Dorothy Hammer

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Stories by Dorothy Hammer: NO ROOM at the Inn
Next Stop Nigeria / Cheik Diop

NO ROOM AT THE INN BY DOROTHY HAMMER
"But, Madam, we do not have your room. Your plane arrived late and we gave your room to someone else. We will have a room for you tomorrow morning at 5:30 AM when the gentleman occupying it must catch his plane." This was one of the risks that had confronted me only a few other times in all my years in Africa. This time the Hotel de Parc in Dakar, Senegal, which was generally a good stop had let me down. It was 2:00 in the morning and I was beyond exhaustion. Mustering all of my wilting moxie and speaking with authority that I didn’t feel, I said, "Then get me a pillow and blanket and I will sleep on that couch in the lobby until my room is available." I must have been convincing or pathetic or both, for without another word he went to a supply closet and brought me what I had asked for, and in a moment I was asleep on the big ugly leather couch. It seemed only a few minutes later I felt someone walk over to the couch and lift the blanket I had pulled over my head. "Allo Dorothee," a Frenchman breathed into my face. "How are you?" "Bien. Now leave me alone, I need to sleep. Who are you?" "I am the hotel Docteur, and the concierge thought I had better take a look to see if you are all right." He was rather rugged looking -- a little drunk -- not an unusual condition for ex-pats living in exotic places. "I live here in Dakkar, I am, how you call, peditriste doctor." Babies or feet I wondered in my hazy half-sleep. He continued, "I have a lovely big room with two beds upstairs." "No thanks, I’m really OK here." Amused, he continued, "If you stay here you will set the town talking. Come up, I will give you a nice drink and a bath and you will sleep like a baby. and we will wake you when your room is ready in the morning. I don’t know what else to say," he said. "Well then say good night and let me go back to sleep again” I said covering my head with the blanket. I put my hand out from beneath the covers and said," realizing that he was being kind and I had been quite rude. As he left, "Such a woman I have never seen! " were his parting words. I must have fallen asleep for another hour or so when suddenly from behind the lobby door marked “Prive” groups of ornately dressed women of all shades from cafe au lait to dark brown, accompanied by tuxedo-clad Frenchmen emerged and gathered round my couch bed. "She must be crazy." "Maybe she is ill." "Maybe she is from the street?" But they were soon gone giggling at the spectacle I must have presented in my wrinkled safari suit. I continued my broken slumber until I heard water sloshing around the foot of my couch and I opened by eyes to see two handymen, barefoot, their trousers rolled to the knees with mops and buckets of water scrubbing the tile lobby floor, and busily chatting about me in their native dialect. Happily, I was informed shortly after 6:00 AM that my room was ready. I went up to shower and change and have another little nap. Then I went out to the garden to wait for the serving person to bring my breakfast. The exotic flowers were in full bloom. and the birds were merrily tweeting. Already forgetting my evening’s experience, I looked forward to whatever lay ahead. (This is me getting to work after a good night's sleep) the end

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Next Stop Nigeria

by Dorothy Hammer

When I was barely 9 or 10 years old, the bay called Kill von Kull, which was the front yard of our house in Bayonne, New Jersey, could be reached by a narrow path, down a steep embankment, at the end of the short street where we lived.This was my “secret place” where I had the luxury of being alone with my thoughts and dreams. I would sit for hours on a dry rock avoiding the oily sludge that lapped at my feet, awaiting my “catch of the day” in the guise of a ship from some foreign country that was drifting into the harbor.

This was my “secret place” where I had the luxury of being alone with my thoughts and dreams. I would sit for hours on a dry rock avoiding the oily sludge that lapped at my feet awaiting my “catch of the day” in the guise of a ship from some foreign country that was drifting into the harbor to leave its tanks of oil for processing at the big round Standard Oil containers that lined the harbor.

Only my small pig-tailed sister knew of my hiding place but never invaded it because of her fear of heights that has persisted until today. She would throw a pebble near me which brought my reverie to an end. "Mom’s looking for you and you better come NOW.”

Scrambling up the hill, I was full of certainty that I had identified Chinese or Indian sailors that day as well as those from the Congo -- which I later learned was a land-locked country and not likely to have a boat-load of sailors. Or a ship for that matter.

Dinner every Wednesday was my favorite --baby lamb chops, a baked potato, peas and carrots which I believed to be a single canned bi-colored vegetable until years later on leaving home, when I discovered the abundant variety of greenery that existed beyond my little hometown. How could I know that my passion for things foreign would introduce me to more unknown food, among other unknowns, in more exotic places than I had ever dreamed of!

