RIP, MJ (PYT)

“ ‘Where were you when Michael Jackson died?’ is going to become THE question,” declared the woman sitting across from me at dinner. I was at a little tapas place overlooking the ocean, with a group of women who work in Dakar, where the only requirement for being on the list-serv is to “know a little bit of English”. I figured I’d give it a try – I hadn’t been to one since I had flown through Dakar for 2 days last September and I was keen to meet some new people.

I will, in fact, remember MJ’s death well. It was nearly 11 pm here, and I was getting ready to close up my laptop for the night after watching “Weeds” – which has replaced “The Closer” which I’ve (sadly) finished season 3 and will have to wait to get a new hook-up for the subsequent seasons – when a series of emails from close friends in Seattle appeared in my inbox. The first email was simply a link to the LA Times with “MJ hospitalized!” and then, sent 15 minutes later, “OMG! CNN said he died!” which was countered with, “So says AP!” I had to tear myself away from reading the news, but awoke to find his image everywhere online, and even heard the local radio stations broadcasting the news in French and Wolof.

Turns out that 5 of the 8 of us at dinner all know a friend of mine in the States, so it was yet another “small world” incident that I have been finding frequently lately. One mentioned that they were en route to a MJ Tribute Dance Party at a club downtown after dinner, then asked if I wanted to come (ahem, hello, rhetorical question!). It was a stitch: these little kids who didn’t look old enough to be in a club were moonwalking and doing full routines to Thriller and Bad. The DJ was turning MJ tunes all night and the place was packed; it was amazing.

The Neighborhood Watch

One of the women in our office rescued a stray kitten outside her apartment building and a few of us “cat-sat” in the office while she was at a conference. It was a rather welcome diversion from working at the computer when we had to feed the kitten and give it time to run around the office outside of its crate.

Chantal and Alex are two stray dogs that, I’m told, were left behind by their former owners. Chantal had a littler of six puppies in an empty lot across the street from a house where I was house- and dog-sitting, so part of my daily routine also included feeding Chantal and checking the status of the puppies every day. Unfortunately, their introduction to the world was a pile of garbage in the remaining frame of a house on the empty lot. Despite the fact that I can’t say what breed they are, the puppies are pretty adorable.

Nearby where the puppies are living, a pair guards hold court every day. They remind me so much of the Muppet characters, Statler and Waldorf (the two grumpy old men who heckled everyone from the balcony). However, the two guards are anything but disagreeable. Each sits in his own wooden chair and watches the action in the neighborhood. One wears a wool ski cap and holds a radio with a long antenna in his hand every day; the other sits with one leg bent so his foot rests on the seat of his chair and curls his bare foot over the edge while the other foot rests on the unpaved ground. When I drive by in the car, they both look at the car, stop their chatter, put down the radio, and smile ear-to-ear as they stretch out their arms to wave or to clasp their hands together with their arms raised. It cracks me up and I marvel at the constancy of that same enthusiastic greeting. Another guard nearby sits and reads an English dictionary while on duty; I see him holding the massive book every time I see him.

Bloom Where You’re Planted

I had a fun reunion with Jessica (with whom I went to Tanzania) in Dakar when she conveniently arrived for my birthday (and a conference). I was so happy to see a good friend after feeling, quite frankly, a bit homesick. One of her colleagues joined us for lunch on the water near their hotel and we feasted on fish kebabs. We made our way downtown to a café and, fueled by strong coffee and a chocolate sweet, we took on the downtown market scene in search of fabric. One of the street ticks decided to follow us, relentlessly hoping we’d want to follow him for a tour of Dakar, and I asked him several times to please leave us alone. After the twelfth time he was insisted that he would show us the market, we stopped in front of a group of street vendors – all older men, too – and I said loudly and firmly, “Please leave us alone.” All eyes were suddenly focused on the annoying guy and the older men started shouting stuff at him in Wolof and he left us alone.

Or so we thought. About 8 blocks and 10 minutes later - seemingly out of nowhere - someone approached us and pointed a finger in my face, scolding, “You are bad!” I turned my head to see that it is the same street man who previously followed us. We walked away and went through the same routine of asking him to leave us alone when we were standing in front of a group of men huddled around a small shop who all yelled at the man for bothering us, again. I burst out laughing when the three of us had rounded a corner away from the crazy persistent guy and Jessica said, “You are bad!”

We ended up going to another market and buying two fabrics – enough material for both Jess and I to have two jupes (skirts) and a dress each made – and made it to the tailor before closing, with the promise to finish Jess’s clothes before her week in Dakar ended. That evening we discovered a great Moroccan restaurant where we shared a chicken and abricot tagine, a chicken pastilla, and deliciously spiced couscous.

The next day, we visited Ile de Goree for the annual garden and art walk. On the ferry ride from downtown Dakar to the island, I overheard an American man pointing out all the Dakar landmarks to a few other Americans, so I started eavesdropping. As we were arriving on the island, we started chatting – or, I should say, Jessica said, “This is my friend Shelby, she lives here and needs some friends”. She obviously had picked up on my pangs of homesickness. In turn, a man wearing a Red Sox hat gave me his business card and said to get in touch some time.

It was a great weekend to be on Goree – the weather was perfect and some of the people who own homes there had opened their gardens to local artists to display their work. We wandered in and out of leafy patios, past brightly painted Mediterranean-style homes, and small shops, bought some necklaces after much haggling over the prices, and had lunch on the island. Goree’s history isn't as pretty as the island is today; it is most notable for it’s role as a port for the slave trade. While there, we toured the Maisons des Esclaves, with the “Door of No Return” and listened to a tour guide recount the stories of people who passed through Goree.

I took the next day off from work so Jess and I went to Toubab Dialaw, just an hour south of Dakar, right on the ocean. We found ourselves at a Peace Corps hangout - a hotel decorated with shells called the Sobobade and wandered around half expecting to see gnomes. Lounging in the sun for a couple of hours while overlooking the ocean wasn’t half bad, though. We later had some pool time at Jessica’s hotel back in Dakar, and went for a killer run (in the heat!) along the water. So good to have her here!