by David Pugh
Sylvia was covered in sweat and panting, ‘That was amazing but I haven’t really cum; Jeff, finish me, you know how.’
I was still rock hard, a personal record in keeping it up. I ripped open my condom but Remus restrained my hand.
‘Please, I not finish,’ indicating his still erect cock. ‘Put on me,’ and Sylvia nodded to let him try again.
‘Selfish bastard!’ I thought, there was no way I’d lick his cock again, especially after he had just cum. He stretched out Sylvia on the cushion, still on the floor and entered her in the basic missionary position and after a few strokes, fell asleep on top of her.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard! I don’t have any more condoms!’ he’d wasted it!
‘Oh, let him sleep,’ Sylvia said with Remus still on top of her. That we couldn’t do, it was 3am, soon Lamin, the guesthouse owner, would be up for morning prayers. He would not be happy to see this scene but nothing I tried could wake or shift the big palm tapper. I took a roll of dalasi notes from my wallet.
I rubbed the notes around his nose, saying, ‘Money, Remus!’ One eye opened and a hand reached for the dalasi. ‘This is for your boys’ schooling but you have to leave now,’ I indicated that he should pull his still erect penis out of my wife.
‘I rested now, I go again in the womans?’
‘No you don’t! You go now, before Lamin wakes up.’
Pulling up his trousers he said, ‘I need piss, condom still on.’
‘Piss in the condom then,’ I suggested.
‘No waste condom, I home, use on wife,’ swaying to the stairs.
‘Wife?’ said Sylvia, ‘I thought your wife was dead.’
Chapter 9: The Happy Hippo Hostel Hotel
The first few months after our return from the Kadjendo experience were invigorating for our sex lives, reliving every erotic movement of the ballet. We believed that The Gambia could be good for us, albeit with me thinking it was a bit one sided and that I needed to find myself a lover or two. We decided that we should look for another African adventure, before deciding if we should perhaps move to The Gambia. We booked a return flight to Johannesburg that summer, intending to defy the travel books by crossing Botswana on a shoe-string budget. We took a three-man tent divided between us, our son Edgar was number three, crossing the country into Zambia and back. We visited Victoria Falls, Mosi-oa-Tunya, “The Smoke that Thunders”, soaking ourselves in its majesty. We spent a week with Kalahari San Bushmen, in a homestay run by Andrea Hardbattle, brother of John, the founder of the First People’s Movement, and got drunk with our first self-confessed murderer.
We met Molefi in Gaborone at one of the world’s longest bars, a charming man with perfect RP English, a photographic memory for the works of English poets, an officer and a gentleman. He was drinking a litre of Tassenberg wine, matching it with equal parts Coca Cola, “Good Old Tassies and Coke” as he fondly referred to it. He was the son of a government minister, had been educated in a British public school and had served as a Blue Helmet major in Somalia. His politeness slipped away as he entered the influence of his second two litres of “Good Old Tassies and Coke”. ‘I do this every night, you know, and do you want to know why?’
We didn’t really want to know, his mood was turning ugly, ‘I killed three innocent men in Somalia.’ He painted the picture which haunted him every day and night of his life. He was coming to the end of his tour of duty with the United Nations in the hellhole that was Mogadishu in 1993. One of his men had been hacked to death near the UN barracks. That evening three builders were screaming at the gate, demanding money they were owed for some barrack repairs. ’They were screaming at the sentry on the gate. I went over to politely ask them to shut up, they screamed into my face, telling me, Molefi, that I owed them the money, I was a major. I informed them to resubmit invoices and told them to shut up. They kept barking at me, behaving like the rabble that had killed my man that afternoon.
“Shut the fuck up!” I repeated. They kept barking, I loosened the safety catch on my machine gun and touched the trigger, just a little. A red haze settled over my eyes, I closed them and opened them to find the three builders dead on the ground. My men hurried me away,’ he continued. ‘As I was the son of an African government official, the story was covered up.’
