Santana

Something about the military stop just didn't seem right. Maybe it was the painted 'Halte' sign that was in the road or maybe it was the fact we were pulled over at a corner shop and not at an official post, but something just didn't seem right. We were passing from Banjul, the capital of the small, former-British colony of the Gambia, to Dakar, the capital of Senegal in a small sept-place, a seven passenger seated Peugeot, when we came upon the stop. After working our way through the border towns, Esther and I were able to find this car to take us all the way to Dakar with the promise of it happening hastily. What I've learned in my time here is that West Africans will tell you what they know you want to hear. Most times its not lying, its just that they can't say no. When you ask if the car is leaving soon, they'll answer that yes, it is.

"A bena taa sisan wa? Awo, an be taa sisan! (Is it going now? Yes, we're leaving now!)

Cars are often leaving 'right now' but in fact are hours from going. Our driver told us we'd be quick. What he didn't tell us was that every couple miles there was some form of Senegalese security stopping and checking cars. We had had three or four stops, all similar and routine, before reaching the painted Halte sign. At each one, a large, often humorless West African guy would come up, greet and start rambling in French about our passports and our destinations. Any answer you gave only led to more questions, so we had learned to close off the potential questions by answer all we needed to in one or two questions, even if we hadn't been prompted to. Anticipate where the conversation is going and you get out far faster. One of the things I've learned since being here. After looking at our passports, the police officer or soldier would usher our car on and we'd start up again.

When we came to this post, the painted Halte stop, things were different. The man who came to our car greeted in English and was wearing camouflage clothes and boots like you'd see in an 1980's action flick. Why a man in the middle of French-speaking Senegal would greet in English is beyond me, but he did. And honestly, I didn't think much of it. He asked to see our passes and for all of us to get out of the car. He then directs Esther and I to stand to the side while he searched through the baggage of the other passengers. He also told us not to bother him and not to go in our bags. We obliged and watched the other guards doing what seemed like routine stops of other vehicles. As this happened, I started to notice that the other soldiers weren't wearing the same uniform our guard was. One guy had dark green slacks and another guy was wearing big black boots and a red tee shirt and black pants. It was a ragtag unit at best. Then I noticed that none of the guys had any insignia, nothing to denote that they were actually who they said they were. It all started to come together. And then it hit me that I had no way of getting out of it. I just had to play along, maybe joke around a bit and hope for the best.

Esther was startled awake at the stop, so when she got out of the car she was still in a mid sleep daze. As a result, nothing really registered with her, including the 'officer's' demand to stay out of our bags. She had a sweatshirt wrapped around her waist, which she took off and began to put in the top pocket of her backpack when the guy turned and snapped at her,

' I said that you can't go in your bags, right?

Yes, sir. Sorry about that. It was just her sweatshirt. Sorry.

What is your name, miss?

Sianwa Mounkoro.

[he chuckles] Ah, you have an African name. And you sir, what is your name?

Chaka Sidibe. [He's laughing at this point] And what is your name?

Ah. Well. You have an African name, so I have a white name. My name is Carlos.'

Esther and I look at each other and smile. A corrupt military officer at best, a bandit on the road at least, named Carlos, What are the odds? He kinda chuckled and shrugged us off to turn back to the other passengers in our vehicle. As I watch I start seeing small amounts of Gambian money, dilasi, being passed back and forth. 5d here, 10d there. In all reality, about a dollar at best being bribed out of the passengers. After all the money is exchanged and people start shuffling back towards the car our new friend Carlos turns to me.

' You two are good. You are fine. See you later.

Thank you Carlos. I like that name. Are you Madinka (an ethnic group in the Gambia) or are you Wolof (another group who live throughout Senegal and the Gambia)?

I am Madinka.

What is your last name? (It's a sign of respect to say 'i Sidibe or i Munkoro; i (you) and then someone's last name' )

[He looks at me searching for something in his brain and responds] Santana. My name is Carlos Santana.