Joal

This place is gorgeous! Leopold Senghor's birthplace has turned out to be one of the most colourful, buzzing, laughter-imbibed places I've ever seen. It's teeming with crazy pictures on the walls, scribbled signs, indicating shops, giving practical telephone numbers or hygiene reminders. The little kids call 'Toubab' after tourists - which means 'white man' - as a sort of well-intentioned mockery.

Today I went back to the library I've been spending the last few days visiting and hanging around, to give the kids a present of a kite my sister Michelle gave me about a year ago. They all crowded around as I showed them how to use it, and laughed and jumped when it stayed in the air for about 10 seconds. I'm still surprised not to find custom-made kites here. There's so much wind, and it'd be the ideal toy for some of these kids. Anyway, they have one now.

Paul, the librarian of the Centre de Lecture et d'Animation Culturelle of the town, invited me to see his house last night. We got there late after dinner and a few beers in a local bar. His mother was already asleep, and woke up just to greet me. Their house was one bedroom with bare, stained white walls and a corner packed with pictures of Jesus and Mary. A sort of Catholic shrine. The guy has studied for years to be able to be librarian of this village, only to be worse off than the laziest of merchants who flogs stupid toys in the bus station. And to live with his mother. Damn