A Toubab’s First 48 in the Whale's Mouth

(The views, opinions and thoughts expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the author of this blog. I am solely a guest toubab author who enjoyed the opportunity to travel to the African continent for the first time 2 months ago)

I awoke on the morning of October 29, 2011 excited, anxious and ready for my first ever trek to the African continent. I had spent the previous two weeks getting shots in my arm, taking big blue pills, FedEx-ing the Gambian embassy, buying expensive backpacks and clothing, stocking up on Clif Bars, and watching the digitally remastered version of the Disney classic The Lion King, all in anticipation for this day. And as much as I felt ready to go, deep down I knew I had no idea what to expect (to all my ASP friends, I just felt like a first year saying that).

After 3 flights, 1 re-route thru Dulles (from where I did in fact bring the author her first full Chipotle burrito in approximately 17 months), a good bit of snow, 2 plane de-icings (same plane… good work Dulles ground crew!), and a 3 hour runway delay, I landed at Dakar’s Leopold something airport, the morning sun rising to welcome the day (images of multiple scenes from Blood Diamond are running thru my head right now). As we are about to land, I’m thinking to myself: “Planes from all over the world fly into Dakar. This will be a large, if not fairly nice airport.” Wrong. Dakar’s airport is only slightly larger than the puny Tri-Cities, Tennessee airport (would definitely be smaller if there were no Duty Free stores) and much more run down. The sign on the roof proclaiming the name of the airport is missing letters, there is a beaten up hangar where I would suspect illicit happenings go down, and there are men with large machine guns patrolling the gates. But hey, at least there was a bus to take me the 50 feet I needed to go to the terminal where my backpack actually made it through! All things considered, this is a great start.

Once I grab my backpack and walk outside for the joyous reunion with Abby, I realize this trip is going to THROW me out of my comfort zone. Out of the same zip code as my comfort zone. Out of the same ozone as my comfort zone. I am immediately accosted by a horde of Senegalese taxi drivers trying to buy my services, speaking to me in French and/or bad English. Picture this analogy. You are in the middle of New York City, and instead of trying to hail a cab, the cab drivers are all hailing you in a language you don’t understand, while simultaneously trying to rip you off. I was in Africa. Finally, I meet Abby, she negotiates a cab and we drive to the car park.

I don’t think I’ve said “no” more times in the span of an hour than that Sunday morning at the Pompier car park. As we wait patiently for our sept plas to fill, I find myself unable to speak a complete sentence to Abby without being asked if I would like to buy the following: fake RayBans, belt buckles, oranges, bananas, clothing, belt buckles, bracelets, anklets, hats, among other things. We did end up purchasing two things: kola nuts that I could give to Abby’s host family and friends, and water, which in this part of Africa looks like you’re buying individual breast implants (maybe my mind is in the gutter, you be the judge). One fascinating thing about the Pompier car park before I move on; people are actually washing their cars! And we’re not talking brand new Mercedes or even 5 year old Toyotas. The newest car in this place is the equivalent of a 1985 Ford Pinto whose only function has been to shuttle people through the desert (not an extreme example). So I pose this question: Would you bother to wash your car if you knew it could possibly die at any moment or not start the next time you put the key in the ignition? Didn’t think so.

Our sept plas finally fills and we roll out into the streets of Dakar and head toward Banjul. Now the Gambia, and to a similar extent Senegal, are small countries. So I’m thinking to myself, “Alright, 2-3 hour drive to Banjul and another 2-3 to village. Just in time for dinner.” It is only now that I am informed that we will be lucky to make it to village by 10 or 11 p.m. The Pop Tart/Clif Bar/ Granola bar rations immediately sustain a big hit.

