When leaving from Ziguinchor to return to Bafata it was important to allow at least 2 hours to make the trek from the road to the village. From Ziguinchor, I would take a taxi to Djattacounda, a small village about an hour's drive away. The untrained eye would not see a village there - it would look like I was getting out of a taxi in the middle of nowhere and walking into the bush. And indeed I was - because that's where the trail began that would take me to Bafata about 10 kilometers later.
A few months into my stay in Bafata I decided to purchase a bush bike. A bush bike is a one speed bicycle with a steel frame. They are fairly ubiquitous, and as bikes go, also fairly immortal. The Africans weren't very good auto mechanics, but they could keep a bicycle going forever. None of the fancy graphite alloy frames, closed hubs or specialty rubber for the brakes and tires. Nosirree, just a steel frame, some steel rims and some 800 lb solid rubber tires did the trick.
In fact, the fancy American touring bikes wouldn't last 10 minutes in the African bush. An alloy rim would be bent like a pretzel, and the frame would probably disintegrate like my sunglasses did.
About those sunglasses. I had purchased a pair of custom made, prescription sunglasses specifically made to withstand the heat and humidity of Africa. They lasted a week, then fell apart. Literally. Obviously, the fellow who made them had no idea what Africa was like, or what African heat and humidity will do to western technology.
So the bush bike was not fancy, had no frills, but would survive a collision with a truck.
One day I got a late start from Ziguinchor. I didn't leave until about 4 PM. Now I knew that was too late to get the village before dark, but I was in serious denial, insisting that I could do it if I just pedaled really hard and really fast. I was an idiot, but then, who isn't from time to time?
The taxi dropped me at Djattacounda at 5:30. In Senegal, the sun sets at the same time every day, never varying more than 20 minutes or so. So I knew that shortly after 6 PM it was going to get very, very dark. African nights aren't like American nights, except perhaps in some very rural areas. There is no light pollution. When the full moon is out, you can literally read by it. And you will cast a shadow by moonlight! When there is no moon, you can see quite well by starlight so long as you aren't in shadow. The shadows are jet black.
But this was the rainy season, and as I exited the taxi I noticed that not only was it 30 minutes to nightfall, but that there were dark clouds in the south. That always means only one thing: Rain in about half an hour. I knew that it was at least an hour to the village, but still I refused to find shelter in Djattacounda. I figured I'd just bull on ahead.
Did I mention that I was an idiot? Well, I was.
I hopped on the bike and started pedaling like mad, trying to make as much distance as I could before it got dark. It wasn't more than 100 feet before I was reminded of why it would take an hour no matter how hard I tried to go faster. I hit the sand trap. This was a patch of loose sand on the road that no bike could cross. Wise men got off and carried the bike over this 25 foot bit of ground. Fools pedaled for all they were worth in a vain attempt to cross it by going really, really fast. And like all of the fools before me, I instantly bogged down in it, coming to a stop about 5 feet into it. I got off and carried the bike across.
But being a fool, I pressed on. Before long, it was getting dark. I noticed that it was actually getting much darker than usual. In fact, I couldn't even see the pedals any longer, much less the trail that I was pedaling along at top speed. This was because it was not only night, but cloudy so there were no stars and no moon - and no light at all. It was pitch black. It was blacker than closing your eyes in a dark room. And still I pedaled on.
You see, I found that I could remember the trail vividly, seeing it from memory. I was barefoot and could feel every bump, twist and turn of the trail and knew exactly where I was, where the holes and grooves were, when to veer left, when to head straight on, and when to veer right. It started to pour down sheets of rain, but I pressed on.
African downpours include thunder and lightning. This isn't the wimpy stuff I've experienced in the states. The lightning is blindingly brilliant, and the thunder, which invariably happens at the same time as the lightning flash, makes your ears ring for a long while afterwards. It is sometimes so powerful that your teeth rattle and you can feel it in your bones more than hear it. As I rode along the occasional flash of lightning would illuminate my path, and the thunder would try to knock me off my bike.
I made it almost all the way to the village before the inevitable disaster struck. There is a part of the trail where it becomes rocky, and there is a deep gulley on the right side where years and years of torrential downpours in the rainy season have worn a path. On the other side of a small, smooth rocky ridge is more sand and dirt. Most folks get off and walk their bikes over this stretch. The only way to ride it is to balance carefully on the top of the ridge. I could easily do that during the day, but it wasn't day and I was pedaling full speed through the rain while blind as the proverbial bat. A voice in my head kept saying, "Okay really, this time I mean it. Stop. Get off. Walk over this stretch. Really! Stop now!" But I pedaled on.
I could see the ridge in my mind's eye and feel its every bump and rill through my feet. I could make it! Only a couple of hundred feet of this and ...aaaaahhhhuuuuggggg... splash! crash! There was a jolt, a sensation of spinning around, and I was on my back stretched out, holding on to the bicycle frame for dear life in the gulley, as the rushing water was pulling me downstream.
After a moment of panic it occurred to me that the gulley was only a couple of feet deep and fairly narrow. If I let go of the bike, I would get wedged in it, and could get up and step out. I did that and immediately found that I had no idea where the bike was. A flash of lightning helped, and I retrieved the bike from where it was wedged in the gulley. I started walking toward the village until the next flash of lightning. I was surrounded by trees. I had walked clear off the trail and into the forest. At night. In bare feet. Surrounded by snakes and things that don't mind the rain a bit. Uh oh.
I turned around and waited for the next flash. When it came, all I could see were more trees. Egad! How did that happen? If I'd walked into the forest from the trail, then when I turned around I should have been facing the trail, not more trees! "Okay," I thought. "I'll turn 1/4 circle each time and wait for the flash until I see the trail." I did that and after making a full circle, still saw nothing but trees.
Well this just didn't make any sense. Standing there in the pouring rain, in the middle of the forest I started thinking about stories I'd heard of African witchcraft causing people to get lost, never to be seen again. Had I pissed off any powerful shamans? I racked my brain. Couldn't think of anyone, so I decided to try turning and waiting for the lightning again. By this time, the storm was tapering and the flashes were farther apart. This time I turned in smaller increments each time. Eventually, a flash showed me a glimpse of the trail through some brush. Whew! I headed over there until I felt the trail under my feet, then headed toward home - on foot.
When I finally came into my compound in Bafata my adopted family were squatting under their low hanging eaves, as the Africans do when it rains. Burahma, my host and adopted brother, displayed a brilliant grasp of the obvious by commenting (in Balant,) "You're wet." I didn't quite know what to say that insightful remark, so I replied, "It's raining." Burahma and his family peered out from under the eaves, looking up at the sky. "Yes, it's raining," they agreed.
I went into my dry hut and changed my clothes before joining the family under the eaves.
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Tales from Bafata
From 1977-1979 I lived in the small Senegalese village of Bafata. These are some of my stories.
