Win Some, Lose Some

The crowd around us begins to swell exponentially. More and more voices thrown into the fray and all growing louder and louder. The naartjie seller nextdoor wades in with his two cents. The horse-cart driver quickly parallel-parks his steed in a feat of extreme oneness between man and beast, and gets stuck in with the argument. The woman selling cellphone cards gets so worked up her boob keeps falling out of her throw but mindlessly she keeps stuffing it back in like a very big handkerchief into a very small pocket. They are speaking some Ouolof, some Pulaar, a little French and absolutely no English. So Tough Guy and I stand like idiots as the instigators of the throng but completely superfluous to it. You would think the dilemma was over how to rid the world of the plight of poverty or whether shoes should be allowed in mosque. But alas all the fuss is about whether or not we’re able to take a boat up the Senegal river to the next major town of Matam. And the stumbling block is that the boat owner doesn’t know how much petrol it will take to get there. We are now beginning to gesticulate wildly to convey our frustration. Tough Guy looks like he’s doing the mating dance of one of those Guinean Birds of Paradise. We convey:

“Does he have a friend who might know?”

 No.

“The distance is 250kms, so how many kilometres does he usually get out of 1 litre of petrol?”

He doesn’t know.

“Ok, then how many days are we looking at?”

Maybe 3, maybe 7 he at last says definitively. It seems that 4, 5 and 6 are completely off the cards.

So went negotiations. Just one of the many frustrations we have had to deal with during our travels thus far. That for every silver lining there is usually a mother of a cumulo nimbus cloud. For every yin, a yang. And for every idyllic spot, a mountain of frustration to precede it.

Senegal has proved this as much as anywhere. The previous night we thought we had hit the jackpot by finding a cheap camping spot in an otherwise pricey country. But as Dire Straights blasted out of the ‘eating area’ and a drunken patron came knocking on our tent at midnight, we knew better. Our only consolation was that after we told him to bugger off he turned round, and in his best English, bewilderingly said “Guys. I am here. And I love you.” In the quaint colonial town of St Louis we marvelled at the intricately coloured boats that laze in the harbour – only to witness a local bum in their midst, squatting down for his morning ablutions. And waving at us. Watching a tranquil game of boule by the side of the Senegal River in Podor but knowing that the local tout was doing his best Cape Fear impersonation and creepily watching us from behind a tree. And, of course, for every person that selflessly goes out of their way to ensure you get through a border crossing safely there is one who dresses like a sorcerer and demands payment in powdered milk after being chomped in the face by a pelican.

The womans nipple is now back in the mix. But she hasn’t noticed it so it lingers. And as it does so it points accusingly at me. “Hey toubab” it seems to spit in its own Mammarian language “Why would you even think of coming to French Africa without speaking a bloody word of French?!” I would desperately like to explain to it that if I could turn back the clock I would give anything to have taken French at school. That this powerless feeling is akin to that sensation that I hadn’t had since I was fourteen and Tough Guy used to belittle me infront of an entire guffawing class. That I really should have listened more to my Collins Easy Learning French CDs while I was doing nothing in Ladysmith. But I don’t say any of these things. Because I am talking to a boob. And now not only do I appear ignorant but also like a gigantic, ogling creep.

The end of negotiations comes only when we slip away, largely unnoticed. The crowd continuing merrily along in our absence.We may have lost this round – in fact we may have lost the last five rounds in Senegal – but who knows what the next one will bring. We will lose some more, for sure. But it only takes the occasional win to make it all worth it.

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Also this week we reached another landmark for our trip - we passed the R10,000 mark for donations given to the Key School! So thanks a million to everyone who has kindly donated. Still quite a long way to go, however, so for anyone still reticent about it, Tough Guy has offered pro-bono Thai massages to be dished out on our return for any monies given.