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]