Last month marked a truly memorable time in my service. My father from the true-blue USA came to
visit me in The Gambia. I had spent
almost the entire month of February hopping from one training to another, which
was a good thing, as had I been in the least bit idle, I’d have driven myself
crazy with excitement.
Keeping true to my type-A, planny pants persona, I had the
whole week’s adventures lined up, complete with private taxis, hotels, and illegal
Saturday currency exchanges. Aside from
the airline losing his luggage, thus forcing us to embark on an impromptu
shopping spree (including an inexcusably large cowboy hat), all went according
to plan.
The first few days were spent enjoying cold adult beverages
and taking in sights of the “big city”.
From walking the markets to taking a sunset boat cruise around the coast, I not
only learned that Gambia has far more uses for oysters and their shells than
I’d ever imagined, but that bargaining for fabric is much more enjoyable with
someone else footing the bill.
#twoplease
By Monday, we’d soaked up enough city to feel prepared
for the journey up-country. While this
was what I most looked forward to during his visit, it was also the most
nerve-wracking, as I worried about blips in transportation, sub-par lodging,
and above all else, sleeping in my village, meeting my host family, and using
the dreaded pit latrine. Not wanting to over-exhaust him on regular public trans, we
opted for the blue “luxury” bus from Kombo to Janjanburreh. For this pleasure, you pay a premium, but you get a
seat of your own, a vent with actual air-conditioning, and the exquisite joy felt from the lack of squawk and smell of farm animals far too common on those other buses. We arrived just in time for lunch and a few
beers with a fellow friend and PCV, and were soon picked up by a boat and taken
across The River Gambia to our night’s lodging.
The place takes great care to feed and cater to the ever-growing monkey
population, which includes keeping electricity off the island, as power lines
would drive them away. As such, we
considered it a good “baby step” on the way to my village. Dining was by candlelight, showering was done
via mere dribbles of water over a seat-less toilet, and the darkness held eerie
unidentifiable sounds.
Those discomforts aside, we managed to smuggle in a few
warmish beers secretly paddled over by a staff member sensitive to our plight,
and afterwards, we watched a cultural show.
A group of women came to chant, sing and dance while men beat drums by
firelight. The show proved entertaining
for us both; He was able to experience traditional song and dance, and I was excited to be plucked up from the crowd to (attempt to)
dance and clap along. The most
amusement, however, came from the uncovering that some of the chants were not
quite so mystical as they may have sounded, for, thanks to my small grasp of
local language, I realized that instead of romantic lyrics about the wilds of Africa, the lines, “I am so tired…” and “oh, many foreigners” were sung
in chant and chorus while the 10 Dutch travelers also in attendance just smiled
and swayed to the music, captivated by the pure bliss only ignorance can
provide. #sobusted
After playing hide-the-breakfast with the monkeys the next
morning, we hitched a boat back to the main-land and sought out to buy—wait for
it….a live chicken. Gambian culture
holds great importance on small tokens of appreciation. Much like we would bring a nice desert or
bottle of wine to a dinner party, we intended to bring a big fat chicken and
some (rather elusive) carrots. Also in
tow were some cola nuts, a traditional symbol for thanks and welcoming, Dijon
mustard, and some tea. As you might
imagine, even in my tour-guide, “I got this” mindset, I was flipping out about
holding a live chicken for the 20 minute gele-gele and 15 minute bike ride into
my village. Thankfully, though, some
friendly locals showed me how to tie up the bird in a plastic bag, and I
proceeded to watch and pretend not to be horrified. Sure,
this is normal. I have my bag of
veggies, and also I have my bag of…live poultry. The ride proved cramped, but generally uneventful, and we soon arrived
at Tim’s village, ready to grab bicycles and head off. His most mom, however, insisted we hitch a
ride on their neighbor’s donkey cart for the 3K into the bush. We agreed. Here’s what ensued:
Try to envision my father and me-he in the
Rodeo-regulation size hat, and me sporting a full Gambian two-piece complette,
together with our new friend, Miss Chicken, all perched atop a wooden plank
pulled along by an ill-tempered donkey.
The whole scene was hilarious, made even more so by the protest of both animals involved; Miss Chicken,
sensing her fate was near, shared her rather spirited opinion on the matter
by defecating and peeing all over my skirt (since she had, naturally, already
torn through the plastic cage). The donkey, not wanting to be the only
cooperating member of the bunch, joined in the fun by rearing up his hind legs
to kick me in the hip every few minutes, which consequently scared Miss Chicken
into again peeing herself, and thusly--myself.
