The rest of the weekend- all of Saturday and Sunday that is- were taken up by the hellish trip back to Dakar. If we thought the road from Kedougou to Labe was the worst of it, we were terribly mistaken. Despite our awesome car and the amazing (comparatively- it was still not paved) road to Koundara, the journey was all but easy. Our driver, no doubt ecstatic about his fabulous car, drove way too fast on the winding and potholed road so by the time 8 o’clock rolled around (we left at 6am) I was thoroughly carsick. Most of the day comprised of us rearranging ourselves throughout the car in order to avoid vomiting, but the result was that all of us just felt equally sick. This activity was interrupted only when we stopped at a customs checkpoint, of which there were at least six. And at each one we had to get out, show our passports, and wait patiently while the police slowly copied down our information, make awkward conversation, and proposed marriage. However, at one Guinean post there was a nice female guard who gave us all Pulaar names!
When we arrived in Manda, the little town just shy of the Senegal border, we were immediately surrounded by men who wanted to sell us something, give us a deal, or bring us over the border. For some reason, it was completely overwhelming after a week of relative tranquility in Guinea…anyway, we were directed to a bus that was apparently going to Tambacounda, where we were planning on staying the night, but upon approaching the bus, a group of four girls from the program shouted our names from inside. They had been waiting since 8am (it was 6pm) for the bus to leave for Dakar and planned to ride it overnight all the way back. Somehow- and I still don’t know how I convinced myself this would work out- they persuaded us to join them. So we climbed on the bus and were off. No just kidding, that would have been far too easy. We waited for another three hours before leaving, but there was one very scary false alarm when the bus began to pull away and Jen was still in the bathroom…
The next 24 hours are really just a blur of miserable sticky heat and swirling clouds of dust- both inside and outside of the bus. We must have stopped about every half-an-hour for every imaginable reason: to go to the bathroom, to pray, to eat, to buy water, to stretch, to smoke, or for no reason at all! Around 11pm we arrived at our previous destination of Tambacounda where the gare (station) was full of sketchy people making deals and drivers sleeping in their cars. There was also a man wearing nothing but a towel who followed us around while he smoked his joint. Only in Senegal. Needless to say we literally spent an entire day on this bus and by the end I was so dirty that I was a different shade. When I got home my brother asked me how I arranged to change races in Guinea. Yes indeed, I was dirty. But it was nothing that a nice (cold) shower and a large plate of yassa gannard* couldn’t fix…!
*Yassa chicken is the most delectable Senegalese dish ever invented- better than ceebu jen, the national dish. It is grilled chicken (mmm!) with olives and pickles over a bed of white rice, seasoned onions, and garlic. Can you imagine? No, you can’t- SOOOO good!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Part XIII: What a Man Won’t Do For Me…
Friday started just like every other day in Guinea- with a search for food. Of course we had- you guessed it!- bread and were quickly on our way. First, we headed to Villa Silli, the summer home of successive Governors of the French colony of West Africa.* The house was not as big as I had expected (while still easily considered a mansion), but it has been left to decay. An unofficial guard and tour guide opened it up for us so we could see inside, and I must say that I can only imagine how beautiful it was when it was well taken care of. The brightly colored paint peeling off the walls would have been fresh and lacquered, the intricately carved concrete walls and furniture would have been dusted clean, and the wrap-around windows would have looked out on a well-groomed lawn and lush green mountains of infinite beauty. As it was, the best word to describe it is pitiful- nothing more than a remnant of past splendor.
Right next door was the Casa des Palabras (I have no idea why the name is Spanish/Portuguese) which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. While this was hard to believe since there was no one else in sight, I am not surprised because it has great historical significance. The building was built, in defiance of French rule, in the manner of traditional round huts. The entire interior- wall, floors, ceiling- is covered with bas-relief carvings which all have significance. The casa was used as a meeting place for colonial authorities and local tribal chiefs. The Governor would sit in the middle of the circular room while 12 chiefs sat at prescribed places around the walls, and they would discuss. The house is clearly falling into disrepair as its historical import is forgotten, but the guide explained that UNESCO came recently to repair the roof, which still looked in pretty bad shape…
Afterwards we headed off to the Association des Coutourieres de Dalaba, a small cooperative known for its traditional Guinean indigo fabric. It was very difficult to find- we had to ask several people before we came across one who had any idea where it was- probably because it was no more than a house next to a three-room school/workshop. When we arrived, the nicest old lady (who insisted that she recognized Margaret while she gave her a gentle kiss) invited us into her living room. A small detail but great point of humor here were the family pictures taken behind very fake-looking backdrops of the Eiffel Tower, NYC, etc. and the outdated map of Africa that listed non-existent cities in Nigeria…Anyway, the woman took us through the building and explained that they train young girls how to dye fabric while they educate them because their parents wouldn’t let them go to school unless they were learning a “useful” trade at the same time. There was a sign in the largest classroom that said “Educating today’s girls is training tomorrow’s mother.” How is that for gender progress? We also met a Peace Corps volunteer from Madison, WI- holler!
