Guest Post: Matt Knaack

So I told you all about Matt and Casey arriving in Senegal, before I continue on what Casey and I did I thought that I’d let your read Matt’s take on events that he published on his blog. Check out his blog here, he wants to start a hostel in Grand Rapids and you can get plenty of info on the site.

An Entire Country in Two Weeks or Africa! A Budding Romance

I’m looking over my travel journal right now and laughing.

Laughing at the amount of time spent in a vehicle, laughing at the absurd number of nights that were spent tossing and turning, laughing at the length of time these bites from a mosquito/bed bug have lasted on my forearms, laughing at the fact that I lost my winter jacket in a place so much closer to the equator than Michigan.

There are far too many beauties to traveling—laughter is just one of them. Those beauties turn the action of travel into something that is habit-forming, something addicting, something you save months or years to do, something you dream about and never want to let go.

During my trip to Senegal, two of these factors showed up in full force: (1) meeting new people and (2) being dumbstruck by the stark cultural differences.

The majority of people that contributed to the occurrence of (1) were Peace Corps volunteers. Our close friend Tommy Zoppa has been enlisted with the Peace Corps for nearly 11 months now. He is stationed in a village called Koukoudji (spellings for the name definitely vary—I even saw it listed on a map as something completely different). Koukoudji is located in Kedougou, a region that is located in the southeast. For reference’s sake, I’ll provide a link to a map: Regions of Senegal.

Before we jump into the story though, let me give you a surprising (3): The safety and hospitality I felt in Senegal are largely unmatched in all of my travels. This was my first time in a developing country (not to mention my first time on a trip to a place where I didn’t speak the language) and I was certain that I would feel some sense of insecurity during the two-week period. That was not the case, not in the slightest: I felt safer in Senegal than I often feel in the U.S. Not to mention the fact that Senegal was exponentially more vibrant and lively, more textured and colorful… I could go on for days about the differences between here and there, but instead I’ll just rattle off a few pages and paragraphs.

Detroit Departure, Preparations for Paris

Casey Key (an aspiring medical student and yet another, very close friend) and I left from Metro Airport in Detroit on January 15. Our flight had two legs: one landing in Paris and the other landing in Dakar, the capital of Senegal. An eight-hour layover in Paris gave us enough time to visit the City (barely). As the sun rose, we rushed from Charles de Gaulle (one of the weirdest airports I’ve ever been to) into Paris, arriving outside of Notre Dame. I’ve had an affinity for Gothic architecture since I was a teenager and Notre Dame is one of the pinnacles of the style. Needless to say, it was beautiful and it made me feel beatified.

From there we power-walked to the Eiffel Tower and managed to find ourselves at the mercy of a gypsy. Walking toward us, she picked up a ring from the ground—a golden ring—and asked us in clear English, “Is it real gold?” Casey and I, being who we are, began talking with the woman, evaluating the possibility that the ring could be real gold. She offered it to us but we said that it was hers; finders keepers. Instead, she said that we should have it for good luck in our travels. Upon our acceptance, the woman walked away. The feel-good smiles on our faces were dampened when the woman came rushing back up, asking us for money. Neither of us speaking a lick of French, we understood her when she said “Coca Cola”: Casey’s life-blood. After handing her about four euros, we managed to convince her that we could give her no more than that and went on our way. Secretly, I worried that she would curse us.

The Eiffel Tower was much larger than I had ever imagined. The base of one of its legs was larger than any house I had lived in and the criss-crossing of metal lattice was something incomprehensible. We didn’t have time to go up but we did have time to stop at a café a handful of blocks away. There we discovered that a Coke costs five-and-a-half euros, more money than we had given the woman with the ring. My worries of being cursed bubbled to the surface of my mind once more.

After having the best French fries of our lives—no joke—we booked it back to the RER station near Notre Dame. On the way, we snapped some photos of the pyramid outside of the Louvre and got a bit lost, but we managed to get back to the airport and on our flight in time.

