12/28/04
TUESDAY
DECEMBER 28, 2004
It was time to go! My plan originally was to wake up leisurely, have breakfast and head out to Farafenni and get a hotel room. That was it. A short four-hour trip that day and relax until the long ride the next morning. That was the original plan. It didn’t quite turn out like that. I woke up around eight and Kelly and I both got ready to leave. He was biking back to his site, just a few kilometers away, while I had to get a ghelli-ghelli to Farafenni.
I left around 8:30 in the morning from the Kharafi compound and after getting a ghelli-ghelli reached Farafenni at 11:30 in the morning. Usually I would either stay with Louis, except he was in America at the time doing Fellowship interviews, or at the old Kharafi compound; neither of which was an option now. I stopped at Eddies, a small but the only hotel they had in town. For the first time in my service they were booked! When I realized there wasn’t going to be any accommodation in Farafenni the next best thing to do was to go with the flow. The meant to head to the Senegalese border, and maybe stay in a random compound for the night and try to get the first car the next morning.
As I was walking down the main street, which goes north south away from the ferry terminal and therefore closer to the border, more and more people asked if I needed a ride. I knew the border was close, maybe a few kilometers, but I stopped to question one of the guys anyway.
“You going town trip?”
“I don’t need a town trip”
“No. No town. You going to town trip?”
I had no idea what he was saying and with nothing to lose I said, “Yes!”
He walked me over to the horse-cart and motioned for me to get on. It was then I realized he was going to drive me to the border. I was to be the only passenger, minus the driver who was sitting comfortably on a tire on top of the cart. We agreed on a relatively expensive price of D50, which he eagerly agreed to accept and I eagerly agreed not to bother with any bartering and just get going.
A few minutes into the trip we passed the old Kharafi compound that was on the edge of town. After we passed the compound he turned the horse to the right and went off-road and into the dirt roads and alleyways. I didn’t know what to think as the border-guards are on the main road, yet here we are almost going around them. Was he trying to evade the border patrol for some reason? Other horse carts were passing us going the other way, with as many as ten people on each cart with each one staring at me as I crossed their path as well. About 15 minutes into the trip we stopped at some random spot with some guy trying to tell me something. After a few minutes I realized he was asking for my passport, but instead of giving it to him I just said, “Yes, I have one”. All of this conversation was when I was still sitting in the cart. He shook his head and told the driver that we would have to turn around, go on the main road, and pass through the main border. We turned around and did just that. Had I known that was going to happen I wouldn’t have blown my chance to pass through one country to another on a horse cart while most likely getting my passport stamped while still on the cart! Alas, didn’t know.
At the main border, after getting off the cart and paying the owner his D50, I walked into the guard station. The guard took a look at me, and then looked down at my shoes. My Chaco’s were in bad condition now. For over a month they have been deteriorating in front of my eyes. At first the strap broke, so I stapled it. Then it broke more, so I safety pinned it, and then stapled it. That didn’t hold and then came the paper clips wrapped around like twist-ties. That fixed the strap problem for a while, until finally it snapped again and became unfixable. Not one to give up easily I found that if I strapped the over-strap under the cross-strap the tension would keep it on. That worked if it wasn’t for the sole that broke. My right sandal was technically in two parts now. Out came the duct tape. Half of my shoe was now this shiny gray color with strands of fabric straps hanging out the corners.
The guard looked up from my shoes.
“Peace Corps?” As if the question needed to be asked.
I smiled and nodded. He stamped my passport without saying another word. I thanked him and walked out to the car park.
By this time it’s around 12:30 in the afternoon. The attendants, and drivers, were saying that a car can still make it to Dakar and one would leave today. I wanted to get on, but one small problem was that I no cash. Well, more correctly I had enough cash just the wrong currency. This was solved by a fifteen-minute interlude of English, Wolof, calculators, hands-signals, and showing bills for different denominations to convince me of two things. I was doing the math wrong in my head AND on the calculator (Do I really have a math degree, I wondered?), and I wasn’t getting ripped off too much.
