Wind Scattered, Final Chapter: Train

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We were in Germany because Frankfurt was one of the cheapest destinations in Western Europe, because we had a lead on a friend of a friend, and because Andrew had a little bit of a Germany-fetish going.  He filled our walk to the nearest hostel with his own reverential parody of German memes and culture - the angry German, the fastidious German, and so on.  Laughs were had, schwarmas were devoured (Germany is an excellent place to go for Middle Eastern street fare, by the way), and settled on a typical enough looking youth hostel nestled in the heart of industrial Frankfurt's tamped down interpretation of a red light district.

We had passed through a portal into some kind of  millennial fairy tale.  The hostel desk was serviced by three pretty girls who spoke fumbling but sufficient English in adorable accents, the lobby was appointed in warm wooden hues and materials in a style that suggested a medieval hunting hall furnished entirely from Ikea, and the entire establishment was filled with a colorful cast of international characters.  The noisy British hooligans were represented as were the American study-abroad crowd, and the rest was filled out by an esoteric collection of happy-go-lucky travelers like Andrew's and my bunkmate Milosch, the sorely surly Serbian who was polite enough but carried heavy things behind his eyes.

We were free, we were unattached, and we were in the full swing of a tidal wave of events that had displaced us from where we thought we were supposed to have been; we had been imbued with a sense of teleological dislocation, as if liberated from the burden of satisfying our role in the Universe's grand design.  Debauchery was the only logical next step.

One pub crawl, one Halloween extravaganza, and a few blurry mornings later and we were aboard a fast train with a ticket to ride all the way to Koln.  I always enjoyed being on trains.  In the big wide world, we were left to our own devices.  In this confined space, we had time to regroup, relieved of the burden of tempting choices.

Next stop, and our ride, a friend of a Peace Corps friend, was waiting for us with her car at the platform.  Eva took us on for a few nights in hilly Koln (or Cologne for you Francophones), and treated us to our second European fairy tale experience - a tour and unlimited tasting and buffet at the Krombacher Brewery, of which she was an employee.  This second fantasy trip had a more Willy Wonka flavor to it, and we were happy to let it wash over us; the vestiges of West African material deprivation clung to us around the edges, and it gave everything the taste of luxury on our tongues.

Brussels.  Ghent.  Rotterdam.  From one city to another by train - it was the perfect mode of transportation for the mode of life we had embraced.  Our plans were haphazard, sometimes made a few days out, other times arranged as we strolled through the streets;  the trains were indifferent to our personal chaos.  They ran on schedules stuck to the wall, voyaging on whether the passengers arrived to occupy their seats or not.  We could linger or longer or flee for our lives, and the trains were there for us.

But eventually, finally, we reached the end of the line.  A last hurrah in Amsterdam, a few days to say goodbye to the feeling of disregard for the significance of tomorrow, and then we boarded our last train.  The city metro rattled along, bearing us and our bags to the Amsterdam International Airport.  It was a strange ending for me, because the story that was coming to close was rich and full, but I didn't really know what it was about.  I found myself leaning back, head resting against the cool glass of the window, wondering how much it mattered if I even got on the plane at all.

this is what I looked like by the time I made it home.  trefpool.com

Wind Scattered IV: Plane

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I have had what I'm guessing is the very unique experience of discussing the logistics of packing a carved sword cane for an international flight.  There are competing constraints - it doesn't fit with the blade hidden in its sheathe, but what if the blade were to puncture the bag in transit?  There was possibility for unintentional homicide.

Why sword canes?

Before we even left Guinea, the four of us had participated in a traditional Peace Corps ritual - rampant purchasing of regional souvenirs to distribute to loved ones upon making the return migration.  Andrew's crop included an exquisite collection of fine wooden sculpture, including a roaring-mouthed lion-headed sword-cane intended for his grandfather, a man apparently estimable enough to pull off such an accessory.

