Clash of Two Worlds

After getting the approval from the PC nurse to go to Dakar 12 hours before our planned early morning departure, my two friends (both of which were lucky enough to travel with this chick), Brian and Bjorn, left the PC house at 6:30am, a few minutes after an hour-long torrential downpour. It was dawn and the streets were flooded with muddy puddles, which I was not happy about due to my wrapped, infected toe. Anyway, here, you just roll with it...and we did.

While waiting for the ferry in Banjul, we were asked by an abnormally unsketchy guy if we happened to be going to Dakar. Why yes we were! After negotiating a price, slightly higher than, a sept plas (seven passenger vehicle that's a step up from a gele-gele). It was the three of us, the driver and his no more than 5 year-old niece. As we sat on the ferry, we looked to our left and noticed a white, wooden coffin on the bed of a pick-up next to us. (Knowing funeral practices of Islam, the person inside probably died at the early hours of the morning and was being taking to its burial place as quickly as possible.)

We proceeded on our way with a minor freak out when car spun out on the muddy road from Barra to the border town of Almdalai. Brian and Bjorn handled it well and didn't even notice my hands gripping their thighs as I let out an 'Ahhh!' (I was sandwiched in the middle of them). We continued on our journey, full of bribing police officers for a unlit tail light, a bumpy, mud-ridden road, and a repeat electrical short, which later caused the car to stall when slowing down. After several pushes by a Senegalese Gendarmie officer, Bjorn, Brian, and useless bystanders, and a laborious hot-wiring the job, the car went on its way without any problems. We hit Dakar around 5:30pm, only to sit in horrific, diesel-exhaust fume-filled traffic for about an hour and a half. Our driver, FaKebba, dropped us off near our hotel, and Bjorn began using his Wolof skills so that we could survive our week long trip in Dakar. (Brian speaks Fula; I speak Mandinka; none of us speak French.)

We arrived at our hotel, recommended by our friends Ryan and Leslie (thanks guys!), and it was a nice treat. Hot water, running shower, spotless, air conditioning, fan and a pretty steady supply of electricity without the use of a generator. We had arrived. First task: money and food. Good food: no rice, palm oil, no peanuts.

During the week, we ate to our hearts' content. And after a week of what felt like gorging, I realized I felt the healthiest I have (despite my various infections) since being in West Africa. Why? I wasn't eating rice...in fact, Brian, Bjorn, and I made a pact to not eat rice the entire time we were there. (We broke it the first day as we were offered really cheap chicken yassa for lunch.) Salads, cheese, fresh bread, seafood (lots of it), and even Ben and Jerry's ice cream. (I ate half the container and still feel no shame.)

Traveling through the different parts of Dakar---Ngor Island, Goree Island, Alamides, Les Mamelles, Place of Independence, and more African urban parts, I was happy to be in this world of familiarity. Familiarity with West Africa---its culture, its transport, its frustrations, but at the same, famliarity with a world in which I've been disconnected in over 1.5 years...full of luxuries as menial as pastries, bus schedules, good cups of coffee, news, and even fashion. My two worlds collided, in a sense, and while it was great to be back in a life of 'luxury', it only made me realize how much I miss home. My family, my friends, the parks, the cities, and my bike. As Bjorn and I said goodbye to Brian, who was flying to the States for his sister's wedding, I realized I could have walked right on that plane too. New York was ALMOST right there. But I couldn't. I didn't. And I wouldn't. I'm not yet done.

For the next few days, more cheese and more baguette bread were eaten. More was explored and one day, we actually found ourselves on a bus, not really certain where it was going. At first we thought to ask the driver to stop the bus, but then we realized that it's okay to just ride around...see the neighborhoods, the universities, the people, the life. We spent about 3 hours riding around the city, and I thought to myself, would I ever do this in New York City or even Philadelphia? Probably not. But I think that will be on my list of things to do once States-side again. Ride the bus like a local, while acting as a tourist. Rediscover those places I've missed. and I can't wait.

Five days after our arrival to Dakar, it was time to return to The Gambia. Admittedly, I had mixed emotions. I could've stayed a bit longer, but I really couldn't. Funds were running low. After a ridiculously long check-out at the hotel (there was a minor error, but became a major task to fix), we hired a taxi to take us to the car park. We hoped for a sept plas, but none were available. So instead, we got a van that took 4 hours and 15 minutes to fill. It was by far the worst 'waiting for transport' experience of my time here. Passengers finally became angry after we waited for 2 hours for the last two passengers to arrive. After we finally left the car park, we headed out of the madness, hitting traffic and stopping every 50 kms for the same passenger to pee.

Then, it became dark, with people getting off and taking their luggage, which required 5 minutes to untie and retie the remaining baggage to the roof rack. Stop and go, stop and go. We hit the border around 8:45pm at night, checked out with Senegal Immigration and checked in with Gambia Immigration. The Gambian Officers assured us that we'd make the last ferry from Barra to Banjul. We arrived in Barra at 9:30, only to find out that that night, the Gambia Ports Authority decided to close the ferry early (the last ferry is at 11pm), due to the arrival of rain and some Raggae singer (who knows). We were stuck in Barra for an hour, surrounded by drunk men, trying to have us hire a small boat across, or trying to convince us to stay at the 'guesthouse' (ie. brothel). We sat at the police station, complete with ravenous mosquitoes and men being held in jail cells. Thankfully, a PCV friend that lives nearby helped bring a happy ending to our horrid day. She found a friend with a car, and they came to pick us up, and we stayed at her house for the night. All was well the next morning when we crossed to Banjul.

Despite my homesickness (and unsatiated desire for cheese and baguette and Salade Nicoise), I'm happy to go back to site in a few days. The rest of the year will be an exciting time---garden work, babies to be born in the compound, health talks, tutoring, Arts and Craft club, growing vegetables in my personal garden, biking the country, and maybe rediscovering The Gambia, before I leave to return to that other world.

Keep in touch. And know I miss you all.

Lots of Love,

Steph