We rose early (seems to be an unfortunate habit on this trip...) and made our way to the bus station. The morning was cool and crisp, with dew underfoot and a dense fog all around. Bit descriptive you may think. I only remember it so well because we were at the bus station for about 6 hours! The 'morning' bus we'd been told about only left when it was full; which turned out to be about midday.
Crammed in a well overcrowded minibus (damn greedy driver) we set off down the worst 'road' qny of us have ever been down. Potholes, flooding, fallen trees - we had the works! Some of these potholes were ridiculous: huge pools of muddy water stretching from one side of the mud track to the other. When the driver edged down one side of the collapsing verge, the vehicle felt as if it would topple over (about four people sitting on the roof, as well as luggage) before we made it through, leaving waves in the giant puddles. Add to that a very uncomfortable seat, crammed in between people and biting flies, we didn't have the best journey. You won't believe it until I get some photos up.
After about three hours on this hellish track, we arrived in Susannah (18km from Varela). This was as far as the van could go because of flooding and a collapsed bridge. As we picked up our gear it was about 4pm. Some others from our bus were making the walk to Varela and so we tagged along. Much to the local's suprise I might add - laughing and waving at us.
There was an old man in a gold tunic and a younger guy, who was a fisherman, set the pace for us to follow. God, was it quick?! We were completely unprepared for this; no water, quick change from flip flops to shoes (minus socks in mly case) and carrying a helluva lot of weight in our backpacks! Maneuvering round the flooded potholes became more and more difficlut as the road fell apart before us. Massive lakes of stagnant water, deeper potholes - it was crazy how anything could get down here.
After an hour or so we reached a collapsed bridge. Piled up at the side of the road were the remains of the former metal bridge, and in its place across the river were creaking wooden slats. No wonder the minibuses couldn't have made it that far; the bridge would have definitely collapsed under its weight! The road didn't get any better after the bridge. The tail end of the rainy season had a very negative impact on the roads - the pot holes were deeper and wider than before and the water had turned the whole track into thick mud.
We seemed to walk for miles. Well, we did. We walked eighteen kilometres in the end, taking just under three hours, arriving at Franco's Chez Helene just after dusk. What a journey! Blistered feet, sore thighs, dehydration - the works! Arriving at Chez Helene we polished off a beer each and followed it all up with lots of chilled water. More on Franco and Varela later, even writing about the walk makes me feel tired, and brings on a throbbing in my feet!
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Friday, 30 October 2009
Sao Domingo, with no Portuguese
After a great last meal from Elizabeth at our campement, we gathered everything together (including the tonnes of washing) and packed for an early start. Getting up at 6am, we grabbed a quick breakfast - standard omlette in a baguette and uber-sweet coffee - before getting to the gare routiere in time for the first bus. Ended up waiting there for an hour or so before we set off for Ziguinchor again to get our visas for Guinea-Bissau (GB).
Getting the visas was the easiest thing on this trip thus far! We walked in, paid 10,000 CFA (just over a tenner), and they returned our passports within ten minutes! EASY! More complications on the horizon for Guinea-Bissau though... Headed for the gare routiere in Zig to try and get to Varela, on the GB coast in one day. Well, after lunch. Cheap plat du jour, dish of the day, for just over a quid. Love these prices.
Varela had a brilliant write up in a few of the travel guides, supposedly far better than the beaches of southern Senegal -especially Cap Skiring, which has had a tourist boom in the last few years. It was also lauded on the internet, so we decided to give it a try. It'd be nice to have a beach for a few days!
After crossing the border on the most overfull minibus yet (about 40 people) we arrived in Sao Domingo, just over the border. A crowd of drivers gathered round us in the tiny gare routiere and we eventually discovered that there was no minibus to Varela until tomorrow. We were quite the celebrities and were hassled a lot. Just to make it more confusing, Guinea-Bissau's official language was Portuguese - liberated in the 1970's. And unfortunately for us we had no idea of any Portuguese - bar a few phrases Barney had got from the web. The guidebook we had for GB said see Cape Verde's section for some phrases. We'd got rid of the Cape Verde section as we weren't going there. D'oh!
Luckily we had Franco's number ("Ah Franco!"), who was the owner of the only place to stay in Varela - a three hour journey towards the coast. Dree called from someone's phone and after a confusing discussion Franco said he'd expect us tomorrow morning.
Now to find a place to stay. We walked through the town (don't think many tourists stay here) but the only place that was in the guide book was shut. A couple of guys showed us to a motel up the road. The translation above the door made us think that it maybe a place you can pay for by the hour... a house of ill repute... but we had nowhere else to go and so we bedded down for the night.
Getting the visas was the easiest thing on this trip thus far! We walked in, paid 10,000 CFA (just over a tenner), and they returned our passports within ten minutes! EASY! More complications on the horizon for Guinea-Bissau though... Headed for the gare routiere in Zig to try and get to Varela, on the GB coast in one day. Well, after lunch. Cheap plat du jour, dish of the day, for just over a quid. Love these prices.
Varela had a brilliant write up in a few of the travel guides, supposedly far better than the beaches of southern Senegal -especially Cap Skiring, which has had a tourist boom in the last few years. It was also lauded on the internet, so we decided to give it a try. It'd be nice to have a beach for a few days!
After crossing the border on the most overfull minibus yet (about 40 people) we arrived in Sao Domingo, just over the border. A crowd of drivers gathered round us in the tiny gare routiere and we eventually discovered that there was no minibus to Varela until tomorrow. We were quite the celebrities and were hassled a lot. Just to make it more confusing, Guinea-Bissau's official language was Portuguese - liberated in the 1970's. And unfortunately for us we had no idea of any Portuguese - bar a few phrases Barney had got from the web. The guidebook we had for GB said see Cape Verde's section for some phrases. We'd got rid of the Cape Verde section as we weren't going there. D'oh!
Luckily we had Franco's number ("Ah Franco!"), who was the owner of the only place to stay in Varela - a three hour journey towards the coast. Dree called from someone's phone and after a confusing discussion Franco said he'd expect us tomorrow morning.
Now to find a place to stay. We walked through the town (don't think many tourists stay here) but the only place that was in the guide book was shut. A couple of guys showed us to a motel up the road. The translation above the door made us think that it maybe a place you can pay for by the hour... a house of ill repute... but we had nowhere else to go and so we bedded down for the night.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Meeting His Highness
The meeting with the King was scheduled for the afternoon, so in the morning we decided to head to Point-St-George, an idyllic riverside village with a manatee watching platform. But we had to head for the less interesting fishing village of Elinke as there were no taxis heading to St George that morning, and we had to get back for our rendezvous with the King! Turns out that Elinke was only a few more kilometres from where we watched the impromptu wrestling the other day.
When I say its a fishing village, thats it. Nothing else. Well there was a big treen (took a few pics) bar that, nothing! Ended up sorting backpack out for the next week before going to wait at our campenment for Charles around fourish. The rain had been going on for about an hour - second day on the trot in the dry season - and it was nearer 5pm when Charles arrived. We wandered through his village in a short cut to the gare routiere. Next door was the King's headquarters. We'd already walked past his house, which he shares with his several wives.
We waited over the road, while Charles confirmed our appointment. He came back, collected us and showed us into a small clearing the other side of a tall group of bushes. We waited there for a little while, before a man came out to say that the King was not ready until 6pm. Of course this is no problem - the King can choose when he wants to see people and not! It's his perogative! We had a quick drink at the bar in the gare routiere, returning at just before six.
I felt pretty nervous, truth be told, as the King came out to meet us in the small clearing - us sitting on a log on one side, and His Highness on the other, along with his assistant, holding umbrellas up. He spoke only in native Wolof, with Charles translating into French for us. The King was about 60 years old, barefoot in the mud, dressed in a long red tunic with a collar, and a
We asked him a load of questions ranging from does he get a holiday (laughter, and an explanation of how much time his job takes up), how big a family does he have (three wives and 18 kids) and what he thinks of the current situation in Cassamance re: the rebels/seeing Cassamance as a separate country. For the last question, the King went into some detail, explaining that he looked after the region, and sorted any disputes between people in villages - his word was final. He also mentioned that the Govt were in control of the whole country and that he just overlooked West Cassamance (Ossuyeh to Cap Skiring on the coast).
Other questions included education ("Important for the children, but they also should learn about tradition and skills") and what he thinks of tourism in the area ("Also important, but as long as they are respectful"). Took a couple of photos and thanked him for everything, bowing as we did so!
We paid a 10,000 CFA donation out of respect (also because we were told to) and tipped Charles for the past three days and also for arranging the meet. Well worth it though. Story to tell 'n' all!
When I say its a fishing village, thats it. Nothing else. Well there was a big treen (took a few pics) bar that, nothing! Ended up sorting backpack out for the next week before going to wait at our campenment for Charles around fourish. The rain had been going on for about an hour - second day on the trot in the dry season - and it was nearer 5pm when Charles arrived. We wandered through his village in a short cut to the gare routiere. Next door was the King's headquarters. We'd already walked past his house, which he shares with his several wives.
We waited over the road, while Charles confirmed our appointment. He came back, collected us and showed us into a small clearing the other side of a tall group of bushes. We waited there for a little while, before a man came out to say that the King was not ready until 6pm. Of course this is no problem - the King can choose when he wants to see people and not! It's his perogative! We had a quick drink at the bar in the gare routiere, returning at just before six.
