My room smells funky. In fact, I’m pretty sure I smell funky. After having electricity for all of Korité (which was a big deal to have electricity for a whole day), we have not had any for the past two days. My bed is stained with sweat in the shape of my body. It sort of looks like a crime scene.
Since arriving here, I’ve wondered whether or not I could ever actually live here for an extended period of time. The answer is resoundingly no. While you may think it might be the lack of infrastructure and luxuries, imbalanced diet, incessant humid heat, decrepit transportation system, overwhelming amounts of pollution, segregation of the ex-pat community or the Muslim-dominated society, all those really are manageable and are more than made up for by the beauty of the country, culture and people. Rather, what I’ve realized over time is that no matter how long I live here, no matter how good my Wolof gets, no matter how well I learn to dance to Senegalese music, no matter how I dress, no matter how tan I get, I will always be treated as a stranger.
Would I ever really feel at home? I don’t think so.
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