by Jeffrey Vonk
Surely this country has many hidden treasures which you will either love or hate. I’ve met hundreds of backpackers that absolutely adore it. For me, in spite of not making it to tropical Goa or mother Theresa’s Calcutta, from what I have seen so far, I.N.D.I.A. truly stands for I-Never-Do-It-Again!
7
The Gambia
It is in the middle of December 2013 when the heavenly vaults above the Netherlands open up. Darkness glooms all around. As early as seven in the morning storms of snow are coming down hard. All night choirs of wind were raging lamenting songs, so it is no wonder that the subzero temperatures have rendered the roads as hazardous and slippery. On the weather channel, they advise civilians not to go outside unless strictly necessary. Perhaps I was a bit overzealous, I am the only one wearing shorts in the airplane I just boarded. I was already receiving puzzling looks from wide eyes at Schiphol airport.
While loosening up the buckle in my seat it remains a true enigma on why they allow us to get into the plane in the first place. For in the next scandalous four hours that follow we are locked up on the runway, trapped like rats. A thick layer of solid ice has made the airplane almost unrecognizable. Occasionally they actually hose the ice from the wings and engines, yet it’s to no avail. With only one tiny refreshment, most of the passengers are fighting boredom and restlessness. Not for me though, don’t ask me how I did it, but within no time I make friends with the pilots, who give me a little tour through the cockpit and even let me stay up front in one of the pilot’s seats! How cool is that? Seeing all those switches and buttons, the child in me awakens. This is how a flight from barely six hours can turn into one of ten hours. When patience is tested the greater is the reward, or so they say. Right before landing we are welcomed from behind the windows by a turquoise coastline and a surplus of tall palm trees to the Smiling Coast of Africa.
Like almost everywhere on earth until the four corners, the predominantly poor locals try to make a quick buck, so to speak. Half the airport offers to carry my luggage upon arrival. When I finally give in and grant a well-dressed man to give me a hand he is disappointed to receive Euro coins instead of Dalasi, the local currency. Well, what else did you expect? I find myself thinking sarcastically. I just freaking landed! A decent tour bus takes me to my resort in a village called Kotu. Astonishingly enough, at the travel agency a deal containing both the plane ticket and the hotel was cheaper than just the flight itself. You can’t make this stuff up. I don’t know how they do it, but it definitely works for me.
Due to the season the hotel is decorated with lights, wreath, and a Christmas tree. It is always funny to see such deco when it’s boiling hot outside. At least for me, being used to the thermometer indicating below zero around this time of year. When the sun slowly turns orange, the hot climate ensures that my socks will stay in my backpack. I won’t be needing those. Life cannot get any better chilling beneath a wicker bumbershoot with a dreamy view across the ocean, or can it? The traditional dish of Domoda is the first culinary cultural experience I have. It is basically a rich peanut stew and that’s as intriguing as it sounds.
In the course of days it becomes apparent that almost everyone is trying to get a piece of the action from the prosperous white devils. Yes, this racially charged description includes me. Nearly all have an arsenal of tricks up their frayed sleeve, some of which I have not seen since the days of David Copperfield. Unfortunately for them, their skills hardly work with me, being a thoroughly seasoned man of the world. Due to my significant number of travels, I became an expert on detecting scams and fraudulent activities, but make no mistake, they are well-trained and not easily brushed off. Now that I am getting older I do admit that I am more prone to their lies. It becomes especially hard when they unleash a battle against your conscience so hereby be forewarned.
Obviously not everyone has a double agenda. On my way to the supermarket, a wooden structure the size of an average lavatory, I meet a gentle hospitable Rastafarian. He takes me to his living environment in the jungle where we talk back and forth until it’s evening. Meeting him and his friends ignites several small yet intriguing endeavors. In fact, from this day forward, I end up spending my nights in seedy motels, apartments in unknown places and insect infested jungles. Meeting them causes me to not sleep at my resort any longer.
During our first long conversation, we are accompanied by a large sum of El Hella tea. This is how it is prepared: in total, it is boiled three times. First very bitter, then less bitter (but still disgusting) and last but not least, sweet – partially due to the insane amount of sugar added. Please note that it needs to be consumed in all three stages. Then you pour the steaming liquid from the kettle into a small glass, with a challenging long trickle, prior to repetitively pouring it from one glass into another until a good milky head appears. Soon I learn that you don’t barge in here for a quick visit. In Gambian culture a meeting is more often than not time-consuming, to say the least. Hours can turn into a whole day; a day can easily turn into several days. Time is something intangible. During supper with the newly acquainted and a bunch of his friends, we all eat rice and fish from the same round platter. Sharing what you have is quite common among Gambian people and often essential as well. Unlike in India, where you eat with three fingers, you use your whole hand here. A small ball of food is formed in the palm of the hand before licking it out and going for the next round, but be sure not to eat the flies. If you do not constantly chase them away, they are all over your food. I reckon cramps and diarrhea are guaranteed after such meals where you are basically eating each others saliva.
