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.