The moon is glorious tonight. I would that I were scribbling on notepaper in place of my laptop so that I could feel the moon’s full, round beams reflecting off the page. Alas, the comforting violet hues of the evening breeze and the shimmering moonlight are pierced by this electronic’s false glow. But the silhouettes of swaying trees and flapping laundry still create a lovely ambiance for reflection here atop the mosaic-tiled terrace. I could bathe in the thoughtfulness of this moon’s radiance, letting her swallow me whole and birth me into the realm of dreams and wistfulness; such is the evening.
I feel pensive, slow, bittersweet, and content. The day rolls off of me like a heavy cloak sinking slowly to the floor: pregnant with smooth strolls through hot afternoons, meandering from one swatch of shade to another. Humming would overtake me at times, adding a spring and a swish to my step, as I would swing my bag of fresh veggies around my wrist. It is on walks such as these that time lolls contentedly, like a child wandering through pastures with nowhere to be until dinner. I’m on my way to the post office to leave a letter and the lovely Senegalese woman on the stamps winks at me from her corner down in the depths of my bag. I see these various men now, sitting guard or watching passersby, and I will see them on the way back. We are each looking at the other, but only when they aren’t looking. The more forward ones will hiss at me, to grab at my attention, or make kissing sounds, but there are only a few with energy enough to make such attempts on this heat-laden afternoon. With nowhere in particular to be and nothing pressing at hand, my American pace has fallen into nothingness and my vibe slows to match the pace of this place. If I walk too quickly, strangers make note of it out loud, encouraging me to go ndank, ndake, to take is easy. But I don’t stand out today, or not anymore than a fair-skinned, scarf-wearing, yogurt-bearing girl ever does. I suck my yogurt out of the corner of its plastic sack, appreciating the creaminess and reflecting on how my gratification derived from this particular form of yogurt must go straight back to the joys of infanthood. I must face it; in spite of my Senegalese pace, I stand out distinctly because a local can never be seen walking and eating simultaneously. Ah well, at least I’m closer to the Senegalese demeanor than usual with my respectfully relaxed steps.
I am quite different now from how I was when I first arrived, or my perception has changed at any rate. I no longer perceive the folks clad in waxed fabric as being wrapped in plastic tablecloths, which is excellent considering the popularity of this form of clothing for formalwear. I even find these garments beautiful and have to remind myself at the large fabric market that no, there is no way I’ll be able to pull off that shinny fabric in the States. The hand washing and communal eating bowls seem downright normal these days and I no longer turn when I see a few goats lolloping around at the corner of a busy intersection. Perhaps best of all, I can grab a cab for within 200cfa, or forty cents, of the price I want and chat in broken Wolof with the cab driver the whole way there. Sometimes my haphazard responses to their inquiries fool them into thinking I actually speak Wolof, but when the conversations seldomly stray from the topics of origin, studies, and marriage, it’s hard to go wrong.
But the warm wanderings of the day are taking their toll and I’m fading into sleepiness. Tomorrow morning I leave for the small village Louly Ngogom without my laptop or the internet. Thus, you will not read this until I come back from that voyage and post it. By then, I’m sure I’ll have much more to share.
Hugs and love,
Jocelyn
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