Arriving in Dakar

Unkempt, exhausted, and smelling like sweat, Casey and I found ourselves in Africa, stepping off a plane and onto a bus. The next thing we knew, we were outside looking at a conglomeration of people waiting for arrivals. Casey and I hadn’t seen Tommy in months (except via Skype) and we were worried that we might not be able to recognize him in the crowd. As soon as those worries started, his face appeared, grinning like an over-excited 9-year-old on Christmas Day. That first hug was something magical. Casey and I were too tired to cry at the time, but Tommy wasn’t. I’m starting to tear up about it now. I miss him more now than when he left for the Peace Corps.

Our exposure to the heat of the night was not nearly as crippling as we expected. By the end of our trip, we would find this temperature to be cold. We would wear sweatshirts and pants at night, switch our sandals out for socks and shoes.

But for now, we were hot. I had been using my winter jacket as a pillow (Thanks, Merrell!) and just having it in my possession made me feel like a dunderhead. My mom had told me to bring it for the cold in Detroit and Paris and the jacket turned out more convenient in Africa—and more lost—than I expected.

Fast-forward to the following morning: We’ve slept under our first mosquito nets of the trip and are enjoying our second taste of the French’s colonial influence on Senegal—crepes and croissants for breakfast. The first taste was some fine mustard at dinner the night before. So, the three of us head to the Peace Corps office in Dakar with all of our belongings and meet four new people right off the bat: Frank, Cameron, Gretchen, and Emma. We’ll be sharing a sept-place (“seven places” in French) with these fine people to Tambacounda and then to Kedougou—a car ride that ended up lasting approximately 15 hours.

Kedougou, Here We Come

Emma and her friend Gretchen depart in Tamba while the rest of our car travels the whole way to Kedougou. Upon our arrival, we pass out—hard. In the morning, we had our first bean sandwiches. Tapalapa bread is the best bread. Both bean sandwiches and tapalapa would quickly become a source of comfort and stability—this occurred some time after I had my three-day bout of diarrhea.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my trip in Africa was extremely fast-paced. That day, we went to the market in Kedougou (it’s a city too!) and attempted to ride bikes, failing miserably. There’s just something so different about riding on sand and dirt, something that makes the task much harder. Instead of biking to Tommy’s village the next day, we got a car to Dindefello where another new friend Jamie eventually met up with us (yet another Peace Corps volunteer). We ate with a man named Baji that night—my first exposure to mafé hako, mafé tiga, mafé something. It was also the first time I’d eaten meat in nearly a year. There was a monkey tied to a post on a hut; he climbed on top of a goat; his name was Bubu.

After dinner and some ataya (here’s a video of someone pouring it in the Gambia), we were invited to watch a match of the African Cup. We could hear a television in the area—I assumed it was in a room somewhere, how American of me. Instead, it was outside and we watched the remainder of the match with about four dozen people.

The next morning—or maybe it was the same day?—we visited Dindefello Falls, one of the only waterfalls that travelers recognize in Senegal. The geology there was incredible (Like Gothic architecture, I have a severe affinity for geology). The previous day, we had seen the falls at Afía. We sat near the edge of the falls, we saw a giant millipede, we swam, we hiked back. After another night in Dindefello, we hiked to Tommy’s village where we would be spending the next three days.

Koukoudji Makes Me Go KouKou for Cocoa Puffs

After a few hours of hiking, Tommy’s village was a welcome sight. We met Tommy’s host family that night and ate with them—we brought Oreos and Skittles as gifts, both hilariously American.

After having a terrible night of sleep in Tommy’s hut, I realized something and said so aloud: “Tommy, you’re really poor.” We laughed about it but seriously, his life is extremely ascetic, it’s austere to the max. That night, Casey and I received names at dinner. Casey: Billali Kante, mine: Oosman Kante. Tommy had already received a name, probably when he first arrived: Saibo Kante. Each of us were named after a set of three brothers in Tommy’s host family.

Some time during our stay in village, we visited Anglí, a waterfall where the genies live. Few people from Tommy’s village or any others in the area will go there because they believe that genies live under the water. Supposedly, these genies don’t bother “white people,” as we were told.

