Ch. 6 Where a price of 90 is agreed upon

The bicycle that was scheduled to arrive in early September finally came in late November. To celebrate the occasion Daboe and I agreed that it would be nice to go on a short ride into the Gambian countryside.

On a lazy Saturday evening we decided to make the journey. It was a day of no particular schedules and we acted the part. Most of the early half of the day was spent sitting around reading or chatting. Daboe wore a red-stripped polo and a white World AIDS Day ball cap and I was sporting a t-shirt and cargo pants.

As early evening approached I found myself lying comfortably on my couch half asleep.

"Ok, lets go," Daboe called into my house.

A slight pause and the statement registered as him saying it was time to ride. I rushed to put on my shoes, lock up the house, and gather my biking gear. Dashing out of my front door bicycle in hand I was just in time to see a slight blur of color out of my right eye. There was the red-stripped polo, the white cap, and feet pedalling away. Daboe rode right past our housing complex, around the corner, and out of sight.

I was unsure of what to do next. I stood outside my front door a bit out of breath, bicycle and helmet in hand, and obviously looking out of place. Had I heard Daboe wrong, was he referring to something else? How goofy must I look right now to the rest of my family who were sitting outside enjoying their day drinking tea. I thought it'd be best to start working on my bike and look busy, tweaking small levers on the brakes and gears.

Four minutes later I heard my phone ringing and rushed to pick it up.

"Yaya, where are you?" Daboe asked.

"I'm at home, where are you?" I replied, now feeling a bit out of the loop and foolish.

"I'm at the school waiting for you, let's go," Daboe replied without annoyance but a near laughing sigh.

I hopped on my bike and rode the hundred or so metres to the school and met Daboe on the road. As it turned out he consciously left early to drop off Amee and Buba at their Aunt and Uncle's compound, expecting I would soon after meet him there. A smile and my apologies later we were once again on our way for our evening stroll.

Strolls in The Gambia are never just out and about; there is always a purpose. Since the country is so small anywhere you go people know each other. Today we would visit a small village just a few kilometres away with the intention of finding some cheap charcoal.

Going down our highway in this area the road is more or less a real navigable paved road. However, our excursion quickly took us off the main road and onto a smaller village road that rapidly deteriorates into just a spectre of what once was at the height of colonialism. The skeleton of pavement is there but large potholes tear away any true usability, as if a herd of brachiosaurus dinosaurs had their Macy's Day parade down the street.

Our quest began with a sign of good luck as we approached someone riding with a load of charcoal on his bike. Now we could determine the current market value of charcoal and have a baseline from which to bargain. Here like anywhere else, knowledge is power.

"How is the evening?" Daboe asked.

"It is currently beautiful. Can your tubab give me a pen?" The man replied.

He was a younger man, probably still at the age where his father was instructing him to go out and fetch things like water, wood, or charcoal.

"No he doesn't have any extra pens. How much did you buy the charcoal for?" Daboe asked in a now business like tone.

The man, now realizing that Daboe didn't take well to the pen question, quickly replied, "90 Dalasis without a bag, 85 with."

"Thank you," Daboe replied and we were on our way again.

Shortly after the encounter we rolled into town. Daboe instantly recognized one long time friend and we rode straight for him. He was sitting on a bench under a large tree, a slight gut sticking out that gracefully filled out his flowing purple dress. He appeared rather jolly and his appearance perfectly matched his tone as I found out the minute he began the obligatory greetings.

After a lengthy exchange of asking about the family, work, and home the two men got down to business as Daboe now seemed on a mission to get this charcoal. The evening was driving on and if we did not start getting home soon we would be riding in pure darkness. The jolly friend point us to a compound just down the road and now like knights questing for the grail we were once again on our way.

As we approached the compound my eyes widened in horror at a sight I have learned to fear, a large group of females sitting and chatting with each other. Why is this sight so scary? It is the equivalent of the full on mega-family reunion where you only know one out of every five people and don't really care to figure out how you are related to them. In a few moments we would be carpet bombed with questions about our full names, where we're staying, which country I came from, our places of work, and other such personal details that back home I would reserve only for resumes or good friends.

"Hey tubab, come and greet," one woman yelled.

I ignored her, a rather large insult here, but as has become my custom.

Daboe recognized what was going on in my head and said, "Don't call him tubab. He has a name and it is Yaya."

"Oh... Yaya. Come here and greet!" She yelled again.

Now we walked over in tandem with a mutual understanding of how I wanted to be treated here.

We began to greet the lady, when it appeared as if a black hole had been created in the village right on the spot where we were standing. We began to suck in more and more of the women who were earlier sitting around and chatting, along with small children and other onlookers. Daboe and I were soon surrounded by a small crowd, busy repeating our names, where we came from, and all other such questions.

As the initial commotion died down Daboe took advantage of the momentary silent and opened up the opening salvo in the bid for our coveted charcoal.

"So how much is your charcoal here," he simply asked matter or factly.

"100 Dalasis," replied the woman who had initially approached us and had now identified herself as the woman in charge.

"Oh. I see," Daboe said with a hint of refusal. He sighed, "Well Yaya, what do you think?"

By now I knew where I fit into this equation and took my stance firing back a return offer.

"That is a tubab price!" I yelled in form more for Shakespeare than a West African village. "You know 80 is the price you want to give us."

"80!?" The woman shouted, all parties now in full theatrics. "No no, I don't agree. I'll do 90 for you with a bag included."

"Ah ha. That is better," Daboe replied. "We'll take it."

He handed over the money and we were one step closer to success.

Hoisting the large bag up onto his bicycle occurred to me that balancing the bag of charcoal as large as Santa's toy sack on Daboe's small bicycle rack would be quite the problem. If it wasn't properly secured our ride back would be painfully slow as any small bump in the road had to be negotiated with care or else we'd spend our whole night picking up bits of charcoal off the road. As it turned out, as I've seen many times here, Gambians have a knack for finding ways to solidly secure odd shaped objects to bicycles. Rubber straps, rope, nails, boxes, cloth, and small children all can be employed in creative ways when push comes to shove.

The way back the village road was still in its Macy's Day parade form, and our traveling was slow, but it became a good prelude to the freedom that was to come. The sweet is never as sweet without the sour as they say. After what seemed like an eternity we finally turned back onto the main highway road, now feeling like a small revelation in modern transport. In addition, we were lucky enough to be graced with a slight downward slope in the road. The two bicycles quickly picked up pace and soon there we were, racing down the road with ease, an American and a Gambian with charcoal in tow.

The air was cool and the wind swooped off our bodies as we rode into a burnt orange sunset. It was a moment of pure clarity and peace.

Over the rushing sound of wind Daboe yelled, "Now we are truly having speed!"

We looked at each other for a few seconds, large grins covering our faces, and like two men suddenly returned to the joys of childhood, looked out into the world in front of us and kept on pedalling.