Before leaving for Christmas I had e-mailed Mary concerning the Senegalese currency. I had heard a rumor that they were switching currencies and worried that the day I was arriving into country, or the day Dave was, would be the new day of the new currency. What a way to not only get confused, but get ripped off. Her explanation helped ease the tension a bit:
--
currency: it is not a complete change over of currency, but all bills issued in 1992 are being recalled and will no longer be good after 30 Dec. So, when you arrive on the 29th, although I would hope that a legitimate money changer wouldn't try to shaft you by giving you soon to be worthless money, I would suggest you don't exchange too much right away. The only way to tell if the bills are from 1992 are by their color and pictures (no dates), so it can be complicated figuring it out.
--
Using her advice I checked the bills and they were the new currency. No one tried to shaft me, and all were honest to the degree that afforded them a comfortable profit. The bills were exchanged, the car paid for, my seat was guaranteed, and the waiting begun. All I wanted was a ñeebe sandwich, Wolof for bean sandwich but also universally understood throughout the country. None was to be found. They walked me over to this middle-aged woman, said some words to her, and motioned me to sit down. I sat down, with a hint of knowledge that I was going to get some food out of this deal. A few minutes later she served me a cup of coffee and half-a-sandwich. My bag was in the back seat of the car so I kept an eye on it while I ate my lunch. When I completed my meal I took out the smallest bill I had, a 1000 CFA note, to pay for my meal. This is equivalent to $2 or D60, a bit much for the meal but change would be given back. She shook her head and singled if I had any coins by jingling some coins in her hand and holding them in her palm while picking one out and showing me. I held out all the coins I had in my hand. I had no idea how much it was and don’t understand French. She took a few coins, made change, and gave me back a few smaller denomination coins. I still had no idea how much it cost, but I knew two things. It was less than 50 cents and even though she knew I had no idea of the price or language she was honest and gave me change.
By 1:30 a few more passengers arrived and with enough people to fill up the car we were on our way to Dakar! Five hours later we were slowly arriving, dropping people off in the outskirts of the city, when we got stuck in traffic. I didn’t mind much since there is no traffic jams in The Gambia. Well, there are traffic jams in The Gambia, but horses, donkeys, mules, and monkeys cause them. There was only three other people in the car. I made the best of it and bought some bananas from the street vendors outside who walked around carrying everything from bananas to bathroom scales that you can buy right through your window without ever having to leave the comforts of your car. It’s a good thing because so many people buy bathroom scales on impulse going home from work! I passed a banana out to each person and had the rest as my dinner.
A few minutes later we stopped to let out one of the passengers. He had to get something out the trunk. The driver got out to open it for him. As the driver got in I had a sudden urge to turn around and look for my bag. I did just that and sure enough, it was gone! Images of losing money, clothes, and passport raced through my head. Just as I was about to panic a person saying “Toubob” through the window caught my attention. He held up my bag and passed it through the window with an explanation, in English, “Sorry, I grabbed the wrong bag.” I knew by the tone of voice and the situation that he was telling the truth. Nevertheless, I kept my bag on my lap from then on.
After another half-hour or so it was just the driver and I left in the vehicle. He didn’t know where I wanted to go and I couldn’t quite explain it to him enough for him to understand. I tried looking at the map and saying “Cathedral” No. “American Embassy” Nope. “Pompidou” for the main street. Nope. Mary had given me her address, which worked wonders when trying to find it on a map, but was no help when trying to communicate it in two different languages I did not know. He drove on into the inner city to what I figured was most likely the car park. Sure enough, after we drove through neighborhoods of abandoned buildings we emerged into a huge cement slab called the Dakar / Banjul Car Park. He parked the car, got out, and signaled for me to follow. We walked around until he found someone that could speak English well enough to understand just the two words I decided to use as my point of destination: “American Embassy.” One person was found and introduced me to a new driver.
I waved the original driver goodbye and got into a new taxi to take me to the American Embassy. On the way there he went down Pompidou Avenue where I needed to go anyway and then turned down the street the American Embassy was on, which just so happened to be the street Mary lived on! Perfect. One block later I told him to stop as I was at her front door, without even trying. I paid the driver 1000 CFA for his help, got out, and asked the guard if Mary was in. By asking if she was in, it was more like the action of pointing to the house and saying “Mary?” with a stupid expression on my face. He shook his head yes and let me in. At the entrance he knocked on the door a few times before Mary opened the door.
A brief digression is in order here. The last time I stayed with her was in March, almost nine months back. In those nine months I had lost some more weight; in the last one month my shoes fell apart and were now held in place by duct tape; in the last week I hadn’t shaved; and in the last twenty four hours had not showered and got sprayed by the dust that blew past me while on the way up to Dakar. She didn’t recognize me!
