Arrival

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Getting to Africa was a lovely combination of most travelers’ hated moments: lost luggage, complete ignorance of flight times/location of gates, being trapped in a cabin surrounded by screaming children, and plane companions who slept on/in one’s space with horrible breath, bad snoring, or belligerent laughter when awake. Yes, that continuous sentence was on purpose. I was on the plane, crossing the Atlantic Ocean, alternating between hyperventilating panic and gut-wrenching waves of anticipation. This is the first time I've left the States all alone. Travelled, sure, but not chosen to live on a whole different continent for an entire year. The last good-byes with my family at the airport rushed through my head alongside predictions of what my Senegalese host family would be like. At least until one of the 4 screaming children sitting directly behind me, practicing drum rolls on the back of my chair with his feet, reached forward to grab a lock of my hair. When his hand got a little too violent, as if the back massage wasn’t enough, I reached behind my head to take his tiny hand out of my hair. He let go immediately and instead latched onto my finger, letting out a rather sloppy giggle. And the little guy didn’t let go. Now I’m not one for signs, or omens or whatever, but when his little fingers locked around mine and he started his garbled Wolof lullaby to himself, I felt like I belonged. I felt like this country had accepted me before I even got there, and this little boy was the messenger. All my dire predictions evaporated, my depression over leaving my family vanished, and I was nothing short of antsy to get off the plane and discover my new life. And then, of course, his mother tugged his hand from my finger and he fell apart in an explosion of kicking and screaming. I’m going to ignore that sign and stick with first one.

Nothing eventful happened at customs, but one of the girl’s luggage was misplaced. While waiting for her, one of the airport attendants was shamelessly flirting with the three of us. We needed a local to show us around, especially at the beach, in downtown, and in markets. We needed to be shown to all the good clubs and eating places. It was destiny that we had met, and things shouldn’t be left to chance. Of course!  All these offers were in rapid accented French, and I admit I only caught the overall idea of what he was saying. But I knew enough to respond with, "if it’s really destiny, then we will meet again, but it’s not going to happen today." Sassy American!!!  Rachel: 1.. pushy Senegalese guy: 0.

However, within 5 hours of being in Dakar, I think I could fill a novel with all my observations, questions, and musings about this city. The city is a mesmerizing combination of ancient clay buildings with colorful mosaic sidewalks and completely modern glass buildings. A shiny Mercedes can be seen right next to a drab French car that probably has 0.2 miles left on it. Horse-drawn carriages dodge mopeds, and herds of cattle sometimes block intersections. Public transportation buses are packed full of people, some hanging off the back and bouncing on a plank that extends past the bumper as the bus weaves through traffic at 40 miles per hour. The humidity hangs on your skin, in your clothes, and most especially, your lungs. The smell of the city always has the faint undercurrent of sewage, which occasionally gets stronger with a breeze. But it is laced with car exhaust, bodies, the ocean, and fruit. But it is the breeze that saves me. As hot as it is in the sun, you can always expect a cool breeze to come in from the sea. I'm here, and I couldn't be more excited to get started. 

More to come later... with pictures and awkward stories I didn't have time to write...