E. R.

The Gambia

The airport doors opened and a gush of hot air washed over my face. Gasp. Heat filled my nostrils and a slow, burning began to envelop me, like stepping into a sauna. I took a deep breath through my mouthbut it made things worse: the heaviness and oppression spread to my chest. The heat was too new a sensation to be bearable. Before me, a landscape of orange dirt roads and small, misshapen shacks.I lugged my suitcase behind me, and together, Chris and I shuffled over to the nearest taxi – a bright yellow Mercedes, riddled with dents, smears, and decades of rough riding. On the worn-out leather back seat, Chris and I sat on opposite ends, faces glued to our respective windows, googly-eyed like children in front of swirling cotton-candy. Sitting, spellbound, staring, and trading did-you-see-that glances the whole way.

It was windy that day. The tops of palm trees were swaying back and forth like the head of a doll being carried by a toddler ─ front andback and side to side. Small groups gathered underneath them, leaning or sitting, finding relief in the shade. Apparently unbothered by the glaring sun, the children played, running and kicking the home-made contraption of cloth and plastic that filled the purpose of a ball. Again, a glance between Chris and me, all smiles and eyes wide. Things swirling through my mind. Wave upon wave of excitement, jubilation. Also a knot wedged firmly in my gut. This was going to be wonderful. This was going to be hard.

September 6th 1999 22:47On the couch in the living room

Took my book for a read on the beach today. It’s only a five-minute walk and it was cloudy enough to make sitting outside tolerable. I settled down on my towel and began reading. Young girls wearing long, colourful dresses, with baskets atop their heads, floated towards me instantly.

“Nanga def,” I said proudly, impressed with my first attempts at Wolof(one of the main languages spoken in The Gambia),

They showed me their baskets and their contents ─ a heap of vivid colours ─ and after a few moments contemplating, I pulled out three

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mangos, two papayas, and a handful of bananas. The bananas were so tiny! I handed the girls a very dirty, crumpled up Dalasi bill (the local currency), so worn out it felt more like a small piece of cloth. The girls giggled and grinned before turning around and swaying off.

Young men were also on the beach, shirtless, muscular, running on an invisible track their dragging feet had carved in the sand. A couple of them were doing push-ups nearby. Sports, I thought. After a few minutes into my book, I found one of the men standing in front of me. “You like Gambian man,” he said or asked, I wasn’t sure. I obviously gave a look of confusion because he reiterated his question. “You like Gambian man, that’s why you here”.

Suddenly, it came to me and I quickly attempted to clarify the situation, “Oh, I’m married, I’m here to read my book.” In a cheeky way, he squinted his eyes, grinned generously, and turned around. With shoulders set back and chin up, he strode away confidently.Yes, The Gambia is known as the “Smiling Coast of Africa”. And yes, thecountry flourishes with mango trees and a booming sexual tourism industry.

September 25th 1999 21:55 At the kitchen table

The rainy season is coming to an end but I got a last taste of it, literally, on my walk home this afternoon. The intensity of the downpour was so powerful, surreal, magical. My long skirt clung to my legs. I could barely walk. And the water falling over my face blurred my vision. But I wasn’t complaining, quite the contrary, I wasexhilarated. I had to carry my backpack in front of me to cover the white shirt that had become completely drenched and transparent.

When I got home, Lamin, our watchman, was standing in the driveway, in the rain, shampooing his hair and rubbing the lather all over hisface, chest and arms. Within seconds, the white foam was completely rinsed away. He saw me soaking wet and we laughed in complicity butfor our own reasons. I was ridiculous-looking and he was resourceful. I ran inside to fetch him a towel and by the time I came out, the sun was already shining.

October 19th 1999 22:09 At home in bed

Sheer panic at work today. Everyone buzzing around frantically likebees in a bottle. First, we were out of V.C. which meant that Mrs. White,after her afternoon of golf and relaxation in a nearby salon, could

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not have a bottle brought to her room, as was the evening ritual. I had to call every hotel and restaurant nearby to find this necessity.

