"Guinness on my Compass: March 2000 - "Ziguinchor - Saint Patrick's Day, Casamance Style"

The 45-minute internal flight from Dakar to Ziguinchor was unneventful enough.  I spent most of it dozing lightly, though I did choose to awaken and gaze out of the window of the small Air Senegal aeroplane just as we hovered two metres above the sandy brown runway. It was then that I discovered that the sight of rapidly approaching "terra firma" is quite an effective method to rouse oneself with a start from even the heaviest of slumbers.  Collected at the tiny airport in a relatively intact taxi, I was taken by Sophie to meet her family.  Introductions were made, hands were shook and jokes were cracked about how I, being at the time the only adult male in the house, would be required to kill the ram the next day for the tabaski.  I laughed this off, but nonetheless tried not to count sheep as I settled down for the night.

The next morning, St. Patrick's day, I was soken by the loud singing (i.e. the sound of several cats being simultaneously strangled and beaten with cow bells) of three female "griots", buskers if you will, who go from house to house on feast days chanting tribal songs until you pay them to go away.  Whatever about sleeping through the dawn Friday call to prayer of the Imam, or the constant cock-a-doodle-do-ing of the cockrels in the yard, there was simply no ignoring the noise of the three griots.  They would wake the dead. So I dismantled my portable mosquito net in record time and popped my head out the door to witness the clamourous spectacle.  Traditional they might have been, but alas their repetoire of Christy Moore ballads left a lot of room for improvement.  Once the griots had been lured nextdoor, each member of Sophie's family in turn asked for and gave forgiveness to each other for wrongs committed since the last tabaski.  It was like a giant clan confessional.  I doubt if the Catholic hierarchy would approve of this idea - it kinda cuts out the middle man and would do the clergy out of a job - but I found it to be a quaint, if somewhat contrived, tradition.

I was relieved to see that the menfolk had arrived to take care of animal affairs of a throat slitting nature.  I watched half in interest, half in horror, as a ram was selected by the head of the household, was dragged away from the other sheep by its horns with the able assistance of two young lads, was placed on its side and with suprisingly less struggle than I had feared, it surrendered its life to a sharp blade. As it was hung and skinned by the two assistants, aged roughly eight and 16 respectively, its blood still yet to fully coagulate, I stared transfixed.  I had not enjoyed watching the sacrifice of the ram.  But I was not overly shocked either.  The whole procedure seemed very natural.  The ram gradually ceased to be a living breathing creature.  As the duo went about their chores, it soon becamse a collection of body parts: legs, breast, lungs, intestines.  With each cut of the blade, I drew closer to the victim.  I was intrigued. I felt like I was living William Golding's "Lord of the Flies".  "Kill the beast, spill its blood!"  I was witnessing a side of life from which we are spared in sanitised Europe.  I am not a vegetarian.  I enjoy eating meat.  Therefore, I told myself that it would be hypocritical of me to recoil at the sight of the actual slaughter of an animal.  This was an act repeated millions of tiomes the world over - especially today.  So in an effort to pull my weight and to show my respect for local religious sensibilities, I began to help with the dismembering of the sheep.  With each passing moment, the living flesh was changed into meat, and my stomach, which had been mildly queasy, calmed itself.  Were it not for he fact that the decapitated ram's head kept staring at me, I would have probably eventually been fully at ease.  Then suddenly, then older of the two boys cut himself badly with the largest blade, a knife that Crocodile Dundee himself would have been proud to sport, and I ran for my first aid kit.  I found myself attempting to disinfect the wound and to apply bandages.  It felt comforting to feel of use.  For since I had arrived in Casamance, I had been the beneficiary of the type of hospitality that is often described in travel guides as "legendary".

