BISSAU TO CAP SKIRRING- A JOURNEY ACROSS BORDERS

The Senegalese Lion with a lockjaw! At least that is the impression I get when I see the map of Senegal with Gambia, the Kunta Kinte country of Alex Hailey, stuck in between the upper and lower regions of this West African country. It is this lower jaw , the southern part of Senegal, the Casamance region, which has been theatre of a popular separatist movement , launched by its Jola community, against northern domination. The movement  has claimed over 5000 people since 1982, internally displaced over 60,000, and sent thousands into Gambia and Guinea Bissau which have also supported the movement at different times.

The entry to this region from Guinea Bissau is Ziguinchor, the second largest city of Senegal and the capital of its region by the same name. The name is derived from  the Portuguese Cheguei e horam, which means, and probably conveys most poignantly the reception to colonial rule, “ I came and they cry”! Wonder why the Portuguese felt so surprised, after all in very little the town had indeed developed into a slave port.

On a Saturday morning last month , my wife Simi and I, drove through this town in a rented Toyota Hilux with Ibrahim at the wheels. The road from Bissau was not particularly bad, traffic was sparse, and we passed through fields studded with orchards of mangoes in fecund inflorescence, rows of neem, the amazingy gigantic  silk cotton trees called God trees , majestic cabaceiras,  neatly trimmed palm and freshly pruned palmyra  trees , a few laden with weaver's nests. We didn’t see much of forest abutting the road in the countryside, primarily because they have been pushed back with planting of more and more cashew nut trees, the crop now accounting for income of almost 85% of the population, but not without the increasing trend towards monoculture causing concern.To an extent, it is also on account of felling of a large number of rosewood trees , much in demand in China, and anything in demand in China stands a small chance of survival - even if happens to be a tiger's penis!

Now and then the brown, dried paddy fields would fade into saline shores with their mangroves, not as extensive and luxurious as the ones I have seen in the Sundarbans, but enough to make one recollect the visits to the largest delta in the world. Every fifteen minutes one passed by small hamlets, the markets, quarter in stalls, three quarters by the edges of the road- small grocery items ,peeled laranja, chestnuts, bottles of palm oil, de-shelled peanuts in tiny plastic sachets,  and vegetables, fresh and dried fish, etc.

A two hours drive took us to to Sao Domingos, Guinea Bissau's northern province, and Ibrahim purchased a vehicle crossover permit for a 10, 000 CFA payment. As I got down at the border at the Immigration Check post in Guinea Bissau, I was surprised to see a plaque at a small community hand pump inscribed in Arabic. It was clear that Arab based organizations were stepping into two areas where the penetration of the government of a Portuguese and Creole speaking nation- provision of water and primary education- was low. Islam, which has a long history of presence in this continent, has seen considerable growth in a country which is about 45% animistic in its religious belief, reflected also in increase in number of mosques and the beginning of sartorial prescriptions. Incidentally, one of the problems this northern province of Sao Domingos is facing is of Talibe children, small Muslim boys who are handed over by their indigent parents to a teachers or marabouts who take them to Senegal for religious education but often force them to undergo a number of abuses, not just limited to forced begging. The problem has attracted the attention of local faith leaders and international organizations like UNICEF.

While the Senegal Immigration was quick and efficient, the problem started with local gendarme which had set up small checking posts. At the one just after the Immigration check post,its most unhelpful and unfriendly  personnel took no cognizance of  my diplomatic passport or the United Nations laissez Passer , and insisted on checking physically each and every item of our two suitcases. "Get a taste of your medicine" the Almighty must have been chuckling, " what do your own men do to hapless people?". Incidentally, Senegal, like India , is also one of the biggest contributors to UN.

After about 10 stops for confirmation at various places in Ziguinchor, we finally reached Cap Skirring and checked into Hotel Cisco Point. I must admit I had one of the quicker check- ins , but probably it was my lack of diligence or too much of faith in Booking. Com that I picked up a hotel which was not on the beachside. Had it not been for Ibrahim and the car, we would have had a tough time. Our room on the first floor , overlooking the swimming pool, passed through an area where a huge bearded goat, tethered to a tree, was trying to clear his throat with almost ghostly sounds, and was most unamenable to our pleading shush shush.

