The Curious Incident of the Coconuts

Bakau, The Gambia. The palm swayed majestically in the breeze, as they do in these types of stories. Atop the ribbed branchless trunk sat an explosion of brilliant green fronds, like a tropical party favor. Dangling in bunches amidst the fronds were the fibrous husks that safeguarded our objective--the hard-shelled coconut seeds. As I squinted up through the sunlight it became obvious to me that coconut is not a food we were ever meant to partake. One needs to scale a tree with no footholds, wrestle the armored fruit from its thick stem, breach the impenetrable husk, then split the indestructible seed, all without spilling the precious liquid within. When picking out a coconut at the supermarket we surely don't appreciate the endeavor. While heavy industry has undoubtedly developed an army of insect robots to scale the trees and deliver the payload, sonic guns to blast the husk cleanly from the shell, pneumatic drills that double as drinking straws to carefully extract the milk, and acid baths that instantly dissolve the casing but leave the flesh perfectly intact, out here it's still done by hand. Without the benefit of those newfangled technologies it would be easier learning calculus blindfolded than trying to pluck a coconut from its perch. It is a Sisyphean effort fraught with immense physical risk, and it's meager reward - some edible white flesh surrounding a sweet milky core - is hardly worth the calorie expenditure it takes to achieve. This is exactly why we decided to try it ourselves.


The palm trees in the courtyard of our meager hotel seemed like a great place to start. Securing permission was the first order of business, a request that was granted with a laugh and, presumably, the setting up of hidden cameras. A quick search through our packs for potentially useful gear found us with two locking cam straps, a length of accessory cord, a Leatherman, and an irrational amount of optimism. And why shouldn't we have been optimistic? Gathering coconuts is de rigueur out here. Little kids routinely scale these trees while wielding machetes in their teeth. True, odds were good that I would slip and inadvertently perform a tonsillectomy on myself, but I had medical coverage. While considering this, two thoughts occurred to me: (1) I probably forgot to get the optional machete proviso on my insurance; and (2) we didn't have a machete. While I was busy working out the details in my head Xander had decided to take action. He slung the cam strap around the base of the tree and secured it around his back, intending to "walk" up the tree by using his body as a counterweight against the loop. Every couple of steps he would briefly unweight himself in order to raise the strap a few inches. Though slow and exhausting he could scale the entire height of the tree, then casually lean back in his rudimentary seat in order to cut down the coconuts. Simple as that.



He didn't fall until he got about five feet off the ground--a worthy, if painful attempt. Xander tittered in his usual way and decided never to try that again, at least when there was no prize money involved. Spying an angular fist-sized rock on the ground a new idea took form. If I tied the accessory cord securely around the rock we could hurl it like a bola, either knocking off a coconut with a direct strike or looping it over the stem and yanking hard to pull it down. This was an excellent idea, despite the fact the scene played out thusly:

Xander: "You want first throw"?

Me: "Nah, go ahead. Aim for that lower bunch."

Xander: (hurls rock)

Thwack! (rock hits hard frond stem)

Xander: "Uh-oh"

Whish! (rock ricochets towards our heads)

Me: "Look out!"

Thunk! (rock hits ground inches from our feet)

Rock: Damn, I missed them.

This scene was repeated until we both felt satisfied that we had seriously strained our arms and that the rock had evil intentions. This was tough work.
Xander finally landed a throw over one of the stems. Now we only needed to tug on the cord and the coconut would come tumbling down. No such luck. We pulled, heaved, and verbally protested but the coconut refused to separate from the stem. As we yanked, the cord dug deep into our hands, leaving deep stinging grooves in the flesh. We needed more leverage. Grabbing a nearby shovel, I wrapped the cord around the wooden handle. This was sure to work. With a solid grip we could apply a greater amount of pressure and not risk severing our hands, which we decided we wanted to keep for sentimental reasons. I gave a mighty heave but the accessory cord merely stretched. It forced me to wrap up the excess, like pulling in a kite. After a few more pulls I gave up and passed it over to Xander. We had stretched the cord to its limit. Xander leaned hard, putting all of his weight into it. I shuffled back, fully expecting the coconut to rocket off the tree at us, a fruity but potentially fatal projectile.
Except nothing happened. The coconuts remained steadfast, mocking our every move. One of the hotel employees, witness to this ludicrous scene, emerged from his hidden observation post and interrupted our effort. After babbling something in an incomprehensible French he disappeared around a corner but materialized with our salvation. We sheepishly accepted the ladder. Within moments we had ourselves a couple of coconuts, but our ordeal was far from over. Getting the coconuts from the tree is only half of the challenge. Now, without the benefit of explosives or detonators of any kind, we needed to split them open. I wanted to fully appreciate the experience, so I decided to use simply rocks and my hands to pry mine open. I can now confidently attest that if I were left in the wild with but my wits and a lone coconut tree, I would most assuredly die. Actually, I did manage to get it open. In the end, my hands cut and raw, my body sore and beaten, it only took about 72 minutes. That was just to take off the husk. Thoroughly worked, I allowed Xander to puncture the shell with his Leatherman so I could sup the sweet nectar. Despite how these stories normally end, it was definitely not the best coconut I ever had. Next time I'm going to spare myself the effort and just buy one from a smiling, machete-wielding kid.

