I was excited to spend a night in a village on the island of Orango. The Bijagos Archipelago is known for its unique culture, which is said to be matrilineal. Orango is the largest island in the archipelago, and the heart of this West African island society. So for our second and final night on Orango, Dan and I, with the guidance of our Captain and his mate, walked a couple kilometers into the interior of the island to the Town of Eticoga. (The c is pronounced a la Portuguese: ch)

We were under the impression that our captain, Jibby, had arranged some kind of homestay for us in Eticoga. Earlier in the day, we'd discussed a village homestay with an employee at the hotel, who'd made some phone calls, and told us to follow our captain. Communicating directly with captain Jibby was consistently difficult, as he spoke only Portuguese Creole, but he'd proven to be a relaxed, competent guy throughout the trip. So we followed him into the bush on Orango.

Fruit trees, both native and introduced, populated the scrubby forest, though few were in season. The trail, pure beach sand, led us up a hill. The air was fresh, and the afternoon wore on. As we approached the village of Eticoga, radio towers and power lines came into view. I began to realize that this village was not a village, but a town, and that I needed to check my expectations. I’d been imagining something more authentic, with more thatch roofs, yet I found myself confronted with concrete buildings and NGO offices. Dar Salaam, where I’d lived as a Peace Corps volunteer in Senegal had far fewer amenities than Eticoga. Same with Dan’s Peace Corps village.

 I don't mean to give the wrong impression here. Dan and I had been in West Africa for more than two years, and were well beyond the vision of the place as some kind of ‘Safari Land,’ as my dentist once called it. West Africa is a part of the modern world, with high tech cities, villages with 100% cell phone usage, and most of the other advantages and disadvantages of anywhere else on the planet. This was not 'orientalism,' to borrow Edward Saïd's term. Rather, we had specifically heard that Orango was one place that remains off of the map, and out of time. Can you blame us for seeking this out?

 In reality this looked like a village that had been part of the modern world for a long time.

And it only got weirder from there. It became apparent that arrangements had not been made for us to sleep somewhere prior to our arrival. Instead Jibby got into a heated discussion with a local National Park representative. We tried to contribute in a meaningful way, but nobody spoke French, English, Mandinka/Jakhanké, or Pulaar. After a few awkward minutes, Jibby and the local representative worked something out. The representative made it clear we needed to give him some money, which we gave him grudgingly and sheepishly; 5 dollars a person. Then we were led to a house. It was a beautiful old house wooden, made of thick hardwood slabs, and with a big, sturdy porch. How beautiful.

We were introduced to the chief, a very old man. But, as we gathered, this wasn’t the true chief of the village. The real chief, it was haltingly explained through Spanish and French cognates with Portuguese-- the queen-- was out at the moment. Woah, awesome! Matriarchy! Maybe if we stay here, we will get to meet her later. We were gracious and tried to express as much gratitude as possible. In the meantime, waiting for the female chief, we sat awkwardly in front of the house. People in West Africa have no problem doing nothing. But it was getting late, and nobody was taking any action.

Then I had an idea; we should give this guy a gift. I had a bag of almonds with me from Trader Joe's. This guy might just have enough teeth to enjoy them. I told Dan my idea and he agreed enthusiastically. Then I said "Cadeau!" (present in French), which seemed to be recognized, the chief smiled and nodded. I reached into my bag, and made a big show of going through it. Then I realized that I didn't have the almonds with me. In fact, I had nothing that could have been construed as a gift, really. The almonds were back at the hotel. We'd left some stuff behind for the trip, in the boats, to lighten our loads for the hike into the interior. I blushed and slowly closed my bag. Dan chuckled. Nobody said anything. The queen was nowhere to be seen. 

Then Jibby led us to where we would really be staying, at the radio station. The radio station. A concrete situation with a gazebo in the middle of it. 

We were shown an empty room, where we'd sleep. A concrete box with a bare mattress. Then Jibby left. All of a sudden things were extremely un-cultural.  Nobody came and invited us to dinner (which you can 100% guarantee would happen in virtually any village in Senegal.) We wandered around and nobody asked to hang out. Apparently this was a village with a very different value system, or we'd committed an unspeakable faux pas. Nobody was interested in talking to us. I can only theorize, unconvincingly about why this village was so much less convivial and social than virtually every other village Dan and I encountered on the trip, and through the rest of our time in West Africa.

I felt incredulous. But I realized that this feeling wasn’t directed towards the village, but more so towards myself due to the fact that I had to restrain feelings of incredulity. After realizing that we were on our own for dinner we found a boutique and bought crackers and canned fish. It was terrible. I read a National Geographic from cover to cover, Dan took a codine, and we went to sleep.