The day began in the morning and I opted for 'le petit dejeuner' here at the quirky budget guesthouse which will have been home for three nights. The bread, butter and jam were yummy, but I'm not convinced as to what the accompanying tea was - it had an air of eucalyptus combined with a Glade plug-in about it, so I'm not too sure. But it was part of the necessary hydration in these climes, so I'm not complaining.
Prior to coming here, I purchased and printed a couple of relevant Lonely Planet chapters - unfortunately, I failed to tell the printer to 'print to size of page' or whatever the wording is, therefore the letters are so tiny that I can't really read what it says. Still, it proves to me that the letters which Specsavers will insist on sending me every five minutes about an eye-test I should have had five years ago, aren't entirely wasted. I think that's what they say anyway.
Beset with guilt about the passing of time, questioning my entirely self-indulgent voyage where I am travelling alone, to wander, to be, to think, to read, to write, to soak up a new place, then swiftly concluding that it was ok to be doing this, I set out to explore.
I walked along Yoff Beach, in the opposite direction to yesterday, passing plenty of people doing exercise. A lot of people seem to do this worldwide. I did exercise once and it didn't go well. I prefer to take a bus. But they all seemed quite happy, variously jogging, doing press-ups, kicking balls around and the like.
One man sat at the edge of the sea, the waves lapping over him - he appeared to be cradling something - on closer inspection I realised that it must have been his favourite goat. I watched for ages as he appeared to be almost baptising this beloved animal, variously brushing it, then untangling its matted fur, whilst at the same time constantly stroking it on the head as if to reassure it. I just hoped that this was a genuine display of affection for this goat, rather than an elaborate bathing ritual before the end of its goatly life. As per yesterday's blog, that goat may be about to become a statistic - 80% of meat eaten worldwide is goat, you know. Holy Goat.
I strolled along and soon fell into conversation with Alin who runs a little campement right on the beach. This consisted of a whole load of carefully crafted shade-creating structures under which one could sit and pass for the time. For a few hundred CFA, I spent a good few hours there, variously reading, writing, dozing and watching the world go by - a teenager staggered past with an enormous board with hundreds of pairs of sunglasses for sale perched on top - it was quite a spectacle.
The resident dog dozed under a nearby wooden structure, in a small hole he had dug in the sand. He periodically awoke, dug a bit more of a hole, then returned to slumber. He was perfectly contented. His name in Wolof translates as 'contented and happy' and I can see why.
I was just starting to feel hungry when Alin appeared, asking if I was hungry - I concurred. He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a vast plate of freshly caught grilled fish from the sea, beautifully adorned with potato chips, salad, plus some sort of accompanying divine onion concoction. Now, this is fish and chips - none of this deep-fried, battered malarkey - these two fishes - one large, one a mini-fish hadn't been long caught, and were now sating my hunger. Absolutely delicious.
I said farewell and wandered back along the beach - by now it was heaving with people enjoying their Saturday afternoon - there were thousands of people of every age soaking up the atmosphere - tiny children digging in the sand, women grilling fish of every description on their makeshift stands - I think I saw the twin of the larger fish I had eaten earlier, I'd certainly seen him some plaice before anyway.
After a siesta, I returned to the place I went to last night and was greeted like a long-lost friend. I chatted away, sipping Flag beer - there are certain things I only do when abroad, including drinking beer and drinking Coca Cola. I was delighted to be presented with a glass bottle of Coca Cola last night complete with lid for my collection - anyone who has been anywhere with me ever, will understand the significance of this - I have begged an angry bar-owner in El Salvador to re-open just so that I could have a Coke lid; I delighted in India when presented with one, after days of Pepsi. I have visited every bar in Cyprus in search of a Coke lid. Obtaining one in Senegal was effortless and that worked for me. Just in case you're not sure why I do this, they have the name of the country where they are bottled written on the rim, hence being exciting to collect, in my humble opinion. One day I'll get round to affixing them all to my scratch-map which continues to sit securely in its tube, cruelly untouched. One day.
I like the temperature here - it's not sunstroke-inducing Goldtastic-type heat, it's a comfortable 'chaleur' - one still needs a hat and I coat myself in factor 50 suncream every few hours, which makes me look a bit slimy, but rather that than sunstroke.
I like the curious ambiguity here as to who works where. The friend I made in the bar sat with me most of the time this evening, so I am wondering if he does actually work there, or if something was lost in translation. I was in Iceland in Eltham High Street the other Friday afternoon, in fact, I am in Eltham High Street most Friday afternoons, grabbing what is needed for Rainbows that evening (in line with the carefully procured term plan of course) - a lady asked me where the frozen sausage rolls were. I obliged, giving her specific directions. It was only afterwards when I was walking back to my tiny blue car that it occurred to me that she must have thought that I worked there, due to being in uniform, albeit Girlguiding member wear, rather than Iceland staff clothing. Hey ho - whatever works.