Not long before this, I had felt compassion for this bird, having
shrouded her in plastic during the heat of the day. Concurrently, of course, I wanted to prevent
her untimely death by dehydration prior to the proper slaughter, so I found it
in me to actually bottle feed water to this feisty fowl. This small kindness was promptly snuffed out,
though, when the increasing stench and soiling of my dress allowed me to look
very much forward to seeing Miss Chicken meet her end. #sorrynotsorry
Looking a tad disheveled, we finally arrived. My family was thrilled beyond all words to
have my father as a guest, and he was given the red-carpet treatment. He sipped
Attaya brewed with mint, helped me fetch water, and pounded up pepper and onion
for (Miss) Chicken sauce. Everyone ate
from one big dish, Gambian-style, with our hands, and it was a really wonderful evening.
After a night of sleeping in my backyard on a bamboo bed
bought for the occasion, we woke to coffee and breakfast before my host father,
having skipped worked to spent time together, took us around the village to
share the cola nuts we had brought as an offering for the community. This was really special as my dad was able to
meet and see the faces and places that make up my daily life. He was invited into their homes, tried his
hand at a little local language (bless his heart) and got to hear how much
everyone has enjoyed my presence in the village, which was really nice to hear
when sometimes it can be so easy to be hard on yourself. It was so nice to have both pieces of family
together, and my heart was full and smiling that day.
The smiles continued as my host mother, intent on showing her
appreciation, knocked on my door later that afternoon. I answered it to reveal Hawa, standing
proudly, holding a dead chicken up to her grinning face. It’s a rare occasion to have meat at all, and
here we were having it two nights in a row! My host father said it best when he
beamed, “Fatoumata, I will remember this day for all time.”
 |
| My host father, Batchi Kandeh. "Take one with me and my animals!" |
With many hugs and camera snaps, we bid our goodbyes the next
morning, but not via the notorious ill-tempered donkey—this time we made off in style. My neighbor drove us on his
massive horse cart, a ride which provided both speed and scenic views, as a
troop of baboons came right through my village as we drove off—a sight even
I’ve never seen so close to home. It was
a lovely farewell to the bush, but it was time to kick it up a notch. On the road awaited our private chariot,
equipped with air-con and 4 wheel drive.
We loaded up and set off for our next stop, Baboon Island.
Only about a two hour’s drive away, this hidden sanctuary
houses four families of protected chimpanzees, an immeasurable number of bird
species, and hundreds of monkeys and baboons.
We spent the afternoon on a small boat, riding the contours of the lush
islands, watching as the chimps swung and crawled their way down the lowest
branches to the banks, eager for their
lunch to arrive. Babies playfully jumped
from one tree to another, while the most senior members just sunned themselves,
flung over and slumped in massive heaps across fallen trees like heavy black coats
over park benches. Our boat captain kept
a fair distance to ensure the safety of both species, which, while I suppose it
did prevent the spread of communicable diseases and/or face-eating, it also
unfortunately prevented me from getting a decent close-up of these magnificent
creatures lazing about in the trees. At
night, we slept in safari tents atop high wooden structures over-looking the
river, and the following morning, we took a guided walk to spot baboons, which
kept a much closer eye on us than we did them. All in all, while it was not the Gambia known to me, it is a
small corner of the country holding a mystique all its own, and I am lucky to
have seen it.
Our chariot, having also slept at the camp, soon pulled up to
begin the long drive back to the city.
For his last night in the country, our travel agent (cough, cough)
highly recommended a stay at The Sheraton.
Not only is it close to the airport, it has real beds, hot showers, a
spa, and mostly importantly, bacon.
Needless to say, it was the greatest taste of luxury I’d had in eight
months, and while this may not have been the case for my dad, he nonetheless
got a few laughs in as I brought life to the old adage, You can take the girl out of the village, but….(Smelled my newly
pedicured feet in a public space, flooded the entire bathroom, ate like a
heathen) It wasn’t quite as pathetic a
display as the guy from Encino Man, but it was sadly close enough to warrant
comparison.
His flight was scheduled to leave just before midnight, so we
had the whole day to relax, eat bacon, and play cards. Around nine, our now familiar driver came to
drag us from the Sheraton paradise and back to reality. It was a teary goodbye, but as he left, I did
manage to laugh as he willed to me none other than that monstrosity of a hat,
which I then proceeded to wear, while simultaneously laughing and crying for a
good deal of the drive back to the PC house.
I’m sure the driver enjoyed it.
#whitegirlcrazy
So it was that his visit ended as quickly as it came upon us,
but what-a-week. It is a rare itinerary
which includes everything from beaches and baboons to killing your own dinner
and carrying bath water on your head, but it captures the uniqueness of
Gambia so perfectly. It may not be for
everyone, but I am so glad it was—at least briefly—for him. Thanks, dad for the awesome visit. I will remember those days for all time.