I grinned, “Hi! Sorry, I’m a day early.”
A brief pause before some notion of recollection occurred. “Oh! Mike! Come in!”
At the entrance I took my bag down, which some dust blew in the air from the impact, took my sandals off and relaxed at the kitchen table while talking:
“Have you had anything to eat today?”
“Well, just a bean sandwich, cup of coffee, and four bananas.”
“Here, I might have something you can eat.” She went through her cupboards to find something that could be eaten very quickly without much preparation. Her outcome: “There’s a can of asparaguses here if you want it.”
Deal!
My meals for that day now were extended to a bowl of warm-up asparaguses.
After dinner I excused myself to the guest bedroom to take a shower and shave. In March she had a cleaning lady come in every day and if I had any clothes I just had to put them out bedroom door and they would be clean by the next day. I brought downstairs my jeans and shirt, now completely filled with dust and covered with a tint of brown and set them by the front door. I thought that was a safe bet that they would be obvious to the cleaning laundry to do them as laundry.
After dropping off my clothes I walked upstairs and we talked for a bit before I called it day and went to bed maybe only two hours after I had arrived. However, before going to bed I made sure to ask Mary a few questions.
“Mary, how do you say ‘American Embassy’ in French?”
“ambassade américaine”
“That’s probably why they didn’t understand when I told them to drop me at the ‘American Embassy’”
“That would do it”
“How about ‘Cathedral’?”
“cathédrale”
“They should have understood that! I was saying ‘Cathedral’ not ‘cathédrale’ but they’re similar. Oh, and also, no one recognized when I said Pompidou. Why?”
“You were looking at an English map?”
No further explanation was needed, but she continued, “Also, they just call it by it’s nickname, Ponty. Everybody knows Ponty. No one knows Pompidou. Same street.”
Those tips came in handy the following days!
She let me check my e-mail and I actually had one from Dave, the entire message consisted of “In chicago, good weather. En route to NYC.” I simply replied “In Dakar, waiting. Hot weather.” and went to bed.
DECEMBER 28, 2004
It was time to go! My plan originally was to wake up leisurely, have breakfast and head out to Farafenni and get a hotel room. That was it. A short four-hour trip that day and relax until the long ride the next morning. That was the original plan. It didn’t quite turn out like that. I woke up around eight and Kelly and I both got ready to leave. He was biking back to his site, just a few kilometers away, while I had to get a ghelli-ghelli to Farafenni.
I left around 8:30 in the morning from the Kharafi compound and after getting a ghelli-ghelli reached Farafenni at 11:30 in the morning. Usually I would either stay with Louis, except he was in America at the time doing Fellowship interviews, or at the old Kharafi compound; neither of which was an option now. I stopped at Eddies, a small but the only hotel they had in town. For the first time in my service they were booked! When I realized there wasn’t going to be any accommodation in Farafenni the next best thing to do was to go with the flow. The meant to head to the Senegalese border, and maybe stay in a random compound for the night and try to get the first car the next morning.
As I was walking down the main street, which goes north south away from the ferry terminal and therefore closer to the border, more and more people asked if I needed a ride. I knew the border was close, maybe a few kilometers, but I stopped to question one of the guys anyway.
“You going town trip?”
“I don’t need a town trip”
“No. No town. You going to town trip?”
I had no idea what he was saying and with nothing to lose I said, “Yes!”
He walked me over to the horse-cart and motioned for me to get on. It was then I realized he was going to drive me to the border. I was to be the only passenger, minus the driver who was sitting comfortably on a tire on top of the cart. We agreed on a relatively expensive price of D50, which he eagerly agreed to accept and I eagerly agreed not to bother with any bartering and just get going.
A few minutes into the trip we passed the old Kharafi compound that was on the edge of town. After we passed the compound he turned the horse to the right and went off-road and into the dirt roads and alleyways. I didn’t know what to think as the border-guards are on the main road, yet here we are almost going around them. Was he trying to evade the border patrol for some reason? Other horse carts were passing us going the other way, with as many as ten people on each cart with each one staring at me as I crossed their path as well. About 15 minutes into the trip we stopped at some random spot with some guy trying to tell me something. After a few minutes I realized he was asking for my passport, but instead of giving it to him I just said, “Yes, I have one”. All of this conversation was when I was still sitting in the cart. He shook his head and told the driver that we would have to turn around, go on the main road, and pass through the main border. We turned around and did just that. Had I known that was going to happen I wouldn’t have blown my chance to pass through one country to another on a horse cart while most likely getting my passport stamped while still on the cart! Alas, didn’t know.
