| Submitted by: David Pugh, United States |
| Submission Date: 27 November 2007 |
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Ahead of us was a swamp, it was probably a reasonable sized river for part of the year but now it was just black mud. At least it was warm but didn’t smell too fresh, I expected to wade out with leaches on my calves but everything looked okay; if anything it soothed the heat rash on my right ankle, where I’d kept my emergency purse. Lucas told me not to bother putting my shoes back on, as there’d be several more swamps to cross over the next few kilometres; I wished I’d packed my trekking sandals. The bush track was a bit hard on bare feet, particularly when I was ordered to stop and then to run very, very quickly over the next stretch, through an army of black ants who were busy stripping a snake down to the bone. If they bit my foot it would be painful, my mind turned again to Charlton Heston, this time to the film THE NAKED JUNGLE, where he has to protect his farm from being stripped bare by such creatures. I skipped lightly over the backs of the insects; I swear they were big enough to bear my weight. When we cleared the last swamp, I had a welcome break to slip my feet back into my shoes; I gave up on the idea of socks until I could get the mud off. Mr. Caretaker was very pleased with his cleaned toes; he’d used the remains of my purified water to wash his feet. Even Lucas exploded at this act of stupidity and we walked in silence for the next hour. It wasn’t long before Mr. Caretaker and Lucas were back to exchanging jokes, I was just longing for a drink and something to eat.
By around 10.30am, my watch had finally stopped running, so I was relying on my travel alarm, we reached the estuary that marks the Senegalese border. People were gathering at a makeshift landing to wait for a canoe, powered by an outboard motor, to take everyone across the river to some tin shed buildings, civilisation? I couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that my watch had finally stopped working on my birthday, as it had originally been a birthday present. I packed the watch away in my leather, zipped, knick-knack purse, inside my army bag. A jola woman had recognised Lucas as Ahuben from Cassalol and was obviously bad-mouthing him and pointing at me. I thought she must have been saying, “How could you drag that poor old man across all that bush, under the burning African sun?” He told me later, in a rather embarrassed tone, that she had assume that we were an item and that he was just another beach bum who had sold himself to a foreigner. At that moment I was drooling over a raw cassava a young mother was eating, she recognised my need and gave it to me, in return for CFA100, a bargain! The powered canoe finally arrived and we all piled aboard, it was lying very low in the water but there were plenty of eager hands to help bail it out. A customs official was waiting at a table on the other side, to check out our papers, and I spotted a shop. The proprietor had a bowl of water with a block of ice floating in it, for the locals to drink and bottled water for the odd foreigner who passed this way. Unfortunately he sold nothing to eat other than some biscuits, I decided that wouldn’t do much for my dietary needs and found a timber pile in the shade, to catch up on my sleep and wait for some transport to arrive. Around noon, Mr. Caretaker woke me up, not to tell me that a bus had arrived but that there was no shade left outside and I’d better go back and sit in the shop with the others. Once again I wondered if I’d ever get back to the Gambia to catch my flight home. About an hour later, a builder’s estate car pulled up next to the shop, I told Lucas to offer him anything to get the four of us back onto a metalled road. Fortunately he was able to take us all to the Senegalese beach resort of Cap Skiring, from there even I knew we could get a bush taxi to Ziguanchor and on to Brikama. We had dropped Mr. C at Kabrousse, so the three surviving companions set about finding some food. Cap Skiring had a lot of upmarket restaurants that would probably not welcome three mud covered travellers and my pocket wouldn’t welcome their bill. We found a reasonably tidy local restaurant which only served one dish, fish and rice, at least it did give us the option of a pickled pepper; I welcomed it as a vegetable!
5.30pm found us back in Brikama after several checkpoints where we had to turn out our bags on dusty tables. We were congratulating ourselves on not loosing anything else when Lucas noticed his house keys had slipped out of his pocket, while bouncing along the same stretch of Gambian road that had cost me my first torch. I was already imagining a shower and brushing my teeth at the Suma Motel, Serekunda, as buses leave Brikama about every fifteen minutes for the Gambia’s largest town. The last hours of my birthday were not going to be that smooth, we had to find a bus for Mr. Caretaker’s son to take him to his relatives’ house in some isolated suburb of Serekunda. I had to watch a stream of buses leaving for Westfield Junction, before Lucas came to the conclusion that we’d better find a taxi to take us all to our various destinations, another extra expense. I’d have paid anything to get to my hotel, get cleaned up and have a plate of vegetables. It was around eight o’clock by the time I got my single room at the Suma, a bargain at 300 Dalasi. Lucas wanted to see what I was getting for my money and pronounced the room, “Very nice!” and could he use the shower first before changing and hitting the town. There is no stopping this man when he’s in holiday mood.
