Taylor's Travels: West Africa Recap

The swings have been big here in West Africa. One day I’d be having dinner at the American Ambassador’s mansion in Mali, and the next I’d be eating by flashlight in the humble home of a Guinean man I met in a taxi. One night I’d be over-paying to stay in dingy brothel in Bissau, and the next I’d have my own room and clean sheets at a stranger’s house in the Bijagos Islands. One moment I’d be ready to call it quits after an overnight car ride with 12 people, only to have that mood flipped right side up with a smile from a stranger. Experiences were everywhere; some good, some bad, all rich. Here’s a few.

Eating
Many places in West Africa, it’s not only okay to eat with your hands, it’s the only option. Silverware and plates aren’t available in many homes, so you find yourself with the locals, surrounding a communal bowl of rice with whatever, and digging in with your right hand. And I don’t mean, “eat with your hands” like we do in the States, touching the food with the ends of our fingers, napkin nearby. I mean eat with your hands like grab onto the oily rice and press it into your palm like you’re squeezing a stress ball at work This took a bit of getting used to, but I adapted pretty quickly. Most of the time they’d have some water handy for a post meal rinse, but if not, the inside of my pant leg was a worthy backup.

Memorable Foods
I’ve found that I associate a specific food with each country I’ve visited. Sometimes it’s the food a nation is famous for (like Morocco and its delicious Tajine), but often it’s just the cheap stuff you buy on the street.

I will link Senegal with bean sandwiches. I’d buy them every morning from a street vendor on my way to check the surf. It was so simple—cold beans on a baguette, with a bit of homemade mayonnaise and some hot sauce. The lady would start making it when she saw me walking down the street. It cost about 30 cents.

In Mali I’ll remember the white rice with green sauce you could buy just down the street from where I stayed in Bamako. The sauce was intimidating, it looked foul. Maybe it was the surprise of its deliciousness that made it memorable, because when the peanut and veggie concoction hit the lips, I was hooked. It didn’t hurt that it was only a quarter.

I can’t say that the Guinea’s food left a pleasant taste in my mouth. When staying with local families, as I did a lot in Guinea, you eat what they eat. They eat “toe.” I don’t know if that is how you spell it but that’s how you say it. Not to be narcissistic, but I think my toe probably tastes better than this thick sauce. The issue was not the flavor, it didn’t have much, but the consistency was that of congealed snot. The white rice it topped did little to save the meal.

In Guinea-Bissau, it’s all about the peanuts. The family I stayed with in the Bijagos Islands sold them in front of their home, and after every new batch they’d bring me a stomachs worth of them. You know how in a bag of peanuts there’s always a few that were maybe left in the roaster a little longer and have that delicious cooked taste? All of these were like that. And they were still warm, fresh off the fire.

Favorite Word
Wow. In Wolof, the most commonly used language in Senegal, this means, “yes.” When I first got here I heard it constantly and subconsciously thought that people were just always in awe. Turns out they were just giving the green light for hot sauce on their bean sandwich.

Expat on the Back
I guessed that West Africa would be the most difficult part of this trip, as much for the lack of tourist infrastructure as the loneliness of traveling in a place where westerners don’t usually travel. I was right that few travel here, I met only a handful in the past couple of months, but they do live here. They teach at international schools, work for NGO’s, and are Peace Corp Volunteers. I met so many great Americans here that its taken on a home away from home feeling.

I stayed with the Newton family (from Georgia) in Bamako. The father, Alex, runs USAID in Mali, while his wife Betsy runs the household with a no nonsense, fun attitude that had me taking notes. With the family, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, swam in their pool, and played their ten-year-old son, Simon, in ping-pong to determine the champion of the African continent. He stomped me.

After a month of grueling travel, returning to Mike and Devon (from California) in Dakar, I may as well have been coming home. They’ve lived here over a year, teaching at the International School of Dakar. They took me into their home, complete with western comforts like hot water and Internet, as they do countless travelers, Peace Corp Volunteers, and friends of friends. During my ten days with them, they included me in their lives, towing me along to dinner parties and ultimate Frisbee games. When I thank them they just laugh, say its no big deal, they’re just racking up good karma points. If karma is real, these two will have so much stashed away they’ll be passing it onto their grandkid’s grandkids.

