Stet

One of my first questions to my prospective landlord was whether there was a mosque in the neighbourhood. He laughed and said no.

On the first night in the house, empty except for two double foam mattresses on the floor, I woke at 4:30 am to the sound of the muezzin calling for the first prayer of the day. He called, called again, then again and again, and … you’d think everybody had heard by now, no? Again? Is he calling each of the faithful individually? Madame Diouf … yoo-hoo!

I got up and fetched a roll of toilet paper, tore off a sheet and fashioned ear plugs by twirling it into an cone. Then I lay down again, stretched rigid on our superior density foam mattress (actually brutally unforgiving on any but the heaviest bodies). The pink paper ear plug stuck straight up from my ear, but who was looking.

The muezzin was as loud as before and seemed to be doing a full live broadcast of the service. It lasted until 6 am, by which time the tremendous dawn chorus of birdsong was beginning to drown out his voice in any case. Tweet bloody twitter!

I drifted off just before Baby J woke up at 7. Groaning, I raised my aching body from the ground to start the day …

Here is one of the few photos I’ve squeezed off since arriving two weeks ago.

Chez Ali Baba, central Dakar (click to view large). The best shawarma wraps around town.

And there’s a long overdue header added to the page. In case you don’t see it immediately and can’t be bothered to hit reload eight times, a slightly different version is available here.

I say Maouloud, you say Gamou,
Let’s call the whole thing off.

Another day off, following the five-day holiday enforced by the hosting of the Organisation of the Islamic Conference here in Dakar — a huge point of honour for President Wade, who pulled out all the stops to impress his visitors. Unfortunately the road building and other construction was months behind schedule, and even with labourers toiling through the night under portable arc lamps, the improvements were obviously superficial and slapdash. The most obvious example was the Soumbedioune Tunnel. The giant billboard proclaiming its opening is almost as large as the tunnel itself, which was temporarily opened for the visitors and which will shortly be closed again to finish it. As it is now, you bounce between the two lanes and try to avoid other cars bouncing your way.

What else? It’s much hotter than we had anticipated, and much dustier. Immediate plusses are the general openness and helpfulness of people, and the pleasure at being able to walk around downtown in safety … unlike Kingston.

I’m squatting in Mr B’s office at 10 pm (windup flashlight to guide me out), and as much as I’d like to post a couple of photos, … I’m knackered.

Happy Maouloud or Gamou … l’un et l’autre se dit ou se disent.

Just finished Skypeing with a prospective landlady ahead of our move in four days. It wasn’t the most coherent of conversations as she kept breaking off and shouting in W_____ (local language) at the noisy mob of women surrounding her. She ended every phrase with, “Inch’allah!” — not sure if this is a positive sign.

She told me she was out of town, in a place that sounded like Cuba — I was confused — but it turns out to be a very famous town in the country we’re moving to, and is currently hosting 2 million visitors attending the Grand Magal.

No more clues … where are we going?

Diptheria, tetanus & polio booster? — check!
Hepatitus A & B? — check!
Meningitis ACWY? — check!
Rabies I, II & III? — check!
Typhus fever? — check!
Mantoux test? — check!
TB — check!
Yellow fever? — check!
Malaria tablets? — check!

We feel like a family of pincushions after all the vaccinations we’ve had these last few weeks.

No, we’re not staying in the Netherlands. And no, we’re not returning to Jamaica.

… So where oh where are we going?