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.

On A Six-Speed Steed

Palmarin, Senegal. Riding a bicycle through Africa is an extremely liberating experience. This is partly due to the self-sufficient nature of the endeavor, the rider becoming the master of his own direction and velocity, but it is just as likely because it affords the ability to wear tight-fitting, spandex biking shorts. I don't actually have a set with me but I never before understood just how valuable that stretchy,unflattering fabric could be. After six hours in the saddle I often realize that the warm, tingling sensation that has spread throughout my body is not in fact the afterglow from a successful day of profitable peddling, but rather, the pins and needles awakening of my heretofore dead and paralyzed crotch. Still, this is the perfect way to see this vast continent, peddling slowly across the country side, the wind in your hair, your pack jerry-rigged to the back your bike with a half dozen bungis, some accessory cord, and a couple of zip-ties. If God didn't intend us to roll through the world on wheels how else to explain all that smooth, heavenly pavement?


From Dakar we pedaled south along the shore, through a region known as the Petit Cote. Far from the well-paved artery that runs through the heart of the country, we ride the road less travelled, frequently pedaling over broken pavement, hard-packed dirt, or soft debilitating sand. Here the coast is dominated by small, rustic, fishing villages and it is obvious that not many travellers ply this particular route. We are treated with more than a few curious stares, especially when we alight to push our bikes through some of the looser sand. Every child we pass smiles, laughs and screams, "Toubab, Cadeaux!". It's charming at first, though we learned early on that Toubab essentially means white man. Many of them even give chase, completely surrounding us if we dare to slow or dismount. The luster wears off a bit when Xander and I learn that the latter word means gift. So essentially, kids are running up to us, yanking on our arms like slot machines, and hoping to win a prize. Still, they are cute, and I suppose their method beats hearing "Hey cracker, where's my present?" There us a large debate amongst seasoned travellers about gift-giving in third-world countries. While some think in best to give what they can - be it pens, candy, or money - we have seen first hand how it can lead to an absurd level of expectation amongst the natives. It is astonishing that even the youngest of children utter the phrase as clear as a church bell; as if the whole country had completed a mandatory course titled White Man Gift Giving 101.



In the interestingly named town of Toubab Dialo we stay at a hotel directly on the beach for six dollars a night; in reality, a dilapidated house that has recently started to solicit guests. The owners are really trying to fix the place up though and they are incredibly gracious hosts. The second floor sports a terrace with an unobstructed view of the ocean, from which we enjoy several meals. It is here that we are indoctrinated in the age-old traditions of Senegalese tea and food. For meals, a mat is unfurled on the floor and a single, large bowl of food is placed in the middle. We all kneel in a circle around the dish, and using our right hands - for the left is traditionally used for, shall we say, unspeakable things - tear pieces of meat, smash up vegetables, and ball up portions of rice. This is exceedingly difficult for me, since I am a natural born Lefty and prone to spillage regardless of silverware, but I somehow make it work. I can't even begin to fathom how they eat soup. Maybe everyone gets a really long straw, though Matzah balls might present an insurmountable challenge. After the meals we are served tea. The tea set is brought out: an old, beat up kettle; a small, rusty, charcoal stove; the tea itself; and two glass cups a few licks bigger than a shotglass, resting comfortably on a silver platter. Every family in Senegal seems to own the same set, undoubtedly bought at the local Foam Bed, Bucket Bath, and Beyond. Drinking the requisite three cups of Senegalese tea is a leisurely affair, requiring a minimum of two hours and a maximum of about two and a half weeks. Each successive glass is sweeter in taste. We have heard several reasons but the one I like best is this: the first is for Death, the second for Life, and the third is for Love; love being a fair bit sweeter than death. After brewing for a lordly length of time - no tea bags here - the tea is poured into one of the two glasses and the pageantry begins. With incredible skill and dexterity the brewer begins to rapidly pour the bitter liquid from one cup to another, back and forth, again and again, each time from a greater height, so as to create a frothy residue in each cup. When satisfied with his work, the tea is equally split between the two cups and served. The more skillful the tea maker, the greater the height between the two cups and the frothier the head; circumstances permitting, a man might scale the tallest of palm trees to artificially increase the height of his pour, though he runs the risk of being accused of doping - not to mention falling headlong from the top of a forty-foot palm. After each glass, you wait an indeterminate amount of time for the next to arrive. In fact, we have yet to actually see the third glass materialize. We know it exists, it having been described to us on numerous occasions, but despite having been invited for tea a multitude of times, we never seem to get that final glass. Xander and I have sat for hours on end, patiently waiting for its arrival, wondering if we had offended our hosts in some way. To this day, the mystery of the third cup remains unsolved.



