WAIST

Sitting beach side, drummers sounding off behind me, the wind blows the scent of seawater my way. There are children playing soccer up the shore, racing up their makeshift field parallel to the older men playing their own game, neither caring if their sidelines are erased by the rush of waves, their ball carried off in the surf. I’ve strolled up and down the coast all morning, watching the stray dogs dig in the sand and the fishermen pull in their nets, gathering up their catch. In between a few pages of a good book and enjoying a cold drink, I’ve tumbled around in the furious waves of the Atlantic and swallowed far too much salt water. But I’ll never complain. I am at the beach.

At the beach in Mali? No, that would paint a much different picture, sans ocean breezes and knee baring dresses. I am in Senegal, at a beach town called Tubab Dialau, about two hours out of the capital of Dakar. Staying at a small resort on the beach with about 12 other Peace Corps volunteers, all of us are enjoying a much deserved break from life in our villages.

We came to Dakar for WAIST, the West African International Softball Tournament, which is held each year over President’s Day weekend and draws a crowd of expatriates, volunteers from other countries, little leaguers and Senegalese. This year, Mali put three teams into the mix, calling ourselves the Dessert Kawboys. (Kaw sounds like cow and means ‘people of’ or ‘the people.’ We call ourselves San Kaw or Segou Kaw when talking about the people of San or Segou.) We had an A, B, and C team, respectively described as competitive and in it to win it; leisurely and up for a drink in between innings; and playing with a glove on one hand and a beverage in the other. I was placed on the competitive team to fill the female quota, although I hadn’t asked to be. The excuse was that I had played before and it was assumed that meant that I knew to run counterclockwise around the bases and wasn’t afraid of the ball. I played second base, switching innings with Gloria, while Sam and Ali killed it as catcher and right field respectively.

Over two days of games, we played 4 times. After a strong showing in the beginning of our first game, we went on to tie it and losing momentum, lost our second game to a team of Senegalese high schoolers with nick names like Snoop and Trick. Knowing that we’d have to pull it together on day two to advance to the finals, we came through with a win in the first game of the day. In a team decision, we decided to play our later game, the last of the day, to win. This meant interrupting our afternoon of debauchery for a rematch against the same Senegalese high school team. Although we found out that we would not advance even with a win, due to the tie we’d had the day before, we decided to give it a go. And it was a good thing we did. We played one of the best games all tournament, winning by a landslide 9-1. We had spectators from our other PC/Mali teams as well as PC teams from other countries all of them putting together a pretty exciting cheering section. Everyone was on their game, making some great plays and generally having a good time doing it. In the long run, a PC team from the Gambia won our division of the tournament.

Dakar itself is a busy city, with just about any ethnic restaurant you could think of, boasting the best ice cream in West Africa. We tested it out, and after some deliberation, we had to agree. Off the coast of Dakar are a few islands. One island was a part of the slave trade, with original historical buildings still standing, while others are more beachy. Unfortunately, I did not have the chance to see them, all the more reason to go back. I did get to hit up the beach off of Dakar near where we were staying, enjoyed playing in the pool at the American club our games were based out of, and had a few good runs on the sidewalk along the beach leading downtown.

Amazingly, I even ran into an old friend that I had bunked with at Camp Killoqua in middle school who is a volunteer in the Gambia. Seeing each other, we each did a double take. She looked the same as she had years ago, and as I was assured, so do I. It just reminds me what a small world we live in, and how much I am my father’s daughter as he’s always running into someone he knows from somewhere in the most random places.

Soon after, we were on our way to the beach, packed into a string of taxis. Over the next few days, more people arrived, and many of us extended our stay, all of us threatening to permanently relocate to Senegal. Over meals of freshly caught seafood we talk about where we will be this time next year and what we’ll do in the time between.

On a morning stroll, Jeremy, Josh, Billy and I come upon a team of fishermen pulling in a large rope. The boys stop to help while I play photographer and provide entertainment for the children, who eagerly return the favor. 45 minutes later, it becomes evident that the “boat” they are pulling in is in fact not a boat at all but a large net filled with jellyfish, sea eels, random debris like salidagas and flip-flops, and the occasional fish.

Most evenings we were treated to a show, the local dance studio practicing on the beach below our hotel, while each night was spent in a lounge chair, bundled up in sweatshirts or blankets to protect from the chilly ocean air, listening to the waves crash against the beach. Aside from the ridiculously long bus ride home, the whole trip was marvelous. Writing about it here in San, in 107` heat, I am wishing I was back on the beach.