Peter Forberg

I saw the stars from the plane, gliding over the quiet Atlantic Ocean in the dead of night. As we pulled into Lisbon, the streetlamps flickered into distinct specks of life scattered across the dark cityscape, mirroring their celestial counterparts and attempting to render Belinda Carlisle’s refrain true. Threading the needle between two heavens, my underwater ears interpreted the background murmur as the conversations of people on the ground, a city spoke into life.

There’s not much of interest from the first two legs of our journey (Boston & Lisbon), save an eavesdropped exchange between a father and daughter and a Portuguese orange juicer, both replicated here:

Toddler daughter: “Dad can we get my bag from the merry-go-round?” Dad: “No because it’s called a bag carousel but it’s very funny that you are calling it that.” Daughter: “I’m funny dad?” Dad: “Yes.” Daughter: “How did I do that?”

poorly drawn juice machine

The forecast for Dakar was 81 degrees with “widespread dust.” The dry air felt cooler, and what appeared to be distant fog was instead dust whipped up into the horizon, blocking out the sun. We were picked up at the airport, the eight of us that coincidentally ended upon the same flight, and driven to a hotel by a representative of the program.

Our motley crew had been slowly spun together as flights aligned and we reached new destinations, recognizing each other as members of the same program. Overheard conversations, college merch, and awkward eye contact from orientation meetings landed us in that van together.

In the trek from the rural airport to the city, a Martian landscape of blood orange soil unfolded, signs of life cropping up with towering baobab trees and little palms that punctuated the flat earth. Deer crossings were replaced with signs for monkey crossings and habitats. As we cruised down the wide barren road at an easy 120kmh, a collective whiplash turned our heads to the thud behind us. One of the bags which were, unbeknownst to us, simply placed on top of the van, had flown off the roof and skidded across the pavement where a cab driver pulled over to remove the hazard. With the addition of some rope, which we apparently had all along, we were up and running again.

The luggage was unharmed.

As we got closer to the urban center, signs of suburbs manifested in half complete cinderblock towns, often roofless or unpainted, and populated with construction workers overturning more of the red soil. Eventually, full towns took shape, and people wandered about on rooftops and played soccer in the fields of red dirt. Clotheslines were suspended across terraces, where entire living rooms might appear in the winter sun, couches left on the roof with no fear of rain. The dust was widespread.

Everyone seems to own the same large white van, with purposes varying to taxiing groups around the city to operating as a spectre of public transit, people hopping aboard when the opportunity arose or hanging from the side ladder when the space overflowed. Meanwhile, men stacked massive pallets of goods to the trunks of miniscule 2-wheeled carts pulled by solo horses. With trash overflowing beyond cinderblock walls, and fields of dust turning into apartment buildings, we realized that we were finally in Dakar.

The homes, mostly white plastered concrete buildings with colorful accent around archways and open terraces, reflected not only historical African styles, but also designs at home in the Arab world. Along the sidewalks, if you’re so inclined to call them sidewalks, dozens of people laid down prayer mats and knelt together. Taxi drivers pulled over for afternoon prayers. But just as quickly as we encountered a devout Muslim population, we were met with Christmas decorations and a large, lavish cathedral. Dakar is a place of sharing. People are offended if you do not share greetings. People are disturbed by the isolation of visibly armed civilians, who number very few. And people do not understand the separation of religious rituals and holidays. The world is shared by the people within it, so why practice any act of distancing?

The city looks older in part due to its mistreatment. Plaster falls off homes, vines overtake facades, and half-finished construction projects leave massive holes in the ground with accompanying mounds of dirt. But while people make benches out of giant, useless concrete slabs and empty fruit boxes, they plug in airpods and sport new clothes, an anachronism of wealth.

I’m too tired to read this over, but I’m sure you get the gist of the city. We’re staying in a hotel for the night, but Sunday we’ll make out way to our host families.