C’est regle
“It’s fixed” I hear again and again in the cargo area of the Dakar Airport. Tucker waits and barks inside his kennel. He waits just beyond us behind a sliding metal wall of mesh. I shift around in the dirt. Two security guards languish behind the cardboard painted sign. Another trip inside the office. Something about having to pay someone something when he goes to get something. “Je ne comprends pas”, I respond to any mention of money. Something about having to send someone to the boss- boss to wake him up so he can stamp something. “C’est regle”. Someone limps off to get more papers to sign. A man in white silk robes floats through the dust. The van idles. Idle men drape over whatever box bag or cart will make them comfortable and cool. Someone returns with two fists full of papers. “C’est regle”. More cell phone calls and another someone takes the papers away again. Il fait chaud. It is nearing the middle of the day. There is no relief from the sun. Clearly the idea is to move as slowly and as infrequently as possible. A number of men emerge from behind a cardboard box that has been rolled end over end in the dust enough to make it more round than square. Whose precious cargo is this?
“C’est regle”. This time he means it. We are free to go- the whole family.