Sunday November 9, 2008
In Pursuit of Cheese
It is interesting how a two month cheese deprivation can lead you on an extended adventure. A friend of Dan Combs, Brian Alexander, told Dan that there is a place in the Gambia that has some pretty incredible pizza. It is not just pizza that is incredible to the cheese deprived, but also to any casual pizza joint frequenter or brick oven aficionado. This pizza has even earned the respect of the Fall 2007 St. Mary’s group in the Gambia to the extent that they enjoyed it on Thanksgiving. That’s sure an internationalist perspective, or rather a confusion of cuisine identities to celebrate Thanksgiving at an Italian establishment in West Africa.
I must say, I really am quite fond of Gambian food, and I am a big fan of seafood which is cheap and plentiful here. If you were anti-fish in this country there is a good chance you would be anti-eat, unless you live in our compound, where fish is served only once or twice a week, if at all. Gambian food is also full of flavor which is very important in any good dish. There are some American foods that I miss, but generally, at least for a few months anyway, I welcome a departure from the food of North America.
With that in mind though, there comes a time in the life of every American living away from the land of dairy, when a period of cheese withdrawal hits. If there is anything I miss about the States, it is cheese. I don’t miss the processed, hydrogenated, preservative laden, diabetes causing, laboratory concocted excuse for food that is called American cheese or Cheese Whip, but a grilled cheese on whole wheat toast with Velveeta might be kind of good right now. Velveeta is just as bad as American cheese and canned cheese, I suppose, but I have to ask why any Cheese God –fearing American would put cheese substitute that comes from a pressurized can on a cracker and then attempt to eat it. I can’t be too snide or critical about fake cheese, because I have family and friends who have fallen into the trap, but really it should be avoided at all costs.
Real cheese is the creation of the heavens. When it is coupled with tomatoes, onions, peppers and spices, crisp crackers, tortilla chips or even French onion soup it something otherworldly, but a good cheese can always be enjoyed alone.
In the height of a cheese craze, Dan and I took a taxi towards Cape Point near Bakau in search of the ultimate pizza in the Gambia. We drove past a junction in the road, and like a beacon that was calling me, I caught in the corner of my eye a sign that said Italian Connection. The driver turned around and took us down the road to a truly fantastic Italian restaurant.
We got out of the car and walked through the entrance that led into a court yard. It looked as if there should have been tables set up for outside seating, but they were not yet there. To the left there was a raised covered tile patio surrounded by white metal work. The place looked very nice, but very closed. Shortly after walking in, a man with a thick Italian accent named Danilo gave us a warm welcome and assured us that he was open. Immediately he asked us if we were Peace Corps Volunteers. Apparently we give off that vibe much more than the trashy European tourist vibe, or maybe it’s that there aren’t North American tourists here. We explained that we were students and in a sense associated with Peace Corps and he asked “who sent you.” That could be construed as kind of a peculiar way to ask where the good word spread about his restaurant, as if we were spies trying to appropriate his top cheese secrets. His warm welcome assured us that he didn’t think we were spies or something of that nature.
He took us around back through a compound that I assume was his personal residence, within the walls of the restaurant. We then went into the back through the kitchen and he led us into the dining room. Without hesitation he asked us about our victory with Obama. His attitude suggested that he had a complete disillusionment with politics, and he asked if we had gotten any richer because Obama was elected. We assured him that we hadn’t yet, but hopefully change would come. There were tables set that were covered in nice white linens, lending to a very classy setting. I might say that it was reminiscent of Italy and the proprietor would probably take that as a huge compliment, but unfortunately I have never been to Italy.
Dan and I sat down to a table on the patio and the owner introduced himself. We were the only customers of the afternoon, so throughout the meal Danilo checked in on us when he wasn’t in the kitchen. He sat us, waited on us and cooked for us. He brought us out two well designed posh looking menus and drink lists. I barely had a chance to look at the menu before he asked if we knew what we wanted. We must have been deciding to slowly, or he must have been reading our minds, because he asked if the menu was too expensive for us. It was indeed a bit pricy, and he returned with a take away menu for us to order from. The options were fewer, but nothing was spared in the quality of the food.
We ordered 2 small pizzas and split them. It was more than enough for both of us, but we didn’t need encouragement to finish it. We ordered the Pizza Siciliana and a Pizza Rustica. The Siciliana was made with tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, ham, aubergine (eggplant), black olives, oregano and hot chillies. The Rustica was adorned with salami, green peppers, black olives, mozzarella and oregano. Both were baked in what I imagine to be a wood stove oven, based on the taste.
A few minutes after taking our order Danilo returned with our drinks and his hands covered in flour, a telling fact that the dough was good and fresh. The pizzas were superb. Although I am cheese deprived and anything reminiscent of cheese makes something taste good, I am confident that this is some of the best pizza I have ever had. Danilo said to tell our friends to come to his restaurant, so that is what I am doing. If you are ever in the Gambia and you have the desire to eat some genuine Italian food, then go see Danilo at the Italian Connnection.
Although the food was good, I don’t know why some tourists would seek out an excellent Italian restaurant while vacationing in West Africa. If I was a European tourist I might want to eat local food, but instead many flock to European cuisine, never leaving their comfort zones. The majority of the nice restaurants serve either European or Chinese food, and in addition the majority of the patrons to these places are either foreigners or elite Gambians. I went there because it was time for some cheese after over two months, but those who come for a short stay should explore some new tastes.