By the time rice expands in our stomachs, the first bag of marihuana emerges. Even during the day, it is hard not to notice that pretty much the entire village has red eyes. I have never seen so many people together that are simultaneously stoned out of their minds. The people refer to their smoke in a comical way, as ‘Bob Marley cigarettes’.
Friends of my new friend become my brothers, according to them we are all family. “A brother from another mother!” they say. To make it easy, his brothers who are actually his friends are also his colleagues. On the payroll of a nearby hotel, they are responsible for minor maintenance. For each one individually their professions are printed on the back of their lab coats. Funnily enough these are sponsored by a Dutch supermarket chain.
* * *
On one of these days I return for a while to my resort. In my room, I enjoy a long shower and trade my smelly clothes for a set of clean ones. Hotel staff wonder where their guest has been. Before I give them a chance to ask I am already out again. Right before the evening, I meet up with my so-called brothers again in the jungle. I discover that I should take their words with a pinch of salt as they claim to have worked hard all day, yet all they did was move a mattress from one room to another, nearly sixty meters apart. Slouching on their beds with a big fat joint and half-closed eyelids I’m assured they’re having a well-deserved rest from the heavy labor. Do not get me wrong, they certainly are kindness personified, but my oh my no wonder there is zero progressiveness.
Just off the beach, sandbanks and breathtaking rock formations are disclosed by the reoccurring low tides of the ocean. A standard of thirty-five degrees Celsius simmers my skin well-done, about two complexions away from possible skin cancer, hence never miss out on sunscreen. Lush wilderness full of plants and animal life are revitalizing. There is an abundance of the sweetest fruits growing in the trees, free for anyone to take, the way nature intended it to be. Big lizards, hawks, eagles, monkeys, vultures, white herons and an excess of never seen before bugs creeping about. In the shades of overgrown streams, it is no surprise to spot bright red crabs, medium size crocodiles and even piranha’s, being bigger than you might expect.
On the beach I assist local fishermen just having returned from open water, by untangling their large nets. Consisting of a serious hunk of muscle we pile up freshly caught sharks. An occasional tuna fish or stingray is found between the spoils, but all have
to submit to the lack of H2O before they are off to the fish market that I will visit later on.
With my bare feet still standing in the hot sand something else draws my attention. A group of bulky men start exercising on the beach. This is my first encounter with one of the better wrestling teams from the Gambia. Not only do they draw my attention, their attention is drawn to me also, being one of the few white guys showing interest in their sport. From that moment on I am invited to join them and my training starts, which is held once every three days. Soon my muscles ache from the work-outs and my body hurts from the training. They do not hold back in treating me like a rookie or something, every chance they get they smack me to the ground using their raw strength and set of skills. Determined to possess the same skills I receive some one-on-one lessons from the trainer. These sessions definitely pay off, meanwhile I visibly grow in size daily. When it is close to an official match everyone from the team, including me, is subject to wear a traditional outfit. To know that this is nothing more than completely naked with a burlap thong! It is a ridiculous sight. While shooting the promotion video, where we perform a choreographed dance, I am contrastingly lacking in color among the dark-skinned wrestlers, and maybe some body mass too. Not sure if I have an underdeveloped talent here but during one of the training sessions, weeks later from when I began, I manage to floor one of the professionals. Everyone is impressed but me the most. What a great and unforgettable experience. I will forever be grateful to the team who took me in and treated me as one of their own. Fantastic.
In all fairness, I need not to worry about any difference in pigmentation. The local community accepts me wholeheartedly. The ones seeing me on a regular basis call me by my Gambian name ‘Brother Peace’ that was somehow bestowed upon me. Other eccentric names I frequently hear are ‘Muscleman’, ‘Tattooman’, ‘Good Muslim’, and last but not least ‘Friend of God’, which coincidently is the true meaning of my actual name. Although I had no idea whether they actually knew that.
At one point my new brothers convince me to join them to a Rasta party at night. Far removed from my preferable genre we hit the streets with loud Jamaican music in the district of Kololi. Being the only white guy in the crowd it takes some time of getting used to. I mean of course I have something to prove among these people who have an innate feeling for rhythm. Since I wasn’t born yesterday I win some credit due to my dance moves. I am not as inflexible as most westerners in my age range. Needless to say, everyone is smoking pot to the limit. Someone from the crowd comes up to me and tells me unexpectedly: “Yah man, it’s all love.” Pretty much all the locals use the same slogans repeatedly. Other ones often heard are: “Good people meet good people”, “It’s not easy you know!” or “What is your nice name?” By far the most used, being almost a trade-mark for the region, is: “It’s nice to be nice!” This one is my personal favorite because whilst saying it they like to give big smiles and show their insanely white teeth. Those by the way are kept that white without the aid of toothpaste or a toothbrush. Amazingly enough a little twig from a certain tree is used to scrape it all clean and in essence this is all you need. Of course, the big companies in the western world, consumed by making profit instead of caring about health, teach us how to poison ourselves with all sorts of mouth cleaning products full of fluoride. In the end, everything we need is offered by nature.