On the road to Palamarin we pass dozens of small villages, most full of lively children. Watching Senegalese children play is astonishing. Their games go something like this: up to a half-dozen children between the ages of two and eight, completely unsupervised, run around in the dirt - amidst garbage, broken glass, goats, chicken, and/or fecal waste - chasing each other with rusty pieces of metal, tackling one another, with great mirth, until, inevitably, a loud wail erupts as someone is fitfully wounded, at which point the anxious parents, obviously concerned about the well-begin of their progeny, continue brewing that stubborn third cup of tea. At one beach encampment we stayed at, a little girl ran around with a small lightbulb in her mouth like it was a lollipop while we conversed with her mother. Obviously bored with the taste, she took it from her mouth and smashed it under a rock. Concerned, I took the now jagged base from her hand and passed it to her mother, who, eyeing it curiously for a moment, threw it into the sand next to us and continued the conversation. This despite the fact that all present were barefoot. Amazed at her nonchalant attitude all I could think was this: we Americans truly are a bunch of pansies.

Dakar Noir

Dakar, Senegal. Our transport to Dakar, the capitol of Senegal, is a rickety old Minibus with a thick spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. Inside are three bench rows, each comfortably seating four people; which is strange, because I am certain that with a little Vaseline and a crowbar would could easily fit another fifteen. Many woman here are decked out in brilliant attire, intense primary colors that contrast wonderfully with their dark skin. The woman directly in front of me is wearing a brightly colored purple dress and a bouffant head wrap cut from the same cloth, making her look a bit like a birthday present. Though one should think twice about attempting to unwrap such a tempting gift; I would have a one in three chance of contracting any number of exotically indescribable venereal diseases, like SyphaHerpatitis Simplex B.


The Minibus drives deep into the Sahel, the semi-arid region characterized by frequent periods of drought. The grass is patchy, dry and yellow, the bushes and trees widely spaced, like a receding forest hairline. Random goats and herds of zebu graze lazily. I seem to have a penchant for sitting on the sunny side of the vehicle and I am baking in the heat. For some incomprehensible reason the windows are never open on these rides. It's 150 bijillion degrees out and the drivers seem either unwilling or unable to manipulate the muscles which control the arm, which, when sufficiently torqued, can crank in such a way as to roll down a window. Maybe they don't want the car to fill with the dust that kicks up on the sandy roads, but I would gladly inhale lung-fulls of dirty air, like a Hoover, for a chance at the faintest, cooling breeze. I settle for placing a jacket across the window, which partially obscures my view. Ancient baobab trees start to appear. Their thick trunks and stumpy, leafless branches look completely unnatural, like a tree planted upside down. We pass countless wrecks on the side of the road, the obvious victims of high velocity collisions. On several occasions we stop, and the vehicle is swarmed by woman selling nuts, fruit, fried dough balls, and small plastic baggies filled with chilled water. The water bags are the best - you either bite off a small piece of plastic from the corner, careful not to spill a precious drop, and sip the contents; or you hurl them at your friends, which is equally refreshing. If I were a budding African entrepreneur I would add a goldfish to the bag, providing not only a hydrating beverage but a nutritious snack. The drive continues. A little girl sitting nearby spends the entire trip just staring at me, her large brown eyes soaking in my countenance. As the middle child in my family I've been ignored most of my life, so it's interesting being the center of attention. Large buildings, completely incongruous in this rural landscape, this land of thatched hut villages, appear on the horizon.



Dakar is a big, burly, beast. Home to a motley crew of silver-tongued salesman, shrewd swindlers, and cantankerous con-men, it is a city where the people move as fast as the cars and you have to be careful to watch your back. It is bit scary, but still fun, like riding a New York City subway after midnight. After a bit of exploration we settle on a budget hotel just off the Place D'Independance, the city's main square, and a popular spot for getting fleeced. One of the interesting facts about budget accommodations in Dakar, even according to our guidebook, who, with the approval of their lawyers still recommends them, is that they all double as brothels. The sex trade is alive and kicking in this fair city, and it is not uncommon to see a tall, skinny, buxom local, perhaps with a little junk in the trunk, walking arm in arm with a pudgy, middle-aged, white man, who I have determined, using my own internal probability calculator, is probably not her Godfather. We explore the markets and shops, restaurants and bars, patisseries and Nescafe stands. Given the lack of sophisticated cuisine throughout most of the continent, we are surprised at the quality of the food. Dakar is home to both an amazing burger and the most amazing patisserie on planet earth. The burger, a thick juicy patty fried up on an oiled griddle, then placed inside a massive bun that is stuffed with french fries, slathered with mayo and ketchup, and topped with a fried egg, is heart-stoppingly good; so much so that the joint has a full-time doctor on call to help with frequent cardiac arrest. You'd think this bad for business, but when someone hits the ground like a sack of bricks, it frees up the table, which is good for the impatient line of customers waiting outside the door. The patisserie was equally impressive. Stacks of golden baked breads, trays of sweets, and row upon row of the most decadent looking pastries I have ever laid eyes on: chocolate enrobed ganache, decorated in gold leaf; custard filled tarts piled high with glistening fruit; fanciful layer cakes, full of caramel, nuts, creams, and sponge. I was skeptical at first. Those who frequent such institutions know that there is an invariably an inverse relationship between the visual presentation of a showy dessert and its taste, a dissemblingly regal cloak that hides nothing other than peasant bread. This place blew that theory out of the water. I try four distinctly different desserts, each is orgasmic taste and quality.