The Birkenstock Factor
Birkenstocks are for suburban hippies. They are also for the outdoor type that claims no allegiance to any label. They are also for the people who claim that claiming no allegiance to any label is in itself a label. They are for ex hippies and musicians and college students and trend following New Yorkers and cardigan sweater wearers and stock brokers, kayakers, folk musicians, teachers and anyone who likes wool socks. They are for anyone who likes their comfort and support. They are for anyone who lives an active or outdoor lifestyle, pretends to, or would like to. They are also for the lazy slob. Really when it comes down to it, when the nomadic way of life hits, they are for anyone, even if it is just for fashion.
Birkenstocks are not however for rock climbing, boulder traversing, wave evading, cliff descending, seafaring or beach walking. They are particularly not for beach walking when the beach at hand involves rock climbing, boulder traversing, wave evading while on boulders and cliff descending all in the same outing. That task is for a Teva, Chaco, or a generic non water fearing flip flop.
I wore Birkenstocks to lunch at the Italian Connection, but I claim no allegiance or association to any of the above foot talk, nor do I know the source of the writing.
The sandals served me well on the walk from the Italian connection to three quarters of the way to Anna’s Sand Plover and then all the way back for Dan’s pack of fags and then back to Sand Plover. A word about cigarettes. In the Gambia and I suppose in England you don’t smoke a cigarette, you smoke a fag. You don’t smell like cigarettes, you stink of fags. I don’t think telling someone that they stink of fags in the USA would go over so well. If you don’t believe me, try it out someday. The experiment might work best somewhere in the South, or maybe in Texas.
This is the proper time to stop and take a bite of cheese, as long as it does not have artificial coloring. This is also an excuse for me to not come up with a proper transition between the previous paragraph and the next. I bit of cheese might suit you better.
The day of our lunch and beach walk was Sunday. We were doing work at the house, and the plan was to return after lunch to continue our studies, but GMT has a way of taking over. This is not the Greenwich Mean Time but the far more accurate Gambia Maybe Time. I prefer the later. It is nice to operate without planning something out and have an adventure sporadically emerge just because it can. It emerges precisely because there was nothing planned, and in fact any type of planning structured around the traditional GMT is at arms with the sporadic and freeing nature of Gambia Maybe Time. Maybe instead of Yoga classes and self-help books there should be Gambia Maybe Time lectures. Maybe someone could make a lot of money off of a self help book about Gambia Maybe Time philosophy. Unfortunately, the regimented publishing schedule of such a book and the sales and distribution and then finding time to read the book would in fact quarrel with the very meaning of Gambia Maybe. The author of the book would be labeled a time heretic.
If someone must write a book about this philosophy let it be written in some abstract setting and deposited on some beach where someone walking barefoot picks it up and learns the way. Really the purpose of this digression is to say that Gambia Maybe Time must not be taught but it must be lived. It can be lived by experiencing it or by experiencing others living it. It is not just found in the Gambia, but it is also the GMT of many places and people who don’t want to be anywhere particularly quickly. Those who live the GMT life should, if they are true wayfarers, like the trip just as much as the destination. That is also the difference between power boaters and sailors. Sailors enjoy the sail, but power boaters are in too much of a fuel burning frenzy to take pleasure in the trip. The illustrious and illusive destination is always in sight. With a prejudice towards the sailor philosophy, Dan and I ended up going on a few hour beach walk in the direction of Fajara.
As I mentioned before, after Dan retrieved his cancer sticks our journey began at Sand Plover. Sand Plover is a nice casual unassuming beach restaurant on the protected side of a peninsula. There is along rickety board walk over a marsh to get to the restaurant and beach, and once there, you can sit at a table with a sand floor. Dan and I enjoyed a Julbrew and then got on our way.
After passing some beach front mangroves, we walked south past some tourists and resorts and stopped at a resort with a Hobbie Cat out in front. We stopped there to inspect the vessel and then saw that there was a Laser as well and inside some windsurfing gear. We talked to the guy working there and worked out a deal for when we return. The tourists get to pay tourist prices. We get to pay college student prices. It is Monday afternoon as I sit here and write this, and in an hour or two I hope to be on the water. We thanked the guy and said that we would return in a few days. I am going back this afternoon, but Dan has to do something bogus and trivial like school work.
The decision was made to walk all the way to Fajara on the beach. We soon made it past Cape Point, where we had been before, and realized that the next big portion of the walk would not be barefoot sand between the toes beach walk. We ventured away from the sandy beach and onto the sand stone boulders (called laterite) cramped between the cliff above and the crashing sea to our right.
It was really pretty amazing to hike atop the monstrous red boulders with waves crashing beneath and around us. It is also one of the safest things I have ever done in my life. Whoever said that there was no rock climbing in the Gambia was mistaken. Some bumster in training (i.e. a young bumster) decided that he wanted to accompany us. When he found out that we were to walk on the boulders he decided that he would volunteer to be our guide. It’s too bad for him we didn’t need one. He was quiet enough and nice enough, and out of our business enough that we let him walk ahead of us on our way.
Taking the time to stop and look at the surroundings brought a breathtaking view; cliffs to both sides with the surf crashing on rocks below. The only catch was that we were on the rocks below. The setting was reminiscent of Northern California, only there were palm and coconut trees lining the cliffs and warm water.
For all of this I had my Birkenstocks on, as I thought we were only going to eat pizza. The shoes fared me well through the first set of rock crossings, although they were a touch slippery on the dusty or wet rocks. My other flip flops would have been a better choice. Eventually we made it past the rocks and to some resort. They had built a raised concrete bulkhead well above the surf and filled it will sand. We scaled the bulkhead and saw old European tourists with flabby skin in bikinis and Speedos. The place was kind of strange, a raised up beach with a little beach bar and a restaurant and hotel rooms further up the cliff. We stopped for a drink, and our bumster accomplice finally decided to leave us.
