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]