Or so I say to the guard on the beach who I just asked for water, after being chided with a pitying ‘T’es fatigué?’
Truth is, I am exhausted. But, sometimes all you can do is put on some James Brown and go for a run. Even if it is the middle of the day.
I guess I do this because I don’t like waiting around for lunch, which isn't served until about 2:30 or 3 most days, I'm not one for exercising first thing in the morning, and when evening rolls around I like to study, read, research, write.
Which brings me here, in the middle of the day, stopping to ask a guard at a beachside resort north of M’bour, for a cup of water. I was running right along the coast, with resorts to my right, and bleached sand beaches full of tourists on the other.
‘T’es militaire?’ He asks me.
I probably do look pretty pissed. Le soleil tâpe fort, and I must betray a tinge of suffering.
Well, how to put this…‘Non, en fait c’est l’enverse,’ I must make a clear distinction. ‘Je travaille pour le Corps de la Paix.’
A blank stare. He’s never heard of this organization, and repeats the name tentatively and with little enunciation.
"Corpsdelapaix??"
‘C’est une organisation bénévole qui tente de augmenter les capacités des Sénégalais.’ I offer. ‘Je vais travailler avec les paysans ruraux.’
A relatively blank stare. His French is not, ‘full.’
The palms along the beach create an ambiance that some people pay a lot of money for. Dozens of leathery, over-fared and overweight French and Spanish tourists lay sprawled on the beach, becoming ever more leathery and overweight. They are literally all old, I think, as I crouch on the the cracked sidewalk that divides manicured, well watered hotel lawns from the rows of reclining chairs crowding the beach, talking to the guards. The guard hut is the size of a telephone booth, painted with the Senegalese flag. They have some burning coals and a small kettle on the sidewalk just outside the hut, the necessary implements for making attaya, sweet Senegalese tea, and the plastic wrappers are flying everywhere.
These tourists never seem happy. I ponder, and you have to sit around and watch them. All day. All I can handle is dodging them as I run down the beach.
‘Je travaille avec les Senegalese pour améliorer les récoltes.’ I say taking a different route, emphasizing every syllable. ”Les récoltes de legumes, et grains.”
And he's got it. “Je comprends! Tu travaille avec l’agriculture.” He chuckles and smiles as I stand up to continue my jaunt down the promenade.
‘Corps de la Paix.’ He says, with more the proper emphasis this time. ‘C’est bon. T’es bon,’ he says.
I put my earbuds back in, and all I can do is smile, say merci and continue.
He probably doesn’t realize what that means to me.
No problem, I think, while I re-enter my stride down the concrete path. Sorry you have to baby-sit your former colonial rulers. Many of these old bastards probably worked in the colonial administration, and now they’ve returned to grow old on your beach. I’ll spend my life working to end this.
Truth is, I am exhausted. But, sometimes all you can do is put on some James Brown and go for a run. Even if it is the middle of the day.
I guess I do this because I don’t like waiting around for lunch, which isn't served until about 2:30 or 3 most days, I'm not one for exercising first thing in the morning, and when evening rolls around I like to study, read, research, write.
Which brings me here, in the middle of the day, stopping to ask a guard at a beachside resort north of M’bour, for a cup of water. I was running right along the coast, with resorts to my right, and bleached sand beaches full of tourists on the other.
‘T’es militaire?’ He asks me.
I probably do look pretty pissed. Le soleil tâpe fort, and I must betray a tinge of suffering.
Well, how to put this…‘Non, en fait c’est l’enverse,’ I must make a clear distinction. ‘Je travaille pour le Corps de la Paix.’
A blank stare. He’s never heard of this organization, and repeats the name tentatively and with little enunciation.
"Corpsdelapaix??"
‘C’est une organisation bénévole qui tente de augmenter les capacités des Sénégalais.’ I offer. ‘Je vais travailler avec les paysans ruraux.’
A relatively blank stare. His French is not, ‘full.’
The palms along the beach create an ambiance that some people pay a lot of money for. Dozens of leathery, over-fared and overweight French and Spanish tourists lay sprawled on the beach, becoming ever more leathery and overweight. They are literally all old, I think, as I crouch on the the cracked sidewalk that divides manicured, well watered hotel lawns from the rows of reclining chairs crowding the beach, talking to the guards. The guard hut is the size of a telephone booth, painted with the Senegalese flag. They have some burning coals and a small kettle on the sidewalk just outside the hut, the necessary implements for making attaya, sweet Senegalese tea, and the plastic wrappers are flying everywhere.
These tourists never seem happy. I ponder, and you have to sit around and watch them. All day. All I can handle is dodging them as I run down the beach.
‘Je travaille avec les Senegalese pour améliorer les récoltes.’ I say taking a different route, emphasizing every syllable. ”Les récoltes de legumes, et grains.”
And he's got it. “Je comprends! Tu travaille avec l’agriculture.” He chuckles and smiles as I stand up to continue my jaunt down the promenade.
‘Corps de la Paix.’ He says, with more the proper emphasis this time. ‘C’est bon. T’es bon,’ he says.
I put my earbuds back in, and all I can do is smile, say merci and continue.
He probably doesn’t realize what that means to me.
No problem, I think, while I re-enter my stride down the concrete path. Sorry you have to baby-sit your former colonial rulers. Many of these old bastards probably worked in the colonial administration, and now they’ve returned to grow old on your beach. I’ll spend my life working to end this.
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