The previous evening Sophie's sisters had been evicted from their room to make way for me.  As we all ate dinner together from a common dish, our right hands delving among the rice, spicy grilled fish and assorted vegetables, the tastiest morsels were constantly shoved in my direction.  I was repeatedly encouraged to eat above and beyond my fill.  I must admit at having felt quite embarrassed.  As a European, even an Irish-European, I was not used to being treated in such a regal manner.  It is really disarming to meet people who are significantly less well-off in material terms, constantly offering you things and treating you like a prodigal son.  After my experience in Merzouga in Morocco, I kept wondering, "Where's the Catch?"  But, this time, there was no catch.  That's one of the difficulties about travel. You have to be tough enough to drive away con artists, hustlers and potential thieves.  But you also have to ensure that you do not prejudice yourself against those kind individuals who have uncommonly warm hearts and giant welcome mats.

So I busied myself chopping meat, peeling potatoes and wrapping wounds.  The tabaski meal was splendid, but still not being fully acclimatised, I couldn't force myself to consume large amounts.  The stifling heat constricted my stomach walls.  So I decided to make the forty minute walk into town, where, in the Alliance Française, they were due to show a new Irish film, Agnes Browne.  For being the day it was, I thought a taste of home would do wonders for the spirit.  There, I erred.  Due to the public holiday, the film had been postponed and instead of familiar scenes from Dublin, I was faced with a steady stream of street kids looking for money from the "toubab". My attention drifted away to St. Patrick's days past: to an evening with Erasmus students in the "Oliver St. John Gogarty" in Dublin's Temple Bar, to a mad gathering of EU stagiaires at the opening of the "Wild Geese" in Brussels, to inebriated camaraderie and "gettin" jiggy with it" with drunken damsels in "Macgillycuddy's" in Turin.  I longed for it all - pints of stout, jigs and reels, "Rocky Roads" and revellers dressed head to toe in green.  And as I slowly drowned in my own perspiration, I thought about a coachload of friends heading towards the Alps along the Susa valley to blissful alcoholic oblivion.  And (to paraphrase "the Oul' Triangle" by Brendan Behan), "I wished it was with them, that I did dwell".  At that very moment I felt more alone than at any time since I left Europe.  If you are a "people person", enforced solitude, even self-enforced solitude, can sometimes be very depressing.

So as I walked along I started singing out loud. Songs by the Saw Doctors, U2, Bagatelle, the Dubliners, the Pogues and the Waterboys - "I wandered out in the world for years, while you just stayed in your room; I saw the crescent, you saw the whole of the moon".  My sweaty shuffle broke into a confident stride and my crooning became louder.  I think that's what convinced the money seekers to leave me alone. They thought I'd taken too much sun and was a bit touched.  And maybe I was.  But every Irishman should be allowed a little leeway on March 17th.  Then there was nothing else for it.  Drink!  With the determination of Father Jack, I made my way to the "Hotel du Tourisme" and had a jar with Anand, an interesting Franco-Indian I bumbed into there.  I cajoled Sophie to join us and by midnight the blues had been dispelled.  Took in a local disco which blasted out a collection of Senegalese mbalax and Cuban salsa rhythms.  Then, for no apparent reason, the DJ decided that some Europop was called for. Gala, Eiffel 65, Sash, Aqua - I could have been in Amsterdam.  Believe me when I tell you that it is a pretty surreal thing to see a club full of Africans chanting "C'mon Barbie, let's go party!"  So for a brief spell I left behind my carefully crafted silky dance-floor moves (yeah!) and bopped around waving my hands in the air like a loony.  Ah the glory of cheesy Europop!  It wasn't exactly Ronnie Drew and the boys, but the Europhile in me was placated at least.

Too awake after my nocturnal exertions (dancing, nothing else - sorry to disappoint those among you eager for lurid details of amorous escapades), I tuned my small short wave transistor to the BBC World Service in the wee hours, and I caught a story about week-long Paddies' day celebrations that were taking place on the Caribbean island of Monserat, in commemoration of an African slave uprising that had occured there a few centuries ago on St. Patrick's day.  The revolt had finally been crushed, but in the true Irish habit of revelling in defeat, the islanders were going to celebrate it anyway.  That's the spirit!  I fell asleep with nascent ideas of what to plan for this time next year, when I hope to be back in the old sod.  The invitations will be going out - you heard it here first.

