During this Senegal trip, every one of us performed a different function. This was not by design; it happened organically. Each person’s temperament and competence were factors in defining her role.
Naughty Grandma encouraged us to do things that made us feel young again. And she was the most tech-savvy amongst us; but that’s not saying much considering we’re all Boomers.
Loquacious Hijabi made sure there were no unnecessary silences. This woman missed her vocation; she should have been a storyteller, a writer, a poet. I told her it was never too late. Jamais trop tard.
Naija Defender kept reminding us to not ‘wash our dirty linen in public’. But it was difficult to refrain from comparing orderly Senegal with chaotic Nigeria. She tried her best, though. And I’d have recommended her for a national honour, but she already has one.
Granny Gourmet took us from one restaurant to another. We even sampled the local cuisine. BTW, Jollof rice may have originated from the Wolof tribe of Senegal, but without a doubt, they’ve lost the war.
And then there was the Fastidious Arranger. This woman started her wahala right from Nigeria, months before the trip.
Fastidious Arranger: Let’s buy our plane tickets now. You know December is a busy period.
Me: Ok.
Fastidious Arranger: I’ll email the travel agent right away.
Me: OK. You do that.
Fastidious Arranger (showing me images on her phone): I’ve concluded with the resort hotel, but we need to decide on the Airbnb.
Me (glancing uninterestedly): Any one you choose will be fine with me.
Fastidious Arranger: We should also arrange for transportation from the airport to the hotel.
Me (slightly irritated): Why? There’ll be taxis parked outside the terminal, like in every airport in the world.
Fastidious Arranger: I’ll feel better if we make a firm arrangement. So, I’ll email the hotel and get them to send us a car.
Me: OK.
Fastidious Arranger: We’ll be arriving at 1.00 am and check-in at the hotel is at 3.00 pm. We should arrange for where to spend the hours in between.
Me: We could ask for an early check-in. And if that’s not possible, we’ll wait in the lounge.
Fastidious Arranger: I don’t want to leave anything to chance. I’ll ask if we can pay for half a day.
Me (with a sigh of resignation): OK.
Fastidious Arranger: We should also find out if they accept US dollars or only CFA.
Me: Go ahead and find out.
Fastidious Arranger: Whatever the case, we should buy some CFA to hold for tipping etc. I wonder what the exchange rate is.
Me (shrugging): I have absolutely no idea.
Her insistence on crossing every t and dotting every i was exasperating. In my life, I never plan far ahead. I play it by ear, improvising along the way. And things have always worked out for me.
In Senegal, this meticulous woman estimated the amount of money we’d need for common expenses and divided the amount equally amongst us. As expected, she kept the books diligently, giving us updates regularly and accounting for all moneys spent.
And what was my own role? Well, I like to make people laugh, and I occasionally succeeded in doing that. However, my main job was in the kitchen (not za oza room). Since I’ve given everyone else a nickname, it’s only fair that I give myself one too. So, I’ll call myself the Cooking Comedian.
By the third day of our stay at the Airbnb, our ‘restaurant-trotting’ and the eating of authentic French baguettes (procured daily by Granny Gourmet) had started showing their effects around our waists. We had to do something about that. Since it was ill-advised for women ‘of a certain age’ to engage in strenuous exercise, we decided to be taking early morning walks on the beach.
The Airbnb was located just a short distance from the seashore; this proximity being the lodging’s only redeeming feature. Despite Fastidious Arranger’s careful planning, we still ended up with a disappointing Airbnb.
As we approached the beach that first morning, the sea was turquois-blue and calm, with only gentle ripples caused by the light breeze. Several brightly painted fishing boats were anchored on the shore; some early fishermen were already out at sea. On the opposite side, far away from the water, stood several tents furnished with deckchairs, and a few makeshift shops, stocked with the overpriced merchandise that tourists tend to buy.
Although there were a few plastic bottles strewn here and there, the beach was generally clean. The people here obviously made use of the waste bins that had been placed at intervals.
The sun was just rising, but already there were people walking and jogging along the shore. As we crossed paths with them, almost everyone said, ‘Bonjour’ to us and we greeted them ‘Bonjour’ in return. A few of the oyibo women were middle-aged, some even quite elderly, but they wore their skimpy bikinis without any embarrassment. The men too seemed oblivious of their potbellies and sagging bottoms.
Three young men, aspiring professional athletes perhaps, lay in line behind a trainer, doing rigorous pushups. In fact, everyone around was doing some form of exercise or another. The beach in Saly was free of the prayer warriors and weirdly dressed ritualists that are often seen on Nigerian beaches.
One surprising thing was the number of dogs freely running around, different breeds. They had owners but none of them was on a leash. We steered clear of them.
Strands of coffee-coloured seaweeds had washed up on the shore, breaking the visual monotony of the sand. Walking barefoot was nice, but difficult; our feet kept sinking into the loose sand. So, we moved closer to the sea where the sand was wet and hence firmer. We walked for some time enjoying the feel of the water washing over our feet as the ocean flowed in and receded.
In some places along the beach, we saw groups of black roundish rocks piled one on top of another. The same sort of rock arrangement could also be seen a few metres into the sea. Was this a natural part of the topography? Had the rocks been transported from somewhere else to beautify the beach? We couldn’t tell for sure.
Naughty Grandma (pointing): Let’s climb those rocks over there.
Me (AKA Cooking Comedian): Good idea. Let’s go.
Fastidious Arranger (gabbing my hand): No. That’s not a good idea. There could be snakes hiding in there.
Me (shaking myself free): I don’t think so.
Naughty Grandma: Who else is coming?
Naija Defender: Count me out. I’m not climbing any rocks.
Granny Gourmet: Neither am I.
Naughty Grandma (addressing Loquacious Hijabi): What about you? Are you coming with us?
Loquacious Hijabi: Do I look like someone who would climb a rock?
So, Naughty Grandma and I, with my creaking knees, crawled up the group of rocks cautiously. As we climbed, we looked out for any unfriendly reptiles that might be lurking about. There were none. Standing atop the highest rock, we were able to see the big ships far out in the ocean.
By the time we were ready to head back to the Airbnb, the sun was shining brightly. Thankfully, Fastidious Arrangerhad brought along some sunscreen. We walked back at a slow and leisurely pace, stopping from time to time to pick up seashells that we’d take to our grandchildren back at home.
To be continued…
