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.