Then we headed to the Cooperative des Cordonniers (Leather Co-op) in center city. On the way we ran into masses of young boys heading home from school to change into their Friday best for prayer at the Mosque. This co-op was hard to find too, but completely worth it- they had the most beautiful handmade leather sandals and purses! I found a pair that I really liked, but they were not the right size. As we were leaving that day, we were short on time, but the vendor did not want to lose a sale so he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: he sized my foot, promised to make me a pair of sandals with the design I wanted, and said he would deliver the shoes to my hotel before I left at 3 that afternoon. And that he certainly did- all for $6!
Next we wandered by a sign for the “Galerie des Arts” which, apparently, was not where it said it was. So a few little children led us through winding streets, garbage, and the market to a dark, tiny room with mass-produced, touristy wood carvings, masks, etc. There was also a gun on one of the tables, and we left rather quickly.
The rest of the day was spent in transit from Dalaba back to Labe where we stayed at the sketchiest hotel ever- Hotel de l’Independence. Imagine: no running water, smelly toilets, stifling hot rooms, cockroaches exploring the floor at the food of the bed. It was awful, and I may have slept a total of two hours. But before that, we had gone to find a sept-place for the trip back to Koundara on the border. We had to negotiate with a crowd of drivers, but our car was- and I’m sorry but there is no other word for it- pimp. It had new wheels, doors that actually closed, a radio that worked without skipping, tinted windows, and acceleration! It was amazing. Apparently some of the other drivers thought so too because they were all jumping around (literally), excited that we were taking the car. Although it sketched me out at first, I think we accompanied the car on its virgin journey.
But I don’t want to get ahead of myself because Saturday was another day altogether…
*This colony, which covered an area that today includes Mauritania, Mali, Senegal, Niger, and several other current African nations, was jointly ruled by a French Governor who had jurisdiction over the entire landmass.
Right next door was the Casa des Palabras (I have no idea why the name is Spanish/Portuguese) which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. While this was hard to believe since there was no one else in sight, I am not surprised because it has great historical significance. The building was built, in defiance of French rule, in the manner of traditional round huts. The entire interior- wall, floors, ceiling- is covered with bas-relief carvings which all have significance. The casa was used as a meeting place for colonial authorities and local tribal chiefs. The Governor would sit in the middle of the circular room while 12 chiefs sat at prescribed places around the walls, and they would discuss. The house is clearly falling into disrepair as its historical import is forgotten, but the guide explained that UNESCO came recently to repair the roof, which still looked in pretty bad shape…
Afterwards we headed off to the Association des Coutourieres de Dalaba, a small cooperative known for its traditional Guinean indigo fabric. It was very difficult to find- we had to ask several people before we came across one who had any idea where it was- probably because it was no more than a house next to a three-room school/workshop. When we arrived, the nicest old lady (who insisted that she recognized Margaret while she gave her a gentle kiss) invited us into her living room. A small detail but great point of humor here were the family pictures taken behind very fake-looking backdrops of the Eiffel Tower, NYC, etc. and the outdated map of Africa that listed non-existent cities in Nigeria…Anyway, the woman took us through the building and explained that they train young girls how to dye fabric while they educate them because their parents wouldn’t let them go to school unless they were learning a “useful” trade at the same time. There was a sign in the largest classroom that said “Educating today’s girls is training tomorrow’s mother.” How is that for gender progress? We also met a Peace Corps volunteer from Madison, WI- holler!
