My mom is concerned about parasites and other deadly diseases that I can get from swimming in the fresh water of Africa.
I've never watched the Discovery Channel, so I don't know where that worm growing out of my leg came from, but he seems nice enough.
My mom warns me,
"There's stuff you can get and there's no cure!"
"Yes mom."
"You cannot go swimming in fresh water."
"Yes mom."
After several exciting hippo and croc sightings, I roll into camp, a lovely site along a freshwater river.
I'm informed that the water for the bathrooms and showers comes straight from the river. Oh my mom isn't gonna like this.
The people I'm with go for a swim in the river. They encourage me to jump in,
"C'mon Jess, you shower in this water."
"Yes, I understand. I'm concerned about the hippos."
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Is that? Could it be? Yes! It's a bird watcher!
I've heard of bird watchers before, but I've never met one, until now. The Gambia is home to over 500 different species; it's a bird watchers paradise. And I know you're thinking that's why I came here, but surprise surprise, no.
I head into The Gambia for a stay at the Bird Safari Camp. I'm asked to choose what interests me: nature walks, village tours, cooking class, drumming lessons and drinking beer by the pool. I check off everything except for bird watching.
As I wander into camp, I stumble into a camouflaged man with binoculars and a large telescope strapped to his back. It's my first bird watcher sighting! I move slowly for my camera, I don't want to scare him away.
But I don't have to worry, there are more. They gather together over cups of tea,
"Good spotting of the Egyptian Plover today."
"Ah yes, and the Painted Snipe."
"Oh you saw a Painted Snipe?"
"Yes, magnificent."
"And where was that?"
"In that large tree around the corner, to the left of the bush, between the three dead branches, just under the yellow leaves."
"Ah yes, same place as yesterday."
The next day we head out on the boat for some wildlife spotting.
The boat sways and dips as several large, white people with binoculars jump up and down, pointing and shouting,
"Fin Foot! Fin Foot!"
A drab brown bird flits past.
"Oh they're very rare, very rare indeed."
Hmmm. He looks tasty.
We continue down the river. I jump up and down,
"Monkeys! Monkeys! Monkeys!"
The boat does a collective sigh, puts binoculars away and surges on.
I head into The Gambia for a stay at the Bird Safari Camp. I'm asked to choose what interests me: nature walks, village tours, cooking class, drumming lessons and drinking beer by the pool. I check off everything except for bird watching.
As I wander into camp, I stumble into a camouflaged man with binoculars and a large telescope strapped to his back. It's my first bird watcher sighting! I move slowly for my camera, I don't want to scare him away.
But I don't have to worry, there are more. They gather together over cups of tea,
"Good spotting of the Egyptian Plover today."
"Ah yes, and the Painted Snipe."
"Oh you saw a Painted Snipe?"
"Yes, magnificent."
"And where was that?"
"In that large tree around the corner, to the left of the bush, between the three dead branches, just under the yellow leaves."
"Ah yes, same place as yesterday."
The next day we head out on the boat for some wildlife spotting.
The boat sways and dips as several large, white people with binoculars jump up and down, pointing and shouting,
"Fin Foot! Fin Foot!"
A drab brown bird flits past.
"Oh they're very rare, very rare indeed."
Hmmm. He looks tasty.
We continue down the river. I jump up and down,
"Monkeys! Monkeys! Monkeys!"
The boat does a collective sigh, puts binoculars away and surges on.
America, Jessica, Yes
As I walk around, I have the same conversation over and over again.
"Where are you from?"
"What's your name?"
"Are you married?"
I march on.
"Where are you from? What's your name? Are you married?"
"America, Jessica, Yes. America, Jessica, Yes."
I go out with a few white women for drinks. The local guys surround us. I can see it in their eyes,
"Where are you from? What's your name? Are you married?"
I concentrate on my beer. A big-old-hairy-white guy saunters up,
"Hello ladies, what's your name?"
FUCK OFF.
"Where are you from?"
"What's your name?"
"Are you married?"
I march on.
"Where are you from? What's your name? Are you married?"
"America, Jessica, Yes. America, Jessica, Yes."
I go out with a few white women for drinks. The local guys surround us. I can see it in their eyes,
"Where are you from? What's your name? Are you married?"
I concentrate on my beer. A big-old-hairy-white guy saunters up,
"Hello ladies, what's your name?"
FUCK OFF.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Breaking and entering, in a skirt
I arrive in The Gambia after 12 hours of exhausting shared taxis, dirt roads and men I'd rather not talk to.
The Senegalese man to my right starts talking to me en francais.
