Falling upon luck

This one starts from the end and goes back to the beginning. I've finished my holidays now and am back in Dakar, feeling kind of blue. But something cheered me up. I just went out into my silent street- everyone has gone back to their village to celebrate the muslim festival of tabaski- and found that my evil downstairs neighbour who I've been having a feud with for 18 months, had tied her ram to my rubbish bin.

Tabaski is the festival of (let me just Google this) Eid Al-Kabir, which celebrates when Abraham offered his son as a sacrifice to God and as a reward had it replaced by a ram. Every family in the country buys a ram and slaughters it on the morning of tabaski, this year, on new year's eve. My downstairs neighbour had tethered her huge great ram to my new rubbish bin, an oil drum which was lovingly turned into a bin for the street by Now in an attempt to educate people in responsible rubbish disposal, and I wasn't best pleased. But letting it pass, I went to the bin to put a piece of rubbish in it. At that moment, the ram looked up from its hay munching and took fright, leaping off down the street with the oil drum still tied to it and all the rubbish all over the road. I could hardly contain my giggles and think it is so far the best tabaski ever. One of the street guardians went off after it and when I last checked, the oil drum was back in its rightful place, but the ram was not. Maybe it has met an early death.



I spent Christmas on this island, my favourite place in the whole world. There are a lot of desert islands in the world, but Carabane is particularly special. A Senegalese person, who I don't know, has a small round house there and three of my friends live and work in it. To suppliment their income they rent out rooms for next to no money, on the arrangement that guests can help if they want to, around the house. It's right on the beach, it's full of animals, and there is a silent peace which is only broken by the wind in the trees and the sound of the waves crashing in the front garden.



This year we had a gang. My friends from Dakar, Cecilia and Jo, plus the three men who live there, Lulu, Pierre and Neba. Because it was Christmas and they are Catholics, they made quite a fuss over it and we all went to midnight mass and then Pierre's sister's house for Christmas lunch. After mass on Christmas eve, we piled out of the palm-decorated church to the large tree behind, where the spirits of the island live. We all stood around in the warm night and drank palm wine from a jug, and poured some out for the spirits too. Afterwards we went to a disco and danced to reggae all night, before walking back across the beach to our home. Christmas day involved chicken, couscous and beer, and then a trip to the middle of the football pitch to pick up the island's only phone reception to speak to people in England.



We had wonderful food all week, lots of fresh fish, a sea snail the size of my head (which was saw caught and killed but refused to eat), rum and lemon cocktails. It was almost too perfect, too beautiful. Wednesday morning brought with it the boatman, who came to take us back to Ziguinchor. We felt miserable to leave, and worse as the day wore on. By the time we arrived at the house, all I could do was lock myself away in the bathroom and enjoy running water, even if cold. Thursday morning we got back on the ferry to go back to Dakar, and all waited earnestly for the moment when the ferry passes the island. we knew we wouldn't be able to see much, but I think we all hoped that there would be a signal from shore to let us know that paradise hadn't forgotten us.

"I rather imagined that the boys would be on the beach waving a flag for us," said Jo, visibly disappointed.

Suddenly Cecilia screamed: she had seen a flash of white. Sure enough, there on the beach outside the house, was someone waving something white, a speck in the distance but enough to make me feel buoyant and revived. We pulled off our scarves and waved back, and everything felt better.

Arriving in Dakar, I discovered that not only is there a gas shortage in Dakar, but that my gas bottle had run out. Half way through my carrot soup, I had to go out and lug my gas bottle around the tiny shops in the neighbourhood looking for gas. To soften the blow of telling me there was no gas in the entire city, each shop owner simply told me I could get it at the next shop. I understand it was an act of kindness, but it meant by the time I had given up and flagged down a taxi, I was exhausted and my arms hurt. But I fell upon luck. The taxi man, a young guy in a red fez, drove by and said,

"Oh, Lady, you look so tired. Get in, and just give me what money you want."

He drove me from shop to shop, swerving across the road and pulling up outside every time he saw one.

"Hssssssss!", he called out. "Any gas in your shop?" he asked, before driving on. Finally we found some, in the gas depot of course, and he took me home.

Happy new year to you all. May your 2007 dreams come true.

An industrious weekend

For the first time in a month, since I started my new correspondent’s job, I had enough energy to go out and listen to music this weekend without worrying that it would use up valuable drops of energy that I couldn’t spare. Playing at Dakar’s best live music place, PenArt Jazz, was Diogal Sakho, a Senegalese folk singer who I wrote about for fRoots magazine about three years ago. It was my second ever music article, and I had gone to Paris to write it, managing to spend less than the £67 I got to write the thing, on 2 days including the Eurostar. Seeing Diogal again brought back vivid memories of a time when my life was quite dramatically different, when I dreamt of living in Senegal, and of writing full-time for a living.

PenArt is a small bar, with clusters of comfy seats grouped in U-shapes around the room. It’s always hard to see people when you first go in there because it’s so dark and it takes a while for your eyes to get accustomed. But when you do, there is always someone you know who will shuffle up to let you sit down and watch the band, and even the people on the same seats as you that you don’t know will shake your hand or say a polite “bonsoir”.

The stage is about three by seven metres long. It’s not actually a stage, just one side of the room with a piece of carpet down to define it from the rest of the room. The ceiling is low (one bass player I know has problems not hitting his head on the ceiling while he’s playing) but the atmosphere is magical. When I listen to music at PenArt I always feel lucky to be living in such an extraordinary country, where music is made by real people and where people know how to listen to it properly.