Gav (18 March 2000)

"Guinness on my Compass: March 2000 - "Ziguinchor - France versus Ireland - A West African Perspective"

The following is an article I wrote last Sunday for an Irish newspaper in the foolishly forlorn hope that it might someday see the light of morning.

With hands locked together in prayer and eyes transfixed on the small television screen, I sweated profusely.  Ever since my arrival in Ziguinchor in the south of Senegal, I had been sweating profusely.  The climate of Casamance was not designed with the sensibilities of wandering Irishmen in mind.  But at this particular moment, the beads of perspiration cascading down my forhead had little to do with the +30°C heat of another cruel Sunday afternoon.  Several thousand kilometres to the north, in the temperate environs of the French capital, a certain David Humphreys had just placed an oval ball sweetly between two tall white posts and several thousand white faces, clad in green, went ecstatic.  A world away, in a small African town, south of the Gambia and just north of Guinea-Bissau, one of their fellows did likewise.

His Senegalese co-viewers watched amusedly as this strange European (or "toubab" as we're known in these parts) jumped out of his seat, shouted several incoherent joyous exclamations in English, repeatedly punched the humid air and began beseeching a higher  spirit for aid and sporting benevolence.  360 long seconds later, the toubab was granted his wish.  A flurry of shaking hands was followed by the proferring of endless thanks, and the assembled locals gazed at the stranger as his eyes began to water at the sight of a certain Brian O'Driscoll being carried shoulder high from the lush emerald turf of the Stade de France.  Such behaviour was considered all the more bizarre as their guest, unknown to any others present, had simply turned up on their doorstep an hour earlier, very keen to watch "le rugby".

Keen is hardly the word.  I was desperate. Unfortunate enough to have witnessed (in the company of some English friends) our drubbing at the hands of the old enemy, an intrigue of fate and unsympathetic inter-African timetables had conspired to deny me the opportunity to witness our revenge against the Scots and our domination over Italy.  So the distinct possibility of three successive wins, victory in Paris (a feat never achieved in my lifetime) and a brief taste of home, led me to wander the dusty sun-drenched streets of Ziguinchor, quiet as spiders, in search of Gallic exiles and satellite dishes.

Two days earlier I had survived the most un-Irish of Saint Patrick's days.  A morning spent cleaning vegetables, an afternoon as a less than willing accomplice in the ritual killing of a sacrificial ram and an evening feasting with my Senegalese hosts onthe fruits of our labours, beneath the relative cool of a moonlit sandy sky, left little time for sinking pints of stout.  For this year, as luck would have it, the "tabaski" or "feast of the sheep", the largest celebration in the West African Muslim calendar, had fallen on the same day that proud Bostonians parade and New Yorkers sink green beer.  Infused with global cultural satisfaction at having learned how to skin a sheep, I nonetheless yearned for the familiar pleasures of Guinness, "Wild Rovers" and American tourists in Aran sweaters.  My deliverance would arrive less than 48 hours after the passing of our national day.

I knew that we had a "dacent" chance of finally getting one over the French.  I was also very aware that CFI, the Francophone equivalent of BBC World, was showing the match live from Paris.  So on the historic day when millions of Senegalese left their homes to cast their ballots and usher in a new President, I hopped in a battered yellow and black taxi and headed at a steady pace into the deserted centre of town. The few half-full hotels provided no relief to my plight, until a local girl took pity on me and led me around the houses of her neighbours in search of someone willing to witness 80 minutes of inter-European sporting combat.  The station showing Italian soccer was quickly abandoned by the assembled crowd, who, in an instant, were transformed into the most ardent adherents of the men in green.  "Allez les verts!"  "Allez Irlande!"  "C'mon ya shower of useless feckers - tackle the bleedin' frog!"  I added my own particular cries of encouragement to the mounting cacophany.

Small shot glasses of frothy hot black African tea were continuosly offered to the new arrival, who became increasingly excited as the possibility of a long yearned-for victory slowly became real.  But I tried my best not to entertain such thoughts.  Irish rugby has proved a callous mistress in the past, and I saw no reason to assume why today she would be any different.  But with each leap of Galwey, each tackle of Clohessy, each surge of Woods and each sweet try of O'Driscoll, new hope sprung eternal.  And then it happened.  The Kiwi referee drew a merciful close to proceedings.  The fighting "spireet" had triumphed.  I embraced the local hospitality with bundles of Celtic joy.  Each image of dancing Irish supporters and rejoicing Irish players, I greeted with smothered cheers and clenched fists.

