Timpa Marong, Pride of West Africa!

[doc47]

This is an article printed in BMW OWNERS NEWS November 2011. They did a great, artistic layout with lots of photos. I have a bitch of a time posting photos to the Board, though, so use your imagination...or dig out your old copy of the ON.

 

Timpa Marong Pride of West Africa!

By David Levine, D.O. #98102

 

With brake fluid the color

of maple syrup, I figured it was due for a

change. Maintenance items have to be

attended to with a lot more frequency here

in West Africa than back in the States. The

heat and the humidity during the rainy season,

dust in the dry season, and rough roads

make for a lot of wear and tear. They add up

to a maintenance schedule on steroids.

I pumped through some fresh DOT 4,

and rode to Ziguinchor, the largest city in

the Casamance, the southern part of Senegal.

The roads are a grab bag of cows, sheep and

goats. Tall, skinny monkeys dive into the

brush. There are potholes the size of John

Day, Oregon. Frequently it is easier to ride

on the dirt shoulder than on the tarmac.

Hornbills go looping from tree to tree.

Mongooses dive into the roadside brush.

Donkey and oxcarts trundle along, alternating

with gaggles of children in their uniforms

walking to or from school. On the

flats women harvest rice, cutting the

bunches with sickles and carefully bundling

them. In the marshes, herons spear fish

with their razor beaks.

My F650GS gets attention. Grins, shouts,

and thumbs-up signs. “Bon moto! “B-M-W,”

people say while pointing at the logo. “Bob

Marley and de Wailers!”

The first half hour of the trip is challengingly

potholed, so I shuttle back and forth

from tarmac to shoulder. There are occasional

forays off into deep sand. There is

plenty to see—picturesque villages of

thatch-roofed mud-brick houses and estuaries

with interesting bird life, but you can’t

do too much admiring since staying

upright requires concentration. Once, I

had to brake as a six-foot-long Nile monitor

lizard, looking like a throwback to a

‘50s dinosaur movie, tramped across the

road in front of me and slithered into a

marsh.

At Djouloulou I stop and eat a plate of

jabaré, a tuber, boiled, skinned, salted, with

hot, red pepper and lime juice sold by a

Mandinka woman named Kumba, who

always has a smile for me. A plateful for the

equivalent of 35 cents. Only recently have I

noted a pair of well-worn crutches under

her kiosk.

Leaving Diouloulou, I wave to the gendarmes

at the guard post. The lunar surface

of the single-lane bridge requires attention.

Beside the bridge a man sells fish from his

dugout. On the other side the road smooths

but there are potholes infrequent enough to

catch me off guard. There are goats, who

are smart and flee when they hear traffic

coming, cattle who yield to no one and

could care less, donkeys—ditto, sheep—

like goats only slower and dumber, chickens,

dogs—who like to sleep in unlikely and

dangerous places, and cats—who are no

problem, being intelligent, cautious and,

even if you hit one, small enough to do no

damage, at least to the motorcycle. (For the

cat it is catastrophic!) A bonus is the

absence of any sort of traffic enforcement. I

ride at my own speed.

Twice I’ve intercepted a large troupe of

baboons crossing the road into the bush.

Probably more than 50 in that bunch. They

are a rich brown with black faces. Babies

ride on mothers’ backs, clinging with tiny

fistfuls of mom’s fur. The dominant male,

the size of a German shepherd and far

stronger, is the last to cross and stays on the

verge, staring at me darkly from deep-set

brown eyes. He is a formidable chief and

takes his duties seriously.

Farther, there are red monkeys and

green monkeys, usually crossing at a distance

and vanishing into the roadside

bush. Sometimes, one or two will linger by

the road and watch as I pass, probably

BMW fans. Green monkeys really are

green! A deep olive with white-bearded,

expressive faces.

At each village and army guardpost—

every kilometer or two, logs are placed in

the road to create a slalom that slows traffic.

I can whip through them pretty fast,

but it pisses the soldiers off and I don’t

wish to antagonize anyone, especially a guy

with a loaded M-16, so I take it easy.

The week previous I had tried to ride to

Ziguinchor. I got to the town past Djouloulou

and pulled over into the yard of the

mosque to put more air in the tires. I pulled

over and pumped up the front tire to 25

lbs. Then l started pumping the rear and

nothing seemed to be happening. It took

me a few minutes to realize it was flat and I

was pumping into the air! I found a flat

sliver of steel sticking out of the tire.