I felt pretty nervous, truth be told, as the King came out to meet us in the small clearing - us sitting on a log on one side, and His Highness on the other, along with his assistant, holding umbrellas up. He spoke only in native Wolof, with Charles translating into French for us. The King was about 60 years old, barefoot in the mud, dressed in a long red tunic with a collar, and a
We asked him a load of questions ranging from does he get a holiday (laughter, and an explanation of how much time his job takes up), how big a family does he have (three wives and 18 kids) and what he thinks of the current situation in Cassamance re: the rebels/seeing Cassamance as a separate country. For the last question, the King went into some detail, explaining that he looked after the region, and sorted any disputes between people in villages - his word was final. He also mentioned that the Govt were in control of the whole country and that he just overlooked West Cassamance (Ossuyeh to Cap Skiring on the coast).
Other questions included education ("Important for the children, but they also should learn about tradition and skills") and what he thinks of tourism in the area ("Also important, but as long as they are respectful"). Took a couple of photos and thanked him for everything, bowing as we did so!
We paid a 10,000 CFA donation out of respect (also because we were told to) and tipped Charles for the past three days and also for arranging the meet. Well worth it though. Story to tell 'n' all!
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
'Trek', ants and more Pablo
The trek (if that's what you could call it) was pretty disappointing. Charles took us on a walk through a few foresty bits and showed us a few different plants and fruits, including one really bitter one that we pretended to like, and so he kept plying us with them. Then we took a walk on the main road, down past some rice fields and then round to the back of our campenment. Not fantastic. I was expecting more.
During the trek, Charles told us that it probably wouldn't rain for another few months, but that afternoon it chucked it down for an hour or so! On a brighter note, we organised a meeting with the King of the region! To take place the following night! Pretty excited about that.
During the evening we'd organised a meet with Pablo for some more palm wine. On the way out of the campenment, in pitch black, I stood on some ants who were migrating because of the rain. These ants are killers, well the guard-ants that look after the workers are. They crawled up my legs and back and began to attack. Really big ants with visible jaws, it hurt so badly! Had to run back and have a shower before we tried again, this time missing the aggressive ants.
At Pablo's shop he also had an ant problem - they had burrowed through his sandy shop floor, where we were sitting a few evenings before. He invited us back to his house to have a drink, and we thought it was only a few doors down. After ten minutes of walking into the dark bush, taking too many turns to remember, we arrived at a village clearing where a few people were gathered. We were introduced to Pablo's 'grandpere', who was an old man with cataracts in both eyes.
Headed into Pablo's house, which was bare mud walls and floors, a tin roof and a mattress in one room. We drunk the palm wine outside in a kind of porch, but the conversation had been dried up the night before. He showed us a handful of pictures of him on the coast, fishing, and some of an European woman, whom he called his wife? After a few long silences, he brought up the fact he had two kids who he needed to pay to get through school. We said no to any donation but did buy some necklaces from him (was going to get some anyway). Anywhoooo, meeting a King next!
During the trek, Charles told us that it probably wouldn't rain for another few months, but that afternoon it chucked it down for an hour or so! On a brighter note, we organised a meeting with the King of the region! To take place the following night! Pretty excited about that.
During the evening we'd organised a meet with Pablo for some more palm wine. On the way out of the campenment, in pitch black, I stood on some ants who were migrating because of the rain. These ants are killers, well the guard-ants that look after the workers are. They crawled up my legs and back and began to attack. Really big ants with visible jaws, it hurt so badly! Had to run back and have a shower before we tried again, this time missing the aggressive ants.
At Pablo's shop he also had an ant problem - they had burrowed through his sandy shop floor, where we were sitting a few evenings before. He invited us back to his house to have a drink, and we thought it was only a few doors down. After ten minutes of walking into the dark bush, taking too many turns to remember, we arrived at a village clearing where a few people were gathered. We were introduced to Pablo's 'grandpere', who was an old man with cataracts in both eyes.
Headed into Pablo's house, which was bare mud walls and floors, a tin roof and a mattress in one room. We drunk the palm wine outside in a kind of porch, but the conversation had been dried up the night before. He showed us a handful of pictures of him on the coast, fishing, and some of an European woman, whom he called his wife? After a few long silences, he brought up the fact he had two kids who he needed to pay to get through school. We said no to any donation but did buy some necklaces from him (was going to get some anyway). Anywhoooo, meeting a King next!
Kayaking down the Cassamance
For the following day in Ossuyeh, we'd organised a kayak trip with Charles (VTT), but he'd got in contact the evening before to say that the tides meant that we could only go at 4pm. So after a relaxed day, including doing some washing Mum, we set off on bikes for the river.
Dropping the bikes off in a village about ten minutes away, we got the kit from a nearby hut and walked through some forest before emerging onto some paddy fields. These went on for quite a way, but we eventually arrived at the river's bank. The woven wooden hut that contained the kayaks was about twenty feet out, in the shallows. As we waded through, the river bed changed from sand to stone, to a kind of clay that felt really weird on the feet - you sunk into it, and we didn't know what was in these waters!
Getting the kayaks out was a bit of a mission in itself. Some huge wasps (and I mean ginormous) had started making small nests in the overturned kayaks, and were obviously a bit disturbed. These wasps were only black, but had a separated thorax and hovered around like a helicopter, sounding a bit like that too, as they were two or three inches big!
Got in eventually: me and Barney in one, Dree and Charles in the other, and headed into the bolong (mangrove swamps) that created a maze from the shoreline. Children were playing out in the water, which was pretty murky from the mud, and tried to grab a lift as we passed by. Dree and Charles were flying along, but me and B seemed to be going in a zig-zag fashion, using twice as much energy as the others. B blamed me, and I agreed because anyone who knows me knows that my upper body strength isn't fantastic. But when me and Dree swapped kayaks, Dree said that it was definitely Barney's steering that was at fault. I'll take that!
It was quite cool to do something a bit different, but there was not a lot to see, bar the groves. Saw a handful of birds, and a man in a pirogue who had caught a lot of fish during his day on the river. After changing our route, and heading into the cramped gaps between the submerged trees (lots of laughter as B and Dree careered about, smashing into the sides), we emerged into a wider part of the river. Charles asked us if we'd like a swim, and we jumped in. The water was lovely, it was a very hot day, and was a bit surreal to be swimming in a place like that. Did have a small fear about the fish that swim up your you-know-what, but I was reassured they were just in the Amazon.
Headed back to land, and got to the bikes just after dusk. Trek organised for the next morning. Can't wait!
Dropping the bikes off in a village about ten minutes away, we got the kit from a nearby hut and walked through some forest before emerging onto some paddy fields. These went on for quite a way, but we eventually arrived at the river's bank. The woven wooden hut that contained the kayaks was about twenty feet out, in the shallows. As we waded through, the river bed changed from sand to stone, to a kind of clay that felt really weird on the feet - you sunk into it, and we didn't know what was in these waters!
Getting the kayaks out was a bit of a mission in itself. Some huge wasps (and I mean ginormous) had started making small nests in the overturned kayaks, and were obviously a bit disturbed. These wasps were only black, but had a separated thorax and hovered around like a helicopter, sounding a bit like that too, as they were two or three inches big!
Got in eventually: me and Barney in one, Dree and Charles in the other, and headed into the bolong (mangrove swamps) that created a maze from the shoreline. Children were playing out in the water, which was pretty murky from the mud, and tried to grab a lift as we passed by. Dree and Charles were flying along, but me and B seemed to be going in a zig-zag fashion, using twice as much energy as the others. B blamed me, and I agreed because anyone who knows me knows that my upper body strength isn't fantastic. But when me and Dree swapped kayaks, Dree said that it was definitely Barney's steering that was at fault. I'll take that!
It was quite cool to do something a bit different, but there was not a lot to see, bar the groves. Saw a handful of birds, and a man in a pirogue who had caught a lot of fish during his day on the river. After changing our route, and heading into the cramped gaps between the submerged trees (lots of laughter as B and Dree careered about, smashing into the sides), we emerged into a wider part of the river. Charles asked us if we'd like a swim, and we jumped in. The water was lovely, it was a very hot day, and was a bit surreal to be swimming in a place like that. Did have a small fear about the fish that swim up your you-know-what, but I was reassured they were just in the Amazon.
Headed back to land, and got to the bikes just after dusk. Trek organised for the next morning. Can't wait!
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
One of My Best Travelling Experiences
The night before we hired bikes, we'd heard some tribal drums in the distance. Ossuyeh was apparently a good place to see some wrestling (the national sport), and we had arrived in the right season. We decided to head out the following night to find our own slice of Senegalese tradition.
That next morning, we set out on some, surprisingly, good condition bikes (suspension!) on a route recommended to us by Charles, the man behind VTT. Dree was not feeling 100% after being ill, but we continued regardless. I was honestly happy to not be ill myself, as it's normally me that catches something first! But obviously sharing Dree's pain.
After a cycle down a long dirt road, we turned down a forest footpath, going past a village's back gardens and into the thick of the forest, with giant trees staring down at us. They really are amazing, far larger than anything in the UK! Only problem being that the path turned into a sand track. We were skidding and drifting all over the place. Great fun!
We eventually turned onto the main road and kept cycling through the Senegalese countryside in searing heat (we were pretty ill-prepared for the strength of the sun - far hotter than anything in Asia), past rice paddys, more giant forests, children playing at the side of the road and rogue goats. Sometimes a huge truck from the local quarry would storm past, or a sept-place would cut us up, leaving us covered in red dust. Stopping for water at a small village, we heard some commotion on the road behind us (we were about to turn back, because we only had a half-days rent on the bikes).
