Is Bilbo There?
December 29, 2005
This place is a trip. We are at our hotel in Toubab Dialao (too-bob juh-lauo). It is an artisans community. Our accommodations are quite unique. There are tile mosaics everywhere, along with spires, arches, and narrow, twisting, causeways. It’s like something out of Tolkien.
It would be a pretentious Tolkien though. Everyone here is, after all, an artisan. There are classes in dance and classes in batik and classes in drumming and classes in pottery. Had they given us a schedule or some suggestions on how to get into these classes when we arrived, it would have been great. Instead, we have to ask the artsy tourists that are here, most of whom are a little too cool for words. We are trying to blend, but we’re having some trouble.
There is a large group of American teachers here as part of a cultural exchange program. They are participating in workshops to help them understand the culture of Senegal through music. They are staying here for a week and then they are off to Dakar for a few days before going home. I’m not sure it’s a good immersion in the culture, but they feel that it is so I guess that’s all that matters. You can tell these folks right away as they don’t say bon jour or ca ba, they say hi and good morning.
We are tired, Zachary is sick. I have truly enjoyed this time off, but I am ready to be done and go home. Every native that approaches me raises my suspicions. It is impossible to get into a conversation with anyone as eventually they will try to sell me something and they never take no for an answer. It would be fun to sit and shoot the shit with a stranger and maybe make a new friend, but it is increasingly apparent that this is not to be. That sucks. I’m tired of warding off unwanted interlopers. I’m tired of negotiating the price of everything. I’m tired of living in hotels. It’s ironic that in a month or so I will be pining away for the next break.
MJR
This place is a trip. We are at our hotel in Toubab Dialao (too-bob juh-lauo). It is an artisans community. Our accommodations are quite unique. There are tile mosaics everywhere, along with spires, arches, and narrow, twisting, causeways. It’s like something out of Tolkien.
It would be a pretentious Tolkien though. Everyone here is, after all, an artisan. There are classes in dance and classes in batik and classes in drumming and classes in pottery. Had they given us a schedule or some suggestions on how to get into these classes when we arrived, it would have been great. Instead, we have to ask the artsy tourists that are here, most of whom are a little too cool for words. We are trying to blend, but we’re having some trouble.There is a large group of American teachers here as part of a cultural exchange program. They are participating in workshops to help them understand the culture of Senegal through music. They are staying here for a week and then they are off to Dakar for a few days before going home. I’m not sure it’s a good immersion in the culture, but they feel that it is so I guess that’s all that matters. You can tell these folks right away as they don’t say bon jour or ca ba, they say hi and good morning.
We are tired, Zachary is sick. I have truly enjoyed this time off, but I am ready to be done and go home. Every native that approaches me raises my suspicions. It is impossible to get into a conversation with anyone as eventually they will try to sell me something and they never take no for an answer. It would be fun to sit and shoot the shit with a stranger and maybe make a new friend, but it is increasingly apparent that this is not to be. That sucks. I’m tired of warding off unwanted interlopers. I’m tired of negotiating the price of everything. I’m tired of living in hotels. It’s ironic that in a month or so I will be pining away for the next break.
MJR
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 11:45 AM
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