Jeneca and Kevin left first; their meanderings were done, and they were ready for a sincere return.  Andrew and my trip continued northward, to a new continent.  We sat in the gate area of Dakar's small but surprisingly modern airport and contemplated the twists that had brought us to the threshold of exit from this part of the world.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Only months ago, discovering that I was bound for Guinea had filled my whole body with electric tingles.  Almost since that moment I had felt like my life had begun to move along with some tremendous invisible inertia, like I was flotsam that had suddenly drifted into the Gulf Stream.  Leaving for the Peace Corps was like being spirited away to a Neverland where all the banal externalities of life are stripped away and you live only your immediate experience - going to a new place and immersing yourself, entering a state of constant discovery with a small group of people who share all the novelty and mystery of this liminal life space.  That swirling, intoxicating natural high carried me through months of training and an uncountable collection of vivid months that would take a thousand pages to tell; I careened through the now until I found myself delirious on the couch of a regional Peace Corps headquarters with a spider bite on my arm, overhearing an administrator in the next door office discussing political events in the capitol that would soon cause the Peace Corps (and most other NGOs) to exit the country, plucking us up along the way.  The arc of the journey had already been so chaotic, the new

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

twist could hardly strike me as that unexpected.

And so we were brought over the border, to roost in an artificial village for a month, until they finally pulled the plug and we called the taxi that took us to the bus that brought us to the city whose airport we currently occupied.  As simple as that.

And as if to prove the marvelous unquestionable serendipity of life's messy little gambits, who else did we encounter at the airport bar, waiting to board the very same flight but Amaury, the frenchman from our bus ride!  We all sat and bought each other manly drinks, and although I was revved up with the coincidence of meeting him again, I was more grateful to have an immediate distraction to take me away from the awkward, melancholy tension that flowed to all my extremities when I thought about

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

getting on the plane and leaving the last few months behind.

But of course, eventually, it happened.

Our ultimate goal destination was Frankfurt, but we changed planes in Lisbon.  We had a few hours to kill, so we bought tickets for the bus and road it down the main drag.  Perhaps Portugal softened the transitional blow of return to the First World, its stately buildings wide promenades cracking around the facades; the whole place was touched with a feeling of empty quiet, and finding no particular reason to get off the bus, we let it turn around and take us back to the airport.  Returning through security, Andrew was stopped and his bottle of Tabasco sauce was confiscated.  He was prepared to debate them for a hot minute, but he came to his senses and realized he had to pick his fights.  He left the bottle on their little table, telling the gate agent on his way through, "You're right - this stuff is dangerous."

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Another plane flight, this time into the darkening night with Europe sliding by below us.  There was no fear of the unknown, being carried by the happy-go-lucky tide.  I knew the plane would carry us where we needed to go, and it did.  And when we arrived, we found the train to take right to the heart of the hostel district, which was just where we intended to go.  And when we got off the train, the two of us ascended the big concrete stairs out into the darkness of a night wide open, pregnant with possibility.

Wind Scattered, Part III: Boat

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Dakar was a glimpse into Paradise.

We woke with the noontime sun on our faces through the curtains, still wrapped in the sweet haze of sleep long overdue.  We stood up and left behind hot dusty roadsides and twilight arguments with cabdrivers.

The city of Dakar has two particular and wonderful characteristics - first, it flirts with Western levels

all sailors do their duty.  trefpool.com

of technology and modernity while still retaining its West African flavor; second, it sits on a peninsula jutting out into the magnificent Atlantic, surrounded by sandy beached islands and cooled by sea breezes.  We criss-crossed the streets passing new Mercedes and typical rust buckets, street vendors selling meat brochettes, flooding the air with umami.  The streets widened and descended as we came up on the shoreline, opening onto a wide open view of the ocean before us, eyeline broken only by the large concrete shack where tickets were being sold to the Isle de Goree.

