At Brikamaba the apprentice, hanging by one arm on the back of the gele-gele, assured me that the vehicle was traveling to Janjangbureh 'MacCarty' so, as I was going there, I clambered aboard the rusty wreck and squeezed in beside a lady with an infant in one hand and a chicken in the other. It always surprised me how tiny little babies or chickens seemed perfectly happy on someone's lap or in a bag on the floor without so much as a whimper or cluck.
Off we went. Our driver, and god willing our deliverer, also seemed perfectly happy to conduct a lengthy conversation on his mobile whilst peering through the only nine square inches of windscreen that afforded a view of the road ahead. It was all there, all the usual attachments. The circular sticker of Baye Niass, a sunstrip visor bearing the message Alhamdoullilah!, a Barcelona flag and a Gambian flag, a photo of his mum, a plastic chestnut coloured horse glued to the front dashboard, a set of flashing fairy lights, a thick hairy synthetic heat absorber, and a small selection of cuddly toy animals. The smashed windscreen obscured almost entirely by the collection of personal serendipity yielding just nine square inches of road viewing opportunity. Yet it seemed to cause him no distraction whatever, and neither did the sign to turn left to Janjangbureh. He drove straight past.
"DRIVER! STOP! STOP!"
He pulled in and told me that 'this gelegele going to Bansang'. Oh God. I'd have willingly strangled the apprentice had he not been up on the roof restraining a goat. Thus, I evacuated the beaten-up old wreck and found myself yet again at the Janjangbureh Police Checkpoint. This time, to my delight, I was neither interrogated nor arrested. In fact, the policeman was remarkably sympathetic as he told me that I'd be very lucky to get another vehicle as Break Fast time was approaching and no one would be driving there. Two other locals were also waiting on the corner looking rather hungry and downcast.
Glory Be! An empty Nawec pickup truck approached and drove straight by. Faced with the likely prospect of a four mile hike we all looked pretty glum. But wait! In the distance we spotted a forty ton articulated crane hoist truck approaching. Would it go left or would it rumble by? God bless the policeman who flagged it down. It was going our way. Scaling the metal ladder onto the back of the lorry we clawed hold of the metal caging that backed onto the driver's cabin like three frightened parrots. I venture to say that not many travelling Toubabs have entered the litter strewn environs of Janjangbureh and attracted more attention. As though on some kind of truckers carnival float exhibit, the locals seemed bemused and amused. But we got there.
After 10 days contemplating the viability of building a small museum dedicated to the island's slaving history, the subject of a future article, the temperature soared higher than the pair of Bateleurs above the river banks, to 43 degrees, and it was time to move on. Move on to a cooler coastal accommodation, relax, put the feet up, live the life of luxury, leave those dusty crumbling relics of the colonial past and treat myself to some peace and paradise, an oasis by the ocean for a few days.
That perceived oasis comes bearing a variety of names. Coco, Atlantic, Palm, Cape, Tropic, Kairaba, Kombo, Oasis, in short Paradise. But such names promise high expectations and come at a high price to a beaten up old 'walk-in' Toubab with a couple of dusty canvas bags. Thus, with guile and stealth, I decided to engage the services of my tailor, who was bound to know someone who knew someone who could get a far better deal than I. Surely enough a deal was struck at thirty percent less of something, and I duly checked into a smallish beachside accommodation around the Kololi area that must remain nameless for three nights of well-deserved bliss and a cold beer.
But there was something odd about the apartment they showed me. Something not quite right. It was on a slant. Anyone who has seen a drawing by the artist CD Escher will probably know what I mean. It was disorientating. Walking upward to the top of the kitchen I placed a Coke can on the cracked tiled floor and surely enough gravity confirmed the observation as the can gathered momentum before thumping into the wall opposite. Hmmm might be a game to be had there.
Well ok, it's amusing, a bit peculiar, but it's cheap and who cares anyway. Welcoming staff, friendly acknowledgements exchanged, keys received. Time to make myself a cup of coffee.
The kettle was on the floor so I moved it onto the worktop, plugged it in and switched it on, looked for a mug or cup and decided to give it a rinse. The tap spluttered into action.
Ouch! Ping! Ouch! OUCH!
What was this? Static electricity? Shock pings. Painful ones. Hmmm Plan B, better use the tap in the bathroom. Turned it on.
Ouch! Ouch! Bloody OUCH!
All this exposure to water was making me want to urinate, but something was telling me that this might lead to a shockingly painful and untimely death. Oh no, definitely not, not that way anyway.
It was a short walk down to reception, where the man on duty dozed peacefully on the counter. Gently wakening him from his daydream I explained quietly that there was a small problem in the Escher Suite and would someone kindly get up there as soon as possible so that I could have a pee and make a cup of coffee. Eventually Mr Fixit turned up and I explained that I had been continually electrocuted.
"Why is kettle here?"
"What?"
"Why is kettle not on floor?"
"Because I moved it"
"Don't move kettle"
Ah so this was all my fault then. Placing a kettle on a worktop and switching it on can result in death then. My fault.
"I very nearly urinated in the toilet, can you imagine that? It might have killed me. Urination electrocution, not very nice!"
But there was a blank expression in his face and it just seemed to get lost in translation. The kettle was removed as he had apparently spotted a leak somewhere, then for reasons I do not know to this day, another man turned up and fitted a completely new sink unit. They seemed to find it all highly amusing so I left them to it.
Later on it was finally time for the well-deserved beer so I wandered past the very same staff, still eyeing me with amusement, ordered my beer. And found a nice little table on the terrace by the sea.
The waitress was memorably beautiful. Exotically dressed in African dress, she floated across the floor like Queen Cleopatra arriving on the Royal Barge, tray aloft, cold Goldfinch beer glistening, frosted glass and a cheeky smile that revealed gleaming white teeth framed by two cute dimples and two huge gold earrings on each ear. Leaning over voluptuously she poured half the beer into the glass and looked me straight in the eye.
"So how is your penis now?"
Well... You always wish you had the words when you most needed them.
The three night paradise stay did not run it's full course at the seaside accommodation. I made all the fateful errors and should have known better. Don't ever draw the curtains or the curtain rail will fall on your head, don't ever assume that any of the three remote controls will have batteries, or even if they do that you'd ever find the channel you want, don't ever force the mosquito net over that last corner of the bed or it will attack you like a shower curtain, and don't ever move a kettle unless you are an experienced professional electrician.
(Toubabo's Log: These are the voyages of the Starship Toubabo and not the everyday experiences of many hotel guests who have enjoyed fulfilling and happy holidays here on 'The Smiling Coast'. Long may those smiles continue)
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