Very soon we rushed to Club Med and Amina, one of the receptionists at Cisco Point , energetic, bubbly, beautiful,  offered to be our guide. Club Med is an amazing upmarket residential club with expensive rooms and equally expensive boutiques and shops, and one felt one was back in the colonial times. The clientele was 100 percent European, mostly French , who had probably flown in at the local air strip. A Pro Am was in progress, so I booked a slot for the following day , but not after having trouble in explaining myself a to French girl who was lisping as well. Amina was a big help, she had worked there before, and probably seemed to know everyone in Cap Skiring.

The Paradise  was the beachside resort we settled to have lunch - the cool breeze from the Atlantic , chilled beer, and Amina’ giggles kept us company as we gorged on Poulette Yaasaa which is grilled and caramelized chicken  with lots of lemon and onions. Ibrahim tried out the Tiboudienne, almost a national dish of the country - fish marinated with herbs and lemon and garlic and mixed with tomato paste  and a number of vegetables.

As the day cooled a bit, it was time to move the palm -fringed beach . The sand not so fine, a bit granular as well , and made walking heavy. There were a few shacks, but my search for sea food ( looking for prawns and crabs as I would easily at Mandarmoni in Bengal) yielded no result. There were a few massage shacks, but we opted to relax on the deck chairs , watching the sun scatter and sink beyond the horizon, the odd boys walking a few cows as well, some playing football, women in colourful dresses selling fruits, but not before succumbing to the marketing charms of a woman selling junk jewellery.

I began the next day at Cap Med for a round of golf. Simi walked with me, and ‘Tafa , short for Mutsafa, kept us company with a passing knowledge of English, but an elaborate one on golf. The greens were good, the fairways had crabgrass, but the beauty of the course were the holes along the ocean. Anyway, I never complain about the quality of golf courses, anywhere it is played, it is God's own land for me! After a satisfying round of golf, and an experience of snootiness of the club ( they wouldn’t serve tea even on payment to non members /residents), we left for the arts bazaar.

The arts bazaar is by the town's tri- junction, and Simi picked different items gifts ( table coasters made of bottle openers, painted horns, key rings with wooden carvings and  a couple of masks). There was a mobile shop selling handicrafts as well , and the owner happily obliged us with a photograph. African masks and statuettes  have fascinated ever since my Sierra Leone days in the middle of the previous decade, and like those of all other regions, have significant and mystical history- part of their religious ceremonies and rituals, black magic and performing art. But probably what I find most arresting as a definer of African identity are the clothes they wear.

Like anywhere in Africa I have seen, so, too in Cap Skirring, I saW on display in the shops and on people , the bold and brightly  coloured clothes reminiscent of Indonesian batiks. Usually the fabric is what they call wax, named so after the Dutch process of waxing a fabric before dyeing ,  and worn as long robes - boubou for the man and the kaftan for the women. Of course, there are striking usage of brocade and lace as well, but what sets apart the African woman is her headwrap or the gele. The gele is a cultural marker for sure, but it is done with so much of intimate passion and energy that only women can when they want to set off a conversation with everyone in full public view- many create their own patterns  and designs and even spin the cloth themselves. My most abiding memory that day in the arts bazaar was the sight of a tall shop owner, in a champagne and gold kaftan and luxurious gele, looking as presidential as Ellen Johnson Sirleaf of Liberia had when I had spotted her about 12 years ago as she walked into Mammyoko, HQ of UN in Sierra Leone, after being elected the first woman head of a state in Africa.  

After the shopping, devoured a luxurious lunch, starting with a well laid out plate of tapas, a combo of sea food, tomatoes and even slices of omelettes on pieces of bread, before moving on to more elaborate grilled prawns and of course, yet another helping of poulette yassa and Gazelle beer. The town seemed to have a large number of donkeys , and as I clicked one, it just hit me that in India, this beast of burden which has inspired fables and idioms is hardly to be seen anymore. A quick check out, another long hold up at a gendarme checkpoint in Ziguinchor, and before sundown we were back in our home in Bissau. A delightful experience, just singed with some bitterness at the border.