Yes, that's not a typo! There is a super special two-for one deal going on for one day only at the Butter Story.
So here we go:
C.O.P.S.: Dakar
Mom, I’m warning you, you’re going to hate this. But take comfort in the fact that a) I am still alive and c) everything that follows has been exaggerated for the sole purpose of making the more mundane of weekends (except for the one where I was puking my guts out with all the other CIEE kids, but that one had its own…fireworks???) – with the purpose of making one of the more mundane of weekends spent here in Dakar even remotely readable (cause lets face it we’ll have legions of angry readers on their hands if I come up with something that reads like “I went to the market today...it was fun. Yadayadayadda”). Well that and scaring you just a little bit J (I love you!!). So read on to find out how I was robbed and almost killed by escaped prisioners.
Random Market in the middle of busy road (I’m not making this one up)
Saturday, October 21, 2006 16:43:23 (that’s French for “4:43:23pm”)
“Fairing le promenade” (that’s French for “doing the promenade”)
Let’s set the scene: I’m walking down this market, or what passes for a market (since here in Africa, everything’s relative). It’s basically about a half-mile (definitely longer…but I got bored after a half-mile and turned around) swath of concrete smack-dab in the middle of this road that may or may not lead into/out of Dakar centre ville (that’s French for Dakar center city). This swath of concrete has 10 foot iron poles stuck into it in a desperate attempt to keep the sky from falling on the shoppers below. These poles hold up more poles on which we find hanging everything from sheets of plastic to towels to fabric to t-shirts to bras to underwear to iron pots. In short, everything you ever thought could be hung from a pole and some things that you didn’t (one notable exception being the conspicuous lack of goats – ahh Africa, you never cease to surprise me do you?).
Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on with it. So I’m walking down the middle of this market thingy admiring the Ferrari towels, smiling a little bit at the American flag fabric, and wondering exactly how many Senegalese football jerseys am I going to have to buy before I leave this place, when, like in any other place where there’s a million people all trying to fit through the same one person passageway, I ran into an emboutteillage (that’s French for “bottleneck” which oddly enough is French for “traffic jam.” Go figure). A dude walks up behind me and starts fiddling with my back, left pocket. Which, as anyone whose anyone (or maybe no one) knows, is where I keep my Handy-Dandy Notebook (you know, the one with the cheeseburger and fries on it that my sister Megan gave me – see Megan, I am using it!).
After the fiddling (which I just assumed was because someone thought I was cute), I touched my hand to my back left pocket, just as a precaution (that and well, I like touching my notebook – it gives me magic powers I’m pretty sure).
My heart stopped: empty.
Now before we go any further, a brief digression. Maybe you’ve seen me scribble some useless note into my Handy-Dandy Notebook. Or maybe you’ve been lucky enough to have your name jotted in there, hopefully next to some sort of goodie that I need to buy you. Or maybe you’ve been lucky enough (only if you’re really, really lucky) to have heard a story that came out of my Handy-Dandy Notebook. Take my money and I’ll be upset, maybe even mad. But take my Handy-Dandy Notebook and I’ll unleash the unholy power of the Seven Seas (only after they’ve rushed through the seven levels of Inferno) upon thee. Take my Handy-Dandy Notebook and I will not rest until I sit down at the table of vengeance. And may God have mercy on the soul of the poor guy who takes my Handy-Dandy notebook. Such is my wrath (the point of this is that my notebook is kind of important to me).
A kid makes his way in front of me. First mistake – letting me see you. I look over his shoulder. Second mistake – letting me look over your shoulder. I see him getting ready to pass my Handy-Dandy Notebook off to an accomplice. Third mistake – stealing my Handy-Dandy Notebook.
This kid had three strikes against him (and no balls) in my baseball game. And I was pitching. He was seconds from having the unholy power of the Seven Seas gone through the seven levels of Inferno wrought against him. Woe betide he!
(Children under the age of 18, anyone who doesn’t have a strong stomach, anyone who thinks that I am a peace-loving kind of guy and wishes to keep thinking that, and Mom – you may want to skip the rest of this).
I tapped the kid on the shoulder, reached over his shoulder, and took my Handy-Dandy Notebook back. No questions asked.
Needless to say, the kid booked it. I can’t say I blamed him. He was mere seconds away from having the unholy power of the Seven Seas passed through the seven levels of Inferno and onto him and he knew it. I knew it. And he knew I knew he knew.
I’d have left too.
Route de Ouakam (pronounced root de wakam)
Saturday, October 21, 2006 22:18:19 (that’s French for “10:18:19pm”)
“Fairing le promenade” (that’s French for “doing the promenade”) (again, I know – it’s pretty much all I did on Saturday).
So I get a call from mon ami (that’s French for “my friend”) Scott saying that he’s going to go out with his host brother and some of his friends along with a couple of kids from CIEE for a walk along the beach (how romantic, right?) and would I like to come? I oblige and walk to meet him at school.
I’m walking down the ancien piste (French for “used to be a runway apparently” – I just found this out today) and walk past a banana seller. Now for anyone whose been walking to CIEE at 9.30 at night past a banana seller (and this may or may not be you), bananas look pretty darn good when you’re walking to CIEE at 9.30 at night past a banana seller. So I bought one and kept going.
The thing about walking to CIEE at 9.30 at night is that bananas not only look pretty darn good, they taste REALLY darn good. I’m talking fantastic, the best banana you’ve ever eaten pretty darn good. It was firm, yet soft enough to fall apart in your mouth. Sweet, but not too sweet so as to overwhelm your taste buds and a subtle hint of freshness. Immediately I plan to buy more bananas, and not just one or two bananas either. I’m talking a whole kilo of bananas. Yeah. That’s how good they were.
The thing about Africa is, no matter how hungry you are or how bad you want a kilo of bananas at 10.00 at night, it is guaranteed that you will not be able to find them. So I’m walking all over Mermoz (the neighborhood in Dakar, not the airplane pilot who crashed there and gave the place its name) looking for a kilo of bananas, meanwhile looking for my friends, all the while trying not to get killed by cars rapides (not rapide at all), taxis, and stray banana peels lying in the street mocking me in my quest for a kilo of bananas.
Finally I succeed, I find my bananas, and I find my friends. I ask Scott which beach we’re going to walk on romantically with 6 other people and he responds cryptically: “I heard there were some prisoners who escaped from jail today. Do you know anything about that?”
Um, no. But I do know that I do not want to be walking on the beach at 11pm at night if there are escaped Senegalese prisoners running around. Neither does Scott. Nor anyone else. So we don’t. We decide to go to Le Regal (that’s French for “Toubab place that’s cheaper than Caesar’s”) for milkshakes, fries, and pizza. It was yummy.
* * *
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, I thought Jake had a really dangerous weekend where he got robbed and almost murdered by escaped convicts?
Yeah, well I mean I gotta tell you guys something so that you read this.
Love,
Jake
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