Swedish Newspaper Warehouse Quest Part II: At least there was a taxi

They were not ideal questing conditions. I had not stopped at the transit house since leaving the car park, so I was lugging around a large backpack and didn’t have a bicycle. I’d just finished food shopping, so the backpack and a stretched-out plastic bag were filled with a couple of tins of oatmeal, the second-to-largest sized tin of powdered milk, and a liter carton of juice, among other things. Also, it was approaching the evening call to prayer, so even if I did find the pharmacy, it would probably be closed.
Why did I even decide to go? I don’t know.

I was looking, you’ll remember, for Ous Camara’s pharmacy. The first step was to find Immigration, after which the officers there would give me further directions. I thought I’d known where Immigration was, but a friend told me I did not. “Immigration? Oh, that’s way out by Joe’s site, isn’t it?” “Oh. Not the…? I guess that’s a police checkpoint that’s by the mosque.”
I’ve never been to Joe’s site, just the ice cream “parlour” across from it. Fortunately, given my tendency to become lost, the road to the ice cream parlour, and the immigration checkpoint beyond it, is straight. Unfortunately, it is also long.

I walk until I’m past the ice cream parlour and can see something check-point-like in the distance. Before continuing for the final stretch, I decide to check that it is, in fact, an immigration check-point (and not a military or police checkpoint).

I am about to turn down a side-road to ask someone when I hear a group of women across the road call my name. Well, it turns out they were not actually calling my name, because they later ask, “What is your name?” but at the time I thought they might be people who knew me. I shout greetings across the road and ask if Ous Camara’s pharmacy is nearby. I’m told to come closer, so I do, and repeat my question.

“Ous Camara’s pharmacy? Heh! You’ve walked past it! It is next to the police!” The woman looks distressed and tells her friends, “She’s looking for Ous Camara’s pharmacy, and walked until here!” They want to know who sent me this way and I tell them, “One person said ‘go to immigration’ and another person said immigration was this way.” The group of women seem very concerned, as if I’d announced I’d fallen seriously ill. I, on the other hand, am absolutely unconcerned, only wishing I could translate, “Walking in the opposite direction of my destination? Story of my life.”

One woman asks if I know where the police are. I say yes. She says go to the police, and then, no, go to the police and ask for Ous Camara’s pharmacy and they will show me. Heh—but the road is very far. They beg me to take a taxi, one will come soon. “Sit.”

So I sit. The group is large and they’re braiding each other’s hair and have plenty of things to talk about among themselves; I just sit and catch my breath. When a taxi arrives, one woman flags it down for me, one tells me to pay only seven dalasis, and another carries my bag of groceries over for me. As she passes me my bag of groceries I double-check, “The police?” “Yes, immigration.” The taxi door slams shut.