The Paris Dakar race came to town - lots of men in lycra or khaki outfits, bikes and trucks revving their way through the streets. In the Cafe de Roma which is supposed to be a pretentious Dakar hangout, they had invaded. I asked the waitress why there were so many men there, forgetting. She reminded me and then suggested I sit with my back to them which is apparently a Wolof phrase translated, I thought it a good idea but it looked like I thought I was better than them with my dusty clothes and sandals. Which I did.
It's funny how this belief in being superior to others kicks in so easily in Africa...
I spend a lot of time in taxis and the street life passes by slowly. Flashes of gold jewellery, the indigo stained hands of a tailor sitting at his sewing machine, piles of pots and pans, wheel hubs for sale hung on walls, men selling ear buds and lights and cashew nuts to drivers in traffic jams.
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