That’s how I found myself one day, years later, aboard the now defunct Pan-American Airlines plane headed for Nigeria in West Africa to search out that which I had been paid to bring back to my corporate benefactors. My years in fashion were hardly preparation for trekking around Africa, about which I knew nothing, looking for new ideas to stimulate the lagging fashion business.

I grew up risk-oriented and anxious to expand my horizons. But considering my background of being raised in a small town by over-protective parents, I was totally unprepared for and instinctively afraid of everything that Africa represented -- bugs, disease, snakes, intense heat, dirty hotels, weird food and mysterious illnesses, every imagined discomfort or worse that might confront me. Happily my joy of discovery diffused my fears as I met young adventurous hippies and peace corps workers, artists all beginning to expand their horizons just as I was.The more out-of the way the resource, the more wonderful the experience and the sweeter and kinder the people -- always polite, and helpful despite the language barrier. A lone woman in khaki safaris, a novelty at that time, was evidently a great source of amusement and curiosity.

After a month of roaming through most countries of West Africa, I was returning to New York with box loads, that on following trips would become crates and then cargo containers on planes, full of textiles, beads. crafts. While I was not yet fully aware of their intrinsic value, I had fallen in love with African crafts and was eager to promote them. I was ahead of the curve in the new-found interest for ethnic fashion inspired by exotic origins.

It was my good fortune and an adventurous spirit left over from childhood to be in the right place at the right time.

The End

CHEIK DIOP

by Dorothy Hammer

Whenever I dream lately I find my reveries are about Africa. Recently, I thought of the time I got so sick I thought I was going to die -- no, I wanted to die. It was unusual for me to become ill, for in all my many trips I had been so careful with my diet. The cautions about salad and water were automatic for me. But then this is what happened…

There were two French men on the plane I was flying from Abidjan in the Ivory Coast to Ougadougou in what was then called Upper Volta and is now Burkina Faso. I noticed their annoyance at being seated separately on what was evidently a business trip, and I volunteered my seat so they could sit together. They were so pleased that sometime during the trip one of them offered me a beautiful Givenchy silk scarf which I keep to this day to remind me never again to talk to Frenchmen on airplanes.

By the time we departed the two hour plane ride, they’d invited me to dine with them at the hotel where we were all staying. In the airport I looked around for Cheik Diop, the dear man who was my dealer, but who’d become a real friend over the years. Generally he’d meet my flight, and we’d go through a familiar ritual -- he’d tie my bags onto his motorcycle, motion me to hop on and hold on to him as we whipped into town. During the ride I’d have to suppress the repeated desire to lick his beautiful muscular chocolate mousse of a back. But he wasn’t there waiting this time. I was disappointed until I suddenly realized that his wife was due to have a baby around this time, and Diop was surely at home helping out with his brood. I accepted a ride from the Frenchmen to the hotel.

After a nap and shower, I met the men at the pool at their suggestion, even though the temperature was about 100 degrees. They began by pouring me a glass of champagne. This was followed by the dinner they had thoughtfully ordered ahead, although I remember thinking when it arrived that shrimp was a strange selection in this land-locked country. The meal was followed by a beautiful salad which my new friends assured me was from a special garden maintained by the hotel. With this assurance, I abandoned my religious avoidance of the poisonous greens. A little later, with a delicious coffee and a good-night cognac under my belt, I excused myself, explaining I had an early morning appointment with my dealer.

I didn’t make it. Before the night was over, I was sitting on the cement floor of my bathroom, stark naked and sick like never before or since. The last thing I remember was clutching at the toilet bowl both for immediate and constant utilization and to cool my feverish brow. I was too weak and too out of it to seek help, so death would have been the most desirable and most merciful solution.

But I didn’t die. A few days must have elapsed when I felt myself being lifted off the floor and carried over to a bed. I knew I was being washed all over with cool water like a new baby, then tucked under the soft blankets.

When I finally woke, I was told it was Diop who had taken care of me. He had become concerned when I didn’t appear at our appointed meeting place as I had done for so many years. He’d forced the manager to open the door and they’d found me in my sorry condition.

When I recuperated a day or two later, I was invited to Diop’s home to see the new baby. Mme Diop took me to her ample bosom where I felt myself sinking into her warm body hidden by the folds of her gaily patterned bou-bou. “Pauvre petite!” she said, “poor little one, we will never let harm come to you here.” It was in Africa that I learned about humanity from this Muslim family, and until today, Africa is the source of my most cherished memories.

the end

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