April 16, 2005
I am in the beautiful, pastel, breezy old capitol (of all West Africa, in fact) of St. Louis. May as well be in Barcelona. Though St. Louis has this abandoned air about it. We are staying in the colorful Café des Arts, the cheapest auberge listed in my now filthy Lonely Planet. But it is clean and cozy and the bathroom has hot water! A little. But it’s the idea that counts. How I wish I could have seen this place in its hay day—the crumbling colonial structures speak of a bygone era. Granted, an unhappy one. Maybe. Would probably be good to brush up on the history of the place before wishing myself to a slave trade center. The European Quarter, the island, looks and smells and feels like Europe. Well, not really at all. Still all of the tiny cluttered boutiques. Mosques at every corner. Just one tangana. Last night we went to a Vietnamese restaurant….though the prices were too steep to actually stay and eat. But I was in awe of the splendor. Set tables. Cloth napkins. A polished bar. I think that there was even a fish tank. Ahh I keep on forgetting where I am. Except when we crossed the bridge into the fisherman’s village…where the desperation, poverty and chaos became painfully palpable again. Fish guts and flies everywhere. Little kids rolling in dirty sand. A tiny girl peeing on the sidewalk. Yet, the sidewalks were still in existence. And relatively clean. The laundry hanging from absolutely every fixed point. And then the fishermen’s graveyard. Lumps of sand marked by bits of driftwood inscribed with fading Islamic prayers. Goats munching on Allah knows what. Lots of goats. Don’t want to think about why. I want an apartment here. Admittedly, in the European quarter. A big balcony encircling the entire building just below the roof, an airy courtyard in the middle. I’d fix it up, bring in jazz musicians for small concerts (jazz is huge here). Am feeling very colonial. Have been reading too much Austen and Anna Karenina.
africa
