I Was an Elephant Salesman: Adventures between Dakar, Paris, and Milan

Life in Senegal

I Was an Elephant Salesman 97 I see this man who’s sweet, and who has no desire to do us any harm, and I’m touched. When we get to Ancona the police officers greet us with “Moroccans again!” They call everyone Moroccans. “Moroccans again. Why do you insist on making us work for nothing? Anyway, these guys are never going to leave! We issue the deportation papers, but they just stay. We hand them some more deportation papers and they still stay. Do you want to get it in your head once and for all? You’re making us work for nothing.” A squabble breaks out between our driver and the police. But the interrogation process is not interrupted. They call us one by one. When it’s my turn, they check my passport and other papers, fill out the deportation papers, and ask if the name is correct on the form. “Perfect,” I confirm. It’s missing a vowel. All the better: if they enter it into a computer, they’ll never find it again. With my deportation papers in hand, I get back on the train and go to the carabinieri barracks in Senigallia. Surprise on the part of the carabinieri: “Still here.” “Now I have deportation papers.” “And don’t you know that you have twenty-four hours to disappear?” “Yes, I know, but you have my merchandise. You have to give it back to me.” With my big bag in tow I head back to Miramare. In Rimini I buy some more necklaces. The deportation papers disappear into a trash can. 98 Pap Khouma Dakar via Moscow Having been served my first-ever deportation papers, I am soon right back on the seesaw, swinging between good sales and quick getaways. It’s like playing hide-and-seek. If I want to get on a train at the Miramare di Rimini station, I don’t enter at the main entrance of the station. Instead, I climb the wall as soon as I see the train pull up. I make sure to spend as little time as possible at the station. I jump on the first car I see and I keep a close eye on who gets on: it could be a police officer, disguised behind the socks and T-shirts of any of the beachgoers who are always getting on and off the train. Our house is always under surveillance. To avoid undesirable meetings it’s best to leave at five in the morning and come back after midnight. But surprises can arrive at any moment, and so the illegal immigrant is always at the mercy of the carabinieri and police. And the minute you give up, a deep sadness always comes. “I’ve had it with all this. I can’t take it anymore,” one of us would say. “This is my last summer in Italy,” another would chime in. “This is no way to live. We’re not criminals. We just want to work.” “I’m going back.” “Me, too.” I Was an Elephant Salesman 99 The group makes the big decision: the Italian adventure must end. The idea of going back lifts our spirits. Our mantra is sell, sell, sell. That way we can buy the tickets and not go home empty-handed. Charl and I have a plan to continue the business in Senegal, where we’ll sell some nice shirts and shoes we bring back from Italy. I make some calculations . When I left Senegal, I spent almost a million lire for the plane ticket and had another million in my pocket. After a year in Italy, I have the same amount of money and I’m at my wit’s end from the exhaustion. I put a million and a half into the pot shared with Charl, my new business partner , to buy nice sweaters and shoes. The Aeroflot ticket costs me 540,000 lire. Our agreement is that I will leave with the merchandise and Charl will meet me in Dakar. The evening of September 10th I get on a train to Rome with six suitcases. I arrive the morning after and get myself a hotel room with two guys, one Arab and the other Italian . I rest for a few hours. Then I take a walk toward the Vatican. I feel like taking a few pictures. The next day I go to the airport...