Being Irish abroad can often be a lonely existence. Rarely thankless, it is nonetheless, a life perennially bereft of sporting comfort.  But on the odd occasion, the "rare oul' times", moments when you find yourself in a room full of Africans enjoying your company and pulling for your side, being Irish can be the most beautiful of things.  As I sit here belatedly celebratin Saint Patrick's day, a bottle of cold Gazelle beer in my hand, images of the match still fresh in my mind, I realise that I am hours away from my nearest compatriot.  However, I feel a warm sense of belonging.  A small part of Ireland is doing spinning cartwheels in West Africa.  Anf for that I must give my heartiest congratulations and thanks to the Irish 15.  Your victory - our victory - was a long time coming.  But it has travelled the globe and will live in the memory of this particular Irishman for another 28 years.  Allez les gars!  Go raibh mile maith agaibh go léir.

Gavin (19 March 2000)

"Guinness on my Compass: March 2000 - "Casamance - I want to ride my bicycle"

Not wishing to overstay my welcome with Sophie's clan, I decided to literally "get on my bike" and head into the wilds of Casamance.  Heading south-west to the lovely beaches of Cap Skiring was not an option, given the recent rebel activity in the area.  So, not burning with desire to be held up at gun point by a group of drunken 12-year-olds with Kalashnikovs, I decided to venture north of Ziguinchor instead.

After hooking up with my guide, Samba Faye, in the early daylight hours of another sunny Monday morning, we headed to Ziguinchor port.  Okay, when I say port, what I actually mean is a motley collection of little boats, pirogues and rafts held loosely together with frayed rope.  Calais, this was not.  I had meet Samba the evening before in the Hotel Flamboyant on Rue de France and he agreed to be my guide for two days for 30,000 CFA (45 Euro).  It would have cost me only 20,000 CFA for the 48 hours had I found another foolhardy victim, but as I said before, lone backpackers are pretty thin on the ground on the Dark Continent.  So after stocking up with a few bottles of mineral water, I gingerly hopped aboard the pirogue. On board our long wooden canoe-like vessel were Samba, our pirogue driver and two ageing World War II bicycles, which were to act as our personal landrovers once we set foot on dry land again.  For roughly two hours we chugged along through the salty inlets and waterways of the River Casamance, Samba pointing out an impressive array of wild birds, including beautiful pink flamingos, that lived by the leafy trees that lined each aquatic channel.  The crocodiles never made an appearance from the murky green depths (the waters are too high in March apparently), but given the precarious nature of our mode of transport, their absence didn't upset me greatly.  After a whistlestop tour of an artist's cottage on Iles aux Oiseaux, our pirogue chauffeur deposited us and our trusty bikes at the little village of Affiniam.  From then on we were under our own steam.

We were hardly half an hour into our excursion when I began to realise that today was really the first day I had seen the real "Africa".  We would weave our way through tropical forests, under tall trees from which hung yellow and green Japanese oranges, mangoes, grapefruits, avocadoes and pineapples, along narrow sandy pistes, and then we would break into the most amazing expanses of huge dried riverbeds.  The soil changed hue from dusty grey to brilliant yellow, from rose pink to deep crimson, the colour I'd always imagined Africa would be.  We passed herds of hungry goats and horned cattle and saw the occasional tracks of timid monkeys in the sandy clay.  The last occasion on which I spent so much time in the saddle was touring around the Isle of Skye with Dave in August 1997.  But the 80 kilometres of the Scottish Highlands were not strewn with fallen vines, broken bridges and piles of sand, so the 60 kilometres Samba and I were to cover in the two days proved significantly harder going.  Cycling between the hours of midday and 3:30pm proved impossible due to the extreme heat, but by early evening as we reached the little village of Ballingor, a refreshing breeze served to cool our drenched skin.  Then another one of those bizarre coincidences that keep happening to me occured.  It just so happened that in the very village where Samba had led me to, there was a school.  And in that school in the middle of nowhere therre was a teacher, who just happened to be Sophie's older sister, Aisha.  She got quite a shock when she saw me ride into town!  But it made a welcome change to be addressed by name, as opposed to hearing "Kassoumaye louloum?" (How's it going, white man?), which the hordes of village kids would shout at me in the local language, Jola, as we passed on our bikes.  I would reply "Kassoumaye kep" (It's going grand) and then they'd laugh or stare or ask me for "bonbons".  Caucasians are evidently seen by the children of Casamance as mobile sweet dispensers.  The youngest of the African kids were quite terrified by me, a living breathing white devil!  We were certainly far removed from cosmopolitan Dakar.