The place also had drums for sale and batiks and other tourist goods in these shops set up at the hotel. I guess they were supposed to appeal to the tourists, so that they would never have to leave their hotel, but the place was really very strange and tacky. Hopefully the tourists were getting ripped off, if they think that a resort run craft market is a good place to buy “authentic” African goods. After chatting with a worker and the bar tender for a while and agreeing with them that the scantily clad wrinkly Europeans were quite disgusting, we continued our excursion.
Rather than continue through the cliffs, we walked up through the resort. The place was nice, but the decorations were very strange and the pool was outlandish as well. There was a pool bar in the center and some sleazy looking people relaxing on chaise lounges. If I ever want a swimming pool though, I might go back. They would probably never question that I wasn’t a guest, but the unfortunate reality is that it is just because of my skin color, not because I am sleazy. In fact I am not sleazy, but if I was I might fit in there better.
On our way out through the lobby we saw four young blonde women, who I assume were from Holland based on their accents. They were complaining about their guide not showing up or something. Dan and I decided that we could be their guide and be white bumsters, but again we are not that sleazy.
We diverted our walk to the main road for a short time, and then turned down to a construction site overlooking the ocean where beach houses were being built. The security guards told us that we could get to the beach from there, so we tried. After following one path through the brush and corn stalks growing on the cliff, we came to a dead end…literally, if you were to jump. Some kind of nettle or something made my legs all itchy, but after turning back from the edge, we kept going. We were walking along the cliff and some security guards from some building came out from behind a fence and asked us where we were going. After greeting them in Wolof they showed us the way to a path to get down to the water and the boulders below.
It looked risky, an eroding cliff with rocks at the bottom. It wouldn’t be too bad in the States where there is health care, but here it could have been a bad choice. I found it funny that Dan was the voice of reason or fear suggesting that it might not be a good idea, but I insisted that it was. I led the way down the face, remembering the many times of my childhood that I had down climbed Cunningham Falls. Cunningham Falls is much longer and steeper, only it doesn’t have the whole loose sand thing. We made it down safely and continued our walk.
We walked on sand for a while, which allowed me to take off my shoes for again. Soon, though we were on the rocks. We met a man surf fishing, so I asked him “Naka jen bi?” He answered, “Jen bi baax na.” The fish were good. He had a great place to fish, isolated from most people due to the terrain. The beach and rocks gradually became littered with all kinds of beautiful small shells, including a few cowries. It’s really unfortunate that I didn’t have my camera with me for all of this, but when you are going to lunch on GMT, you don’t plan things ahead.
With the cliffs above it seemed that we were in some isolated region because the buildings above us couldn’t be seen from below. As we neared Fajara, the tide kept coming in closer and closer. I began a rock hoping campaign between waves and in the sandy areas, a sprinting operation to the next piece of high ground when the surf subsided. It was successful for a while, but eventually my Birkenstocks got wet. I guess it was time for them to get broken in, courtesy of the East side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Our hike finally ended in Fajara, our old home beach, where Dan joined the Sunday night beach rugby game. I went back home to start writing this blog. My Birkenstocks were sufficiently wet and sandy. That is the way they should be in the end I guess. Otherwise they would just be like any other pair of Birkenstocks in suburbia. But these sandals are different. They are rock crawling, ocean evading, water worthy continent hoping Birks.
It’s good to have a lunch that turns into an adventure. It’s also good to have non hypocritical Birkenstocks, although all Birkenstocks will forever be cliché. Abandon your sense of time. Throw your dress shoes into the ocean and your day planner into a bonfire, and your lunch might turn into a beach cliff walk too.
Don’t work too hard and eat lots of cheese, but avoid the canned stuff.
Be beneen yoon. (Until next time)
Nathan
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Beaches Beyond
November 2, 2008
Jeffery Nutt Hankins once suggested that I go for a walk on the beach. It is not hard to convince me to do something like that. For those who don’t know Nutt, he is a crazy wind surfer type and a friend of mine, which might make him a bit more nuts. He was here in the Gambia during Renee’s first stay in the Spring of 2007.
About a month ago I was chatting with Jeff on the internet about the state of the universe and he suggested that I walk on the beach from Tujereng to Sanyang with Kartong in mind as my final destination. Tujereng to Sanyang is a lesuirly but hot and long day’s walk, and it is another meandering day from Sanyang to Kartong. Without much thought I decided that it was essential for me to walk the beach, so I set out to do just that.
On Saturday night I sporadically decided that Sunday would be the first day of the walk. I had previously alerted my housemates of my plans, but on the eve of the journey I had no takers. Fortunately, I know of some other people who also think that walking all day long on the beach in the hot Gambian sun is a good idea. I quickly called Ebrima Tunkara and Paul Correa from my Environmental Management class, and they quickly agreed that the journey was necessary to our well beings. Ebrima and Paul are kindred spirits in that they seem to enjoy an adventure, a long walk, and the outdoors. Maybe they just like to wander aimlessly. I think I would do that if I could. But they are not aimless. If they were aimless, then I might have to call them wayfarers, but they wouldn’t be of the wayward variety. Wayward wayfarers are a fine breed at the end of the day, though.
It is my experience that aimlessness is not the style of science majors, although it is important to keep in mind that Nutt is a bio major. He might have what one could call a determined yet abstractly planned and resolute aimlessness. In the end, however, not all who wander are lost (that’s the title of a Chris Thile album, but I am not putting it in quotes, because I don’t know if he can truly lay claim to the phrase).
It was agreed upon that the expedition would start from my compound at 9am the next morning. I hailed a cab, or rather Jamie called Esa and spoke with him in French, and he came to pick us up. While I packed my internal frame pack with water for the journey, and sun shit for my white boy skin, Ebrima negotiated the rates while we waited for Paul.