Then there was a theft. Not personnel (who make less than $30 USD a month), but a guest. Someone who was able to fly to The Gambia, sleep five nights in a luxury hotel, and have five candle-lit dinners in the gourmet restaurant. I couldn’t help stare at the sweat trickling down Moussa’s temple as I talked him through this morning’s routine. He was worried. On any other day, Moussa, who was in charge of housekeeping, would be making me laugh with his nonchalance and light-hearted anecdotes. Much too preoccupied for chitchat today.

It’s true. Most guests take something. A souvenir. Slippers. Embossed notepad. Soap. Stuff that never gets used back home but gets taken for the sake of taking. An implicit deal when you pay your invoice. But this was not part of the deal. Pillowcases from suite 6 ─ two stunning silk Versace foulards sewn together for that purpose ─were gone. The scarves were part of Versace’s last collection. Paul (the hotel founder), whose fury had triggered waves of agitation around him, was crushed. What a wonderful way to fashion a pillowcase. Paul has that natural ability to shape everything in hisenvironment into something ingenious and aesthetically pleasing. Every lovely detail is a reflection of his tireless creative energy.

October 28th 1999 23:16 At home in bed

As usual, the market in Banjul was a fury of colour and clamour today. So energizing. Long stretches of material were drawn out over table tops or piled in long flat rolls. Green. Yellow. Orange. Some were entirely shiny. Others had only shimmering threads woven through that reflected brightly whenever the material was moved about. Many had bold geometrical shapes of all colours, outlined with thick black borders. Those were my favourites.

I wrapped them around myself majestically from head to toe, imagining myself in a grandmuba like the one Fayta, the vendor, was wearing. She gave me a tutorial on tying a head scarf using a small piece of material from a scrap pile. What a sight. The novelty and weight of the headpiece made me look so awkward, like something on my head wasn’t supposed to be there. No poise, whatsoever. Fayta sympathized with her boisterous laugh. Sweet of her. But let’s be honest, it’s hopeless. I’ll never be able to compete with the Gambian women. They are graceful and striking. I am short and clumsy.The market is so full of marvels ─ a captivating treasure hunt. There are the classic pieces like wooden masks rubbed over with shoe

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shine, and the more original ones, like kitchen utensils made out of melted aluminium Coke cans or sandals made of goatskin with soles of tire rubber. How resourceful is that?

I bought a few utensils and two pairs of sandals. From Fayta, I bought seven different patterns, four meters each. I’ll get some clothes and table cloths made by the seamstress up the road. Head scarves? No thanks.Lights out.

November 4th 1999 18:35 In the yard

Feeling better now. The medication seems to be calming the spasms that stabbed at my belly for the past two days. I’m outside on a wooden bench, against the hedge of overflowing pink and orange bougainvillea lining the driveway. Taking in the ocean air in deep breaths. On the beach, down below, wooden pirogues are coming in withtheir catch of the day: sea bream, captain, barracuda, king prawns.Earlier, the Cuban doctor had given me a paper with the name of somemedicine meant to ease my belly aches, or in more accurate terms, wipe-out completely, as bleach would, all living organisms, good or bad, occupying my digestive system. I had been warned. They don’t takeany chances here. The dangers in The Gambia are not the lions and tigers and bears, oh my! but the miniature, imperceptible ones. Mosquitoes. Larvae. Bacteria…

I picked up the medicine from the chemist’s, a dimly-lit little shack down the road. Wooden shelves behind the counter held large glass jars filled with mostly white tablets. After examining the paper, the man grabbed a container and poured a dozen or so tablets into a tinyplastic zip bag. He scribbled 3 times a day on the plastic and handedit to me. No expiry date. No notice with instructions. No ingredients. Hesitation. I remember feeling my shoulders drop in defeat. I grabbed the pouch, rrreeeeeelllluuuuctttaaaaaantttlllyyyy (should I take it?), forced a smile (because I’m polite), and walked out.

It’s only when you leave your comfort zone that you realize how comfortable your comfort zone really is.

