Mogoatlhe - Vagabond: Wandering through Africa on faith

VAGABOND

VAGABOND

Lerato Mogoatlhe

First published by BlackBird Books, an imprint of Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd, in 2019

10 Orange Street

Sunnyside

Auckland Park 2092

South Africa

+2711 628 3200

www.jacana.co.za

Lerato Mogoatlhe, 2019

All rights reserved.

d-PDF ISBN 978-1-928337-70-6

ePUB ISBN 978-1-928337-71-3

mobi file ISBN 978-1-928337-72-0

Cover design by Palesa Motsomi

Cover image: Hamid El Nil shrine in Omdurman, Sudan

Editing by Megan Mance

Proofreading by Nkhensani Manabe

Set in Minion Pro 11/15.5pt

Job no. 003426

See a complete list of BlackBird Books titles at www.jacana.co.za

The freedom to wander from place to place and the possibility of knowing the world beyond whats around my corner is a seed planted by my maternal grandmother, Basetsana Mary Malebane, and my paternal grandfather, Rantswai Gabriel Mogoatlhe, who could only travel in their dreams. I dedicate Vagabond to them.

24 June 2008

THERE ARE WAYS OF ARRIVING in a new country: You should know where you are going, have your first few nights accommodation booked, be able to converse in the lingua franca and have a bottomless bank account or enough savings to make cash the least of your problems. This is the way of the well-organised and the cash-savvy. Im not this person. I arrive in Dakar at 3.30am on a dental floss budget; I dont know anyone, and my seven-word French vocabulary doesnt include please help me.

Go ahead and tell me Im an idiot. I aim stronger words at myself as I leave the plane at Lopold Sdar Senghor International Airport. I fill in my customs forms as if my hands have never held a pen. An official comes over to help me with the daunting task of tackling page two, where I need to answer the horrific question of where in Dakar I will be staying.

The first plan I come up with is to head to a nightclub, but then I realise Im yet to see a club taking in revellers with backpacks the size of Mount Kilimanjaro. I anxiously watch it going around the conveyor belt until a guard comes over to ask if I have lost my bag. I put the backpack on a trolley and push it like Ive never walked before, panicking with every step taking me closer to the exit, fending off touts and cab drivers. Dakar comes with two warnings: Its infamously expensive and brimming with conmen. Getting into a taxi to nowhere is not an option. The only thing I know about Dakar is that its the capital city of Senegal, and that the country is home to Youssou NDour, Baaba Maal, Ismael Lo, and one of my favourite writers, Sembene Ousmane. I also know about President Senghors concept of Negritude and that Gerard Sekoto spent some time in Dakar and Casamance.

I have no idea what Im doing, only that I refuse to accept the image of Africa as the home of doom and gloom. I come up with my Plan B as soon as I spot a uniformed gentleman holding a sign board with the words Novotel Hotel. I straighten my back to appear confident and hand him the backpack, warning that its rather heavy. Im the only passenger in the Coaster minibus. I plonk into my seat and wonder if a colleague who suggested going to Hillbrow when I told her about my plans to travel around West Africa wasnt onto something. Before Dakar, I had been out of South Africa for thirteen days on work trips to Swaziland, Zanzibar and Ghana.

No money, no experience, no social connections, I mumble to myself, and apparently no common sense too because who abandons their life and career for something they dont know?

Just when my heart starts sinking, the radio plays Youssou NDours Birima. Its one of the most important songs of my life; the one Id listen to and daydream about West Africa when I was still a student in 2003 I know Ill be just fine.

Dakar has a great get-up-and-go energy even just before dawn. Theres music from clubs and cafs wafting through the air. Cab drivers hang out topless on car bonnets or pavements. On some street corners there are already women setting up shop for their street cafs; firing up pots and unloading plates from trolleys pushed by young men.

And you are? The manager at Novotel asks with a smile that sparkles as much as the chandeliers hanging over us.

L-e-r-a-t-o M-o-g-o-a-t-l-h-e. Lerato Mogoatlhe, I reply.

Youre not on the system, miss, he says after a few minutes.

But my travel agent confirmed my booking, I lie, hoping hell let me hang out at reception until sunrise as the realisation that I have no idea what I am doing starts to sink in. Standing in that reception area and pretending to be a guest provides me with some momentary comfort while I collect my wits. He calls another good hotel and asks the driver to give me a lift there. This hotel is several stars below Novotels five, but at US$100 a night, its still unaffordable. The night manager, Jean, makes more calls and sends me off to another hotel, promising to collect me there after his shift so we can look for an even cheaper place. My reasonable room turns out to be dingy with a sagging bed. The bedding looks like it used to be white. Now its worn out and faded. The chair and table are solid but old and scratched and the roomy bathroom has a toilet that shifts with my body.

An upbeat Jean and our 10am appointment find me pacing around reception. Im excited and anxious. Im still frazzled by my disorganised arrival and the fact that I have no idea what Im actually doing, but everyone I meet is friendly and kind. They greet me with wide smiles that make me feel welcome. It makes me believe that Ill be okay.

We find the promised cheaper place six kilometres away from the city centre in Yoff. Via Via guesthouse is set in a small courtyard. Its quiet, save for the Ali Farka Tour and Toumani Diabats Debe, another favourite, playing on Radio Pan Afrique. Theres a hammock on the way to the five rooms named after tourist attractions like Gore and Lac Rose. At the bar-restaurant, a middle-aged black woman sits alone, reading newspapers and drinking beer from a glass she covers with a coaster to keep the everpresent flies out. Some European travellers pore over guidebooks.

Via Via is on Rue La Fayette. At the top of the street, off the main road, is a bank where three boys look on with smiles, waiting to sell me fake Louis Vuitton bags, Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. An eye-level poster behind the bank sells dreams of instant riches showing a man leaping with joy, a lottery ticket in his hand. Theres an apartment hotel and an office building with medical specialists. There are small shacks selling everything from car tyres to packets of Nescaf with a teaspoons worth of coffee, one laundry baskets worth of washing powder, flip flops, newspapers, cooking oil, rice and powdered milk.

Like most of Senegal, Yoff is predominantly Muslim. Dakar is a party town but there are no night clubs and bottle stores in Yoff. The beach is the centre for relaxation. Mornings feature tourists frolicking in plastic-bag-infested waters, in between reading and tanning at the beach cafs. The cafs are compounds with bamboo umbrellas that you pay to use. The better-off cafs offer plastic mats and have restaurants and open-air kitchens where meals are cooked in large pots on fires made on the ground. In the afternoons, the beach is a sea of blackness, with swimmers, runners, a pair of girls working on their taekwondo and groups of soccer players with sensationally chiselled bodies. I can see why Dakar is famous for holiday flings.