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.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Taylor's Travels: Guinea
Leaving the village on our first hike, I was surprised by the rapport my guide, Hassan, had with the neighborhood kids. When he greeted them, a crying child’s grimace turned to grin and they beamed like only kids can when he leaned over to pinch their bellies. I don’t know how you say “uncle” in Pular (the local language), but I’m sure it’s an endearing term Hassan hears often. After that hike and the ones that followed, seeing Guinea’s larger than life landscape through his imaginative eyes, I too would become a member of the Hassan fan club.
I wasn’t even planning to go to Guinea, but I had to return to Senegal from Mali and it was the most logical route. I’m thankful I did, though, because it showed me a place unlike any I’ve seen in this world. Not long after passport stamping, I was met with stunning scenery that was surpassed only by the people, who opened up their homes to me with hospitality you only seem to find in the poorest of places, untainted by tourism and western greed.
My arrival in Douki, a village in Northeastern Guinea, was more of the same. The kids greeted me and took me by the hand to an open-aired bungalow and plopped me down in a hammock. The leader of the pack, a six year old whose booming voice and presence was belittled by the snot bubbling from his nose, emptied some peanuts into my hands and demanded, “Mange!”
As I relaxed and enjoyed the snack, Hassan Bah entered the hut and enthusiastically welcomed me.
“Yes of course I have a room for you!” He said, voice raspy from too many cigarettes.
The deal: $20 for lodging, three meals, and guided hikes.
He gave me the guest book to flip through while he went to prepare my hut. The book featured hike descriptions, guest testimonials, and a brief history of Hassan’s life—born and raised in Sierra Leone, lived in Mauritania and Spain, Spanish is his favorite language. When he took me to my room I said “muchas gracias” and he gave me a wide grin, his crooked white teeth accentuating his under bite. “De nada,” he said. We spoke the rest of the time in Spanish.
But Hassan didn’t talk much; he let the land do the talking. We were based a kilometer from what is known as the Guinea Grand Canyon, a 2,500 foot valley laden with lush forests, precipitous rock formations, and cool rivers. Etched into the area are a series of barely visible paths the locals use to access neighboring villages and waterways. Exploring the Eastern rim of the Canyon, Hassan would take the lead. If we passed a patch of thorny plants, he would slow to a near stop to get my attention. If it were slippery he would alert me by extending his arms sideways, like a child pretending to be an airplane, and continue descending. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say, “Hey, careful here, buddy,” he spoke English and Spanish perfectly. But I think he wanted to maintain the serenity of the quiet valley, not pollute the air with unnecessary words.
There were times though, when Hassan was all too happy to speak.
“Look there. This is the head of a General. You see? There is his face,” Hassan’s arm outstretched and pointing to what looked to me like a rock, “and his hand is coming up like this, because he is thinking.”
This was Hassan’s hobby, finding faces and figures in the rocks.
“And there, you see? It’s an elephant. And over there, look, there’s a woman. Do you think she looks sad?”
“No, I think she is just admiring the view,” I reply.
Some of his pet rocks really did look like the figures he claimed them to be, but others, like the General, would have required an altered mind state to see. It was fun solving these stone puzzles, and I tried to match Hassan’s imaginative visions.
“Look Hassan, that one there! It’s a turtle…but he is angry…because he dropped his cigarette.”
I spent a few days in Douki exploring the area with Hassan. We scaled rocks and peered over the ledges of thousand foot cliffs; we explored caves and bathed beneath waterfalls; we even spotted baboons, both the animal and rock varieties. It was a magical place that, minus an ocean, was all I could have asked for; the distinct lack of tourism added to the charm. This was an area that, if in a more developed country, even Senegal, there would be entry fees, tour busses, huge hotels and hustlers. But because Douki is in one of the poorer African countries, politically volatile and without much press, it (and its people) remains pure. The kids in Douki, for example, thank you for taking their picture—in Mali they extend their hands expecting payment.
It’s a unique place.