There was a group of about a hundred people taking up the whole width of the road, chanting, waving banners and sticks and making a helluva lot of noise. First thought - rebels. Fantastic. On closer inspection there was a mixture of all ages and both sexes, and the entire group seemed in fantastic spirits. They turned down a path into a village clearing and we got chatting to a man along the road who could speak French. He explained it was a wrestling bout between two villages, and we were more than welcome to watch! Lady Luck was on form that day!
We got taken into the clearing and our French-speaking friend got us a bench right at the front, after firstly checking with the village chief. There were two villages on either side of a large, unsymmetrical circle with male wrestlers between 13 and 35 years old, all bare chested, most with a sarong-like cloth over Adidas or Nike shorts. Makeshift drums (empty oil containers) were being banged and a hunting horn was constantly playing, with a lot of the villagers singing and dancing along. It was fantastic. A front row seat!
Then the wrestling began. Nothing at all like Stone Cold or The Hardy Boyz, this was one-on-one, mano-a-mano for your pride and that of your village. There were three or four separate matches going on at once, bodies grappling, kicking up sand, with the object to ground your opponent on his back. There were some cracking flips, airborne slams and sly leg taps. The atmosphere was incredible! When a fighter was victorious, the drums were sounded, the women shrieked about and slapped the ground with leafed branches, and some very football-esque celebrations were being shown - the chicken dance, finger to the lips, dancing, the Usain Bolt! The only one I didn't see was the Robot!
One guy was on fire. We nicknamed him 'Red', because of his shorts, and he was HUGE. Guess thats what happens when you do some manual labour, but I wouldn't know. He was throwing people all over the place, and was probably the best one there. In the final! After an hour of different rounds, he kept drawing to his opponent (i.e. neither wrestler could floor the other; a stalemate). In this instance, a 'referee' from one of the villages would come and tap them on the shoulders - usually a bare-chested man with a machete in his jeans! Occasionally, the outer cordon of the arena was broken, as a fight spilled into the undergrowth, sending screaming women running for cover.
Behind us a youth-wrestling competition was going on - children re-enacting their fathers, uncles or brothers' success. Toddlers grappling in a playfight, in training to become the next champion of the region! After a few hours the bout was over, and we headed beck to Ossuyeh in the ridiculously hot midday sun.
It was all worth it though, this was a fantastic experience, probably one of the most amazing I have been part of. We were invited into a community to witness something that has been tradition for hundreds of years. A great memory.
That next morning, we set out on some, surprisingly, good condition bikes (suspension!) on a route recommended to us by Charles, the man behind VTT. Dree was not feeling 100% after being ill, but we continued regardless. I was honestly happy to not be ill myself, as it's normally me that catches something first! But obviously sharing Dree's pain.
After a cycle down a long dirt road, we turned down a forest footpath, going past a village's back gardens and into the thick of the forest, with giant trees staring down at us. They really are amazing, far larger than anything in the UK! Only problem being that the path turned into a sand track. We were skidding and drifting all over the place. Great fun!
We eventually turned onto the main road and kept cycling through the Senegalese countryside in searing heat (we were pretty ill-prepared for the strength of the sun - far hotter than anything in Asia), past rice paddys, more giant forests, children playing at the side of the road and rogue goats. Sometimes a huge truck from the local quarry would storm past, or a sept-place would cut us up, leaving us covered in red dust. Stopping for water at a small village, we heard some commotion on the road behind us (we were about to turn back, because we only had a half-days rent on the bikes).
There was a group of about a hundred people taking up the whole width of the road, chanting, waving banners and sticks and making a helluva lot of noise. First thought - rebels. Fantastic. On closer inspection there was a mixture of all ages and both sexes, and the entire group seemed in fantastic spirits. They turned down a path into a village clearing and we got chatting to a man along the road who could speak French. He explained it was a wrestling bout between two villages, and we were more than welcome to watch! Lady Luck was on form that day!
We got taken into the clearing and our French-speaking friend got us a bench right at the front, after firstly checking with the village chief. There were two villages on either side of a large, unsymmetrical circle with male wrestlers between 13 and 35 years old, all bare chested, most with a sarong-like cloth over Adidas or Nike shorts. Makeshift drums (empty oil containers) were being banged and a hunting horn was constantly playing, with a lot of the villagers singing and dancing along. It was fantastic. A front row seat!
Then the wrestling began. Nothing at all like Stone Cold or The Hardy Boyz, this was one-on-one, mano-a-mano for your pride and that of your village. There were three or four separate matches going on at once, bodies grappling, kicking up sand, with the object to ground your opponent on his back. There were some cracking flips, airborne slams and sly leg taps. The atmosphere was incredible! When a fighter was victorious, the drums were sounded, the women shrieked about and slapped the ground with leafed branches, and some very football-esque celebrations were being shown - the chicken dance, finger to the lips, dancing, the Usain Bolt! The only one I didn't see was the Robot!
One guy was on fire. We nicknamed him 'Red', because of his shorts, and he was HUGE. Guess thats what happens when you do some manual labour, but I wouldn't know. He was throwing people all over the place, and was probably the best one there. In the final! After an hour of different rounds, he kept drawing to his opponent (i.e. neither wrestler could floor the other; a stalemate). In this instance, a 'referee' from one of the villages would come and tap them on the shoulders - usually a bare-chested man with a machete in his jeans! Occasionally, the outer cordon of the arena was broken, as a fight spilled into the undergrowth, sending screaming women running for cover.
Behind us a youth-wrestling competition was going on - children re-enacting their fathers, uncles or brothers' success. Toddlers grappling in a playfight, in training to become the next champion of the region! After a few hours the bout was over, and we headed beck to Ossuyeh in the ridiculously hot midday sun.
It was all worth it though, this was a fantastic experience, probably one of the most amazing I have been part of. We were invited into a community to witness something that has been tradition for hundreds of years. A great memory.
Pablo and Palm Wine
Arriving in Ossuyeh by the early afternoon, we walked the length of the small town to a campenment where we were staying. The walk was a bit of a killer - taking about 20 minutes down a dusty track in burning sun, but we eventually dragged ourselves there. Worryingly we were staying just down the road from an army barracks, with armed soldiers and jeeps rolling around town. Also saw a tank! Cool, but in a very respectful way considering the recent problems in the region. So obviously didn't take too many pictures around the town.
The campenments are a Government-funded scheme where villagers can get money for buildings and utilities in return for housing travellers and tourists. Our campenment was run by a friendly, plump African woman called Elizabeth. The room was great, nothing more than we needed, but we did have to share two single beds between three. Cosy nights. The food at our place was amazing. We ate there all the nights we stayed, and had prawn bolognase, fresh fish, bush meat and rice, and pretty much a whole chicken with veg (saw the little thing in its last moments on Earth). There were always three courses: avocado/melon, main course and some fruit for after. The oranges were lovely but left your lips tingling a lot. Must have been some kind of reaction to the skins.
Down the lane was the VTT(Velo-tout-terrain/all terrain bikes), where we organised three days worth of trips - bikes, kayaks and a trek. I shall explain these in following posts. Opposite the VTT was Pablo's shop, but more like a shack. He was a friendly man who was always sitting out front making necklaces. Inside his shop he had carvings, instruments, paintings, beads - the whole shabang. As we were chatting, he offered to get us some palm wine for the evening. Unsure what it was at first, we dutifully agreed and said we'd meet him after our meal.
Heading down in the evening (by the way Africa goes dark in seconds, no real transition from dusk to night) we hung a torch in Pablo's shack and got chatting in broken French and English. He invited his sister, reggae Ami (pronounced like the French for friend), who turned out to be a palm reader and masseuse, and kept calling Pablo "Pablo Escobar". Had some palm wine, which is a cloudy white liquid, collected in the morning from palm trees and left to ferment during the day. Tastes quite vile to be honest, but after a few swigs the taste seems to improve! Basically poor man's moonshine.
Ami read mine and Dree's palms (different to the tree) and apparently he will meet a girl on this trip and so will I. Kind of true for Dree - we are meeting Kerry in Bamako, Mali on November 1st - and hopefully for me. Maybe I'll bring back a wife! Hopefully not a child though, I can hardly look after myself, let alone a dependant! We also found out that Ossuyeh has a radio station, played courtesy of Ami's mobile, and she passed me the phone when she called the on-air number. Not sure if I got my "shout out" onto the airwaves though...
One night, after our trek ride in the morning, Ami turned up at the campenment to give me a massage. Rather awkward, as I neither asked for, nor wanted one. Think I lost a friend there.
All in all Ossuyeh is a brilliant place, but read the next few posts to find out what we did on our trips out, and also our visit to meet the King of the region. Royalty people!
The campenments are a Government-funded scheme where villagers can get money for buildings and utilities in return for housing travellers and tourists. Our campenment was run by a friendly, plump African woman called Elizabeth. The room was great, nothing more than we needed, but we did have to share two single beds between three. Cosy nights. The food at our place was amazing. We ate there all the nights we stayed, and had prawn bolognase, fresh fish, bush meat and rice, and pretty much a whole chicken with veg (saw the little thing in its last moments on Earth). There were always three courses: avocado/melon, main course and some fruit for after. The oranges were lovely but left your lips tingling a lot. Must have been some kind of reaction to the skins.
Down the lane was the VTT(Velo-tout-terrain/all terrain bikes), where we organised three days worth of trips - bikes, kayaks and a trek. I shall explain these in following posts. Opposite the VTT was Pablo's shop, but more like a shack. He was a friendly man who was always sitting out front making necklaces. Inside his shop he had carvings, instruments, paintings, beads - the whole shabang. As we were chatting, he offered to get us some palm wine for the evening. Unsure what it was at first, we dutifully agreed and said we'd meet him after our meal.
