DAD AND HOLLY—AKA “SURVIVING IN THE BUSH” 101
Only a week passed between
the visits of my mom and dad/stepmom. This trip was going to be interesting.
Dad, Holly, and I were planning on renting a 4x4 and testing our navigation,
translation, and family tolerance by traveling to Kedougou for one week. Our
goal was to hike the mountains, discover villages, and who knows? if we
happened to snuggle with a few lions, so be it. Their blog can be found at-- http://www.boehmbucketlist.blogspot.com/
– no doubt a different perspective will be interesting to read.
Day 1
They took the culture
shock pretty well. I was either getting better at guiding people around a
foreign country-or their having a partner in crime to share the newness with was
helpful. They, too, were picked up at the crack of dawn and subjected to taxi
drama. However, this time, we were only going about 10 minutes away to Plage N’Gor, specifically La Maison Abaka. We highly recommend
this hotel to any traveler stopping in Dakar. Its reasonable prices combined
with its homey atmosphere and family-like staff made Abaka a wonderful refuge at the end of an exhausting day.
We arrived in time to put our bags in the room, finally get some good hugs in, then head down for breakfast. The eating area of the hotel comprised of an indoor Moroccan-styled salon, and an open-air café that looked out on the beach, beautiful waters, prime surfing spots, and the lovely island of N’Gor. Yeah, we had a hard life.
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| View from the 3rd floor/roof |
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| Roof-top relaxation area |
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| Colorful laundry with a view of Île de N'Gor! |
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| View of the out-door café from our terrace |
We arrived in time to put our bags in the room, finally get some good hugs in, then head down for breakfast. The eating area of the hotel comprised of an indoor Moroccan-styled salon, and an open-air café that looked out on the beach, beautiful waters, prime surfing spots, and the lovely island of N’Gor. Yeah, we had a hard life.
Breakfasts at this hotel
were gifts from some kind of higher power:
· Coffee or tea
· local juice
· 3 different kinds of breads-a piece of
baguette, a croissant, and some kind of sweetbread.
· Butter!
· Jam!!
· Honey!!!
· AND cheese!!!
Considering that my
breakfast is usually a plain baguette with Nescafé instant coffee, this was the
high life, and I intended to take advantage of that fact. My father, forever
the optimist, made sure to bring up bacon, eggs, sausage, pancakes, wholesome oatmeal, fruit, and real
coffee in conversation every morning. I haven’t eaten bacon, eggs (breakfast style), or sausage
for 7 months, no pancakes for 3 months, and real coffee is only obtained
through generous care packages. Back home breakfast was my favorite meal of the
day, and the French idea of the petite dejuner
is enthusiastically accepted in Senegal--emphasis on the petite. It’s funny how my caring and compassionate father’s
insistence to bring up American breakfast foods made me semi-homicidal. However, was usually
I able to get distracted by one of the many resident cats/dogs and pretend
like my heart wasn’t breaking whenever he mentioned it. Jerk.
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| Maison Abaka's other resident pets. :) |
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| Including the temperamental, cat-hating pelican... |
That first day, I knew
that they would be tired from flying all night, so the best thing for them was
a long walk and semi-calm atmosphere. Solution! A stroll around the Parque d’Hann,
an island of green in the
dusty streets of Dakar. This small nature reserve consists of a large
artificial lake, some developing botanical gardens, Dakar’s only zoo
(animal
rights nightmare), and a small area of protected forest areas. We wanted
to
skip the zoo, so we just wandered the botanical garden, then continued
to
stroll around the artificial lake. We ran across a very bougie
equestrian club,
where French ex-pats were grooming, riding, and pampering beautifully
expensive horses. This horse oasis in the middle of the city was
definitely reverse culture shock for me. The walk around the lake was
about an hour and
a half, and it was nice to be outside without hearing the constant
traffic of
Dakar or breathe the petrochemical discharge in the air.
Now, I highly suggest that you read their blog. Because as attentive as I tried to be to their needs, that lovely morning walk did not show up until I looked over their rough draft and reminded them that it had even happened. Not that I’m bitter, it was only a great morning together that apparently didn’t seem worth mentioning. Though looking back, they just might have been staggering a little with exhaustion...and yes, there might have been some difficulty with walking in straight lines-but still!
Now, I highly suggest that you read their blog. Because as attentive as I tried to be to their needs, that lovely morning walk did not show up until I looked over their rough draft and reminded them that it had even happened. Not that I’m bitter, it was only a great morning together that apparently didn’t seem worth mentioning. Though looking back, they just might have been staggering a little with exhaustion...and yes, there might have been some difficulty with walking in straight lines-but still!
We had lunch that day at l’Institute Français. It’s a really
sweet café located on the grounds of the French cultural institute-the sight of
concerts, movie screenings, libraries, an art gallery, and a study center. We
had a tasty lunch and left the restaurant to return to the hotel. However we
had to walk several blocks away before finding a taxi. It was Friday, and
hundreds of men spread prayer mats in the street to pray. Finding places to put
our feet was difficult, but we squeezed our way out of the crowd. The prayer
boomed across the neighborhood, and was echoed by several mosques in the same
area.
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| En route to Gorée |
Day 2
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| Gorée Harbor |
“Rachel, Rachel, this man has my fucking shoe. Rachel. Help me.”
