GMT (Gambia Maybe Time): In Pursuit of Cheese and the Birkenstock Factor.

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