Dismissed from the army and not able to find a job which suited his unique talent, he spent his evening at the 36-metre bar of the Gaborone Hotel, where we had a room. Later Edgar said, ‘Well, you don’t hear stories like that in the Red Lion!’ It was well worth the effort of making this southern African journey; we enjoyed it but it wasn’t really all that different to The Gambia. This was why we were now looking at an online advertisement. The Happy Hippo Hostel Hotel was for sale for only £20,000, we could afford to take a risk on that and flew out to view the property.
The 4H, as it was locally known, was close to the Kachikally Crocodile Pool in Bakau, a popular tourist destination, where you can step over sleeping crocs. Locals say they are all stoned, like most Gambians, Health and Safety laws wouldn’t allow it elsewhere. The 4H couldn’t compete as a beach resort, but I had an angle, to make it a base camp for a visit to Guinea Bissau. Remus had been born in the village of Cassalol, Guinea Bissau, and had invited me to go with him to visit his brothers. I jumped at the idea, surprised that the invitation had not been extended to Sylvia. She stayed to get estimates on the few renovations needed and talk to an English lawyer married to a Gambian man.
Chapter 10: One Night in Ziguinchor
There is still no real backpacking culture in The Gambia, as it’s one of the easiest and cheapest gateways into West Africa, it should be an obvious starting point for eager gap-year students on their way to Timbuktu and many other equally fascinating destinations. Timbuktu was a safe town to visit in those days, now the desert is slowly claiming it back. The plan was that Remus could take me by local transport down to his home village, Cassalol, to meet his brothers and see how they lived their isolated rural lives. We needed to do the trip in about four days, as that would be the maximum time your average tourist would want to spend away from the beach on their two-week holiday.
I was prepared for some delay in Fajara getting a Guinea Bissau visa sorted; as it turned out, it only took about three-quarters of an hour. The wait seemed even shorter as Remus had brought a fresh litre of palm wine for breakfast.
Leg one was easy; there are a continuous stream of mini-buses plying the route between Serrekunda and Brikama, the crossroads town on the north-south Senegal route. At Brikama we had a longer wait to fill a car to Ziguinchor, the main city of the Casamance region of Senegal and our first border crossing. We decided to spend the night in Ziguinchor as we were keen to sample Senegalese nightlife.
‘Where to then, Remus?’ I asked.
‘Wait!’ was his reply, and he went looking for someone who could speak Jola. He returned with a small boy who could show us a local bar for a few coins. The boy showed us a rather smart, if quiet, bar just as the sky opened, tipping the last of the summer’s monsoon onto the tin roof and flooding the mud street outside. We ordered two Gazelle beers, and I consulted the Lonely Planet. Remus asked me to read out the LP guide to Ziguinchor nightlife, this bar seemed too quiet and only served bread rolls.
Remus liked the sound of Le Kassa, to quote the LP, “Most inviting of local-style places – a spacious restaurant-cum-bar, with a fairly wide menu and frequent live shows.” Looking at its location on the town map and being a bit better at negotiating urban streets than Remus, I told him to wait a moment. I ducked out the front door, into the rain and was back in seconds, to announce that we were already in Le Kassa.
Next day we passed through Guinea Bissau customs and immigration at Sao Domingos with no problem, the surprisingly well-metalled road ended at a ferry crossing the Rio Cacheu. There we were greeted by the remarkable sight of buses with roof racks crammed with live pigs and goats, making an almighty din. One of the tell-tale signs that you are indeed in Guinea Bissau ar
e the number of domestic pigs crossing the roads, you know you are in a Christian country. Remus was taking delight in pointing out the number of Catholic and Evangelical churches to be seen with just the occasional mosque.
A piggy bus took us to the outskirts of Bissau City; here we took a local taxi to the hotel recommended by a consulate official in Fajara. I thought the hotel might be expensive but the taxi ride cost me dearly; the driver insisted that I needn’t put my rucksack in the boot but sit it next to me, despite him picking up other passengers. While wrestling the bag out of the narrow back door, I caught my left wrist on the door trim, slicing my watch in half, sending the winder into the gutter. I managed later to tape my long time-travelling companion back together, it still worked but with no means to wind it, I just had to wait for it to slowly die. The Hotel Ta-Mar was quite expensive; we were the only guests and had the choice of the four rooms. The only difference between the rooms was that the cheapest room had its own toilet, but it was in the corridor, with its own key. This was hardly much of an inconvenience, more so was the fact that the tiny en suite shower was electrically powered, so due to another power cut we had to use buckets in the very small space.