To which I could do nothing but demand, “why did you give him your shoe?!” His response was simply classic.
“I don’t think I really had a choice!”
At that point, neither Holly or I could do anything but laugh at his demise. In what situation was that shoe literally taken off his foot? Unlikely as it was, the young man was now “repairing” a rip in his shoe, which we aren’t entirely sure was there in the first place. His stitches were neat and even. His work was done despite the small crowd of young men which surrounded him-telling us that we needed to pay him for his impromptu services and trying to convince me that my 2 week old shoes had a tear in them as well.
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| Results of Dad's shoe fix |
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| Stolen shoe! lol |
A french man was sitting near us in the café and laughing at the proceedings. Whenever we asked the show sewer how much it should be-he insisted that it merely came from the heart...which his friends interpreted as about CFA5,000...and which the kind French man told us should be about CFA2,000. We gladly handed the young man CFA2,000 and he didn't seem offended. Dad got his shoe back, with a very nice line of stitches, just as the French man was taking his leave. He wished us a pleasant afternoon, and we responded through our tears of laughter. The jewelry vendor, who was still sitting with us, and still trying to get us to buy things was no so friendly.
"Fuck off!" she said in a voice just quiet enough to not be heard by the retreated man. This did nothing but send us back into a fit of hysterics. After that, we had to purchase a few key chains, just because her spunk was admirable.
That evening, I decided to take my parents to my favorite Ethiopian restaurant. It is situated, as previously detailed somewhere in this blog, down an ally, up some stairs, on the roof, and generally makes you feel like you are eating dinner on a friend's rooftop terrace.This evening, however, it was unusually lively, with someone operating a large c.d. player, most tables were filled and the buffet line long. I asked for a menu, but was told that tonight it was just the buffet. The owner swept over and welcomed us to their Orthodox Christian Christmas celebration.
"All the Ethiopians in Dakar come to my restaurant for Christmas!" She said happily. She insisted that we were not intruding, and told us to grab plates and join the line. It was really fun to watch the other guests as they greeted each other, and even if it was the first time they had met, the obvious pleasure in meeting someone from their country was great to see. Dinner was delicious, as always at that restaurant, but we didn't leave until about 11 PM.
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| Marché HLM |
This day was relaxed, at least for me. I took Dad and Holly to Marché HLM-the fabric market of Dakar. Every first time in HLM is overwhelming, there is no way around it. Streets are uneven and dusty, people are shouting, and the colors of the fabrics are visually overstimulating. Holly managed some really great pictures, which I feel no aversion to stealing. We were looking for some fabric to make Dad an African print, button-down shirt, which I expected him to wear with pride when he got home. On our walk out, Holly said she wanted a henna tattoo, and HLM is the place to do it. However, henna tattoo stands are nothing more than a serious of benches along the road. The waxaale process is always hard-since they claim that white skin requires a more expensive type of henna, and their work is always the best and therefore more expensive. They also invariably draw a "gift," which ends up costing about CFA500 extra. So, to have two white women walk up to these benches is like having lambs walk up to a pride of lions, so to speak. They usually try and take your hand and start drawing, bickering about prices as they go. But I kept tugging Holly's hand back and settled on a price before he began. This did not stop him from complaining about it, and of course, all the surrounding women had to add their two cents as well. Just to make things more complicated, the discovery that I spoke Wolof (always a plus in the price negotiation department) set the surrounding men to discover my life story. I had to use my "overprotective and very strict" parents to get out of invitations to several houses for lunch.
After our henna adventure, we set off back to the airport to get the 4x4 Dad rented for a week. Tomorrow.. the adventure continues to Tambacounda!
Day 4
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| Sheep cargo |
Traffic off the peninsula was crammed, as usual. It took us an hour and a half just to get out of the city and the surrounding urban expansion. I realized that this trip marked a big step for me. I had now existed this peninsula by every means possible: sept-place taxi, ndieye-ndieye bus, public city bus, privately contracted tour bus, and finally a rented 4x4 vehicle. I don't know why this is a big deal, but it felt like a big deal at the time.
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| Dad in Senegal.. aka.. hold on the "oh shit!" handle |
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| The average road-block |
Immediately Dad and I were laughing until our stomachs hurt, while Holly sat in back-and I'm pretty sure she was muttering curses directed mostly at Dad's evasive maneuvering. Dad was ecstatic. Apparently, narrowly avoiding cement trucks and goats was a Bucket List item. "Honey! I'm driving in Senegal!" was repeated, on average, every 30 minutes.
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| Fellow adventurers! |
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| Small village on the way to Tamba |
We ended up arriving in Tamba an hour or so after dark. I had a map of the city, with only 3 of of the main roads drawn, and was given the responsibility to find our hotel. I hadn't been to this town before, but I found the hotel without getting lost. (Seeing as there are 4 main roads which all meet at a central rond-pointe, it's wasn't entirely complicated.)
The hotel itself was average- clean despite chipping paint with door that looked like the last occupants had kicked in the door handle. Upon entering, we found that the double bed had a single red light bulb over top...awkward mood lighting...