Too Iffy By Sea - Part III

Toubakouta, Senegal. I still wasn't 100% convinced that the man in the room next to us was indeed the nefarious captain of our ill-conceived voyage, despite the Kiss Me, I'm a Pirate t-shirt and his strange prediliction for appraising planks of all sizes. It was exceedingly dark on that moonless eve and it is somewhat difficult to make out the features of a man who is already the color of night. There were many boats around the island and presumably an equal number of men to captain them. Surely there was a chance, even a good one, that this was a different man. As capable and responsible adults, Xander and I had wisely decided to ignore the captain's name during the initial leg of our trip. Lamin. Nope, didn't ring any bells. Certainly my mind was playing tricks on me, what with [the mind blowing fun] of our earlier delta crossing. I began to relax. Even if it was the same chap we felt confident as long as it was a legitimate ferry service with other other passengers and would sail in the false confidence of daylight. The sun may afford no actual protection - what with its skin scorching, wrinkle inducing, cancer causing ultraviolet radiation - but it least you can see the oar the moment before it strikes you in the head.


It was dark and we were getting hungry. Xander bravely volunteered to stay in the room while I went out looking for food. The village was full of life. People milled about the candle-lit shops trading gossip, purchasing goods, or just relaxing after a busy day. I was completely at ease. Folks were unfailing friendly, never passing up an opportunity to giggle or stare unblinkingly at the Toubob in their midst. I was pleasantly surprised when several people spoke to me in rudimentary English. Each time I made sure to ask about the existance of a ferry service and twice had it confirmed, albeit without any specifics as to days, times, or potential captains. Still, this buoyed my spirit immeasurably as I headed back, my pockets filled with the night's nutritional catch: a piece of bread, some homemade peanut brittle, and a small package of creme biscuits. I was strolling along when a voice called out to me. "Hey friend! Hey friend!" I heard in accented English. Strange, my only friend in all of Africa was at that very moment valoriously squashing a large spider with the heel of his sandal back in the room. I paused, looking for the source of the voice. A man excitedly beckoned me over to his shop, which emphatically declared itself a photo studio in colorful paint above the door, but in reality contained no photo equipment whatsoever. The man had an open, honest face and seemed genuinely affable. He introduced himself. "I'm Oman. Don't you recognize your good friend?" he said, as he nudged the man next to him wearing the Michael Jackson t-shirt. It was dark, but the man's face was unmistakably stern, his large glassy eyes drawn inward. In his hand were a pair of large scissors which he methodically opened and closed, a [clinically sane] barber with no customer. There was a decidedly [friendly] air about him. "This is Lamin, your friend, the captain who bring you to the island." Ding. The transport captain and the purported ferry captain were one and the same. This was [excellent] news. I once again I hadn't recognize him, though he had changed his clothes since I left the compound. Upon hearing his name Lamin broke from his reverie, cracked a huge smile and pumped my hand excitedly, then reverted to a stone-faced golem. Oman chimed back in. "Lamin does not know English. He says you want to take a boat to Toubakouta?" I admitted that we were planning to take the ferry but I was vague on the details. Oman shifted uncertainly on his feet. "Yes, you see, the ferry is not to be running tomorrow. No ferry." I thought I smelled something a little fishy here; then I noticed the pile of dead fish on the counter. Oman continued "You can hire a private pirogue with your friend Lamin. He can take you." I'm a bit skeptical, a feeling buoyed by the fact that I'm standing in a photo studio with no cameras and a pile of stinky fish on the counter. Despite my protestation Oman insists on meeting Xander and I in our room in the next half hour in order to discuss the particulars. As I turned to go Oman tapped my shoulder. "What do you think of Senegal?" he asked with an expectant manner. I tell him that I love it. The people. The scenery. Did I mention the peaceful, goodhearted locals? An odd look enters his face, collapsing the geniality for a moment. "Senegal is very tough. Very rough," He squinted his eyes and pointed a fierce finger directly at his temple, an air of [minty freshness] in his breath. "You have to be very clever....yes, very clever for Senegal."



