Podor

As part of my project, I head to Podor to learn more about the availability of palliative care there. Lonely Planet advises people to spend the extra money for a "sept place" when travelling across the country. From the way they wrote about it, I was under the impression that sept places were the luxurious way of traveling--they take only 7 passengers, and are much faster and more comfortable than the rickety buses. Some of the buses, painted with bright colors, are called "rolling coffins" because they cause so many accidents. In reality, the buses are a super shitty way to travel, while the sept place is just a shitty way to travel. First of all, they are station wagons. They should only have 6 passengers because the back seat only has space for 2, but they cram 3 people in that space. There is no air conditioning, and as we drive through the arid heat of the Podor area, I feel like I'm in a microwave. Outside my window the grass is bleached white blond by the sun, and the "wind" that comes in through the window--open only at the front of the car--feels like it's coming from a hair dryer. As the car jumps and rumbles over the cracked road, swerving through pot holes, dust and sand billow in and cover me and my belongings in a coat of beige powder. I got stuck with the middle seat, so I have it coming at me from both directions, wedged between two fairly unhappy Senegalese people. We spend the entire ride with our thighs pressed against each others'. The seat comes up a bit, so that half of my butt is jammed on top of uncushioned metal, while the other half sinks into foam. There is a baby on the lap of the girl next to me. She's cute, but also spends a lot of the journey kicking me and grabbing my arms and face with her drool covered hands. Strangely, I'm actually in a good mood, and I offer to take care of the baby while the mother eats. The mother is a senior in high school, very kind, and one of the few people in the rural area that speaks French. I'm standing on the road side by a food stand in a small desert pit stop, with a baby that is obviously not mine balanced on my hip, while people try to sell me stuff in Poular; the passerbys stare at me with their mouths open because I look so out of place. When I see cute babies, I sometimes feel like I want one--NOW. But after holding this girl for 10 minutes, I begin to realize that she's a lot heavier than she looks--and it's neither the right time nor place, and probably won't be for some time. "Touba!" people yell. That means foreigner. "Come get your Touba," someone says when the driver comes back. By the time I arrive at the Auberge I'm exhausted. I cannot imagine how sick people, especially those in advanced stages of cancer, could withstand that journey--and many cannot afford a sept place and have to take the bus. I had left Dakar at 4 am, and arrived at Podor at 2 pm. After a quick visit to the local health center, I go back home and pass out.