Thought you guys would enjoy measuring your insights against this article I happened upon. The writings pretty good! Life’s exciting in Senegal, midway through midlife adventure: Now that Catherine Porter and her family have settled in to Senegal, the love affair with her temporary home is going strong, with irritations. Catherine Porter and her family have reached the half-point mark on their adventure in Dakar, Senegal. Here they are captured in Poponguine, 1.5 hours south of the city. Special to the Star Catherine Porter and her family have reached the half-point mark on their adventure in Dakar, Senegal. Here they are captured in Poponguine, 1.5 hours south of the city. By: Catherine Porter Columnist, Published on Fri Mar 07 2014 DAKAR, SENEGAL—My midlife crisis adventure is Senegal is at its halfway point. March marks six months since my little family landed, one late night, on the warm dusty tarmac of Leopold Sedar Senghor airport. My five-year-old son Noah spoke not one word of French, which terrified him. Our first day, while unpacking, he screamed at decibel 10 “I don’t speak French” and slammed the door of his new bedroom. A little boy had wandered in to say hello. Related: Celebrating Senegal’s biggest holiday, Tabaski, with a sacrifice Senegal red tape tests one’s patience Canada sees Senegal as partner in promoting regional stability Six months later, his teacher tells me he speaks French during English class and he brings Senegalese kids over to play. The latest, 3-year-old Pape, speaks neither English nor French. He speaks only Wolof. My daughter Lyla spoke some French, after two years of immersion in Toronto. What struck fear into her heart? Not making any friends in this distant, different place. Last week, we had 14 kids over to celebrate her 8th birthday. So, that’s worked out too. Kids adapt, as they say. I’d go further: Kids flower with adventure. Our first day in the city’s chaotic downtown market, sensitive Noah held his nose and begged me to leave. Now, I can’t budge him from the chicken vendor table. The way they yank off the chicken’s skin, like a wet suit, mesmerizes him. The vendors know him by name. Six months is the sweet spot, I figure. We’ve been here for enough time now to settle our nerves and scratch out a rhythm. But we haven’t been here long enough to grow blinders. We still shriek at the sight of long-horned cattle lumbering along the sandy roads and I still stop whatever I am doing to rush for the binoculars when a bird swoops by. (I saw my first Abyssinian Roller the other day. They are turquoise blue birds with long swallow tails. Marvellous.) Nor does a day go by that I don’t wonder at the kindness of people here. This is a city of 3 million, but the locals are small-town considerate. They say hello on the street. They lean over the metal railings at the airport to say, in English, “Welcome to Senegal,” not because they are selling you something but because they are happy. During our second month here, a strung-out man tried to mug me at 2.30 in the afternoon. I was walking to pick up my kids at school when I felt his hand on my shoulder. His eyes were wide. He raised his fist and demanded my bag. I screamed. Five cars stopped immediately. Their drivers leaped out and raced across the street to my rescue. So, rather than scaring me, my attempted mugging reassured me about Dakar. This is a place where people take care of one another, even strangers. I wonder: Would that have happened in Toronto? This place has teased out other lessons about home. In Senegal, friends often ask to borrow money. That’s considered part of being a friend. In Canada, we call that the sure way to ruin a friendship. Up until this trip, I thought that was a scientifically proven truth, like gravity. Now I realize it is a cultural moray. Any love affair, midstride, has its irritations. The Harmattan has blown fine Saharan sand into the city for two months now. It can get so thick, it blocks the sun like fog. It’s left me coughing for weeks now. And the next time a bored bureaucrat looks up from her game of Candy Crush and tells me to “patientez,” I might blow a gasket. All that kindness does not translate into customer service. But love needs some salt and these are small dashes. The longer I stay here, the more interesting this place becomes. I have a meeting with a Senegalese anthropologist next week. I’m hoping he will guide me through the gris gris (black magic) market, where dusty tables are piled with dried caiman corpses and groundhog bones. This adventure was sparked by 40th birthday — the half-way point of my life. Midlife is also the sweet spot. I know life is short now. I relish it. The next six months will be fantastic. Catherine Porter is a Star columnist who has gone on leave for a year to live in Dakar, Senegal. She writes about her adventures each week in the Life section. She can be reached at catherine_porter@rogers . You can follow her daily snapshots on Twitter @porterthereport.
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 22:38:35 +0000
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