Just a few doors down from us we have a couple of drinks at the Imperial Bar, a surprisingly classy place. It takes us a few drinks to realize that the bevvy of beautiful women who are draped across the bar aren't there for the beer. From time to time a foreigner leaves the premises with one of these chocolate courtesans and hops in a taxi, presumably heading to my very hotel room, which is currently available since I am busy having a drink at the bar. That night I double-check my sheets to make sure they are clean, which, thankfully, they are. It isn't until the next day that she catches my eye. She is beautiful and sexy, a fiendishly clever seductress. She calls to me and I obey, her wish my desire. I am a weak man, truly I am. Perhaps one of stronger fortitude or sounder mind could resist, but not I. Some might find it morally reprehensible to spend money on such a thing, but then again, some find it repugnant to take a shower without a bathing suit. God have mercy on my soul, I paid the dough and took her for the ride of my life. Xander, obviously jealous, laid out some of his own money so he could join in the fun. We had bought our bicycles. Our new path: Senegal; The Gambia; Casamance; Guinea-Bissau; Guinea; over 700km South. The real adventure has only just begun.

Bleating Heart Liberal

St. Louis, Senegal. At the mouth of the Senegal river lies the remains of a once glorious colonial city. Lorded over by the French, who laid claim to much of West Africa in the late 1800s, St. Louis was once the capitol of the imperial colony. It has a rich and illustrious past - meaning that the French subjugated the locals, destroyed their culture, and established a trade in slaves and gum. Fortunately it's difficult to chew gum and trade slaves at the same time, and the empire eventually collapsed. France tried its damnedest to hold on, granting the natives citizenship and a tempting array of stinky cheeses, but to no avail; the French reign over West Africa was broken. Prior to the fall the capitol shifted to Dakar, several hundred kilometers to the south, and the once great city has since fallen into disrepair. Time has not has not been kind to this aging debutante with its decrepit colonial architecture, a mere shadow of its former self.


Still, it has it's charm. The locals are some of the mostly genuinely friendly people I have had the pleasure to meet, proving once and for all that not everyone who speaks French is an asshole. And forget Milan, forget Stockholm, forget Paris; St. Louis has the most stunning women I have ever laid eyes on. Tall and curvaceous, with flawless onyx skin, they walk through the streets like runway models. Toubabs like myself, distracted by the show, frequently walk directly into telephone poles and other decidedly stationary objects. What can I say, love hurts. Finally, with some dumb luck, our arrival in St. Louis coincided with the start of a thrilling festival known as Tabaski.



We had been seeing them all week, the rams and the goats. They were tied up on roof racks, shuttled in trunks, motored on laps. In fact, our ride to St. Louis transported several live rams. All were stuffed into potato sacks, in a kneeling position, with only their heads exposed; two were strapped under the cargo net on the roof with the luggage and the third was literally dangled from the side of the car with a rope. Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but I'm not sure this a particularly humane practice - a goat would provide little personal protection in the event of a side impact crash. If they really cared about their passengers they could at least install something safer, like a passenger-side rhinoceros or something. The rams were all blissfully unaware of their date with destiny; their fate, the Festival of Tabaski. Biblical in origin, this festival celebrates the gesture of Abraham, to whom God had ordered to sacrifice his son. In the olden days God did this sort of thing all the time, it being better than watching reruns of Survivor- Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham, knowing that his son was doomed to a life of a boredom and inequity anyways, immediately takes God up on the offer - which totally ruins the joke. So God has to put on the brakes and provide a ram to sacrifice instead. In effect, thousands of rams and goats are slaughtered every January 11th to commemorate the Almighty's surprisingly underdeveloped sense of humor.



The air-raid siren sounded at exactly 10am. The long, wailing cry a harbinger of doom. The posse walked rapidly through the streets,butcher knives in hand. Blood dripped from their palms, stained their clothes, splashed on the ground. It pooled on the pavement, forming crimson lakes, congealing in the sun. The smell of death hung thickly in the air. They were an tirelessly efficient death squad. One man dropped the victim to the ground, a second pinned his legs, while a third twisted his neck viciously and went to work with the knife. It took about ten seconds for the dull blade to cut through the thick, rubbery windpipe. A horrible gurgling noise emitted from his throat as he bucked and kicked under the weight of his assailants. The posse moved on to its next victim, each helplessly tied up to a post outside each and every door. The Silence of the Rams had begun.



The people were exuberant. The goats were skinned, gutted, and dismembered with extraordinary skill. It was a lot like dismantling an engine, though I would think twice before trying to put a dismembered goat back together. Walking through the streets, past open doors, one could spy the most gruesome of scenes. Organs spilled on the ground, carcasses hung from hooks, pelts littered the pavement. It was worse than a Republican fundraising event. Truly, it was fascinating. Many people invited us to join in this joyous event and we took them up on it. We got to watch the whole thing. No part goes to waste. If anyone wanted to know, it takes about 45 minutes to remove the skin off the head of a goat with a razor blade. It took a bit longer to split the skull with the dull axe they used. We all sat in a large circle on the floor, where large trays full of smoking, hot ram meat were served to us. We gorged ourselves silly on the freshest meat one could possibly have. Whole Foods ain't got nothing on this. Bon Tabaski.