At the main border, after getting off the cart and paying the owner his D50, I walked into the guard station. The guard took a look at me, and then looked down at my shoes. My Chaco’s were in bad condition now. For over a month they have been deteriorating in front of my eyes. At first the strap broke, so I stapled it. Then it broke more, so I safety pinned it, and then stapled it. That didn’t hold and then came the paper clips wrapped around like twist-ties. That fixed the strap problem for a while, until finally it snapped again and became unfixable. Not one to give up easily I found that if I strapped the over-strap under the cross-strap the tension would keep it on. That worked if it wasn’t for the sole that broke. My right sandal was technically in two parts now. Out came the duct tape. Half of my shoe was now this shiny gray color with strands of fabric straps hanging out the corners.
The guard looked up from my shoes.
“Peace Corps?” As if the question needed to be asked.
I smiled and nodded. He stamped my passport without saying another word. I thanked him and walked out to the car park.
By this time it’s around 12:30 in the afternoon. The attendants, and drivers, were saying that a car can still make it to Dakar and one would leave today. I wanted to get on, but one small problem was that I no cash. Well, more correctly I had enough cash just the wrong currency. This was solved by a fifteen-minute interlude of English, Wolof, calculators, hands-signals, and showing bills for different denominations to convince me of two things. I was doing the math wrong in my head AND on the calculator (Do I really have a math degree, I wondered?), and I wasn’t getting ripped off too much.
Before leaving for Christmas I had e-mailed Mary concerning the Senegalese currency. I had heard a rumor that they were switching currencies and worried that the day I was arriving into country, or the day Dave was, would be the new day of the new currency. What a way to not only get confused, but get ripped off. Her explanation helped ease the tension a bit:
--
currency: it is not a complete change over of currency, but all bills issued in 1992 are being recalled and will no longer be good after 30 Dec. So, when you arrive on the 29th, although I would hope that a legitimate money changer wouldn't try to shaft you by giving you soon to be worthless money, I would suggest you don't exchange too much right away. The only way to tell if the bills are from 1992 are by their color and pictures (no dates), so it can be complicated figuring it out.
--
Using her advice I checked the bills and they were the new currency. No one tried to shaft me, and all were honest to the degree that afforded them a comfortable profit. The bills were exchanged, the car paid for, my seat was guaranteed, and the waiting begun. All I wanted was a ñeebe sandwich, Wolof for bean sandwich but also universally understood throughout the country. None was to be found. They walked me over to this middle-aged woman, said some words to her, and motioned me to sit down. I sat down, with a hint of knowledge that I was going to get some food out of this deal. A few minutes later she served me a cup of coffee and half-a-sandwich. My bag was in the back seat of the car so I kept an eye on it while I ate my lunch. When I completed my meal I took out the smallest bill I had, a 1000 CFA note, to pay for my meal. This is equivalent to $2 or D60, a bit much for the meal but change would be given back. She shook her head and singled if I had any coins by jingling some coins in her hand and holding them in her palm while picking one out and showing me. I held out all the coins I had in my hand. I had no idea how much it was and don’t understand French. She took a few coins, made change, and gave me back a few smaller denomination coins. I still had no idea how much it cost, but I knew two things. It was less than 50 cents and even though she knew I had no idea of the price or language she was honest and gave me change.
By 1:30 a few more passengers arrived and with enough people to fill up the car we were on our way to Dakar! Five hours later we were slowly arriving, dropping people off in the outskirts of the city, when we got stuck in traffic. I didn’t mind much since there is no traffic jams in The Gambia. Well, there are traffic jams in The Gambia, but horses, donkeys, mules, and monkeys cause them. There was only three other people in the car. I made the best of it and bought some bananas from the street vendors outside who walked around carrying everything from bananas to bathroom scales that you can buy right through your window without ever having to leave the comforts of your car. It’s a good thing because so many people buy bathroom scales on impulse going home from work! I passed a banana out to each person and had the rest as my dinner.