I rode the bike back to Djouloulou on

the flat rear. These Mitas knobblies are stiff

enough to allow it without butchering the

tire. A man directed me to a tire repairman.

I pulled the wheel and the tire guy, Papa

Manneh, pulled the valve core and then

broke the bead on both sides with a heavy

hammer and a blunt-tipped steel wedge.

No rim protectors here! The rim got a few

minor scratches but no actual dents. One

has to be a bit fatalistic about things; this is

Africa, not a concours d’elegance. Loosen

up or you’ll go crazy! With some heavy tire

spoons, Papa soon had the tire off and the

tube out.

The puncture was easily found, a slash

about a centimeter long. Papa whetted a

straight-edged knife on a piece of worn-out

grinder wheel, then roughed up the rubber

all around the puncture. From a small soft

drink bottle of contact cement he applied a

thin coat of cement to the tube with his finger

tip.

Next, the patch. With scissors, a piece of

old inner-tube was quickly but carefully

fashioned into a rectangular patch with

symmetrically rounded corners. One side

was scrape-roughened with the knife. The

finished product was so perfect it looked

machine-made. Papa applied contact

cement to the patch. Meanwhile, he carefully

examined the inside of the tire itself.

The area of the puncture looked clean. It

was roughed up with the knife and another

patch fashioned for it, too.

When the cement had dried sufficiently,

the patch was applied to the tube and

pounded down with the butt end of the

bead-breaker wedge. Wetting both patches

with water, he expertly shaved the edges so

they wouldn’t stand proud. It was done

evenly and with precision.

All was re-assembled and the tire remounted.

I asked Papa, “Combien est le

catastrophe?” (How much is the catastrophe?)

He laughed. He suggested about $4,

expecting me to bargain. In my opinion,

he’d done a lot of work, gotten me out of a

jam and was a nice guy, to boot. I paid him

without demur.

Too late to make the trip to Zig, I decided

to hoof it for home. It had been a bit more

than an hour and an instructive and pleasant

experience. In Africa, delays and

changed plans are frequent and one learns

that what seems like a setback can be an

opportunity. What had initially been hassle

and delay turned into a lesson on a different

way to do things, and I made a friend in the

bargain!

 

Being mistaken is the essence of the traveler’s

tale. — Paul Theroux

 

The next day I am on the road again,

determined to get to the bank. This time the

air stays on the inside of the tire. South of

Bignona, I pass a large, heavily armed army

patrol. There is an armored car with its

huge gun, two technicals [pick-up truck

with a gun mount in the bed] with their .50

caliber machine guns, and another armored

car. On either side of the road is a long file

of soldiers in full combat gear, helmets,

armor, carrying M-16s and RPGs [shoulder-

fired antitank rocket launcher]. I wave

and give them the thumbs-up. A few nod

gravely, but this patrol is in deadly earnest.

Soldiers have died recently in ambushes

and battles. This is no drill. I pass on.

A guerrilla war has been simmering

between rebels who want independence for

the Casamance and the Senegalese government.

Supposedly there is an armistice, but

there are occasional armed highway robberies

and there have been a few kidnappings,

and people killed. There was a

two-day pitched battle with heavy weapons

in December.

The bike is my sole means of motor

transport. Getting parts and supplies is a

challenge. I’ve gotten them from Motobins

and Motorworks in the UK. A friend in The

Gambia imports supplies from the UK,

which helps. I can find good quality automotive

oil but motorcycle oil is not available.

The coolant sold locally that’s

“manufactured” in Dakar is water with

green coloring. It’s not false labeling; after

all, water is coolant!

What am I doing here in the Casamance?

In 2006–7, I volunteered in The Gambia for

a year as principal physician in the Emergency

Department at the Royal Victoria

Teaching Hospital. It was a tough year with

a learning curve that was like climbing a

cliff. I saw things I could never have imagined.

I saw incredible suffering and incredible

warmth and courage of the African

people. Moved to action, I started a charity:

West Africa Medicine and Education

(WAME). Two Gambian staffers—Ebrima

Marong and Lamin Jawarra, handle things

in The Gambia while I open up new frontiers

in the Casamance.

