The Gambia

I'm going to break the chronological order of my blog to talk about The Gambia trip. I will post about the end of my first program, and about the Casamance vacation after this. The thing is, I forgot my journal in the Gambia, so I wanted to write about it as soon as possible. However I did bring my journal to the Casamance, so I'm not worried about forgetting small details. So. Here it is. The second "vacation."

Quincey and I departed for the Gambia the day after we arrived from the Casamance. I spent one night with my new host family, and it made me extremely optimistic for the coming months. Aloura and I are roomies again, and it’s nice to have someone with which we can vent to every night. She’s a couple years older than me, so I’m her rakk bu jiggen, her little sister, while she’s sama mag bu jiggen, my older sister. We’ve already started to happily bicker like sisters and steal each other’s clothes.

The day prior to travel we were still a little tired and I think Quincey had yet to fully recover from 14 hours worth of sea sickness, but we told ourselves we would have time to sleep on the 6-7 hour drive down to the border. As soon as we had had breakfast Monday morning, fresh off the Casa boat, we headed downtown to the Gambian embassy to obtain our visas. While waiting, I promptly fell asleep on one of the couches, and woke up with a freshly stamped passport. Success! Visas obtained with ease must surely be a good omen!

Early Tuesday morning, Hadji (my host-dad) drove us to the main transport hub of Dakar, a sea of taxies, sept-places, and gelli-gellis. Signs over the cars marked destinations, so all you had to do was wade through the bustling crowds of people and animals to find the cars with your destination.

Our options were to take a sept-place, a gelli-gelli, or a bus. It was too late to take a bus, since they usually fill up quickly and leave during the night. Hadji wouldn’t hear of us taking a gelli-gelli for 6-7 hours to the border. Gelli-gellis are like buses, but more along the lines of VW double-slug-bugs on steroids. Seating is on benches of various quality (padding is usually scarce, so it’s like sitting on iron), which fit 5 people across, even though only supposed to fit 3-4. Usually there are 6-7 rows of benches, with the middle seat lacking a back support as it needs to fold up to allow passengers to squeeze down the “aisle.” This form of transportation is dusty, hot, sweaty, smelly, and altogether uncomfortable because you are crammed between people, and the benches are so close together your knees are level with your chest. It is rare to find a gelli-gelli that isn’t in a state of awful disrepair. It is not unusual to hit a hard bump and have something fall off, and all you can do is hope it is not an essential part of the engine. All baggage is strapped on top of the gelli-gelli, sometimes so much so that the entire thing is extremely top-heavy and likely to flip over. A sept-place is generally safer and only slightly more comfortable. It is a station wagon with 7 places, and it will not leave until all places are filled. Sometimes I call these bush taxies, because they usually have the ability to go places regular taxies won’t. Like the gelli-gellis they are all old and look like this could be their last trip. When it rains, they will most likely leak on you, and usually all the gauges don’t work. It is normal for most of the interior to be missing siding and the roof to sag. But, they are usually faster than the gelli-gellis, so sept-place it was.

Travel Guide 1: Choosing transport

Step one: arrive at transport hub

Step two: you are immediately swarmed by men all shouting at your to join their car which, of course, is the cheapest, the cleanest, the fastest, the most reliable.

Step three: gather your luggage and keep an impassive, almost bored face, do not reveal that in fact you are freaking out inside because everyone is yelling, invading your personal space, and trying to physically pull you to their cars. Swat at those who try and touch you/take your bags.

Step four: pick a driver firmly and quickly, show no weakness.

Step five: the swarm will practically carry you to car, do not release your luggage until price is secured.

Step six: haggle over price, people will respect you more if you use more Wolof than French. Even so, expect to be charged 10 times more than a local would be, try to work it down as much as you can. Must act furious/scandalized at proposed price, both parties must pretend to be dissatisfied and defensive even if they both are secretly happy with the arrangement.

Step 7: Seal the deal (for us CFA7,500), pay the driver and hand him your luggage to be strapped to the top of your sept-place/gelli-gelli.

Step 8: Get in sept-place/gelli-gelli and wait for other seats to fill up so you can leave. This could take an hour/ all morning, so be prepared to wait a long time.