As a fulll moon rose directly overhead and illuminated a clear starry sky, I decided to take a shower before tucking into dinner.  Armed with my mini-maglite torch, a towel and an annoyingly hard bar of soap, I set off to discover the pleasures of showering "au nature".  I had a large bucket of lukewarm water, into which I would delve a smaller bucket and then douse myself.  Most of the cockroahes scurried away into the night when my torch found them, but some half-interested spiders dangled from the palm leaves to witness me performing my nocturnal ablutions. Significantly refreshed and feeling smugly at one with mother nature, I crouched by the dying embers of our fire and slowly dried off.  After a hearty meal of rice and chicken, I nodded off, utterly exhausted from the day's exertions.  Though only semi-conscious, I made a determined effort to lie on my front as, after a day in the saddle, my arse was as sharp as razors. I fear that I'd make rather a sorry cowboy.

The next morning Aisha led me around the Balingor primary school.  I was privvy to witnessing varied aspects of school life; from the pleasures of singing pupils to the eye-opening sight of full-blown corporal punishment, the likes of which would make a Christian Brothers' eye gleam with envy.  I showed the eldest class where Ireland was on their large, if somewhat outdated world map, and their teacher quizzed them about my little country.  It took them a few minutes to grasp the fact that we were not in fact French-speaking North Americans, and when I described and pointed to the countries to which I hope to travel, 40 small mouths dropped open.  I felt every bit the globetrotting star - like Michael Palin on one of his voyages.  I waved Aisha and the schoolchildren adieu as I gingerly mounted my bike, and with that, Samba and I were on the trail again before the clock had reached 10am.  We cycled till after dusk all the way back to Ziguinchor, stopping every now and then to drink more water or munch on sweet freshly-picked oranges that we'd collected from a farm run by a Canadian missionary.

Our stopover at the mission resulted in a lengthy discussion about religion and I was interested to increase my knowledge about the beliefs of the Muslims of Senegal.  Islam is the only religion, I learned, that recognises all the prophets from antiquity - Ibrahim (Abraham), Moussa (Moses), Dauoda (David), Isa ben Maryam (Jesus, son of Mary) and of course, Mohamed, the last and greatest prophet.  The more I learn about Islam, the more I realise how the three great monotheistic faiths, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, have much more in common than we are often willing to admit.  Okay, I'm not ready to convert just yet (six years with the Jesuits should put a stop to any moves in that direction!), but with all the time I have on my hands now, I just find myself contemplating about spiritual matters a helluva lot more than I did in Europe.  Not that that would be hard!  But for example, the previous Saturday evening, as I had been walking around Ziguinchor, I passed by the cathedral there.  Though a Muslim country, the southern region of Casamance has a sizeable Christian community, and relations between the two groups are extremely amicable.  Northern Ireland could learn a thing or two from them.  Echoing from the interior of the church I heard the most beautiful singing I have ever heard.  I followed the sound of these heavenly hymns and witnessed a wonderful sight.  The church was packed to the rafters with people who sang with one voice, beneath a dozen dancing fans, which tried in vain to provide some respite from the mounting body heat. Statues of Saint Francis of Asisi, the Virgin Mary, scenes from the passion of Christ and a giant crucifix looked down on the gathering of the faithful.  The red light of the setting sun refracted through broken stain-glass windows; green, blue and yellow tints reflected in the faces of the African congregation.  I noticed only two other Western churchgoers in the congregation, one of whom was a nun, but nonetheless there was something comfortingly familiar about the scene.  It was genuine.  Not a contrived spectacle for over-inquisitive tourists.  Now before you start to panic, I should state for the record that I'm not overtly religious.  At least not in the ceremonial sense.  There are certain aspects of the Catholic church with which I have serious problems.  However, I must admit that standing in the cathedral in Ziguinchor, surrounded by fervent Christian believers, was a very peaceful experience.  And the music, which spilled out onto the surrounding streets, was nothing short of divine.

