The Archipelago

Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau – After being on Carache Island, I think I can reasonably appropriate the title “Baby Time Traveler,” for to visit this island is to step back about a thousand years. I saw nothing relating to any modern convenience – no phones, no lights, no motorcars, not a single luxury. Like Robinson Crusoe, it’s primitive as can be. In this world where one can always count on Coca-Cola to be the bridge between cultures and worlds, not even so much as a red “Enjoy!” sign was to be found (although my assistant did meet a girl named Fanta). Instead, what I found was a chalk board nailed to a tree (school), a mat of reeds in a dark mud hut (baby delivery room), and pigs roaming the paths (rush hour). We visited that particular island because my assistant, through his side job, plans to donate funds to build a much-needed health clinic.











At every turn we got the feeling we were in some African version of Colonial Williamsburg, where people don costumes and put on little shows as a living history lesson, except I’m pretty sure that for them it was just another day at the office. Women in grass skirts pounded seeds with an oversized mortar and pestle to make palm oil. Kids made crude devices out of palm fronds to climb tree trunks so they could throw down mangoes. Men re-roofed a house with thatch gathered and dried from the surrounding woods. And cows owned the pristine white sand beaches that tourists would have ruled had this island been anywhere other than Guinea-Bissau.

Bubaque Island was quite a bit more developed so I checked my entourage into a local hotel. When I say developed, I don't mean exactly that the room had air conditioning, constant electricity or a door on the bathroom, but my assistant was at least able to stave off death by dehydration with some cold beer. As you can see from the photo below, even the termites have more spacious accomodations than travelers.

These buga-bugas are everywhere in Guinea-Bissau.

The island is large and the town small, so I chartered a boat to the far end where I basked on beautiful, expansive Bruce Beach. It was so remote that some of the more daring members of the crew decided to bathe au natural. Normally, decency and rolls of fat would prevent me from bearing my bottom and giving the paparazzi a chance at their next Enquirer cover, but I wanted to get rid of my tan lines. My assistants may think public nudity is cute now, but let's see how they feel about it when I am in high school.

In Guinea-Bissau you make due with what you have.

It is true that the Bissau-Guineans don't have much, but they do have class. They never beg or try to cheat the visiting glitterati and they don't hustle relentlessly like the more tourist-savvy Senegalese and Gambians. Perhaps most importantly, they know how to honor internationally recognized cuteness. For never letting me be chauffered down a dirt path without a wave, a smile or an enthusiastic shout out to the white boy, they will always have my heart.

Kids put on an impromptu dance performance in honor of my august arrival on Bubaque.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

White Boy!

Bissau, Guinea-Bissau -- For those of you who have been to Guinea-Bissau, you understand the importance of flexibility. You, like I, probably have learned that there is reason for the greatest pessimism in the execution of your plans. You travelers to the land of cashews have no doubt experienced the folly of feeling reassured when someone tells you while waiting to cross the Cacheu River that the ferry will soon be fixed. And if you are from what we oddly call “The West” of our spherical planet, you felt the pangs of inconvenience and mild disgust as you were expected to sit and wait for undetermined amounts of time with no Starbucks in sight. But for the few of you who still have not yet been to Guinea-Bissau, I will let you in on the secret – once your eyes become accustomed under the dark blanket of pessimism, you will find a tiny flashlight under there which will help you see that things generally work out, just not the way you expected them to. Who knows, you might even have a richer experience.

When I realized the ferry would probably never be fixed, I made an executive decision to leave the car parked up the road at a Catholic mission and cross via dugout canoe. To the locals, I suspect my entourage looked like visiting dignitaries from another universe. Rolling suitcases, front-loading baby-carriers, diaper bags and backpacks all piled into the canoe designed to hold 25 people but with probably twice that many aboard. It was in the moment we boarded that shaky craft that the rainy season decided to start. Not a drop had moistened Guinea-Bissau in the previous eight months and we were so blessed to feel the first drops of the year.

My assistant and I snuck in to explore the former U.S. Ambassador's residence in Bissau, unused since the U.S. closed its embassy during the civil war.

