A Grand Day Out

Sunday, September 27, 2009 -- A Grand Day Out
Motorcycling alone. Concentrating. Eyes intent on the rude, rutted, red dirt track in front. On each side, high walls of grass hem me in, cutting off the breeze. The air is hot and still and muggy. There is the smell of damp and green things growing. In my ears only silence and the thumping of the big 650 under me. I stay on guard for the next patch of soft sand where I must turn on the power carefully or risk a fall, and suddenly a flock of pure white egrets rises all around me and I’m enveloped in a cloud of great wings so white they seem to have a light of their own, rising out of the green so close I can feel the air wind around me from their beating pinions. My breath catches in my chest and my heart leaps upward with them.
I motor along the beach on the flood tide. Crowds of boys play football. Scattered bathers in the surf. Small crabs scuttle out of my path and pop into their holes. Sand plovers with their down-turning beaks and dun-colored wings fish in the surf. I motor in the smooth, firm sand, then gradually venture into the softer stuff, testing the bike, feeling the tires and growing more accustomed to the slithering motion of the machine under me. A barracuda leaps in the surf, stiff as a spear, flanks like burnished alloy. There are high bluffs along the water now, with baobab trees growing, anchoring the ledges, green where grasses and trees have been able to hold; red where the land gives way to water and the pull of the earth. Vultures and kites and hooded crows perch in the baobabs or ride the updraft from the onshore breeze. 5-star resorts, rich and fanciful emerge occasionally, nestled up into the bluffs. It is off-season and there are only a few toubabs sunning and tending their toddlers.
An English expatriate is surf-casting. We chat for a few minutes. “The fishing gets worse each year,” he says. “Worse for you,” I say. “Better for the fish!” He laughs.
I ride on to where a point thrusts out toward Brazil. The beach narrows. There are native fishing boats moored just past the surf. A pair of big fishing boats are hauled up in the beach grass above the tide line. I am looking landward and a few young men see me and motion, pointing out the trail up away from the beach. It isn’t easy to see, screened by beach grass and scrub and I wave a thanks for their kindness. As I ride up onto the first flat above the beach there is a group of men fitting a plank to the keel of a new boat. I park the bike in the grass beside the trail, take off my helmet and gloves, and greet the men with “As Salaamu Aleikum” (Peace be with you.). “Wa aleikum salaam,” ( And with you, peace.) they chorus back. One or two come over to shake hands. One recognizes me. “Kololi?” he asks. (I live in Kololi Village.) “Wow,” (yes) I confirm.
So, I hang out for an hour and a half and watch the master boatbuilder fit planks to this carvel-planked boat. The keel, which is also the narrow bottom of the boat, has been carved from a single, massive piece of padouk, a red hardwood. The garboards, the first set of planks above the keel, are very narrow, only a few inches high and also of padouk. I assume they are narrow because they have to adapt to the more extreme curves established by the keel and form a smooth base for the planking that will be fitted above. There are no steam boxes here to soften the wood and allow it to adapt without splitting, so the wood must be kept narrow. The master and his assistants are fitting a massive plank of bois blanc about 16 inches wide and nearly 2 inches thick. The assistants muscle it into the complex curve it must take while the master marks off the required line using a discarded morsel of wall board for chalk. He eyeballs the end of the plank and draws a scarf joint freehand. The plank is removed to the ground and an assistant holds the plank on edge while the master builder uses a native adze to trim away the wood to his scribed lines. His work is smooth. Effortless. It looks easy.
I have tried adzing and know there is much more to it than meets the eye. The uniformity of stroke and depth. The sense of when the wood will split or tear out. These are kinesthetics learned over years. I ask one of the men how many boats this man has built. The man translates for the master. The master replies; he speaks no English. “A thousand”, the man translates.
The adzed plank is held in place on the garboards again. It fits beautifully, extending about halfway down the length of the boat on the port bow. Now the master marks the plank for drilling, about every 12 inches. The plank is removed and again held on edge, bottom up. There is a small petrol generator. It is fired up and a long drill bit made from rebar, chucked into an electric drill is used to drill holes all the way through the plank. Through these will be fitted pieces of iron rebar which will be hammered with a small sledge into corresponding holes in the garboards. This is done starting at the bow end and muscling the plank into the required curve as each rebar is hammered in in turn.
A corresponding bow plank is cut and fitted to the starboard side, then planks to complete the tier are sawn, adzed, scarfed, fitted, drilled and hammered into place. The scarf joints, drawn by eye, fit flawlessly. The result is an elegant curve from stem to stern.
It is not easy to shape boat planks. The lines change as the plank is bent into a flaring, complex curve and knowing just how to cut such a curve so the result is graceful – what boatbuilders call “fair” – is the product of long experience and a certain talent. This man has an eye for line.
I ask them what will be used to caulk the seams. One man shows me a strip of asphalt. They get it “from Europe”, he says. What did people use before they had this tar from Europe? A man tells me, “Goat manure”. I find this a bit dubious until he goes on, “You know the white stuff? The white stuff, they put it in parcels, like when you purchase electronics?” I think for a minute. “Styrofoam?” “Thank you,” he says. “Yes, they take that and some petrol and they put it in and they put it in and it goes away (dissolves) and soon there is enough. Then they mix in the goat manure and this is used to plug the holes.” I assume the gasoline evaporates leaving a mixture of plastic and goat dung. Ingenious but hardly aboriginal. Higher tech and lower intestine.
It has been a hot day and I have not brought water. Eventually I take my leave but I will try to return and perhaps photograph the project. I doubt there will be a problem getting permission. Here, if one demonstrates respect and asks permission most people don’t have a problem being photographed.
I get comments about the bike all the time. “I like your moto!” “You will give me this?” (said with a grin or said with a searching gaze, watching to see if I have sufficient sense of humor to get the joke). Men look at the speedometer which goes up to 200 km/hr. They whistle and raise their eyebrows. “This machine is very fast!” they say. I have to explain the speedometer markings have nothing to do with the top speed of this machine; that it is in no way intended for high-speed riding but is designed to be functional both on and off-road. They look skeptical.
Often I observe men discussing the bike, usually in their own language but hear the letters “BMW” enunciated clearly and with respect. People know this marque and know its quality. Mine is the only F650 in The Gambia and it arouses interest.
I have to pick my way carefully up a washed out dirt track back to the good two-lane that skirts the coast. I motor home. A grand day out.