We left Senegal without knowing a soul in the Gambia, our only point of reference being the Lonely Planet Guide Book, written by Katharina Kane. This book had been what got us through the Casamance trip with great success and only minor miscommunications. It filled in the small gaps that Ñass’ guidance left. Quincey and I were on a mission to see our tri-animal bucket list: chimpanzees, hippos, and crocodiles. The Gambia’s main tourist attraction is their national parks and ecotourism. That was our plan, to skip across the Gambia and stay at a chimpanzee rehabilitation reserve, the Badi Mayo Camp. All the proceeds of our stay go toward the reserve and sustaining the chimp population on Baboon Island. It was expensive, but our plan was to only spend one night there, see the chimps, then go home. However, it wasn’t until we were in the sept-place and halfway to the border that it hit us: this was the definition of a spur-of-the-moment, impulsive week-long trip. We had no plans but some vague wish to “see some monkeys” and had no idea what the process was to cross the border, get to the capital of Banjul, and find somewhere to stay for the night. All we had were the packs on our backs and the conviction to spend as little money as possible in the process of seeing the animals. We looked at each other and had our first nervous/panic-ridden giggle. At this point, all we could do was jump when someone said jump and hope we were jumping in the right direction.

Eventually, however, we did reach the border. From Dakar to Kaolack the ride was relatively smooth, the only worry being when our driver wanted to pass a slower car and essentially played chicken with oncoming traffic. My life flashed before my eyes at least 4 times, enough to look back at Quincey behind me, to see her eyes twice their normal size and her hands, like mine, clutching the seat. More nervous/panic-ridden giggling (that must have confused our fellow passengers) ensued. From Kaolack to the border town of Karang the road was a joke. Some pot-holes were a foot deep and several feet wide. We must have covered at least twice the distance on the map, since we slowed down to about 40 km/hr and swerved from one side of the road to another avoiding the abyss-like holes. We were slammed from one side the sept-place to the other, and if you had a window seat, it’s more than likely you were going to crack your head on the glass at least once. Sometimes we hit bump so hard we were launched into the air and smacked out heads on the roof (no joke). This was usually followed with a lot of yelling at the driver. When there was oncoming traffic, one simply yielded to tonnage, as it were, and hoped the other car got out of the way. All traffic rules of speed, who got what side of the road, what defines a road, were all abandoned. Several times our driver quit the road altogether and took dirt paths that ran somewhat parallel the highway. We wound our way through farms, unclaimed land, and small villages before we bumped and hauled ourselves back onto the “pavement.”

In Karang, we unfolded ourselves from the sept-place, which felt like it was getting smaller with each kilometer, our spines permanently fixed in an awkward curve, our legs cramped. It took about 10 seconds for a crowd of women to surround us, all yelling about changing money. I had changed money on the street before, and it works just fine if you keep the exchange rate in mind. Quincey and I, however, had only an estimate of the rate between US dollars and Gambian dalasi, but all we had was Senegalese CFA. The women closed ranks and despite several attempts at extricating ourselves, they simply flowed around us and closed off the exit again. We changed our money, and headed over to the police station to get our passports stamped. After being bounced around 4 offices in the Gambian immigration outpost, we left to find a taxi to take us to the port city of Barra. From there, we took a ferry to cross the Gambian river into the capital, Banjul. While on the ferry, we discovered that our Senegalese phones had up and shut down. Our batteries hadn’t died, we had those charged, but our Orange network was being shut out by the Gambian Africell. A sign. (And which, we thought, was pretty uppity for a country one can cross in half an hour). No matter. We were not to be deterred by this inconvenience, we would forge on, using internet cafés to sustain our communication! After all, there as a world before phones, no? So, the first thing we did when we arrived in Banjul was consult our trusty guidebook to find an internet café.

A word on the guidebook…We started to feel an early connection with Katharina Kane. By the first few hours we were referring to her by name, as if she was with us. In her section about the Casamance, she was nothing but warm praise and outright joy, and it was clear that she had simply loved every minute there. Reading her descriptions of the Gambia made us mad at her. She mentioned “stranded travelers” on more than one occasion. She described towns as sleepy and quiet, and hotels as a means of escape from dirty streets. “Katharina,” we would say, “stop making it sound like the only worth in Gambia is some kind of trash ridden, dusty town with nothing to do. Stranded travelers? You make it sound like people get dumped off in the middle of nowhere.” We began our trip hopeful and full of excitement for being in a new country! We were Ana Fey and Faatu Sow, and we had Gambia at our fingertips!