Then we headed to the Cooperative des Cordonniers (Leather Co-op) in center city. On the way we ran into masses of young boys heading home from school to change into their Friday best for prayer at the Mosque. This co-op was hard to find too, but completely worth it- they had the most beautiful handmade leather sandals and purses! I found a pair that I really liked, but they were not the right size. As we were leaving that day, we were short on time, but the vendor did not want to lose a sale so he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: he sized my foot, promised to make me a pair of sandals with the design I wanted, and said he would deliver the shoes to my hotel before I left at 3 that afternoon. And that he certainly did- all for $6!
Next we wandered by a sign for the “Galerie des Arts” which, apparently, was not where it said it was. So a few little children led us through winding streets, garbage, and the market to a dark, tiny room with mass-produced, touristy wood carvings, masks, etc. There was also a gun on one of the tables, and we left rather quickly.
The rest of the day was spent in transit from Dalaba back to Labe where we stayed at the sketchiest hotel ever- Hotel de l’Independence. Imagine: no running water, smelly toilets, stifling hot rooms, cockroaches exploring the floor at the food of the bed. It was awful, and I may have slept a total of two hours. But before that, we had gone to find a sept-place for the trip back to Koundara on the border. We had to negotiate with a crowd of drivers, but our car was- and I’m sorry but there is no other word for it- pimp. It had new wheels, doors that actually closed, a radio that worked without skipping, tinted windows, and acceleration! It was amazing. Apparently some of the other drivers thought so too because they were all jumping around (literally), excited that we were taking the car. Although it sketched me out at first, I think we accompanied the car on its virgin journey.
But I don’t want to get ahead of myself because Saturday was another day altogether…
*This colony, which covered an area that today includes Mauritania, Mali, Senegal, Niger, and several other current African nations, was jointly ruled by a French Governor who had jurisdiction over the entire landmass.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Part XII: Strawberry Fields Forever
Thursday was a bit of a lazy day. We slept in late, and had a disappointing breakfast of bread and flavorless butter, and oranges of course. But then, after the French couple sitting next to us on the patio left, we stole the remnants of their extensive (and expensive) hotel breakfast- coffee, cheese, and sugar! Then we met our chauffeur in the lobby to negotiate a price for the afternoon and exchanged money at a really bad rate.
Our excursion took us to a very large and unique garden that Dalaba is famous for. On the way, we came upon a huge truck, which our driver honked at incessantly and finally swerved around. Well we thought he was crazy until he shouted something and smiled at the truck driver who, he later explained, is his brother. We also passed lots of women and children carrying huge bowls of vegetables on their heads. Yaya (our driver- isn’t that a fantastic name?) told us they were bringing the veggies to the truck to be sold in Conakry.
When we got to the garden Yaya took us around, showing us coffee trees (the fruit tastes nothing like coffee- it’s actually quite sweet), mango trees (a few fell and almost bludgeoned us), carrots, cabbage, peas, peppers, leeks, chives, parsley, basil, mint, coriander, sage, and all kinds of other delicious spices. There were three or four adorable children in ragged and dirty clothes who followed us around pointing out what everything was. The gardens are most famous for their strawberries, which we bought three panniers (baskets) of and immediately ate- without washing! We also ate fresh carrots- yum!
After the gardens Yaya took us to a little “restaurant” which was really just a woman cooking in the middle of a huge courtyard which was filled with benches. We ate typical Guinean dishes of white rice, cooked without oil (!), and a sauce made of crushed manioc leaf. It sounds gross, I know, but it was so incredibly good. Then we made a quick run to the tiny and rather abandoned market for mangos and peanut butter (strange eating habits, I know) and headed back to the hotel for afternoon nap time.
Around 6:30 we all woke up famished and decided to walk down the road to a little shack Mathieu, our backpacking Frenchman, had suggested. There we enjoyed the cheapest (2000GF = 200 CFA = $.35), largest and most delicious (well not really, but I’m going for superlatives here…) spaghetti ever. Afterwards we trekked up to Chez Habib’s for a couple of after-dinner beers. It was quite an experience- drunk old men dancing to music videos that cut in and out with the bad electricity, a bathroom that was really just a concrete floor (I did not partake in this joyful fieldtrip), and a tired little baby who kept wandering out from the back of the bar (although I don’t know what he was doing back there in the first place). Then it was back to the hotel for another sleepless, 3-to-a-bed night…
Our excursion took us to a very large and unique garden that Dalaba is famous for. On the way, we came upon a huge truck, which our driver honked at incessantly and finally swerved around. Well we thought he was crazy until he shouted something and smiled at the truck driver who, he later explained, is his brother. We also passed lots of women and children carrying huge bowls of vegetables on their heads. Yaya (our driver- isn’t that a fantastic name?) told us they were bringing the veggies to the truck to be sold in Conakry.