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| Busted door... so classy |
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| Mood lighting... doubly classy |
One thing I have discovered about traveling with my parents, is that our bodies are adapted to a very different climate. It hits 70 degrees, and I pull on a jacket. For them, anything over 60 degrees has them taking off their jacket. Every night, if our hotel had air conditioning, they would crank it up. If I was lucky, our beds had a blanket. But Tamba was a night of suffering. AC on, no blanket...I thought my toes were turning blue. Me, I had two pairs of socks on, pants, fleece jacket and was using my long wrap skirt as a blanket as I curled into the fetal position. I think my parents like to see me suffer in arctic conditions.
Day 5
Breakfast was, according to me, lavish. Butter and Jam accompanied our baguettes and tea/coffee. Mmm! I was so happy. Dad, however, was muttering to himself about empty calories and insufficient morning boosts. I patted him on the hand. When in Rome, Dad, when in Rome.
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| The landscape |
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| Local women between Tamba/Kedougou |
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| Impressive load for...one donkey... |
The drive to Kedougou was a lot more entertaining for this leg of the journey. The highway was in good condition until we reached the border of the Nikola-Koba National Park. Dad screamed past a border guard doing over 100 km/hour, and after seeing a pissed-off glare from the guard, I told him to turn back. The guard lectured us about safe driving, and to pay attention to animals which might cross the road that went straight through the park. He had half a mind to give us a ticket, but after I started speaking Wolof, telling him that we were Americans, he was much happier.
"I don't really want to give you a ticket, the paperwork is too tedious. But I will radio to my colleague on the other end of the road to look out for you. Just look out for animals and drive slow-you were driving dangerously fast. By the way, give a ride to this man, here. He is getting off in a village not far from here." He gave us a look that said quite clearly that we didn't really have a choice in the matter-and threw the mans belongings in the bed of our truck. The man who hopped in back didn't speak French or Wolof, so my communication skills were pretty useless. The policeman waved us on, and we continued on at about 60 km/hour, with Holly and I lecturing Dad if he started inch over our self-assigned speed limit. Not 5 minutes later, a sept-place passed us going at least 90-100 km/hour. Dad glared at me, and I tried to repair the situation.
"We're looking out for wildlife and being respectful of park rules." I told him after a second, trying not to make eye contact.
30 minutes later...
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| First monkey sighting! |
"What's that in the road?" Monkeys! Success! Animals spotted! The troupe of small calabas monkeys were mostly off the road by the time we got close, but we did manage to see a warthog and another small group of baboons. After about an hour, we decided we could let the speed creep up to 80 km/hour, since animals were scarce. We kept passing signs that said, Attention! Animaux savages! or Danger! or Prudence! But this wasn't exactly the Great Rift Valley- and there wasn't a risk of a herd of wildebeest crossing the road.
Our hitchhiker tapped on the side of the truck when he wanted to get out. We stopped, and he stared speaking to me in an unfamiliar language. I tried to tell him that I had no idea which village this was, and did not know where the one he needed was. A man came up to our truck, and seemed to have better luck communicating with him. Apparently the required village was farther down the road. We thanked the helpful local man, and kept going. About half an hour later, the highway ended. Or I should say, the paved highway that we were allowed to drive on ended. This highway was visually expanding, and in the meantime, cars were directed off the pavement and onto a red dirt road which ran parallel to the new construction. Dad was pretty stoked to, as he put it, get the truck dirty. Sometimes we were forced behind large transport trucks, and the red dirt kicked up from their wheels obliterated all visibility until we risked a relatively flat and straight stretch of road to pass them.
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| Good-bye paved highway! |
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| Hello dirt highway! |
We finally found the village that our hitchhiker was looking for, and after talking briefly with another helpful local, we discovered that he was looking for work at the gold mine in the town. That sobered us up, but we wished him good luck (if he understood what we were trying to say) and set off again.
We arrived in Kedougou in the afternoon, but had no idea how to get to our hotel. There was no map, and all I knew was that it was located somewhere in town, right on the Gambia river. We had passed the Gambia river on our way in, about an hour ago, and I thought I remembered it flowing to the right. So I asked Dad to continue down the main road, and when it curved to the right, my hunch was correct. I spotted a sign of a hotel that I knew was across the street from the hotel we were looking for. So we headed in that direction, and after a slight left turn across a soccer field, I saw the sign over the gate: Hôtel le Bedik. BAM!! FLAWLESS!
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| Relaxation 101 |
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| Hotel le Bedik |
We reserved a triple room, and got extremely busy relaxing by the pool, catching up on journals, and hiring a guide for our 4 day stay. Holly, however, loved it here. The rooms were bungalow style, clean and spacious. The pool was surrounded by plants and huge eucalyptus trees-making the breeze sound musical. The restaurant at the hotel had a fantastic, friendly staff and great food, with a west-facing terrace that over looked the Gambia river, a small field, trees stretching into the distance, and fantastic sunsets. It was actually rather flawless, and I admit that Holly was not the only one totally enchanted. We did a quick reassessment of funds and decided to stay an extra day.
The kicker for me: the beds had blankets! So Holly and Dad happily cranked up the air conditioning at night.
