I figured out how to navigate the busses, hopping on a blue and yellow local bus to the nearby intercity terminal, thence to a slightly spiffier bus for the 15 km journey to Downtown. My fellow passengers didn't seem to find it strange to see this old White geezer on board.
As we approached the bigger buildings of the central city we passed another bus going the opposite way. The driver of the other bus yelled some kind of message to our guy and soon our bus detoured into a nearby gas station. A ruckus ensued with most of the passengers protesting animatedly. I gathered from the eyes peering ahead of us that there was some kind of impediment up ahead. I got out and started hoofing it where the bus declined to go. It was hot but a breeze from behind me made the walk tolerable. I walked about two tenths of a mile. There in the middle of the street were a few nondescript broken cement blocks. My mind flashed back to the previous evening when I caught a glimpse of some political demonstrations somewhere. I deduced that this must have been the place. But there were no cops around and no evidence of last night's teargas so I kept walking. About a mile ahead I saw half a dozen muscular cops or soldiers guarding....nothing--an empty traffic circle.
Up ahead I saw black smoke. I deduced that whatever rioting had taken place had been displaced by interest in some kind of fire Downtown. I kept walking. I was looking for the financial district to score an ATM where I could get some Senegalese cash to pay my hostel bill.
After about another quarter mile I turned a corner and...burning tires! Just 3 or 4 blocks ahead of me. And lots of milling young men seemingly looking for a fight. Yikes, I was in the middle of an African manifestation of the Arab Spring. But even then I couldn't bring myself to give up my quest for a bank. Then, after one more block I found a bank, closed. It suddenly dawned on me that I'd seen other places on my walk, all closed, even one giant bank. Of course, dufus, they don't keep businesses open when rioters might take all your inventory.
So I walked back from whence I'd come and hopped a very crowded bus for the trip back. I didn't see much of touristy things but I learned the bus system and snuggled up close with lots of locals, even stepping on the toes of a couple.
Other observations:
What’s notable about Dakar is what isn’t evident:
*Animals: I’ve seen one horse and, I think, one dog. There’s a noise outside that sounds like a goat but I haven’t actually laid eyes on him or her.
*Streetlights: electricity is sporadically available, and probably expensive for the average Dakarian, so this part of the city is basically dark at dusk. Wandering the streets after 9pm is almost impossible. You are left to stumble over rocks and boulders as you slog through the thick sand hoping not to bump into the person coming in the opposite direction.
*Trees: it is as if some natural disaster had swept the city of all its vegetation about ten years ago. There are a few trees with large, bright red flowers but these specimens are no more than fifteen feet high. On our hostel block are a few vines and shrubs including one spindly bougainvillea, but mostly the city is devoid of any living plant.
*Noise at night: since there are no lights the silence is pervasive. No problem with sounds to disturb your sleep unless you count the wailing of the guy at the top of the minaret at dawn as in any Muslim conurbation.
*English speakers: the only other two travellers here are two French women who speak no English. As I speak no French it provides for quiet mornings at the breakfast table. Since French is a kind of world language still there is no push for anyone to learn the kind of travellers English that I’ve found in Turkey and Laos and Cuba. Thus I am even more than usual reliant upon hand gestures and movement. You should have seen my hands-in-armpits clucking to simulate a chicken at the restaurant last night.
*The sun: it has been sunny in the afternoon but this close to the Atlantic brings overcast for most of the morning. It is still very hot but 80’s hot not the broiling kind I anticipated.
*Mosquitoes: my host informs me that it is the dry season and the little buggers are not present. Since I dutifully prepared myself with long sleeve shirts I’m somewhat wardrobe challenged at the moment with most of my clothes being laundered. I was also told that the antibiotic I’m taking makes my skin very sensitive to the sun so I’m in a quandary. Should I roast in long sleeve or suspend the drugs for now to allow for cooler digs?
*The elderly: everyone seems 30 or younger. Seldom do I see anyone remotely near to my own age. Do they all die? Are they staying home away from the riots? I can't fathom.
My host is an interesting fellow, a mixture of French with some darker race, I think. He has impressive dreadlocks, really Rastafarian to be truthful. The most prominent painting over his desk seems to be a pairing of Che Guevara and Bob Marley (smoking a large doobie) so perhaps his background is Jamaican or South American? No doubt he has an interesting story to tell about how he came to be in Dakar.
The only employee of the hostel is Minjeep, a very dark skinned beautiful young girl of about 17. She looks the classic African maiden a turban-like cloth about her head and a colorful wrap about her person. She bends over to sweep the tiled floors and then to wash them by hand. I wish I had a mop to give her. She was up working before I arose and I saw her working after dark last night, though she did get to enjoy a sit down meal with the guests last night. She is sweet natured and girlish. As I look around our block I see that most of the homes have servants much like her.
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