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.