There’s a walk that I’ve taken in three different places, in three different cities at three different times in my life.
In 1997-1998 it was at Bossey, just outside Geneva. In 2002-2003 it was at UGB just outside Saint-Louis. In 2007, it’s been here, in Yoff, on the edge of Dakar.
This is a walk that I take alone, completely alone. I don’t talk to anyone.
The walk takes me from my comfort zone of being on the Internet, to wherever it is that my temporary home is, to my bed. It’s a time that I don’t have when I’m back at Home. There, life continues from one hour into the next, from one minute to the next minute. There’s an activity planned more or less all the time. I’m working, then cooking, then eating, then relaxing, then sleeping and the process repeats itself, more or less day after day. I’m not complaining, it’s simply a fact. Very rarely, when I’m in my own element, do I take the time to be alone with my thoughts, without a companion, without an iPod, feeling out of place in this foreign city.
Some days, this walk is cleansing. It allows me to reflect and recharge on what I’ve done during the last 24 hours and how I plan on spending the next 24. But some days, this walk makes me feel somewhat guilty, like I shouldn’t be spending so much time on my own. That I should make more of an effort to spend time with whoever it is that I’m supposed to be spending time with.
At Bossey, the walk was about five minutes, from my aunt’s office in the chateau back to the house. I walked out, locking the door with one of those old single-tougne keys behind me. My feet would crunch under the gravel walkway, with not much beyond the building light to guide me. I’d walk past Didier’s workshop and the walled garden that he kept watchful eye over. By this hour and by this part of the property, it would be dead black. But I knew my way home, it was just several steps further, to the housing complex, where the light would begin to creep along the walk. The light would be on for me, and I’d switch keys and would open the door to the house, use the bathroom, and head downstairs to my bedroom in the basement.
In Saint-Louis, the walk was about 10 minutes, from the “Toubaab Lab” deep inside one of the buildings in the heart of the university. I’d shut off the lights, often the only one who would be using the lab at 2 am, and would walk along the tiled floor, past the long-closed beignet stand, using my headlamp to guide me until I reached the outside. There I’d often pass a security guard who greeted me with a nod and occasionally a grin. His uniformed dark blue shirt always seemed disshevled and possibly was missing a button or two. If I didn’t see him every day, I’d think that he really didn’t belong at the university. Sometimes he’d be huddled around a small coal stove, making tea, or would be asleep. Beyond the roofed walkways amongst the classrooms, the pathway would begin to clear out of the academic cluster and would head out into the sandy void. Well, it would have been a void save for the large spherical lamp posts (half of which were broken anyway, rumor had it that previous generations of students had thrown rocks at them during student strikes) that anchored the two sides of the cement that headed out towards the dorms. But usually, it was just me, walking on a sidewalk that didn’t belong in this part of the Sahel — my own private red carpet that carried me on what should have been a barren landscape of scrub trees and sand. Where the cement ended, the road began, and I’d cross it and walk around the basketball court, past Lamine’s boutique and past that other boutique, the one that was closer to our building, but that I rarely went to anyway. In either case, both were long shuttered for the night. I’d step into the dorm complex, past the security booth (I never had to show any ID) and a few more steps around the circular bend to my bedroom door. I’d unlock it, and would climb into bed not needing more than a sheet to keep me warm.
In Yoff, the walk is somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes. I step out of the CRESP annex office, down the sandy pathway that is completely dark towards the main street. I sometimes sort of half trip on the stone incline, and get annoyed because sand gets in my sandals. I walk past the Société Générale, my nearest ATM. The building is lit up, as are the twin gas stations on either side of the street, the Shell on this side, and the Mobil on the other side. Typically I walk on the edge of the street, right between where the “curb” should be, on top of where the sand has spilled over onto the street. Traffic continues at full strength at this hour, taxis, trucks, private cars and all. Dakar never sleeps. After the Shell station is the, SDE, the local water department building. It’s my local landmark. That’s where I tell the taxi drivers to take me home when I come back from town in the afternoon: “You see where the Société Générale building is? That’s where I’m going.” I’ve never seen anyone go in or out of the building, but there’s always a few street kids hanging out in front of it both in the morning and in the evening. There’s the corner fruit stand, with the guy reading the Qur’an on a wooden stool sitting out front. Turning the corner, there’s the little eatery on the other side, followed by a few stands, and the walled soccer field which is more dirt and sand than it is a field. I pass by the fancy clothing shop (what’s it doing here, anyway?), the preschool, another eatery or two, a few boutiques, and see plenty of people still walking around, or sitting in front of their boutiques. Taxis beep at me, telling me to not walk in the middle of the road. Right after where the paved road turns off to the right, I keep walking, and the road turns into sand. There, just past a couple more boutiques, and a cybercafé, is my left turn, past the horse and goat pen. Then a right at the end of that short block, past the tailor’s, and up two flights of stairs to the apartment. Often everyone’s gone to bed by the time I get there, and I eat dinner that they’ve left for me, alone, in the dark. Then, I brush my teeth and slide into bed.
Am I missing out on fun activities, like watching Senegalese TV?
I really don’t know.
Understanding the history behind the Internet isn’t integral but it can’t hurt.