The slow degradation of this dream began with our first day in Banjul. Katharina describes it as a “sleepy seaport” with its best features being the tourist markets, the ferry, fading colonial structures, and its enticing urban developments. Well. We’d had enough of the tourist markets in Senegal, had no interest in fading colonial structures, and aren’t really the types to be awed by urban developments (a new round-a-bout and arch…ooooo!). We spent the night in Banjul, and the best thing I can say about it was that it was quieter than Dakar, but the cost of that is, well, everything. Restaurants were hard to find (which we found was true all over Gambia), internet cafés perpetually closed long before their hours dictated, and to cap it off, it was bloody hot.

The people, however, are interesting. They call Gambia the “smiling country,” because it sits in the middle of Senegal like a tongue, and because the people are always helpful and, obviously, smiling. We found that people are amazingly willing to help you, if they are not trying to sell you something. If they are trying to sell you something, then you better keep your guard up because they will charge you 10x the normal amount without batting an eye, and tack on random, unnecessary charges if they feel they can get away with it. I say this not out of spite, but out of experience. If you are looking for a gelli-gelli, they will all say they are going your desired destination, but instead drop you off 5 km outside of town and leave you to find your own way in. Even if you agree on a price with a taxi, some drivers will find an excuse to raise the price en route. However, when you are not trying to buy something, they are extremely friendly and love to chat. Interestingly, and refreshingly different from Senegal, we had only a few confessions of love over the whole week, and no one asked for our number. In Senegal you practically need to beat them away with a bat, and just leaving the house means you will most likely have a guy try and chat you up at least once. One of Gambia’s highlights, however, was the people.

After an unremarkable dinner and hotel room, we set off the next morning for the “tourist town” of Serekunda. Our spirits were only slightly dulled after Banjul, and the book spoke more happily of Serekunda. After a rather delicious English breakfast, we threw ourselves into finding a small bus to Serekunda (which dropped us off in the wrong place, with a vague “walk that way, it’s not far” as a direction. Thanks.). We walked half a mile until we hit Serekunda, then found a taxi to take us to our hotel, since we had no idea where we were. (Street signs are a rare and precious thing, and at that moment, there were none in sight.) Our taximan, evidently, was on the same page as us. He had no idea where Praia Hotel was, even after stopping for directions three times, and looking at our map. There are only so many hotels in the area and this one was well-known. First bad sign of the day [Nervous, panic-ridden giggle]. We learned later that we were in fact in the right neighborhood to begin with, but our taximan drove all the way to the next town of Fajara because he misunderstood directions. We should have been in that taxi for 10 minutes max, but no, we were taken on a wild goose chase for the next half an hour. The hotel is in fact tucked into a residential neighborhood off the main market, and unless you live there, you could not find it. Thank you Katharina for recommending a hotel which is impossible to locate. Thank you very much.

Upon entering, we were given a room, and outside that room…were two oversized white turkeys. What’s the big deal, you might ask? Quincey is terrified of turkeys. And the odds of her only terror in life being right outside our bedroom door was just too much…

It was still the early afternoon when we arrived in Serekunda, so we decided to visit a Living Art Centre to kill some time. To tell the truth, it was absolutely beautiful. The man who owned the space turned his home into a huge botanical garden complete with a lovely orchid garden. Vines hung from the ceiling of the living room, and lengths of yellow cloth were draped in the trees. However when Quincey and I wandered to an “employee only” sign, we did not cross it, but merely stared beyond it. The barman wandered over and said, “please do no cross the rope, the last time a visitor went over there one of the dogs almost got them.” What the hell kind of botanical garden is guarded by a pack of vicious dogs?? When we returned downstairs, we did indeed see several huge mastiff/lion/bear mutts patrolling the fence. No big deal...I, too, vigorously defend my orchid territory…

Back at the hotel, we collapsed on the bed, tired after a day of traveling. We discovered the pad was so thin we could feel every coil of the mattress on our backs. We woke up sore in all the pressure points and had to do some yoga to feel something close to normal.