Chapter 11: The Sirens’ Cry
Having changed into a fetching Che Guevara t-shirt and black Aladdin pants, Remus was ready to hit the town, but first he wanted to find out the times of the boat over to Bubaque, the main island of the Arquipelegos dos Bijagos. I didn’t think we had enough time for the trip and to visit Cassalol village but Remus said we shouldn’t miss it. It turned out that the only ship leaving for the islands was about to embark in an hour. Remus rushed back to the hotel to try and get a refund on the night’s accommodation. As the only guests in the hotel, there was no way they’d give our money back. Remus had to tearfully watch the ferry go; I found out from some soldiers in a bar that evening that the island girls were supposed to be the hottest women in West Africa. Remus had been hoping to sample their delights, which I’d have paid for. I’d already provided him with enough free sexual entertainment. Remus wasn’t deterred and assured me that we’d find a canoe to take us over in the morning. It took four to six hours on the steamer; I didn’t want to imagine the trip by paddle power and a strong libido. Saturday morning found no boats leaving for the islands; I suggested we visit Remus family as planned. He took one last wistful look across the sea, blocked his ears to the sirens’ cry and got us a cheap taxi to the Cacheu ferry.
Eleven am back in Sao Domingos we looked for the lorry to Susana, from there it would be a four-kilometre walk to Cassalol. My priority was to get something to eat; we’d had nothing but a very small fish with rice the night before. My African friend didn’t have the same five-a-day fruit and vegetable needs as me; Remus’ priority was more kana as Guinea Bissau has the best kana in the world, and he wanted to find some more. Sao Domingos had two very good bars; the one near the Cassalol road provided us with some very fine kana, the bar also stocked a brown liquid sold in jam jars.
I asked Remus what was in the jars, ‘You want to try?’ he asked, as there was nowhere to go just yet, I agreed to try cashew wine.
Cashew wine is the product of cashew nuts that have fermented in a dark place for about two weeks but it still has a very distinct cashew nut aftertaste, quite a pleasant first impression. After several glasses we went to find out if the lorry to Susana was filling up. We’d already left our bags in the driver’s cab, he was waiting for twenty people to climb aboard before he’d drive the fifty-kilometre mud road but he only had seven passengers.
After about an hour I thought it time to check on the lorry, as our bags were still in the cabin and I foolishly thought it might leave without us. Three more people had joined the queue, including a rather odd old black man named Popa Jigga, who only seemed to speak in English. He was complaining about the price of medicine to heal his heart disease, Remus told him that he knew a herb that could cure his condition in one application. Naturally, Popa Jigga wanted the herb and he wanted it right now; I thought Remus might have been exaggerating his bush medical qualifications somewhat. To pacify the very excited Mr Jigga, Remus led me into the bush to find the herb; well, it was actually someone’s garden. That someone got very agitated when he discovered a tall Rasta and a very pale white man digging at the root of one of his trees. Remus warned the landowner and me not to touch the rather evil-looking fungus he’d dug up with a stick, which he rolled into a plastic bag, before asking the astonished landowner for some clean water to wash his hands, in case he may have inadvertently touched the thing. He then told me that he was going to put it into a fire and grind the ashen powder into an infusion for Popa Jigga to put on his tongue. The old man was still game to try the potion, even though he told us that his brother had died from a wrongly administered dose of bush medicine. Remus told him it would be fine but not to take it until the chest pain was really bad and, as I thought, when we were miles away from him. I spotted that someone was cooking in a shack near the bus stand, so suggested we go eat. All it had was fish and rice, with no sign of a vegetable, other than a small onion.