Heading down in the evening (by the way Africa goes dark in seconds, no real transition from dusk to night) we hung a torch in Pablo's shack and got chatting in broken French and English. He invited his sister, reggae Ami (pronounced like the French for friend), who turned out to be a palm reader and masseuse, and kept calling Pablo "Pablo Escobar". Had some palm wine, which is a cloudy white liquid, collected in the morning from palm trees and left to ferment during the day. Tastes quite vile to be honest, but after a few swigs the taste seems to improve! Basically poor man's moonshine.
Ami read mine and Dree's palms (different to the tree) and apparently he will meet a girl on this trip and so will I. Kind of true for Dree - we are meeting Kerry in Bamako, Mali on November 1st - and hopefully for me. Maybe I'll bring back a wife! Hopefully not a child though, I can hardly look after myself, let alone a dependant! We also found out that Ossuyeh has a radio station, played courtesy of Ami's mobile, and she passed me the phone when she called the on-air number. Not sure if I got my "shout out" onto the airwaves though...
One night, after our trek ride in the morning, Ami turned up at the campenment to give me a massage. Rather awkward, as I neither asked for, nor wanted one. Think I lost a friend there.
All in all Ossuyeh is a brilliant place, but read the next few posts to find out what we did on our trips out, and also our visit to meet the King of the region. Royalty people!
Ziggy
We found a reasonably cheap place on the harbour to bed down for the night and headed into town for some food. Barney got shat on by a bird (again), possibly could be an ongoing thing! After B showered, we were shown a shortcut to a restaurant by a friendly guy, but it turns out that he just wanted a sale on a boat trip, so we told him no. Kept following for a while, but got the idea eventually!
After such a journey we were excited about some top Cassamance cuisine, but mine came out as fried chicken and chips... On an alternate note, we were serenaded by a guitarist. We were playing cards waiting on our meals, when we hear a speeding moped screech to a halt outside. A man runs in, sits on a chair next to us, and begins to warble in Wolof (native Senegalese). He then asks Dree his name, and beings to croon "Oh Alexxxxxx". We soon put a stop to that.
Next morning was a disappointment, as the Malian Embassy was closed due to the weekend. No worries, we suspected this and fell back on plan B - see Cassamance now, and then get Mali visas on our way back through. So we grabbed a minivan in the unnaturally quiet gare routiere for the town of Ossuyeh - base for our Cassamance adventures.
After such a journey we were excited about some top Cassamance cuisine, but mine came out as fried chicken and chips... On an alternate note, we were serenaded by a guitarist. We were playing cards waiting on our meals, when we hear a speeding moped screech to a halt outside. A man runs in, sits on a chair next to us, and begins to warble in Wolof (native Senegalese). He then asks Dree his name, and beings to croon "Oh Alexxxxxx". We soon put a stop to that.
Next morning was a disappointment, as the Malian Embassy was closed due to the weekend. No worries, we suspected this and fell back on plan B - see Cassamance now, and then get Mali visas on our way back through. So we grabbed a minivan in the unnaturally quiet gare routiere for the town of Ossuyeh - base for our Cassamance adventures.
To Ziguinchor!
After a good night's sleep (sunburn does that to a man), we got up at 7am and walked to the jetty to start the long journey out of the Gambia to Southern Senegal. Naturally Marcos was awake and waiting, we thought we'd outfoxed him. The previous evening he'd given ius the old sob story about his son needing milk from the shop. We went to buy some for him and the dried milk powder was pretty expensive!
Anyway, bought that and thought that was the end of him. But no, he follows us in the small ferry across the river to the mainland. Got on a huge bus (like American school buses but a hideous shade of green). Eventually waved Marcos off from the bus. Then at the next stop a live goat was picked up and strapped to the roof. Africa Style!
Slept most of the way along the really good road to Farafeni before getting a sept-place (seven seater Peugot) to Soma, where we had to cross the River Gambia. The driver wanted 1,500 Dalasis each: an absolute con and we ended up paying 75 Dalasis each. Cheeky. Got to Soma and were hassled as we got out of the car. Bags were collected from the roof where they were tied on by an aged piece of twine and we paid the 5 Dalasi for the ferry crossing.
On the ferry we got chatting to a friendly guy who was in the sept-place. He had short dreads and wanted to help us find a minivan to Ziguinchor on the other side of the river. Alarm bells ring, but he was one of quite a few people we've met who honestly do want to help out for nothing more than being a good Samaritan. Seems that the 'rip off culture' prevalent across Asia has yet to reach African shores; long may that continue.
Found a minivan, and after some heavy French bartering on the ferry (ta Dree, but I kind of kept up) we'd sorted a place. Squashed in on the south side of the river, our driver put the pedal to the metal and we were soon flying over potholes with some painful sounds came from underneath the van. Therefore we stopped for half an hour at a mechanics while they got underneath to sort something out. Slamming it into first gear, on the seventh attempt, we were once again under way.
Then we had a properly good breakdown. Not good for us, I mean, in a 'textbook-breakdown' kind of way. Motor struggles, jumps a bit, then dies as we meander to the roadside. Sighs all round the van, and the driver has to phone for another van. From where, we had no idea!
So this was 4pm, sun was still burning hot, and we were stranded on a particularly dangerous stretch of road. In the Cassamance area (Southern Senegal) there are a few problems with rebels who wish to be a separate country - bombs, ambushes, grenade attacks etc - but they have never targeted civilians or tourists. Howevere, the piece of road we were stuck on had a soldier patrolling a check point, and a group of soldiers in a camp back from the road. This was, as we later learnt, the most dangerous stretch of road in Senegal. Attacks were regular and dusk was falling... grand!
Luckily another van passed after an hour's wait and we jumped on that one. We were saved! This driver was far more cautious, and we made it to Ziguinchor ('Zig' hereafter) in pretty good time - what a long day!
Anyway, bought that and thought that was the end of him. But no, he follows us in the small ferry across the river to the mainland. Got on a huge bus (like American school buses but a hideous shade of green). Eventually waved Marcos off from the bus. Then at the next stop a live goat was picked up and strapped to the roof. Africa Style!
Slept most of the way along the really good road to Farafeni before getting a sept-place (seven seater Peugot) to Soma, where we had to cross the River Gambia. The driver wanted 1,500 Dalasis each: an absolute con and we ended up paying 75 Dalasis each. Cheeky. Got to Soma and were hassled as we got out of the car. Bags were collected from the roof where they were tied on by an aged piece of twine and we paid the 5 Dalasi for the ferry crossing.
On the ferry we got chatting to a friendly guy who was in the sept-place. He had short dreads and wanted to help us find a minivan to Ziguinchor on the other side of the river. Alarm bells ring, but he was one of quite a few people we've met who honestly do want to help out for nothing more than being a good Samaritan. Seems that the 'rip off culture' prevalent across Asia has yet to reach African shores; long may that continue.
Found a minivan, and after some heavy French bartering on the ferry (ta Dree, but I kind of kept up) we'd sorted a place. Squashed in on the south side of the river, our driver put the pedal to the metal and we were soon flying over potholes with some painful sounds came from underneath the van. Therefore we stopped for half an hour at a mechanics while they got underneath to sort something out. Slamming it into first gear, on the seventh attempt, we were once again under way.
Then we had a properly good breakdown. Not good for us, I mean, in a 'textbook-breakdown' kind of way. Motor struggles, jumps a bit, then dies as we meander to the roadside. Sighs all round the van, and the driver has to phone for another van. From where, we had no idea!
So this was 4pm, sun was still burning hot, and we were stranded on a particularly dangerous stretch of road. In the Cassamance area (Southern Senegal) there are a few problems with rebels who wish to be a separate country - bombs, ambushes, grenade attacks etc - but they have never targeted civilians or tourists. Howevere, the piece of road we were stuck on had a soldier patrolling a check point, and a group of soldiers in a camp back from the road. This was, as we later learnt, the most dangerous stretch of road in Senegal. Attacks were regular and dusk was falling... grand!
Luckily another van passed after an hour's wait and we jumped on that one. We were saved! This driver was far more cautious, and we made it to Ziguinchor ('Zig' hereafter) in pretty good time - what a long day!
Monday, 19 October 2009
Gambian River Cruise
We woke early and bought some bread, cheese (like Laughing Cow, but more Polyfilla than cheese) and bananas for the trip. Got into the boat and our captain, who spoke no English at all, also didn't know how to work the engine. Luckily, a younger lad from the jetty leapt on and got it started. Bodes well, we were thinking!
We travelled downriver for about four and a half hours (!), watching the river banks for any form of wildlife. Did see an awful lot of birds (various species, sizes and colours), and one particular yellow kind that makes spherical nests from reeds overhanging the water - pretty skilfull! Tonnes of those and very little else. We were beginning to wonder what we were doing out there.
A little later a sign materialises in the middle of the 200m-wide river. We pull alongside, and see that it says Gambian National Park, No Entry. Rolling of eyes... Our man cuts the engine and for the next ten minutes occassionaly 'whoops' at the shoreline. We were told that there would be armed guards on our way to see 'Baboon Island' and there'd be a 100 Dalasi (£3) fee. More whooping and then a dog barks on land. We wait for a signal, or a boat, but nothing appears. Cautiously our captain starts the motor and we head off into the national park, with an occasional look back over his shoulder.
The river turned into a bird watcher's paradise; all sorts of herons, skimmers, nesters and even the odd eagle. I did make a few of those names up... After another half hour or so downstream, the captain cuts the engine and points across the water. On the other side of the river was a collection of hippos (herd?), floating in the water, with only their eyes visible. It was from quite a distance, and my budget for this trip didn't reach to a zoom lens - Christmas present, hint hint! - but it was really cool seeing them in the wild. We couldn't get too close because they sunk under when the boat came within 100 yards. On the way back though, we saw one pretty close give a massive yawn - teeth and all. Hopefully the pictures will come out okay.
