Day 15: Girl Talk

With life, you just can’t know.

I stopped by the toy store for the usual afternoon French/English chat with Ayam. Only today, she said, no, the store was closing and she wanted me to come to her home. I hesitated for only a moment, and then let myself be led along the dirt streets of our neighborhood. Although to anyone from a developed country, it might not appear to be a wealthy section of Dakar, in fact, it is. The absence of paved streets and manicured lawns, accompanied by an absence of children with begging bowls, is an indication that we are in a high-end socioeconomic suburb.

Anyway, along the way, we picked up Ayam’s best friend Mary, who lives around the corner. Mary speaks fairly fluent English and is a commercial pilot. Twenty-eight years ago, she went to flight school in Ft. Worth, has a fantastic sense of humor, would have been a killer shortstop on any softball team, and—just my guess—would be really comfortable hanging out at Marie’s Crisis in the West Village.

Nicest part: Hanging out, just being one of the girls with Mary and Ayam, who really are the very best of friends. With life, you can't know. Sometimes you just gotta go.

Day 15: Swat!

Sleep. It’s a very good, very sweet thing, isn’t it?

Here, there is a ritual that accompanies preparation for sleep. First, comes washing off the day. Living seaside, moisture clings to the skin and along with it, the dust and perspiration of the Sahel, as this region of Africa is called. So, always, there’s a shower before bed.

Next step, before turning on any lights in my bedroom, all portals—doors and windows—that are without screens, must be closed.

Then, the mosquito net goes down.

If the lights are on and the mosquito net is up and the windows open…well, that would be an open invitation. Even one very small mosquito in the net with you in the dark is torture. Their finely tuned GPS expertly zeroes in on any exposed bit of skin…swat… slap…successfully dodging a flat hand and pillow. Finding a way between the sheets, they bite ankles and knees. If my nose is out for purposes of breathing, they dive down and bite whatever flesh they can find.

And that buzz…there’s nothing quite like it…a sound unique in all the animal kingdom. Like a drone….You can hear it coming before you see it, if you see it at all. And when the buzz stops, that’s when the biting starts.

Doesn’t matter where in the world you are…New York, Kansas City, Lima, Barcelona or Dakar. Damn mosquitoes are all alike. And I'm very grateful I have a net.

Day 14: Francais

For those of you who are wondering: no, I am not a fluent speaker of French. Not yet.

The very best thing that could have happened for my language skills is that Nathalie went to Switzerland for a week. Because she is our own personal United Nations, i.e., one of those enviable polyglot Europeans who speaks French, German, Spanish and English, when she’s around, she translates for everyone. In her absence, I have been forced…yes, FORCED…to speak French with Paul, Suzette, Ieta and even the woman who owns the toy store in the villa complex.

Ayam, la dame qui est proprietaire du magasin de jouets (the lady who owns the toy store), trades 30 minutes of French for 30 minutes of English on an irregular basis. She is much, much more fluent with English than I am French and has also had an interesting life as a Lebanese living in Francophone Africa, so we have more than a slight tendency to just yak in English. But every bit helps.

And yesterday, while Paul and I were on our road trip, we talked back and forth in an exchange of French and English. I had my dictionary handy for the big words like “return” and “shoe” and “postman”. I'm not completely clueless. I did remember "chaud" and "mouton" and "bureaucrat," all of which came in very handy. (See yesterday's blog.)

Today, Suzette and Ieta assumed the role of Grand Inquisitors. During lunch they quizzed me thoroughly, asking hard questions, like “Do you have this fish in the United States?”. In exchange, I insisted on teaching them useful American idioms like “Wowie Zowie!”

But I am making progress and have little doubt that within six months, I will be singing the well-known round, “Frere Jacques,” well enough that at least Seal will join me.

Day 13: Road Trip

This morning, Paul and I gulped down coffee and hopped in the car at 5:30. We wanted to beat the traffic to Kaolack (rhymes with Jack Kerouac), which is the town where Paul was born. We were more than halfway through our three-hour drive before the sun came up…not blindingly as it can and often does over the East River in New York…but as a white, translucent ball, emerging from the moist, dusty air that hangs over Senegal. The light diffused softly, a gentle luminescence, as the sun rises.