Day 6
Our hired guide was named Mamadou Alpha DIALLO. He was pretty young, maybe in his mid 20s, and came from a small village past Dindafello, near the border of Guinea-Bissau. We discovered that he was an awesome local guide, so here is his contact info, since I know people will want to travel here:
(221) 77-771-1800
(221) 77-998-5171
email: alphadiallo50@yahoo.fr
He met us at the hotel at 8:30 AM, and we took our 4x4. Dad, once again, was stoked about the day of dirty roads in terrible condition that awaited us. Mamadou didn't speak English, so I was translator to a degree which I had never before experienced. It definitely tested my limits of the French and Wolof languages, as well as my patience. Sometimes I had to ask him to explain something in different way because I didn't understand it. Sometimes I would understand what he said, but got so wrapped up in paying attention to him, that I would forget the English words that were necessary to explain it right. Sometimes it didn't translate at all, and I had to find a way to explain it instead. I know I used words, in the rush of translating, that were more like French words spoken with an English accent. Most of the time, they were close enough, but sometimes the word existed in English but didn't flow right. But Dad and Holly were pretty patient with me, even if by the end of the day I was mentally exhausted and slightly grumpy. Translating was really important to me. I wanted Dad and Holly to have a great experience and learn a lot, and I felt like it was my fault if something came out wrong. So much pressure!
However, Mamadou did speak French, Spanish, Wolof, Pul (Fulani), Bassari, and a little Bedik. So, in the grand scheme of the things, my language skills were nothing. After learning that the regions surrounding Kedougou are outside the lingua franca regions that used Wolof as the uniting language, I asked Mamadou to teach me some Pul. I could no longer assume that people would understand Wolof, and I hated not being able to at least say "thank you" to people. Holly and I kept a notebook for writing down new vocabulary, but our progress was slow throughout the 3 days.
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| Beginning the morning to Dindafello |
That first morning, we stopped in town just long enough to get a snack supply, before we headed out to Dindafello, where we were to hike out to a 100 m waterfall. En route, we noticed people standing by the road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. More hitchhikers. It seemed as though it was the norm for whoever was passing to pick up people, since the ndieye-ndieyes didn't come by every day, and never on time. We quickly felt guilty with our empty truck bed, and stopped for a group of women. The yelled with excitement, and threw their things in the back of the truck. Dad drove carefully so they wouldn't get bounced out, and we took them 3 villages down the road to the wedding they were attending. It was funny to hear them chatting and laughing in the back of the truck.
It was at this point of the drive that Mamadou informed us that some of the Bedik people were taken from the region of Kedougou to be forced into the slave trade. We found out that gorée means farewell. This enlightening fact made the Island of Gorée more striking and horrible to think about it.
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| Ancient tree used for traditional medicines |
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| Dad loved the termite mounds |
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| Almost there... |
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| Fearless explorer! |
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| Dindafello |
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| Simply stunning |
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| I was back there! (COLD!) |
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| Bucket list: hike back to an African waterfall: check! |
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| Walk back: laundry day |
After our picnic, we headed back. The walk was refreshing and I was happy to warm up again after the freezing water. When we were maybe half a kilometer from the village, we heard baboons fighting in the trees, about 50 yards away from us. We didn't see anything besides vague shapes between branches, but it was still really cool to know they were so close.
On the drive home, we caught site of some men in masks in one of the villages. Mamadou told us to stop and go back, and the masked man ran at the car. He didn't seem very upset by it, but told us too hunt around for some change to give as an offering. After we gave a little money, we were invited to see a part of the ceremony that was going on. After assuring us that we were not intruding or being impolite, they escorted us into the village. We respected their request to not take pictures, however. The masks were made from millet stalks woven together. They entirely covered the head, shoulders, and upper chest. A baton was used for various purposes-dancing, and later, chasing people. They wore dry grass skirts. They chanted in high, unnatural voices and ran around a group of women and older girls who were gathered in a circle under a tree. 4 younger girls stood by, holding staffs and dressed in white robes. Their hair was braided with beads, and their staffs had beaded protection amulets bundled at the time. We stood and watched until the 4 young girls were led away. Then masked men started screamed and chasing the women gathered under the tree, threatening to hit them with a small switch. The village was empty in mere moments as everyone fled, laughing hysterically. Mamadou told us it was over. According to him, this was the initiation, perhaps a pre-circumcision ceremony for the 4 young girls. The masked men go around to houses in the village, asking for gifts-usually in the form of money. When it is all collected, it goes to a village elder who, from what I understand, will divide that money among the initiated girls. Or, perhaps he mean their families. One of the masked men was the village chief. We were very lucky to have seen that ceremony. Foreigners usually are not invited to them, and we passed it purely by chance.
We spent the rest of the late afternoon eating and resting-something we're very good at.
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| Chill time! |
Day 7
Our second day of hiking saw us getting up at 7 AM and in the car by 7:30. It was so cold I borrowed Holly's wool beanie and gloves, and wore my fleece sweatshirt. Dad and Holly were in long-sleeved shirts. It was freezing, a crisp and sunny 60 degrees.
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| Village in "the bush.." |
We drove for 3 hours, 95 km on terrible rutted roads. Dad tried to find a pattern to the bumps and decided that they were at the top and bottom of every hill, around corners, on straight-aways, in the sun and in the shade. Basically...everywhere. Holly and I were in the back seat-since Dad was driving and Mamadou needed to give directions. The backseat is definitely where the bumps were felt, and Holly and I felt like we'd been tossed around in a dryer machine for 3 hours. Hello back pain!