At that, I took my cue and cleverly left, explained the proceeding to Xander when I returned. Sure enough our two suitors soon arrived. Introductions were made. Lamin, still wielding the scissors, leaned himself across the open doorway as Oman attempted to ascertain our departure plans. Having both practiced for years on a succession of increasingly contemptuous girlfriends, Xander and I immediately adopted an attitude of indifferent non-commital. "You want to leave tomorrow, yes?" inquired Oman. "No ferry tomorrow, but..." I cut him off with a terse but gentle retort. "That's okay, we can wait another day. We are in no rush." Lamin, obviously depressed about missing his calling as a sculptor, began to petulantly carve into the concrete doorframe with the point of the scissors. A [heart warming] expression filled his face as the scrapings bounced and rattled on the floor. It was a very [reassuring] gesture. Ignoring my interruption, Oman continued to explain how we could take a private pirogue - captained by Lamin and crewed by himself - out to Toubakouta. This was an [exceptionally romantic] notion, the four of us drifting [peacefully] through the [densely populated and fastidiously policed] delta. Now came the crux. "You give us money for fehl". We must have given him a quizzical look. "Fehl, Fehl." he repeated, "For the boat." I finally got it. Fuel. He explained that they needed money for fuel, tonight, so they could prepare the boat for an early departure. With a genial grace and an exceedingly wide smile I duplicitously expressed our desire to stay a little longer. But I assured Oman that we would come to his photo studio to discuss it again tomorrow. Satisfied, the men took their leave.



At this point we didn't know what to believe, though [we trusted all of the townfolk implicity]. Was there a ferry or wasn't there? Was Lamin the only captain in town? Could the whole town be involved in some sort of tourist trap? And what the hell is this rash that's spreading across my leg? All good questions, all unanswerable. As we laid down to sleep we [confidently and optimistically] discussed our options: we could phone a hotel in Toubakouta and see if they would be willing to send a boat, though we weren't certain the island had phones; we could hike out and brave a low-tide delta crossing, but we were uncertain of the route; or we could learn to walk on water like Jesus, but that involved admitting we had prayed to the wrong deity our whole lives. We decided on covert action. We would set our alarms for the crack of dawn and just before the sun cracked the horizon, Xander would serruptitiously slip out and head to the docks to try to find a local fisherman who might be persuaded to take us. Xander was the natural choice, since his French was much better than mine and I would probably end up mistakenly say something like, "Well month today! Would you were like to fry my socks for me?". If we were lucky we would find someone. Our plan set, we settled down and began to drift slowly into sleep before being startled back to life. In the distance, the chilling roar of a jaguar sliced neatly through the air.



Things happened quick. Morning came. Xander snuck out while I patiently waited in the room eyeing the clock until he returned. He walked back in, an exasperated look in his eyes. Oman was at his tail. He bumped into him near the docks. Xander was just taking a walk. We weren't leaving today. We would visit him later. Oman left. A minor success. Xander explains that he talked with several elderly fisherman and found someone willing to take us, or at least someone willing to fry up some socks for breakfast. One hitch. The men who agreed didn't own the boat. They still needed to get the captain. Impossible. It couldn't be Lamin again. No way. We both headed over to the dock to meet the captain, who turned out to be an elderly gentlement with a crooked grin. It seemed legit. We weren't free yet. We quickly headed back to the compound and packed up our stuff. Strangely, improbably, luckily, no one was around. No Lamin, no uncle, no spying children. We hurriedly walked our bikes along a back road, far from the main drag, eager to avoid Oman's shop and prying eyes. We wait on the shore while the boat is prepped, eager to shove off. We hopped in. Everything is going smoothly. The boat pulls away. We are free. The ride to Toubakouta takes two hours. We nearly kiss the captain when we disembark. He smiles his crooked grin, laughs, and shakes what seems a knowing head. I get the impression this isn't the first time he has helped someone. We hoped on our bikes and sped away from the past.