Carrying on we saw a few different types of monkey along the shoreline, hiding in the trees. A couple of small orange ones came right down to the waters edge to have a gander at our noisy boat (the only noise for miles). We also saw some foot-long crocodiles, which made us think twice about dipping our feet in, and a rapid water snake.
All in all, not a bad trip by any stretch of the imagination, but I found myself wanting a bit more. nearly ten hours on a boat and we saw a handful of things (brilliant to see them), but we had spent a lot of the time travelling back and forth, and also trying to find some shade on the very open boat. To give you an idea of what the boat looked like, I put on Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" as I sat on the bow for the return leg. Felt very 'Nam.
We travelled downriver for about four and a half hours (!), watching the river banks for any form of wildlife. Did see an awful lot of birds (various species, sizes and colours), and one particular yellow kind that makes spherical nests from reeds overhanging the water - pretty skilfull! Tonnes of those and very little else. We were beginning to wonder what we were doing out there.
A little later a sign materialises in the middle of the 200m-wide river. We pull alongside, and see that it says Gambian National Park, No Entry. Rolling of eyes... Our man cuts the engine and for the next ten minutes occassionaly 'whoops' at the shoreline. We were told that there would be armed guards on our way to see 'Baboon Island' and there'd be a 100 Dalasi (£3) fee. More whooping and then a dog barks on land. We wait for a signal, or a boat, but nothing appears. Cautiously our captain starts the motor and we head off into the national park, with an occasional look back over his shoulder.
The river turned into a bird watcher's paradise; all sorts of herons, skimmers, nesters and even the odd eagle. I did make a few of those names up... After another half hour or so downstream, the captain cuts the engine and points across the water. On the other side of the river was a collection of hippos (herd?), floating in the water, with only their eyes visible. It was from quite a distance, and my budget for this trip didn't reach to a zoom lens - Christmas present, hint hint! - but it was really cool seeing them in the wild. We couldn't get too close because they sunk under when the boat came within 100 yards. On the way back though, we saw one pretty close give a massive yawn - teeth and all. Hopefully the pictures will come out okay.
Carrying on we saw a few different types of monkey along the shoreline, hiding in the trees. A couple of small orange ones came right down to the waters edge to have a gander at our noisy boat (the only noise for miles). We also saw some foot-long crocodiles, which made us think twice about dipping our feet in, and a rapid water snake.
All in all, not a bad trip by any stretch of the imagination, but I found myself wanting a bit more. nearly ten hours on a boat and we saw a handful of things (brilliant to see them), but we had spent a lot of the time travelling back and forth, and also trying to find some shade on the very open boat. To give you an idea of what the boat looked like, I put on Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" as I sat on the bow for the return leg. Felt very 'Nam.
Friday, 16 October 2009
The Gambia (aka The Marcos Experience/Hottest Chilli Ever)
Woke up in agony in Janjanburreh, almost spooning Barney (very, very tiny bed), and took a wander round our encampenment. Turned out to be a group of lodges in a fenced off piece of land belonging to a forestry commission, right on the river's edge.
As we left the camp we were surrounded by about eight kids and four adults, all very happy and wanting to chat to us. They'd helped us with our bags the night before, and took us to "the Mauritanian" who ran the store to change some African Francs to Gambian Dalasi. Sounds like someone out of a Bond film! Changed some cash and got some bread and biscuits for lunch - decided to cheap it up. We moved all our stuff to another lodge, still only two beds so another card game. Marcos, a local who helped us get around the town sat in our little 'living' room, but the guardian of the camp (Imbrahim) came in saying locals aren't allowed in the camp! Made us think a bit.
We wanted to see the other side of the river (where there was another camp and wild monkeys), and guess who helped us out - wouldn't leave us alone - Marcos. We took a pirogue, that sat very low in the water and took ages to get across. Nothing much over there, apart from Marcos trying to sell us a boat trip downriver. We said we'd check with Ibrahim for another price. Did see some very cheeky wild monkeys, coming right up to the buildings and stealing food! Pretty cool.
Organised a boat trip with Ibrahim to see some hippos and other wildlife for the next day and ate at a roadside shack, well actually on the road SIDE itself. Not busy, and felt nice, as we got chatting to an elderly lady who was talking about "education being the way forward". Ate what I thought was a bell pepper but turned out to be the hottest thing I've ever tasted! Hotter than any Jalapeno or even Scotch Bonnet. Eye watering pain. Took all my strength to not cough everywhere, and in the interest of good manners I ate it all. Then there was a power cut - we ate by torchlight which was an interesting experience!
Marcos was close by at all times though...
As we left the camp we were surrounded by about eight kids and four adults, all very happy and wanting to chat to us. They'd helped us with our bags the night before, and took us to "the Mauritanian" who ran the store to change some African Francs to Gambian Dalasi. Sounds like someone out of a Bond film! Changed some cash and got some bread and biscuits for lunch - decided to cheap it up. We moved all our stuff to another lodge, still only two beds so another card game. Marcos, a local who helped us get around the town sat in our little 'living' room, but the guardian of the camp (Imbrahim) came in saying locals aren't allowed in the camp! Made us think a bit.
We wanted to see the other side of the river (where there was another camp and wild monkeys), and guess who helped us out - wouldn't leave us alone - Marcos. We took a pirogue, that sat very low in the water and took ages to get across. Nothing much over there, apart from Marcos trying to sell us a boat trip downriver. We said we'd check with Ibrahim for another price. Did see some very cheeky wild monkeys, coming right up to the buildings and stealing food! Pretty cool.
Organised a boat trip with Ibrahim to see some hippos and other wildlife for the next day and ate at a roadside shack, well actually on the road SIDE itself. Not busy, and felt nice, as we got chatting to an elderly lady who was talking about "education being the way forward". Ate what I thought was a bell pepper but turned out to be the hottest thing I've ever tasted! Hotter than any Jalapeno or even Scotch Bonnet. Eye watering pain. Took all my strength to not cough everywhere, and in the interest of good manners I ate it all. Then there was a power cut - we ate by torchlight which was an interesting experience!
Marcos was close by at all times though...
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Nine vehicles in a 14 hour journey...
Got up before dawn, and got to the gare routière (bus station) as soon as we could. Thought we were being smart starting so early, but I think les gares start even earlier! It was already heaving once we arrived, and as soon as people saw three white backpackers we were swamped. Determined to not pay the finders fee, we ignored all the shouts and ended up on a bus to Kaolack - halfway to the border. As we'd missed breakfast we thought we'd break up the journey and have lunch there.
Traffic out of Dakar, minivan pulls over for about half an hour, long drive to Kaolack, arrive about lunchtime. Got a taxi to the main street and collapsed in a French-run chop-house (diner). We ordered three 'plats du jour' and were really impressed with them - rice (always short rice in Africa, more like couscous than Uncle Ben's) with various pieces of veg and some gorgeous tender beef. Really filled the hole in what turned out to be a very long and arduous journey.
Koalack was really hot, dusty and busy. I took my camera out to get a picture of the gare routière (which may go some way to explain exactly how busy they are!) but felt instantly uneasy, all eyes on me. Camera safely away, Dree took the lead and tried bartering with about ten people. Everyone was shouting at once, pulling us in different directions, and Dree ended up shouting "Arrettè!!!" Did the trick though.
Got on the world's most fly-infested minivan (due to huge spillage of oranges), with horrendously painful seats - I was behind the driver and there were sharp, rusty bits of metal jutting into me from all directions. Add two hours driving and I was in agony! Got transferred off that bus on to a smaller, but padded, van that was going to take us to the border. Apparently. We were told that a random town five or so miles from the border was the end of the line. So we got a shared taxi to the border.
The border caused absolutely no problems, with the Gambian side being exceptionally friendly. The Gambia was part of the British Empire and as such speaks English - a welcome break from broken French! One of the border guards (a cycloptic lady called Neni- cataracts) even took our names and address' and said she'd cook for us if we were ever in Farafeni, the border town, again!
Another taxi took us to Farafeni centre and we had to organise ANOTHER minivan to take us parallel along the river to Janjanburreh (previously known as Georgetown), in the heart of The Gambia. This van must've won some award for being the most cramped - 30+ people as well as about five kids and luggage. Not very comfortable, but we were pleased to be in the twilight of our day's journey (3pm). Then the van broke down. Barney was nearest the door and got out to help push - quoting Cool Runnings; "One for the rythym" etc.
Then it broke down again, as dusk was coming in, for about half an hour. The driver tried the 'hit-the-broken-piece-against-the-road' trick. Seemed to work, after a giant push from most of us in the van! Good laugh in the end; lots of handshakes and smiles all round. Night fell and we ended up ten miles from the river, getting transferred to the back of a pick-up truck(Janjanburreh is an island in the middle of the River Gambia). Mosquito hell anytime we'd stopped, and these were big buggers too; must be something in the water!
Saying that, once we got going, boy did we get going! Hitting about 80 down the highway - the majority of roads in The Gambia are all well paved and in great condition - there was no lights in any direction and this made for a breathtaking view of the stars and also the clearest Milky Way I've ever seen. Good time for a bit of the Foo's on the iPod. Great fun on the back, wind in the hair, but if any insect hit you it felt like a BB pellet!