At 8 a.m., as we passed through villages, a few people were stirring. Herders were smacking their sheep and cattle on the haunches. Kids were hefting school bags bigger than they were. Women were strolling on the shoulder of the road with 10-gallon water jugs balanced on their heads.

An hour later, we arrived in Karolack, stepped out of the car and nearly fainted. It was already 35 degrees C, which is about 95 F. Our simple transaction-- a re-certification of Paul’s birth—required two hours, three buildings, four officials and what looked to me like a couple of bribes. All and everyone moved at an excruciatingly sedate pace, understandable given the heat and absence of AC. Most amazing was that the only proof of Paul Thierry Oliveira’s birth on June 29, 1965 was a simple entry in pencil in a very large ledger. Now, 45 years later, the pages were literally disintegrating from the heat and aridity or heat and humidity during the rainy season.

We did our business and left. I won’t comment on stopping to look at a flock of sheep, the three-hour traffic jam, an unexpected lunch at Mami and Papi’s or the massive fish market that filled our return itinerary. It was a long day. But as days go, this one was completely satisfying.

Day 11: Life is Life

No matter the continent or the language or the culture. No matter the socioeconomic rank or education or religion. Life is a collection of situations that repeat themselves over and over and over: birth/death, winning/losing, celebrating/grieving, gaining/losing, welcoming/rejecting, coming together/going away…

Today we gathered again—because it was Sunday—at Mami and Papi’s. It was the last time the family would be together before Nano and her three kids move to Portugal on Thursday. The kids don’t know they are leaving. Nano says they don’t need to know. She will tell them on Thursday at 9 pm: “Take your showers! We’re going to the airport! We’re flying to Portugal to be with your father!”

I believe her.

Hearts were heavy today. For the adults, letting Nano go is like letting a bonfire burn to embers. The warmth lingers. They are all counting the days until Thursday. No one wants to believe it will really come.

I understand. It’s exactly what I was doing four weeks ago as I counted down the days before my departure for Senegal. And all is well.

Day 10: Irony

This morning we drove to downtown Dakar. I really do need to get serious about speaking French, so a French-English dictionary was top of our shopping list. After finding the dictionary, I decided to check out the English fiction section. I found six titles. Three were by black writers: Toni Morrison, Chinua Achebe and Mariama Ba. The other three were by a white American: Armistead Maupin!

Armisted Maupin in a Muslim-dominant country?!? After Nathalie and I stopped laughing, we started asking questions: Are the majority of English-speaking book buyers gay? Which of the bookstore employees is gay? Do those who persecute gay Senegalese—and there has been some extreme violence here over the past few months--visit their local bookstores?

No answers. More will be revealed.

Day Nine: Where and When?

I called this blog “Here and Now” specifically because I want it to be an exercise in being conscious…not just to being in Africa, living in a new culture, speaking a new language (or trying to), engaging in new work, living with a family…but becoming more mindful of the choices I make each day.

So this morning, when I thought about writing about “here and now”, the question came to mind: Where and when did the transformation begin that led me to Dakar?

Was it when I waved goodbye to Mom and Dad and left home with a solid set of old-fashioned values that were based on “love your neighbor has yourself”? Was it sitting with my sorority sisters around the fireplace, listening to “The Velveteen Rabbit," drinking hot chocolate and feeling something bigger than friendship?

Was it when the notion of equality began to be real…first, because I began to notice that I didn’t have it, and later because I noticed that others didn’t.

Was it the realization that substance abuse was robbing me of my power to choose? Was it starting my first business and experiencing both freedom and the power to make all my own business mistakes?

Was it Macchu Picchu at dawn with the shaman and a sacred ritual? Was it my first Spring Equinox Eggstravaganza with Mama Donna? Or the 10-day visioning retreat with Trebbe in New Mexico? Was it sitting in Dr. Corso’s living room, being invited to understand the New Testament within a contemporary context? Or was it fire-walking with Tony Robbins, parachuting from 4000 feet, reading "The Desiderata" in Amsterdam or trying the trapeze with STREB? Was it understanding the truth of the fox's revealing to the Little Prince that “it is only with the heart that one sees rightly”?