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| A nice portion of the road |
Our hitchhiker situation was becoming a norm, and Dad was pretty generous with his passenger load. Once, we stopped for a mother and her son. We put the bike in back, and noticed that the little boy's foot and heal were badly wounded. His mom said that his foot had been run over by a bike tire. The skin was pulled down at the heel, and across his foot. We washed off the wound with clean water, and dropped him and his mom off at the next small Poste de Santé (basically a shack with medical supplies). We gathered a small crowd-tubaabs helping a local! Always worth a stare, I guess.
The last 10 km were off the main dirt track, and straight into the hills. Dad had fun with the 4x4 capabilities and we got to hear stories of his off-roading experiences while living in Colorado. "This is nothing. " He would say, as Holly and I clutched at the back of the seats in front of us.
Our destination was the Bassari village of Ethiolo. We arrived in the village campement and got treated to a history of the local people from the seemingly drunk village chief. Mamadou kept trying to escort him out of the conference hut, but the man refused. The Bassari, it seemed, originated from Guinea-Bissau. Their religion was animism. After settling in the mountains of Kedougou, another ethnic group, the Muslim Pulaar, came to the village to try and convert the Bassari to Islam. Refusal and retaliation meant death. Or at least, that is how he described it. Our guide, Mamadou, was Pulaar, and the old chief kept shooting him dirty looks.
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| Campement hut |
"Now," he said. "There are Muslims in the village. They built a mosque, and a man can't get any sleep around here. 5 AM every morning and they are shouting their prayers and waking us all up." He pretended to try and hit Mamadou, or maybe he wasn't pretending and it was the alcohol that we smelled on his breath that affected his aim. Mamadou took it well, however, and led us on the next part of our tour: the souvenirs. The villagers had spread their souvenirs on the ground in the village square: beaded belts, necklaces and gourds. Carved flutes and statues. Even, I shit you not, a penis sheath, in case a man needed to cap his penis like a pen. Duly noted.
From the souvenirs, we finally left for our hike. It took us up the mountain to some old dwellings and a sacred hut overlooking the valley. I wanted to look in, but women were not allowed to see inside. But from the path I saw movement in the hut-and 2 large steers were laying down in the hut. Ok. Women were not allowed in, but cows are? Cool.
We got a confusing explanation of how the village was organized. It seems as though, in the past, people were split up according age groups. Different huts meant different stages of development. Until marriage, it looked like boys and girls all lived together until they hit puberty, where they were then moved according to sex. After marriage, they were to build their own huts. Marriages occurred somewhere around the mid 20s, and usually they were marriages of love with the parents approval.
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| Village Health Center |
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| Following our local guides |
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| Village! |
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| Kids! |
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| Village well |
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| Hitchhikers having a discussion |
We picked up hitch-hikers on the way to the campement where we had reserved our dinner. The meal was delicious, especially after a long day of hiking and translating. We had just finished, and settling down to enjoy our cold drinks, when we heard screaming from a few huts over. People started running to wells and gathering buckets. Smoke rose from a nearby hut, and saw flames rise as well. Everyone in the café split and ran like hell into the village. Holly and I grabbed the nearest bucket and headed for the well with a few other women. It took nearly 45 minutes for the fire to be put out. Various methods were employed to smother the flames. The constant stream of people from various wells kept up the water supply. Men were inside, all around, and on top of the hut. They threw buckets of water from inside the hut into the thatch, but as a it barely penetrated the first layer, a sign of water-tight thatching. Some of the men on top of the hut rolled over/kicked the flames, while still others poured water over the burning spots. But the fire had already worked into the thatch, so rather than let it smoulder, they started ripping the thatch from the huts wooden frame. As air circulated in the straw, new fires would erupt from the thatch, which sometimes engulfed some men on top of the roof. Between the water drenching the support beams, and the fire eating away at them as well, I was waiting for the weight of the men on the roof to be too much. The first support beam snapped about half and hour into the drama, and the man in question fell nearly 9 feet onto the floor of the hut. This happened several other times before the fire was completely put out. The result was all the thatch in a ruined heap around the hut, and a completely collapsed roof structure. The family was devastated, and once we found our buckets of water would be of no use, the fire gone, we retreated back to the restaurant area to give the family space. We didn't ask for change for the meal when we payed-asking for the difference to be given to the family. We talked to a local man and he said it would take about 2 weeks to redo the thatch, if all the necessary materials could be found. The fire was probably started by electrical wiring strung in the roof of the hut. It was sobering to drive away that evening, knowing the destruction that we left behind-even though we had done what we could to help.
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| The results of the electrical fire... |
Day 8
This day we hiked to the village of Iwo. After a 22 km drive to the base of the Bassari Mountains, the hike was only 1.5 miles to the top. The village of Ethiowar has a view of the entire valley and the mountain range leading to Guinea-Bissau. We got the history of the village inhabitants from our tour guide, but also from the village chief, Jean-Baptiste. I will tell the history when I get to the meeting we had in his hut.
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| Mountain view |
The village felt like it had been frozen in time. The 1.5 mile trek up the mountain doesn't really make development an easy task, and the view of the valley and mountains made it seem like we were on top of the world. Some village inhabitants had pierced noses and bright necklaces, and some women had shells braided into their hair, despite our distance from the ocean.
When we entered the village, we encountered an extremely old woman, using a walking stick to help her get down the dusty path. She had tears on her cheeks, and gave an angry tirade to our guide. A couple young local men from the village had joined us, and I asked them what was happening. They told me that she was angry because her grandson had left for a school in Tambacounda. Her tears were heartbreaking to see, as she demanded to know what could possibly come of abandoning one's ancestral village. Apparently education doesn't hold the same importance for her, not when her whole life has been spent in a small village, and in happiness.