Prior to coming here, I purchased and printed a couple of relevant Lonely Planet chapters - unfortunately, I failed to tell the printer to 'print to size of page' or whatever the wording is, therefore the letters are so tiny that I can't really read what it says. Still, it proves to me that the letters which Specsavers will insist on sending me every five minutes about an eye-test I should have had five years ago, aren't entirely wasted. I think that's what they say anyway.
Beset with guilt about the passing of time, questioning my entirely self-indulgent voyage where I am travelling alone, to wander, to be, to think, to read, to write, to soak up a new place, then swiftly concluding that it was ok to be doing this, I set out to explore.
I walked along Yoff Beach, in the opposite direction to yesterday, passing plenty of people doing exercise. A lot of people seem to do this worldwide. I did exercise once and it didn't go well. I prefer to take a bus. But they all seemed quite happy, variously jogging, doing press-ups, kicking balls around and the like.
One man sat at the edge of the sea, the waves lapping over him - he appeared to be cradling something - on closer inspection I realised that it must have been his favourite goat. I watched for ages as he appeared to be almost baptising this beloved animal, variously brushing it, then untangling its matted fur, whilst at the same time constantly stroking it on the head as if to reassure it. I just hoped that this was a genuine display of affection for this goat, rather than an elaborate bathing ritual before the end of its goatly life. As per yesterday's blog, that goat may be about to become a statistic - 80% of meat eaten worldwide is goat, you know. Holy Goat.
I strolled along and soon fell into conversation with Alin who runs a little campement right on the beach. This consisted of a whole load of carefully crafted shade-creating structures under which one could sit and pass for the time. For a few hundred CFA, I spent a good few hours there, variously reading, writing, dozing and watching the world go by - a teenager staggered past with an enormous board with hundreds of pairs of sunglasses for sale perched on top - it was quite a spectacle.
The resident dog dozed under a nearby wooden structure, in a small hole he had dug in the sand. He periodically awoke, dug a bit more of a hole, then returned to slumber. He was perfectly contented. His name in Wolof translates as 'contented and happy' and I can see why.
I was just starting to feel hungry when Alin appeared, asking if I was hungry - I concurred. He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a vast plate of freshly caught grilled fish from the sea, beautifully adorned with potato chips, salad, plus some sort of accompanying divine onion concoction. Now, this is fish and chips - none of this deep-fried, battered malarkey - these two fishes - one large, one a mini-fish hadn't been long caught, and were now sating my hunger. Absolutely delicious.
I said farewell and wandered back along the beach - by now it was heaving with people enjoying their Saturday afternoon - there were thousands of people of every age soaking up the atmosphere - tiny children digging in the sand, women grilling fish of every description on their makeshift stands - I think I saw the twin of the larger fish I had eaten earlier, I'd certainly seen him some plaice before anyway.
After a siesta, I returned to the place I went to last night and was greeted like a long-lost friend. I chatted away, sipping Flag beer - there are certain things I only do when abroad, including drinking beer and drinking Coca Cola. I was delighted to be presented with a glass bottle of Coca Cola last night complete with lid for my collection - anyone who has been anywhere with me ever, will understand the significance of this - I have begged an angry bar-owner in El Salvador to re-open just so that I could have a Coke lid; I delighted in India when presented with one, after days of Pepsi. I have visited every bar in Cyprus in search of a Coke lid. Obtaining one in Senegal was effortless and that worked for me. Just in case you're not sure why I do this, they have the name of the country where they are bottled written on the rim, hence being exciting to collect, in my humble opinion. One day I'll get round to affixing them all to my scratch-map which continues to sit securely in its tube, cruelly untouched. One day.
I like the temperature here - it's not sunstroke-inducing Goldtastic-type heat, it's a comfortable 'chaleur' - one still needs a hat and I coat myself in factor 50 suncream every few hours, which makes me look a bit slimy, but rather that than sunstroke.
I like the curious ambiguity here as to who works where. The friend I made in the bar sat with me most of the time this evening, so I am wondering if he does actually work there, or if something was lost in translation. I was in Iceland in Eltham High Street the other Friday afternoon, in fact, I am in Eltham High Street most Friday afternoons, grabbing what is needed for Rainbows that evening (in line with the carefully procured term plan of course) - a lady asked me where the frozen sausage rolls were. I obliged, giving her specific directions. It was only afterwards when I was walking back to my tiny blue car that it occurred to me that she must have thought that I worked there, due to being in uniform, albeit Girlguiding member wear, rather than Iceland staff clothing. Hey ho - whatever works.
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