We left Douki on our final hike just before sunset, as the call to prayer bellowed from the Mosque’s loudspeaker. Hassan seemed distracted, and I noticed him walking faster than normal. He lead me a short distance through the bush and down to the edge of the canyon, where a ledge dropped a thousand feet straight down to a small village on the valley floor. He sat me down on a rock and pointed out a vulture that glided with the updraft off of the cliff side. I followed it with my eyes, jealous of its ability to soar freely above the immaculate land. When my eyes returned to Hassan he was hastily removing his shoes. Then he turned his back to the sheer cliff, closed his eyes, and knelt in prayer.
Only Hassan. Only in Guinea.
I wasn’t even planning to go to Guinea, but I had to return to Senegal from Mali and it was the most logical route. I’m thankful I did, though, because it showed me a place unlike any I’ve seen in this world. Not long after passport stamping, I was met with stunning scenery that was surpassed only by the people, who opened up their homes to me with hospitality you only seem to find in the poorest of places, untainted by tourism and western greed.
My arrival in Douki, a village in Northeastern Guinea, was more of the same. The kids greeted me and took me by the hand to an open-aired bungalow and plopped me down in a hammock. The leader of the pack, a six year old whose booming voice and presence was belittled by the snot bubbling from his nose, emptied some peanuts into my hands and demanded, “Mange!”
As I relaxed and enjoyed the snack, Hassan Bah entered the hut and enthusiastically welcomed me.
“Yes of course I have a room for you!” He said, voice raspy from too many cigarettes.
The deal: $20 for lodging, three meals, and guided hikes.
He gave me the guest book to flip through while he went to prepare my hut. The book featured hike descriptions, guest testimonials, and a brief history of Hassan’s life—born and raised in Sierra Leone, lived in Mauritania and Spain, Spanish is his favorite language. When he took me to my room I said “muchas gracias” and he gave me a wide grin, his crooked white teeth accentuating his under bite. “De nada,” he said. We spoke the rest of the time in Spanish.
But Hassan didn’t talk much; he let the land do the talking. We were based a kilometer from what is known as the Guinea Grand Canyon, a 2,500 foot valley laden with lush forests, precipitous rock formations, and cool rivers. Etched into the area are a series of barely visible paths the locals use to access neighboring villages and waterways. Exploring the Eastern rim of the Canyon, Hassan would take the lead. If we passed a patch of thorny plants, he would slow to a near stop to get my attention. If it were slippery he would alert me by extending his arms sideways, like a child pretending to be an airplane, and continue descending. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say, “Hey, careful here, buddy,” he spoke English and Spanish perfectly. But I think he wanted to maintain the serenity of the quiet valley, not pollute the air with unnecessary words.
There were times though, when Hassan was all too happy to speak.
“Look there. This is the head of a General. You see? There is his face,” Hassan’s arm outstretched and pointing to what looked to me like a rock, “and his hand is coming up like this, because he is thinking.”
This was Hassan’s hobby, finding faces and figures in the rocks.
“And there, you see? It’s an elephant. And over there, look, there’s a woman. Do you think she looks sad?”
“No, I think she is just admiring the view,” I reply.
Some of his pet rocks really did look like the figures he claimed them to be, but others, like the General, would have required an altered mind state to see. It was fun solving these stone puzzles, and I tried to match Hassan’s imaginative visions.
“Look Hassan, that one there! It’s a turtle…but he is angry…because he dropped his cigarette.”
I spent a few days in Douki exploring the area with Hassan. We scaled rocks and peered over the ledges of thousand foot cliffs; we explored caves and bathed beneath waterfalls; we even spotted baboons, both the animal and rock varieties. It was a magical place that, minus an ocean, was all I could have asked for; the distinct lack of tourism added to the charm. This was an area that, if in a more developed country, even Senegal, there would be entry fees, tour busses, huge hotels and hustlers. But because Douki is in one of the poorer African countries, politically volatile and without much press, it (and its people) remains pure. The kids in Douki, for example, thank you for taking their picture—in Mali they extend their hands expecting payment.