The next day we had breakfast in Fajara before beginning our journey into the interior of the Gambia. While eating and figuring out how we were going to get upland (since we never planned more than a few hours ahead), we looked up to see some familiar faces walk into the café. As fate would have it, our friends Alex and Claire walked in. They both go to University of Oregon with us, and we hadn’t seen them for a couple months. They had good stories, too. They were backpacking through Sierra Leone when Alex got sick with both Malaria and Typhoid; he was hospitalized for two days in Freetown. When he was ready to be released, he was given bill that was the equivalent of $1,500 and told that his IV wasn’t to be removed until he paid. The US embassy representative got it down to $400 but he still didn’t have they money, so they rep advised him to “quietly leave the hospital and let the insurance come through on its own.” So, he and his girlfriend removed his IV catheter by themselves and booked it out of the hospital before anyone could stop them. When we saw them in Fajara, the insurance has just gotten through. After that, on the whole, Quincey and I felt we were doing pretty well for ourselves.

We took a gelli-gelli (see Travel Guide 1: Choosing Transport and follow steps 1-8) from Fajara to Soma, which was 4 hours on terrible roads, in the middle seat of the bench so it had no back support, during Ramadan so we couldn’t eat, and with military checkpoints every 15 miles or so. At which point, all passengers had to present their ID to a soldier (and me, have my passport flipped through which held up the bus and extra 5 minutes each stop). We got off at Soma, which our dear Katharina described as “a dusty cross-roads with a small hotel for stranded travelers.” This is another instance in which the Guide Book is either your Bible or a Book of Lies. She was right, it is indeed a dusty cross-roads for stranded travelers and we now know what she meant…we were the stranded travelers! Oh Katharina, how we doubted you! Alas, though she was right about the dusty crossroads, all her references for food and internet cafés were all wrong/nonexistent. Now--Book of Lies. That evening we were buying bread for dinner when all of a sudden, so within about 10 minutes, the sky turned from afternoon sun (6 PM or so) so dark, black, and extremely scary. We look up: thunderstorm on the way… with the tell-tale strong wind that precedes any huge storm, and we still had a 15 minute walk back to our hotel. We booked it back, and about 5 minutes into our speed-walk, the lightening started in the not-so-far distance. The wind was whipping up dust and trash into the air as local people were grabbing goats, children, carts and running inside. All along the street iron door were being slammed shut and soon we were the only ones outside. We looked at each other [nervous, panic-ridden giggle], and sprinted for our hotel. It was probably one the scariest moments I’ve had… running for cover with dirt in my eyes, mouth, and nose while watching lighting strike a couple fields over. We reached the hotel right when the rain started, excellent timing.

A word on the hotels…Quincey and I had just come back from the Casamance, which was our real vacation, and during which we had spent a reasonable amount of money. This time, as mentioned above, we were trying to “cheap it up.” The hotels we chose were under the “budget” section of the book, and the most we paid for one night was 500 Dalasi, so about $18/night for two people. Saving that much enabled us to eat (when we actually could eat, we ended up skipping meals a lot when traveling because everyone else around us was fasting for Ramadan and it would be extremely rude to eat right in front of them) at some nice restaurants and pay for a boat trip later in the week. However, while we prided ourselves on saving, we definitely got what we paid for. Looking back at some of the pictures makes me realize how exhausted we truly were. Only after traveling all day and experiencing a deep desperation for a bed would’ve driven me to find these places cozy…which brings to mind Travel Guide # 2: Bug Check…

Travel Guide 2: Bug Check

Step 1: Choose crappy hotel from guidebook based on proximity to cool places to see/price/“amenities”/if breakfast is included.

Step 2: Commence journey to find hotel, make this the first thing you do when you get into town, since it could possibly take all morning.

Step 3: Get key and locate room. If necessary, protect travel companion from overlarge fowl.

Step 4: Before unlocking door, remove one shoe. If at night, keep flashlight at the ready. If you are a woman, tie back your hair as it will most likely impair your vision when you begin the Bug Check.

Step 5: Have one person unlock the door, while the person with the shoe slowly steps inside. Do not charge in, this may cause bugs to go into hiding, only to come out again when you are sleeping.

Step 6: Keep knees bent, shoe at the ready, and go on a wholesale killing spree of anything that moves. Crucial tip: have no mercy; it’s either you or them at this point, and the last thing you want is a cockroach as a bedmate.

Step 7: Person who unlocked door should follow behind cleaning up carcasses.

Step 8: Get over fear of creepy-crawlies as soon as you can, squealing will not kill bugs and ensure you sleep soundly.