After the concert, which was mellow and quite touching, and after the die-hard Diogal fans had left, Diogal, his manger and friend of mine, Soline, Diogal’s musicians and the bar’s manager, Kisito and I all sat around having a drink. At about 4am, a guy in his mid-twenties ran in to the bar and said, “where’s the concert?”. We all looked at eachother sideways and said, “it finished an hour ago”. The guy stood with his head in his hands and started to explain how he had tried for four nights in a row to come to Diogal’s concert, but each time, for some reason, he’d missed it. This was the final concert before he went back to France and he’d missed it again.

“Give him a thousand francs (£1) and he’ll play you a song,” joked the drummer and started to get out the guitar. Diogal is incredibly shy, almost painfully so, but he tentatively took hold of the guitar and sat waiting for the guy to name the song. The fan sat there with his eyes closed and then named the song he wanted, and Diogal started to play. It was delicate, and moving, a very tender song with Diogal’s exceptional voice quietly spilling out across the table around which we all sat entranced. The fan put his hands over his face to hide his emotion, before singing along for the rest of the song.

In other news, I have spent two days sewing.



I have an apprentice, Now, and he's good although yesterday we had a disagreement because there were four hands trying to work out how to get the lining (pictured) into a patchwork bag. In the end I had to tell him that too many people in the kitchen spoiled the fish and rice. He toyed with the idea of getting up and leaving, but he stayed and was here all day yesterday cutting squares for a patchwork (I can't say Patchwork-What because the person who's Christmas present it is reads this blog). Both presents are now finished and I am very pleased. My sewing machine, newly bought from a man who imports old ones from Switzerland and re-conditions them and sells them out of his shed, works, which is a miracle in itself, and it's good and sturdy. Now all I have to do is finish my patchwork bedspread, which I wish I had now because it has suddenly got cold. It's all very well wishing it was cold, but when it comes, it's best to have blankets and jumpers on hand, not in squares in the sewing basket.

Counting Fuula Style

There have been some interesting advancements around Now’s shop recently. One evening, when I had been inside all day writing reports on treasury bills issued by the nation of Niger, I went out to have my evening chat with Now. He eagerly showed me the blisters on his hands where he had been gripping a spade and then said, “haven’t you seen what I’ve done?” He took me around to the side of the shop and low and behold, there was a newly erected trellis, the trunks of small slim trees wedged and concreted into the ground next to the frangipani tree, a network of smaller branches criss-crossing overhead, and the foliage which creeps over from the airfield teased along the branches to provide shade. He was so proud, and rightly so. It looks lovely.



For weeks, Now and I have been talking about getting a bench for everyone to sit on. At the moment there are two tiny little stools (which I had actually had made for my nephew but which had been a disaster so I donated them to the shop), a drinks crate, the bottom (and seat) of which has collapsed, and a backless chair. When Naomi and I come along, the boys spring up to let us sit down but someone is always standing, and those who are sitting are not exactly doing so in comfort.

On Friday afternoon, on returning home from town, I saw Laye, our friendly local carpenter. Now and I told him exactly what kind of bench we wanted, and using Laye’s arms (which he knows how to hold out so they are exactly one meter- I know because I found a tape and measured it myself!) we ordered our bench.

Then came the discussions over price. He wanted £10, which I thought was reasonable for a 1.5 metre long bench, but I knew it was too much and was expected to fight him down, so I sucked my teeth and put my hand over my mouth as if he had thrown the most heinous insult and looked at him sideways. Eventually, when I had got over the faux-shock, I said, ‘Laye, am I not your friend?’ to which everybody cracked up and he protested loudly, explaining that it was the price of wood, you see, and everything was just so expensive now. We settled finally on £7 and I decided I would pay him a little more if he did it in the time he said he would- bizarrely, by the next day. In my dreams, I thought.

On saturday evening, as I lay on my sick bed watching Fawlty Towers DVDs, Now came into the house excitedly and said, "Sokhnaci (lady), come see the bench". We ran out to look and there was the new bench, 24 hours after it had been ordered, sitting proudly in the street. It's a bit high, comically high infact, but Laye's going to fix it. But it does mean that we can all now sit down in comfort. Next, Now and I are getting an oil drum and introducing rubbish bins to the street.

Another change in the shop is the new shop-keeper, Now’s nephew, Ali. Now brought him from Casamance when he last when down there and the quiet shy boy has been selling every morning before Now gets there so that Now can have a bit of a rest. I didn’t know that Ali doesn’t speak any French or Wolof so when I went to buy 3 eggs for my steamed pudding last week, we had something of a communication breakdown.

One egg costs 85 francs. 3 should then cost 255 francs. But while I was working this out, Ali did some calculations on the calculator and showed me the number 51. I gave him 300 francs, thinking 51 must be the change. But then it seemed weird that something multiplied by 3 should come out with a one in it, so I tried to tell him he had made a mistake. He refused to believe me, but gave me 45 francs back as change. I walked away shaking my head, wondering what on earth was going on. Behind me stood Now giggling. He had been watching the whole exchange, without me knowing. He asked Ali to do the calculation again on the calculator.

“Seventeen times three equals fifty one,” said Now as we watched Ali tap away on the key pad. “You got the correct change, so there’s no problem, right?”

“Explain to me where the 17 comes from,” I asked Now, bewildered.

“One egg in Fula is 17” he said, and laughed, because he knew I would never understand what he was about to explain to me. “It’s Fuula money”.

Now, and his nephew, and everyone else who hangs out at the shop except for Naomi and I, comes from the Fuula ethnic group where they count money in divisions of five. So one egg of 85 Senegalese francs, is 17 when counted in Fuula. So three eggs in Fuula cost 51. Times it by 5 to get the Senegalese price, 255. Shopping will never be the same again.