"Sorry I don't speak French." I'm not sorry at all.
Just my luck, he switches into fluent English,
"Are you married?"
"Yes."
"Do you have kids."
"No." I know I need to start lying about this too, but I have a hard time abandoning my make-believe children to travel around West Africa.
"If I were your husband I'd give you lots of babies."
Great. Thanks for offering to bang me.
As I'm narrowing in on my hotel the taxi driver turns to me,
"Fajara Guesthouse?"
"Yes."
"I don't know where it is."
"It's between Fajar Hotel and Safari Garden." According to my map we should be right in the middle of all three, I see nothing. No signs. No white people. I'm very tired.
We drive down a residential dirt road. My taxi guy asks several people where to go. We pull up at the end of a driveway to what looks like a house. There's no sign. Taxi guy says,
"Fajara Guesthouse!"
At this point, it can call itself whatever it wants, cause whoever's house this is, I'm sleeping here, or at least using the toilet.
I walk down the driveway, reassured by the safety of the 8 foot walls and impressive gate. I fall into bed and sleep for 12 hours.
The next day I go for a wander and upon my return I can't find my hotel. Why doesn't it have a sign?
I set off to find Safari Garden, a hotel with a pool, supposedly a block away from mine. I wander in circles, finding nothing. I see two white people, there is hope.
"Do you know where Safari Garden is?"
"Yeah, we're going there now."
We approach another unmarked gate. What's the deal? Are these people against signs?
I meet an English guy volunteering at Safari Garden. I ask him,
"So what kind of volunteer work are you doing?"
"For the last few weeks I've been trying to get the hotel a sign."
Admirable, very admirable.
I go out for a night on the town. My first since I've started traveling. Bedtime has been averaging anywhere from 8:30PM to as late as 11PM.
At 2AM my taxi drops me off on my street. I wander from locked gate to locked gate. I don't even know which one it is.
I knock on a couple. Nothing. After a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I pick a gate to bang on. Nothing. I give it a frustrated kick.
I scale the wall in a skirt and flippy floppies. I sit on top of the 8 foot wall and peer down the driveway. Is this my hotel? It doesn't look familiar from this angle.
I jump down.
It's my hotel!
As I make my way to my room, the security guy rouses himself from a deep sleep.
Please, don't get up now.
The Senegalese man to my right starts talking to me en francais.
"Sorry I don't speak French." I'm not sorry at all.
Just my luck, he switches into fluent English,
"Are you married?"
"Yes."
"Do you have kids."
"No." I know I need to start lying about this too, but I have a hard time abandoning my make-believe children to travel around West Africa.
"If I were your husband I'd give you lots of babies."
Great. Thanks for offering to bang me.
As I'm narrowing in on my hotel the taxi driver turns to me,
"Fajara Guesthouse?"
"Yes."
"I don't know where it is."
"It's between Fajar Hotel and Safari Garden." According to my map we should be right in the middle of all three, I see nothing. No signs. No white people. I'm very tired.
We drive down a residential dirt road. My taxi guy asks several people where to go. We pull up at the end of a driveway to what looks like a house. There's no sign. Taxi guy says,
"Fajara Guesthouse!"
At this point, it can call itself whatever it wants, cause whoever's house this is, I'm sleeping here, or at least using the toilet.
I walk down the driveway, reassured by the safety of the 8 foot walls and impressive gate. I fall into bed and sleep for 12 hours.
The next day I go for a wander and upon my return I can't find my hotel. Why doesn't it have a sign?
I set off to find Safari Garden, a hotel with a pool, supposedly a block away from mine. I wander in circles, finding nothing. I see two white people, there is hope.
"Do you know where Safari Garden is?"
"Yeah, we're going there now."
We approach another unmarked gate. What's the deal? Are these people against signs?
I meet an English guy volunteering at Safari Garden. I ask him,
"So what kind of volunteer work are you doing?"
"For the last few weeks I've been trying to get the hotel a sign."
Admirable, very admirable.
I go out for a night on the town. My first since I've started traveling. Bedtime has been averaging anywhere from 8:30PM to as late as 11PM.
At 2AM my taxi drops me off on my street. I wander from locked gate to locked gate. I don't even know which one it is.
I knock on a couple. Nothing. After a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I pick a gate to bang on. Nothing. I give it a frustrated kick.
I scale the wall in a skirt and flippy floppies. I sit on top of the 8 foot wall and peer down the driveway. Is this my hotel? It doesn't look familiar from this angle.
I jump down.
It's my hotel!
As I make my way to my room, the security guy rouses himself from a deep sleep.