It’s a unique place.
We left Douki on our final hike just before sunset, as the call to prayer bellowed from the Mosque’s loudspeaker. Hassan seemed distracted, and I noticed him walking faster than normal. He lead me a short distance through the bush and down to the edge of the canyon, where a ledge dropped a thousand feet straight down to a small village on the valley floor. He sat me down on a rock and pointed out a vulture that glided with the updraft off of the cliff side. I followed it with my eyes, jealous of its ability to soar freely above the immaculate land. When my eyes returned to Hassan he was hastily removing his shoes. Then he turned his back to the sheer cliff, closed his eyes, and knelt in prayer.
Only Hassan. Only in Guinea.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Taylor's Travels: Mali Road Trip
Lonely Planet lists travel times between West African cities as follows:
Dakar to Bamako—1-3 days
Bamako to Djenne—8-12 hours
Mopti to Timbuktu—10-24 hours
I read this and make a mental note, “Road travel unreliable, be patient.” But I largely ignore the extensive and varying travel durations. In my optimism (read naivety) I assume that between the publishing of the guide book and my arrival, West Africa will have sufficient time to pave their roads and patch their tires, and I’ll be skipping between destinations like I was on the autobahn. I obviously forgot the fun little word play on “assume” my mom taught me as a kid.
I’m in Djenne to see its famous Monday market and giant mud Mosque, but I’m heading to Sevare in the afternoon; the trip is meant to take just under two hours. Seems easy enough. I do laps through the busy market in the morning then head to the group taxi stand and buy a ticket. I ask the driver when we are leaving.
“When the car is full,” he says.
Not exactly what I was looking for, but OK. I find a patch of shade and I sit. An hour and a half later the car is full, and 11 of my new buddies and I pile into a dilapidated station wagon and are on our way. On the dirt road out of town, I can feel the scraping of the car floor on the ground as we waddle through holes in the road, the car seeming to buckle under the cumulative weight of the passengers and their bags of rice. At least we’re moving though.
We’re moving until the river crossing, where we just miss the ferry. The midday sun makes shade a rarity, but I find a thin patch near the car and I sit. 45 minutes later we are across the river and onto a paved road, “its all downhill from here,” I think to myself.
Not that it’s going to be a comfy ride. It’s 100 degrees, my shirt sticks to me like duct tape, and the hot wind blowing through the open windows can’t seem to find a passage between my seat mates and me—the car is packed beyond belief. But at least we’re moving.
Within five minutes we get our first flat tire. Damn it. I find a tree that looks lonely and plop down underneath it, ready to wait. But to my surprise the driver has the thing changed before I can even get my book out, and we’re back in the car. NASCAR pit crews beware if this guy ever makes it stateside.
I drop the ball when I sit back down. The locals who flank me, in their infinite crowded car experience, establish superior leg and shoulder positioning, and I’m left leaning forward with my knees glued together, trying to find a happy place. It may be cramped, but at least it’s hot. And at least we’re moving.
Around the time both my legs have officially fallen asleep, we make a curious turn 90 degrees off course, into a village with a funny name. Another flat. 15-20 minutes, max, the driver assures us, and disappears into the village with the mangled tire.
I’m a pro at this point. Shade. Sit. Bring it on. The quick fix of the first flat is but a distant memory, not to be replicated this time. I rest near the car with my back against a mud home, and spend an hour enjoying the harmony of the metal workers shaping cookware (TINK! TINK! TUNK! TINK!) next to me and trying to recall the meal that could have caused my churning belly. When the 250 pound woman on my right begins nursing her toddler, I take a destinationless walk. I return some 15 minutes later, and, like coming back from the bathroom with your food waiting for you, the driver is attaching the repaired tire and we are again moving.