Back on the road again, Samba and I traversed a huge damn built 15 years previously by Chinese Communists and we crossed more arid river beds and winding sandy pathways.  A brief swim in the salty waters of the river provided welcome, if only a fleeting, respite from the powerful sun.  We passed an occasional crowd of villagers chanted "Sopi, sopi" (change, change) and danced in celebration of Abdoulaye Wade's surprisingly emphatic victory in the Presidential Elections.  His PDS party, by gathering around 60% of the vote in the second round of elections the previous Sunday, has succeeded in peacefully topling the ruling socialist regime of Abdou Diouf, and has thereby, set a splendid democratic example for the rest of the continent.  It was a privilege to be in Senegal at such an historic moment.  And it was extremely enjoyable to spend two full days in the wilderness.  My physical efforts enabled me to sleep for most of the eight-hour taxi-brousse ride back to Dakar the following day, Wednesday.  Though our ridiculously overcrowded ferry came very close to not surviving the tenuous river crossing in the Gambia.

The last few days in the capital have been spent trying to regain the movement in my legs after Saturday's six kilometre hash run and attempting to recover from a seriously significant hangover on Sunday.  Preben, a Danish ex-patriate, introduced me to "Kratingdaeng", which is the original form of Red Bull that they make in Thailand and comes in small bottles.  Mixed with copious amounts of Swedish Absolut vodka, it has some tell-told effects, of which my friends in Turin will be more than aware.  By means of recompense for my sorry state all day yesterday (my wild student days seem like distant memories), Preben is kindly letting me hog his computer this afternoon. Tomorrow I catch the Kassoumaye high speed boat to Banjul in the Gambia for some lazy days of beach bumming.  More dodgy photos are currently winging their way to Europe and should be on line in the near future.  But in the meantime, please feel free to have your say by signing my brand new guestbook, which Pierre-Yves has kindly installed.  I await your heartwarming and uplifting scribblings with mounting anticipation!  See y'all soon, or as they say in the Casamance, "Katoral"!

Gav (27 March 2000)

"Guinness on my Compass: March 2000 - "The Gambia - Africa for Beginners"

I arrived in the Gambian capital, Banjul, after a surprisingly smooth three hour "Kassoumaye Kep" boat trip from Dakar.  Having ingested a powerful anti-sea sickness tablet, Nautamine, I still felt only semi-conscious when I set foot on dry land again.  But despite my self-indused chemical stupor, I somehow managed to negotiate my way through customs, pound the streets of the small town with my weighty rucksack, acquire some local currency and finally hop aboard a 15-man shared taxi to Fajara on the Atlantic coast. Though the Gambian countryside is very similar to that of Casamance, it's British colonial history makes for some starling differences from Gallic Senegal. Hearing English being spoken on the streets is the first change one notices.  Streets are named after Wellington, Stanley and the like.  De Gaulle doesn't even get a lok in.  Instead of supermarkets stocked with "Paris Match", "Nestlé" chocolate and "Hollywood" chewing gum, one is treated to "Hello" magazine, "Cadbury's" and "Wrigley's".  School children wear uniforms that remind one of documentaries about the education system in South African townships.  Even the currency, the Dalasi, is modelled on sterling, the coins shaped like English pennies and septagonal 50p pieces.  The influence of Cuban salsa rhythms is much reduced compared to its larger neighbour.  In the Gambia reggae is king, and there is a plethora of wannabe rastafari sporting dreadlocks and Bob Marley t-shirts. Due to its burgeoning tourist industry, the areas where foreigners frequent are remarkably clean. It merely takes a short jaunt away from the tourist traps, however, to see that the litter-free myth of the Gambia being "the Switzerland of West Africa" is just that - a myth.  And in the hotel where I stayed, the Malwai Guesthouse, one could even dine on Yorkshire Pudding or be woken with a hearty full English breakfast.  The guesthouse, which sees its fair share of independent travellers, cost 125 Dalasi (12.5 Euro) a night and is run by Mohamed, an Englishman who converted to Islam and had just returned from the hadj.