The hike out was gorgeous, we saw baboons at some point (or maybe that was on our way to Afía?). Fields of wistful, dried grass. Baobab trees galore. Huts and cattle. Rocks. A river. A waterfall. I went skinny-dipping there. I found a jawbone and a potential pottery sherd (the anthropologist in me seems to think so). We ate oranges and popcorn. We returned to village.

Some Peace Corps volunteers visiting the falls a few weeks earlier said they found a dead crocodile/alligator there. We saw no such thing. Tommy said that it chimpanzees could be in the area. Again, we saw no such thing.

Onto Tambacounda, Back to Dakar

We left village the next day and began our return trip to Kedougou where we spent the night at the Peace Corps regional house. There I learned the joys of gin Fantas. Beer in Senegal was mediocre at best. In case you were wondering about the brands: Gazelle, Flag, 33 Export, Bear Beer—these are in a qualitative order from best to worst.

In Tamba, we stayed at yet another Peace Corps regional house. This one had the majority of its beds on the roof—something I’ll never forget. The people there were stellar—Erin, Jaynel—but the timing was all off on our parts. It was Gamou, an Islamic holiday. Sleeping on a roof has never been harder, let me tell you. Every mosque in the city was on their loudspeakers, rapid-firing prayers into the city as people prayed in the streets. Imagine a half-dozen PA systems broadcasting similar messages in a language that you cannot understand—the cacophony was something else. Somewhere in there, I must have found something soothing because I managed to fall fast asleep. In the morning, we laughed about the whole thing.

Back in Dakar, we ate some of the best seafood of my life at an oceanfront restaurant called Chez Fatou. That was our first night back there—hearing the waves lap up on the shore made me ecstatic, existential, homesick for Lake Michigan. Lots of culinary adventures were had over the coming days and a visit to Magicland (seriously, it was called that) was incredible. Magicland is a semi-abandoned amusement park with a hotel. We found ourselves in an abandoned circus tent, complete with stage and seating—Tommy recited some Shakespeare. At some point, we had met Cristina and Lucy, yet another pair of enjoyable souls. Lucy was in village at this point, Cristina with us. She alone made the janky pirate boat ride well worth the arbitrary number of tickets we paid to get on.

Some nights later, we had a barbecue on the roof of an apartment. The power went out while we were preparing and drinking and listening to music and enjoying each other’s company by candlelight. The stars shone through until the power kicked back on—to be honest, I was a bit disappointed. Though the stairs were remarkably treacherous, I felt happy to be where I was without electricity, just me and some newfound friends.

Returning Home

I couldn’t have asked for a much better night to be my last. The following day, we ran around town hunting for some more souvenirs and feasting on the last of our culinary adventures. We stayed at an oceanfront hotel that night for a respectably low price where I saw half of a dead porpoise/dolphin on the beach, which was littered with garbage. The sun felt wonderful that day and my flight home was swell, though it was without Casey, who would be staying for another two weeks. Between Paris and Detroit, I had an entire middle row of the plane to myself. Two glasses of wine later and I was stretched out, asleep for three hours.

Despite living to travel, I was happy to be home. An incredible amount of things had changed in the two weeks I had been there, within me and within my social circle. It was kind of alarming at first, but that’s the risk you take when you leave what you have to experience something new—things change and you can do nothing to stop them from doing so.

I’ll End On This Note, No, Wait, This One

I’ll leave this brief version of my trip with this: “In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion.” A Japanese proverb quoted by Haruki Murakami in Kafka on the Shore, a novel I’m currently reading. The quote fits well here. On its own, it’s a strong string of words. Mixed in with reminiscent ramblings about a recent trip, it becomes an unforgettable glue.

On second thought, I’ll end with this: I spent two weeks wiping my butt with water and my hand. I will argue that this is cleaner than toilet paper for any length of time you so desire. Squatting is also more efficient and potentially healthier for your digestive tract. Take that, Western norms!