Senegal

Right. This feels like a long time ago now, which it is. Over a month at the least.

Our troupe left Nouakchott with a French girl and her senegalese boyfriend (although he loudly claimed different when D asked) in a shared Peugeot taxi. The price was right and the duo seemed nice. In fact they always remained nice. It's just the price that got worse.

We got to Rosso, which was stiffling hot and the border town and that's when things started looking sketchy. First was the police checks. She just seemed really dodgy about it; shifty, like something was wrong. sure enough she had some papers missing from a car she sold or something like that. Hey, all I want to know is if any of the money I gave to the cops for this and that went to her bribe.

We got the ferry over to Senegal and the boy said he would go and get us transport to St Louis while we sorted out our visas. When we were done with the Douanes he took us through some back streets to a private car where we loaded our luggage on top the roof. The car then drove away, with all our gear tied on top and none of us in the car! Right....Boy said it was all good. It was a blackmarket (like I knew of this ever. Money yes, but taxis?!) taxi and we had to walk through the town to meet it so the cops didn't see. I don't like my gear going away from me.

It was all good though. Our gear was intact and we piled into the car. We started driving and then were told the price. It was huge and we weren't happy so we stopped, bargained and sizzled with anger in the backseat. We really were with no choice at this point. We were far enough away from the town and really didn't know the true cost of transport in Senegal, having been there for a mere 30 minutes. Basically, what I figure is we paid for the duos transport to Dakar; and I blame her. Damn french...

St Louis proved to be an excellent town. Cool, tranquil with old colonial buildings situated on an island. We didn't do much here. Just relaxed after our Mauritanian journeys, and wandered the streets. And we ate. Some of the best food comes from Senegal. They know how to cook here!

This is also where I received my first cadeau. Some art boy gave me some gris gris, which is juju, which is voodoo...although he swears there is no voodoo in Senegal. It was voodoo. It was for protection in my travels, and I'm still waiting to see if it worked!

We then headed to Dakar. The drive was amazing! We passed through forests of Baobab trees; felt like being in the middle of a Tim Burton fantasy. All the tropical trees were there: Palm, Mango, Paw Paw....heaven.

We were back in Africa now.

Women lined the streets with huge bowls filled with mangos (the season), or cashews, or peanuts, or bananas...rushing to your window to be the one to sell their stock. We bought about 3 kgs of mangos for less then a dollar and made a mess of the bus.

The dude who ran the auberge in St Louis told us about an auberge in Dakar that was reasonably priced. We had heard Dakar was quite danergous and very expensive. Basically that the city blew. And we heard that you should never ever walk with your packs, no matter the time of day. Too much theft.

So that's exactly what we did. We headed for La Medina, armed with just an address for this auberge. Rue sept et douze. All 5 of us stomped up the main street, sweating buckets and trying not to slow down. Then a drunken cop called us over, asking where we were from. He was very happy to hear I was from Canada cause he wanted to move there and become a fireman. How can he do this and can I help? Sure, no worries. After all, I should know having been born in the country. I told him I would find him later to try to aid him. Never happened. I think he was too drunk to remember me.

We finally found Rue 7 and wandered down; hit 12 and stopped. There was not one sign to be seen advertising an auberge. Nothing. All it looked like was a residential; kids playing soccer in the streets, tailors sewing on the sidewalks. Not even stores elling tourist crap. So we stood, confused and hot and tired. Christina, the one who can speak the most french, went and asked at a store. We suspected the auberge could be in one building that was nicely painted and just sorta stook out. The shopkeeper took her to this building and she disappeared behind the gate for what seemed an eternity. Meanwhile we became surrounded by kids who were very playful and curious. AND not one asked for money or bon bons or a pen or nothing. It was fantastic.

Christina finally emerged. It was the auberge, this is the prica and it's preet nice in there. Sold. Get this fucking monster off my bag and give me some cold water!

Auberge La Medina is not found in any guide books. It's only through word of mouth. And Pap, the owner, only wants a certain type of person staying there. Someone who wants to experience and understand life in Senegal, specifically in La Medina, a very special neighbourhood in Dakar. This place is an oasis in the midst of chaos. Pap and his wife and kids invite you into their home and treat you as family the whole time you're there. We were invited to eat lunch with them everyday, free of charge, because that's how it's done in Africa. And you can only imagine how good the food was, homemade and all. Lots of spice and veg and delicious fresh fish. Unbeleivable.

We had meant to rush through Dakar. Instead we fell in love with it and stayed.