Where and when?

Here and now. Every day. To be awake, to choose, to see the gift, to listen, to understand, to give, to love.

Day Eight: Drinking

Got your attention, didn’t I?

Well, I do want to talk about beverages. The drink is bissap.

Start with a hibiscus, a tree with lovely blossoms in a variety of colors ranging from deep, rich red and melon orange to creamy peach and light blue. The blossoms are delicate. They last for a single day.

Here, in West Africa, hibiscus blossoms are used to make this amazing and refreshing beverage called bissap. The red blossoms--only the red blossoms--are boiled, sweetened with vanilla and sugar and chilled. The result—a thick, ruby-esque liquid that tastes...well, it tastes like bissap! And it’s amazingly healthy, loaded with antioxidants, helping control high blood pressure, lowering high cholesterol and strengthening the immune system with its rich vitamin C content.

Could it get better? Absolutely. Boil dried Monkey Bread Fruit, which comes from the Baobab Tree. (See “Le Petit Prince” for additional information about on this species and a variety of other spiritual and philosophical issues.) Add the white, milky liquid to the bissap, and what you get is like a dark pink milk shake without the milk. Also a cure-all for gastro-intestinal ailments.

When could a martini ever make health claims like these?

Day Seven: Reason for Hope

Day Seven:

I just realized that reports of the hospital have been noticeably absent from my musings. Be assured. We are moving forward. Our incremental progress may seem negligible by New York standards, but it feels like solid progress.

First, a quick report on the actual site: We drove to see the land on Saturday morning. The round trip drive of 60 km took about five hours. As previously reported, the traffic was crawling. Not trying to be funny, I observed that someone could die on the highway while trying to get to a doctor. And it’s absolutely true! For the 150,000 people living around Bargny, the hospital will be easy to reach by motor vehicle or horse cart or walking.

We are clearing legal hurdles every day. The association has been registered here in Senegal as a nonprofit. This was accomplished quickly with significant “insider” support from a highly placed individual in the police department, who originally comes from Bargny. We have a meeting next week with the deputy mayor of Bargny, specifically to receive the title to the land.

And we are gathering new advocates and supporters every time we tell the hospital story. Last Friday, we met with Simone Kabore, the president of the Regional Association of the International Lions Club. Admittedly, I was skeptical. Within my Kansas hometown frame of reference, “Lions Club” equates with “soup supper, pancake feed and Labor Day Queen”. (For further explanation of these Midwestern phenomena, please post your questions and I will explain.) Here in West Africa, far from the Kansas plains, the Lions Club is a vital channel for connections, community engagement and philanthropic support. We have been invited to make a presentation to each of the six local clubs in Dakar. With this local advocacy and support, the door opens to pursue funding and in-kind support from the international organization, which annually provides medical supplies and equipment valued at millions.

Who knows? Maybe some of the funding we receive will have originated at a pancake supper in Hoisington, Kansas.

Day Six: Bug 1, SB 0

Didn’t feel great yesterday. Initially, I told myself that that I’m far from friends, far from home, far from the things that always make me happy. So if I felt a little funky, c’est d’accord.

And then, as things didn’t improve but really declined, I became willing to concede for the first time, that my goat-like digestive constitution was collapsing out under the effects of new water, new cuisine, new sleeping habits, new, new, new.

Or some combination of all of the above.

Turns out it was a bug….horrible and short-lived. Grateful, again and always, that I am living with a physician. Very happy that Coca Cola Light is a universal beverage.

Day Five: En Famille

Sunday is family day in many cultures, from Kansas to Senegal. We spent today with Paul’s family, or apparently a small portion of it. By my count, we were 17 humans, two dogs, six sheep and a dozen or so pigeons. The human count starts with Paul’s wonderful parents Mami and Papi and descends through several generations to the youngest, Seal at 15 months and Wesley at four.

We laughed and ate and laughed and ate. The main dish was kachoupa, a yummy mélange of fava, pinto, garbanzo and red beans, hominy, tomatoes and spices cooked with ham hocks. On the side, there was also fish, manioc and potatoes. The food kept us quiet only momentarily. Even with my limited French language skills, it was pretty clear that Paul’s family doesn’t let language become an obstacle to communication. They are equal opportunity teasers and flirts, and they are proficient in any language at any age.