When we got to the garden Yaya took us around, showing us coffee trees (the fruit tastes nothing like coffee- it’s actually quite sweet), mango trees (a few fell and almost bludgeoned us), carrots, cabbage, peas, peppers, leeks, chives, parsley, basil, mint, coriander, sage, and all kinds of other delicious spices. There were three or four adorable children in ragged and dirty clothes who followed us around pointing out what everything was. The gardens are most famous for their strawberries, which we bought three panniers (baskets) of and immediately ate- without washing! We also ate fresh carrots- yum!
After the gardens Yaya took us to a little “restaurant” which was really just a woman cooking in the middle of a huge courtyard which was filled with benches. We ate typical Guinean dishes of white rice, cooked without oil (!), and a sauce made of crushed manioc leaf. It sounds gross, I know, but it was so incredibly good. Then we made a quick run to the tiny and rather abandoned market for mangos and peanut butter (strange eating habits, I know) and headed back to the hotel for afternoon nap time.
Around 6:30 we all woke up famished and decided to walk down the road to a little shack Mathieu, our backpacking Frenchman, had suggested. There we enjoyed the cheapest (2000GF = 200 CFA = $.35), largest and most delicious (well not really, but I’m going for superlatives here…) spaghetti ever. Afterwards we trekked up to Chez Habib’s for a couple of after-dinner beers. It was quite an experience- drunk old men dancing to music videos that cut in and out with the bad electricity, a bathroom that was really just a concrete floor (I did not partake in this joyful fieldtrip), and a tired little baby who kept wandering out from the back of the bar (although I don’t know what he was doing back there in the first place). Then it was back to the hotel for another sleepless, 3-to-a-bed night…
Part XI: “Mai ma sama xaalis léegi!”
One of the true highlights of the trip occurred when we arrived in Pita after leaving the village. The driver, who had concluded a deal with our guide for fare from the village to Pita, and a separate fare from Pita to Dalaba, tried to tell us that we would have to pay significantly more. He insisted that he had discussed the price with our guide, but our guide had expressly told us a much lower (and much more realistic) price. Unfortunately we had unwisely paid half of the total sum, which more than covered the short trip from the village to Pita, before leaving the village. Deciding that the best solution was to extricate ourselves completely from the situation and find a different driver, we commenced attempts to recover our extra money from the driver. As the conversation intensified more townspeople wandered over trying to “help” but as the confusion mounted and our frustrations erupted, Kyle yelled loudly at the driver in Wolof: “Mai ma sama xaalis léegi!” (Give me my money right now!) Surprisingly the driver understood, even though he only spoke Pulaar. In fact, he was so surprised and delighted that he actually did give us our money (after he had a good laugh on our behalf).
We got another driver to drive us- all seven of us- to Dalaba in his compact car. (Yes, Morgan I realize that this counteracts my good behavior earlier in the day…) He showed us all kinds of wonderful things along the way though. First, he brought us to his native village; the entrance was right on the side of the road and we walked through trees, bushes, and over a little stream with a log bridge. It was so quaint. His mother was not home so he took us to an orange tree, which he climbed without delay, and began to rain down oranges upon us. Jen (the other one) and I grabbed the containers he had brought for us and put them on our heads, filling them with oranges. I felt thoroughly African. The best part is that when he dropped us off at our hotel, he gave us all the oranges! We also stopped at an amazing little village in the middle of a huge pine grove. I felt right at home among all those tall coniferous trees, and the smell was heavenly!
When we got to the hotel we freshened up and ate enough oranges to give ourselves stomach aches before we set out to find the town. After walking in the wrong direction for about ten minutes, we finally asked someone directions. Then, when we had almost gotten to town, we decided to turn back because everyone was hungry. We were almost run over by numerous motorcycles, always with three people, all of them, including the driver, usually younger than seventeen. And we passed a soccer game letting out- masses of young boys in uniforms and pads, and spectators flooding down the road toward us were definitely a bit intimidating.
Anyway, turns out most of the restaurants in the guide book are no longer in operation, but we did find an auberge-restaurant that made us the best meal we had all vacation: grilled chicken (as fresh as can be- pretty sure that chicken was alive when we walked in…), fries, and a salad with lots of tomatoes and onions. It took an hour and a half to prepare (that’s fast by African standards) but we played 20 questions and interviewed each other on the couches in the covered porch for amusement.