Too Iffy By Sea - Part II

Betante, Senegal. As an art form, the episodic serial cliffhanger must be given its fair share of respect. Its brilliant use of pacing and peril is a masterstroke of psychological manipulation that would make a Freudian shrink run straight to his mother. It's simple: take a questionable plot; ratchet up the tension; at the last moment place the hero in mortal peril (dangling precariously over a bubbling vat of melted chocolate while the nefarious villain sarcastically quips, "I like my chocolate full bodied. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!", as he crushes the hero's fingers beneath his boots, sending him to a rich, chocolaty doom); cut film. By this point the audience is hooked. No force on earth could stop them from tuning in next week, except their wives, who would much rather see the laundry done, you selfish-good-for-nothing-bum, my-mother-was-right. So when I endeavored to create my own cliffhanger episode last week it was just an elaborate way of pointing out that you really should make sure to marry a woman who delights at the mention of Adam West, or is, at the least, really hot. Without further ado, I bring you Part Deux of this most lamentable tale.


Still a bit [euphoric] from our [incredible experience] on the boat we were [delightedly] led to the gated compound of the captain's [certainly-not-involved] Uncle. There, we found comfort in the presence of a half dozen children. No matter what the situation it seems nothing bad can happen when there are children around, assuming they are potty trained and don't ask you where babies come from. Weary from our adventure, we were forced to wait patiently in the dark while a light bulb was found for our room. It was obvious that no one had stayed there in a while. Drab, dilapidated, and dimly lit, the room was dominated by a large foam bed set in a warped wooden frame - leaving little room in which to maneuver. A single paneless window, set in the concrete wall opposite the door, was shielded by a series of hinged metal slats; they shrieked when I yanked them into the open, horizontal position. In one corner was a scattering of goat droppings, which perfectly rounded out the scene. Exhausted, we laid down for a [relaxed and peaceful] nights sleep.



In the morning we were expected to rejoin the [happy-go-lucky] crew and complete the journey to Banjul, but when the knock came on our door we deferred, hoping to make an alternative arrangement. We knew it probably wouldn't be that simple...and we were right. We laid in our room until a full two hours after the boat was supposed to have left. It was 10am when we poked our head out the door, confident that we could proceed unimpeded. The captain's Uncle, our host, was sitting languidly on a chair in the courtyard outside our room. Since we had the [utmost trust] in him we thought it prudent to [maintain an open and honest dialog] and queried about other transportation off the island. Anywhere on the mainland, we said, preferably right away. "No est faisable jusqu'a demain. Il est tard." said the Uncle. This is not possible until tomorrow. It is too late. This seemed hard to believe at 10am but we took him for his word, and left the compound to ask anyone else we could find. Trailing us out the door were two of the children who, despite our repeated entreaties to go away, followed us everywhere that we went; though I hesitate to say that they were spying on us. So Xander and I, along with the spying children, walked around town to get our bearings. Betante' was spectacularly beautiful. The small village, obviously constructed with care, was set amidst coconut-laden palms and leafy green trees. Thatched roof huts lined narrow sandy streets and the main drag had just enough small shops selling bread, nescafe, and sardines to keep us alive. The locals were exceedingly gregarious; it was obvious from their greetings that they have very few tourist here. "Bonjour Toubab! Tres peu de touriste ici!" Hey White Man! Very few tourists here!. We wandered over to the docks and were astonished to find that the ocean had mysteriously vanished, siphoned away in the early morning hours by Poseidon's will; or maybe the "gravitational pull" of the moon, if you believe that sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo. As far as the eye could see was a thick morass of impenetrable mud. We soon learned that the tide in the delta recedes extremely early in the morning and doesn't return until around sunset, confirming the Uncle's earlier comments. No longer keen on taking boat rides in the dark (except Disneyworld's Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Yaaarrr!!!) we had no choice but to wait until morning. We talked with a few more locals but received scant information about other ways off the island. There are rumours of a local ferry, but our poor French combined with actual lack of local knowledge made it impossible to confirm. The transport vessel - the same one we arrived in - returned every three days but [our love was so intense] for the crew were [afraid our heart's would burst with joy] if we had to face them again.