The ferry to the island offered to fare classes - tourist and African.  With the combination of my Fulani negotiating and Andrews Guinea soccer jersey (Guinea wasn't the most popular tourist destination, even back before Ebola), we secured the locals price, and set sail aboard the HMS Beer (no kidding!) for an island fortress.

photo by Kevin Roche

Goree gained notoriety as a launching point for slave ships headed eastward, pregnant with human cargo.  Our feet traced idle curves along the scattered stones of walls and ramparts left standing from the original fortress.  On the second level, the vista was dominated by the chronological dissonance of a gigantic anti-aircraft gun built to deter the Luftwaffe hulking up among the crumbling mortar.  One woman followed us on a half-mile stroll around most of the island, hellbent on selling us some beads.  We sat on the perfect beach, and in the shadow of the ruins we took turns swimming out - far out, farther out than I'd ever been, and as a I

photo by Andrew Barisser

struggled back my mind projected the World Map, reinforcing the terrifying truth that nothing lay between me and the wide open World Ocean.

One boat ride back to the mainland and a quick terrestrial scurry later, and we waited for another The Queen of Beers, and offering the best vantage yet on the sun as it dipped below the waves.

boat, now on the northern side of the peninsula.  Sated with history, we were now after pure indulgence on the Isle de N'Gor.  No paid passage on a twenty meter boat; we were paddled out in a dinghy by one man, watching the mainland bob away one doleful sway at a time.  On the other side of the water, a jungle paradise awaited, conveniently encapsulated on a tiny island.  Most of it was a small stand of trees scattered over some boulders, offering a collection of angles on the swelling blue all around.  Nested in the crags was a bar serving double-pint bottles of Castel,

We could have stayed forever.  But we couldn't.  There was another boat ride waiting, the last little dinghy headed back to the city, taking us away from the falling dark and back toward the electric hum of civilization.

Wind Scattered Part II: Bus

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Even in the painfully early, hung over morning, when the rest of Bamako was dead silent, the main bus depot was a buzzing hive of activity.  We stood in line for tickets at the open air kiosk, sat on flimsy wooden benches by the window, anxiously listening to garbled West African French over the low quality loud speaker, urgently hoping not to miss our bus.  It was impossible not to eyeball the only other white person in the room, blond, tan, stubbled, with curls falling to his shoulders.  He was toting camera bags.

Eventually there was a surge of motion in the ambling crowd, and we sensed it was time.  We went and stood in another newly formed long line to deposit our luggage and board the bus.  Another round of anxious waiting, of eager inquiries in a second language to ensure our bags were sent with the proper coach.  We climbed the staircase into the bus, and our journey, already massive in geographical proportions, took on an even more distinct chronological character.  The interior of the bus was a vision of the seventies, covered in red suede, with velvet curtains to match.  In typical West African style, people filed onto the bus until it was stretched beyond capacity.  My friends and I were spread around the bus.  I shared the seat in the absolute back with a large Senegalese nene (read mother-type).  The real departure began.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Three hours in, just as we begin to put distance between us and the city, as we venture out into the desert, the bus breaks down.  Passengers spill out into the roadside to buy water and plastic sachets from emaciated children, and hours tick by.  Eventually, the West African MacGyver spirit triumphed, the engine rumbled back to life, and we were back on.

At the stop for dinner, nene and I share a meal and a soda; I had immediately ingratiated myself with her by exchanging greetings and carrying on some small talk in fulani, her native language as well as that of my Peace Corps region.  I bought a woven reed fan, and we took turns fanning each other the remainder of the ride.  The friendship was cemented.  Lucky too, because the engine was in the back, right under our seats, and without that fanning, the combined mechanical and meteorological heat might have overtaken us.

We reach the Senegalese border a few hours after sunset - apparently about half an hour after it closed for the night.  This is apparently non-negotiable.  We sleep outside, in the cool desert night, under the partial shelter of an open air waiting area by the border facility.  The masses huddled together in the huge desert night.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Safely across the border, rolling through the brown dustiness and comically stunted trees of Eastern Senegal.  We're stopped at a customs check, and wait while hundreds of rolls of colorful fabric are unloaded from underneath the bus, counted, and compared to a list presented by the driver to men in fatigues, wearing berets and carrying large weapons.