Made it to the river bank, but the ferry which takes people across obviously wasn't expecting people this late (9pm), and it took quarter of an hour of shouting over the river before some lights flickered on, and we heard the engine start up. This was followed by applause from our bank and shouts of "Open your eyes man!" As we'd stopped though, these beastly mozzies attacked, taking chunks from our legs, the only thing we could do was DEET up!
Got across and the nice man in the pick-up drove us to our encampment, where we had to share two single beds between three. Cosy! Played cards for the person sleeping alone, guess who got the wall side of a crowded bed... Worst night's sleep in ages. Possibly to do with the cat/monkey/monster jumping around on our tin roof all night! But glad to have come to a standstill at last!
Traffic out of Dakar, minivan pulls over for about half an hour, long drive to Kaolack, arrive about lunchtime. Got a taxi to the main street and collapsed in a French-run chop-house (diner). We ordered three 'plats du jour' and were really impressed with them - rice (always short rice in Africa, more like couscous than Uncle Ben's) with various pieces of veg and some gorgeous tender beef. Really filled the hole in what turned out to be a very long and arduous journey.
Koalack was really hot, dusty and busy. I took my camera out to get a picture of the gare routière (which may go some way to explain exactly how busy they are!) but felt instantly uneasy, all eyes on me. Camera safely away, Dree took the lead and tried bartering with about ten people. Everyone was shouting at once, pulling us in different directions, and Dree ended up shouting "Arrettè!!!" Did the trick though.
Got on the world's most fly-infested minivan (due to huge spillage of oranges), with horrendously painful seats - I was behind the driver and there were sharp, rusty bits of metal jutting into me from all directions. Add two hours driving and I was in agony! Got transferred off that bus on to a smaller, but padded, van that was going to take us to the border. Apparently. We were told that a random town five or so miles from the border was the end of the line. So we got a shared taxi to the border.
The border caused absolutely no problems, with the Gambian side being exceptionally friendly. The Gambia was part of the British Empire and as such speaks English - a welcome break from broken French! One of the border guards (a cycloptic lady called Neni- cataracts) even took our names and address' and said she'd cook for us if we were ever in Farafeni, the border town, again!
Another taxi took us to Farafeni centre and we had to organise ANOTHER minivan to take us parallel along the river to Janjanburreh (previously known as Georgetown), in the heart of The Gambia. This van must've won some award for being the most cramped - 30+ people as well as about five kids and luggage. Not very comfortable, but we were pleased to be in the twilight of our day's journey (3pm). Then the van broke down. Barney was nearest the door and got out to help push - quoting Cool Runnings; "One for the rythym" etc.
Then it broke down again, as dusk was coming in, for about half an hour. The driver tried the 'hit-the-broken-piece-against-the-road' trick. Seemed to work, after a giant push from most of us in the van! Good laugh in the end; lots of handshakes and smiles all round. Night fell and we ended up ten miles from the river, getting transferred to the back of a pick-up truck(Janjanburreh is an island in the middle of the River Gambia). Mosquito hell anytime we'd stopped, and these were big buggers too; must be something in the water!
Saying that, once we got going, boy did we get going! Hitting about 80 down the highway - the majority of roads in The Gambia are all well paved and in great condition - there was no lights in any direction and this made for a breathtaking view of the stars and also the clearest Milky Way I've ever seen. Good time for a bit of the Foo's on the iPod. Great fun on the back, wind in the hair, but if any insect hit you it felt like a BB pellet!
Made it to the river bank, but the ferry which takes people across obviously wasn't expecting people this late (9pm), and it took quarter of an hour of shouting over the river before some lights flickered on, and we heard the engine start up. This was followed by applause from our bank and shouts of "Open your eyes man!" As we'd stopped though, these beastly mozzies attacked, taking chunks from our legs, the only thing we could do was DEET up!
Got across and the nice man in the pick-up drove us to our encampment, where we had to share two single beds between three. Cosy! Played cards for the person sleeping alone, guess who got the wall side of a crowded bed... Worst night's sleep in ages. Possibly to do with the cat/monkey/monster jumping around on our tin roof all night! But glad to have come to a standstill at last!
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
One more night in Les Mamelles, Dakar
We had to return to Dakar after St Louis to collect our Malian visas, and had previously booked the same Belgian-run place that Barnes had sorted for the first night. It was expensive but was a clean place and was quite nice to be out in the suburbs (Les Mamelles - "the hills"). Collected the visas with no problem - unlike our Ghana visas; read previous blogs - and I went to take a few pictures of the coastline. Quite impressive cliff drops into the Atlantic. A man appeared from nowhere and said I had to pay for a photography visa. I knew I didn't need any photo visas for the whole trip and walked off. "I'm joking man! Take my picture!", so I did, then quickly left. I refuse to get my camera pinched 5 days in!
Took one of the falling-apart, yellow/black taxis to our hotel, going past the new Radisson Hotel being built on the cliffside of Dakar (looks about 7-star) and the new monument that the Senegalese Goverment has commissioned on the hillside overlooking the city centre. Its a huge 150 ft sculpture of a man, woman and child portraying freedom or something. Double standards when you see all the homeless and begging children darting inbetween traffic. But maybe that's politics in general, not even African politics.
At the hotel got chatting to a lovely, fat, racist South African, who was about to fly to Burkina to do sort some gold mining business - "Bloody ragheads", "the locals haven't seen soap!" Charming fellow! We wandered up to the lighthouse for an awesome view across the whole city. Shame we didn't catch it at sunset, that wouldv'e been incredible! There are a lot of keep-fit fanatics in Senegal, football on the tiny beaches, tonnes of joggers, men doing sit ups by railings and using car axles and tires as weights! Pigskins boys!
Got chatting to a lady on the way back from the lighthouse, who invited us for some food later on. The boys were in a shop, but I said we'd come by. The food in the hotel was nice but out of our budget, and so we ended up having some nice (cheap) beef skewers from a BBQ at this hidden restaurant. Hit the sack early, as we had to get down to The Gambia the next day - and knew how unreliable transport was, as well as knowing we'd have to cross a border; in my experience sometimes easy, other times not so much...
Took one of the falling-apart, yellow/black taxis to our hotel, going past the new Radisson Hotel being built on the cliffside of Dakar (looks about 7-star) and the new monument that the Senegalese Goverment has commissioned on the hillside overlooking the city centre. Its a huge 150 ft sculpture of a man, woman and child portraying freedom or something. Double standards when you see all the homeless and begging children darting inbetween traffic. But maybe that's politics in general, not even African politics.
At the hotel got chatting to a lovely, fat, racist South African, who was about to fly to Burkina to do sort some gold mining business - "Bloody ragheads", "the locals haven't seen soap!" Charming fellow! We wandered up to the lighthouse for an awesome view across the whole city. Shame we didn't catch it at sunset, that wouldv'e been incredible! There are a lot of keep-fit fanatics in Senegal, football on the tiny beaches, tonnes of joggers, men doing sit ups by railings and using car axles and tires as weights! Pigskins boys!
Got chatting to a lady on the way back from the lighthouse, who invited us for some food later on. The boys were in a shop, but I said we'd come by. The food in the hotel was nice but out of our budget, and so we ended up having some nice (cheap) beef skewers from a BBQ at this hidden restaurant. Hit the sack early, as we had to get down to The Gambia the next day - and knew how unreliable transport was, as well as knowing we'd have to cross a border; in my experience sometimes easy, other times not so much...
Monday, 12 October 2009
Begay, Botè, Happiness!
As we walked about during our two days here, we encountered a number of friendly people, changing my preconceptions from a few things I'd read about travelling in Africa.
Firstly, as Barney and I were on my way back to our room, and Dree had gone to get some water, we were called in to sit with a family in their shaded courtyard. With me and Barnes on limited French, we stumbled through a few conversations as chairs were brought out. Luckily one man spoke some broken English, and somehow three years of lessons came flooding back! The grandmother (four generations lived in the same house) offered us some food but we politely declined: looked a lovely fish dish apart from the flies covering it. We politely declined. One thing though is that Barney the Dinosaur transcends all cultures, creeds and nationalities. "Je m'appelle Barney", "Barney l'dino?!" Cue laughter. Priceless.
The next day we headed across the west bridge, towards the sea, notable only as the east broidge was designed by Gustave Eiffel (designer of the Tower in Paris). This was a lot different to the island, with far more rubbish, cars and people. We cautiously wandered through the market and (possibly via somebody's backyard) to the beach. This is a real 'working' beach, with the shacks that the families live in facing the sea and pirogues (carved, painted wooden fishing boats) parked on the sand, much in the way that we would park cars in front of our houses. If I drove...
The beach went on for as far as the eye could see in both directions and was swarming with hundreds of children - playing football, swimming etc. The sea was amazingly warm for the Atlantic, but there was quite a lot of litter and fish guts/heads. To be expected; this is not the Costa del Sol! On the way back to the bridge I took a few photos (feeling more confident now, using the SLR in foreign places), and a man in a full length blue tie-die robe ran towards us. I thought he was about to tell me off, but all he wanted was to have a proper photo with me! Tried to get an email address to send some of the pics to him, but he didn't have one.
Our best experience in St Louis, was as we were walking up towards our hostel, a man from inside a tailors shop beckoned to us. We went over and he brought some chairs out and had a chat - in French of course. His name was Aziz and he made us some traditional African tea. Bit of a kerfuffle to be honest; get the small pot out, get some coal from the back, some water fro,m the shop next door, and to heat up the coal sufficiently meqnt fanning the coals for about half an hour. Tiring work, but well worth it for the authentic, Arab-influenced green tea. They are served in small glasses (like shots), then lots of sugar is added before being poured from one glass to another a few times to cool. Very local! We were even given the third-pouring, which has the best flavour.