WAME helps clinics and hospitals

improve their facilities and equipment. We

are passionately committed to keeping

administrative costs to a minimum. WAME

has installed new plumbing in one clinic:

sinks for hand washing, toilets, showers, a

place to bathe newborns and a shower for

the moms. We put up window screening in clinics

to keep the mosquitoes out to prevent malaria.

Another clinic is constructing a WAME-funded

outpatient facility. Yet another project will provide

water and a solar electrical system to a clinic

in another village.

We sponsor kids for their school fees, books,

uniforms, school supplies and shoes. What we

do isn’t romantic or “sexy.” We’re not interested

in having buildings named for us. Our work

comes out of the real, bedrock needs I saw while

I was working and living with the people in the

slums of the capital and in the villages.

All this requires quite a bit of running around

and the F650GS is fun to do it on. It is reliable,

nimble and, when I deeply deflate the tires (10

lbs front, 15 lbs. rear), can handle the stretches of

deep sand and mud I encounter on village roads.

Learning to ride deep sand has been a challenge

for me. Lots of thrills and spills!

The children in my family village named the

bike Timpa Marong after the village founder.

The Marong family were the Mandinka tribal

nobility of that region. Timpa Marong was successor

to the “throne” and when the old king

died, he was sent to Mali to accept the kingship.

After a few days he reappeared in the village. He

didn’t want to be king, he said. He wanted to be

a religious scholar, and that’s what he did. He

built a retreat in the bush and settled down to

study. He attracted students. Eventually a village

grew up, and that’s how Alikalikunda was

established.

Life in the village moves at the pace of a donkey

cart punctuated by the five daily prayers.

Seasons and meals determine

routine: plowing, planting, harvesting, the harmattan

wind from the Sahara, the rainy season.

People passing in the streets pause for greetings

or a chat. They visit each other unannounced.

Conversation is entertainment.

Silences are accepted. Serious happenings are

still announced by the village tabulo, a great

drum. Villagers dance their happiness, whether

for a naming ceremony, a marriage, or the initiation

of children into adulthood.

Children wander unattended, free to explore

and play. They help their parents with work,

whether in the fields, the home, or in a craft like

blacksmithing. Comfort or discipline can be

given by anyone older, whether related or not.

All take responsibility for the upbringing of village

children.

Into this idyll, sickness and death can descend

suddenly. For an axe-cut foot, an elder with

pneumonia, or a child fallen down a well, the

nearest help is a nurse at the clinic,

three kilometers by foot or cart. The

nearest doctor is 15 kilometers. A few

medicines are supplied by the government,

but many must be purchased and

these people have little money.

WAME works for the benefit of West

African people. That work is aided by a

hunk of Bavarian iron. Thanks, BMW!

Help WAME help the people of The

Gambia and Senegal. Check out our

website at westafricamedicine.org, or

email me at toubabdoc@gmail.com. If you

know of any foundations looking for a

worthwhile project to help, please contact

them and recommend us.

Toubab: An American Doctor in West Africa,

is the book I wrote describing my first year

in Africa. It has received critical acclaim.

Proceeds from the sale of the book go to

support WAME projects. Email me at toubabdoc@gmail.com for details.

 

[roadscholar]

So, what do 6 foot monitor lizards eat? Great story Doc, with your prose photos aren't really necessary, the imagination captures it.

[kmac]

So, what do 6 foot monitor lizards eat? Great story Doc, with your prose photos aren't really necessary, the imagination captures it.

 

Anything it wants to.

[Chris K]

doc, thanks for again taking us along on the ride!

[Ron_B]

...I have a bitch of a time posting photos to the Board, though, so use your imagination...or dig out your old copy of the ON.

 

Raaaaan to the Rescuuuuue!

 

 

 

 

[kmac]

Wow Raaauuunnn. Thanks for helping Doc post those pics.

Doc, those pics of the local folks smiling and sitting on and around your bike are just so cool.

 

Because of this site and ADVrider I have really developed a desire to travel EVERYWHERE.

I was one of those people who has always looked at the rest of the world as "dangerous", especially for Americans. But I have really seen the stories of world travelers and the love that they have for different cultures. I have seen how something like a motorcycle seems to unit people. I have seen the "people are people" everywhere you can go. Occasionally there are bad people, but overall most people are good by nature. Seeing those smiles makes me want to go there so much.

 

Proud of you for donating your time and energies and funds to a good cause, helping people.

 

Have a great continued journey in life.

 

PS: Upshifts must be a beeeoootch in those sandals....lol