The rambling journey continuing, stretching across the second day, blending the passage of time an inconsequential triviality, sucking us in to a weird, timeless odyssey across the sparsely hutted countryside, painted in browns and greens and yellows.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

into

Fifty one hours after departing Bamako, we arrived by the National Stadium in downtown Dakar. By then we had befriended the other white, a frenchman from Lyons named Amaury who was happy to share a cab with us to the hostel district in the early morning hours.

Advice for travelers in francophone countries: pay special attention to the difference between deux (two) and douze (twelve); it can be tricky to distinguish, and occasionally lead to disagreement.  For instance, when Amaury negotiated our cab, and we exited and prepared to pay, there was  a disagreement as to whether we owed the driver two thousand or twelve thousand CFA.  There was much angry shouting, and for a hot minute I thought we were really going to get in to something, but ultimately it all ending with everyone angrily walking away.

Another nervous moment as we hunted down the hostel that we'd chosen on a whim and a friendly recommendation, hoping that they'd even be open well before the crack of dawn.  But of course we were traveling with a sort of serendipitous momentum, and it wouldn't have left us stranded.  In fact, it led us straight to our beds, where the four of us happily collapsed.

Wind Scattered, Part I: Taxi

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Three months spent training, learning local languages, cultural and security briefings, technical & professional development; a week spent in a tiny village on the road between two major regional cities; a hushed and frantic drive across the top of the country and over the border into Mali, escorted by armed US agents; a month of idle spectating, waiting on new political developments.

That is the sequence of events that brought Andrew, Kevin, Jeneca and me to the front gates of Tubaniso with our bags packed, waiting in the dead of pre-dawn for the arrival of a taxi arranged by phone the previous day.  Our Peace Corps program in Guinea had been evacuated and eventually shut down.  The hundred or so volunteers left without positions were asked to choose  between applying for immediate re-assignment to another country, or to return home to America with the promise of preferential placement if we re-applied to the Peace Corps in the near future.

Filled nearly to the brim with bitter skepticism about our past and future experience as volunteers and tempted by easy opportunity, the four of us decided to make our way home like vagabonds, winding across West Africa and Europe en route back to America.  The taxi would be the first step in the return journey.

We weren't the first to leave, but we were closer to the beginning of the exodus.  The most immediate consequence of that fact was a final night at Tubaniso, the Peace Corps facility where we had spent the past month, filled with bittersweet words of parting.  We debauched together with reckless abandon; hugs and kisses were distributed, chairs were flung across rooms in frustrated rage and sadness as the Peace Corps training group disintegrated, person by person.  Pain was numbed and effusive expressions of love and loyalty buzzed in the air with the music of insects and the tinny melodies from portable speakers.

And now we had arrived at the final moment of departure from our larger Peace Corps experience, and the beginning of something very different.  The car arrived, our bags were loaded, and we pulled away into the darkness, the last goodbyes from the handful of other volunteers who had stayed up with us still weighing heavy in our hearts.

Tubaniso lay on the outskirts of downtown Bamako; the trip to the main bus depot was like a tour and farewell to the desert Metropolis.  Head resting against the glass, I took in the sights out the window - mud-brick houses with corrugated tin roofs, hard dirt roads with scattered with plastic sachets and paper scraps, emaciated strays poking their heads into nooks and crannies,  a mild sewage aroma

wafting from the gutters on the roadside.  The longer we drove, the larger and more modern the appearances of the structures and scenery became; houses and road-side stands replaced by dancing clubs and convenience stores, buildings that might still look ramshackle to the eyes of a Western visitor, but clearly of higher quality compared to the outskirts.  The only thing missing was the people; it was the first time I'd ever seen the streets of Bamako unpopulated by the overflowing life of its residents.  All together, the surroundings suited my mood just fine; grounded in the beautiful West Africa where I'd spent the last six months of my life, but tainted with a hollow emptiness - an experience becoming a memory before my eyes.

For the last stretch of the car ride, the electric lights of the center-city sent orange planes of light sliding across the windows of the car, revealing four young Americans swept forward by global currents into the unknown.