Riding in Cars with Boys

Left Toubab Dialow after another restless night’s sleep. I swore I heard the munch and crunch of little mouse teeth and sure enough, when I got up to use the toilet, I surprised the little sucker and he came right at me before scurrying out the door. I don’t know why I’m okay with lizards, but mice freak me right out. On the way out I asked for directions and ended up being escorted by a man who told me his name was Martin Luther King. He just happened to be drinking wine at the bar when I started to leave at 10 a.m., but swallowed in gulps so he could accompany me. Things started out fine enough: we got to the “gare” and waited only a couple minutes, then backtracked to another town where he arranged for a private taxi. But things started to go off the rails when we stopped at the bank. It soon became apparent this old guy had a few errand to run and he was using my need to get to Mbour as an excuse to do them. At the bank, he insisted I come in so he could get faster service. Then we drove down the road a small way at a speed suitable for retirees and stopped at a gas station, where the old guy bought a bottle of merlot and a can of Heineken. We weren’t more than 20 minutes down the road before he vomited out the passenger side window, spraying the back window in the process. I was seriously grossed out, but felt merely sad for him. A while later he got out to stumble around and pee. Then we finally arrived at his destination, a resort town that seemed cute enough and he got out again to buy pineapple and bananas, then we went to his friends house, after picking up another sketchy friend of his. It’s terrible to say, but I thought both girls were prostitutes. One, with fuzzy red hair, was wearing shorts so tiny initially I thought she wasn’t’ wearing anything at all. The other was rather heavily painted, with arched eyebrows and a paunchy belly. The woman with the shorts took one look at me, realized I wasn’t too happy to be sitting on her mattress on the floor rather than in a car on my way so she explained I should be going and we finally got under way. The ride was pretty gross, like Grand Bend, with lots of toubabs in shorts and low-cut tops living rented 4x4s. The entire coast was lined with timeshare-like complexes. We stopped at bank in Mbour, where my heart sank to realize the bank had “declined” my transaction. Luckily, the ATM took my debit card, but I had no idea what was in the account. I headed straight to the Internet to send off a note to Mom. Hopefully she lets me know what’s in the account because I plan on stopping again tomorrow. I just need maybe $200 to see me through to Accra.

After another restless night, I got up to walk to Fadiouth, the little island described by the guide as “fascinating’ with a wicked combination of rather unusual things like granaries on stilts and middens made of seashells, a sacred baobab and a griot cemetery. What a crock. It was such a disappointment. I made plans to leave – not only the island but the entire town – after only a half hour there. As I approached the bridge, a man approached to say he was a guide on the island and would be happy to accompany. Not interested, I told him, and don’t bother wasting your time. Fine, I’ll walk with you to the bridge, where he insisted I greet the representative of the syndicat. Fine. After a little spiel, I explained again, I wasn’t interested and made for the bridge, where I was promptly tailed by an extremely aggressive young tout who tried to tell me I had to hire either him or an official guide, but I couldn’t go on to the island alone. I stopped, I explained, I told him to go away. I stopped again. Finally, halfway down the bridge, he left me. But it was essentially the same on the other side. No one seemed to be able to grasp the idea that the tiny, overcrowded, smelly and filthy island was navigatible without an expensive guide. I would hire one if I thought s/he would provide any interesting insight, but I have yet to meet one who earned his money. Plus, without fail, about half an hour in, being guided goes from being merely educational to fending off very unwanted attention. I’m just fed up with it. So I ignored and evaded everyone, wound my way around the island to the cemetery, where I was very happily shooting away when Charles arrived and proved once again that “no” is a very difficult word indeed. A very lengthy discussion did little to impress upon him that I didn’t want his company and would not be paying him “small money” for explaining the obvious, like “this is the Christian cemetery” and “this is the Muslim cemetery.” Gee, thanks Einstein. The crosses and the crescents certainly had me baffled. In the end, after finally shooing him away, the experience ruined and my patience shot, he had the nerve to demand I give him something because he’s hungry. Sometimes, and thankfully it’s not often, I feel like saying to these guys: You are not my responsibility! And yet if the bank doesn’t come through, I could be in similar circumstance. Still, I’m surprised at these men who beg from white women. I understand that work is scarce, but come on! I had no sense from Charles at all that he was trying to make money in any other way. And guys like him literally spoil it for everyone: his approach pesters tourists, his demands cheapen the experience and he undercuts the men and women who are playing by the rules and are legitimate guides. In the end I gave him 100 francs, enough to buy bread. Then I stamped back across the bridge, cut an angry swath through town and returned from whence I came feeling utterly defeated. I considered packing up and leaving immediately, although I wasn’t sure I would make it all the way to Ziguinchor before dark. But a very pleasant conversation with the auberge owners convinced me to stay and I spent the afternoon sweating – the power was out all day – and reading an English guidebook. Man, I miss books!