After dinner I retired, exhausted, to our room to read while everyone else talked on the patio with Mathieu, a French tourist backpacking through West Africa. He had already seen Morocco, Senegal, Gambia, and Guinea, and was heading to Mali. Sounds like a good game plan to me…anyone else in?
We got another driver to drive us- all seven of us- to Dalaba in his compact car. (Yes, Morgan I realize that this counteracts my good behavior earlier in the day…) He showed us all kinds of wonderful things along the way though. First, he brought us to his native village; the entrance was right on the side of the road and we walked through trees, bushes, and over a little stream with a log bridge. It was so quaint. His mother was not home so he took us to an orange tree, which he climbed without delay, and began to rain down oranges upon us. Jen (the other one) and I grabbed the containers he had brought for us and put them on our heads, filling them with oranges. I felt thoroughly African. The best part is that when he dropped us off at our hotel, he gave us all the oranges! We also stopped at an amazing little village in the middle of a huge pine grove. I felt right at home among all those tall coniferous trees, and the smell was heavenly!
When we got to the hotel we freshened up and ate enough oranges to give ourselves stomach aches before we set out to find the town. After walking in the wrong direction for about ten minutes, we finally asked someone directions. Then, when we had almost gotten to town, we decided to turn back because everyone was hungry. We were almost run over by numerous motorcycles, always with three people, all of them, including the driver, usually younger than seventeen. And we passed a soccer game letting out- masses of young boys in uniforms and pads, and spectators flooding down the road toward us were definitely a bit intimidating.
Anyway, turns out most of the restaurants in the guide book are no longer in operation, but we did find an auberge-restaurant that made us the best meal we had all vacation: grilled chicken (as fresh as can be- pretty sure that chicken was alive when we walked in…), fries, and a salad with lots of tomatoes and onions. It took an hour and a half to prepare (that’s fast by African standards) but we played 20 questions and interviewed each other on the couches in the covered porch for amusement.
After dinner I retired, exhausted, to our room to read while everyone else talked on the patio with Mathieu, a French tourist backpacking through West Africa. He had already seen Morocco, Senegal, Gambia, and Guinea, and was heading to Mali. Sounds like a good game plan to me…anyone else in?
Part X: The Porto Parade
On Wednesday we woke up early in our hut and stumbled outside to see a group of villagers loitering there. There was a split-second of awkward deer-in-headlights staring before we remembered that we were White- porto is the word in Pulaar- and that we would necessarily be stared at. They watched us while we washed our faces and brushed our teeth; even our guide loomed over us, although he did come in handy when we needed someone to pour water on our hands. The number one rule with bucket washing is that you never under any circumstance put your dirty hands in the bucket!
We had a wonderful leisurely breakfast of citronelle (lemon tea) and coffee (coffee!), bread, peanut butter and honey, bananas, ananas (pineapple) and papaya jam, and oranges. Then we purified village water, took the obligatory pictures with villagers, said goodbye to the French and Italian tourists we had been running into for the past two days, and set off on our two hour walk in the sun and heat to the market at a nearby village. I don’t have much to say about the Porto Parade- because that is without a doubt what we were- except that it was very long and very hot, and we were constantly passed by women wearing sandals, carrying babies on their backs, and wares on their heads.
I felt awful by the time we got to the market- hot, tired, and nauseous. There were so many people and no neat pathways like in Dakar- we had to squeeze between stands of peppers and bags of rice, and around brightly colored umbrellas opened everywhere to protect from the searing sun. Lunch was ready for us when we arrived but the heat in that little room and the sight of such an enormous amount of salad made me feel sick so I sat outside until everyone else was done. I will admit though that I enjoyed the amount of concern our very cute guide showed…
After lunch our guide took us to a bar for sodas, where we were again forced to take pictures with curious strangers. They ogled and the cook sandwiched himself between me and Margaret, trying to put his arm around me. So I said I had to go to the bathroom. A little boy- who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old led me through winding food stalls and dilapidated buildings to a very new and neat outhouse. He waited patiently outside and brought me back to the bar, where I noticed upon re-entry the random American posters hung on the walls- the “Afghanistan War,” Sylvester Stallone, and various soccer players.