We stayed there, sitting on the streetside for about three hours, chatting away into the night on all sorts of things, with more French returning the more I conversed. Barney is still at the 'bonjour' stage, but makes us laugh by saying "cheers" at the end of everything! Aziz invited us back after we'd had something to eat, and we returned with some of Dree's Fortnum & Mason speciality teas to show Aziz how we male teq back home. Did have to buy a load of milk though!
During the evening we met a whole host of people - the whole community seems to congregate on the street after work, putting chairs outside their house/workplace. Just a superb atmosphere. Aziz was working late - was the first day of school tomorrow, and he had a pile of kid's clothes to get through. So we sat outside talking to all sorts of friendly characters; a homeless ex-soldier, a teacher, a taxi driver, a bloke who said he was the "premier football hooligan in St Louis" (in jest). It was superb relaxing with a group that were so friendly. Here's hoping to more experiences like this!
Firstly, as Barney and I were on my way back to our room, and Dree had gone to get some water, we were called in to sit with a family in their shaded courtyard. With me and Barnes on limited French, we stumbled through a few conversations as chairs were brought out. Luckily one man spoke some broken English, and somehow three years of lessons came flooding back! The grandmother (four generations lived in the same house) offered us some food but we politely declined: looked a lovely fish dish apart from the flies covering it. We politely declined. One thing though is that Barney the Dinosaur transcends all cultures, creeds and nationalities. "Je m'appelle Barney", "Barney l'dino?!" Cue laughter. Priceless.
The next day we headed across the west bridge, towards the sea, notable only as the east broidge was designed by Gustave Eiffel (designer of the Tower in Paris). This was a lot different to the island, with far more rubbish, cars and people. We cautiously wandered through the market and (possibly via somebody's backyard) to the beach. This is a real 'working' beach, with the shacks that the families live in facing the sea and pirogues (carved, painted wooden fishing boats) parked on the sand, much in the way that we would park cars in front of our houses. If I drove...
The beach went on for as far as the eye could see in both directions and was swarming with hundreds of children - playing football, swimming etc. The sea was amazingly warm for the Atlantic, but there was quite a lot of litter and fish guts/heads. To be expected; this is not the Costa del Sol! On the way back to the bridge I took a few photos (feeling more confident now, using the SLR in foreign places), and a man in a full length blue tie-die robe ran towards us. I thought he was about to tell me off, but all he wanted was to have a proper photo with me! Tried to get an email address to send some of the pics to him, but he didn't have one.
Our best experience in St Louis, was as we were walking up towards our hostel, a man from inside a tailors shop beckoned to us. We went over and he brought some chairs out and had a chat - in French of course. His name was Aziz and he made us some traditional African tea. Bit of a kerfuffle to be honest; get the small pot out, get some coal from the back, some water fro,m the shop next door, and to heat up the coal sufficiently meqnt fanning the coals for about half an hour. Tiring work, but well worth it for the authentic, Arab-influenced green tea. They are served in small glasses (like shots), then lots of sugar is added before being poured from one glass to another a few times to cool. Very local! We were even given the third-pouring, which has the best flavour.
We stayed there, sitting on the streetside for about three hours, chatting away into the night on all sorts of things, with more French returning the more I conversed. Barney is still at the 'bonjour' stage, but makes us laugh by saying "cheers" at the end of everything! Aziz invited us back after we'd had something to eat, and we returned with some of Dree's Fortnum & Mason speciality teas to show Aziz how we male teq back home. Did have to buy a load of milk though!
During the evening we met a whole host of people - the whole community seems to congregate on the street after work, putting chairs outside their house/workplace. Just a superb atmosphere. Aziz was working late - was the first day of school tomorrow, and he had a pile of kid's clothes to get through. So we sat outside talking to all sorts of friendly characters; a homeless ex-soldier, a teacher, a taxi driver, a bloke who said he was the "premier football hooligan in St Louis" (in jest). It was superb relaxing with a group that were so friendly. Here's hoping to more experiences like this!
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Senegalese Cuba (and the first of many long journeys)
So, we left Dakar at 9am for the "four-hour" journey to the UNESCO protected colonial town of St Louis. We'd barely gone five minutes before hitting traffic on the main highway out of Dakar! The three lanes all bottleneck into one, and this causes huge tailbacks. There are beggars and salesmen along this highway as well - newspapers and water mainly, but also CDs, shirts and other bric-a-brac.
Once we'd got out of the city limits we expected a four hour trip, but we arrived in St Louis after six and a half hours - battered, sweaty, hungry and tired (the norm for most of our trips so far, but definitely worth it - Africa is amazing). Along the way you pull into the side of the road, under the shade of trees, and women and children run up to the van, pushing their arms through open windows, holding bags of peanuts, fresh from the ground and delicious, water or fruit. They even sometimes have eggs and pepper, Pete!
St Louis is Senegal's second biggest city, but the area we were staying was not busy at all. We were staying on the island at the edge of the city, close to the sea but surrounded by a penisula. This "old" part of the city has been deemed a special heritage sight and it's easy to see why. Originally a French town, there are hundreds of examples of French architecture in the narrow streets. The best way I can describe it is like an African Cuba - just from what I have seen in the movies. Latticed windows, pink and yellow paint, small blocks of houses, shops and restaurants, and a strong sense of community. You shall see what I mean in the next blog!
We stayed in the north of the island, in a place called Cafè des Arts, which wasn't a cafe and didn't have much art. But I am being cruel; the place was comfortable and we had our own bathroom - a neccessity when you need more than one shower a day, or more than four in Mr Webb's case!
St Louis is more about the smells and sounds for me than anything else. As soon as the sun rises the stench of rubbish, thrown over the low wall next to the river, begins to spread, and the fishing community is very prevalent, with an equal stench of rotting fish. You do get used to the smells, but the amount of rubbish is shocking. I spotted small mountains of clothes, food containers, general household waste, plastics, even a dead dog (not kidding at all; covered in flies by the water's edge).
On top of these piles are usually where the herds of roaming goats spend a lot of their time; apart from when they are trying to find shade in the narrow maze of streets. The sounds I mentioned before are a combination of goats bleating, birds (seagulls and eagles) schreeching as they circle for scraps of fish and, later in the evening, the mosques blaring out the evening prayers from loudspeakers attached to the side - sometimes for hours at a time.
But I didn't mind either the sounds or the smells too much at all. We sat on the roof for the first evening, watching the sunset and having some homecooked octopus and rice, before a nightcap of mint tea (great stuff). I think that was the moment I realised we were truly in Africa, and the adventure was about to start.
Once we'd got out of the city limits we expected a four hour trip, but we arrived in St Louis after six and a half hours - battered, sweaty, hungry and tired (the norm for most of our trips so far, but definitely worth it - Africa is amazing). Along the way you pull into the side of the road, under the shade of trees, and women and children run up to the van, pushing their arms through open windows, holding bags of peanuts, fresh from the ground and delicious, water or fruit. They even sometimes have eggs and pepper, Pete!
St Louis is Senegal's second biggest city, but the area we were staying was not busy at all. We were staying on the island at the edge of the city, close to the sea but surrounded by a penisula. This "old" part of the city has been deemed a special heritage sight and it's easy to see why. Originally a French town, there are hundreds of examples of French architecture in the narrow streets. The best way I can describe it is like an African Cuba - just from what I have seen in the movies. Latticed windows, pink and yellow paint, small blocks of houses, shops and restaurants, and a strong sense of community. You shall see what I mean in the next blog!
We stayed in the north of the island, in a place called Cafè des Arts, which wasn't a cafe and didn't have much art. But I am being cruel; the place was comfortable and we had our own bathroom - a neccessity when you need more than one shower a day, or more than four in Mr Webb's case!
St Louis is more about the smells and sounds for me than anything else. As soon as the sun rises the stench of rubbish, thrown over the low wall next to the river, begins to spread, and the fishing community is very prevalent, with an equal stench of rotting fish. You do get used to the smells, but the amount of rubbish is shocking. I spotted small mountains of clothes, food containers, general household waste, plastics, even a dead dog (not kidding at all; covered in flies by the water's edge).
On top of these piles are usually where the herds of roaming goats spend a lot of their time; apart from when they are trying to find shade in the narrow maze of streets. The sounds I mentioned before are a combination of goats bleating, birds (seagulls and eagles) schreeching as they circle for scraps of fish and, later in the evening, the mosques blaring out the evening prayers from loudspeakers attached to the side - sometimes for hours at a time.
But I didn't mind either the sounds or the smells too much at all. We sat on the roof for the first evening, watching the sunset and having some homecooked octopus and rice, before a nightcap of mint tea (great stuff). I think that was the moment I realised we were truly in Africa, and the adventure was about to start.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
La Gare Routière
#Apologies for the imperect spelling and grammar - it's a French keyboard and I'm still getting used to it!#
Before we left Dakar we thought we`d go out, to sample the "bustling" nightlife. That said, we`d forgotten the map and didn`t fancy wandering about Dakar at night-time. We went to a popular bar called Just4u and got in so early that we didn`t have to pay the entrance fee! Tried two Senegal beers; Gazelle (a pint bottle of lager, very refreshing at 4%) and Flag (stronger percentage in a 330ml bottle)
There was a Sengalese band sound checking (two drummers, two guitars, four brass, a keyboqrdist qnd a singer) before an Aussie lady came on stage with her band and started singing some relaxed jazz! It was nice but we'd prefered to have heard more of the African band, as they were a lot more ubeat. The singer was good, but she made us all pretty tired, so we left about midnight.
