Rainbow Belt

It all started with a rainbow belt at the Farafenni market…

Actually, it started at 4 am this morning.

Today, we traveled from Basse to Kombo, the area surrounding the capital of the Gambia. It was an early morning, and it was cold. We left the Basse house at 5 am, walked into town, and sat in a gelle gelle until 6:30 until it filled with people and we could leave.

It was an extraordinary easy trip. Normally, these stories about travel involve terror about breakdowns, sweatiness, police checkpoints, and awkward advances by Gambians. Today, there was an off duty police officer in our gelle gelle, and every checkpoint we went through, he just looked out the window, yelled a greeting in one of the four languages common in the Gambia, and we flew through.

We stopped in Farafenni to get some grub, and as we were walking through the market, I saw a rainbow belt. I am unable to avoid buying things in rainbow order, but today, I was strong, thinking, “I don’t wear pants in this country, why do I need that belt?” So I did not purchase it… remember this. It becomes important later in the story.

So, we got to the ferry crossing at a respectable time, and instead of trying to get on the huge ferry, which is overcrowded and rampant with pick-pocketers, we took a small wooden boat across the wide expanse to Banjul.

We approached the boats, and noticed that the boat was really far away from the shore… as in, a person of normal height could not walk to it without their midriffs being submerged. We all had bags with computers in them, and we were a little worried about the crossing…

There were a few men walking with us, all trying to get us to come to their boats, so that they can get the fare from us. At this point I said, “Why is that man wearing no pants?” There was a man wearing no pants, trying to get us into his boat. We did not choose him. And it wouldn’t be the last time that day I said, “Why is that man wearing no pants?”

You’re probably wondering where the rainbow belt comes in… wait for it.

When we got closer to the ocean, we realized the men who were escorting us were lifters. What’s a lifter you ask? Yes, it’s just what it sounds like. His chosen profession is to lift people, some larger than the average bear, on his shoulders, and trudge across the sea floor to hoist them onto the boat.

So, now let me pause to describe the exact scene. He told me the equivalent of “Turn around and spread ‘em.” I did what he told me, and his head lowered between my legs, and hoisted me off the ground.

Let me pause here to describe me. I’m a pretty hefty kid. I have a backpack on my back, stuffed with clothing and my computer. So, not a light bag. Then, I have a huge satchel dangling from one side of my body. And this he all lifted in the air.

As he lifted, I said, “A koleeyata!!!” which means, “It’s difficult!! It’s heavy!!”. With normal sized people, or even large Gambians, he can just activate his massive quadriceps, and lift them in one go. With me, he made one attempt, regrouped, and went up for a second go and a large grunt.

Another side note. I don’t know if you’re like me, but I think in general, big kids hate to be lifted. I really hate to be lifted. I am reminded of ASP training, and the embarrassing, “team building” lifting activities that always are included when staffers are at their most vulnerable. (If Sarah Burnett is reading this, remember “I’m ENORMOUS” and laugh)

So, once I reached the peak, I was uncomfortable, unwieldy, and ready to not be on this man’s shoulders. In order to balance the pull of gravity on my large backpack, I had to hold onto something. The chosen hand hold was the man’s forehead. As I clung to his eyebrow region, my giant satchel twisted, and hung directly under the lifters chin. So he is basically draped in toubab (white lady). And he starts the long trek to the boat.

At this point, I’m aware that months in village, eating little else but white rice and the occasional snot-like sauce, my pants are a little too large, and I feel like I am perhaps revealing too much of myself to the Gambians behind me. One of my fellow Peace Corps friends then squealed with delight, “Abigail Adams, I love you!” She had to shout out this affirmation because I should’ve been very embarrassed.

When we got on the boat, I asked her if my fears were true. She answered in the affirmative, that yes, everyone could see my buttcrack…

If only I had bought that rainbow belt…