One of the first images emblazoned in my memory upon leaving the car park is a man defecating on the side of the road. Some reminders in case you haven’t been paying attention. It’s 10 a.m., it’s broad daylight, and everyone can see you! None of these things seem to matter to this man. When you gotta go, you gotta go. Strangely, this observation puts me at ease. Should my stomach have an adverse reaction to a rich West African meal, all I have to do is tell the driver to pull over (ironically, road pooping only becomes a factor once I am in Cape Verde, not the continent). Once I am secure in the knowledge that no one will care if I poop in public, I immediately begin making a list of who I know that should never come to West Africa. In no particular order: Mom and Dad, my best friend Steve (closet diva), Sarah Burnett (actual diva), my roommate Nicole, every sorority girl at Wake Forest University (pretty much covers the entire female population) and any human over 6’4” tall (no way they could handle a sept plas for more than 10 minutes and every African child would think they are an actual giant).

The next 5 hours en route to the Barra car park consist of the following: the most trash I have ever seen, the most rams I have ever seen, the biggest set of testicles I have ever seen (on the rams. Did you know they flex them when they bleat?), the thickest trees I have ever seen (the mighty baobabs), the most I have ever sweated in a moving vehicle, the most potholes I have ever hit, the most potholes I have ever swerved to avoid, the most dust I have ever breathed/ingested and my first solicitation from an African prostitute! I’m not even in the Gambia yet!

We finally cross the border to “the Gam”, as Abby so eloquently refers to her home, and after a 2 hour wait in the Barra car park that involved much yelling at our driver from our fellow passengers and a few more swigs of breast implant water, we’re off to Basse on the next leg of our journey. 20 minutes into the trek, we pull over to cover the luggage so that it doesn’t get wet from the approaching storm. While we are stopped, the old man sitting in front of me gets out and goes to relieve himself on the side of the road while the 20-something guy sitting next to him peruses his music on his iPhone. Fascinating. Worlds collide.

Going on 40 straight hours without sleep the fun really begins. As darkness descends upon the wilderness, the skies open and unleash a torrent of rain amidst astounding flashes of lightning and crackling booms of thunder. Experiencing an African thunderstorm in the flesh; check. However, my fascination is short lived as our driver decides that now is the opportune time to make up for lost time. Our sept plas begins barreling down the road, throwing splashes of water from the frequent potholes, edging dangerously close to the River Gambia. I brace myself in anticipation of the moment our driver loses control of the vehicle and we fly into the water and I meet my untimely demise, hoping this will not be the way I encounter my first wild hippopotamus.

Amazingly enough, we make it to Farafenni without incident and stop there for evening prayers, stretch our legs and enjoy cold coke. “3 hours left, boy”, Abby tells me. I don’t know why at this point I kept believing this would be true. The silver lining at this juncture is that at least I know I will have no trouble sleeping in an African mud hut tonight. We depart Farafenni and after a few checkpoint bribes and about an hour of driving without rain (praise Allah), we arrive at the Janjanburreh ferry. The only problem is that there is no ferry in sight. “Driver?” Abby asks, “you called the ferry man right?” “Yes, yes, of course,” responds the driver. Taking him at his word (another poor decision), we get out of the car to stretch our legs and wait for the ferry man to come. It quickly becomes apparent that there is in fact no ferry man coming to pick us up and as we come to this realization, it begins to rain. We head back to the car to figure out what the deal is and what do we find but our driver sleeping peacefully at his steering wheel. It was at this moment I was convinced that I was not even going to spend my first night in Africa in the luxury of a mud hut, but rather on this rainy, muddy, pitch black river bank. Luckily, before having to fashion a ferry of our own, Abby springs into action. “Driver! Give me the ferry driver’s number! Tell him to come now now. Tell him I will pay 100 dalasis to go now. WE. WILL. NOT. SLEEP. HERE. TONIGHT.” Okay, perhaps Abby didn’t put it in quite so blunt of terms (although I certainly would have by this point), but she essentially got the message across. Abby calls the ferryman, wakes him from his slumber and he finally comes to ferry us across the river. After paying the ferryman an additional late night driving fee (ASP reference. PMs holla back!), we are on our way again.

