I don’t remember what day of the week it was when I arrived in Dakar for the first time, it was January 2013.
I remember that as soon as I got out of the plane it was hot and I could smell the ocean: it seemed like I was off to a good start.
I wasn’t really expecting much: I had come for work, I had not done much research, I was curious but not too excited (I am from Turin, Italy, “understatement” is my middle name). My French was basic, I wasn’t sure if Muslim was spelled with one or two S.
I would brush my teeth with bottled water, I did not eat raw veggies or unpeeled fruit, I would spray mosquito repellent every four hours. I was scrupulous because I didn’t want to get sick, I was supposed to go to Kenya in a few weeks and Senegal only seemed like my rehearsals for real Africa.
I don’t remember much of what happened overall but I retained some impressive details. A highway in front of our hotel, where you were supposed to throw yourself between racing cars to get to the other side; a 3-hour wait before a colleague came pick us up to drive us to a concert that started at 2 a.m. I remember throwing up from a car window and I remember a teeny tiny mouse crawling over my feet in a fast food. I also remember a massive goat/mutton market run on the sandy divider between lanes on a major street in front of the office.
I was with a French native speaker colleague so I did not make any effort to communicate and this prevented me from gathering the information necessary to get my own opinion on what was going on. My mind was steadily set on Kenya so I didn’t really care at the time.
Needless to say, I didn’t understand the layout of the city, I visited a bunch of nice places and I appreciated them but it was only a few months later when I realized I had it all wrong from the get-go. When I had to feed myself, work and bargain taxi rides I realized I was ridiculously clueless.
That first time in Senegal, I ate many things that I didn’t think much of at the time. My French-speaking colleague was a foodie, he took care of our three feedings a day and I was happy to follow him (I was saving energy up for Kenya).
The days went by, my French-speaking coworker was also a Kenya expert and kept praising Senegal for the smooth traffic (which I thought was evil), for the great conditions of the cars (that I was afraid of getting into most of the times). Both of us were amazed by the gazillion schools and training programs with good-sounding names and used to end our workdays sipping local beers.
A funny advice I had read on the guidebook, which I carefully followed, was to wear closed-toes shoes because of the holes on the streets. In retrospect, it seems like a negligible advice (yes, there are holes and the street lights that could allow to avoid them are sketchy, but come on! you can still wear sandals at night). I remember that every night if I could not make it back to change shoes before dinner I would be nervous all evening (evidently I didn’t want to get to Kenya crippled).
My first stay in Africa went by swiftly, we felt duped quite a few times (once we paid gold for some Xerox), we met generous people (I was getting introduced to teranga and did not know it) but I left with no afterthoughts nor regrets. I knew I was coming back a few months later and did not feel the Mal d’Africa (a sense of longing for Africa) I had heard of so many times in movies and books. What happened afterwards, well…that’s My Beautiful Senegal.