Comment dit on “Bible banger” en francais?
Eager for a cultural experience during our first few weeks here, we chatted it up with Yero, our breadman. Yero started setting up shop just around the corner a few days after our arrival. First, a metal box with a window appeared, labeled encouragingly “chaud pain”. Indeed, he was selling baguettes from a woven plastic bag inside the box. Over time, I noticed some capitol improvements to the breadman’s shop. A carefully placed rectangle of good sized stones was added, giving the sense of a veranda. Later, this was filled in with a thin bed of gravel. Ensuite, three tiny trees were planted, then surrounded each by its own cabana of loosely woven grass. The little improvements brightened my attitude. The baguettes were cheap enough for me to make a special trip each morning with Allison and Tucker. Bronwyn was able to get further along with Yero- where are you from, etc. and managed to get an invitation from him to visit with his family the following evening. At the hour, our little family showed up and was led by one of the small children under the laundry and around the corner of the little house to the side. Yero was there, and was surprised to see us. He had forgotten our date and sent his family to the beach, but ushered us in to a small dank room where a few other people were gathered. We each got a little wooden stool to perch on, then a bucket to catch the drips falling near us. Bronwyn and I caught sideways glimpses of each other as one of the men greeted in French, then began a Christian serman, followed by prayer and supplication and finally, passing of the plate. We realized to our dismay that we’d managed to find the only bible bangers in a country of 97% Muslims. Unmoved once again to join the faithful, we politely au revoir-ed. It took a few days to cool off after our misunderstanding, but now we continue to make our bread stop there.

Emerald City*
I was so busy this weekend, I forgot to do the radio check. This is unusual, because I look forward to each Saturday’s radio check eagerly. I’m not sure why, except that most days go by here looking exactly like every other day. We must need some little demarcation of the week going by. Our radio is fat and heavy, with a squat little antenna, very GI Joe. Each week I’m to report to headquarters on the radio..”emerald city, emerald city, this is busty* doing a radio check, over”. Like a third grader, I fantasize about doing a crank call, something about a refrigerator running, or emerald city…. I’m naked. Each time, I stick to the script and wait for the response, “busty, this is emerald city, do you copy?” We’re to believe that in a real emergency, marines will arrive at our door tout suite. The one time we didn’t get through to headquarters I waited until the next day to try again. After no response, I called on the phone to report our failed radio check, thinking that it would be something dumb, like I’d forgotten to turn it on. The marine responded with a dissatisfying “huh?” and “…Hmmm,” then reported that they didn’t seem to be transmitting, just gotten back from vacation, didn’t know anything. Constance got the same huh, hmm response once when she called to report that she had just gotten ripped off. She wanted to ask if she should call the local police. “Huh?... Hmm. We’ll check around and call you back”. She’s still waiting for a response.
*Names have been changed to protect the delicate toile of security.

Chez Nous
It’s nearly impossible to get out to see what goes on outside these walls, because tout le monde comes to me for house calls. Of course, the doctor comes by….but the vet also insists on house calls. And the tailor. Our first week or so here, the zipper broke on a key pair of work pants. I thought this would be a great opportunity for me to get out for exploring with the task of finding someone in the neighborhood who could do this simple replacement. As soon as I inquired where to go to find a seamstress, an event formed. Cary invited her tailor to her house the following evening. “Great, Bronwyn grumbled, now everyone in the embassy is going to know my pants busted.” I arrived with black work pants stuffed in a sac a l’heure chez Cary to find a spread of hors douvres and spritzers. Other women had been summoned for the event. They bore Saks garment bags stuffed with quelque choses that needed to be tried on fashion show style for a fitting prior to alterations. Long sleeves were to become off the shoulder, darts were to be added, hems raised. I explained to the tailor that my project was small, but urgent. No, I didn’t need to change the style or fit, just the zipper, please. He amicably took the sac, the pants and the $4. The next day, the pants returned chez nous, good as new.

