John Matshikiza
with the lid off
I had been living on the Senegalese island of Gor’e all through August. The day I was due to leave, another dramatic thunderstorm had come raging up from the south-west, with such force this time that even the islanders, accustomed to all the changing moods of the winds and the tides, were standing anxiously at the waterfront, wondering how and when it would all end. Gor’e is more or less a suburb of the capital city of Dakar, except that it is separated from the city by two or three kilometres of ocean. The ferry is the only regular lifeline to the mainland, making the 20-minute crossing every hour or two, depending on the time of day. That morning the sea had been so fierce that there had been no ferry since the first crossing at 6am. The waves were whipping up against the shoreline of the tiny island in a manner not often seen in living memory.
The motorised fishing canoes had initially tried to venture out into the mountainous waves, but had returned one by one to the safety of the stone-walled harbour, even their dauntless spirits humbled by the awesome will of the elements. So we all stood out under the brooding sky, the rain reduced to light drizzle now, but the sea churning on with a violent energy all of its own. The reality of this island existence was coming home to me. If the elements choose to confine you, there is nothing you can do but wait.
And then, as if some great, pumping engine was being gradually stepped down somewhere far out on the sea’s infinite horizon, the waves began to calm down. The surface of the ocean became miraculously manageable. The sun burst through the clouds from nowhere. And then the long-awaited ferry came ploughing briskly round the headland, blowing a jaunty salute out of its funnel.
All of a sudden, it had turned into a beautiful day, with all of life’s possibilities laid out gloriously at our feet. Miraculously, I would make it to the airport on time. Such is the temperamental cycle of life on an island. I returned to Gor’e in late October. The rains had stopped, abruptly, the day before.
The whole Dakar peninsula, an outcrop of the menacingly arid Sahel, had become unusually green for that brief three-month season. Gor’e was no exception.
Now we were entering the winter months, and a long haul of dry weather, when the unexpected chaos of plant life would again retreat into hibernation, leaving only the thorn trees, the baobabs and palms, and some stubborn and unruly outposts of bright bougainvillea to represent their species. I had been anxious to get back to Gor’e. I was curious to know what had unfolded in my absence-what had changed, and what had remained the same in this timeless island village. Six weeks seemed like a very long time to have been away from home. At first sight, from the ferry that was carrying me back, it seemed to be the same disciplined jangle of pink and yellow houses divided by sandy alleyways. The colourful fishing canoes were still bobbing in the now-placid harbour, the children diving like porpoises into the waves around the prow of the ferry as we approached the island, yelling hysterically to each other as they guided it to the jetty. The friendly greetings were as they had always been, the warmth of new acquaintances who had quickly become old friends, wondering where I had been all this time.
The small knot of wise men were still sitting on their wide straw mats next to the water well, talking little, jointly observing the five obligations of prayer as the day progressed, keeping a gentle eye on their stalls at the market place.
And the women of the market were still admonishing me for failing to come and buy something, a string of beads, a carving I had no taste for – anything to make the give-and-take of life move on.
The hordes of children from the mainland who had thronged the tiny beach had returned to their classrooms. There were fewer tourists. The atmosphere was more subdued. The island’s official drunk seemed to have mended his ways and was trying to be nice to everybody. Even the flies seemed to have called it a day, and gone off to buzz their ugly menace somewhere else. Winter is a time of transition. Life seemed to be brooding on reinventing itself on the island. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, until I glanced out of my window on the fourth day and saw, for the first time, a funeral cortege on the island. There was nothing elaborate about it. Three sapeurs pompiers, who would elsewhere be described as firemen, but who perform the function of general emergency staff here on Gor’e, where few calamities ever occur, were walking slowly in a parallel line. They were carrying between them the corpse of a young woman, tightly wrapped in linen, towards the island’s tiny mosque. There the funeral rites would be performed, before her body would be conveyed, on the same ferry, for burial on the mainland. There was hardly a murmur across the island. The cortege was allowed to pass, and then the sounds of life picked up as usual.
The island is so small that there is not even space to bury the dead. There is only space for life and its passing preoccupations, governed by the winds and the tides. I had left in a season of turbulence and had returned in a season of cleansing. The earth had changed its axis in a matter of weeks.