to Bijouterie Daymanko, which sells, among other things (tie dyed wraps, wooden statuettes) flip flops of the style and quality of those sold in any market. Any Gambian market, at least. Maybe they’re a rare find in Senegal. What’s nice about being in Senegal is that they can spell “salon” correctly and not make it sound like a place frequented by cowboys. What’s annoying about being in Senegal is that “salon” doesn’t necessarily mean a hair salon. It might be a “salon prestige” or a “salon t’eranger” and I don’t know what those might be. I’m tired of not being able to greet anyone.
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