Basse Casamance

After snagging a beautiful ocean-front room at an auberge for $25 per night, I changed into my bikini and was horrified to see raised, red welts all over my back, like I’d be swarmed and stung by angry bees. I’m not even sure when it happened, but I had obviously been scratching, as some of the bites had swollen bigger than quarters. I had a delicious fish dish for lunch and was perusing the bookshelf for an English copy of anything when Erika, the owner walked in. One of her staff asked if there was anything in English and she replied rather snappishly: “it’s very simple. If you look and see there are English books, then I have English books. If you don’t, I don’t.” I was rather stung, not to mention surprised, as she’d been so warm and welcoming when I first arrived. She later apologized blaming her outburst on fatigue and a general feeling of fed-up-edness and the non-stop barrage from her staff. I merely smiled and told her not to worry I am all too familiar with my own displays of often shocking rudeness and, in fact, had several bouts of it that afternoon. On a walk down the beach, I was approached by maybe five men, all vendors, all wanting me to leave my walk and my shell collecting to come look at their merchandise. One man, a guy from Ghana who walked up wearing only one shoe and cupping his crotch, would not take no for an answer and I ended up wading into the water just to get away from him. Initially he just kept saying, “but I want to get to know you!” but on my way back he called out about having something special for me that he wanted to show me. I was just hoping it wasn’t what he’d been cupping earlier and kept walking as though I hadn’t heard him.

I walked into town, a place packed with restaurants, to check email and miracles of miracles, found two English books at the bookstore for the bargain price of $2 each. I was the happiest girl in the world. I had a delicious pizza for dinner and headed for bed with a book and the sound of the ocean.

Spent most of today bobbing in the water, cold at first but quickly warming. I relented and decided maybe at least looking at the shops was easier than fending people off. I walked down to Club Med just as the latest planeload was arriving from France and I was a little overawed, like a country bumpkin or something, just by the sheer decadence of it all. The gift shop was gorgeous, selling Club Med line of clothing, Snickers bars, and way overpriced souvenirs. The pool was sparkling and empty, ringed by Frenchmen in tiny bikini bathing suits and greasy, topless French women, the sun and cigarettes having already ravaged most faces. The restaurant was ringed by activity boards announcing movies, archery and themed soirees. A traditional band and women with clappers greeted guests as they streamed in from gleaming white minivans. A table full of pineapple topped frothy pink drinks awaited them and the buffet room, a gorgeous mix of dark wood, paper lanterns and African art, showed the terrible excess of breakfast. The whole thing made me want to cry. I’m not sure why.