Sénégal neex na

Today the New York Times has a really good article on the Senegalese music scene in Dakar -- they mention Just4U and the French Cultural Institute, two places where I spent time when I was in Dakar.  One of the guys in my boarding house the last month I was there was a musician, so my roommates and I would see his shows at Just4U -- it's kind of a swank nightclub frequented by aging ex-pats, but still fun.  And the l'Institute Française was where we would hang out to do work sometimes -- it's just a really pleasant outdoor space in downtown Dakar with a library for research, and a fair trade shop, and yes, a concert venue.

His descriptions of Dakar at night are spot-on, and the map shows the area around the airport, which is where I lived with my host family.  And he mentions Youssou N'Dour as well as the Senegalese hip-hop scene, both worth checking out.

It's too bad he recommends the fancy beachfront hotels, though.  Not only are they mad expensive, but they're very generic and separated from the real Dakar, which while it is definitely crazy and disturbing and the capital of a developing country, is really awesome.  The woman who ran my boarding house also rented out rooms (nice rooms) for very cheap for short-term stays.  I remember this really neurotic couple we met who were staying there as we tucked into our communal bowl of delicious meat and rice one night.

Yeah, I miss Senegal.  I miss every place I've lived, and it's a lot.  So remembering my heat-exhaustion-infused, buzzing with activity, overwhelmed by sensory overload and so much music and noise days in Dakar is a nice way to spend a rainy morning in Paris.

I'm going to head to the marché and the library, and eventually out to the Christmas market at l'Hôtel de Ville with one of my best friends in Paris, but for now it's nice to recall all the colorful Ndiaga Ndiayes, and the near-constant "Allah-huuuuuuuuuuu akbar!  Allah-huuuuuuuuu akbar!" crackling from the minarets across the city every day.  And the palm trees.  And the sidewalk baguettes with Nutella.  And fresh mangoes.  And eating my breakfast while my host brother watched cartoons before sliding through the sand to the bus stop in increasingly thin flip-flops.  And the almost palpable heat.  When we left, one of our directors told us that, for better or for worse, Africa had now entered our blood.  And literally, that's true.  I'm pretty sure I still can't donate blood.  But even two years later, I'm still figuring out the extent to what she said is still true in the way she really meant it.

After I came home from Dakar, I think I slept for about a whole day.  Then I went running in my running shoes I took with me to Dakar, and kicked the red-orange dirt from Kedougou and the sand from Dakar across the concrete of the Pacific Northwest neighborhood where I grew up in between Puget Sound and the mountains.

It's strange to think that this month in 2007 I was working on my independent research project, living with my roommates in our boarding house, hanging out with my host family, and getting ready to go home in time for Christmas.  And keeping like three journals.  And writing poems.

Dakar, je t'aime.  Or, because Wolof is the real language there, Senegal neex na.

For better or for worse?  I think for the better.  Sans question.