It turns out that we could have taken a van all the way out to Tujereng but for some reason I wasn’t thinking about that. Esa gave a very good rate, although because of the distance of our trip, it was still pricy.
In the interim, Ebrima and I walked down the street to buy our fuel for the day to accompany the coolant that was already in the boot of the taxi. We ordered three tapalapa ak nen ak pomputeer ak Jumbo ak mayonnaise. Unrefrigerated hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, warm Gambian mayonnaise and Jumbo (an Old Bay like seasoning that makes everything taste better) on a long piece of Gambian tapalapa bread. Food for the soul. It is important to note that eggs in their raw form or hard boiled form do not need be refrigerated. Nor does mayonnaise, especially when it’s the sort pumped up with some kind of preservative that I’d rather not know about. This is definitely the filling meal of choice though for a long journey.
Soon after Paul arrived we were on our way, or so I thought. In the States, life seems to be instantaneous; everything functions or is supposed to function in an on demand fashion that overlooks the importance of conversation, relationships, greetings, relaxation and walking. Although I lived on an island all summer, and I operate on Island Time and now sometimes on Gambian Maybe Time, there is still a little bit of that American impatience breeding inside of my system. Maybe the tap water will kill it. You should be able to get transportation anywhere anytime you want it, right? You a very wrong my impatient friends. Get in your car and drive somewhere very rapidly and ignore the scenery on the way if you demand punctuality. Contrarily, if you are of the sort who kind of appreciates the concept that time is theoretical and not to be regimented, then go for a walk with nowhere in particular in mind, or come to the Gambia. I have become a fan of this way of thinking. Or rather, I would like to think that I always have been a fan, but I remain a fan. I know that to truly absorb myself in this concept of time could haunt me in the paved road reality in the land of Wal-Marts. But then again I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.
We left by around 9:30 although the driver had been waiting since 9, and after about a 5 minute drive from the house the fan belt on the engine went out. Esa drove us to find a friend who could match his price or come close, but his friend wasn’t around. Instead we found a driver who said 500 Delasis ($25) for the trip, but we eventually got him down to 350. Given the price of diesel burning in an old Mercedes-Benz and the distance we had to cover, the driver said it would cost him around 200 just in fuel.
Mr. Cab Man drove us out past the traffic light and past the nauseating attraction of Senegambia and into the countryside. After about a 30 minute drive…before finishing this sentence the Gambia in me must interject. It is a truly Western concept to quantify the amount of time it takes to get from one place to another. Any trip on any road should be variable, and in fact usually is. In addition, the time frame of 30 minutes is just an estimation from my feeble mind; an evaluation of ticking that comes from 19 years of training in an all too regimented society. Anyway, after a while we arrived in Tujereng, and Paul and the driver asked a local how to get to the beach. After some back tracking and couple more stops to ask directions in Wolof and the driver’s complaints in Wolof about the amount of fuel he was wasting, we turned off the main road.
Do you hear banjo music? The ominous kind that sounds festive at first but eventually turns into the sounds of nightmares past and yet to come. Do you hear it? Paddle faster. Do you hear it? I hear banjo music. Paddle faster, faster, faster.
Do you hear it? I sure don’t. That’s for West Virginia my friends, and Deliverance, not a tropical beach on the Smiling Coast of Africa. The driver navigated the Mercedes down a single lane sand road through bushes and palm trees, beeping every time we came to a curve in the road, because there was no way of seeing an oncoming vehicle. The road would have given quiche eating, SUV driving soccer moms and dads indigestion, but in the Gambia where football is football and not a bunch of overgrown men in body armor, sand roads have a special relationship with rear wheel drive cars.
We came to a clearing in the bush and heard the soft crash of the Atlantic Ocean on the white beach ahead. The three of us got out of the car, and I made sure to sniff the sea air, something that I have been trained to do every time I get out of the air conditioned car upon my arrival in Hatteras. It doesn’t hit you quite as strongly here when everything smells of fish, and your olfactory senses are not sheltered by the confines of air conditioning, but there is always something special about sea air.
I put my frame pack on my back, paid the driver and the three of us walked down to the beach. I quickly removed my shirt and drenched myself in Coppertone, while my dark skinned accomplices got themselves into beachwear. They didn’t need Coppertone. After loading their shirts and long pants (shorts are preferred on beaches of course) into my bag we began our walk south.
The beach was gorgeous. To the north we could see a group of fisherman pushing a boat up out of the surf and onto some timber. They rolled the boat on top of tree trunks onto higher ground, or rather higher sand. Although there were people to the north, there was not a building in sight to the north or south. There is nothing like the beauty of an undeveloped beach.
As we turned south we were immediately bombarded by a multi-ton amoeba of flesh, bones and hide. There was a herd of long horn cattle making their way towards us, with the cowboy meandering behind. I think if I was a cowboy and I had the choice I would walk my cattle on the beach side too. Even if you don’t like the ocean, it serves as a nice big road to transport the beasts from one grazing area to another. By the way, they are not really long horn cattle, they have long horns, but they are of a different variety. They are of the N’Dama variety to be exact, originating from the Fouta-Djallon highlands of Guinea. And I don’t think that a herd of cows here in the Gambia calls their master a cowboy, but for the sake of the combinations of letters you are processing, they are.
Paul, Ebrima and I walked for a while enjoying each others company and the splendor of the coconut tree lined beach that went on for thousands of miles south of us. The shoreline was peppered with Pyramidellidae or pyramid shells of all colors and sizes, and occasionally we would stumble upon some other type of sea life, living or dead (I think that that is the kind of shell from my research online. The shell is pointy and can be found on the beaches of the Atlantic in the Americas too).