We continued to walk through the village. We came to the collective conclusion that we didn't like doing this. We didn't want to seem like we were just bull-dozing our way into their village with no respect for their daily lives. What must we have seemed like to them? The random white tourists who take pictures of their homes and of their families. Do they pity us and our lack of respect? And yet we brought gifts for the village, nuts and bon-bons for the kids. We are paying local guides-which in turn gives an income for local people. We are supporting a community, but it hardly seems like that gave us the right to tramp through their village. Yet, from our perspective, they live fascinating lives far from our materialistic obsessions. They have ancestral connections and an identity that we can't begin to define. Our differences are interesting to us, and we do not think ourselves better than them.
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| Woman from Iwo (Mamadou took this picture) |
Mamadou led us through the village to the house of the chief, Jean-Baptiste. Here, we turned a corner and ran smack into 3 young white men. And they spoke English, nonetheless. They were 3 British film/music students doing a documentary about Bassari/Bedik music and ceremonies. They had lugged all their film supplies-cameras, and other recording equipment-plus their heavy ruck sacks up the mountain we had just climbed. They were then privy to a post-circumcision ceremony and were allowed to film most of it. Jean-Baptiste had given them permission to film in the village, and in exchange they were going to stock the small medial shack built and abandoned by a Spanish NGO several years before. Though they are still in the early stages of their project, their website (to be up and running soon) is: www.recordingafrica.com . In the meantime, their facebook is: www.facebook.com/recordingafrica .
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| Me and the local guides! Next Adventure! |
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| Iwo |
After speaking with them briefly, we headed in to see the incredibly hospitable Jean-Baptiste. He was born in the village, and a member of the ruling Keita family. The other families in the village all have a specific role. The Cameras and the Sambaras (I'm pretty sure) who organize holidays and celebrations, and a fourth family (whose name I couldn't pronounce) whose responsibility is was to make the ceremonial garments. The total population was 523 people.
The people of Iwo originally came from Mali. They migrated to the mountains of Senegal in the 9th Century to escape an ethnic war. When they finally settled their livelihood was centered around cotton cultivation and a grain much like cous-cous. Their village lore is centered around the sacred Baobab tree. Part of me has to wonder how much of this story is true and how much of it was meant for our tourist ears. But anyway. There is a sacred baobab tree in the center of the village. In the base of its roots, all the past chiefs of Iwo are buried. So much so that the soil around the tree is pushing up. All ceremonies are conducted around the tree, dancing, singing and drumming. Jean-Baptiste told us the story of when his father tried to cut the tree. When a branch was severed, the tree cried out like a human in pain. When he cut into the trunk, he realized it was too big to do in one day. 3 days later his father fell ill.
Then he told us the story of the Diablo. (Which is "devil" in Spanish...) He told us that the Diablo used to live in some nearby caves, and was the spirit incarnation of an old village chief who risked his life to defend his people from a rival king from Guinea-Bissau. After the war, he was the only soldier left on both sides, and committed his soul to protecting his people. The villagers knew he resided in the nearby caves, but foreigners didn't believe them. An unspecified number of years passed. A pair of white tourists came to the village and wanted to see the caves. Not heeding the warning of the villagers, they went to find the caves. Two days later they emerged with no clothes and all their belongings lost. The villagers saw immediately that they were mad, but gave them clothes and told them to leave the village.
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| Iwo |
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| School house |
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| Dancin' kids |
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| Waa Iwo (Iwo people) |
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| Huge baobab-23 meters in circ |
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| Playin' |
We thanked Jean-Baptiste for his knowledge, and chatted for a while longer with the English filmmakers. It was an interesting conversation triangle. We spoke English with the filmmakers, and French with Jean-Baptiste. However, none of the English men could speak French, so they spoke Spanish with Jean-Baptiste and their guide. Jean-Baptiste and the guides spoke a mixture of Bedik and Pul. What a confusion. But still fun to listen to all the languages swirling around the hut.
We continued through the village and to the sacred Baobab, where a couple kids got attached to our small group. One of the young local guides, who was about my age that joined us at the beginning of the day, had hardly left my side throughout the whole morning. His comments were getting dangerously close to my marital status, to which I firmly declared that I was happily married with 2 kids. It had no effect. We concluded our tour of the village and started down the mountain. The young man was behind Holly on the trail-and just to be sure he knew I wasn't interested, I would sprint up to hike closer to Dad. This had no effect, either.
"I don't know, Rach, you might be 5 goats away from having a new husband."
Jerk. No help whatsoever.
The day finished smoothly, with no fires this time. We watched the sun set from the terrace of the restaurant, and I finally convinced Dad to let me drive for a leg of the return journey.
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| Back down the mountain |
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| Reception party at the end of the trail |
Day 9
This was our designated Day of Relaxation and Stress Management. We are very good at this, if I do say so myself. We had laundry done, we journal-ed, and Dad and Holly worked on their version of their blog. Or rather. Holly wrote it while Dad threw out comments he wish to be quoted on. Good partnership.
