Of Waterfalls and Water Cuts

April 21, 2008

After the 15-year old mechanic came to our rescue with the small but essential part that was necessary for us to continue with our trip, we were on our way. Heat and dust and diesel fuel do not begin to describe just how terrible the conditions of our journey were; suffice it to say that when you blew your nose, black diesel came out of your nostrils and the same was true when you applied Q-tips to the inside of your ears. Parts of the road were so full of potholes that our driver kept veering off the road entirely to avoid them, sometimes even in the face of oncoming traffic, which I found not a little scary, partly because of the nonchalance with which this was done.

We got as far as a place called Dar; at Dar, you were supposed to be able to call the folks over at the Simenti, the one hotel within the confines of the nature preserve Niokolo Koba (a UNESCO world heritage site) to come pick you up. Sadly, no one was going to be able to pick us up or drop us off for three hours or so, so we whiled away some time under the mango trees and waited. It took me a while to get out of NY-mode and stop fuming about how inefficiently things were run, etc. A very philosophical German professor I had once told me that the journey or the getting there was the destination, not the destination itself, as we were wont to think. If I remember correctly, I had smiled vaguely in response, not really understanding the significance of his remark at the time. But the forced time-out encouraged me to engage with my surroundings more than I ordinarily would have – to eat, to drink tea, to converse, and to adjust to a way of life very different from my own. By the time the huge open-sided vehicle arrived to take us to the park, it was almost sunset, a lovely time of day for a ride, and I had calmed down sufficiently to be able to enjoy it, along with the close-up views of Abyssinian rollers (strikingly beautiful blue birds), palatial termite dwellings and wild boars it brought.

Dinner and a shower made me a new woman, and the following morning I bounced out of bed to take a walk, encountering slews of cheerful monkeys and baboons playing tag, sliding down the roof, and curiously investigating empty sardine tins. I debated on the likelihood of my seeing a lion even if I were willing to shell out the money to pay for four seats on a safari, which would have been the requirement as there were no other customers, and I decided that I was actually quite happy with my monkeys and wild boars and the beautiful setting along the Gambia River. I did spring for a pirogue tour along the river and saw three jolly hippos, that is to say caught glimpses of the very tops of their heads before they re-submerged underwater.

I was quite contented with what I had seen and wanted to continue on to the Bassari area, known for being slightly mountainous and full of interesting folkloric traditions. As it turns out, a Frenchman and his grandson also staying at Simenti were heading that way and did not mind my tagging along. We explored the mighty waterfall of Segou together. It was supposedly a 15-minute walk from where we were. Through sweltering heat we scrambled and clambered over rocks, roots and branches and had to be jollied along several times for what turned out to be more of a 50-minute walk only to find ourselves in front of the most anticlimactic waterfall you have ever seen or imagined. (Not that I was expecting Niagara or anything, but only those of you acquainted with what an anemic African waterfall is like during the dry season will be able to understand the depths of my disappointment here: can you say ’sickly trickle’?)

We then continued on to visit a lovely Bedik village nestled in the hills, and it was the Africa of the storybooks – the calabashes in front of the thatched-roof cottages, children playing as their mothers wove baskets and made beaded jewelry, boys selling porcupine quills and the teeth of wild boars as curiosities (phacochere, in case you are curious as to how they say it in French) and carrying jugs of freshly harvested frothy, foamy palm wine. It was a wonderful excursion, but of course we were all gladdened by the thought of returning to the nest (in this case the Relais de Kedougou, scenically located along the banks of the Gambia, where local women would congregate to do their laundry) and having a nice shower and nap.

Sadly, this was not to be, as there were water cuts. Of the four days we were there, two of the days were water-free. So one of the things to keep in mind when traveling in the third world is that sure, you can pay extra for the deluxe room with air conditioning, etc., but if there are electricity or water cuts, even those who have paid more derive no benefit whatsoever, so might as well save your pennies!

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com