By 6pm still only ten people were waiting for the lorry to leave, so the driver announced that he wouldn’t be leaving today and to try again in the morning. Someone suggested we might like to spend the night at the hotel, which was a surprise to us; we’d walked around the town seven or eight times that day and not seen one. There was indeed a four-room hotel that had so little custom; it had no need to put a “Hotel” sign outside it. The rooms were very spacious and had a mosquito mesh on the windows, the owner even managed to find some clean sheets. Remus changed into some fresh stepping-out clothes, and I went for a shower. The one bathroom which was shared by the owner’s family left a lot to be desired, two very large water butts which never got fully emptied, just continually topped up, and one toilet bowl which had never been connected to a water supply. Bottled water was rather expensive in Sao Domingos, so I didn’t want to waste it on brushing my teeth and I certainly wasn’t going to put the contents of the water butts into my mouth, one night without brushing my teeth wouldn’t hurt. As I finished my bucket shower, the sound of disco blasted from outside the bathroom window, our hotel was next to the town nightclub and Remus was ready for action. Sure enough, he’d covered himself in some perfume I’d bought him in Ziguinchor and sprayed his bonnet with my anti-bacteria solution; he was feeling irresistible. After a few more kanas from the town’s other bar and a few beers with a long-lost relative, we hit the nightclub. As soon as I went through the door, I just wanted to turn around and leave, it was a pre-teen disco. West Africa has a reputation for men of a certain age coming to look for intimate juvenile companionship; I did not want to stay here. Remus couldn’t see the problem and was happy to dance on; I said I’d be happier back at the bar watching a Brazilian shopping channel.
Joy of joy, I found a woman selling deep-fried cassava, a vegetable at last, washed down with cans of Portuguese beer, that were actually cheaper than the bottled water. I awoke that night wishing I had paid the extra for the water as I was getting pretty dehydrated. I bought some water in the morning; I was beyond caring how expensive it was. We found someone selling coffee and French bread, with a choice of butter or mayonnaise and the use of a bedroom for Remus to roll up a joint, to steady him for the journey. If I’d known how bad the road was going to be, I’d have taken anything to numb my nerve endings. We got to the bus stand to find that we did now have twenty people and could hit the rugged road. Popa Jigga was one of the crowd; he had taken the heart remedy and was feeling worse than he’d ever felt in his life, his heart racing and feeling too ill to travel. I felt really sorry for Mr Jigga, but Remus accused him of taking too much of the fungal powder.
We suffered a hellish five-hour mud track drive, with potholes and craters bigger than anything The Gambia could offer. After being thrown a foot off the plank seat about twenty times, I sat on a cement sack, which I moulded into the shape of my bottom.
Chapter 12:
The Beach of Broken Dreams
The road finally stopped, on the outskirts of Susana village. The road should have run a few kilometres more but the bridge had collapsed, leaving an upturned lorry in the stream. Things did not bode well for finding transport back to Senegal. We crossed the broken bridge on foot, the dirt road stretched in a straight line to the horizon.
‘Cassalol down there, by tall tree, four kilometres,’ Remus gestured. The road was very exposed, just some short bushes and rice fields making it feel like a scene from a war movie, just before the enemy planes come. I remember reading that the people’s army, the PAIGC (Partido Africano da Independence da Guine e Cabo Verde) had planted landmines in this area to keep out the MFDC (Mouvement des Forces Democratique de la Casamance),who had backed General Mane’s coup of 1998. About two kilometres down the road, I couldn’t fail to miss a huge crucifix behind a fence; I asked Remus if it was a war memorial. He told me that it was a holy place where people gather once a year; I thought of the Cenotaph and Remembrance Sunday. It was early afternoon, the sun very hot and I was out of water, so that concentrated my mind on getting to the village. There was a T-junction at the end of the road, one branch leading into Cassalol and the other going on to Varela. A mud hut was built near this stopping point, which remarkably turned out to be the village shop and even more remarkably sold bottled water. Apparently, the odd 4x4 stopped here on the way to the beach. Just a short way down the village road we came to Remus’ brother, Quamiso Ebeleye’s house, he was stunned to see his younger sibling in the company of a pale white man with a big bag. Quamiso greeted Remus as Ahuben, in the years I’d known this guy, only now had I found out his given name. Quamiso’s wife dragged out a sponge mattress from their hut, Ahuben and I were asked to sit down and a bucket of cashew wine was brought for us to drink.