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| Day of Relaxation photos: laundry by the Gambian River |
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| Day of Relaxation: View from the Terrace |
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| Day of Relaxation: workin'! |
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| Day of Relaxation: Sunset 1 |
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| Day of Relaxation: Sunset 2 |
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| Day of Relaxation: Finally getting a picture of the local doves. So cute! |
Day 10
In the morning we got up at (for the sake of writing dramatics)... dawn. We had our early breakfast and I got in into the drivers seat of our much-abused 4x4. Dad and Holly strapped themselves in, and if we were Catholic, they probably would have crossed themselves for a little extra attention from a higher power. Putting yourself at the mercy of a 20 year old who hadn't driven in nearly 7 months is a brave thing. If the 7 month time span hadn't been important, it would be my first driving experience off any established roads. It was bound to be an adventure. Luckily for them, I own a stick shift back home, so they only had to worry about outside obstacles-such as semi trucks on very dusty roads-rather than my ability to drive.
Finally having control of a motor vehicle was fabulous. I've been subject to erratic taxi drivers and car rapide drivers who have never experienced a fully functional steering column, let alone new brakes, for the last 7 months. I was finally in control of my destiny. At least, that's how it felt at the time.
There was only once instance in which I had them grabbing the "oh shit!" handles (that was actually my fault). I thought I had the perimeters of the truck all figured out. Because all good drivers need to "know the car's perimeters"-as my father called it. This phrase was up there with other necessities of life, such as "stick to the plan," "situational awareness," and other memos for life he picked up in Korea and beyond. The dirt road was riddled with pot holes, being the farthest point on that Route Nationale. I saw a patch of potholes ahead, and thought I could simply go right over them, since they didn't seem as wide as the truck. But no. BAM!! I hit of them squarely in a maneuver that jarred our teeth and set our heads ringing.
"HOLY SHIT RACHEL!" Dad yelled.
"Sorry! Sorry! I thought I would just go over them!"
"This is Rachel's way of hitting pot-holes! 'Fuck the sons of bitches! I'll get 'em both!'" Thanks for that one, Holly.
But in my opinion, the pot hole incident was balanced by the deep sand/low visibility/big truck incident. Sections of the road were basically pits of fine, orange sand. Any vehicular traffic kicked up dust which obscured all visibility for about 10 ft in front of the car. We hit several of these sections, and I could feel the tension rolling off my parents, as Dad sat forward from the back seat and Holly gripped the door next to me. Yeesh. You would think I was slamming into potholes at every turn. Where was the confidence, people? Cars in front of us would pass through the dusty road and thus reduce our visibility to basically nothing. You couldn't even see which direction the road was heading, or indeed where the road was, since the ground and sky were both a dull orange. I reduced my speed in the event of on-coming traffic, but going too slow would have gotten us stuck in the deep sand. Dad and Holly loudly told me to put in in second gear before a catastrophe happened. However, despite their worry of oncoming traffic (which I wasn't close to hitting in the cloud of obscuring dust) and the road (which I stayed on without difficulty), we survived to hit the clean pavement that took us to the edge of Nikola Koba National Park.
See? Crisis avoided! And I finally drove in Senegal!
We pulled off the main highway at the town of Dar Salaam. This is the gateway to the bush, where our next destination, Simenti, is known as the hotel "the deepest into the Senegalese bush." How can we resist a place with a reputation like that!?
Dad took over the wheel at Dar Salaam, where we hired a mandatory park guide for the duration of our stay there. The 32 km to the hotel were a little grueling. The guidebook was not lying when it said we would be deep in the bush, and Holly and I's heads hit the ceiling of the car several times as Dad maneuvered his way down the "road."
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| View from Hotel Simenti |
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| Hotel Simenti's resident monkeys |
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| I love monkeys.. |
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| Croc!! |
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| Hotel Simenti dining area |
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| Hotel Simenti |
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| Dad tearin' up the bush |
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| Pumba! |
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| Hippo tracks |
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| Antelope, warthogs, baboons, guinea fowl... all in one water hole! |
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| Bridge made by an American film company.... years ago.... |
We spent the evening watching the Kenya-Senegal soccer game with all the staff of the hotel, as well as the resident outpost of soldiers, in the semi-outdoor eating area. (The power was out, but they run the generator specifically for the TV.) I started to get invested in the AfroCup of Nations after our vacation, but I'm pretty sure this marked Senegal's downward slide. Most of their subsequent matches were lost 2-1. On the final of the AfroCup of Nations, I was sitting in the living room surrounded by my host-mom, grandmother, and about 5 aunts. They knew more about Zambia and Côte d'Ivoire soccer teams than my boyfriend does about the Lakers. Which says a lot. However, my host-mother and I spent most of the time admiring/making fun of the Côte d'Ivoirian head coach. Look him up, he's painfully French.
But! Back to Simenti. We discovered that the electricity supply of the hotel had a schedule. It comes on at 1900-2300H, followed by a brief flash at 0700. It wasn't so bad. The staff pumped water to our hut, and the water had enough time to heat. Showers were thus luke-warm with poor pressure, but it was better than nothing. Thank the lord that the power went off at 2300H, because then Dad and Holly couldn't crank up the AC to arctic temperatures that night. Finally got a nights sleep without dreaming of blizzards.
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| Dawn over the Gambia River, Hotel Simenti |
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| Dawn over Nikola Koba |
We were up before dawn once again, and got a great view the rising sun over the river during breakfast. We missed the hippos moving from their sleeping spots on land to the river, but we did see huge ripples whenever a nose was stuck up for air.