The following morning we left for la gare routière (bus station) about 8am. What a place - hundreds of vehicles, mainly sept places (seven-seater Peugeouts or Renaults) and mini-vans (that squashed between 20 and 35 passengers in for a ride of unparralled uncomfortableness) all lined up in a parking lot, with hundreds more drivers and "fixers" wandering about drumming up business.
As soon as we got out about twenty people began dragging us in all sorts of directions. It was unorganised chaos. Eventually we bartered in French - I say we, but Dree took the reigns for ths one - and got an okay deal for the three of us to St Louis in the north. Over here the bags count as a separate cost, but we`d luckily covered that. However, we did pay the fixer 2000 CFA (€3), which we shouldn`t have - future journeys we have just spoken directly to the driver, in French I`ll have you know!
When you sit inside the metal oven, waiting on the bus to fill up with other passengers, your bags are thrown onto the roof and people come to the doors and windows peddling everything including watches, bags of water (suspect), hard boiled eggs, radios, sunglasses, bread, shorts, biscuits and a whole other host of useless items. Then the van jolts around the car park, usually with a push start, fills up at the sole petrol pump (see aforementioned chaos).
And with that we were on our way to St Louis, and an apparent four-hour journey...
Before we left Dakar we thought we`d go out, to sample the "bustling" nightlife. That said, we`d forgotten the map and didn`t fancy wandering about Dakar at night-time. We went to a popular bar called Just4u and got in so early that we didn`t have to pay the entrance fee! Tried two Senegal beers; Gazelle (a pint bottle of lager, very refreshing at 4%) and Flag (stronger percentage in a 330ml bottle)
There was a Sengalese band sound checking (two drummers, two guitars, four brass, a keyboqrdist qnd a singer) before an Aussie lady came on stage with her band and started singing some relaxed jazz! It was nice but we'd prefered to have heard more of the African band, as they were a lot more ubeat. The singer was good, but she made us all pretty tired, so we left about midnight.
The following morning we left for la gare routière (bus station) about 8am. What a place - hundreds of vehicles, mainly sept places (seven-seater Peugeouts or Renaults) and mini-vans (that squashed between 20 and 35 passengers in for a ride of unparralled uncomfortableness) all lined up in a parking lot, with hundreds more drivers and "fixers" wandering about drumming up business.
As soon as we got out about twenty people began dragging us in all sorts of directions. It was unorganised chaos. Eventually we bartered in French - I say we, but Dree took the reigns for ths one - and got an okay deal for the three of us to St Louis in the north. Over here the bags count as a separate cost, but we`d luckily covered that. However, we did pay the fixer 2000 CFA (€3), which we shouldn`t have - future journeys we have just spoken directly to the driver, in French I`ll have you know!
When you sit inside the metal oven, waiting on the bus to fill up with other passengers, your bags are thrown onto the roof and people come to the doors and windows peddling everything including watches, bags of water (suspect), hard boiled eggs, radios, sunglasses, bread, shorts, biscuits and a whole other host of useless items. Then the van jolts around the car park, usually with a push start, fills up at the sole petrol pump (see aforementioned chaos).
And with that we were on our way to St Louis, and an apparent four-hour journey...
Friday, 2 October 2009
Dakar
Well we made it here in our own significant pieces, after a very long day including a day out in Paris. Before I start this blog though, massive thanks to Burchy who got us to the airport in plenty of time. Much appreciated, sir!
After an early morning kip in Heathrow terminal 2, we checked onto our Paris flight at about 7am (a flight which Barney slept through all of, take off and landing included). Dree had organised to meet a French friend from university for lunch, so me and Barney decided to do some sight-seeing. We saw Notre Dam Cathedral, the Palais du Justice, La Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, all on foot within 3 hours. Needless to say we were shattered and were glad to be back in Paris airport for our connecting flight. We even sorted out train tickets for ourselves - aren't we clever!
The trip only took about six hours and thank God we'd booked accomodation and pick-up from the airport. There were dozens of taxi drivers outside the terminal vying for a fare. Eventually found our contact and got taken to our hotel - Hotel du Phare - in the hills just to the north of Dakar. Run by a Belgian, our place is very clean, with a lot of added extra's that we need to get used to not having - i.e. a locking room, a mattress with pillows, hot water, a restaurant...
Had an early night - well was gone ten by the time we got to the hotel, after being up since 8am on the Wednesday, so we were knocked out. Slept well and took a taxi to the Malian Embassy. Our taxi driver knew the hotel owner, but did try to get us to agree to hiring us for the whole day. Something we didn't want. The embassy was a quiet place, and we filled out the simple form (in French), before Barnes realised he didn't have any passport photos, and we realised we didn't have enough money. Luckily, there was a supermarket down the road, where we changed some Euros (pretty useless) and a smiling man took Barney's photos with a really old-school camera. Maybe he was smiling at the ears...
As we left the embassy who should appear but our contact from the airport, apparently told to make sure we were alright by the owner. He got us a taxi into town but we left him after a while because we didn't want to be chaperoned all the time. The streets are rammed with all sorts; mobile phone touts, beggars, hawkers selling everything from clocks, through Etch-a-sketch's to sanitary towels and jewelry! The traffic's pretty bad and we have ended up walking about 500m into the heart of Dakar, hassled non stop along the way.
Just about to have some lunch now, before a bit more of a wander and then back to the hotel. Think we're heading out on the town tonight - we have heard a lot about Dakar nightlife. But we will get taxi's everywhere and leave almost everything in the room (very safe). The area is a suburb of Dakar, close to the coastline, where town planning seems to have gone AWOL, and houses springing up all over the place, in no particular order. Fires burn by the side of the road, vendors shout on mobile phones, while selling papers and baguettes in the roasting sun and battered yellow-and-black-panelled Citreons bounce over the uneven, dusty road. It is a very strange thing to feel like the minority for the first time in my life. Especially when we are told by everyone we meet (from traders to taxi drivers) to watch out for pickpockets.
There is an email pinned in the lobby of our hotel, from some tourists who stopped a few months back, and I cannot remember exactly what it said, but I'll try and paraphrase as accurately as I can - "For those who are new to Africa, Dakar will come as a shock. We stayed in the excellent hotel for our three days here, as the centre of the city is not a nice experience. You are hassled from entry to exit by everyone that passes, and you cannot enjoy the city as much as you would like."
I have only been in Dakar for less than 24 hours, so time shall tell, but our feeling is to head north to St Louis before passing back through to get our Mali visas, and then heading down south. Not a fantastic first impression, but this is not the Africa we came for!
After an early morning kip in Heathrow terminal 2, we checked onto our Paris flight at about 7am (a flight which Barney slept through all of, take off and landing included). Dree had organised to meet a French friend from university for lunch, so me and Barney decided to do some sight-seeing. We saw Notre Dam Cathedral, the Palais du Justice, La Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, all on foot within 3 hours. Needless to say we were shattered and were glad to be back in Paris airport for our connecting flight. We even sorted out train tickets for ourselves - aren't we clever!
The trip only took about six hours and thank God we'd booked accomodation and pick-up from the airport. There were dozens of taxi drivers outside the terminal vying for a fare. Eventually found our contact and got taken to our hotel - Hotel du Phare - in the hills just to the north of Dakar. Run by a Belgian, our place is very clean, with a lot of added extra's that we need to get used to not having - i.e. a locking room, a mattress with pillows, hot water, a restaurant...
Had an early night - well was gone ten by the time we got to the hotel, after being up since 8am on the Wednesday, so we were knocked out. Slept well and took a taxi to the Malian Embassy. Our taxi driver knew the hotel owner, but did try to get us to agree to hiring us for the whole day. Something we didn't want. The embassy was a quiet place, and we filled out the simple form (in French), before Barnes realised he didn't have any passport photos, and we realised we didn't have enough money. Luckily, there was a supermarket down the road, where we changed some Euros (pretty useless) and a smiling man took Barney's photos with a really old-school camera. Maybe he was smiling at the ears...
As we left the embassy who should appear but our contact from the airport, apparently told to make sure we were alright by the owner. He got us a taxi into town but we left him after a while because we didn't want to be chaperoned all the time. The streets are rammed with all sorts; mobile phone touts, beggars, hawkers selling everything from clocks, through Etch-a-sketch's to sanitary towels and jewelry! The traffic's pretty bad and we have ended up walking about 500m into the heart of Dakar, hassled non stop along the way.
Just about to have some lunch now, before a bit more of a wander and then back to the hotel. Think we're heading out on the town tonight - we have heard a lot about Dakar nightlife. But we will get taxi's everywhere and leave almost everything in the room (very safe). The area is a suburb of Dakar, close to the coastline, where town planning seems to have gone AWOL, and houses springing up all over the place, in no particular order. Fires burn by the side of the road, vendors shout on mobile phones, while selling papers and baguettes in the roasting sun and battered yellow-and-black-panelled Citreons bounce over the uneven, dusty road. It is a very strange thing to feel like the minority for the first time in my life. Especially when we are told by everyone we meet (from traders to taxi drivers) to watch out for pickpockets.
There is an email pinned in the lobby of our hotel, from some tourists who stopped a few months back, and I cannot remember exactly what it said, but I'll try and paraphrase as accurately as I can - "For those who are new to Africa, Dakar will come as a shock. We stayed in the excellent hotel for our three days here, as the centre of the city is not a nice experience. You are hassled from entry to exit by everyone that passes, and you cannot enjoy the city as much as you would like."
I have only been in Dakar for less than 24 hours, so time shall tell, but our feeling is to head north to St Louis before passing back through to get our Mali visas, and then heading down south. Not a fantastic first impression, but this is not the Africa we came for!
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