On The Rode Again

Joal-Fadiouth, Senegal. In a bus or taxi you have an incredibly narrow view of the world. Your have no choice but to swallow the scenery in rough, unchewed chunks as it whips by your window. People, villages, markets, goats, trees, and trees with goats in them all vanish in the blink of an eye. On a bike it is different. You can slowly inhale your surroundings, breathing in each face, every bird, and each blade of grass; though you should be paying attention to the road, so you frequently roll into the grass and crash into birds and people's faces. Pulling feathers out of your drive chain is tedious at best. The most rewarding part of biking is just the ability to divert to something of more immediate interest. As someone who grew up watching the epileptic fits we call Saturday-morning cartoons this is incredibly appealing to me. If ever something catches my eye I can slow, turn, pause, or stop for as long as I like; so long as it doesn't exceed my thirty second attention span.


Along a barren stretch of land on the way to Djiefer we spied a feathery pile of incredible interest: a horde of vultures devouring a lifeless donkey. Having never seen this in New York we pedaled our bikes off the road onto the cracked, dried, mud, dismounted, and slowly approached. There were several dozen of the frightful fowl, some perched in a nearby baobab tree, several on a hillock above the kill, and the rest jockeying for position on the carcass itself. It was truly fascinating. Large, dominant males would puff themselves up, spread their wings, and run down the hillock into the scrum, gaining a bit of loft at the last second in order to plunge their talons into a rival with a better position at the table. I mentally noted to emulate this behavior the next time I fought for crab legs at a Chinese buffet. On occasion, a large bird would hop atop the beast and spread his wings with a menacing hiss, slowly rotating as if to say, I am the Donkey King. My first decree is to...ow! Get off of me you greedy pack of vultures!, as another dove at him to take his place. They strutted and squawked, digging sharp beaks into holes in the flesh, tearing out rich bits of fat and muscle, their evil faces and beady eyes not once betraying their innate cowardice. Despite our relatively soft bodies and complete lack of defense Xander and I easily startled them when we advanced to take a few pictures. Let no man say that I am afraid to slowly walk into a pack of cowardly vultures. My courage, like my waistline, knows no bounds.



That same day we rested our laurels in the dual township of Joal-Fadiouth, a seaside villa with a small island tethered to it by an interminably long footbridge. We were required to dismount from our bikes as no vehicles of any sort are allowed on the island. This lends an air of quite solitude to Fadiouth, which is set firmly in a tidal marsh amidst lush, green mangroves. It is quite peaceful and has the added curiosity of being composed of millions of seashells. The "streets" are merely piles of shells, the homes are decorated with shells, the local art is made of shells. It's all rather fun, though the seashell cuisine is a little tough on the teeth. We decided to stay the night. That evening we were lucky to catch a live wrestling match, considered Senegal's national pastime. The Senegalese eschew the spandex-clad pomposity that characterizes Minnesota's gubernatorial farm team in favor of more traditional sport - that of wrenching the piss out of one another. We walked back to the mainland, bought our tickets, and passed through the large steel gate. A throng of ticket less voyeurs crammed the entryway and scaled the walls in order to catch a peak of the action.



Towering piles of black muscle, clad in nothing but hand wrapped loincloths, prepared themselves for battle. The sounds of thumping tribal drums filled the air with an excitable energy, the type that makes you want to dismember people with your bare hands. I think it was a Metallica riff. Children would dash out from the sidelines in a wild dance, limbs flailing like a marionette, then abashedly rush back to their seats. We had a great seat right up against the cargo net that separated us from the sand covered playing field, which was roughly the size and shape of a hockey rink. There were no scoreboards or announcers, no foul lines or playing rings, and no apparent rules - which is exactly why men love it. Several matches take place simultaneously so you have to stay alert if you don't want to miss a beat.



Directly in front of us a wrestler prepared for a match. First he lifted a large jug of water and poured it over his smooth, shaved head, then rubbed it across his chest, arms, and thighs. This seemed perfectly logical. Proper cleanliness is crucial when you are about to grapple with another man. Glistening in the moonlit sky he next tossed sand across his body, presumably to prevent his opponent from getting a firm grip. Covered in sand, dripping with water, he was a truly fearsome sight - a tribal warrior set to kill, maim, and destroy anyone foolish enough to enter the ring, or steal his beer. He turned, put his ankles together, and hopped forward three times like a bunny rabbit towards his opponent. The two men squared off and bent at the waist, with one arm dangling loosely and one other planted firmly in the sand. They crouched low and slowly circled one another. The BunnyMan grabbed handfuls of sand and tossed them tentatively at his foe but he didn't flinch. His opponent reached out a large palm and lightly clapped it over the BunnyMan's head, as if anointing him, before letting it gently slide off. It is all very ape-like, but mercifully light on feces throwing.



Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. The opponent leapt forward like a coiled spring, hoisted the BunnyMan above his shoulders, then planted him face-first in the dirt like a begonia. The BunnyMan slowly got up, dejected, his face painted in a Phantom of the Opera mask of sand from his head first landing. Other men grappled and tossed each other around the arena. It was sort of like a bar fight but with a lot more chickens running around. The crowd was surprisingly quiet the whole time so we assumed these random matches were only a prelude to the main event. We listened expectantly when an announcer began to orate over a microphone, trying our best to decipher the African dialect. I quickly realized that I would have better luck figuring learning how to lactate. Suddenly the meager lights died out and the drums stopped. Everyone got up at once and within three minutes the entire arena had emptied out. We sat there, dumbfounded, in the dark, with only the trill of the crickets to keep us company. To this day I have no idea what the announcer said, but I figure it was either "Free seashell soup on the island for the next fifteen minutes" or "The rabid vultures will be released momentarily, I hope you enjoyed the show". We most certainly did.
A Special Note: I am alive and well. Sorry for the lack of posts but Africa has an unsurprising dearth of Internet connections. I have settled in Guinea for a while and will do my best to catch up on these posts. To all those who sent notes of concern, or laments about my untimely death death, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the rest of you guttural plebeians, those either cheered or unconcerned with my sudden disappearance, I'll have you know I have updated my Will accordingly.