I know better than to have any hopes at this point, so I’m not disappointed or surprised when the driver turns into a town to “pray” (I mean come on, you can’t argue with Allah), and then backs his car into a service station. The good news is the sun just set so shade is not an issue, and the red African soil and I are now well acquainted.
In a half hour the service boys have our chariot laced up and ready, and we depart on what would be the final crawl to the Sevare finish line. We arrive in one piece. Total time—just under five hours.
Of all the virtues I hope to acquire through travel, patience is the one I am perfecting in West Africa. Unscheduled stops and flats, rivers and roadblocks; I’m learning to take deep breaths, relax, and sit—cause this could be a while.
Dakar to Bamako—1-3 days
Bamako to Djenne—8-12 hours
Mopti to Timbuktu—10-24 hours
I read this and make a mental note, “Road travel unreliable, be patient.” But I largely ignore the extensive and varying travel durations. In my optimism (read naivety) I assume that between the publishing of the guide book and my arrival, West Africa will have sufficient time to pave their roads and patch their tires, and I’ll be skipping between destinations like I was on the autobahn. I obviously forgot the fun little word play on “assume” my mom taught me as a kid.
I’m in Djenne to see its famous Monday market and giant mud Mosque, but I’m heading to Sevare in the afternoon; the trip is meant to take just under two hours. Seems easy enough. I do laps through the busy market in the morning then head to the group taxi stand and buy a ticket. I ask the driver when we are leaving.
“When the car is full,” he says.
Not exactly what I was looking for, but OK. I find a patch of shade and I sit. An hour and a half later the car is full, and 11 of my new buddies and I pile into a dilapidated station wagon and are on our way. On the dirt road out of town, I can feel the scraping of the car floor on the ground as we waddle through holes in the road, the car seeming to buckle under the cumulative weight of the passengers and their bags of rice. At least we’re moving though.
We’re moving until the river crossing, where we just miss the ferry. The midday sun makes shade a rarity, but I find a thin patch near the car and I sit. 45 minutes later we are across the river and onto a paved road, “its all downhill from here,” I think to myself.
Not that it’s going to be a comfy ride. It’s 100 degrees, my shirt sticks to me like duct tape, and the hot wind blowing through the open windows can’t seem to find a passage between my seat mates and me—the car is packed beyond belief. But at least we’re moving.
Within five minutes we get our first flat tire. Damn it. I find a tree that looks lonely and plop down underneath it, ready to wait. But to my surprise the driver has the thing changed before I can even get my book out, and we’re back in the car. NASCAR pit crews beware if this guy ever makes it stateside.
I drop the ball when I sit back down. The locals who flank me, in their infinite crowded car experience, establish superior leg and shoulder positioning, and I’m left leaning forward with my knees glued together, trying to find a happy place. It may be cramped, but at least it’s hot. And at least we’re moving.
Around the time both my legs have officially fallen asleep, we make a curious turn 90 degrees off course, into a village with a funny name. Another flat. 15-20 minutes, max, the driver assures us, and disappears into the village with the mangled tire.
I’m a pro at this point. Shade. Sit. Bring it on. The quick fix of the first flat is but a distant memory, not to be replicated this time. I rest near the car with my back against a mud home, and spend an hour enjoying the harmony of the metal workers shaping cookware (TINK! TINK! TUNK! TINK!) next to me and trying to recall the meal that could have caused my churning belly. When the 250 pound woman on my right begins nursing her toddler, I take a destinationless walk. I return some 15 minutes later, and, like coming back from the bathroom with your food waiting for you, the driver is attaching the repaired tire and we are again moving.
I know better than to have any hopes at this point, so I’m not disappointed or surprised when the driver turns into a town to “pray” (I mean come on, you can’t argue with Allah), and then backs his car into a service station. The good news is the sun just set so shade is not an issue, and the red African soil and I are now well acquainted.
In a half hour the service boys have our chariot laced up and ready, and we depart on what would be the final crawl to the Sevare finish line. We arrive in one piece. Total time—just under five hours.