While my assistants mumbled about mundane things like pneumonia and overcrowded boats that run aground, I was busy greeting new fans. Everywhere I went people called out to me in Portuguese Creole “Menino Branco!” which I thought meant “adorable leader” but found out later more closely translates to “white boy.” Two public buses and one hour later we finally pulled into the capital, Bissau. I had envisioned my arrival in that great world capital like a queen mounted upon her graceful white Landcruiser steed, but my carriage ended up being more like a humble sway-backed ass, lame and blind in one eye.

Where the "l"...?

My first night in Bissau was spent in a hotel without air conditioning, hot water, or a crib. Cockroaches tiptoed over the breakfast buffet and the exterior still has bullet holes from the civil war in 1998. Not only did the management lack the basic necessities of a hotel, they didn’t even have the letters to spell “hotel.” I suspect the “l” in their sign is nothing more than an up-turned, ill-employed “r.” Being in a place like that, it is easy to feel put out for the conveniences that are lacking. I’m glad my next stop was Casa Emanuel, an orphanage run by two fellow Costa Rican women to remind me of how much I have.

My assistant and I spent the morning with the kids of Casa Emanuel, touring their dorms and school where I consulted with colleagues of all ages. In Africa, extended families usually take care of orphaned children, so adoption outside the family is very rare. When those extended family networks break down or don’t exist, orphans can expect to spend the rest of their childhood in an orphanage. Everything there is as pleasant as it can be, but I couldn’t help but notice the sad contrast to my own organization where I require an assistant to baby ratio of three to one.

Much of Bissau’s buildings are bombed out shells that haven’t yet crumbled to the ground. Many streets are so pockmarked with craters, one wonders if the same bombs that did in the likes of the National Palace were responsible. At night, street lights illuminate only about two city blocks. Institutions are almost non-existent, but cashews and the sweetest mangoes in the world are abundant. After spending half my life in the capital city of the United States, it is hard to believe that this place is classified in the same category. But Bissau is a gleaming modern metropolis compared to the Bijagos Archipelago just off-shore. You will read about that in my next letter.

Until then, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

The Omi

Banjul, The Gambia -- Not just any Gambia, I went to The Gambia. This is the tiny country that resembles a geographical finger shoved down Senegal’s throat as if to induce vomiting. The analogy also works for their bilateral relationship because on the rare occasions when these countries work together, the outcome is usually a putrid mess. In the 1990s, the two tried to form “Senegambia” after an apparent realization that owning a river bank does not necessarily make you a country (much like wearing rabbit ears does not make you a Playboy Bunny as I found out). The experiment failed, though, because they could never agree on the correct way to crack open a hard boiled egg, or something of similar significance.

It is surprising that they could not unite around the common goal of selling cheap crap to tourists. My assistant bought a Rolex on the beach with Chinese engraving on the back and was astounded when it broke later that afternoon. The seller started his sales pitch the way most did, by calling out “Happy family!” He made pleasant talk about me and other important topics as he followed us down the beach relentlessly pummeling us with niceness until my assistant was forced to make a purchase just for a few moments of silence before the next hawker caught up with us.

One must put up with these typical annoyances found in tourist-saturated destinations to enjoy the beautiful hotels and beaches outside the capital, Banjul. My quarters were dazzlingly elegant with monkey-filled gardens and three serene swimming pools. However, as The Gambia caters primarily to elderly British ladies looking to get their groove back, the rooms – while well-appointed – contained furniture inappropriate for babies. In an effort to demonstrate this point to my assistants, I took the drastic measure of opening up my lip on the pointy corner of a low-legged wooden table.

Despite the small river of blood and deafening screams which ensued, they declined to select a more infant-friendly environment. I knew I would have to take matters into my own hands and as usual, I triumphed in the face of adversity. I found the courage I needed to let go of furniture and venture into the middle of the room. Therefore, I am pleased to announce that I now count myself among the world’s walkers, or at least among those that walk like Frankenstein’s monster.

Overall, The Gambia is not much more than a brief opportunity to speak English as you drive from one end of French-speaking Senegal to the other, but it will always be special to me as the place I painfully learned to walk. Check back soon to read about my very eventful trip to Guinea-Bissau.

Peace to all,
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler