1/2/05
SUNDAY
JANUARY 2, 2005
The alarm woke us up at the grand early time of 5:30 in the morning. I just put on yesterday’s clothes and my travel hat and was ready to go. Dave was going to take a shower.
“Don’t even bother.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. Trust me. Just wear the clothes you wore yesterday.”
By six o’clock we were out of the door. Before we went any farther Dave wanted to know if it was possible to get a bottle of wine in The Gambia or we should get it here before we left. The bottle was for Rebecca as her birthday was a few weeks away on Groundhog’s Dog. I assured him that despite The Gambia being a third world country there was nothing to worry about, as wine is plentiful. Palm wine and boxed wine are the regular versions for upcountry, but actual bottles of wine are available in Kombo.
Not wanting to leave any old shoes lying around Mary’s house, I picked up the old shoes on the way out the door and just dropped them off at a random tree outside. Someone would either pick them up and use them, or they would be discarded. Either way, they weren’t going to be used by me anymore. From right outside Mary’s compound we were able to catch a taxi to the Banjul car-park. I told him “Banjul” even though we were going to Farafenni. Both places depart from the same park, just opposite ends. I figured he’d just drop us off and we’d walk to the other end of the car park. When he pulled into the car park I told him we were actually going to Farafenni. Apparently, we had already passed the Farafenni cars and he was heading to the Banjul cars thinking we wanted to go to Banjul. He gave a little sigh of annoyance before turning the car around and going passed the Banjul cars again to make a complete circle of the car park to reach the Farafenni cars. I gave him a little extra for his patience.
At every car park throughout the country, and probably the continent, there are people who are not affiliated with any car or driver. They simply help whoever is new in town get into the right car. You don’t pay them, except if it’s crowded and they actually get on the car themselves to save your seat for you. Otherwise the driver of the car pays the person a few coins for getting him an extra passenger. Usually in Banjul and The Gambia it’s just one dalasi. In Senegal the person who helped us got a few small coins from the driver, maybe a net worth of five to ten cents.
The car they told us to get in was headed to Casamance, on the southern side of Senegal. In order to get there you first have to drive straight through The Gambia in the middle of the country, which entailed riding through Farafenni. We got in. I was right behind the driver and Dave was sitting next to me. There was one other person in that row besides us two, and then three more rows of people behind us. In the front seat were two other tourists who were roughing it like we were. The husband and wife team shared the front seat. They spoke little English and we spoke little French. We had limited conversation. They seemed to know what they were doing, or more specifically what they were getting themselves into, and didn’t display any lack of confidence that usually occurs to tourists who try public transportation. The first time I tried it I got lost in the car park, was worried about my bag being stolen, didn’t want to pay for them to have my bag on top, and hated sharing my seat with four other people. Now it’s an everyday occurrence as I throw my bag, pay the few dalasi extra, get in and just wait to get out of the car park.
Three or fours hours into the trip we stopped at the town of Koalack. My first experience at Koalack was coming back from WAIST last year and it was a huge ordeal concerning switching cars and payment, a big headache. I knew what to expect now. Koalack is one of Senegal’s regional capitals and is quite full of people. It is, in fact, the 5th largest city in Senegal; after Dakar, Touba, Thies, and Rufisque. It has a population of over 173,000 people, slightly less than Grand Rapids, MI. You would never have guessed that, population wise, this was comparable to Grand Rapids, while looking through the windows of the ghelli-ghelli coming into town. Most secondary roads were dirt, there wasn’t a single building taller than four stories, and trash was spread across both sides of the road. Compare this to Dakar, with a population of 2 million, which is between Houston and Philadelphia.
It was here, in Koalack, that we stopped for lunch. I wanted to show Dave some of local foods that volunteers and locals usually get while traveling. These consisted of panketos, which is basically just fried dough, and wonjo juice, which is similar to Kool-Aid. The panketos come in a small bag, usually five to a bag, while the juice also comes in a bag and you’re suppose to drink it by tearing off the corner carefully with your teeth and just drink it from the bag itself. He wasn’t too thrilled with the idea or wasn’t hungry, but either way I had both to myself.
Another three to four hours later we arrived at the border to The Gambia. The driver thought everyone in his car was going to Casamance. This assumption made us not stop at the border to get our passport stamped, as you don’t need too if you are traveling straight through The Gambia without stopping. The border guards knew this too and waved us through. There was a slight problem; we needed to get out in The Gambia! Through waving of passports, motioning to the ground and speaking in Wolof “I am going to The Gambia” we just caused the driver a little headache. Now, because someone in his car was getting out in The Gambia, and not traveling straight through, everyone had to get their passports stamped. That meant everyone had to get out of the car and go through customs. We got our passports exit stamped from Senegal and got back in the ghelli-ghelli to cross the border.
Five minutes later, as we’re driving down the main street going into Farafenni we told him this was where we wanted to get off. That surprised him a little, as he maybe thought we didn’t know where we wanted to go; but I knew exactly where we were, where we needed to go, and how to get there. Us stopping at Farafenni and getting out of the vehicle was both sufficient and necessary. It was sufficient, for getting some lunch, and necessary, for getting a car for the next leg of the trip.
The aparante climbed on top of the ghelli-ghelli in search of our bags. That ordeal lasted a few minutes, as it was mostly a trial and error process. He passed the bags down and, after both of us had received our bags, and were about to walk away, the driver signaled to us that we had to go to the police station a few feet away to get our passports stamped. That was new to me as well, as I never came into The Gambia this way before and didn’t know the routine. I’ve left The Gambia from Farafenni only once (just a few days prior), but only arrived back into country from either Banjul or Basse. At the police station the guards took our passports and told us to wait outside. The other guards that were outside were having their attaya break and offered me a glass, which I accepted. Dave didn’t want any. We could see an arm waving in the air holding two American passports a few minutes later, as the guard yelled through the window at us. We took our passports, thanked the officers, and continued down the main road.
Imagine having a city with population over 30,000 with only one paved road. That would be Farafenni. In fact, there are two main roads in Farafenni. The paved one, going North-South, goes from the Senegalese border to the edge of the River Gambia. Upon crossing you could continue to the southern part of The Gambia and cross over to Casamance or Ziguinchor in Southern Senegal. This was the final destination of our ghelli-ghelli. The other main road, unpaved, but smooth dirt, went from West to East. You could travel to Farafenni on this road from Banjul and continue on to Georgetown, on the eastern side of The Gambia. This was where we needed to go.
Both of needed to use the restroom by this point. A few blocks away was the hotel called Eddy’s, which just a few days before was packed full and hence caused me to start my trip a day early. Besides that time, the last time I was there was a few months ago for a Scholarship Meeting in which we met in the open-air space that acted as their restaurant. As I walked with Dave into the open-air space that I remembered I could have sworn that this one particular room was a public bathroom, and the door was open, so I walked in. It was someone’s room. I quickly apologized and walked out backwards. Memory failed me. One of the employees there asked what we wanted.
They don’t understand the term “bathroom” so you feel like a complete idiot asking for a “toilet” but that’s what they understand. He walked us over to the other side of the open-air area and opened a door for us. The door was originally locked. With the thought of it being a private bathroom I was surprised to learn it was an empty room that he opened just for us to use the toilet. That was considerably nice of him, as he could have showed us to the public latrine out back instead.
Eddy’s bar and restaurant is both on and off the main road. Although the road goes east west, the definition of Eddy’s bar and restaurant being on it depends on your direction of travel. The east-west main road has a break in it. You have to travel down the paved north-south road two blocks to make the connection. If you are traveling from Banjul, although being parallel to your road, Eddy’s is not on it. If you are coming from Georgetown Eddy’s is on your road. To continue on to Banjul, however, you’ll have to backtrack to the north-south road and connect to the east-west road two blocks further north. Since we were heading towards Georgetown we were on the right road and just had to go straight to get a car. The road going north-south actually has a name, which is rare for rural roads. It’s called the “Trans-Gambia Highway”, but don’t think of a highway of any sort. To American standards the Senegalese part would be a normal two-lane road and the part going through The Gambia would be considered a hazard area. The road has fallen apart on both ends, creating a foot drop, and potholes scattered throughout make it a danger to be on, especially at night. Having described that, that is now the best road in this town.
It was lunchtime and we had yet to eat. Most of the volunteers live off the street food, which I was then showing to Dave. Basically you decide what you would like and ask the women which one of them has it. If neither them nor their closest friends, distance wise, had it they would direct you to their closest friends, relationship wise, who did; despite the possibility of being across town. Your choices mainly consisted of bread with some combination of sauce. I was in the mood for a ñeebe sandwich and brought Dave along. This was his first experience to Gambian street food and we had not yet exchanged any money. I had enough dalasi to cover both of us until we reached Banjul. I told him not to worry about it until then.
We ordered our sandwiches and watched as the lady made our sandwich as we literally stood at the edge of the road. She pulled the bread out of a bag, cut it in half, pulled the lid off the beans, and spread them across. That was our sandwich, and our lunch. Sitting down on an almost-structurally-sound bench we unwrapped the pages of a Scandinavian phone book that surrounded our sandwich and started eating.
“How much was it?”
“Each? Eight dalasi. Sixteen total.”
“How many dalasi are in the dollar?”
“Roughly thirty.”
“So, about a quarter for this sandwich?”
“Give or take a bit, yeah.”
“A lot cheaper than in Dakar!”
“Yeap!”
Although I already mentioned it, it is interesting how your perspective changes. While in Dakar I knew everything was more expensive, so if I paid an extra dollar or two it didn’t bother me too much, just like being in America. In The Gambia, on the other hand, I would walk blocks down a street to save a few dalasi. Pennies! It was all a matter of mindset and perspective.
We completed our lunch and walked a crossed the ‘highway’ to get to the car park going to Georgetown. The last two seats in the car were ours as we were one of the last few people to board. Most of the van was taken up by benches, technically metal squares soldered on with a cheap cushion on top, that faced the driver. Conversely, the benches in the back faced each other, sitting about three to each bench. A local Gambian sat on the same bench as Dave and I while the other bench had the apararante and two other passengers. The back door didn’t close completely and, because of wind currents creating vortices by the van driving down the road, we got all the dust blown inside on top of us. It was for this very reason why I suggested to not even taking a shower. The roads up to this time had been paved, but we were in Senegal for most of the day and that’s the main difference. Cross the threshold into The Gambia and you’ll get dirty, guaranteed.
We turned off the road and dropped a few people off at Kau-ur just two hours into the trip. I have only two memories of Kau-ur. The first time I was there was my first trip across country after only two months from being sworn in. I went with Marc Maxson to help out his Fulbright Scholarship research on computer and Internet usage across the West African countries of The Gambia, Senegal, and Guinea. I only helped with the The Gambia part, along with Bear and Kate L. One of our stops was the senior secondary school in Kau-ur. The second memory of Kau-ur was a bit more exiting. Back in March, coming back from Georgetown, the ghelli-ghelli caught on fire and there were people jumping out of the windows. It was this memory that reminded me that we hadn’t had a breakdown yet. Every car we took so far had gotten to where we were going without a flat tire, slight engine trouble, or just completely dying on us. I spoke too soon.
As we exited Kau-ur and continued en route to Georgetown a strange sound made the driver stop. The driver, aparante, and the font seat passenger, got out to take a look. For five minutes they banged on the metal bumper near the tire. After five minutes they thought it was fixed enough to last the trip and everyone got back as we continued on our way, for another twenty feet. The noise got worse and the driver made the executive decision to go back to Kau-ur to get it really fixed this time. We had no choice in the matter, unless we wanted to get stuck in Kau-ur or pay extra for a new car.
For the next two hours we sat on the edge of Kau-ur while the mechanics tried to fix the vehicle. All the passengers were spread across the car park, most had kids, while we just sat on the dirt there and received marriage proposals from the Gambian Women.
“Do you love me?”
“I do not even know you.”
“I know, but you do not love me?”
“I have a wife”
“In which village?”
“Fajara”
“Is she white or black?”
“She is orange”
As the women were proposing to both Dave and I the school children were asking if they could have my water bottle. I bought the water bottle earlier while walking around town after the breakdown. This was mostly for the bottle, as you could get local water in a bag for fifty bututs, or get a bottle to take with for D20. I was glad Dave could see what it was like in The Gambia, both as what locals experienced (cars breaking down and bad roads) and as a toubob in West Africa (women proposing and children begging).
Suddenly, in amidst of another proposal the commotion of the mechanics getting into the car signaled it was time to go. After a two hour delay we had started back up again, both Dave and I again in the back with our good old friend, the dust, joining us for the ride. We reached the town of Wassu two hours of dust-filled fun later. Wassu was only 25 kilometers away from Georgetown. We were almost there, except being after sun set the driver didn’t want to drive anymore and stopped the car. The Gambians either anticipated this, or it came as no complete shock if he did. Being stranded in the middle of a town for a night, if your traveling across the country, sometimes happens. The Gambians take it as every other event that they have no control over. Some got out their prayer mats to begin praying, while other started to eat dinner and find a place to stay. Throughout this whole ordeal of transportation just to get to Wassu Dave had counted 31 people that were in the car, when it was at a maximum.
Don’t get me wrong, Wassu is nice place to visit. We actually have a volunteer stationed there named Connie. Wassu is also known for having Gambia’s equivalent of Stonehenge, called, not surprisingly, the Wassu Stone Circles. To this day I have not yet seen them, and being here this late at night was not the time to try and find them either. Another problem was I didn’t know Connie’s Gambian Name or where she lived within the town. Almost no Gambian, except for those who work at Peace Corps, know our American Names. If you live upcountry, your name for the next two years is Omar, Fatou, Lamin, or whatever name they give you. If you’re in a town and trying to find where the volunteer lives, you had better know their Gambian Name. Otherwise it’ll take twice as long as you’re asking for the “Peace Corps” or the “toubob” house.
I didn’t know it at the time but Connie wasn’t even at site, so it was a good thing we didn’t try and find her. However, being only 25 kilometers away from an air-conditioned room with Kharafi was too good of a deal to pass up. Somehow we had to make it that extra 25 kilometers that night. We convinced a driver that if he could get enough people to go to Georgetown we would pay the rest of the seats if we left now. Inside of ten minutes a car was semi-full of people. The locals paid D20 for the ride, their usual price while we ended up paying D60 each as there were four seats not taken up. Even that’s not that bad, two dollars to go 25 kilometers, or 15 miles. I would pay two dollars extra for a guaranteed air-conditioned room!
By the time we had reached the Kharafi compound, just a half kilometer away from the Island, we had been traveling for over 13 hours. Only Braam, Kelly Stephenson, and Phillip were there. On the wall were listed the names of everyone who was there for Christmas, and the new list was up for New Year’s. Next to one of the names was a picture of the guy yelling, “Bring your shit!” As you would expect, later on I asked Kelly the story behind that one. Each month a few volunteers get together and publish a newsletter full of tidbit information, satire, jokes, out-of-context quotes, and the famous “Drunk of the Month”. Nobody actually aims to be the drunk-of-the-month, and it’s suppose to not encourage people from acting up too much, or else all Peace Corps volunteers throughout the country will hear what you have done. When I heard the story I knew we had a winner. Sure enough, in the January’s newsletter there was Kelly’s story about ‘The Macho Man’:
“During New Years, after downing his own personal bottle of vodka, he turned into Macho Man Randy Savage. The ‘Macho Man’ then ripped his shirt off and from a chair yelled ‘BRING YOUR SHIT!’ repeatedly. When no shit was brought he turned on innocent spectators, wrestling them to the ground and then body slamming them. When finally challenged he crashed his head into the corner of the window and was found the next afternoon passed out on a concrete slab under the hot sun.”
That was what we missed at the Kharafi compound during New Years.
The cooks had made only enough spaghetti for the three people who were there originally. Between the three, they were kind enough to share so Dave and I could have some dinner. Afterwards Dave wanted to get a picture of what he looked liked. After riding in the ghelli-ghellis all day long he had become a tone of brown. We brought our bags outside and gave them a good whacking, with the loose dust spraying in our faces making it worse. I took a picture of Dave with his camera so he could have a picture of what he had gone through and looked like.
When we got in Dave asked where the bathroom was:
“Through that door is the hallway. The bathroom is the second door on the left. There’s an extra sink through the first door, and the shower is in the third door if you need to take one.”
“Bathroom is the second door?”
“Yes. Oh, and there’s a trick on how to work it. The sink in the bathroom never fully closes and so there’s a small container in the sink collecting the water. You have to pour that water in the tank for the toilet since, weirdly enough, it doesn’t fill on it’s own, even though the sink floods.”
“What about drinking water, is it safe to drink?”
“The water in the faucet, bathrooms and shower, no. If you go outside and down the corridor to the next door is the kitchen. The water for the kitchen has been purified and is safe to drink.”
That was his introduction to the facilities at the Kharafi compound.
Inside we both took a shower and just watched TV with the three guys before calling it a day relatively early and went to sleep in an air-conditioned room in Africa.
JANUARY 2, 2005
The alarm woke us up at the grand early time of 5:30 in the morning. I just put on yesterday’s clothes and my travel hat and was ready to go. Dave was going to take a shower.
“Don’t even bother.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. Trust me. Just wear the clothes you wore yesterday.”
By six o’clock we were out of the door. Before we went any farther Dave wanted to know if it was possible to get a bottle of wine in The Gambia or we should get it here before we left. The bottle was for Rebecca as her birthday was a few weeks away on Groundhog’s Dog. I assured him that despite The Gambia being a third world country there was nothing to worry about, as wine is plentiful. Palm wine and boxed wine are the regular versions for upcountry, but actual bottles of wine are available in Kombo.
Not wanting to leave any old shoes lying around Mary’s house, I picked up the old shoes on the way out the door and just dropped them off at a random tree outside. Someone would either pick them up and use them, or they would be discarded. Either way, they weren’t going to be used by me anymore. From right outside Mary’s compound we were able to catch a taxi to the Banjul car-park. I told him “Banjul” even though we were going to Farafenni. Both places depart from the same park, just opposite ends. I figured he’d just drop us off and we’d walk to the other end of the car park. When he pulled into the car park I told him we were actually going to Farafenni. Apparently, we had already passed the Farafenni cars and he was heading to the Banjul cars thinking we wanted to go to Banjul. He gave a little sigh of annoyance before turning the car around and going passed the Banjul cars again to make a complete circle of the car park to reach the Farafenni cars. I gave him a little extra for his patience.
At every car park throughout the country, and probably the continent, there are people who are not affiliated with any car or driver. They simply help whoever is new in town get into the right car. You don’t pay them, except if it’s crowded and they actually get on the car themselves to save your seat for you. Otherwise the driver of the car pays the person a few coins for getting him an extra passenger. Usually in Banjul and The Gambia it’s just one dalasi. In Senegal the person who helped us got a few small coins from the driver, maybe a net worth of five to ten cents.
The car they told us to get in was headed to Casamance, on the southern side of Senegal. In order to get there you first have to drive straight through The Gambia in the middle of the country, which entailed riding through Farafenni. We got in. I was right behind the driver and Dave was sitting next to me. There was one other person in that row besides us two, and then three more rows of people behind us. In the front seat were two other tourists who were roughing it like we were. The husband and wife team shared the front seat. They spoke little English and we spoke little French. We had limited conversation. They seemed to know what they were doing, or more specifically what they were getting themselves into, and didn’t display any lack of confidence that usually occurs to tourists who try public transportation. The first time I tried it I got lost in the car park, was worried about my bag being stolen, didn’t want to pay for them to have my bag on top, and hated sharing my seat with four other people. Now it’s an everyday occurrence as I throw my bag, pay the few dalasi extra, get in and just wait to get out of the car park.
Three or fours hours into the trip we stopped at the town of Koalack. My first experience at Koalack was coming back from WAIST last year and it was a huge ordeal concerning switching cars and payment, a big headache. I knew what to expect now. Koalack is one of Senegal’s regional capitals and is quite full of people. It is, in fact, the 5th largest city in Senegal; after Dakar, Touba, Thies, and Rufisque. It has a population of over 173,000 people, slightly less than Grand Rapids, MI. You would never have guessed that, population wise, this was comparable to Grand Rapids, while looking through the windows of the ghelli-ghelli coming into town. Most secondary roads were dirt, there wasn’t a single building taller than four stories, and trash was spread across both sides of the road. Compare this to Dakar, with a population of 2 million, which is between Houston and Philadelphia.
It was here, in Koalack, that we stopped for lunch. I wanted to show Dave some of local foods that volunteers and locals usually get while traveling. These consisted of panketos, which is basically just fried dough, and wonjo juice, which is similar to Kool-Aid. The panketos come in a small bag, usually five to a bag, while the juice also comes in a bag and you’re suppose to drink it by tearing off the corner carefully with your teeth and just drink it from the bag itself. He wasn’t too thrilled with the idea or wasn’t hungry, but either way I had both to myself.
Another three to four hours later we arrived at the border to The Gambia. The driver thought everyone in his car was going to Casamance. This assumption made us not stop at the border to get our passport stamped, as you don’t need too if you are traveling straight through The Gambia without stopping. The border guards knew this too and waved us through. There was a slight problem; we needed to get out in The Gambia! Through waving of passports, motioning to the ground and speaking in Wolof “I am going to The Gambia” we just caused the driver a little headache. Now, because someone in his car was getting out in The Gambia, and not traveling straight through, everyone had to get their passports stamped. That meant everyone had to get out of the car and go through customs. We got our passports exit stamped from Senegal and got back in the ghelli-ghelli to cross the border.
Five minutes later, as we’re driving down the main street going into Farafenni we told him this was where we wanted to get off. That surprised him a little, as he maybe thought we didn’t know where we wanted to go; but I knew exactly where we were, where we needed to go, and how to get there. Us stopping at Farafenni and getting out of the vehicle was both sufficient and necessary. It was sufficient, for getting some lunch, and necessary, for getting a car for the next leg of the trip.
The aparante climbed on top of the ghelli-ghelli in search of our bags. That ordeal lasted a few minutes, as it was mostly a trial and error process. He passed the bags down and, after both of us had received our bags, and were about to walk away, the driver signaled to us that we had to go to the police station a few feet away to get our passports stamped. That was new to me as well, as I never came into The Gambia this way before and didn’t know the routine. I’ve left The Gambia from Farafenni only once (just a few days prior), but only arrived back into country from either Banjul or Basse. At the police station the guards took our passports and told us to wait outside. The other guards that were outside were having their attaya break and offered me a glass, which I accepted. Dave didn’t want any. We could see an arm waving in the air holding two American passports a few minutes later, as the guard yelled through the window at us. We took our passports, thanked the officers, and continued down the main road.
Imagine having a city with population over 30,000 with only one paved road. That would be Farafenni. In fact, there are two main roads in Farafenni. The paved one, going North-South, goes from the Senegalese border to the edge of the River Gambia. Upon crossing you could continue to the southern part of The Gambia and cross over to Casamance or Ziguinchor in Southern Senegal. This was the final destination of our ghelli-ghelli. The other main road, unpaved, but smooth dirt, went from West to East. You could travel to Farafenni on this road from Banjul and continue on to Georgetown, on the eastern side of The Gambia. This was where we needed to go.
Both of needed to use the restroom by this point. A few blocks away was the hotel called Eddy’s, which just a few days before was packed full and hence caused me to start my trip a day early. Besides that time, the last time I was there was a few months ago for a Scholarship Meeting in which we met in the open-air space that acted as their restaurant. As I walked with Dave into the open-air space that I remembered I could have sworn that this one particular room was a public bathroom, and the door was open, so I walked in. It was someone’s room. I quickly apologized and walked out backwards. Memory failed me. One of the employees there asked what we wanted.
They don’t understand the term “bathroom” so you feel like a complete idiot asking for a “toilet” but that’s what they understand. He walked us over to the other side of the open-air area and opened a door for us. The door was originally locked. With the thought of it being a private bathroom I was surprised to learn it was an empty room that he opened just for us to use the toilet. That was considerably nice of him, as he could have showed us to the public latrine out back instead.
Eddy’s bar and restaurant is both on and off the main road. Although the road goes east west, the definition of Eddy’s bar and restaurant being on it depends on your direction of travel. The east-west main road has a break in it. You have to travel down the paved north-south road two blocks to make the connection. If you are traveling from Banjul, although being parallel to your road, Eddy’s is not on it. If you are coming from Georgetown Eddy’s is on your road. To continue on to Banjul, however, you’ll have to backtrack to the north-south road and connect to the east-west road two blocks further north. Since we were heading towards Georgetown we were on the right road and just had to go straight to get a car. The road going north-south actually has a name, which is rare for rural roads. It’s called the “Trans-Gambia Highway”, but don’t think of a highway of any sort. To American standards the Senegalese part would be a normal two-lane road and the part going through The Gambia would be considered a hazard area. The road has fallen apart on both ends, creating a foot drop, and potholes scattered throughout make it a danger to be on, especially at night. Having described that, that is now the best road in this town.
It was lunchtime and we had yet to eat. Most of the volunteers live off the street food, which I was then showing to Dave. Basically you decide what you would like and ask the women which one of them has it. If neither them nor their closest friends, distance wise, had it they would direct you to their closest friends, relationship wise, who did; despite the possibility of being across town. Your choices mainly consisted of bread with some combination of sauce. I was in the mood for a ñeebe sandwich and brought Dave along. This was his first experience to Gambian street food and we had not yet exchanged any money. I had enough dalasi to cover both of us until we reached Banjul. I told him not to worry about it until then.
We ordered our sandwiches and watched as the lady made our sandwich as we literally stood at the edge of the road. She pulled the bread out of a bag, cut it in half, pulled the lid off the beans, and spread them across. That was our sandwich, and our lunch. Sitting down on an almost-structurally-sound bench we unwrapped the pages of a Scandinavian phone book that surrounded our sandwich and started eating.
“How much was it?”
“Each? Eight dalasi. Sixteen total.”
“How many dalasi are in the dollar?”
“Roughly thirty.”
“So, about a quarter for this sandwich?”
“Give or take a bit, yeah.”
“A lot cheaper than in Dakar!”
“Yeap!”
Although I already mentioned it, it is interesting how your perspective changes. While in Dakar I knew everything was more expensive, so if I paid an extra dollar or two it didn’t bother me too much, just like being in America. In The Gambia, on the other hand, I would walk blocks down a street to save a few dalasi. Pennies! It was all a matter of mindset and perspective.
We completed our lunch and walked a crossed the ‘highway’ to get to the car park going to Georgetown. The last two seats in the car were ours as we were one of the last few people to board. Most of the van was taken up by benches, technically metal squares soldered on with a cheap cushion on top, that faced the driver. Conversely, the benches in the back faced each other, sitting about three to each bench. A local Gambian sat on the same bench as Dave and I while the other bench had the apararante and two other passengers. The back door didn’t close completely and, because of wind currents creating vortices by the van driving down the road, we got all the dust blown inside on top of us. It was for this very reason why I suggested to not even taking a shower. The roads up to this time had been paved, but we were in Senegal for most of the day and that’s the main difference. Cross the threshold into The Gambia and you’ll get dirty, guaranteed.
We turned off the road and dropped a few people off at Kau-ur just two hours into the trip. I have only two memories of Kau-ur. The first time I was there was my first trip across country after only two months from being sworn in. I went with Marc Maxson to help out his Fulbright Scholarship research on computer and Internet usage across the West African countries of The Gambia, Senegal, and Guinea. I only helped with the The Gambia part, along with Bear and Kate L. One of our stops was the senior secondary school in Kau-ur. The second memory of Kau-ur was a bit more exiting. Back in March, coming back from Georgetown, the ghelli-ghelli caught on fire and there were people jumping out of the windows. It was this memory that reminded me that we hadn’t had a breakdown yet. Every car we took so far had gotten to where we were going without a flat tire, slight engine trouble, or just completely dying on us. I spoke too soon.
As we exited Kau-ur and continued en route to Georgetown a strange sound made the driver stop. The driver, aparante, and the font seat passenger, got out to take a look. For five minutes they banged on the metal bumper near the tire. After five minutes they thought it was fixed enough to last the trip and everyone got back as we continued on our way, for another twenty feet. The noise got worse and the driver made the executive decision to go back to Kau-ur to get it really fixed this time. We had no choice in the matter, unless we wanted to get stuck in Kau-ur or pay extra for a new car.
For the next two hours we sat on the edge of Kau-ur while the mechanics tried to fix the vehicle. All the passengers were spread across the car park, most had kids, while we just sat on the dirt there and received marriage proposals from the Gambian Women.
“Do you love me?”
“I do not even know you.”
“I know, but you do not love me?”
“I have a wife”
“In which village?”
“Fajara”
“Is she white or black?”
“She is orange”
As the women were proposing to both Dave and I the school children were asking if they could have my water bottle. I bought the water bottle earlier while walking around town after the breakdown. This was mostly for the bottle, as you could get local water in a bag for fifty bututs, or get a bottle to take with for D20. I was glad Dave could see what it was like in The Gambia, both as what locals experienced (cars breaking down and bad roads) and as a toubob in West Africa (women proposing and children begging).
Suddenly, in amidst of another proposal the commotion of the mechanics getting into the car signaled it was time to go. After a two hour delay we had started back up again, both Dave and I again in the back with our good old friend, the dust, joining us for the ride. We reached the town of Wassu two hours of dust-filled fun later. Wassu was only 25 kilometers away from Georgetown. We were almost there, except being after sun set the driver didn’t want to drive anymore and stopped the car. The Gambians either anticipated this, or it came as no complete shock if he did. Being stranded in the middle of a town for a night, if your traveling across the country, sometimes happens. The Gambians take it as every other event that they have no control over. Some got out their prayer mats to begin praying, while other started to eat dinner and find a place to stay. Throughout this whole ordeal of transportation just to get to Wassu Dave had counted 31 people that were in the car, when it was at a maximum.