Please, don't get up now.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
I don't know where I'm going, just take me there
Finding my way around is an adventure. Everytime I manage to get to my intended destination, it's a small miracle.
There's no bus schedule. You just show up to where the buses, vans and taxis gather, good luck finding that. Then you ask around, until you find one going where you want to go. Then you wait for 6, 12, 18 more people, however big your vehicle is to fill up, and then you go.
Figuring this out would be difficult enough if I spoke the language.
The night before I want to go to Mbour, I ask my hotel some questions en francais,
"Tomorrow, I go to Mbour. Possible?"
"Mbour or Mbour?"
Good question. Maybe those two places sound different to him but they sure sound the same to me.
The next morning I head to the shared vehicle area.
"Madame, madame, where are you going?"
"Mbour s'il vous plait."
"Mbour or Mbour?"
"Mbour?" I point out my Mbour on the map. I'm put in a car. I ask everyone,
"Mbour?"
"Oui, Mbour." Of course this doesn't clarify anything.
I arrive in Mbour. The one I wanted.
The next morning I grab a taxi to go to the shared vehicle place. The taxi driver asks,
"Where are you going?"
"Ndangane."
"I'll take you," for the equivalent of $10.
This is a great deal considering its several hours away and the quote for a private taxi yesterday was $60. I do have my doubts,
"Ngangane?" And I point to it on my map, taxi guy agrees.
After 40 minutes on a paved road, we drive off through a field. I have more doubts. My guide book says the road is bad, but based on the amount of grass growing on it, this one is seldom used.
I decide to relax and enjoy the ride. We pull up at some bushes. There's a small thatch hut and and no one or anything in sight. Taxi guy says,
"We're here!"
I have a few more doubts. I tell him the name of my hotel. We drive a little further and stop in front of another hut. A guy comes out and talks to my taxi guy, then asks me,
"How long do you want to stay?"
Five, ten minutes tops.
I look for the internet cafe that my guidebook promises, but I don't see any power lines.
Slowly but surely all the village children gather around to touch me. I ask the hotel hut guy,
"Ngangane?"
"No! Ngueniene."
Oh dear.
The taxi guy screeches,
"Ngangane?!"
"Yes."
"Ngangane?!!"
"Yes!" It's not my fault you can't read.
"It's very far."
"Ok."
"Now what?"
"I don't know." I hope he doesn't leave me here.
"Ngangane?!!!"
"Yes!!!"
"This is Ngueniene."
So I've heard.
There's no bus schedule. You just show up to where the buses, vans and taxis gather, good luck finding that. Then you ask around, until you find one going where you want to go. Then you wait for 6, 12, 18 more people, however big your vehicle is to fill up, and then you go.
Figuring this out would be difficult enough if I spoke the language.
The night before I want to go to Mbour, I ask my hotel some questions en francais,
"Tomorrow, I go to Mbour. Possible?"
"Mbour or Mbour?"
Good question. Maybe those two places sound different to him but they sure sound the same to me.
The next morning I head to the shared vehicle area.
"Madame, madame, where are you going?"
"Mbour s'il vous plait."
"Mbour or Mbour?"
"Mbour?" I point out my Mbour on the map. I'm put in a car. I ask everyone,
"Mbour?"
"Oui, Mbour." Of course this doesn't clarify anything.
I arrive in Mbour. The one I wanted.
The next morning I grab a taxi to go to the shared vehicle place. The taxi driver asks,
"Where are you going?"
"Ndangane."
"I'll take you," for the equivalent of $10.
This is a great deal considering its several hours away and the quote for a private taxi yesterday was $60. I do have my doubts,
"Ngangane?" And I point to it on my map, taxi guy agrees.
After 40 minutes on a paved road, we drive off through a field. I have more doubts. My guide book says the road is bad, but based on the amount of grass growing on it, this one is seldom used.
I decide to relax and enjoy the ride. We pull up at some bushes. There's a small thatch hut and and no one or anything in sight. Taxi guy says,
"We're here!"
I have a few more doubts. I tell him the name of my hotel. We drive a little further and stop in front of another hut. A guy comes out and talks to my taxi guy, then asks me,
"How long do you want to stay?"
Five, ten minutes tops.
I look for the internet cafe that my guidebook promises, but I don't see any power lines.
Slowly but surely all the village children gather around to touch me. I ask the hotel hut guy,
"Ngangane?"
"No! Ngueniene."
Oh dear.
The taxi guy screeches,
"Ngangane?!"
"Yes."
"Ngangane?!!"
"Yes!" It's not my fault you can't read.
"It's very far."
"Ok."