We parted ways soon after in a torturously slow car that squished far too many inside when they could have ridden on the roof. (Do not worry Morgan, I sat in the back, with all hands and arms fully inside the vehicle.)
We had a wonderful leisurely breakfast of citronelle (lemon tea) and coffee (coffee!), bread, peanut butter and honey, bananas, ananas (pineapple) and papaya jam, and oranges. Then we purified village water, took the obligatory pictures with villagers, said goodbye to the French and Italian tourists we had been running into for the past two days, and set off on our two hour walk in the sun and heat to the market at a nearby village. I don’t have much to say about the Porto Parade- because that is without a doubt what we were- except that it was very long and very hot, and we were constantly passed by women wearing sandals, carrying babies on their backs, and wares on their heads.
I felt awful by the time we got to the market- hot, tired, and nauseous. There were so many people and no neat pathways like in Dakar- we had to squeeze between stands of peppers and bags of rice, and around brightly colored umbrellas opened everywhere to protect from the searing sun. Lunch was ready for us when we arrived but the heat in that little room and the sight of such an enormous amount of salad made me feel sick so I sat outside until everyone else was done. I will admit though that I enjoyed the amount of concern our very cute guide showed…
After lunch our guide took us to a bar for sodas, where we were again forced to take pictures with curious strangers. They ogled and the cook sandwiched himself between me and Margaret, trying to put his arm around me. So I said I had to go to the bathroom. A little boy- who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old led me through winding food stalls and dilapidated buildings to a very new and neat outhouse. He waited patiently outside and brought me back to the bar, where I noticed upon re-entry the random American posters hung on the walls- the “Afghanistan War,” Sylvester Stallone, and various soccer players.
We parted ways soon after in a torturously slow car that squished far too many inside when they could have ridden on the roof. (Do not worry Morgan, I sat in the back, with all hands and arms fully inside the vehicle.)
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Part IX: When I Was Your Age I Used to Walk an Hour to School…Uphill Both Ways!
Once we arrived at the village, we were immediately surrounded by curious children and village leaders who wanted to welcome us. The village is a registered tourist encampment, but you would have thought they had never seen a white person the way they treated us. We organized our things, took a quick bathroom break, and saw the kitchen where they were preparing our meal- a salad! Just before we left for our hike, a white man burst into the kitchen speaking French and Pulaar. He fulfilled every stereotype of Americans- big, loud, overly-friendly, but it turns out he was a Quebecois who speaks almost no English! He had just arrived in Guinea a few weeks before, and had been in the village only a few days, but he planned on spending a few months there to standardize tourist stays.
Our afternoon “hike” was an absolute marathon of walking, all which somehow seemed to be uphill. First we went to the Pont de Dieu, a natural stone bridge that arced over a small bubbling waterfall and a tranquil little swimming pond. A young boy from the village accompanied us to this location, carrying our lunch on his head. He carried the huge (and heavy- I felt it!) platter of salad about two miles so we could enjoy a scrumptious meal amongst the beautiful scenery. While swimming by the falls, I discovered a little cave which we climbed into. It was small, wet, and mossy, and we only stayed for a minute or two, but it’s probably the closest I’ll get to spelunking here so I relished it.
The rest of the afternoon was spent hiking through brush- tall grass, tropical trees, vines, rocks, etc. in search of three other waterfalls. While the walk was long and hot- so, SO hot- it was always seemed worth it upon arrival at one of the amazing chutes. They were enormous, majestic, indescribably beautiful. Even pictures cannot do them justice. Apparently they were kind of puny in comparison to how they look during the rainy season, so I cannot imagine how huge and powerful they are then. We couldn’t swim at the first two because they were too craggy and dangerous, but we took some funny pictures. The third one was more inviting and we swam over to the foot and climbed up the falls to find that it had a natural Jacuzzi! There was a little pool hidden between some rocks that was naturally warmed by the sun, and it even had a ledge to sit on. Oh the luxury! We also ate papaya on the edge of the rocks and pumped and filtered water from the falls to drink. So now I can say that I drank waterfall water from Guinea!
The way back was a bit more tiresome because we had already walked so much, but we heard some monkeys and saw a cow skull picked clean by vultures. There were cows wandering all over- I have no idea who they belong to, but they were all branded. We also had a tense moment or two when our guide heard someone cutting down trees (which is VERY illegal in the quickly disappearing tropical rainforests of the region) and yelled fiercely at him. We also got an explanation for the miles and miles of charred earth: apparently, village elders decided when and how much land to burn around the perimeter of the village so that if fires spontaneously start during the hot, dry season, they will extinguish themselves before they can destroy the huts. It was still sad to see, especially when we came across a still-smoldering tree.