Together with two blond-haired Dutch girls, we roam the area on rented bicycles. I met them in one of the moments I went to my room to change clothes at the resort. Along the way it is tough not to be bothered by the amount of junk we come across. Plastic of all sorts, wood waste and smelly ponds are everywhere. It’s not a secret to how it became such a mess as everyone contributes to it and even before our very eyes. Cycling on an unpaved dirt road we witness a man finishing his plastic bottle of soda and carelessly throwing it aside, even without taking the effort to see where it lands. All he knows is it will blend in with the rest of the rubbish. Back home my government is inexhaustibly pushing civilians for the agenda to separate waste, which most actually do, but seeing all this now, to what end?
More suspicious odors welcome us when we arrive at the Bakau Fish Market, although here this is to be expected. Colorful fishing boats with empty nets and fully ordained women stimulate the senses. Varieties of fish lay exhibited on improvised picket tables next to the bigger stalls. It cannot get any fresher than this. Out of the water straight to the cutting board of the salesmen. Walking in the midst of it all the smell is unbearable in this heat. An army of flies unleash in apocalyptic measures as if a next plague has broken out. Beneath wooden tables lie pieces of intestines, heads, skin and bone, and take my word for it that those pieces have been rotting away for weeks, months and even years. That is a crash course of life in Africa for you.
Some of the children present live in such poverty that we are moved enough to treat them to food and toys. What more can you do, right? When they hug us and do not want to let go we understand it is not because they desire more, for we sense the love and gratefulness they are transmitting, but simply to show thankfulness. Their heartfelt smiles are priceless.
Although bicycle rides are fun, my real quest is to rent a motorcycle. I would even buy one if I had to. Since I am sort of low on cash I need to get myself a proper deal though. I happen to know a guy that supposedly knows an official store. Having walked at least ten miles in the blistering heat it turns out the official store is comprised of a random stranger that has a brother living in the bush who is willing to give up on his bike. Scratching my chin I sigh a long: “I see…” I’m not eager to accuse anyone of racism, but I highly suspect that the price goes up disproportionally on account of him noticing my skin tone. Well, I ain’t falling for that one. Standing with my thumb out for a couple of minutes two ladies in an old Suzuki Vitara are kind enough to bring me back to Kotu. There the search continues. I learn from the same guy I ran into earlier that he has a friend with a Kawasaki 500. This one is promised to be available after fixing some spare parts. However, the deal has too many strings attached so I will not get to ride a motorcycle for my whole time of being here. Too bad. It would be so easy for some of these guys to make decent money. You just have to know how to make it.
Residents invite me to visit their house daily to meet their families. Other tourists seem clocked up in spending their time in loungers at the coast, or even end up wasting their time staying at the pool at their resorts. I cannot get into all the demands and I certainly cannot describe all that takes place, yet the following events are worth mentioning. Starting with something that will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Have you ever heard of Juju? Neither did I before coming here. It’s a form of black magic that is practiced in a large portion of West Africa and I’m about to undergo the spells of voodoo firsthand. Ending up in a wooden shack of one of my hosts, he shows me a string with beads tied around his upper arm. That’s all the power he can handle for now. When certain tribes go to war they tie one of those strings with beads around their waste to gain enormous powers, even shielding themselves with a spiritual layer of protection that apparently make bullets bounce off from their bodies. Of course, my first reaction is: “Enjoying your LSD so far sir?”, kind of ridiculing the situation. I go on asking: “Maybe you have a feverish attack of malaria?”, as could very well be the case in this country. Yet nothing can be further from the truth. Grabbing a knife as big as the length of a man’s hand, without taking the measurements of the hilt into consideration, he is ready to perform a small demonstration. First, he firmly presses the blade in his hand and arm trying to make a cut. Nothing happens. Then he takes it with both hands and stabs himself in the belly in full force! Again without damaging results nor blood or even the slightest cut! I am standing literally one meter away from him and have a good view. It is hard to believe my own eyes, maybe I am the one having malaria? Now it’s time for the scary part. Standing face to face, he places the blade in my right hand and tells me to sta
b him. “Are you serious?” I stutter but his nod tells me he is. A quick check reveals the edge is razor-sharp. Placing my left hand on his right shoulder for stability, I get ready to do as he ordered. Bending my knees and spreading my legs a little to brace myself for the impact I am about to cause. While I am holding my breath he takes a deep one and then I do it! I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I try to shank him in his bowels, and again, and again. No matter how I try, the stainless steel cannot seem to penetrate his flesh. Such an act would instantly be lethal to any other human being. I do not know if they found a way to summon demons or something to become as hard as stone, for me, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth for the rest of the day. No doubt it is one of the spookiest experiences of witchcraft I’ve ever been involved in.
Luckily, not all my hosts are plain weirdos. A man my age that I met on the beach brings me to the market of the district of Serekunda, which is quite something. Once again flies are overrepresented. An enormous amount of fruits, sheets and towels, hardware, spices, fish, you name it. A lot of the commodity comes from French-speaking Senegalese, having a big percentage in trading within this area. Women and girls alike are dressed in prismatic robes and headscarves, sometimes the headscarves even match their robes. In spite of being crowded as heck, the roads are decent and the overall vibe feels safe and friendly.