Roadside musings (and Alfred)

This evening, as I was walking back from the Point des Almadies, where I’d found very good crepes served amidst the smoking food carts, indefatigable vendors and amiable chatter, I passed the fortress-like cement walls that encircle the Meridien Hotel. I couldn’t help noticing that the road outside those barriers, like pretty much everywhere in Dakar, was strewn with garbage, and that several sleepy-looking cows had made a temporary home there, wandering around, poking their heads through the piles of trash, searching for a tasty morsel.

At that moment, two of the cows, apparently deciding the overpriced Meridien detritus was not, actually, all that tasty, walked slowly out into the street, causing an unprecedented phenomenon: two, even three cabs, whipping down the road, were seen slowing down, even coming to a near stop, in deference to the cows. I don’t think I’m being overly cynical when I imagine that their sudden driving politesse was inspired primarily by thoughts of the damage these giant animals could do to their cars, rather than by concerns for the cows’ well-being, per se. But still, it was heartening to see that the brakes (on these cabs, anyway) do, in fact work. Just imagine the good they could do if they slowed down for pedestrians.

Speaking of cabs, the drivers here apparently don’t like anyone to walk from one point to another, no matter how short the distance, and because all fares are negotiated (one of the more tiring but entertaining aspects of life here), they seem to take a special interest in my not walking, largely, I suspect, because I might as well have a giant, neon dollar sign positioned above my head. So they honk, and honk, and sometimes they slow down and wave, in case I didn’t hear the honking, or perhaps am incapable of raising my arm to actually hail one of them. This happens roughly once every thirty seconds during any walk, in any part of town. I call it “Honking at the Honky.”

Anyway, walking around here, which I try to do as often as possible, is an endlessly fascinating exercise (pun sort of intended). On any one mile of road, you’ll spot 12 goats, 8 chickens, 3 cows, 14 roadside stands, selling water and the ubiquitous Coke and, usually, some form of lollipop and/or packets of nuts. Colorfully-dressed women walk by, at a leisurely pace, balancing platters of food, sometimes fruit, on their heads. Businessmen and imams walk side by side along the edge of the road. (Sidewalks are pretty rare here).

Taxis squeal past (honking), followed closely by the odd Mercedes or Land Rover (mainly, it seems, leased to various government officials and NGOs, which makes me wonder what, exactly, they are doing with their money). Horse-drawn carts amble along and innumerable car-rapides fly by, the white vans jammed with passengers, some hanging out the back door.

The car-rapide is the favored form of transport here: they’re ubiquitous and they’re cheap, but they’re also (ironically) slow as molasses, because they stop for anyone, at any time. The drill is as follows: You get on the car-rapide, which usually has too many people on it already, there’s a general shifting as you wedge your way into the van, and sometimes, if the transportation gods are smiling, you get a seat. Otherwise, you just hang on and tap the roof of the vehicle with a coin when it’s time to get off, handing a fistful of small change to the ostensible fare-taker, who usually appears to be about seven years old, and hop out the back door. The hope is that the van is actually stopped when it’s time to disembark, but this does not seem to be a given, or even necessarily expected. I took a car-rapide only once; I sat near the front, and when I glimpsed what I believed to be the correct landmark in the distance, I tapped the roof, handed a boy some money, and started stepping over people as I made my way to the back door, at which point someone pinched my ass. I was so astonished I didn’t think to respond, and by the time I’d disembarked, I could only stand there, mouth open, as the van lumbered off down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust.

UPDATE (this is turning into a long, long post, but bear with me): It’s 8 pm; I’ve eaten dinner and returned to the hotel. My latest stack of books has been read, and I can’t quite bear doing any more work. I am, by any measure, desperate for entertainment. 

My latest hotel has (wait for it) televisions in the rooms, so I climb up on the room’s third bed, switch on the wall mounted, postage-stamp size set, and investigate my options. They are, in order of importance: Four channels showing the same French volleyball game (who knew?), one channel offering a French movie in which, during the three minutes I watched, at least four people died, one showing soap operas, and, finally, a chat/game show hybrid on Canal+, showcasing English actors trying to speak French, much to the amusement of the studio audience.

Just as I give up, I see movement out of the corner of one eye. The night before, I’d been awakened by a chattering, scuffling noise in the vicinity of my backpack, but apparently I had repressed the memory, because I am more than slightly taken aback to see a small mouse skitter across the floor. This strikes me as incongruous: Mice don’t belong in Senegal. Gecko lizards, absolutely. Giant insects? Okay. Maybe (and this is where the repression came in handy) even snakes. But a mouse?

So I sit, perched on a bed, faced with a quandary: Should I call someone at the front desk, assuming there was anyone at the front desk? Should I just let it go, figuring I didn’t need the karmic backlash inherent in writing the mouse’s death warrant? I have just about settled on the latter when I made the mistake of wondering whether mice carry any diseases, or at least any of the three or four diseases I’m not currently vaccinated against.

I spend the next hour watching the mouse leap athletically from bed to floor to my canvas Trader Joe’s bag, where he finds a package of crackers, and sets forth tearing open the package and consuming several tidbits. After 20 minutes of listening to the contented crunching, I decide I’ve had enough, and march loudly over to the bag and pick it up. The mouse (whom I’ve now named Alfred, after the friendly concierge at the hotel), catapults himself out of the bag and runs across the floor to hide under the bed. I collect my things, place them on the top shelves of the room’s closets, hopefully out of mouse-reach, and close the doors firmly. As I’m settling into sleep, I imagine Alfred cursing me, wiping the remaining cracker crumbs from his whiskers.

Comments

[Juno888]

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