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