"Now what?"
"I don't know." I hope he doesn't leave me here.
"Ngangane?!!!"
"Yes!!!"
"This is Ngueniene."
So I've heard.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Excuse me, I'm counting pelicans, in English
Senegal is en francais. Of course there are hundreds of tribal languages, but I don't happen to know any of those either.
So I'm struggling along. I've done several day trips with French speaking guides. I'm very good at nodding and smiling.
The other day I tag along with an older French man and a Senegalese guide to a bird park. The two of them are bantering back and forth. I'm happy to admire the scenery and count the pelicans. There were 10,000, give or take a couple hundred.
The following conversation happened in French, but I'll translate if for you. The Frenchman asks me,
"What's your name?"
"Jessica."
"Oh I know a Jessica. She's terrible... terrible."
I go back to counting pelicans. 7,972. 7,973.
The two babble back and forth in French. 7,974. Wait! Don't fly away! 7,973.
Four hours into the tour, it is now clear to everyone that I speak very little French, the Senegalese guide says to me, again I'll translate,
"Jessica, you are very quiet."
No shit.
So I'm struggling along. I've done several day trips with French speaking guides. I'm very good at nodding and smiling.
The other day I tag along with an older French man and a Senegalese guide to a bird park. The two of them are bantering back and forth. I'm happy to admire the scenery and count the pelicans. There were 10,000, give or take a couple hundred.
The following conversation happened in French, but I'll translate if for you. The Frenchman asks me,
"What's your name?"
"Jessica."
"Oh I know a Jessica. She's terrible... terrible."
I go back to counting pelicans. 7,972. 7,973.
The two babble back and forth in French. 7,974. Wait! Don't fly away! 7,973.
Four hours into the tour, it is now clear to everyone that I speak very little French, the Senegalese guide says to me, again I'll translate,
"Jessica, you are very quiet."
No shit.
Friday, November 06, 2009
I'm trying for my 12th child and hoping for twins
I'm wearing a fake wedding ring to try to keep the harrassment at a manageable level.
I keep looking at my hand and wondering who I'm married to. Very strange.
The other day it seemed to be doing the trick. Until a guy grabbed my hand and asked,
"Why?"
So you'll leave me alone, duh. "Why not?"
At this point he tries to take the ring off my hand. At first I think he wants to take my $10 ring. Then he motions for me to put it in my purse.
He informs me that because I don't have any kids, I'm free to remarry. And the obvious choice is him.
I now have 5-7 children. Depends on my mood.
I keep looking at my hand and wondering who I'm married to. Very strange.
The other day it seemed to be doing the trick. Until a guy grabbed my hand and asked,
"Why?"
So you'll leave me alone, duh. "Why not?"
At this point he tries to take the ring off my hand. At first I think he wants to take my $10 ring. Then he motions for me to put it in my purse.
He informs me that because I don't have any kids, I'm free to remarry. And the obvious choice is him.
I now have 5-7 children. Depends on my mood.
Please God let his pants stay on
As I'm waiting in Madrid to board my flight to Dakar, finally, I notice two bedraggled old men.
If I hadn't been butt searched on my way through security, I'd say these guys are homeless.
(FYI: a tube of cookie dough is a liquid, don't even try to get it through security.)
The leader of the two homeless men has a long, comb-over flopping the wrong way, suspenders, a button shirt half undone so his big, hairy belly can hang out, pants clinging for their life to the suspenders and a half-open fly.
Please God don't let this man be sitting next to me.
I lose track of them on the flight.
I stand in a hellish wait to get through passport control. It's like I'm in line at a fancy nightclub; every once in awhile the security guy pulls someone out of line, rushes them to the front and out the door. But never me.
I emerge from the airport and I'm so happy to see the guy from my hotel with a sign that says "Jessica." That's me!
I rush over,
"Hello!"
"Bonjour! We're waiting for two more and then we'll be on our way."
I glance behind me. It can't be. The two homeless guys are lumbering over. Of course we're staying at the same hotel.
In the taxi I try to avoid all contact with the big, hairy belly, but it's impossible. I ask,
"Where are you guys from?"
"Poland, you?"
"The US."
"Switzerland?"
"No," I try en francais because Senegal is Francophone. "Etas Unis."
"What?"
"The United States of America."
"Ah Switzerland."
Sure. Switzerland.
If I hadn't been butt searched on my way through security, I'd say these guys are homeless.
(FYI: a tube of cookie dough is a liquid, don't even try to get it through security.)