Don’t get me wrong, Wassu is nice place to visit. We actually have a volunteer stationed there named Connie. Wassu is also known for having Gambia’s equivalent of Stonehenge, called, not surprisingly, the Wassu Stone Circles. To this day I have not yet seen them, and being here this late at night was not the time to try and find them either. Another problem was I didn’t know Connie’s Gambian Name or where she lived within the town. Almost no Gambian, except for those who work at Peace Corps, know our American Names. If you live upcountry, your name for the next two years is Omar, Fatou, Lamin, or whatever name they give you. If you’re in a town and trying to find where the volunteer lives, you had better know their Gambian Name. Otherwise it’ll take twice as long as you’re asking for the “Peace Corps” or the “toubob” house.
I didn’t know it at the time but Connie wasn’t even at site, so it was a good thing we didn’t try and find her. However, being only 25 kilometers away from an air-conditioned room with Kharafi was too good of a deal to pass up. Somehow we had to make it that extra 25 kilometers that night. We convinced a driver that if he could get enough people to go to Georgetown we would pay the rest of the seats if we left now. Inside of ten minutes a car was semi-full of people. The locals paid D20 for the ride, their usual price while we ended up paying D60 each as there were four seats not taken up. Even that’s not that bad, two dollars to go 25 kilometers, or 15 miles. I would pay two dollars extra for a guaranteed air-conditioned room!
By the time we had reached the Kharafi compound, just a half kilometer away from the Island, we had been traveling for over 13 hours. Only Braam, Kelly Stephenson, and Phillip were there. On the wall were listed the names of everyone who was there for Christmas, and the new list was up for New Year’s. Next to one of the names was a picture of the guy yelling, “Bring your shit!” As you would expect, later on I asked Kelly the story behind that one. Each month a few volunteers get together and publish a newsletter full of tidbit information, satire, jokes, out-of-context quotes, and the famous “Drunk of the Month”. Nobody actually aims to be the drunk-of-the-month, and it’s suppose to not encourage people from acting up too much, or else all Peace Corps volunteers throughout the country will hear what you have done. When I heard the story I knew we had a winner. Sure enough, in the January’s newsletter there was Kelly’s story about ‘The Macho Man’:
“During New Years, after downing his own personal bottle of vodka, he turned into Macho Man Randy Savage. The ‘Macho Man’ then ripped his shirt off and from a chair yelled ‘BRING YOUR SHIT!’ repeatedly. When no shit was brought he turned on innocent spectators, wrestling them to the ground and then body slamming them. When finally challenged he crashed his head into the corner of the window and was found the next afternoon passed out on a concrete slab under the hot sun.”
That was what we missed at the Kharafi compound during New Years.
The cooks had made only enough spaghetti for the three people who were there originally. Between the three, they were kind enough to share so Dave and I could have some dinner. Afterwards Dave wanted to get a picture of what he looked liked. After riding in the ghelli-ghellis all day long he had become a tone of brown. We brought our bags outside and gave them a good whacking, with the loose dust spraying in our faces making it worse. I took a picture of Dave with his camera so he could have a picture of what he had gone through and looked like.
When we got in Dave asked where the bathroom was:
“Through that door is the hallway. The bathroom is the second door on the left. There’s an extra sink through the first door, and the shower is in the third door if you need to take one.”
“Bathroom is the second door?”
“Yes. Oh, and there’s a trick on how to work it. The sink in the bathroom never fully closes and so there’s a small container in the sink collecting the water. You have to pour that water in the tank for the toilet since, weirdly enough, it doesn’t fill on it’s own, even though the sink floods.”
“What about drinking water, is it safe to drink?”
“The water in the faucet, bathrooms and shower, no. If you go outside and down the corridor to the next door is the kitchen. The water for the kitchen has been purified and is safe to drink.”
That was his introduction to the facilities at the Kharafi compound.
Inside we both took a shower and just watched TV with the three guys before calling it a day relatively early and went to sleep in an air-conditioned room in Africa.
posted by Mike | 5:37 PM
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