Ten days in Senegal and the Gambia and my life will never be the same. And all because Ali Sallah, the one and only BIG BOSS, has had the heart to embrace village life and slooow village time for two years now, learn Fula, Wolof and some Mandika, and become Gambian.
First day in Dakar: filth, rot, noise, chaos; a madman drinking water by filling up his cup with water from the blackened gutter. Two Senegalese men practicing their wrestling, a national pasttime, on the trash-strewn beach used also for sunning, swimming, and football. Drinking ginger juice and a boy hacking open coconuts in his hands with the deftness off a violin virtuoso. The gorgeous day-glo elegant colors of flowing African clothing. Alhamdoulilahi buses and cramming long legs into tiny broken seats of broken-down cars.
Kaolack, Senegal, the saddest, most desperately dirty town in the world, where all the people have dark brown teeth from drinking the putrid water. Burning trash, open sewers, the smell almost making me vomit but they don´t even notice cuz that´s where they grew up. Let us never speak of "developing countries" again, for it is a cruel euphemism at best. Jake and I decided upon a new term - ICOs: Impoverished Cesspools of Opression. Impermissible that people live like this.
Finally away from the cities and into the bush and Jake´s village, Sare Sofi. I bought a goat to show my thanks to the village for hosting me, and I almost fainted as I watched it being butchered. Jake didn´t flinch. He held the intestines with gusto. African food bowls, all the men eating first, squatting, dipping in with the right hand only. Rice, rice, and more rice. Peanut sauce, peanut sauce, and more peanut sauce. I was sick of it after three days. Jake still loves it after two years, but he relishes meat, fruit, and greens when he gets the chance.
Swimming in the Gambia river at night, lightning and stars in the sky. Chasing baboons through the bush with Ali´s brothers. Walking the 9km from the village to the road and stopping to see a renowned fiddler. It began with just the 3 of us, but one by one the women and children stopped their work and entered the hut, stooping under the four-foot high door. The light steadily diminished and the heat and dust inside the hut grew by the minute until it soon felt like midnight, and we were a tribe of revelers carrying on late into the night. El duende aparecio as we formed a ring around the fiddler, the clapping intensified, and the dancers entered the ring encouraged by the jaleos of the others. Eventually the Mantis appeared, and it was on. The Mariachi song was played to delight of the villagers.
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