Of all the virtues I hope to acquire through travel, patience is the one I am perfecting in West Africa. Unscheduled stops and flats, rivers and roadblocks; I’m learning to take deep breaths, relax, and sit—cause this could be a while.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Taylor's Travels: WAISTed
Coming to Africa, I had a picture in my mind of how it would be: women in exotic dresses carrying buckets on their heads, barefooted kids playing soccer in dirt streets, and villagers gathering along the shoreline to view the day’s catch. You can imagine my surprise when, in addition to the aforementioned expectations, I found hundreds of American twenty-somethings, all night parties, and softball.
I met Mike Dvorjak surfing in front Dakar’s Club Med. Originally from Half Moon Bay, he is living in Senegal with his girlfriend Devon, teaching at the International School of Dakar (ISD). Before the session was over he told me about a softball tournament going on in Dakar, and invited me to check it out that afternoon. It sounded too weird not to have a look.
I didn’t know what to expect. After all, we were in Africa, not exactly known for its baseball fervor; how big could a softball tournament be? On the other hand, Mike said he was making a documentary on the event, and he had some serious looking cameras.
When we passed through the security gates at the ISD field, I thought I’d stumbled out of the corn and onto Kevin Costner’s Field of Dreams; it was an oasis of America in West Africa. Coed teams played softball on green grass. Spectators in lawn chairs consumed hot dogs, peanuts, soft serve, and beer. Teammates exchanged high fives. Children chased foul balls. It was like home.
Turns out, my arrival in Senegal coincided with the West African Invitational Softball Tournament (WAIST). Half sporting event half spring break, the annual competition is held over a three-day weekend and is comprised mostly of Peace Corps volunteers from around West Africa, with local and expat teams rounding out the field. For three days the party doesn’t stop—it was a bandwagon I was happy to jump on.
The party’s nucleus was the American Club, which shares a fence with ISD. Like a country club without the golf course, the American Club boasts a swimming pool, tennis and volleyball courts, a lounge, a bar, and a snack shack. People came and went between the four softball fields to regroup with friends, take a dip in the pool, put some pink on their pale skin, and drink cold Flag (the local beer). The latter fueled the weekend
God knows these guys earned it. Peace Corps volunteers sign up for a two-year service, not knowing where in the world they will be placed, for the sake of helping others. They live with villagers, eat their food, and learn their local dialect. They each specialize in sectors like sustainable agriculture, women education/empowerment, and business development, and teach the topics to the locals. You can imagine how they look forward to WAIST, a trip to America without leaving the continent, after being stuck in a village for months on end. It made me feel silly that a few years ago I wanted to go somewhere for spring break to get away from “stressful” college life.
At WAIST, funky haircuts and costumes are not the exception but the rule. I doubt if anyone in West Africa has ever seen such a concentration of Mohawks and Mullets, and I know they haven’t seen sporting events where the players dress as pirates or play in their underwear (unless they attended WAIST any one of the last 36 years of its existence). The debauchery in the American Club extended onto the softball diamond, with outfielders setting down their beers to chase fly balls, and a girl with a boom box pacing the foul line, dancing to hip hop beats and riling up the players and fans. Never had the Peace Corps looked so appealing to me.
While WAIST is a diversion for most teams, some, like the Pirates of Mauritania, take the event seriously. This Peace Corps team spends months dispersed throughout the Sahara, and they see WAIST as an opportunity to reconnect with an American pastime and their love for competition.
“Most of us have athletic pasts. We played sports in high school and some of us in college, and we miss it,” said one Pirate. “Add to it that we’re alone in the desert most of the year and it makes WAIST that much more special. We want to win.”
Blocking their path to the tournament trophy was Senegal Three, a strong team of local Senegalese players who narrowly beat the Pirates in the finals last year, and looked likely to repeat. The Pirates, however, sought revenge.
It was around this drama that Mike focused his documentary. He filmed all of the Pirate and Senegal games, contrasting athletic and competitive Senegal Three with the Pirates, a team that practiced once a year and was relying more on heart and determination than softball skills. Mike lost sleep praying to the softball gods to put Senegal Three and the Pirates in the final.