Paul is a 28 year old teacher studying at the university with a knack for telling stories, and telling us about the trials and tribulations of whatever creature he comes across. I am 19 year old kayak tour guide, with a knack for telling tourists about marine eco-systems, I have an obsession of all things aquatic, and a fascination with meaningless bits of information. I’m sure that between Paul and I we would be enough to either annoy someone who would prefer to walk down the beach oblivious to their surroundings, or impress some silk shirt wearing tourist or weekend naturalist. Ebrima didn’t seem to mind us anyway.
We found the back of squid, a dead lady fish, a dead blue crab, various types of coral, and lots of ghost crabs peeping out of their holes. Paul remarked that Americans must call ghost crabs ghost crabs because they are so clever that they hide like phantoms whenever a passerby thinks about looking at them. According to Paul, ghost crabs to Gambians are just a generic land crab. But then of course there must be a distinction between the fiddler crab that frequents the river bed and marsh, and the ghost crab. I’m sure there is one, but Paul didn’t know it. There was also a typical medley of scallop and clam shells on the beach with the occasional conch thrown in. Eventually we found a natural sponge, and we broke it open. There were baby star fish moving around inside of it, and realizing that the sponge was nursery school, and bad things happen to people who destroy nursery schools, we put the sponge back in the ocean. Its tough work to walk on a beautiful undeveloped beach, but someone has to do it.
Sometime in the midst of all the pseudo marine biology talk that we were engaging in, we came to a hut built on the beach. We walked into it, and it had some kind of make shift counter top, a table carved out of drift wood, and a day bed (minus the mattress) in the center. The shack was small and open to the sea breeze; the perfect abode to transform into a surf shanty. A large tree stood watch next to it on the beach. It is the kind of place where any beach bum would be content to spend the rest of his days.
Despite all the splendor and beauty of the beach in between Tujereng and Sanyang we eventually came to a pipe. This pipe popped up out of the sand before going into the ocean. I don’t know whether the builders of the conduit intended it to be seen or not, but it was obvious that something was being dumped into the ocean. Whether it was runoff, sewer or some kind of chemical, the beach in that area was littered with a fair share of dead blue crabs. I really enjoy eating crabs, but I wasn’t very hungry for those.
For much of the trek we had been walking towards a sandy point in the distance, stopping every now and then to wade in the water. I also tried my hand at teaching Ebrima to swim and Paul to swim a little bit better. Floating is the key to swimming. Remember that. There is not much of a beach culture here, so not many people can swim. There are those that can, I would hope the fishermen can, but the number of human fish in this country is limited.
As we rounded the point we came to an idyllic cove where the crash of the ocean turned into a tranquil haven. The point was caressed with palms and an army of prickly pear cacti. Some of the fruits on the cacti were pink and ripe, so I showed Ebrima and Paul the joys of a fruit growing atop a porcupine. We all managed to get a few small hair-like needles in our hands as we peeled the fruits. In no time at all our hands appeared to be covered in blood. The deep red and staining juice of the fruit flowed out all over our hands as we ate the contents of the fruit, sucking the flesh off of the small cacti seeds. It was really a quite refreshing venture, although I think my hands would be forever red if I indulged in the fruit too often. As we were doing this, some lighter skin person passed on a four-wheeler. I’m sure we were quite the sight with our bloody hands.
Further on down the cove there were two sets of rock outcroppings with a smooth sandy beach in between. We took a rest here to relax, and continued the swimming lessons. On the land side of this exquisiteness were a few thatch roofed buildings and a hut, sheltering a large group of Lebanese Gambians enjoying their Sunday afternoon. Their Mercedes SUVs and other luxury vehicles were parked behind the structures. There were some older veiled women praying, lots of people in the water, and a fair share of men smoking hookah. From the looks of things the Lebanese here were a mix of Christian and Muslim. I went up to the hut to order a Coca-Cola which they told me who cost 20 Delasis. I told them that I would pay 15. Then they told me that they were selling fish benechin for 80, which sounded good, but I had already had my potato sandwich. 80 Delasis is a lot of money for benechin anyway. I greeted them and ordered my drink in Wolof. One of the guys behind the bar started laughing and making fun of his friend in Mandinka and then explained to me in English that I know more Wolof than his friend.
After another dip, we walked further down the beach and made it to the fish market on the beach of Sanyang. There we met Ebrima’s sister’s husband’s brother. Gambians would refer to a relative of that sort as an uncle or brother. Due to his age he was an uncle. He is a fisherman out of Sanyang, and Ebrima hoped to get some free fish out of him. He had yet to be out fishing for the day and was going out that evening so Ebrima was out of luck. There were all kinds of fish in the market, including lots and lots of skates.
Apparently skate tastes pretty good. It is similar to shark, which I have had, but I don’t recall ever eating skate. For those of you who frequent cheap seafood restaurants with buffets of frozen seafood and overcooked vegetables, you have probably eaten skate. Cheap restaurants in the States tend to take shark or skate spines, and cut them up and tell you that you are eating scallops. If you didn’t notice I don’t feel bad for you. Gambians know about fresh seafood. 85% of the seafood in the USA is imported. Americans don’t know about fresh seafood, unless you’re a Hatterasman. Then you know fresh seafood and you know not to go to Dirty Dicks, unless you think fresh is frozen fish caught from the Sysco food truck at 7:30 in the morning. Sorry naive tourists. I don’t feel bad for you either.
After smelling some fish for a while, we went to the beach for another swim, and then we joined some of the locals to kick a football back and forth. Eventually there were enough of us to play a small game of post football. Four other Gambians (the ones with the ball) and a young guy from Holland working at a clinic in Sanyang joined us for the game. After we were sufficiently exhausted we headed back to the market to find transportation home.