December 8th 1999 23:12 Gunjur lodge under a mosquito net canopy

The pot holes in the roads were so large and deep we had to roll in and out of them at walking speed to get here. Men walking along the road took advantage of our slow pace to hop into the back of the pick-up for a ride. Then they would jump out without warning and

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give a hard slap on the side of the truck to say thank you. I panicked each and every time. Someone was bound to end up under one of the tyres. But they mastered the leap. Must be common practice.During a break on the side of the road, a little boy spotted us. ‘TOUBAB!!!’ In seconds, a swarm of excited, some hesitant, children surrounded us. We were quite the novelty to the youngest ones and visibly a bit terrifying. Some of them had never seen a ‘toubab’ (the white one).

After some chit-chat, one of the braver boys, looking inside the cab of the truck, pointed to an empty plastic water bottle on the floor, “Give me the bottle”. Without much thought, I handed it over. A horrible, terrifying frenzy. Kids hurdled over him, grasping desperately for the plastic bottle. The little boy? Lost, somewhere underneath the heap.

Chris jumped in and managed to find his tiny arm. Yank. The others backed off slowly and then skipped away merrily to the nearby houses as if nothing had happened. I picked up the slab of crushed plastic. Stared at it for a long moment. Such a meaningless, petty object. So I thought.

December 17th 1999 22:08 Dining lodge - last night in the Niokola Koba National Park (SE corner of Senegal)

The Gambia River under a pink and orange sky. Breathtaking. Orange is always there. In the sky, in the dirt, in the water. Even if it’s justa sliver.

In a steady glide, our pirogue broke through the thin sheet of fog that hovered over the surface. Amadou, our guide, steered it towards the hippo. It lay motionless, mostly covered by water, except for a few dark protruding bumps. Majestic. The long-legged bird standing atop, turned its head abruptly, aggravated. It stared at us. We weren’tinvited. Then, with a great big swoosh of its wings, lifted into the air. Gone. Symbiosis interrupted. The hippo’s protruding eyes didn’t even flinch. They stayed open at water level. A spray of liquid flew out of its nostrils. Everything was so quiet and calm yet so powerfuland terrifying. Amadou knew not to get too close. He shifted and began to steer away.

By noon, we were on land. Tracking the lions. What we saw instead were antelopes, warthogs and wild dogs. Amadou pulled over and we got out of the pick-up to walk to a lookout over the river. It was scorching hot outside and the walk was especially exhausting for Amadou who was fasting for Ramadan. No food. No drink. No other

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pleasures. Not before sunset anyway. We walked along the trail and I kept wondering if a lion or warthog was going to leap out from the tall grass. Amadou wasn’t carrying a rifle so I assumed the chances of encountering imminent danger were slim. He was, however, holding astring. “What’s the string for?” I had asked. “Anti-snake string”.

I didn’t ask any further questions. In reality, the most terrifying predator one could ever encounter here is ironically the tiniest. Theinfective female Anopheles mosquito. Everything in my daily routine is put into place to keep her at bay. Sprays. Long sleeves. Nets. Staying in after dark.

We finally reached the lookout. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones interested in the view. At least a dozen green monkeys were basking in the shade under the trees on the edge of the cliff. We sat on the dirt and watched them getting on with their rituals: picking, twisting, stretching, rolling, scratching, sifting, nibbling, rubbing. The vastness of the lookout was spectacular but watching the monkeys use their delicate fingers to twist twigs or comfort another was even more remarkable. I could have stayed for hours. The drive back was quiet, everyone left to their own thoughts, taking in the beauty of the day.

January 1st 2000 00:05 At home drinking champagne

It is confirmed: the world has not ended, not today, in any case. I cango to sleep now.

January 19th 2000 20:34 At home on the couch

Simply crazy today. Paul spent most of the day dashing around the hotel grounds and waving his arms left and right. Moussa trailed behind adjusting, lifting, replacing etc. Magic wands. That’s what Paul’s arms were. Swirling around, making miracles happen. Within twohours, beautifully-crafted silks poured over tables and walls. Vivid-coloured velvets were drawn up for curtains. Tiny white lights illuminating the ceiling in thin strands were joined at the centre, stretching out outwards like the spokes of a wheel. Bundles and bundles of bougainvillea filled elegant glass vases on each table. Afairy tale. And a stark contrast from the dirt and scarcity that existed outside the hotel walls.