For dinner we split some tapalaapa bread (delicious, thick bread only made in the countryside), broke into a can of fruit we’d brought, and drank some water. The night at Soma was one of the worst nights I have ever spent. Since it rained right before bedtime, and as the temperature climbed during the night, the humidity intensified as well. The storm had knocked out our power so there was no relief from a fan. Quincey and I probably slept about 5 hours, since with the heat and humidity, lying in bed was like lying in a pool of sweat and it was impossible to fall asleep. The next morning, we wasted no time taking a gelli-gelli to Janjangbureh and getting out of the hell-hole that was Soma, which was another 4 hours.

Once there, we checked our email and discovered that the camp we wanted to stay at was booked for the week. So instead of staying on Baboon Islands with the chimps, we decided to find a camp near town. Some locals showed us to a boat that would take us to Janjangbureh Camp, and we jumped on that, hoping our luck would begin to turn and we would have nice place to sleep. Luck!!! For once the guidebook was right-Janjangbureh Camp was cheap, but it was beautiful. The huts looked like they were part of the trees and monkeys had full run of the place. The camp pack of dogs quickly adopted us, and whenever we left our rooms, we always had at least 2-3 dogs with us. That evening, we were reading by the river trying to be patient for dinner. The day before we had skipped lunch due to travel and dinner was only some bread and fruit. That morning we had skipped breakfast and lunch because we were so desperate to leave Soma. Thus, come 6 PM, we were ravenous. Candles were lit on every table, and there were empty dishes in the buffet line. We were told dinner was to be: tomato soup, salad, spaghetti with tomato sauce, chicken yassa (google it, most delicious thing ever), and bushmeat. Bushmeat, we discovered, was not monkey (which is what we thought at first, and we looked around at the red kalabas on the tree next to us and said, “run!”) but actually wild pig from the jungle. Delicious. “Wow,” we thought, “that’s a lot of food for just us, a small Italian family, and the hotel staff…” We waited and waited, and were told we were waiting for “the others.” Ok. At around 8:30 PM, when Quincey and I were contemplating eating our arms because we were so hungry, our hotel manager cried, “here they are!!” and about 40 Dutch tourists tramped into the middle of our peaceful, candlelit evening. What. The hell. Thanks for the heads-up. Then we had to wait for them to find seats, yell at each other some more, and finally quiet down to hear about dinner. Quincey and I only had eyes for the tomato soup that was being set on the buffet line. When we were given the go, Q and I had made to the front of the line, served ourselves, returned to our seats and were eating by the time the women next to us were just starting to get up. I can’t really remember, it’s all kind of a haze of hunger, but there might have been an excessive use of elbows. After that we were more civilized, since the edge was taken off and we enjoyed some good conversation with the Dutch ladies next to us. That night after performing the ritualistic Bug Check, we slept in our circular hotel room, listening to thousands of African bugs, the squeaking of bats, and the occasional call of a monkey.

The next morning, I joined Quincey for breakfast by the river. I asked why there was a guy standing next to her holding a big stick and looking rather vigilant. She told me he was there to keep the monkeys away, because they tend to run onto the table and steal food. Apparently, one had already stuffed its face into our sugar bowl and no amount of yelling and arm-waving would make it go away-only a stick. Three times during breakfast a monkey would tempt fate and scamper across the table, stealing handfuls of tapalaapa.

The early afternoon was spent reading by the river, where a number of monitor lizards swam in front of me. They sunned themselves on the dock, and the biggest was about 3 feet long, including the tail. The camp dogs slept on and around my chair, and I wondered if one of them would fit in my backpack to take home with me.