The three of us hoped into the back of a miniature Renault four by four. It was one of those old little utilitarian car/trucks that in town are usually used to deliver bread. This one had two side facing wooden benches built in to take people from the market to town. From Sanyang we went to a car park and caught a gelleh gelleh into Birkama. Gelleh gellehs are these big vans that are trying to pass for buses that can have chickens and goats along for the ride as well. They are generally these old Mercedes buses with raised suspensions and roaring diesel engines packed with twenty some people and a big pile of luggage on the roof. They are often also decorated with bright colors. Bright pink, green and yellow usually make the things sufficiently flashy. This one fit the description in every way except for the bright colors. Instead it was forest green. How plain of them.
From Birkama we took a smaller van into Westfield, and back to our respective homes. For each person the transportation back was 22 Delasis, plus a 50 Delasis ride from the market to Sanyang. Much more reasonable than a town trip. I learned my lesson.
It was a long walk, and an exhausting day, but well worth it. There is nothing like being a wandering wayfarer. I quite enjoy it. The beach is calling me. I must return for another adventure another day. If for some odd reason I spontaneously disappear from the real world, assume that I am on some isolated beach. Besides, pristine beaches are much more real than the drab monotony of strip mall parking lots.
Love and Peace,
Nathan
PS: I believe that it is cold in the States for the majority of you by now. I am sorry. I forgot to take my camera on this journey. I am extremely sorry about that. Oh and by the way last weekend I was in Jufureh where Kunta Kinte is from and Jan Jan Bureh, a British slave trading town. I saw hippos in the river on a boat trip and monkeys in the trees. The experience was quite interesting, but I've yet to feel motivated to write about it. I might write about it another time. Ask me about it if you are interested. Cheers
Jeffery Nutt Hankins once suggested that I go for a walk on the beach. It is not hard to convince me to do something like that. For those who don’t know Nutt, he is a crazy wind surfer type and a friend of mine, which might make him a bit more nuts. He was here in the Gambia during Renee’s first stay in the Spring of 2007.
About a month ago I was chatting with Jeff on the internet about the state of the universe and he suggested that I walk on the beach from Tujereng to Sanyang with Kartong in mind as my final destination. Tujereng to Sanyang is a lesuirly but hot and long day’s walk, and it is another meandering day from Sanyang to Kartong. Without much thought I decided that it was essential for me to walk the beach, so I set out to do just that.
On Saturday night I sporadically decided that Sunday would be the first day of the walk. I had previously alerted my housemates of my plans, but on the eve of the journey I had no takers. Fortunately, I know of some other people who also think that walking all day long on the beach in the hot Gambian sun is a good idea. I quickly called Ebrima Tunkara and Paul Correa from my Environmental Management class, and they quickly agreed that the journey was necessary to our well beings. Ebrima and Paul are kindred spirits in that they seem to enjoy an adventure, a long walk, and the outdoors. Maybe they just like to wander aimlessly. I think I would do that if I could. But they are not aimless. If they were aimless, then I might have to call them wayfarers, but they wouldn’t be of the wayward variety. Wayward wayfarers are a fine breed at the end of the day, though.
It is my experience that aimlessness is not the style of science majors, although it is important to keep in mind that Nutt is a bio major. He might have what one could call a determined yet abstractly planned and resolute aimlessness. In the end, however, not all who wander are lost (that’s the title of a Chris Thile album, but I am not putting it in quotes, because I don’t know if he can truly lay claim to the phrase).
It was agreed upon that the expedition would start from my compound at 9am the next morning. I hailed a cab, or rather Jamie called Esa and spoke with him in French, and he came to pick us up. While I packed my internal frame pack with water for the journey, and sun shit for my white boy skin, Ebrima negotiated the rates while we waited for Paul.
It turns out that we could have taken a van all the way out to Tujereng but for some reason I wasn’t thinking about that. Esa gave a very good rate, although because of the distance of our trip, it was still pricy.
In the interim, Ebrima and I walked down the street to buy our fuel for the day to accompany the coolant that was already in the boot of the taxi. We ordered three tapalapa ak nen ak pomputeer ak Jumbo ak mayonnaise. Unrefrigerated hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, warm Gambian mayonnaise and Jumbo (an Old Bay like seasoning that makes everything taste better) on a long piece of Gambian tapalapa bread. Food for the soul. It is important to note that eggs in their raw form or hard boiled form do not need be refrigerated. Nor does mayonnaise, especially when it’s the sort pumped up with some kind of preservative that I’d rather not know about. This is definitely the filling meal of choice though for a long journey.
Soon after Paul arrived we were on our way, or so I thought. In the States, life seems to be instantaneous; everything functions or is supposed to function in an on demand fashion that overlooks the importance of conversation, relationships, greetings, relaxation and walking. Although I lived on an island all summer, and I operate on Island Time and now sometimes on Gambian Maybe Time, there is still a little bit of that American impatience breeding inside of my system. Maybe the tap water will kill it. You should be able to get transportation anywhere anytime you want it, right? You a very wrong my impatient friends. Get in your car and drive somewhere very rapidly and ignore the scenery on the way if you demand punctuality. Contrarily, if you are of the sort who kind of appreciates the concept that time is theoretical and not to be regimented, then go for a walk with nowhere in particular in mind, or come to the Gambia. I have become a fan of this way of thinking. Or rather, I would like to think that I always have been a fan, but I remain a fan. I know that to truly absorb myself in this concept of time could haunt me in the paved road reality in the land of Wal-Marts. But then again I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.