The leader of the two homeless men has a long, comb-over flopping the wrong way, suspenders, a button shirt half undone so his big, hairy belly can hang out, pants clinging for their life to the suspenders and a half-open fly.
Please God don't let this man be sitting next to me.
I lose track of them on the flight.
I stand in a hellish wait to get through passport control. It's like I'm in line at a fancy nightclub; every once in awhile the security guy pulls someone out of line, rushes them to the front and out the door. But never me.
I emerge from the airport and I'm so happy to see the guy from my hotel with a sign that says "Jessica." That's me!
I rush over,
"Hello!"
"Bonjour! We're waiting for two more and then we'll be on our way."
I glance behind me. It can't be. The two homeless guys are lumbering over. Of course we're staying at the same hotel.
In the taxi I try to avoid all contact with the big, hairy belly, but it's impossible. I ask,
"Where are you guys from?"
"Poland, you?"
"The US."
"Switzerland?"
"No," I try en francais because Senegal is Francophone. "Etas Unis."
"What?"
"The United States of America."
"Ah Switzerland."
Sure. Switzerland.
Fun times in Madrid
My flight to Senegal had a stop in Madrid. A long stop.
I get to Madrid at 7AM; my next flight isn't until 5:30PM.
The help desk thinks I should check out Madrid. Considering it's my 1AM with no bed in sight, I check out the airport.
This is what I do for the next 10 hours:
- I try to spoon the cold, hard armrests of the airport chairs.
- I move to the cold, hard floor.
- I go to the bathroom.
- I contemplate the floor.
- I move to a couch at Starbucks and enjoy a $7 tea.
- I go to the bathroom.
- I cry over Rutgers.
- I wander around.
- I read... slowly. (I don't want to run out of books.)
- I stare off into space.
- I call my mom.
- I eat a mushed muffin from the previous flight.
- I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and look, there's my vibrator. Hmmm, why not?
I get to Madrid at 7AM; my next flight isn't until 5:30PM.
The help desk thinks I should check out Madrid. Considering it's my 1AM with no bed in sight, I check out the airport.
This is what I do for the next 10 hours:
- I try to spoon the cold, hard armrests of the airport chairs.
- I move to the cold, hard floor.
- I go to the bathroom.
- I contemplate the floor.
- I move to a couch at Starbucks and enjoy a $7 tea.
- I go to the bathroom.
- I cry over Rutgers.
- I wander around.
- I read... slowly. (I don't want to run out of books.)
- I stare off into space.
- I call my mom.
- I eat a mushed muffin from the previous flight.
- I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and look, there's my vibrator. Hmmm, why not?
Monday, November 02, 2009
Slumber party sacrifices
My mom loves slumber parties. She loves slumber parties so much that for Hanukkah last year, I thought to myself,
'What do I get the woman who has everything?' Well everything besides a new hot water heater. Ok so, 'What do I get the woman who has everything that's in my price range?'
A gift card redeemable for slumber parties!
When my mom opened her present, she screamed with happiness,
"REALLY?!!"
Yes, really.
It seemed like a great, thoughtful, affordable gift at the time. Five slumber parties later, I was wondering if I should've splurged on the hot water heater.
My mom is really sweet. She looks really sweet, sounds really sweet, but the woman can fart.
On our fourth slumber party, I decide I have to be proactive,
"Mom would you do a few squats before you get into bed?"
"Sure!"
She does them to no effect. That can't be. I ask,
"Will you bend over from the waist?"
She gives me a 'I obviously don't have to fart' look and bends over.
She rips the biggest fart of our slumber party history.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
P.S. My mom didn't want to let this blog go to print. She says,
"How much are you gonna pay me?"
"I'll give you another slumber party?"
"Ok."
'What do I get the woman who has everything?' Well everything besides a new hot water heater. Ok so, 'What do I get the woman who has everything that's in my price range?'
A gift card redeemable for slumber parties!
When my mom opened her present, she screamed with happiness,
"REALLY?!!"
Yes, really.
It seemed like a great, thoughtful, affordable gift at the time. Five slumber parties later, I was wondering if I should've splurged on the hot water heater.
My mom is really sweet. She looks really sweet, sounds really sweet, but the woman can fart.
On our fourth slumber party, I decide I have to be proactive,
"Mom would you do a few squats before you get into bed?"
"Sure!"
She does them to no effect. That can't be. I ask,
"Will you bend over from the waist?"
She gives me a 'I obviously don't have to fart' look and bends over.
She rips the biggest fart of our slumber party history.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
P.S. My mom didn't want to let this blog go to print. She says,
"How much are you gonna pay me?"
"I'll give you another slumber party?"
"Ok."
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