We finally make it to Basse around 2 a.m., when all that is visible are the buildings and trash. There is not a soul in sight and if Abby told me that Basse was a ghost town that was deserted 50 years ago when all the gold was mined from the area, I would have 100% believed her. We make our way down to the river where amazingly, Abby’s neighbor Lamin, who owns a car, (the unassuming hero and of this entire tale along with his accompanying steed) has been waiting for us for at least 3 hours. Some old dude ferries us across the sludge-ridden river to the last leg of our journey. Inshallah! We are almost there. We greet Lamin and as I open the front door of his car, my eyes lock on a rifle sitting in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the lack of the sleep, maybe a sense of utter defeat, who knows, but my first reaction upon laying eyes on Lamin’s rifle was not alarm, not suspicions of serial murders, nor fear for my own life, but rather, “Hey, that’s a gun. That’s nice.” Lamin is quick to assure us that he went out hunting earlier that day and that is why the rifle was in the car. Good enough explanation for me. Let’s get to the mud hut already.

We get in the car and begin our quick journey down our final road. I can picture the mosquito-net enclosed mattress right now. My eyes are already rolling into the back of my head despite the pothole we hit every 3.2 seconds. But the path to glory is not without its trial and tribulations. As I am staring blankly at the road in front of me, only 10 minutes from village, something clambers up the side of the car and begins to make it’s was across the windshield. My body somehow manifests the adrenaline one more time to decipher what this potential danger could be. Sure enough, it is not one, but TWO GIANT RATS RUNNING ACROSS THE WINDSHIELD OF THIS MOVING VEHICLE. What is going on?! The following scene immediately plays out in my mind from 3 weeks earlier, when I was at the clinic getting my pre-Africa shots:

Nurse: “Would you like a pre-exposure rabies vaccine as well?”
Me: “Sure, why not.”
A few minutes pass.
Nurse: “I’m sorry sir. We’re out of the pre-exposure rabies vaccine. You’re probably just staying in hotels anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Me: “Well, not exactly. But I don’t plan to get bitten my anything. So I should be fine.”

Famous last words. Luckily, the first rat scurries off the other end of the car after some prodding by Lamin. However, rat #2 decides it will be a good idea to run up the windshield, onto the roof. I immediately reach for the handle to roll my window up while keeping my eyes on the window. I reach and reach but cannot for the life of me find the handle. “That’s it. This rat is going to crawl into my seat, bite me, give me rabies and I’ll die in Nyakoi all because I didn’t get the damn pre-exposure rabies shot.“ For 2 solid minutes I turn my body, ready to punch this rat in the face should he even attempt to look at me. I finally summon the courage take my eyes off of the window for a split second and look down for the window handle. It is only now that I realize Lamin has electric windows. SERIOUSLY! IT’S NOT UNTIL NOW THAT I AM IN A CAR WITH ELECTRIC WINDOWS! I give up. Note to self- next time you get in an African’s personal vehicle, immediately discern whether it has manual or electric windows. I finally roll my window up, safe from the peril that lies above me. Lamin finally drops us off at the compound (I don’t think I’ve ever exited a car so fast) where our short walk to Abby’s mud hut goes without incident. After 48 hours without more than a few seconds doze, I poop in my first pit latrine and sleep one of the most beautiful slumbers I have ever had.

What ensued for the next two weeks across the Gambia, Senegal and Cape Verde was the trip of a lifetime. I got to hike above the clouds, peer into the depths of an active volcano, eat some delicious food, teach Cape Verdeans how to play Frisbee, see an African sunrise and sunset, all while sipping on Jul Brew, Strela and grogue. But best of all, I had the privilege to meet some truly incredible individuals. From the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia and Cape Verde, who willingly let us into stay in their homes and sacrificed their time to show off their little piece of the world; to Jamil and Dilal and entire Haidous family for putting us up in Dakar, showing us your beautiful family, and cooking one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten; and to the villagers of tiny Nyakoi, who after a butchered Mandinka introduction and 15 minutes of chatter will call you “friend”. Most of you may never read this, but in case you do, thank you for being part of my incredible adventure. I will never forget you and hope to see you again someday.

Finally, I would like to thank the author of this blog for her generosity in allowing me to share some of my thoughts and for sacrificing two weeks of her time to travel around West Africa with me and two years of her life to serve there. I most certainly would have wound up dead in the River Gambia with the hippos if it wasn’t for her.

-Steve