Favorite Custom
The greetings in Dogon Country, Mali. When passing other villagers, my guide would dive into this elaborate word dance with them, everyone knowing the steps almost too well:

-Poi?
-Wa.
-Sewo?
-Sewo.
-Umana sewo?
-Sewo.
-Uni sewo?
-Sewo.
-Gui Sewo?
-Sewo
-(In unison) Wa napu Sewo

Essentially this translates to, how are you? How are your parents? How are your children? Sewo means fine. You can’t blame them for being somewhat tired of the whole charade; they performed this greeting with about as much conviction as a fifth grader reciting the pledge of allegiance.

Least Favorite Custom
Pssssst! That’s how people get your attention in here. I’d be walking down the street and hear the noise. I’d turn around looking for the leaky tire, only to find a bus driver waving me towards him, asking me to get on his bus going the opposite direction. The illogical requests that followed it were nearly as bad as the sound itself.

Thanks, but Thanks
It’s customary in West Africa, when eating around others, to offer what you have to the group. I always did this on bus and taxi rides and people would silently take a cookie or candy. No thanks needed; it’s just what you do. What confused me is when I offered someone food and they nodded and said “merci,” and then just sat there. I’d wait patiently with the bag of goodies extended towards them, which made them nod faster and thank me again. Well fricken take one already! I’d think. But this was there way of saying, “Na, I’m good right now.” Even after I figured this out, it was still tough to retract an offer from someone as they’re nodding at you and saying thanks.

Favorite City
Bissau, Guinea-Bissau. The underdog of West Africa, this capital city doesn’t even have electricity most days, but holds a unique charm that sets it apart from its neighbors. There are no high rises, just faded pastel colored buildings slowly corroding from the salty ocean air. Mango trees line the dusty streets, bottoms painted red, green, and yellow, like Bissau’s flag. Aesthetic appeal aside, Bissau’s main attraction is its people. Unlike Dakar or Bamako, when someone approaches you and initiates a conversation in Bissau, there’s no ulterior motive—they want to be your friend. They’re among the friendliest people I’ve met in this world.

Most Awkward Moment
The “disco” in Bubaque, Guinea-Bissau. I was staying with the family of one of the many friendly locals I met in Bissau. I arrived on a Friday, and about four seconds after intros and pleasantries, a young girl in the family asks if I want to go to the disco that night. Since I’ve adopted a “just say yes” attitude on this trip, I said yes. God, a sprained ankle would have been SO convenient that night.

We get to the disco around ten. There’s three people there. The music is blaring and all in attendance are on the dance floor, making like Billy Idol and dancing with themselves in the mirror. It’s still early at this point and I’m convinced more people will come, so I head to the bar to grab a beer, ahem, soda—my host is Muslim. Damn. I sit back down with her and we maintain a delightfully awkward silence for about a half hour. Even if I want to, I can’t converse with her—she speaks no English and my Portuguese/Creole isn’t all there. Around 11:30pm nobody else shows up, so I decide to pull the band-aid off. I drag her out on the dance floor. We maintain a meter between us and bust some moves. I do a sober white guy dance, as loose as rebar. She does an uncomfortable foot shuffle, one eye on the door, as if she’s waiting for her ex boyfriend to arrive so she can make him jealous. Well, he never shows up. Nor does anyone else. When we leave around midnight, the same three people are there, dancing in front of the mirror.

Scariest Moment
Boat ride from Bubaque back to Bissau. They’d loaded the boat full of people, rice, cows, chickens, pigs, and goats. The seas looked calm when we left around three that afternoon, but soon after departure the wind picked up, creating relentless short period swells that slammed the port side of the boat. My worry turned from my electronics getting wet to whether or not I could swim to that distant island. The locals on the boat didn’t worry about that, they couldn’t swim. With each increasingly bigger wave, another person would cry, another person would get soaked, and another prophet would be summoned to protect us on our journey. The towel I loaned to the soaked kid sitting next to me was now covered in his vomit, and the smell from the cow’s waste dominated the sea air. It was a tense five hours, but we arrived to blacked out Bissau unharmed, elated to be alive.



I almost want to include something about how difficult it was to travel by road around here, but the wound is still fresh and I’m not quite ready to talk about it openly. Maybe someday. For now, I’m off to South Africa. It’s bittersweet to leave here, but I’m confident that good people, good waves, and good roads are waiting for me in the Rainbow Nation.