COLORS OF SEREKUNDA — INTREPIDOR

On Wednesday, Antje, Thomas, Tor and I ate breakfast and then, piled into a bush taxi driven by Sanna, a towering man with a deep, ecstatic laugh.

Ibrahaim, a local teenager, rode next to the door and jumped in and out when we stopped, sliding it open and shut; a sort of ride-along valet.

We slowed to a stop next to a building that said “Norway-Gambia Project”. In front of it, a field full of young men were clearing the weeds with machetes. This was Saffi’s school, it turned out, where she taught English and Dance to young adults.

Ibrahim slid the door open. A young man sauntered over and peered in, machete in hand.

“Where are you from?” He asked in English, surveying us with wide, curious eyes.

One at a time, we told him.

“Come!” He shouted. “Clear some weeds with us. Get some exercise!”

“Really?” I said, hand unlatching my seatbelt. I wanted to go, wanted to swing a machete. But Antje stopped me, laid her arm across me like a mother, and said to the boy, “No; we are only waiting for someone. We are not here to work.”

When he left, she said, her voice incredulous, “Can you imagine in Europe—handing out machetes to children and letting them swing them around all day, unsupervised?”

I shrugged. Africa was not Europe, clearly.

Saffi came out of the gates then, elegantly attired in a yellow, cheetah-patterned dress, her magenta-tipped hair styled in ringlet curls. She slid in beside me.

Ibrahim slid the door shut.

After only a few days, I adored Saffi.

“Where are we going?” I asked her, as more fields sped by, more cows, more men on bicycles with wood planks tied to the back, more graceful women walking in elegant, colorful dresses with flared sleeves and tapered waists, enormous buckets balanced on their regal heads.

She told me that we were going to Serekunda, a place famous for its fabric stores and handicrafts market.

Just then, we arrived at the fishing center in Tanji. The smell was pungent enough to make us faint; there was so much activity in the salt and haze. Tomas took some wonderful shots there—a cloud of tangled, green line lying in the sand; men with glistening muscles heaving baskets onto their heads.

In Serekunda, we went first to the shop of Jobe Kunda, the husband of Saffi’s friend (and a dead-ringer for Taye Diggs), where we bought fabrics. Tomas and Antje, who both own clothing shops in the Canary Islands, went wild in the tiny space, rifling through the bolts in a ravenous frenzy. I quickly found a pattern that I liked—geometric, turquoise rolling waves accented with bright orange flowers—and bought two meters for a pair of pants. It was only 75 Dalasi per meter, so enough for a pair of pants was rather unbelievably: $3 USD.

Idi, a tailor from Kartong, would later charge me 400 Dalasi to sew the pants, which brought the grand total for my custom-made Gambian pants to $11 USD.

After finishing at Jobe Kunda’s we wandered over to another fabric shop. This one was more frenetic and had several men working there, pushing patterns, shouting up to the money handler whenever someone would make a purchase. They had large pieces for only 50 Dalasi, so I bought another two meters for a second pair of pants for only $2 USD, total. The shop’s dizzying intensity reminded me of Carole Bagh, the market in New Delhi where you can buy fabric and have it custom dyed to your liking right there. It took two, sometimes three men to stir the pigments in giant, street-side vats.

In a shop nearby, Antje spied a man selling hats that she liked. He also had an inventory of light cotton scarves in solid colors—magenta, orange, turquoise. Thomas bought ten. I bought one—for just 50 Dalasi ($1 USD).

Next, we roamed the warren of tarp-covered shops that made up the handicrafts market. Here, Antje found more batik and Tomas found bracelets and wallets. Fascinated, Tor and I sat in the chairs and observed all of the haggling. The market women were spirited negotiators. One of their children, a little boy of about four, decided to attach himself to us. He was intrigued by my camera so I put him on my lap and showed him how to press the button. He smiled and shouted excitedly when a picture appeared on the display. Spying Tor, he toddled over and clung to his leg, then laid his head down and rested, completely at ease with this strange, cuddly white man.

After the handicrafts market, we all went across the street and up into a second story bar with a view of the bustling street. We sipped on cold drinks—fruit cocktail, Fantas, Cokes—while we waited for Sanna to drive us back to Boboi Beach.

All the way home, we listened to music. In Africa, there is always music anointing the air from somewhere—a non-stop serenade of pop, R&B, djembe, indigenous music, hip-hop.

Back at the lodge, Saffi taught Thomas and I some dance moves.

We danced as a group with she, Kaddy, and little Boboi. And then, went swimming at the beach.