It seems the gods were listening. In the semi-final match up between Senegal Three and The Gambia’s Peace Corps team, Senegal was trailing by three runs. In the final minutes of the hour long game, with the bases loaded, Senegal Three hit a Grand Slam to win it. The Pirates had already clinched their spot in the final, and the storybook match-up would unfold Monday afternoon on a legitimate baseball diamond that overlooked the rocky Atlantic coastline.
A wild Sunday night turned into Monday morning very quickly for most WAIST attendees, but sleep deprivation and hangovers hindered few from attending the game. Hundreds showed up, 95% of whom rooted for the Pirates, and it was standing room only along the foul line (except for one young volunteer, who was so hung over that she slept in the middle of the herd, but she did show up). Hats were removed when a player from Peace Corps Guinea tooted the national anthem on his trumpet, and the crowd sang along in near unity. The Pirates finished their final beers before the game, and Senegal Three was up to bat.
I’ve witnessed some exciting sporting events—overtime hockey shootouts, buzzer beater basketball wins, even Barry Bond’s 756th homerun—and I am dead serious when I tell you that the excitement that surrounded this game was up there with all of them. Double plays were made, leads were exchanged, and homeruns were hit. The game’s excitement was matched by that of the crowd, with girls dressed as pirates storming the crowd to announce the score after an inning, or dig their hooks in the dirt and yelling“AAARGGHHHH!” Music was blasted and chants were yelled. We jumped and screamed when the Pirates scored and nervously covered our moths when Senegal Three retook the lead. It was like being at a local team’s home game
After a rollercoaster forty-five minutes, it became clear the day belonged to the The Pirates. They beat Senegal Three 11-6. The crowd rushed the field. Beer was shook and sprayed. The MVP was named.
The elation on the faces of the players said it all—they were hometown heroes, and they managed to become so in West Africa. With the softball, the Peace Corps, the expats, and the food, America had reincarnated in Africa. If only for a few days. While it wasn’t what I expected when I arrived, WAIST provided fun, excitement, and a valuable lesson—home is where you make it.
I met Mike Dvorjak surfing in front Dakar’s Club Med. Originally from Half Moon Bay, he is living in Senegal with his girlfriend Devon, teaching at the International School of Dakar (ISD). Before the session was over he told me about a softball tournament going on in Dakar, and invited me to check it out that afternoon. It sounded too weird not to have a look.
I didn’t know what to expect. After all, we were in Africa, not exactly known for its baseball fervor; how big could a softball tournament be? On the other hand, Mike said he was making a documentary on the event, and he had some serious looking cameras.
When we passed through the security gates at the ISD field, I thought I’d stumbled out of the corn and onto Kevin Costner’s Field of Dreams; it was an oasis of America in West Africa. Coed teams played softball on green grass. Spectators in lawn chairs consumed hot dogs, peanuts, soft serve, and beer. Teammates exchanged high fives. Children chased foul balls. It was like home.
Turns out, my arrival in Senegal coincided with the West African Invitational Softball Tournament (WAIST). Half sporting event half spring break, the annual competition is held over a three-day weekend and is comprised mostly of Peace Corps volunteers from around West Africa, with local and expat teams rounding out the field. For three days the party doesn’t stop—it was a bandwagon I was happy to jump on.
The party’s nucleus was the American Club, which shares a fence with ISD. Like a country club without the golf course, the American Club boasts a swimming pool, tennis and volleyball courts, a lounge, a bar, and a snack shack. People came and went between the four softball fields to regroup with friends, take a dip in the pool, put some pink on their pale skin, and drink cold Flag (the local beer). The latter fueled the weekend
God knows these guys earned it. Peace Corps volunteers sign up for a two-year service, not knowing where in the world they will be placed, for the sake of helping others. They live with villagers, eat their food, and learn their local dialect. They each specialize in sectors like sustainable agriculture, women education/empowerment, and business development, and teach the topics to the locals. You can imagine how they look forward to WAIST, a trip to America without leaving the continent, after being stuck in a village for months on end. It made me feel silly that a few years ago I wanted to go somewhere for spring break to get away from “stressful” college life.