It was dinner time when we returned and let me say that the money we paid was well worth it if only for the food. We had a couscous feast with fish, beef, egglplant, carrots, squash, tomatoes, and all kinds of other vegetables. And afterwards we had ataya (the amazingly strong and sweet after-dinner tea that Senegal is famous for) and citronelle (lemon tea) while children from the village sang and entertained us. I admit this part felt a bit phony and exploitative, but they were mostly there for the French and Italian tourists who clapped and joined in the dancing. At one point the French women started singing a popular French song, and we responded with a rousing and very American round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
Finally, we retired to our hut, which was, to our credit, within the village proper instead of in the tourist encampment. That is, they gathered that we were assimilated enough into West African culture that we could handle a hut with no niceties, a Turkish toilet instead of a western one, and bucket showers. (For the record, we ate dinner out of a communal bowl as usual instead of off of individual plates.) The Quebecois man, whose name was Michael, came to visit us with a bottle of straight gin, which only the boys indulged in. I was exhausted and went to bed right away while the rest of the group stayed up late playing games and talking about strange things. I think the last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep was a conversation about chest hair…
Our afternoon “hike” was an absolute marathon of walking, all which somehow seemed to be uphill. First we went to the Pont de Dieu, a natural stone bridge that arced over a small bubbling waterfall and a tranquil little swimming pond. A young boy from the village accompanied us to this location, carrying our lunch on his head. He carried the huge (and heavy- I felt it!) platter of salad about two miles so we could enjoy a scrumptious meal amongst the beautiful scenery. While swimming by the falls, I discovered a little cave which we climbed into. It was small, wet, and mossy, and we only stayed for a minute or two, but it’s probably the closest I’ll get to spelunking here so I relished it.
The rest of the afternoon was spent hiking through brush- tall grass, tropical trees, vines, rocks, etc. in search of three other waterfalls. While the walk was long and hot- so, SO hot- it was always seemed worth it upon arrival at one of the amazing chutes. They were enormous, majestic, indescribably beautiful. Even pictures cannot do them justice. Apparently they were kind of puny in comparison to how they look during the rainy season, so I cannot imagine how huge and powerful they are then. We couldn’t swim at the first two because they were too craggy and dangerous, but we took some funny pictures. The third one was more inviting and we swam over to the foot and climbed up the falls to find that it had a natural Jacuzzi! There was a little pool hidden between some rocks that was naturally warmed by the sun, and it even had a ledge to sit on. Oh the luxury! We also ate papaya on the edge of the rocks and pumped and filtered water from the falls to drink. So now I can say that I drank waterfall water from Guinea!
The way back was a bit more tiresome because we had already walked so much, but we heard some monkeys and saw a cow skull picked clean by vultures. There were cows wandering all over- I have no idea who they belong to, but they were all branded. We also had a tense moment or two when our guide heard someone cutting down trees (which is VERY illegal in the quickly disappearing tropical rainforests of the region) and yelled fiercely at him. We also got an explanation for the miles and miles of charred earth: apparently, village elders decided when and how much land to burn around the perimeter of the village so that if fires spontaneously start during the hot, dry season, they will extinguish themselves before they can destroy the huts. It was still sad to see, especially when we came across a still-smoldering tree.
It was dinner time when we returned and let me say that the money we paid was well worth it if only for the food. We had a couscous feast with fish, beef, egglplant, carrots, squash, tomatoes, and all kinds of other vegetables. And afterwards we had ataya (the amazingly strong and sweet after-dinner tea that Senegal is famous for) and citronelle (lemon tea) while children from the village sang and entertained us. I admit this part felt a bit phony and exploitative, but they were mostly there for the French and Italian tourists who clapped and joined in the dancing. At one point the French women started singing a popular French song, and we responded with a rousing and very American round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
Finally, we retired to our hut, which was, to our credit, within the village proper instead of in the tourist encampment. That is, they gathered that we were assimilated enough into West African culture that we could handle a hut with no niceties, a Turkish toilet instead of a western one, and bucket showers. (For the record, we ate dinner out of a communal bowl as usual instead of off of individual plates.) The Quebecois man, whose name was Michael, came to visit us with a bottle of straight gin, which only the boys indulged in. I was exhausted and went to bed right away while the rest of the group stayed up late playing games and talking about strange things. I think the last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep was a conversation about chest hair…
Part VIII: Getting There is Always Half the Fun
Tuesday started much later than we expected- our guide was late, and the car and cook were even later (two hours). What can I say? That’s Africa time. However, during the time we were waiting for our cook, we agreed it would be a good idea to confirm the price we had been quoted the night before. We were told 80,000 GF ($16) for both days of the excursion, a fact which several people verified several times, in several different manners, because by that time we were used to the disorganization and rampant deception in Guinea, which most Guineans try to pass off as misunderstanding and/or a language barrier.