Ca c’est pour tu, est ca c’est pour les cousins
For my French lesson, I read a story about a Senagalais man whose cousin comes over uninvited, to eat the man’s duck soup dinner. After a knock at the door, another cousin of the cousin comes for dinner, then another knock and another cousin of the cousin of the cousin. Finally, le cousin de la cousin de la cousin de la cousin dit “Why are you giving me only water for dinner?”. The man dit “c’est le soup de la soup de la soup de la canard”. Abdoullai, Bronwyn’s work mate, is originally from Dakar. He left for France, then for the US. Against his wishes, he is now employed here in Dakar, and is prey to his family’s pleas for assistance. It is usual here for the family to be coming over like that. Before entering our taxi today, the driver and I haggled. I wished to only pay 2000cfa, but conceded to 2500. On the drive our taximan got a phone call and, excusing himself, pulled over. It was a lively discussion with a family member. “ No, not today, either,” he complained in French/Wolof, “Hey listen, I’m trying to get some work done here”. We had a good laugh about all of his cousins calling for money. ‘C’est dommage,” I sympathized. At our destination, I chuckled “Ca c’est pour tu,” as I produced the 2000cfa note…and “ca c’est pour les cousins,” offering the 500cfa coin.

Honey, quick, Google “muslim celebration Sept 4”
On last Friday’s dog walk I noticed some action in the area that we’ve been told is something of a devotional place. It’s located on the coast. On most days it appears barren, with a few small trees and a cinderblock structure open on both ends. Occasionally we see a person or two there doing not much of anything. A low cinderblock wall painted with the visage of Bamba, a local Muslim religious hero, separates it from the street. On that day I took note that there were some tents being erected, large heavy canvas being stretched taught.
The following day it decided to rain most of the morning and into the afternoon. We stayed in and played with the sofa cushions and the long green socks they gave us on South African Airways until we finally decided to go out for an excursion to the pool, rain or not. As we prepared, I noticed a trickle, then a stream of cars crowded with people racing bumper to bumper down our little street towards the sea. From inside our house we could see over our wall the heads of people hanging onto the backs of car rapides as they speeded by. The steady stream had become a flood of people by the time we peered out to inspect the activity. It was a mass of Senegalais, on foot and in cars, women and men, young and old all dressed completely in their best white robes, all intent on pressing on to the devotional place. We were met with black heads and white robes all afternoon as we insisted our way upstream towards the Club Americaine pool, conspicuous with our bags bulging with pool and tennis toys. Later that day, like the Bay of Fundy tide shifting, the crowds of black and white retreated from the sea, leaving our little street clear for the goat and the soccer game to return in the evening.

Do we need Rod Stewart?
I suppose so. As soon as we cranked up the 70’s tunes on the Mac, Allison sprang into action. She slipped on the princess dress, spun, swayed, collapsed dramatically, only to spring up again. It’s been six weeks here without a sound. No TV, no radio, no movies. No car stereo, no walkman. No neighboring boom boxes, no elevator muzak. Hours go by here with only the slap of our bare feet on the tiles echoing in this big house. Constance, our pet Fullbright scholar, arrived here and reminded us what it’s like to be 22. We’ve been limping along, trying to listen to the scratchy short wave and managing to get ourselves in a sweat walking to the corner and back. She has demonstrated that a person can exit our gate in jogging attire, sprint past the Pridoux and keep going. And keep going. Leave Almadies, continue on to Mamelles to the foot of the lighthouse, up the mountain to the lighthouse itself, continue on past the wrought iron guys, the goat herd, the fish ladies,…. to the mosque on the coast, then return here. It was Constance who revealed the wonders of listening to a world of radio stations with our laptop computer. Now, just like the rest of West Africa, we can sit here in the dust and tune in to the traffic report for the beltway or Rod Stewart’s “If you think I’m Sexy…”

I don’t have for to eat
My French is a big train wreck inside my head. I’ve worked and worked to get to a point where I can say in French “I’d like two of those, please.” For all that work, I receive no more results than if I had pointed, raised two fingers and said “Ug, ug, ug”. I now know enough to know how stupid I sound when I say, in my very best French, “I am going to go yesterday from the work, please”. The chef de la poubelle arrived this morning and said “blah blah blah vandredi” while making the international sign for “take a picture”. Ah, I thought, he must want to see the picture I took of them, and he’s asking for it on Friday. “Ah, oui, vandredi” I replied, making the international sign for “next time”. “Blah blah blah, he replied sternly. “Je ne comprend pas,” I winced. Did they want their own copies of the photo? Another crew member added pointedly, “blah blah blah pour manger” with the international sign for “eating” as they mounted the truck. I managed to fumble out “je n’ai pas pour manger”. Ahhhh, Je comprend. Il n’a pas veut le photo. Il a veut la …monnaie… pour le photo.