It was time to entertain other, more drastic, options. We realized that it might be possible to hike off the island, despite both knowing the definition of the word island. After carefully examining our map we noticed that we were close to the mainland, separated by what looked to be a small river. We hypothesized that we might be able to slog through the muck when the tide was out. An exploratory survey was in order, so we trundled off into the brush with our shadows (who had somehow multiplied from two to four) at our sides. The town was located near the southwest edge of the island and we needed to traverse what we believed to be the 7km width. The children - around seven to ten years of age, all male - were intent on holding our hands as walked along. It was a bit like being a camp counselor, albeit a camp where the children have a better chance of surviving a walk in the brush than their pale leaders. Unfortunately, the copse was too thick to hack through without a machete so we had to stick to the paths we found. Despite the heat of the day the children, undoubtedly hungry and definitely dehydrated, refused to turn around without us. After two hours out we decided we had to head back. We had hit numerous dead-ends but kept the plan alive as a backup. [We declared our exploration an unmitigated success!]



Back in town we ran into an English-speaking local who brightened our spirits. He told confirmed the story of a local ferry that could shuttle us to a nearby mainland town. In fact, he even knew the captain, and would be delighted to introduce us. We chatted for a while, explaining where we were staying. He was very familiar with the place, he said, and his sister worked for the Uncle. Happy to have found someone to talk to we walked back to the compound, a spring in our step. The ferry captain was on a run so we waited patiently for his return. "Ah, here he is," said our new friend as the captain walked into the courtyard. "This is Lamin. He is the captain of the boat". We all shook hands. Then man looked somewhat familiar to me, but for the time being I bit my tongue. Our new friend chatted with the captain in Wolof for a few minutes before the captain entered in the room next to ours. Our new friend explained the price, when the boat would go, etc. Xander and I were very relieved. After figuring it all out Xander went to lay down and I continued talking with our new friend. When we were alone, he leaned towards me, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, "[Don't worry about a thing. The captain is the best and the crew is top notch. They are professional and sincere.] I just wanted to let you know". The good feelings I had a few minutes earlier were replaced [by an even better feeling]. It had been dark last night, so I wasn't certain, by now I was sure: the man in the room next to us was none other than the transport captain who had led us here.

STAY TUNED for the amazing conclusion in Part III, [My Love For Africa]

Too Iffy By Sea

Some tales are better left untold. The subject matter (as it is called) is sometimes just a little too intense for both younger and older readership alike. The former, due to the fragile nature of the nascent sponge they call a brain, and the latter due to their unfortunate habit of...well, dying when encountering undue shock. You see, I hate to scare my mother, unless it involves rubber spiders or the news that I've married a Wolof medicine woman. Speaking of which, we have registered at the local covered market for those that would like to buy us a much needed dugout canoe or some spare thatch for our porous roof. Nuptials aside I would like inform the readers that certain unpleasant aspects of this particular tale will be censored for the sake of sanity. Perhaps some day there will be an unabridged novel, and bearded fathers will read my exploits aloud while their children huddle silently in front of roaring fireplaces, cups of hot cocoa in hand, eager expressions on their doe-eyed faces. Very Norman Rockwell. In order to maintain a proper cadence I have taken the liberty of creating a literary device, wherein I replace all harrowing and/or life-threatening segments with bracketed pleasantries that are sure not to upset anyone. So starts an [excellent] adventure.