At the end of the day, as I was leaving, I noticed the visitor again. She was there for Mr. Evans — the married Mr. Evans, here for

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business. She was tall and slender and wearing a tight-fitting burgundy gown that nearly reached her ankles. I watched as she walked, in very high heels, towards his suite in a slow sway. A bare, smooth, straight back. Perfect posture. It was soothing to watch her move that way. But it was none of my business. Instinctively, I pulledback my own shoulders, turned around and walked out of the grounds. Work was done for me. Only beginning for her.

Hotels and motels keep secrets. They are the corridors of double lives and I love observing the ephemeral one that slips in and out of them. Tonight, despite myself, I had become an accomplice. Another day, another secret.

February 4th 2000 18:55 Player’s Bar having a Fanta (no ice, please)

Room 15 called the front desk this morning and asked for a stapler. This was a very important guest so I decided to take it to him myself.I knew he would appreciate the gesture. Once inside the suite, I walked over to the nearest table, put down the stapler. When I turnedback, he was inches from my face. He was my height and nearing 80. Before I could step away, he cupped his hands over my cheeks and pushed his lips over mine. Peanuts. His breath smelled of peanuts. He had obviously ordered the Domoda at lunch – the delicious peanut stew. God, I love that stew.

I stiffened up, stepped back swiftly. All with a smile. As diplomatically as possible, I began side-tiptoeing towards the door. He seized my arm, “You would live like a princess if you came back with me” (as in, back to the Middle East). The thought crossed my mind for a full two seconds. I smiled nervously, curtsied in an awkward way (hopefully conveying that I was politely refusing his offer) andscurried out. The cat and the mouse.

For the rest of the day, Paul made sure I was never again in his vicinity. He’s like that. Protective, father-like, making sure I’m eatingenough, adjusting well, staying healthy. It’s comforting. I can still taste the peanuts….

April 12th 2000 15:36 At the kitchen table

Haven’t left the house in days. Consulate orders. Students took to thestreets to protest the death of a fellow classmate while in custody and the rape of a 13-year old girl by uniformed officers. When security forces ordered the protesters to disperse, the students began to burn tyres. Dozens were beaten, as little as elementary

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school kids. Shots were fired. Over a dozen killed. No more words.

May 7th 2000 23:15 At home on the couch

Photographs. Simple photographs taken with a simple camera. A lovelyview. A goofy pose. 17 candles. Once a year or every day. There’s nothing really extraordinary about it. But when we take a charming photograph of someone who sells fruit in the street to put it in our travel albums for family and friends to see, did you know that the person who sells fruit in the street has never seen themselves in a photograph, ever?

I had heard it so many times throughout the year. Can I have the picture? they would ask the tourist who snapped away. Most would develop their pictures back home. The answer was obviously no. So, this morning, I took photographs with the intention of not keeping them. I started with Anta. She wore a long, blue and black dress with a matching head scarf and stood in front of the orange bougainvillea. I also took Cissé in front of his house along with hisfamily dressed in their best attire. Mother, first wife, second wife, and eleven children.

In a week, they’ll be ready and they’ll be framed and hung on walls, as they should be, and not taped in my album.

June 17th 2000 16:08 At the kitchen table

London. That’s it, I’m back. It’s been two full days and I haven’t left the apartment yet. I can’t. I feel completely oppressed by the buildings and all the dark dreariness outside. There is no horizon anywhere I look, no airiness, no speckled landscape. No orange. The slow, regular waves of people and things have been replaced by small patches scurrying in different directions. I didn’t expect the transition back home to be so violent. I mean, I was gone for only a year. A year of human faces that told me stories and human hearts that made me live them out. The Gambia, I hope we meet again soon.

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