At WAIST, funky haircuts and costumes are not the exception but the rule. I doubt if anyone in West Africa has ever seen such a concentration of Mohawks and Mullets, and I know they haven’t seen sporting events where the players dress as pirates or play in their underwear (unless they attended WAIST any one of the last 36 years of its existence). The debauchery in the American Club extended onto the softball diamond, with outfielders setting down their beers to chase fly balls, and a girl with a boom box pacing the foul line, dancing to hip hop beats and riling up the players and fans. Never had the Peace Corps looked so appealing to me.
While WAIST is a diversion for most teams, some, like the Pirates of Mauritania, take the event seriously. This Peace Corps team spends months dispersed throughout the Sahara, and they see WAIST as an opportunity to reconnect with an American pastime and their love for competition.
“Most of us have athletic pasts. We played sports in high school and some of us in college, and we miss it,” said one Pirate. “Add to it that we’re alone in the desert most of the year and it makes WAIST that much more special. We want to win.”
Blocking their path to the tournament trophy was Senegal Three, a strong team of local Senegalese players who narrowly beat the Pirates in the finals last year, and looked likely to repeat. The Pirates, however, sought revenge.
It was around this drama that Mike focused his documentary. He filmed all of the Pirate and Senegal games, contrasting athletic and competitive Senegal Three with the Pirates, a team that practiced once a year and was relying more on heart and determination than softball skills. Mike lost sleep praying to the softball gods to put Senegal Three and the Pirates in the final.
It seems the gods were listening. In the semi-final match up between Senegal Three and The Gambia’s Peace Corps team, Senegal was trailing by three runs. In the final minutes of the hour long game, with the bases loaded, Senegal Three hit a Grand Slam to win it. The Pirates had already clinched their spot in the final, and the storybook match-up would unfold Monday afternoon on a legitimate baseball diamond that overlooked the rocky Atlantic coastline.
A wild Sunday night turned into Monday morning very quickly for most WAIST attendees, but sleep deprivation and hangovers hindered few from attending the game. Hundreds showed up, 95% of whom rooted for the Pirates, and it was standing room only along the foul line (except for one young volunteer, who was so hung over that she slept in the middle of the herd, but she did show up). Hats were removed when a player from Peace Corps Guinea tooted the national anthem on his trumpet, and the crowd sang along in near unity. The Pirates finished their final beers before the game, and Senegal Three was up to bat.
I’ve witnessed some exciting sporting events—overtime hockey shootouts, buzzer beater basketball wins, even Barry Bond’s 756th homerun—and I am dead serious when I tell you that the excitement that surrounded this game was up there with all of them. Double plays were made, leads were exchanged, and homeruns were hit. The game’s excitement was matched by that of the crowd, with girls dressed as pirates storming the crowd to announce the score after an inning, or dig their hooks in the dirt and yelling“AAARGGHHHH!” Music was blasted and chants were yelled. We jumped and screamed when the Pirates scored and nervously covered our moths when Senegal Three retook the lead. It was like being at a local team’s home game
After a rollercoaster forty-five minutes, it became clear the day belonged to the The Pirates. They beat Senegal Three 11-6. The crowd rushed the field. Beer was shook and sprayed. The MVP was named.
The elation on the faces of the players said it all—they were hometown heroes, and they managed to become so in West Africa. With the softball, the Peace Corps, the expats, and the food, America had reincarnated in Africa. If only for a few days. While it wasn’t what I expected when I arrived, WAIST provided fun, excitement, and a valuable lesson—home is where you make it.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Vego Sego
Life’s good when Vegas awakens your hidden dance moves to the sweet melody of Paul Oakenfold...
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