If increasing the number of family members had proportionally increased the hospitality and fun, I fear my heart would have exploded.

Day Four: Road Dust

This morning we left our home by the sea around 9 a.m. to see the land that Bargny has donated for construction of the Hospital of Hope. The roads were heavily congested —often bumper to bumper with construction vehicles, garbage trucks, 18-wheelers, luxury automobiles, taxis and public transport, horse carts and motorbikes. And we drove in dust, great huge clouds of it blanketing everything and everyone…people, sheep, cattle, goats, merchants and shoppers alongside the road. In spite of it, many women were dressed majestically, islands of brilliant color floating through the swirling beige cloud.

The traffic moved slowly…crawled, at times…which made it possible to look at the oncoming vehicles. They were predominantly from Asia: Daewoo, Hyundai, and Toyota and Tata; occasionally, a Renault; and even less frequently, Citroen or VW. Following the bailout of the US automakers, their strategic error was glaring: In pursuit of the highest possible profit associated with the manufacture of big vehicles—SUVs and luxury cars (and easy credit to buy them)--Ford, GM and Chrysler ignored the growing demand for vehicles that are affordable in emerging markets like Senegal. Last year, when Tata introduced its $2100 car, the business world heralded the move as especially brilliant, as millions of people are moving into the global middle class every year and they want cars, too. These days, even in the US, spending $2100 a car sounds about right.

Left in the dust. That was the theme of the day.

Day Three: Dual Realities

Yesterday afternoon and this morning, I had my first real exposure to Dakar. The two experiences were studies in contrast: one in a section of the city called Grand Yoff and the other at the Ministry of the Interior in Downtown Dakar.

In Grand Yoff, humanity teems. Vendors sell from one-room shops that are interspersed with apartments on the dirt streets. The merchants are almost universally male and the shoppers primarily female, many in vibrantly colored, traditional Senegalese dress, babies balanced in slings, goods balanced on heads. Goats and dogs and chickens roam freely, children play games with strings and rocks. Weaving in and out are the brightly painted taxi/minibuses in various stages of falling apart, packed to the rafters with passengers hanging off the back, and emitting clouds of exhaust. The motorbikes and taxis dodge in and out, as the traffic moves without any discernible logic…no signs, no lights, no order, just chaos.

Downtown Dakar is quite different. There the streets are wide and clean, especially as Senegal just celebrated its 50^th anniversary, cleaning and polishing in preparation for the official activities. Behind the walls of the boulevards are the big homes, western style, groomed and detailed a la Beverly Hills. As we arrived at the Ministry of the Interior, the American Embassy was pointed out…it’s the only one with limited access and a security detail at the entrance. Our business dealings with the ministry were marked by air-conditioning, quiet, decorum and western-style efficiency. While my surprise is surely indication of underlying cultural stupidity, Nathalie and Paul also expressed surprise by the ease of the situation.

In less than an hour, we were heading back to the place I’m learning to call home.

Day Two: Rhythms

Every household moves to a rhythm. In ours, Seal, the 15-month-old human dynamo, sets the pace, determines our moves. We start the day when he awakens. We rest when he naps. During our evening meal, he inevitably drops off...and shortly after that, so do we.

After nearly 25 years in New York, living at a frenetic and often frantic pace, always with more to do than time to do it, I'm surprised by my response to this way of being. I like it.

Day One: On Awakening

Two sounds: surf and Seal.

No, not the barking of seals, the sound of 15-month-old Seal, babbling, cooing and singing to himself. No seals, although we do have some livestock of the quieter turtle and bunny variety.

Meditated about my welcome into Nathalie and Paul's home, about my desire to support the Hospital of Hope, and then I jumped into the day with a big hot cup of Nescafe! Allow me to use my limited French...mon dieu...Nescafe, after 35 years of fresh ground French Roast beans and the strongest coffee on the Upper West Side. It's a small adjustment, really. Remember, I woke to the sound of the Atlantic crashing on the black rock beach outside my window.