The curtain rises on the Basse Casamance, the southwesternmost region of Senegal, infamous for its endless mangrove swamps, colorful fishing canoes, and brooding separatist movement.
Act I, Scene 4: Beach Cow
Juliana and Gene, two intrepid married semiotic urban linguistic anthropologists, enter stage left. Leaving their monstrous backpacks behind with their mild homestay family in the small, muddy transfer town of Oussouye, they are off to the coast for the day. Their destination: Cap Skiring, a beach town popular with Europeans. A jumble of signs point the way to hotels and cold beverages, but out heroes set out in the opposite direction, pressing on in their never-ending quest to avoid being mistaken for “tourists.” Passing through a small beachfront fishing operation, they proceed farther up the coast, away from the dreaded tourists, and also away from...everything. They soon find themselves more isolated than they intended. Sure, they wanted their own space, but the lack of a single beach umbrella or jewlelry hawker is almost unsettling in this tourist town. They walk for hours, convinced that the next bend in the coastline hides a small collection of cabanas, perhaps staffed by a local youth, who would compliment them on their impressive beach walking endurance and offer them bargain priced fruit juices in the shade.
Instead, the beach curves endlessly onward. Herds of skinny cows wandering aimlessly through the sand are the travelers’ only company. Perhaps paradise lies beyond the next curve. Or the next. Or the next...
Act II, Scene 2: The Other Toubab, Where Is She?
Summoning up an extra reserve of Wolof-enhanced charm, Juliana secures a two-night homestay in the Diola village of Buoyouye, connected to a kindly teacher/rice farmer/shovel carver by a hotel bartender who claimed to know the village’s chief. Later the next day, Gene awakes from a nap in the middle of (yet another) thunderous downpour. Gallantly grabbing his wife’s raincoat, he sets off into the tempest, down the dirt track towards a vaguely pre-arranged rendezvous point, Chez Annette, just beyond an imposing fromager tree. But his beloved is no where to be found. A midly helpful neighbor shouts out that she left with Christine...but to where?
Thus begins a 2-hour long wild goose chase, as Gene is directed from one small concrete home to another, trekking back and forth between small residential compounds spread out along the worn dirt track that connects the village to the rest of the country. Back and forth he trots through the dumping rain, interrogating villagers in his clumsy French. Is she at the Cyber Cafe trailer donated by a Belgium NGO and managed by the lovely Christine (a different one)? Is she at the teacher/farmer/carver’s house? Our host’s sister’s house? Her uncle’s? No, no, no, and no. Trekking back to the village from one of the more remote homes, Gene hitches a ride in a car that promptly gets stuck behind a sedan submerged in six inches of mud. After assisting in the demuckimg of the second car, he continues on foot. But now, the entire village is abuzz with news of the two separated lovers, and many others have joined the search, including Juliana herself. Their dueling searches bear fruit simultaneously, as the two Toubabs collide outside the dance hall, an unintentional homage to the many collisions that occurred inside the hall the night before to a thumping Afro/Western soundtrack. Reunited at last, Gene hands his wife her raincoat, just as the sun breaks through the impressively voluminous clouds, revealing a blue, blue sky hanging over the endless acres of mangroves and mango trees.
Act III, Scene 3: Boutique
A light drizzle falls on the village of Cachouane. Juliana and Gene have taken cover under the overhang of the village’s only boutique, the small neighborhood stores that sell tiny packages of necessities such as candy, detergent, Nescafe, and dehydrated milk. They share this bit of shelter with three men. The dreadlocked young man to their left is quite chatty, but is perceptively suspicious of the veracity of their marriage. The two satisfied men with few teeth to their right slowly inform us of the religious breakdown of the small town (almost all Muslim, surprising for a Diola village). Conversation grinds to a halt. The five new acquaintances stare off into the horizon together, watching as the rain falls softly into the winding inlet that will soon carry the two Americans away, pushing them forward into the next chapter of their journey.
Mud spelled backwards forms a kind of dumb, but obviously smarter because who needs a silent "b?" Does it feel dumb to be trekking in the mud? I always found it so. Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun, but it might be worse to trek through mud. If one waits long enough the mud (and rainy season) will be over...then one can trek through the dust and feel infinitely smarter.
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