We settled on a Guinness at Lana’s Bar, owned by a guy from Brighton and just a few yards from the Suma. As it was a Monday night it was very quiet, they don’t serve food but let you bring food in. Lucas went to a takeaway restaurant just across the road and came back with his favourite dish, a kilo of pork, with no vegetables except for a solitary onion, which he rolled in my direction, when I expressed my disappointment. We talked about our trip, Lucas was eager for us to do it again but next time I should bring my wife, Pauline, with me as she was a very sensual woman and he would very much like to have sex with her. I told him I was very flattered and Pauline would be equally touched but I wasn’t very keen on the idea. He said that he understood my sentiments and that he had the perfect solution, tomorrow night I could have sex with his wife, Marianna, as a special send off. In all the years I’ve known him I’ve never met his lady, we’ve always gone to Elizabeth, his sister by the same mother and father’s compound. He assured me that Marianna was a very nice lady, not like the bar girls who hang around the Suma and she would give me a very good send off. I asked him if he had discussed this carnal plan with his wife, he said there wasn’t any need to, as I was still a very good-looking man and she would be very happy to oblige. I didn’t think this mythical lady would be at all that happy with Lucas’ wife swapping plans and looked forward to my last day and special send off with some trepidation.
I was much relieved to have the next day to myself; I put my film into the Susu photo shop and ordered two sets of prints. I strolled around Serrakunda looking for Pauline’s favourite Gambian mixed fruit jam, which I found impossible to get, due to an invasion by Hartleys and some Egyptian brand. I finally found two pots of local Mango and Melon jam in St. Mary’s Supermarket on Kariba Avenue along with a pot of farmer’s honey that looked as if it might withstand travelling in the hold. After treating myself to fish and chips, with salad at Pappy’s sandwich shop, followed by a slice of watermelon, I walked back to Susu’s to see if the photos were ready. To give the film processors a little more time I went into Marie’s Pub, just across the road, this is on Sayer Jobe Avenue. I’d called in there briefly, on the way from the airport, to give her a framed blow-up of a photo I’d taken of her, outside the pub, the previous year. Marie had been delighted that I had remembered, she’d picked me up and swung me around, presenting me with a cold, complimentary Julbrew and extracting a promise that I’d call in before going home. I noticed that the photo had pride of place above the bar, it was a pity I was the only customer. I ordered two bottles of kana to take home for Pauline; it’s going to be a long time before I’ll want any more.
I got my photos and went back to the Suma for a shower, just in case this was really going to be a special night. Cleaned up and changed, I took the Gelleh-Gelleh, a one price minibus, from the BB stand to Kotu police station. I was really hoping to meet up with all the family, particularly with George and his brother Charles, their mother, Maria, Lucas’s one true love had died not long after Charles was born. Now George was living with Lucas and Marianna and Charles was living in Elizabeth’s compound. One thing was troubling me, Lucas had admitted that as his English was poor, he hadn’t understood everything I’d said to him, during the course of our trip and could I write down why Pauline and I liked him. This I had done, that morning, while having a coffee and omelette sandwich from a street vendor just off London Corner. It turned out that he wanted a friend to read it all to him in Jola, this could be embarrassing.
When I got to “Nature” a lot of regulars had gathered to say goodbye to me and the palm wine flowed. Then Lucas said, “Let’s go!” and we were off for my big send off but first he wanted my, “Why we like Lucas” letter read to him. We stopped at a bungalow, behind Kotu police station; this was the home of Mr. Tallo, head of airport security at Yundum. He and his wife were asleep on their veranda, despite it only being 7.30pm, Lucas woke him up and the three of us went into his lounge. This room was designed around a widescreen TV, two, throne sized armchairs to the left and two more to the right, with an immense three-seater sofa to the front of the screen. Mr. Tallo read out my letter in Jola, like a primary school essay on “Who is your best friend?” the kind of thing you dread, as you don’t want to chose one friend, in case you alienate your other friends and end up alone. I picked up a few of my English phrases, such as, “Boys’ Own Adventure Book!” Lucas nodded gravely while Mr. T put on the TV for me to watch some Californian soap, with Wolof subtitles, it’s no wonder Wolof is becoming the main language of West Africa. My few small pages must have had the required effect, as Lucas was in tears. He took my hand and led me off to my promised big send off. Mr. Tallo said he would see me again, at the airport, tomorrow.
The special send off amounted to the two of us ending up in Lucas’ local, Marie’s Bar, not to be confused with Marie’s Pub or Marie’s Bar by Kotu power station. There’s not a lot of imagination in Gambian pub names, a bit like the profusion of Red Lions and White Horses in the UK. We had two Guinness’s while Lucas ordered a kilo of fried pork and we settled down to talk of future plans while watching a Gambian soap about a local woman who had modelled herself on Oprah Winfrey. Lucas asked when I would be back; I said I couldn’t be sure as it depended on getting a last minute cheap flight. He suggested that if I were too busy I could send Pauline over for a holiday and he could “sex” her a lot for me. I tried to point out that our relationship really didn’t function that way and I should be very jealous. Lucas said that he could see that he had upset me and assured me that he didn’t want to steal my wife; it was just sex that he was interested in. He admitted that he found the concept of being faithful to one woman impossible, since Maria had died. There were just too many women in the world and he would like to have sex with all of them, as all women were very nice in their way. On the other hand if we invited him over to stay with us, he could find a girl in our town to marry him, then after three weeks he would run away to find a better job and even better wife. I was beginning to wonder why I called this man a friend but he did live the fantasy of most men, to be the glamorous gigolo, who could manipulate any woman to his will. Well I still hadn’t met the glamorous Marianna and it seemed that I wasn’t going to. |
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| Copyright © - "David Pugh" |
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