So when our guide tried to tell us that the price was 80,000 GF per day, Chad took the defensive, explaining to the guide in rather harsh terms that we had been told a much lower price. They argued in that vague African way that doesn’t actually seem like an argument, but a lengthy conversation. There was no animosity- they even laughed at times- but it was certainly tense. In the end, we got a “deal” and paid 120,000 GF for the two days together.
Finally the car came and we fit ourselves in like sardines. We took “couple pictures” because the four people in the middle seat looked like they were dating: they had to spoon to fit, and the boys on the ends of the seat had to put their arms around the girls in order to fit shoulders in. Fortunately the roads were AMAZING- paved and smooth!- unlike the hellish trip through the mountains into Guinea. We stopped briefly on our way to the village at a “market” on the side of the road which consisted of a few stalls selling things. There were a few unidentifiable stalls, then an iron-smith attaching handles to a metal door with a blow-torch, then the butcher. Here there were whole, skinned animals hanging from metal hooks caked with blood, swinging slightly in the dusty breeze. It’s a good thing we were far away because I don’t think I would have been able to eat dinner if I had seen the stall up close.
The next place we came to was the cute little town of Pita, where we encountered some very interesting people. There was the woman who wandered by our car and wanted to talk with us, but spoke no French or Wolof (of course) and we spoke very very little Pulaar (of course). There was the Rasta man from Gambia who spoke excellent English and wanted us to know that we human beings are all the same deep down because the same blood runs through all of us. (Just to confirm a couple of stereotypes, he was wearing reggae colors and had a Bob Marley shirt and dreads. Finally, there was the man with a pet monkey on a leash. This poor little monkey was terrified- his owner left and came back periodically, people hit him and threw oranges at him, and he got tangled in the chair he was tied to. As we were leaving, his owner tried to sell him to us...
So when our guide tried to tell us that the price was 80,000 GF per day, Chad took the defensive, explaining to the guide in rather harsh terms that we had been told a much lower price. They argued in that vague African way that doesn’t actually seem like an argument, but a lengthy conversation. There was no animosity- they even laughed at times- but it was certainly tense. In the end, we got a “deal” and paid 120,000 GF for the two days together.
Finally the car came and we fit ourselves in like sardines. We took “couple pictures” because the four people in the middle seat looked like they were dating: they had to spoon to fit, and the boys on the ends of the seat had to put their arms around the girls in order to fit shoulders in. Fortunately the roads were AMAZING- paved and smooth!- unlike the hellish trip through the mountains into Guinea. We stopped briefly on our way to the village at a “market” on the side of the road which consisted of a few stalls selling things. There were a few unidentifiable stalls, then an iron-smith attaching handles to a metal door with a blow-torch, then the butcher. Here there were whole, skinned animals hanging from metal hooks caked with blood, swinging slightly in the dusty breeze. It’s a good thing we were far away because I don’t think I would have been able to eat dinner if I had seen the stall up close.
The next place we came to was the cute little town of Pita, where we encountered some very interesting people. There was the woman who wandered by our car and wanted to talk with us, but spoke no French or Wolof (of course) and we spoke very very little Pulaar (of course). There was the Rasta man from Gambia who spoke excellent English and wanted us to know that we human beings are all the same deep down because the same blood runs through all of us. (Just to confirm a couple of stereotypes, he was wearing reggae colors and had a Bob Marley shirt and dreads. Finally, there was the man with a pet monkey on a leash. This poor little monkey was terrified- his owner left and came back periodically, people hit him and threw oranges at him, and he got tangled in the chair he was tied to. As we were leaving, his owner tried to sell him to us...
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