We drove back to Dar Salaam, and en route we got a detailed account of how our guide saw the various foreigners that he's had to work with.
The French: they are always friendly at first, and will greatly expound of the beauties of nature. They agree to all prices at the beginning of a transaction, but by they end they act like the world is falling around their ears when they are asked to pay. "Do we look like Americans? For you to be giving us these prices?" They insist. There is also the subtle but consistent message that they are superior.
The Spanish/Italians: these two are lumped in the same category, simple because his only complaint is that they talk too quickly and never understands what they say. He claims that he is guaranteed a head-ache after an hour with Spanish/Italians because of their incessant chatter. However, he did agree that they were nice, if only he knew what they were saying.
The Germans: A very serious lot. No matter what they see, their stoic faces never act surprised or phased. They pay their fees and move on, without hassle or drama.
The Americans: always come to the bush acting like hiking is their new profession. They have all the things to mark them as seasoned bush trekkers-everything except experience. GPSs, clothes, binoculars, you name it. They are the well-equipped amateurs who are nice, despite trying to commandeer the expertise.
After two days of dealing with my translations-he said I occupied several of these stereotypes at once. I spoke rapidly like an Italian-almost enough to give him a headache, but I was undeniably American, but I related to him like a Senegalese. He was quite confused.
But we parted ways on good terms, and we continued on to Popenguine. We stopped for lunch at a small resto in Kaolack, which I'm sure ended up giving Holly some kind of food poisoning-the kitchen would have made a sanitary inspector pass out. But it was delicious.
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| Beach puppy. :) |
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| Sundowners, candied peanuts.. and a vendor.. |
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| Evening stroll with the donkey |
It wasn't until later that night that they struck. Our hotel avoided the coastal breezes due to the fact that it was tucked between two small hills a little back from the ocean. Our room lacked a fan, or an air conditioner. I gloated over the warm room before we slept, and was cursing it by about midnight. The warm temperature and lack of breeze meant that mosquitoes flourished here year round. That lovely and quaint mosquito net was over Dad and Holly's bed, but not mine. They quickly brought it down, only managing to catch a few of the little bastards in there with them. I, however, was caught in the middle of WWIII. Dad and Holly did, to their credit, invite me under the mosquito net, too. But the lack of air conditioning/fan meant that the room was roughly 85 degrees. What with their complaining of the "heat" all week, I didn't think I could make them suffer by adding another body to the double bed they shared, since I knew that it must have felt like 110 degrees to them. I managed to keep most of my body under the covers and wrap my upper body and face in a scarf. This meant that the temperature around my head increased by 20 degrees as I breathed, and whenever I would get close to sleep the scarf would slip and the little flying fuckers would swoop in like a trained battalion of paratroopers to attack any exposed skin. Sleep was impossible for any of us. The heat made it hard for my parents to sleep and poor Holly was running the gauntlet between the bed and the bathroom as she dealt with her mysterious African stomach sickness. It was the longest night of my life, as I tossed and turned. None of slept, and we kept a miserable commentary throughout the night.
"Jesus, it's like the fucking Mongol horde!" Holly exclaimed.
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| Sunrise at Popenguine.. |
The sun eventually rose, and we left the hotel room as soon as we could see where we were walking. We emerged feeling like we were given a new chance at life. The stroll on the beach was refreshing and gave a chance for the mosquitoes to crawl back to wherever they hid. By the time we had returned, and ate breakfast they were gone. The evidence of our all-night struggle was seen in the blood streaks all across the sheets and along the wall where we had managed to kill some. It was definitely carnage after a long battle. We renamed the hotel the Azkaban of Popenguine...
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| Freed from Azkaban |
The final two days were spent in Dakar, in the same hotel as when we arrived. We visited the fabric market again to pick up a few last gifts for people back home. It was much less of a shock for Dad and Holly, even though Dad managed to take out a guy on a moped as he opened up a taxi door. Interestingly, the moped man smiled at Dad, and didn't seem phased. The whole crowd of witnesses started yelling at the taxi man, who parked in the way of foot traffic. No one blamed Dad, and when the taxi man tried to point to him, implying it was his fault, several men pushed the taxi man away and told us we didn't need to stick around. They were so nice about it, even though Dad clearly should have looked before he door-checked a moving moped.
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| Marché HLM |
We caught up on journals and Dad and Holly's blog, as well as generally absorbed the surfer-chill atmosphere of the hotel. On our last day, a batch of world-class surfers came to compete in some kind of competition-or possibly it was to just surf and hang out. Either way, breakfast buzz consisted of surfing and all the top names in the business. Senegal's surf champion was present, as well as a young Australian champion and their photographer friends. It was interesting to hear them chat about their lifestyles.
I wasn't ready for my parents to leave, spending time with them is always fun, and we work well together. They are great travel companions-easy going and always ready for an adventure. It was an unforgettable two weeks, throughout our adventures in the bush and checking off items from our bucket lists. Despite not being able to see them for over half a year, being with them felt like no time had passed at all. But watching them leave was incredibly difficult, because my sense of home left with them. We cheered each other up with the knowledge that our next reunion would be in Venice, Italy in just 4 months. That's no time at all.
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| Return to the Maison Abaka |
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