27

So today is my birthday. I've got over my whole thing of being 27 and wondering why I'm doing what I'm doing. I'm doing what I'm doing becsue it's what I'm good at, and because it's what I always wanted to be doing-living in Africa, speaking different and fun languages (I learnt the Wolof for 'puncture' yesterday, 'bain-bain'), being paid (eventually) to meet people and tell stories.

Last night I had some friends over for dinner- Naomi, a freelancer, Steven, a Congolese friend who's still at school but somehow is grown up for a 19 year old, Ann, my neighbour and friend, Dan, a Reuters journalist, and then Chi and myself. I cooked fish on the fire and we drank wine and ate brownies and ice cream and I realised that for the first time since I have lived in Senegal, I was hanging out with people that I had actually chosen to be with, rather than people I was thrown together with because we speak English, or we're journalists, or just because we're foreign. It was a really good feeling.

We sat around my teak table, which suddenly seemed to make sense with people around it, and talked about A-Ha (who we saw in concert this week), bird flu and other stuff that wasn't related to work or involved me desperately trying to find find things I have in common with people, or me trying to prove myself. So much of the last year, I realise, was spent trying to be strong in the face of established journalists and seemingly sorted people, wishing I had people I could talk to, friends to be 'me' infront of instead of being 'Rose New in Dakar Looking for Work'.

At midnight we all piled into Dan's car and drove to town in search of KoolGraoul ('Grow-oul', meaning 'Cool' in Wolof) a monthly club night held in a scuba diving club. All we knew about it was that it was somewhere by the sea but since Dakar is surrounded by sea except for a narrow neck that attaches it to the mainland, there were a lot of possibilities. Eventually, after driving through some diplomatic area where men in balaklavas stood guard outside huge gates and poor Steven screamed from the back seat 'c'est interdit' because we hadn't seen the signs, we were stopped by the police. 'There are too many people in your car' he said gleefully, his green beret sitting lopsided on his head. dan got out of the car and showed the policeman his driving license-and his wallet (which had £1 in it)-and Steven got out to help. After ten minutes of arm-waving, Steven came back to ask for 2,000 francs, £2. The policeman had obviously seen Dan's empty wallet and decided we were a bunch of students and not worth really ripping off. Then he gave us directions to the party. Why Dan had come out with no money I have no idea.

The club was a beautiful terrace covered with overhanging trees and with a good mix of people- toubabs and Africans. We danced to salsa, mbalax, reggae, ska, hip-hop (no Akon thank god), funk, and my favourite, Congolese soukous. With the overhanging branches it was warm and leafy, and with good music, cold Gazelle beer, good friends, it all felt very fitting for a birthday party.