Mango Season

There’s an enormous mango tree at the university, its branches nearly in arms’ reach from the window of the nutrition lab. I’ve been waiting, impatiently, for the fruit to turn from green to yellow and to drop. Finally, the first mangos of the season appeared in the markets last week. Although mangoes signal the sticky hot weather to come all too soon, they’re abundant and sweet, and so delicious that it’s hard to resist eating one daily. They might, just might, be a trade-off to the unbearably hot days ahead.

I recently finished reading The Shadow of the Sun, an engaging portrait of Africa written by Ryszard Kapuscinski. In the book, he describes Dakar: “A beautiful coastal city, pastel-colored, picturesque, laid out on a promontory amid beaches and terraces, slightly resembling Naples, the residential areas of Marseilles, the posh suburbs of Barcelona. Palm trees, gardens, cypresses, bougainvillea. Stepped streets, hedges, lawns, fountains. French boutiques, Italian hotels, Greek restaurants.”

Recalling a train ride leaving Dakar, Kapuscinski continues, “The lush, flowering gardens have disappeared, swallowed beneath the ground, and a desert has commenced, but a populated desert, full of shacks and lean-tos, sand upon which sprawls a neighborhood of squalor, a chaotic and swarming district of slums, one of the depressing bidonvilles that surround most African cities.”

Indeed it is beautiful, with sweeping views of the Atlantic, which is dotted with fishing boats (pirogues) off the coast. Dakar is Mediterranean-like and there are several upscale venues catering to European tourists. Last week I attended a work-related cocktail reception at a hotel (which happens to sit on the most western point of Africa) with at least two swimming pools overlooking the ocean, a golf course, polished tile floors, and immaculately manicured lawns and shrubs. After some nibbles around the pool patio, my daily routine seemed oddly distant since this hotel was so extraordinary.

While commuting through largely expat neighborhoods with a variety of restaurants and shops en route to downtown each day, we pass other neighborhoods constructed of recycled materials – corrugated metal roofs, scrap wood, and cardboard. The markets are overflowing with people looking to sell and trade goods in overwhelming numbers. People selling sunglasses by the dozens try to coax a sale, “Madame, you like these! They’re not expensive! They’re very pretty!” Groups of people are seen sitting. Sitting along sidewalks, or under a tree, presumably without work. A taxi driver told me one day, “People here are tired. Tired of no jobs.” Living standards are comfortable, if not luxurious, for some who live here, and seeing this contrasted with the urban poverty is consistently jarring in highlighting the disparity in living conditions.

Thursdays at The Café

I get the biggest kick out of kids aged a year and change. It's a fun age, watching them learning to interact with each other and starting to babble. Moms seem highly amused when their children are comfortable being carried around by a foreigner. It's a nice break from project data entry and verifying questionnaire forms when a I spot a little one who needs to be carried around or entertained.

The neighborhood surrounding the clinic brims with energy: rainbow-colored car rapides dodge potholes as they putt-putt down the street, taxis honk as they sneak up behind pedestrians walking in the street and barely avoid running them over, barefoot children run after each other shrieking, neighbors exchange ritual salutations, Nescafe coffee carts wheel around corners, goats rummage through heaps of trash, men pray on mats, women sit on inverted buckets on the sidewalk washing clothes, preparing the daily meal in large metal bowls over fires, or selling oranges, grapefruits, and candied roasted peanuts in small clear plastic sachets.

There are blocks and blocks of workshops where furniture is constructed, clothes are sewn, metal housewares formed. If I could capture the mosaic of sounds heard outside the clinic, of the clanking metal, whirring sewing machines, and instructions shouted in Wolof, I’d submit it to NPR for one of the guessing games of “name this sound.”

On Thursdays, in addition to feeding the children cereal, we collect blood samples of participants finishing the study in the morning (in order to analyze the plasma zinc concentrations of subjects) and lead an afternoon-long orientation with newly recruited study participants at the clinic. These are easily 12-hour days, from the time the taxi picks me up at 7 am, or quarter of, and I return home, following stops at the university to drop off the cooler and to store the samples and ice packs in the freezer.

After the participants have left the site each day, we have a brief team meeting, clean the room and prepare folders for the following day. Normally we munch on bread topped with canned tuna and sliced cucumbers, brought from home, for lunch at the clinic. Occasionally one of us will remember to bring mustard; then it feels like we’ve upgraded our meal plan.

However, we’ve instituted a weekly treat: our mid-day respite on the longer days is a café just a 10-minute walk from the clinic. The smell of freshly baked bread lingers in the air surrounding the building and inside there are rows and rows of treats at the patisserie counter. Napoleans, operas, éclairs, lemon tarts, apple tarts, croissants. Raisin bread, sesame rolls, whole wheat loaves. There are chocolate bars imported from France and boxes of loose leaf tea for sale. Recently on display are giant egg- and bunny-shaped chocolates on tables covered with yellow tablecloths.

We sit at one of the tables in the bright, airy room with sunshine streaming through windows, and flip through a Jeune Afrique magazine or newspaper after ordering lunch. Usually it's a hot panini sandwich with a green salad; sometimes I splurge for freshly pressed juice, but I always splurge for a perfectly-made cappuccino.