Sparks alive

My last post was a bit desolate. Right after posting that, stuck on the floor in a corner of Casablanca airport, the only place I could find a plug to charge the computer, I met John, a Canadian reporter who I took under my wing and showed around Dakar. So my first weekend back was actually filled with: swimming in the warm waters of the Piscine Olympique, my second home; music- a whole night of music on Gorere Island plus another gig the next night; good food in roof-top Ethiopean restaurants; and best of all, wall to wall electricity. No hint of "what am I doing here?" at all.

Thanks to the comment made by a regular Senegalese reader about the issues of racism on the last posting, I was going to reply about that and what I am doing here (since he/she asked). This post was going to be full of all the great things about Senegal. But right now, at one in the morning, all I can think to write about is how great, how truely wonderful, magical and glorious, is electricity.

The reason I am sitting here at one in the morning, still writing (I started at 8.30 this morning but have only just produced anything of substance), is because today, my first day back at writing since September, I got up early to prepare for the productive day ahead, only to find at 11am that the power had cut. It didn't come back until 7 this evening. But did I go to the swimming pool and wait patiently for it to return like someone sensible? No, I went about town looking for a generator, then having found one and negotiated a taxi to bring it back home, went off in the other direction to my friend's bar where they have power and internet so that I could charge the computer and get my emails. It took me 1.5 hours to travel the 3 miles there and back because of traffic, and by the time the electricity had come back at 7, I had written a grand total of 9 words (which I later lost when my Word programme crashed).

However, I now have electricity and have had for 5 hours. So, I was able to listen to the Archers while I cooked, eat under the cool breeze of a fan, then retreat to my desk, print things, email, Skype my family, sort out my council tax in London, listen to excellent music, upload photos of my holiday for my sister-in-law, listen to more music, check out what time my friend's flight gets in tonight, write an article and a CD review for a magazine, find a flight for my mum, and eventually write my blog. I can also drink cold water, see one foot infront of the other, find the matches to light insect coils. I can do whatever I like, damn it, because we have power.

When I lived in Ziguinchor, I never even noticed when the electricity was cut. It went out very rarely, Zig being a small town and the system needing only to support a small number of people, and I was always outside anyway, and there was never much in our fridge. Music came from drums and guitars, not iTunes.

But now that I live in Dakar, that I have to be on-line most of the time, that my job and income rely on having battery and internet, I just can't survive when it goes out. And it goes out every day (but not on weekends, apparently). And in our neighbourhood, it stays out for most of the day. It is the most futile feeling- there is nothing I can do anymore, workwise, which doesn't involve my computer. My interviews are transcribed onto Word, my radio production is done on the computer, my camera is digital, even my phone numbers are stored on my computer's address book. When it goes out, I simply can't function.

But when it comes back on, it is the most glorious and exciting feeling. There is radio and work and emails and friends and cold, cold water in the fridge. There is music. I try not to let the almost constant fear that it will cut again get in the way of enjoying one of the most wonderful inventions ever.