A few minutes later we stopped to let out one of the passengers. He had to get something out the trunk. The driver got out to open it for him. As the driver got in I had a sudden urge to turn around and look for my bag. I did just that and sure enough, it was gone! Images of losing money, clothes, and passport raced through my head. Just as I was about to panic a person saying “Toubob” through the window caught my attention. He held up my bag and passed it through the window with an explanation, in English, “Sorry, I grabbed the wrong bag.” I knew by the tone of voice and the situation that he was telling the truth. Nevertheless, I kept my bag on my lap from then on.
After another half-hour or so it was just the driver and I left in the vehicle. He didn’t know where I wanted to go and I couldn’t quite explain it to him enough for him to understand. I tried looking at the map and saying “Cathedral” No. “American Embassy” Nope. “Pompidou” for the main street. Nope. Mary had given me her address, which worked wonders when trying to find it on a map, but was no help when trying to communicate it in two different languages I did not know. He drove on into the inner city to what I figured was most likely the car park. Sure enough, after we drove through neighborhoods of abandoned buildings we emerged into a huge cement slab called the Dakar / Banjul Car Park. He parked the car, got out, and signaled for me to follow. We walked around until he found someone that could speak English well enough to understand just the two words I decided to use as my point of destination: “American Embassy.” One person was found and introduced me to a new driver.
I waved the original driver goodbye and got into a new taxi to take me to the American Embassy. On the way there he went down Pompidou Avenue where I needed to go anyway and then turned down the street the American Embassy was on, which just so happened to be the street Mary lived on! Perfect. One block later I told him to stop as I was at her front door, without even trying. I paid the driver 1000 CFA for his help, got out, and asked the guard if Mary was in. By asking if she was in, it was more like the action of pointing to the house and saying “Mary?” with a stupid expression on my face. He shook his head yes and let me in. At the entrance he knocked on the door a few times before Mary opened the door.
A brief digression is in order here. The last time I stayed with her was in March, almost nine months back. In those nine months I had lost some more weight; in the last one month my shoes fell apart and were now held in place by duct tape; in the last week I hadn’t shaved; and in the last twenty four hours had not showered and got sprayed by the dust that blew past me while on the way up to Dakar. She didn’t recognize me!
I grinned, “Hi! Sorry, I’m a day early.”
A brief pause before some notion of recollection occurred. “Oh! Mike! Come in!”
At the entrance I took my bag down, which some dust blew in the air from the impact, took my sandals off and relaxed at the kitchen table while talking:
“Have you had anything to eat today?”
“Well, just a bean sandwich, cup of coffee, and four bananas.”
“Here, I might have something you can eat.” She went through her cupboards to find something that could be eaten very quickly without much preparation. Her outcome: “There’s a can of asparaguses here if you want it.”
Deal!
My meals for that day now were extended to a bowl of warm-up asparaguses.
After dinner I excused myself to the guest bedroom to take a shower and shave. In March she had a cleaning lady come in every day and if I had any clothes I just had to put them out bedroom door and they would be clean by the next day. I brought downstairs my jeans and shirt, now completely filled with dust and covered with a tint of brown and set them by the front door. I thought that was a safe bet that they would be obvious to the cleaning laundry to do them as laundry.
After dropping off my clothes I walked upstairs and we talked for a bit before I called it day and went to bed maybe only two hours after I had arrived. However, before going to bed I made sure to ask Mary a few questions.
“Mary, how do you say ‘American Embassy’ in French?”
“ambassade américaine”
“That’s probably why they didn’t understand when I told them to drop me at the ‘American Embassy’”
“That would do it”
“How about ‘Cathedral’?”
“cathédrale”
“They should have understood that! I was saying ‘Cathedral’ not ‘cathédrale’ but they’re similar. Oh, and also, no one recognized when I said Pompidou. Why?”
“You were looking at an English map?”
No further explanation was needed, but she continued, “Also, they just call it by it’s nickname, Ponty. Everybody knows Ponty. No one knows Pompidou. Same street.”
Those tips came in handy the following days!
She let me check my e-mail and I actually had one from Dave, the entire message consisted of “In chicago, good weather. En route to NYC.” I simply replied “In Dakar, waiting. Hot weather.” and went to bed.
posted by Mike | 5:30 PM
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