Dakar, Senegal

It was well after midnight by the time we made it through customs and the long line for one conveyor belt baggage scanner and a metal detector outside baggage claim. Nobody seemed to be checkig the scanner and I am sure I had metal in my pocket.

The crowds waiting outside the door seemed pretty sure I had metal in my pocket too - gold! It was warm and sticky and we are always suckers walking out of an airport in a new country with our backpacks. This time we were equipped with a newly changed 50 Euro note (about 36,000 cfa) and a plan. Our couchsurfing host, Johan, has lived in Senegal for some part of the last 15 years. We neded a SIM card and a cab to Yuembuel. He gave us prices on both, including the exorbitant amount the cabbies may ask for. I paid too much for the SIM card ($10 US) and Annette bargained hard and successfully for the cab ($8 US). She was entertaining as we had picked up an entourage of five or six young Senegalese men trying to sell us cabs, hotels and friendships for a small fee. We stuck to our guns and Annette kept a smile on her face through it all. She led the way. She had been here before. No matter that she was 12 years old at the time. The cab door swung open a few times on the long ride to Yuembuel, but we eventually made it there (by putting the cabbie and Johan on the phone together to navigate in languages we don't speak and places we don't know).

We had a sweaty nights non-sleep on a mattress on the floor in Yuembuel, the mosquito net around us not quite enough to keep the threat of creepy creawlies and mice far enough from Annette's mind to allow sleep. The cockroach awaiting us on the mattress when we arrived didn't help either.

We "awoke" at 7 a.m. to follow Johan to church - the International Baptist Church of Dakar. Ghanaian pastor. Congregation of Liberians, Ghanaians, Nigerians and a handful of white folks, including Johan and a missionary family from Rhode Island and New Jersey with seven children under the age of 14. They have also been here for 15 years. The mom says only two of the kids were born in Senegal. She says she hasn't seen much of the country because she has been busy having children. They are home-schooling too, I learn later. The church service is in English and reminds me of black Baptist churches back home. Lots of good music, including a reggae gospel song or two led by a man with a Toots-like voice.

After a two-hour service and another hour of socializing in which we meagerly took part, we spent a few hours walking the city with Johan. We talked while we walked. He does import-export and used to do real estate. He lives between Sweden, Senegal, Brazil and Belgium and has more passports than I do languages. He has as many languages as I have adverbs. Something like 15. He is closing up shop in Senegal. So he is mostly spending his days trying to collect on unpaid debts. This sounds like a Sysiphian task. As he describes it, debt is equated with honro here. If you have debts, it means lots of people trusted you. And you are in demand. The threat of violence isn't an option, he explains. The courts are corrupt. So he is pursuing social shame as the route to collecting debts, which doesn't seem to be working for him. Or, if it is, it is very, very slow.

Over yassa poulet and fish and rice, I ask him for hotel recommendations, a subject Annette brought up with me before my eyes were open this morning. He leads us to multiple hotels, including a comfortable Portuguese guest house - Auberge Chez VIERA. It is cheap. And Annette describes it as cozy and with character. Given this was going to be her birthday abode, I was happy to get the green light an the price.

After hotels, we spent some time apartment hunting with Johan. He is prepared to abandon his strategy of moving in with the people who owe him money in Yuembuel. Then we take a taxi back to Yuembuel for our bags. We check in to the hotel, hot, dirty and tired. We welcome the privacy, relative cleanliness and quiet. (We have since seen quite a large spider in the shower, mouse droppings around the bed and a big old gecko in the window). But we both wonder about what's ahead. There is no longer a train to Bamako, despite the Lonely Planet's ravings about it. Only a 24-hour bus ride. And our first 24 hours in Dakar leaves us with a feeling of it as a decaying city. Granted this is primarily shaped by our time with Johan. And his philosophy is one of scaring people into safety, first. I will spend the next few days working on creating an impression of Dakar as a great place, while we gather West African visas over the next week or so.