One fish, two fish, three fish, blue fish

In his slumber he awakes disoriented. He has tossed, tumbled and twisted in bed until he feels as lost as a child in a haunted wood. When he wakes up and wipes the crust away from his eyes he sees a shadowy figure filling the entire space between the mattress and the mosquito netting. The three foot tall phantom resolves into a small dwarfish figure who is smiling confidently as he swings his arm in attack at the slumbering man. Its not a harsh slap, rather one as if to say, “Wake up you dolt, we have much work to attend to.” He closes his eyes to internalize what has happened and when he opens them again the figure is gone.

- Larium induced dreams and memories

I don’t know when my hatred for fish began, but I suspect it was all the way back during my days in Malaysia. At the young age of 5 Kuala Lumpur, the capitol, was a wild palate of unplanned urbanization. I suppose my distaste for fish could have come from the smell in the alley way flea markets. In the crowded and often dirty corridors of the city, I often found myself clinging to my mothers hand as we walked past barrels of fish covered in a mist of swarming flies and pungent odors. But when I really think hard about my distaste for fish I am reminded of one precise moment in time. During that almost fabled time in my youth I would happily snack away on little fried fish that were no bigger than a toothpick. My mother would often cook them along with eggs, fish sauce, and rice to make what I remember being a rather delicious meal. Then one day I took a closer look at the food I was eating and starred straight into the eyes of the fish. It was then, looking reflection of human eye into fish eye that something struck me as thoroughly disturbing. I think it was the first time I realized I was eating an animal. Not that I claim to be a vegetarian but something about this realization destroyed my desire for fish.

Where food is scarce, wasting is especially rude for every ounce that doesn’t go to good use could help a malnourished child not get sick. Therefore, my overall dissatisfaction for fish is a bit hard to explain to Gambians. Sure, people have their likes and dislikes, but to not like fish, which is as basic to life as American’s “bread and butter” is a rarity.

Living in a town that is not far from two ocean fishing communities, I quickly realized that fish is the most economical way to put some protein into the diet. Begrudgingly I have grown to accept this as a way of life in The Gambia, but by no means should you expect me to come craving a fish and rice dinner.

This past weekend I made a trip to the fishing village of Tanji, halfway between my home and the capitol, and once again was reminded of the difficulties of having culinary scrutiny.

It was a rather fine weekend and Daboe had invited me to join one of his friends from work to go enjoy a lazy day in Tanji visiting his friend and picking up some fish. As we crossed out of the congestion of the city and broke onto the open roads Daboe’s friend pulled over and said, “Ok Daboe, driving lessons begin now.” Driving is so integrated into the American way of life, as well as feeling long enough since I started driving, that it was easy to forget that there are places where driving is still rather new and people of all ages are learning to handle a motor vehicle. The roads we were driving over were relatively flat and straight, a great place to learn to drive. However, the road did feature one big proverbial and literal road block: Speed bumps. It is hard to explain and much harder to put into practice the fancy footwork that is required to get a manual transmission to go smoothly over speed bumps. Moreover, it is almost impossible when the learner is trying to learn this skill in a car with an aging transmission and a poor suspension. It was quite the challenge and Daboe did his best. I can’t say that we had the most smooth ride of my life, but remembering how difficult it was for me to learn a manual transmission I have to give my hats off to his effort.

The landscape of the road to Tanji passes some smaller communities far enough away from the main tourist attractions to give a visitor the sense that they are in the “real Gambia,” but still close enough to civilization that most volunteers would not consider it an authentic experience. There are numerous small village museums, wood work shops, as well as mom and pop bar and restaurants. Construction was ongoing in the area and most unfamiliar were the two and three story buildings that were slowly but surely popping up around the landscape, showing a move to slightly more advanced architectural design. It was also amazing to also see how much of the land is unused and made me wonder why the tourism authority hasn’t gone to more trouble to market different sections of the coastal area. It only takes about one hour to get from Banjul to the southern edge of the Gambia, so why not have more than one tourism area?

When we finally arrived in the fishing village the pungent odor of fish immediately enveloped our bodies. Walking through the fishing village as the days’ boats were coming onto shore gave me the feeling that we were entering a world with its own enclosed ecosystem. Something small and specific, a world meant for insiders, and we were merely peeking through the looking glass. People moved about greeting others, avoiding some, bargaining hard with some people, while seeming to give free fish to others. It all played out on a rather picturesque stage of a cool ocean breeze, golden sunset, and buckets and boats in hues of red, orange, blue, and green. One of the boats stood out for proudly displaying a huge American flag painted onto the front of it. Next to the flag “Scream’n Eagle” was painted on, the name of the boat I’m guessing. As much as people talk about wanting to go to America, I don’t often see physical signs displaying a love of America, and the painted boat took me back home to the days of seeing WWII era planes in numerous history museums.

We took a small break to simply sit and enjoy the scene while Daboe’s friend went looking for a few more specific fish that he wanted to buy. When he came back he was carrying two big handfuls of smoked fish which he announced with a huge grin, “I have brought us some fish, now we eat.” Of course being the foreigner, he gave me one more fish than he gave himself or Daboe and told me that I should truly enjoy the food of the Gambia. What do you do when you are Todd and in a situation like this? Swallow your dislike for fish and chow down. Bones and ripped chunks later my stomach and taste buds were feeling rather upset, and half way through the second fish I had to ask Daboe to help me finish it off. I had done the best I could to look like I was enjoying the fish, but in the end I think I ended up with an upset stomach and appearing rather rudely to turn down the gift of smoked fish.

When I come home I think I will devour a nice big hamburger and french fries.