What not to expect...

Whilst still in Yene, there had been many willing to give us their opinion of Ziguinchor.  Some had visited the town before, others had only seen pictures on the television.  Both parties, however, knew precisely what we would meet on arrival.  We would experience much rain, encounter many mosquitoes and have problems with the local dialects, as Wolof is spoken by absolutely no one.  With these facts in mind, we were somewhat daunted at the prospect of spending a year in such a wet, foreign and insect infested place.

However, having now been in Ziguinchor for a little over two weeks, I can perhaps attempt to straighten out some of these facts.  As far as mosquitoes are concerned, they have not, as of yet, bothered us any more than usual.  Providing you own a mosquito net, a fan and some insect repellent, they generally tend to admire your forward planning and will only bite occasionally.

Our Wolof lessons, too, were not taken in vain.  Whilst the Casamance region does have a wide variety of ethnic groups with the predominant being ‘Diola’, Wolof is the lingua franca of Senegal.  Local dialects often differ so greatly that they cannot be understood by others of another ethnicity.  For this reason, Wolof serves as the common bond and is the language that is heard most frequently.  Both Lauren and I have been enjoying practising with local residents and were very proud of ourselves recently, when we managed to have a complete conversation without having to revert to French.

Admittedly, though, the south of Senegal does receive a lot more rain than in other parts of the country.  And when I say rain, I really do mean rain.  Heavy rain.  There is none of that drizzle which so frequently flurries about on UK wind currents and gets you a little damp.  It was this misunderstanding of the true definition of rain that Lauren and I had to learn the hard way…

Mid-afternoon.  Lunch had just been finished at our hosts’ house and it was time to return to our own place of residence.  At this precise moment, the first drops of rain began splashing onto the ground outside.  The brilliant blue sky that had been visible just seconds before was now overcast with a swarm of grey clouds.  Both hailing from rather wet parts of the UK, Lauren and I decided that a little rain would not stop us and that walking home shouldn’t be a problem.  We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Our host family armed us with umbrellas: a kind thought that at least added some colour to the bleak surroundings.  Unfortunately, they weren’t very effective as rain shields.  As we stepped out onto the road, the sound of thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance.  As we continued walking, flashes of lightning lit the sky.  Sheltering beneath such an obvious electrical conductor, I began wondering whether it would have been more helpful to just leave the umbrella behind.

In a very short space of time, every road was a river.  This is not a metaphor.  As we splashed our way along, tributaries bearing all sorts of litter and rotten vegetables joined the river’s load and, at one point, Lauren nearly lost a flip-flop as it got swept along in the current.  The bright yellow taxis, which are normally a frequent sight in every district of Ziguinchor, ceased to be a frequent sight.  Not a single car dared venture out into the elements.  The only people that we saw were those sheltering in doorways or under canopies.  We received many quizzical looks and I, too, began to question our motives for being out in such weather.

A journey that should take twenty minutes took just short of an hour as we half-walked, half-swam through the town.  It was an expedition that required a full set of waterproof clothing.  Choosing to wear a summery maxi dress that day might not have been my greatest idea.  The two bedraggled volunteers who arrived at their destination had certainly learnt which facts had an element of truth to them:

Perhaps the warning about the weather was one that we should have listened to more carefully…