We left by around 9:30 although the driver had been waiting since 9, and after about a 5 minute drive from the house the fan belt on the engine went out. Esa drove us to find a friend who could match his price or come close, but his friend wasn’t around. Instead we found a driver who said 500 Delasis ($25) for the trip, but we eventually got him down to 350. Given the price of diesel burning in an old Mercedes-Benz and the distance we had to cover, the driver said it would cost him around 200 just in fuel.
Mr. Cab Man drove us out past the traffic light and past the nauseating attraction of Senegambia and into the countryside. After about a 30 minute drive…before finishing this sentence the Gambia in me must interject. It is a truly Western concept to quantify the amount of time it takes to get from one place to another. Any trip on any road should be variable, and in fact usually is. In addition, the time frame of 30 minutes is just an estimation from my feeble mind; an evaluation of ticking that comes from 19 years of training in an all too regimented society. Anyway, after a while we arrived in Tujereng, and Paul and the driver asked a local how to get to the beach. After some back tracking and couple more stops to ask directions in Wolof and the driver’s complaints in Wolof about the amount of fuel he was wasting, we turned off the main road.
Do you hear banjo music? The ominous kind that sounds festive at first but eventually turns into the sounds of nightmares past and yet to come. Do you hear it? Paddle faster. Do you hear it? I hear banjo music. Paddle faster, faster, faster.
Do you hear it? I sure don’t. That’s for West Virginia my friends, and Deliverance, not a tropical beach on the Smiling Coast of Africa. The driver navigated the Mercedes down a single lane sand road through bushes and palm trees, beeping every time we came to a curve in the road, because there was no way of seeing an oncoming vehicle. The road would have given quiche eating, SUV driving soccer moms and dads indigestion, but in the Gambia where football is football and not a bunch of overgrown men in body armor, sand roads have a special relationship with rear wheel drive cars.
We came to a clearing in the bush and heard the soft crash of the Atlantic Ocean on the white beach ahead. The three of us got out of the car, and I made sure to sniff the sea air, something that I have been trained to do every time I get out of the air conditioned car upon my arrival in Hatteras. It doesn’t hit you quite as strongly here when everything smells of fish, and your olfactory senses are not sheltered by the confines of air conditioning, but there is always something special about sea air.
I put my frame pack on my back, paid the driver and the three of us walked down to the beach. I quickly removed my shirt and drenched myself in Coppertone, while my dark skinned accomplices got themselves into beachwear. They didn’t need Coppertone. After loading their shirts and long pants (shorts are preferred on beaches of course) into my bag we began our walk south.
The beach was gorgeous. To the north we could see a group of fisherman pushing a boat up out of the surf and onto some timber. They rolled the boat on top of tree trunks onto higher ground, or rather higher sand. Although there were people to the north, there was not a building in sight to the north or south. There is nothing like the beauty of an undeveloped beach.
As we turned south we were immediately bombarded by a multi-ton amoeba of flesh, bones and hide. There was a herd of long horn cattle making their way towards us, with the cowboy meandering behind. I think if I was a cowboy and I had the choice I would walk my cattle on the beach side too. Even if you don’t like the ocean, it serves as a nice big road to transport the beasts from one grazing area to another. By the way, they are not really long horn cattle, they have long horns, but they are of a different variety. They are of the N’Dama variety to be exact, originating from the Fouta-Djallon highlands of Guinea. And I don’t think that a herd of cows here in the Gambia calls their master a cowboy, but for the sake of the combinations of letters you are processing, they are.
Paul, Ebrima and I walked for a while enjoying each others company and the splendor of the coconut tree lined beach that went on for thousands of miles south of us. The shoreline was peppered with Pyramidellidae or pyramid shells of all colors and sizes, and occasionally we would stumble upon some other type of sea life, living or dead (I think that that is the kind of shell from my research online. The shell is pointy and can be found on the beaches of the Atlantic in the Americas too).
Paul is a 28 year old teacher studying at the university with a knack for telling stories, and telling us about the trials and tribulations of whatever creature he comes across. I am 19 year old kayak tour guide, with a knack for telling tourists about marine eco-systems, I have an obsession of all things aquatic, and a fascination with meaningless bits of information. I’m sure that between Paul and I we would be enough to either annoy someone who would prefer to walk down the beach oblivious to their surroundings, or impress some silk shirt wearing tourist or weekend naturalist. Ebrima didn’t seem to mind us anyway.
We found the back of squid, a dead lady fish, a dead blue crab, various types of coral, and lots of ghost crabs peeping out of their holes. Paul remarked that Americans must call ghost crabs ghost crabs because they are so clever that they hide like phantoms whenever a passerby thinks about looking at them. According to Paul, ghost crabs to Gambians are just a generic land crab. But then of course there must be a distinction between the fiddler crab that frequents the river bed and marsh, and the ghost crab. I’m sure there is one, but Paul didn’t know it. There was also a typical medley of scallop and clam shells on the beach with the occasional conch thrown in. Eventually we found a natural sponge, and we broke it open. There were baby star fish moving around inside of it, and realizing that the sponge was nursery school, and bad things happen to people who destroy nursery schools, we put the sponge back in the ocean. Its tough work to walk on a beautiful undeveloped beach, but someone has to do it.
Sometime in the midst of all the pseudo marine biology talk that we were engaging in, we came to a hut built on the beach. We walked into it, and it had some kind of make shift counter top, a table carved out of drift wood, and a day bed (minus the mattress) in the center. The shack was small and open to the sea breeze; the perfect abode to transform into a surf shanty. A large tree stood watch next to it on the beach. It is the kind of place where any beach bum would be content to spend the rest of his days.
