Achievements

There are things you never thought you’d do because you didn’t know they were to be done.

Already, in less than a week, I have added several notches to my belt. Great and small as each task may be in the grand scheme of the world, I take inordinate pleasure every time I master a new skill or overcome what appears daunting to me at the outset.

I can hoist a ten-liter bottle of filtered water from the floor and pour it into a one-and-a-half-liter bottle’s opening without wasting a single drop.

I am fearless about lighting a burner with a cigarette lighter, even knowing that it will singe my thumb every time. And I unfailingly remember to turn off both the burner and the butane tank when the water has been boiled or the coffee has been made in the household’s single espresso maker.

I may now walk by myself to the corner boutique to buy baguettes, a sponge, a ten-liter bottle of water, a liter of milk. I can make pleasantries with the good Almami, the young proprietor, in slow French. Thank heavens I can trust him to keep me from walking away without my change when I hear 50 cents as 500 francs.

The really big deal was taking taxis by myself to and from the Clinique. It wasn’t always convenient to wait to travel with Coco or Gigi—and if I waited, I couldn’t talk to Lucy and Yves by myself. I tended to be entirely overshadowed when his parents showed up, so I’d leave around 8:30 by myself. I found that I had no problem engaging a taxi, though I had to learn to lean in the passenger window and not to address the driver from his side. I’d tell them where I wanted to go, and I really had no problem getting my price of 2,000 CFAs (West African francs) even if I had to haggle a little.

The day that the family was to come home, I set out early with some items Lucy wanted me to bring her—some clean clothes, the baby carrier—and engaged a cab with a young driver. He repeated the name of the clinic and immediately assented to my price: Great!

Driving through Oakam,  Lucy's neighborhood

After driving through the sandy, busy commercial streets of Oakam, drivers hit the Corniche, the four-lane seaside highway that takes us downtown. I was enjoying the view until my French was suddenly forced to improve. I had to understand the driver who was asking me, as we closed in on the towering city, what was the name of the clinic, and did I know where it was?

Neighborhood shops, Oakam

Oh dear. I’d seen things from the back seat a few times and I just dove in from memory. Fortunately, I got us off at the correct exit. Then I told him—hopefully, as I scanned for landmarks—that it was near all the government and UN buildings, which is also correct. But, alas, this describes an awful lot of downtown. Alas, too, I began to understand that this was my brave driver’s maiden voyage into the heart of Dakar, so my inspecific direction was no help at all.

As it turned out, I recognized most of the imposing white buildings arrayed gloriously around traffic circles centered on fountains and noble sculptures. But which direction to take of the five that presented themselves? All the elegant, tree-lined streets looked the same to me, so we made a fine tour of the ambassadorial and swanky quarter. We passed the Cathedral and I knew we were near, since Lucy, Yves and I had been in it. Same with various statues and a particularly comely apothecary shop.

But my driver was good enough to acknowledge his defeat, and twice stopped to ask for directions. We finally drove down a street at the end of which I recognized the stone wall decorated with carved anchors that sits across from the clinic. "A gauche!" "Turn left!" I cried as if I were a starving explorer.

And there we were. We were both as satisfied as if we'd found the Northwest Passage. I even tipped the driver 100 CFAs, though one never tips here.

Lucy, who is very firm about prices, reassured me that the tip was the right thing to do. You certainly don't do anything but slam the door on the driver who yells at you and acts as if it's all your fault.