By the next morning, the effects of the Nautamine had finally worked their way out of my system and I headed for the beach.  The sight along the Fajara cliff walk of the mighty Atlantic was spectacular.  Rocky promontories laden with palm trees jutted out into the endless ocean, creating a series of separate alcoves, each covered in golden and black volcanic sand.  Now and again the sea offered up damaged large white shells, larger than any on offer in Europe.  Alas, the impressive coastline degenerates into a stretch of mononous shoreline and my tranquility was broken by the occasional approach of beach bumsters, who make a living scalping package tourists fresh off the latest charter flight from London.  But once again my Moroccan training served me well and the disgrunted and disappointed bumsters soon sought out more malleable prey.

With the sleuthing qualities of Sherlock Holmes, I tracked down Blair and Kristen, who I knew were knocking around Fajara this week.  I spent a lazy afternoon by the pool in their hotel, the luxurious "Coconut Residence", a night in which would set one back 1,200 dalasi (120 Euro)!!!  I passed several hedonistic hours devouring another novel, "The God of Small Things", a debut work by the female Indian novelist, Arundhati Roy, which deservedly won the Booker Prize in 1997.  Never have I read such a beautiful book, where the English dances on the page and the story is told with such delicacy and childlike innocence.  I have already started to devour it again, as one reading scarcily does this work justice.  If someday I manage to write with one quarter of the intelligence, perception and intensity of Roy, then I'll die a happy individual.  I sincerely advise you to buy "The God of Small Things", read it and then lend it to your friends.  Being hooked so wholeheartedly into the magical world of the subcontinent, I made no objection when the suggestion was made for Blair, Kristen, Helen (a Dutch friend of theirs) and myself to visit the "Clay Oven", an Indian restaurant in Bakau.  We ate a sumptous spicy meal and I retreated to my hotel, utterly contented.  Another day was spent wandering along the beach and visiting the crocodile park in Bakau, where the remarkably tame giant reptiles seem wholeheartdly resigned to being filmed, photographed and patted on their scaly backs by eager tourists.  I subsequently left Banjul the next day, suitably refereshed, tanned and appreciative of just why the Lonely Planet descibes the Gambia as "Africa for beginners".  Harder trips will certainly follow, but I'm sure even Livingston took a welcome break now and again.

The days since my return to Dakar, have been spent carousing around town with Preben and Rolf, the devilish Danish duo(!), corrupting young American Peace Corps volunteers, sipping a succession of Gin & Tonics, dancing till the early hours in "the Iguane Café" and trying to resist the temptation to hit the casino big time with the Vikings.  Many sordid stories could be related here (notably the one about Laurent, the Canadian, and the naked Senegalese ten year old would-be thief that his cleaning lady discovered in his closet!), but this is a family show after all, and perhaps I would be better served to hold the press till the publication of my first trashy novel.  A small step was taken in that direction last week, when "Irish Emigrant Publications" used my story about the rugby match in their latest issue (www.emigrant.ie), so I had better leave Senegal soon in search of more travel stories, before I get hooked into the debauched lifestyle of the ex-pat community here!  What awaits now is the 36-hour train journey to Bamako and a jaunt around Mali and Cote d'Ivoire with Tiff, who's taking a welcome break from Torino.  Mali is not exactly awash with cyber cafés, so it could be a while till my next update.  So till then, stay safe and mildly sober and I'll get back to you all in April. 

Gav (March 31, 2000)