Despite all the splendor and beauty of the beach in between Tujereng and Sanyang we eventually came to a pipe. This pipe popped up out of the sand before going into the ocean. I don’t know whether the builders of the conduit intended it to be seen or not, but it was obvious that something was being dumped into the ocean. Whether it was runoff, sewer or some kind of chemical, the beach in that area was littered with a fair share of dead blue crabs. I really enjoy eating crabs, but I wasn’t very hungry for those.
For much of the trek we had been walking towards a sandy point in the distance, stopping every now and then to wade in the water. I also tried my hand at teaching Ebrima to swim and Paul to swim a little bit better. Floating is the key to swimming. Remember that. There is not much of a beach culture here, so not many people can swim. There are those that can, I would hope the fishermen can, but the number of human fish in this country is limited.
As we rounded the point we came to an idyllic cove where the crash of the ocean turned into a tranquil haven. The point was caressed with palms and an army of prickly pear cacti. Some of the fruits on the cacti were pink and ripe, so I showed Ebrima and Paul the joys of a fruit growing atop a porcupine. We all managed to get a few small hair-like needles in our hands as we peeled the fruits. In no time at all our hands appeared to be covered in blood. The deep red and staining juice of the fruit flowed out all over our hands as we ate the contents of the fruit, sucking the flesh off of the small cacti seeds. It was really a quite refreshing venture, although I think my hands would be forever red if I indulged in the fruit too often. As we were doing this, some lighter skin person passed on a four-wheeler. I’m sure we were quite the sight with our bloody hands.
Further on down the cove there were two sets of rock outcroppings with a smooth sandy beach in between. We took a rest here to relax, and continued the swimming lessons. On the land side of this exquisiteness were a few thatch roofed buildings and a hut, sheltering a large group of Lebanese Gambians enjoying their Sunday afternoon. Their Mercedes SUVs and other luxury vehicles were parked behind the structures. There were some older veiled women praying, lots of people in the water, and a fair share of men smoking hookah. From the looks of things the Lebanese here were a mix of Christian and Muslim. I went up to the hut to order a Coca-Cola which they told me who cost 20 Delasis. I told them that I would pay 15. Then they told me that they were selling fish benechin for 80, which sounded good, but I had already had my potato sandwich. 80 Delasis is a lot of money for benechin anyway. I greeted them and ordered my drink in Wolof. One of the guys behind the bar started laughing and making fun of his friend in Mandinka and then explained to me in English that I know more Wolof than his friend.
After another dip, we walked further down the beach and made it to the fish market on the beach of Sanyang. There we met Ebrima’s sister’s husband’s brother. Gambians would refer to a relative of that sort as an uncle or brother. Due to his age he was an uncle. He is a fisherman out of Sanyang, and Ebrima hoped to get some free fish out of him. He had yet to be out fishing for the day and was going out that evening so Ebrima was out of luck. There were all kinds of fish in the market, including lots and lots of skates.
Apparently skate tastes pretty good. It is similar to shark, which I have had, but I don’t recall ever eating skate. For those of you who frequent cheap seafood restaurants with buffets of frozen seafood and overcooked vegetables, you have probably eaten skate. Cheap restaurants in the States tend to take shark or skate spines, and cut them up and tell you that you are eating scallops. If you didn’t notice I don’t feel bad for you. Gambians know about fresh seafood. 85% of the seafood in the USA is imported. Americans don’t know about fresh seafood, unless you’re a Hatterasman. Then you know fresh seafood and you know not to go to Dirty Dicks, unless you think fresh is frozen fish caught from the Sysco food truck at 7:30 in the morning. Sorry naive tourists. I don’t feel bad for you either.
After smelling some fish for a while, we went to the beach for another swim, and then we joined some of the locals to kick a football back and forth. Eventually there were enough of us to play a small game of post football. Four other Gambians (the ones with the ball) and a young guy from Holland working at a clinic in Sanyang joined us for the game. After we were sufficiently exhausted we headed back to the market to find transportation home.
The three of us hoped into the back of a miniature Renault four by four. It was one of those old little utilitarian car/trucks that in town are usually used to deliver bread. This one had two side facing wooden benches built in to take people from the market to town. From Sanyang we went to a car park and caught a gelleh gelleh into Birkama. Gelleh gellehs are these big vans that are trying to pass for buses that can have chickens and goats along for the ride as well. They are generally these old Mercedes buses with raised suspensions and roaring diesel engines packed with twenty some people and a big pile of luggage on the roof. They are often also decorated with bright colors. Bright pink, green and yellow usually make the things sufficiently flashy. This one fit the description in every way except for the bright colors. Instead it was forest green. How plain of them.
From Birkama we took a smaller van into Westfield, and back to our respective homes. For each person the transportation back was 22 Delasis, plus a 50 Delasis ride from the market to Sanyang. Much more reasonable than a town trip. I learned my lesson.
It was a long walk, and an exhausting day, but well worth it. There is nothing like being a wandering wayfarer. I quite enjoy it. The beach is calling me. I must return for another adventure another day. If for some odd reason I spontaneously disappear from the real world, assume that I am on some isolated beach. Besides, pristine beaches are much more real than the drab monotony of strip mall parking lots.
Love and Peace,
Nathan
PS: I believe that it is cold in the States for the majority of you by now. I am sorry. I forgot to take my camera on this journey. I am extremely sorry about that. Oh and by the way last weekend I was in Jufureh where Kunta Kinte is from and Jan Jan Bureh, a British slave trading town. I saw hippos in the river on a boat trip and monkeys in the trees. The experience was quite interesting, but I've yet to feel motivated to write about it. I might write about it another time. Ask me about it if you are interested. Cheers
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