Back in Fara Fenni Again
So loads has happened, as it always does when times passes, but now I am “home” again here in Fara Fenni town. Back with the super slow internet, the toubabing*, and the home people. I actually got a hug when I came into the compound. Fun stuff.
So the most comment worthy portion of the journey from Fajara (the area of Kombo in which I was staying) back here was the leg from Brikama to Soma. My journey was in a number of legs: Fajara to Westfield to Brikama (all of which took much longer than they should, due to the fact that we were a group of four toubabs with luggage trying to get Gambian prices and do Gambian things instead of being ripped off), then on to Soma and Pakalinding, where I spent a couple days hanging with Woman, and then north to the river crossing and home. The car park in Brikama is the gateway to the “Trans-Gambia Highway”, which has taken over the title from the road on the North Bank as “Worst Road in the Nation” – truly a distinction in this world capital of bad roads. The car park is also a sprawling, messy place that apparently is a big improvement on what was there a few years ago, when they built a new facility. In any case, getting a car to Soma involves waiting, fending off lots of begging and offers of various sketchy natures, and eventually getting taken for all that the skilled operators can take from you to get on a vehicle that may or may not get to your destination that day. We – I was now only traveling with Robert, our other two companions having sought other transport in another section of the car park – hadn’t exactly done it all right that day, as the trip is generally considered to be difficult enough to merit getting up before dawn and finding the first batch of vehicles to leave town, so as to avoid a lot of the headaches we had. But, we did it anyway, and after paying two or three times too much for our luggage, as well as a 25 dalasi premium for the ride so late in the day, we joined a vehicle that I lovingly referred to as a “shit box”. I was in the far back corner, the ceiling low enough that I couldn’t sit up, the row of seats in front of me close enough to touch with my finger tips when my elbow was against my own seat back, and luggage wedging my feet into place so that any adjustment was nearly impossible. The one saving grace was that my left leg was in the “aisle”, so that it wasn’t bent at a yoga-like angle underneath the seat in front. The other passengers took turns leaning, or spilling food, or sneezing, on it. True bliss was only discovered after we passed the good stretch of the road – about 40 of the 150 kilometer journey – and we started bouncing and jolting and careening through the minefields of potholes and stretches where the “road” had apparently been removed by an act of god, to be replaced by areas where bad shocks are tortured to death by Satan. Robert and I took turns laughing, moaning, and crying “ow” to pass the time.
It was a good reminder of why people get up early in the morning to catch the good vehicles. We were lucky and didn’t have a single break down – a feat unachieved by volunteers who have traveled the road many times – and made it to Soma by seven PM. Six hours to travel 150 kilometers, and that counted as a fast, easy trip. I think I have officially started a series of rants about transport in this country. I hope you enjoy them, as I apparently am compelled to write about it.
*”toubab” is the name West Africans use to refer to whiteys. I’m not sure if I’ve covered this before, so footnoting.
So the most comment worthy portion of the journey from Fajara (the area of Kombo in which I was staying) back here was the leg from Brikama to Soma. My journey was in a number of legs: Fajara to Westfield to Brikama (all of which took much longer than they should, due to the fact that we were a group of four toubabs with luggage trying to get Gambian prices and do Gambian things instead of being ripped off), then on to Soma and Pakalinding, where I spent a couple days hanging with Woman, and then north to the river crossing and home. The car park in Brikama is the gateway to the “Trans-Gambia Highway”, which has taken over the title from the road on the North Bank as “Worst Road in the Nation” – truly a distinction in this world capital of bad roads. The car park is also a sprawling, messy place that apparently is a big improvement on what was there a few years ago, when they built a new facility. In any case, getting a car to Soma involves waiting, fending off lots of begging and offers of various sketchy natures, and eventually getting taken for all that the skilled operators can take from you to get on a vehicle that may or may not get to your destination that day. We – I was now only traveling with Robert, our other two companions having sought other transport in another section of the car park – hadn’t exactly done it all right that day, as the trip is generally considered to be difficult enough to merit getting up before dawn and finding the first batch of vehicles to leave town, so as to avoid a lot of the headaches we had. But, we did it anyway, and after paying two or three times too much for our luggage, as well as a 25 dalasi premium for the ride so late in the day, we joined a vehicle that I lovingly referred to as a “shit box”. I was in the far back corner, the ceiling low enough that I couldn’t sit up, the row of seats in front of me close enough to touch with my finger tips when my elbow was against my own seat back, and luggage wedging my feet into place so that any adjustment was nearly impossible. The one saving grace was that my left leg was in the “aisle”, so that it wasn’t bent at a yoga-like angle underneath the seat in front. The other passengers took turns leaning, or spilling food, or sneezing, on it. True bliss was only discovered after we passed the good stretch of the road – about 40 of the 150 kilometer journey – and we started bouncing and jolting and careening through the minefields of potholes and stretches where the “road” had apparently been removed by an act of god, to be replaced by areas where bad shocks are tortured to death by Satan. Robert and I took turns laughing, moaning, and crying “ow” to pass the time.
It was a good reminder of why people get up early in the morning to catch the good vehicles. We were lucky and didn’t have a single break down – a feat unachieved by volunteers who have traveled the road many times – and made it to Soma by seven PM. Six hours to travel 150 kilometers, and that counted as a fast, easy trip. I think I have officially started a series of rants about transport in this country. I hope you enjoy them, as I apparently am compelled to write about it.
*”toubab” is the name West Africans use to refer to whiteys. I’m not sure if I’ve covered this before, so footnoting.
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