Trip Diary 2009

Part One: Preparation
by Jeff Chen

In January 2009, I decided to make time in my life to travel and broaden my view of the world.  I started volunteering with GambiaHELP several years ago, helping with loading the cargo container and sorting donated goods.  Shelby, the Executive Director, had invited me to assist her in-country, where she works six weeks out of the year, so I took her up on her offer this year.  She was fantastic about preparing me for the trip, giving me an overview of the country and customs, and introducing me to several Gambians before departure.  These meetings taught me a basic set of understandings about Gambian life; at least how to avoid offending people.  I had heard of some customs such as not eating with your right hand (the left is reserved for bathroom duties) but I enjoyed learning finer points, like the importance of Gambian greetings.  Shelby’s friend Lamin told me to engage in a traditional Mandinka greeting process with everyone I met, in order to build relationships.  My West-coast accented “Cor-ten-an-tay” (how are you) gave him a polite chuckle as he slapped my back for at least trying.

Shelby and I weren’t able to coordinate our flights, so I got into Dakar airport alone, several hours before sunrise.  Walking into the small hangar, I was immediately deluged with overly “helpful” people who wanted to know my name and make my stay in Dakar pleasant.  Turning to my cell phone for some connection to home, I tried to send a text to my girlfriend but was saddened to see that I didn’t have service in Africa.  Luckily, after a few minutes of the disorienting mob trying to carry away my bags, Shelby’s friend Badji cut through the pack and told them all to get lost in his African-tinted French.  We walked past three taxi drivers which he animatedly accused of highway robbery, and got into a fourth.  The splintered windshield and ripped interior didn’t give me much confidence, but Badji knew what he was doing, screaming obscenities at the cab driver when appropriate, i.e. just before we almost rammed into another car.  It was still pitch dark when we arrived shortly in the sand-piled roads of his neighborhood.

Badji and his brother Hussein graciously hosted me for the next few days.  Hussein showed me around Dakar while Badji worked at a temporary job painting a church, after being out of work for five months.  Hussein pointed out that Senegal is a fascinating blend of economic standings, and showed me some of the extremes.  The area where Badji and Hussein live, ironically named Millionaire City, is very poor, with no paved roads, wall-to-wall unemployed people passing time, and trash littering the area.  Joblessness is a severe problem, one working person typically supporting eight non-working extended family members.  This weighs heavily on morale, but their family unit strength makes it possible for them to survive.  Badji described it best with a single word of pride: “Solidarity”.  During meals with Badji’s family, roughly ten of us ate from a communal bowl of rice and some sort of sauce, with a piece of fish or meat if lucky.  At my first meal, I noticed that everyone stopped eating quickly, putting down their spoons.  Not wanting to stick out, I copied them, but they insisted that I pick up my spoon and continue.  “Eat, eat!” was a common thread throughout my trip.  Even though they had little had known me for only a day, they wanted to make sure that their guest felt like a welcome part of the family.  Solidarity. 

Out of my own stupidity, I missed my flight to The Gambia.  Air Senegal sounded like a major carrier, but Badji and I came to the odd conclusion that no flights were available for the next seven days.  After some discussion, Badji put me on a bus to The Gambia.  He was worried about my halting basic French and bureaucratic problems I might encounter at the border, not to mention my lack of a working cell phone, but we didn’t have much of a choice.  He put me on a crowded bus at 5 am, waving to me with a look of slight concern as it left.  It was amazing to see Senegal and The Gambia by ground over seven hours; vast tracts of unending desert, mottled with occasional barren trees and tin-roofed camps.  I learned from some helpful fellow bus riders that West Africa is very sparsely populated relative to the rest of the world, with much of the land unused or even unclaimed.

At the border, I was asked to get off the bus, walk through the hordes of kids and vendors, and submit to processing.  The first of three stern agents asked me what I did.  In my tired state I almost said “drug development” (I used to work in the pharmaceutical industry), but caught myself at the last minute to say “volunteer work”.  I left the building fifteen minutes later after agent number three sternly stamped my visa, and let me go outside.  For one heart-stopping minute, I couldn’t see my bus in the bustling marketplace, but thankfully, I recognized a fellow passenger who pointed the Gambian side of the border where our ride was now parked.  At the final bus stop, little kids were incessantly tapping at the bus window, asking for money or even my empty plastic water bottle.  As I was contemplating what to do, I heard “ARE YOU JEFF CHEN?” yelled at me from outside.  It was a friend of a friend of a friend of Badji’s, who had waited for me to insure that I found my way across.  He wasn’t able to join me for the ferry ride, but he took me to a boat officer (who he didn’t know) and asked him to make sure I met one of Shelby’s friends on the other side.  The official stayed with me to fend off the horde of taxi drivers trying to whisk away my bags until Shelby’s friend Kemo arrived.

It was a huge relief to see Shelby and touch down in semi-urban San Cheba, Shelby’s office location, where I stayed for several days.  Shelby has been adopted into a family, the Jallows, and has a small office / sleeping area inside their compound.  After catching up with her and learning more about our work plan, I spent several hours recovering from my long trip.  One of the Jallows, Rohi, gave up her room for me so I could have some privacy, yet another example of West Africans treating me like family.

Over the next week, we met with many people, including the director of the Peace Corps in The Gambia, a press agent wanting to cover GambiaHELP’s work, and a litany of bureaucrats in attempts to get our container of goods off of the port.  In years past, Shelby’s friend Suma had expedited the process, but his untimely passing last year forced us to find new methods of navigating office after office of yellow tape.  Between all the meetings, I had a chance to see some sights, including one of my highlights, the Serrekunda market.  I spent an afternoon walking around and observing a variety of interesting goods being sold, including a pest-covered meat section which made me consider vegetarianism.  Shelby’s friend Isatou warned me to keep a close eye on my wallet, as petty theft from foreigners was common.  Walking by myself as the lone “toubab”, people often stared, but usually only stopped me to see if I needed help.  I asked one Gambian if toubab meant “white” or “foreigner”, and he looked at me with a blank stare.  I don’t think many Asians go to The Gambia. 

Kemo, Isatou, and another Gambian, Pa, showed me around other parts of the country, and we all enjoyed laughing at the state of Gambian cars.  Kemo had borrowed his friend’s car, which had a makeshift crank we could temporarily attach to any of the doors in order to roll open the windows.  Kemo referred to this as “im-prov-is-A-tion”, a word he would often use with a toothy smile and a deep guffaw.  One day, Pa’s car wouldn’t start – perhaps the alternator had been knocked loose by the gaping potholes in the red dirt “roads”, sometimes several feet deep – so we push-started it everywhere we went.  He merrily called it “The authentic Gambian experience.”  One day Kemo came in a different vehicle, and shyly explained that a wheel had fallen off his previous car the day before, fortunately while driving at a slow speed.  I found Kemo and Pa to be very welcoming, answering my constant barrage of questions about everything from food to economics to climate to health care. 

One day Pa and I were talking about the problems The Gambia faces, and we got on the topic of malaria.  I asked him how he prevented it, and he replied, “I just try do my best.  When I was young I got it every year.  Now I sleep under a bed net which helps, but I still get it almost every year.”  My questions about malaria prophylaxis drugs drew little more than quizzical smiles.  Most people cannot afford these drugs, and even if they could, the prospect of taking a lifetime of medication is unpalatable, so they just accept that they will get it.  It really hit home when Rohi contracted malaria during my stay, and was extremely sick for several days.