At low tide, we hopped in the boat to go to Baboon Islands, desperate to see some hippos and chimpanzees. 3 hours there and 3 hours back. Q and I threw some cushions on the bow and we napped, read, or just watched the jungle slowly pass us as our boat crawled upriver. This trip made all the stress of traveling, all of our cursing sessions, and all of our frustrations worth it. The sun was out, it was ridiculously hot, but the boat made a perfect breeze, and sometimes a wave would come over the bow and soak us. For the first time, it was actually a vacation. We saw our hippos, four in all. They were small family that stuck close to the banks, and our boat driver made no effort to get too close since the group included a mother and a baby. We stayed about 30 feet away as they watched us, small ears flicking back and forth, before they sunk under the water and disappeared. The chimps were the best, though. We managed to get to Baboon Island around 5 PM, trying to hit the time when they would be at the rivers edge feeding. It was perfect; we saw an entire family in a tree that hung over the water. There were some babies and some adults, ranging from dark brown to black. When we got close, the driver killed the motor and for the first time all the noises of the jungle surrounded us and let me tell you, it was loud. There were calls from hundreds of birds in the trees, and chimp arguments echoed through the woods before spilling over the water. About 20 feet from the family of chimps, a group of baboons occupied a different tree. They were a lot more rambunctious, running up and down the tree chasing each other. On the boat ride back, we would see entire families perched at the top of coconut trees. There were so many baboons I was surprised the trees weren’t bending under the weight. We had been watching the chimps and baboons for about 15 minutes when our driver started getting a little antsy. “We should go before the Rangers come,” he said. Excuse me? What Rangers? There are Rangers? “Yes,” he said. “If we are caught here they will make us pay a fine.” Well. Thank you very much for not informing us of river Rangers that enforce the park boundaries and rights to the animals. By all means, let us go you lying, deceptive boatman. Despite feeling nervous about being caught by park officials, our return was just as peaceful, with a beautiful sunset over the river setting a fantastic finish on the day. Dinner that night was at a restaurant across the river, where we enjoyed a great conversation with a Swede, two Spanish tourists, and two German students. After that, another night-time boat ride across the river to our camp. Another instance of luck: the moon was full and perfectly reflected on the river.

The next morning Q and I hit the road again to begin the journey back to Dakar. I woke up not feeling so hot. I was nauseous, weak, and had weird chills. Sometimes I had a flash of a headache, but that would go away after a few minutes. Not good-they were all the signs of malaria. All I could do was think of Alex, how his bout of illness had turned out, and all I wanted was to get back to Dakar. My hope was to survive the next couple days as we travelled back…And oh, what a day this would be. We took short boat ride to the ferry in Janjangbureh, where we were told we could easily find a sept-place to Serekunda, where we could then find a taxi to Bakau. There were no sept-places to Serekunda, just to Barra, which would put us on the west coast but not on the right side of the river. We didn’t want to get to Barra and waste an hour on the Banjul ferry, then navigate Banjul to find a bus to Bakau. Serekunda was the more efficient route. We were told to cross the Janjangbureh ferry to find a sept-place to Serekunda. So we did. Even on this side of the river, nothing was going to Serekunda, however we were told to take a gelli-gelli to Bansang (farther east) and there we could easily find a sept-place to Serekunda. So we did, and it was a pack of lies. Once in Bansang, we were told to go to Sare Bojo (farther east) to find a sept-place. At this point, Q and I rebelled, concluded there were no sept-places, yelled at our “advisors,” and took an expensive taxi back to Janjangbureh. We planned to do the walk of shame and go back to the guys who wanted us to go to Barra in the first place, accepting that we were going to waste time after all on the Banjul ferry. While on the Janjangbureh ferry, a guy in a nice 4WD truck offered to take us to Farafenni for a pretty good price. We thought, what the hell, threw our bags in the bed of his truck (next to the live chicken tied to the side panel) and got inside. It was the most glorious ride we had in Banjul. Comfortable seats, leg room, the window down, speeding down the highway. It was awesome. I tried to ignore the speedometer though, as it was creeping up on 130 km/hr. I don’t know what that is in mi/hr but if felt like we were in a racecar. Once at Farafenni, our driver helped us find a sept-place to Barra for a good price. We changed cars, this time in a tiny backseat, our heads touching the ceiling of the car, and with a goat tied up behind our seat. It would let out intermittent screams just when we had gotten used to the quiet and scare the ever livin’ out of us. Once at Barra, we once again took the hour-long Banjul ferry, and found a bus to Bakau with the ease of seasoned transportation experts. We were Ana Fey and Faatu Sow, and we had conquered the roads of the Gambia. Our hotel in Bakau was only a means of us getting to the Kachikally Crocodile Pool to compete our animal pilgrimage. We had dinner at the nearest restaurant, which has some of the nicest staff we’ve met, and who were more than willing to sit with us in some nice evening conversation. My feelings of illness had not gone away, and eating was not appealing, since I felt like I would just see it again anyway. Quincey, the excellent travel partner that she is, made me eat and drink anyway.