At the northern end of the Sine-Saloum Delta - a lush tidal region boasting verdant mangroves, still lagoons and uninhabited islands - lies a finger peninsula stretching out into stunning blue waters. To the west lies the Atlantic Ocean and a really long swim back to New York, and to the east lies the beginning of a labyrinthine network of waterways that make up the delta. In the middle of this narrow stretch of sand lies the small fishing village of Djieffer and the end of the coastal road. The ocean has been rapidly reclaiming the land in recent years and what little remains can be traversed in a matter minutes. A strong-armed NFL quarterback could undoubtedly throw a ball from one end to the other, though he would probably wonder exactly what penalty he had drawn that landed him in sub-Saharan Africa. We had two options at this point: either backtracking up the peninsula and spending three days tracing around the arc of the delta on our bikes or cutting off the length of the delta by hopping a ride in a boat, getting to the same point in just a few hours. A possible third option involved building a lightweight glider out of palm leaves glued together with snot, powered by a distilled coconut milk bio-fuel, but we as it turns out we knew less about aeronautics than we did about drinking gin and reminiscing about Gilligan's Island. After spending a few nights in the village sobering up we chose the boat. The hand-build and elaborately painted boats known as pirogues are the lifeblood of all of Senegal's coastal villages and utilized in a number of ways: fishing skiff, transport vessel, cargo ship, and finally, underwater observatory, when they inevitably sink. That isn't to say that they aren't well constructed...but truth be told, without so much as a passing thought, I've created bowel movements that have better buoyancy. They have figured a way around the leakage issue though - no matter how small the boat and how short the ride at least one member of the crew is fully dedicated to bailing out water from the seeping hull. So, despite my staunch (though under-utilized) heterosexuality I try my best to pick a boat where the Bailer has a chiseled Fabio-esque upper body.

Since there is no such thing as public transport we arranged passage on a large cargo pirogue, reasoning that the locals would use the most reliable transport for hauling the necessities of life across the islands. If you want to get somewhere you just haggle with a local with a boat and hope you end up on dry land at your intended destination, or at least somewhere with the same time zone. Our chosen vessel, brokered with the help of some English-speaking Gambians, was being used to transport tremendous amounts of fuel: dozens of industrial size jugs filled with petrol and an equal number of metal propane tanks. So it was that we found ourselves the only passengers amidst the seven-man crew. Our intended destination: Banjul, capitol of the Gambia. Our route: south across the yawing mouth of the delta with an overnight stop on one of the innumerable islands. The boat was supposed to leave at 2pm, giving us plenty of time to outrace the sun on our purported two hour ride. At 4pm the boat was still being loaded. Ditto 4:30 when a light breeze began to push at my carefully sculpted coiffure. When we finally pushed off at 5pm the sun had prepared for landing, placing itself in the full upright and locked position, and the wind had started to dance. As we crossed the spot where the ocean meets the delta the waters had begun to churn. A swell - that nautical misnomer that is more closely associated with the words nausea and capsize than feeling wonderful - threatened to spill us into the pulsing waters. We stayed upright but our once-smooth surface was now a dolloped meringue of whitecaps. Four to six foot waves were streaming into us near broadside, robbing our small motor of power as we crested and sank into the troughs. The captain impressed me with his skillful ability to navigate a cigarette into his mouth and light it without blowing up our fuel-laden skiff. As the sun dipped halfway below the horizon the piercing light gave way to soothing shades of red and the winds mercifully died out.

Before long it was dark. The moonless sky was clear, the stars twinkling fiercely in the inky blackness. The boat had no lights, which was great for star gazing but not so great for, say, not running into another boat. Xander glanced over the side and noticed flashes of phosphorescence emitting from our wake. It was somewhat magical, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't [happy as a clam] that we had no lights and no landmass to navigate by. I put my faith in the crew, who I was certain were licensed and bonded by the state. To my relief a light appeared on the horizon and we made a beeline for it. Still far from land the boat began to slow. A [friendly looking crewman] approached us and in a [cheerful] tone [pleasantly asked us for a hug]. We didn't have any [love in our hearts] so we had to turn him down. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as a [heretofore unknown happiness] filled my entire body and a [benignly comforting] feeling settled in my stomach. [This was truly bliss], I thought as the crewmen laughed at our [emotional depth]. Again the crewman [smiled and pleaded for the hug] but we carefully explained that we didn't speak French and couldn't understand what he was after. After a few [peaceful] moments the boat continued on its way. We came to shore on the small island of Betante' where we were escorted [with great enthusiasm] to our prearranged accommodation: the personal compound of the captain's uncle. It was here, on this small unknown island, that spent our first of several [blissful nights]...
Stay tuned next week for the exciting finale: Part II - [The Best Time of My Life]

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.