Thru the Gambia

Dinner that night more than made up for the morning’s disappointment. Amadou, the owner, told me he likes to feed his guests absolute feasts and turns out it’s very true. We started with fish soup, a dark brown, spicy, salty liquid packed with fish flavour. There was grated Emmental to sprinkle on top and a half loaf of well-buttered garlic bread. Yum! Next up, grilled shrimp, about 30 of them , doused with lime and grilled in garlic butter. A platter of fries and buttery rice accompanied it, along with a platter of leafy green salad with slivers of onion and garlic and a vinaigrette dressing. I ate and ate and ate, finishing all of the delicious shrimp and half the rice and a handful of fries. I barely made a dent in the salad, the one item I need most. Dessert was a chilled banana. I literally had to go and lay down afterward; my stomach was so full it hurt. But I slept like a stone for about three hours afterward, waking up at midnight and laying awake until after 2 a.m. I was up and dressed by 7:30 a.m., having decided I was going to try to push it Zinguinchor in a day. I just needed to get money and check my email for news. I just needed to get money and check for email from Mom. The ride out of Joal was quiet and somewhat comfortable. My hosts asked me to come back with my parents, but I have to admit there’s almost nothing to draw me back to Joal, even the couple and their pelicans (which grunt like pigs). As I left, Amadou told me he was certain I would meet my husband soon.

Back in Mbour, I got cash out of the ATM and hopefully didn’t put myself in overdraft. I walked back to the gare routiere, and ran into the three idiots who dropped in Toubab, but I just acted like I didn’t know them, a rather rude gesture, but one they deserved considering how ill-mannered they were practically groping me in the backseat, scratching my palm and demanding 500 CFA for 10 km of driving. Unreal.

At the Internet, I had little news from home. I was hoping for a reassuring note from Bill, but of course, there was nothing. I don’t like ending my time on a down note. There was a note saying our drug series was nominated for a CAJ award, but the conference is at the worst possible time in the worst possible city. As my time here winds down and I think about things to bring back for people, I’m rather surprised about who’s been silent. Helen, Tess, Katherine, Nicholas and Rita and Tanya have been great about sending updates and notes. Rhonda, of course, and Georgia to a lesser extent. Joanna always came through with a good, info-packed email and Rich too. Even Sammy and Leah on occasion. But I rarely heard from my brother, not at all from my aunts or cousins. Romana and Karen, two women who’ve lived abroad and should know how vital and valued emails from home can be when you’re away, sent a mere one note each, both saying “too busy to write, more later.” Same with Jill. Showwei was good for a note or two, as well as virtually everyone from Ghana, including the new JHR. I am going to have to do something very grand for the people who supported me so well when I was away.

From Mbour I had about the best ride I’ve ever had to Kaolack, smooth, quiet, quick and comfortable. But at Kaolack, eyi! Chaos. I’m getting better, though, at navigating things. Someone else paid my cab fare, after I’d made a point of getting in a shared taxi where it would be cheaper. I was met by the usual hustlers, kept my pack on me and my wits about me and got into a car bound for Ziguinchor after much debate about how much I would pay for my baggage -- a rather good spirited exchange that made me puff up with pride not only at my improved French but my growing savvy at negotiating travel. After I got in the car, a young French couple arrived, totally easing my worries about crossing the Gambian border and the woman, Melanie, reminded me of how amazing it is that I’ve managed to backpack alone in West Africa! Sometimes I forget – I mean, you do what you’ve got to do, right – that I’m managing despite language and cultural barriers and I’m doing it alone. Sometimes I’m very proud of me.

The ride, by my poor standards, was pretty good. The road out of Kaolack was so scarred, rutted and awful that at points it felt like my teeth were chattering. The lumpy backseat had a few too many rounded, steel objects poking out of it and so I’ve got bruises on my legs and arms. We had no problems crossing the Gambian border, I didn’t have to pay in fact, as the guard had an affinity for Canadians but things slowed considerably on the Gambian side, with one of the worst roads I’ve encountered in a long time. At the ferry crossing, we waited probably 45 minutes for the boat to return – filling up on sandwiches filled with greasy, tomato-flavoured macaroni, soft potato chunks, tomato, lettuce and grilled chunks of chicken, all sprinkled with pepper and piment, folded into a half loaf of fresh French bread and wrapped in an Arabic language newspaper.

On the other side, we encounter a corrupt border guard and paid another thousand francs to leave, then drove like the dickens – why, when it’s dark the drivers speed up I’ll never know. In total, we probably spent two hours in Gambia, half of it waiting for and riding on the ferry. After dark, we were slowed only by a giant fallen tree. We arrived at the same time as the chainsaw and it was quickly cleared away. The driving got even more maniacal after that and we nearly hit a cow crossing the road.

At Zuiginchor, things got decidedly strange. Two hustlers who met us off the bus got into a fight, then the one got in a cab with us – something I never allow – and came to the hotel, where he showed us our rooms and generally acted very annoying. The French couple could tell I was unimpressed and I told the woman I’d never seen hustlers do that and I was uncomfortable not only that he knew where we were staying, but in which rooms. I had a very anxious night’s sleep, even though I was dead tired.

But now, I’ve moved downtown to a hotel with a gorgeous courtyard, where I sit and write amid the squawk of birds the sounds of relaxing Cuban jazz filtering out of the Bar Americaine. I’m going to have to remind myself that this week should be very vacation-like, because it’ll be a long time before I get the time or money to take a break again.