The next morning I felt worse, fatigue had set in even more and eating sounded like the worst activity I could think of. However, once we were at the breakfast place, and I had ordered a basic bread/jam/tea combination, both Q and I polished it off. Ignoring my flares of illness, which were times when my head hurt, stomach cramped, and I felt so weak I couldn’t stand, we set out for Kachikally. Kachikally Pool is a crocodile pool in the middle of Bakau that is sacred to the local people. Crocodiles are symbols of fertility and strength, so if a woman is experiencing difficulties getting pregnant, she goes to pray and make an offering to the crocodiles. If it works, most of the children are named Kachikally. Sadly, I didn’t meet anyone named Kachikally. Anyway. Upon arrival, our taxi driver offered to wait while we walked through around the pool. We told him it wasn’t necessary, he persisted. Whatever, wait if you want taximan. Turns out his definition of “waiting” was to come with us on our little adventure, and he was actually rather creepy about it. The pool allegedly holds hundreds of crocodiles ranging in size and age. Since it was cloudy, all of them were in the pool. But a guy offered to tempt some out by throwing a dried fish on the ground. He had dropped it twice, waiting for heads to appear, when appear they did. We scanned the pool, and could see at least a dozen heads just above the water. Oh holy crap, whose idea was this again? Several started moving toward the edge of the pool, and finally a couple came out. Q and I pet one, it was given the fish, and it scampered back to the water. More heads were appearing as we walked around the edge. We decided it was time to leave when the edge of the pool (but just underwater still) was crowded with too many crocs to count. Success…animal trifecta completed!!

When the taximan dropped us off at our hotel, he told us that owed him 100 more dalasi for making him wait for us. We promptly threw a fit. 100 more dalasi for him to follow us around when we told him we didn’t need him to wait, without telling us he would charge us for waiting at all! Before you shake your finger at me, let me say that the process of agreeing on a price is always, always, always, agreed on before you do something. We agreed on a price for a taxi ride there and back, and nothing was mentioned about a charge for waiting. It was sneaky, it was against all the unspoken rules of bartering that I’ve ever encountered, and it was very low of him to tack on the charge if we didn’t talk about it beforehand. But, all things go, and we eventually got over it.

Now that Kachikally was completed, our whole purpose for being in the Gambia was complete. I felt I was on the cusp of a serious illness, and of our whole “vacation” we spent most of it en route to our goal, arguing with bus drivers, and in positions of extreme discomfort. We had only two nights in a decent bed, felt awful, and now saw Dakar as a sparkling place of truth and all thing wonderful. Quincey and I were ready to, in the great words of Dane Cook, bid that place fucking adieu. To make a long story short: caught a bus to Banjul, caught the ferry across the Gambian river, got a sept-place to the border, crossed border (and greet all our old friends in the Gambian immigration office, love them), short taxi ride from the border to the garage, got a sept-place to Dakar, then caught a taxi to my host-family’s home (in which time the taximan got lost despite my directions). We finally got home at 10 PM on Monday night. The whole day Q and I took turns being in charge because neither of us felt entirely “with it.” We were just so happy to be out of Banjul (sleepy seaport my foot, Katharina, more like dreary ghost-town) and out of the Gambia (Smiling Coast my foot, Katharina, more like the armpit of Senegal, with the exception of the parks). My family welcomed me home, and all I could do before bed was drink a water bottle with some Emergen-C and fall asleep. The next morning, of course, I felt like I could conquer the world. All nausea was gone, and only a little latent weakness remained. Of course I would feel better the moment I came home. Of course. To top it off, we got an email from the original Badi Mayo Camp owners, who told us it is now run by a money-grabbing American who doesn’t properly support the chimp rehabilitation project and overcharges for rooms. Thank God we didn’t end up staying there after all.

The beginning of the trip saw us eager for adventure, excited to leave Senegal and explore a different country. The end of our journey saw us crawling back Senegal, blessing all of our difficulties in language and cultural barriers because at least we were in a city with some pep to it. The adventure was great, I learned a lot, but now my travel bug has been momentarily quieted. My perspective on this year changed drastically. I am so lucky to be in this city, because I saw where I could be living, comfortable with the English language. Looking back on it, I think my body was simply reacting, not only to a new place, but so much meal skipping and traveling combined. Now, my host mom thinks I’m too skinny and is practically force-feeding me to regain my strength.  I love my family, I love Senegal, and I love being home.