Moving house is a ball-ache in the UK, but here in Dakar it involves the co-ordination of landlords, carpenters, electricians, the power company, plumbers, and a bunch of cretins with a van and a passion for scratching, denting, and otherwise mutilating furniture.
As far as I was concerned my only possessions comprised:
It seems that living in Dakar I'm now (part) owner of an assortment of heavy handmade furniture, an awkwardly shaped sofa, and enough plastic buckets to fill an olympic swimming pool. There is also an oven, otherwise known as "the fucking oven", and a pre-WWII fridge freezer which has been "customised" by local fridge repairman Malik "Frigo".
Anyway, its done now, sort of. There are still a few things that need fixing, but whatever, manyana.
During the move (which lasted 40 days and 40 nights, or thereabouts), we were forced to eat various things excavated from the bowels of the freezer, or visit our new local bakery, Les Ambassades. We faced some serious moral dilemmas, such as how to dispose of 18 months worth of accumulated wine bottles when you live opposite the mosque in a dry quartier... Oh, and I have become addicted to Orangina.
Unfortunately the oven survived the move.
We're a bit nearer to things now anyway. Nearer to restaurants at least. Although the Sabura (Guinean and Portuguese grub, and a nice bar with music) over the road has chosen this week to close and start renovating. We're within staggering distance of a nice Thai, a supposedly miserable Korean place, two bakery/diners, and a couple of unexplored venues. There is a bit of overpriced fastfood at Colonel Gaddafi's petrol station as well, but I'm intimidated by all the Lebanese kids in fake Gucci sunglasses and too much gold, who hang around there pouting and looking like proper bell-ends.
A fond farewell to our previous regular haunts; Hong Kong 2 (Vietnamese Cuisine of course, never did find Hong Kong 1 though), where we will miss the miserable elderly proprietor, and the prawns in ginger. Also Sao Brazil (which I'm sure we'll visit again, just not with such frequency), which has my two favourite waiters in Dakar, one about seven feet tall, young and cheerful, the other about 5'6", older, and very serious looking. I had a quartre saisons there on Friday night for old time's sake.
New haunt seems to be the aforementioned Les Ambassades, where one can find Orangina in both bottles and cans, and they do a half decent croque-madame for 1400 CFA. Bargainous.
A disastrous chicken dinner on Sunday which even the use of the new meat thermometer couldn't save, what with all the juices burning and making a mess of the pyrex. A side of roasted butternut squash cubes was soggy and forlorn.
I wish I'd taken a photograph of the squash though, as it was the size of two footballs, and enough to make industrial quantities of soup (a variation on the Pumpkin and Red pepper soup from jiffler November 2006), for eating and freezing for later. The soup is more of a success than the chicken at least, and crispy fried slices of a chorizo I picked up Lisbon float temptingly on the terracotta surface.
As far as I was concerned my only possessions comprised:
- 1 Swiss Watch
- 1 Red wine coloured Gibson Les Paul guitar
- A large box of CDs
- Assorted quality kitchen utensils (pride of which being a beautiful bright red retro-style enameled colander).
- 2 Laptops (thats a business thing though, so doesn't count)
It seems that living in Dakar I'm now (part) owner of an assortment of heavy handmade furniture, an awkwardly shaped sofa, and enough plastic buckets to fill an olympic swimming pool. There is also an oven, otherwise known as "the fucking oven", and a pre-WWII fridge freezer which has been "customised" by local fridge repairman Malik "Frigo".
Anyway, its done now, sort of. There are still a few things that need fixing, but whatever, manyana.
During the move (which lasted 40 days and 40 nights, or thereabouts), we were forced to eat various things excavated from the bowels of the freezer, or visit our new local bakery, Les Ambassades. We faced some serious moral dilemmas, such as how to dispose of 18 months worth of accumulated wine bottles when you live opposite the mosque in a dry quartier... Oh, and I have become addicted to Orangina.
Unfortunately the oven survived the move.
We're a bit nearer to things now anyway. Nearer to restaurants at least. Although the Sabura (Guinean and Portuguese grub, and a nice bar with music) over the road has chosen this week to close and start renovating. We're within staggering distance of a nice Thai, a supposedly miserable Korean place, two bakery/diners, and a couple of unexplored venues. There is a bit of overpriced fastfood at Colonel Gaddafi's petrol station as well, but I'm intimidated by all the Lebanese kids in fake Gucci sunglasses and too much gold, who hang around there pouting and looking like proper bell-ends.
A fond farewell to our previous regular haunts; Hong Kong 2 (Vietnamese Cuisine of course, never did find Hong Kong 1 though), where we will miss the miserable elderly proprietor, and the prawns in ginger. Also Sao Brazil (which I'm sure we'll visit again, just not with such frequency), which has my two favourite waiters in Dakar, one about seven feet tall, young and cheerful, the other about 5'6", older, and very serious looking. I had a quartre saisons there on Friday night for old time's sake.
New haunt seems to be the aforementioned Les Ambassades, where one can find Orangina in both bottles and cans, and they do a half decent croque-madame for 1400 CFA. Bargainous.
A disastrous chicken dinner on Sunday which even the use of the new meat thermometer couldn't save, what with all the juices burning and making a mess of the pyrex. A side of roasted butternut squash cubes was soggy and forlorn.
I wish I'd taken a photograph of the squash though, as it was the size of two footballs, and enough to make industrial quantities of soup (a variation on the Pumpkin and Red pepper soup from jiffler November 2006), for eating and freezing for later. The soup is more of a success than the chicken at least, and crispy fried slices of a chorizo I picked up Lisbon float temptingly on the terracotta surface.
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