By no means is Dakar dangerous. Yes, I'm sure there are pickpockets and possibly muggers there, but name one city where there aren't? La Medina was where the africans lived when the french took over Dakar. They even needed id to get into the city center. Now it's an old, lively neighbourhood with no or minimal tourism enabling the inhabitants to maintain a normal life. People quickly got to know you and would greet you in a friendly open manner. The Senegalese seemed much more open then the Mauritanians although still slightly reserved. Great for conversation and information; everyone seems very well educated.

We had the luck to be in town to see a music festival, which was at the stadium just down the road.
Gotta go...will update soon...

And you thought transport in the desert was just camels...

Just to fill you in a bit, the Western Sahara is not actually Morocco. It used to be a Spanish colony, but in 1975 the Moroccans crossed the border in an attempt at obtaining the oil rich land for Morocco. The Spanish and Mauritanians withdrew in time but some were left that just wouldn’t go. This, of course, resulted in a war that lasted until 1991 when the UN got a cease fire going, with the understanding that the people of the Western Sahara would decide between independence and joining Morocco. Apparently this hasn’t happened yet. Attitude in Morocco is ‘It’s ours.’ Seems Dave, the Californian, saw a map of Maroc in Casa with a big black line drawn through the Western Sahara name with Morocco written overtop. You really want to root for the underdog, don’t you. Like living in the desert isn’t hard enough.

This would explain all the mine fields though.

As I had stated in my last blog, we found transport fairly easily. This was for 250 dirham (about 38 CAD) to get from Dakhla to Nouadhibou on the border of Mauritania (in Mauritania). The distance was a whopping 367 km but all through the desert and then along a dirt piste across the border that is heavily mined.

We were picked up at our hotel at 9am by a taxi, one of those sort of covered, can fit people sitting upright but still a small pickup truck kind of taxis, and taken back out to the police post just outside Dakhla. Lots of checkpoints in this area, to the point where you just don’t bother putting away your passport. It was here that we met up with our van. It looked decent enough, had windows, could see the desert. But then all the bags went in, including this mama’s huge crates of potatoes and enormous bags of potato chips (my guess was resell). All our packs were precariously perched atop these crates and we spent a bit, ok, most of the ride making sure they didn’t topple over atop us. We were then all crammed in along the floor of the van. I think there were 9 of us trying to fit in the back of the van that was mostly taken over by luggage. Now this looked so darn comfy that the policeman who checked our passports kicked up a fuss over it. We had no idea what was going on at first. He just seemed all pissed off and you could imagine the thoughts going through my head. He called us into his office, lit a smoke (cause that’s really where one smokes, in a cop shop), then started ‘interrogating’ (seemed to me) the Spanish girl, Christina. The rest of us were shuffled out into the hall where we strained to hear, and decipher what was going on. Luckily, everyone but me speaks Spanish. Basically he wanted to know if we were ok being crammed into the back of the van ‘like sardines, like animals’. Ok, two questions: are we paying too much for this transport and what else can we do? Turned out the price was very good, he was quite impressed with us getting that price, and well, we could just wait and see what else we got. Whatever. We rearranged a bit; got Theresa, Dave’s mom, into the front seat (2 in the front with the driver, but more comfy and you get to see outside) and the rest of us piled into the back again. This time though Dave got seated beside the Muslim mama and she was just not happy about that. Can’t sit beside a strange man. So she just kept pulling away into her corner, which was fine really because that created more room. She had been a real space hog before when I was beside her.

This was all good actually, crammed into the back with everyone. Until the portable gas stove got whipped out. No…they weren’t really going to light a stove in the back of a moving van that was chokers with people sitting atop a carpet, that was definitely flammable. But it was tea time and they were serious about getting some. Dave immediately squished in closer to me, trying his damndest to get as much space between him and this flame. We all moved as far away from that stove as we could. And then they lit it. Completely oblivious to the dangers of doing such a thing. Just really needed some tea. And they even poured it with the Moroccan flair; pouring 2 or 3 small glasses first before offering up a glass for consumption, twirling 2 glasses between the fingers while doing it. And it didn’t even taste that great. I mean, if I’m gonna blow up while drinking tea, I would like to at least enjoy it.

As we were ‘enjoying’ our glasses of tea, we heard a loud bang. That’s right, we had a flat. In the middle of frikin nowhere, we had a flat. Luckily we had a spare, unluckily we had no tools. Try to picture this, we are in the middle of the inhospitable windy no-shade Sahara, that is actually quite cold because of the wind. Yes, we had tea, but we stupidly had no food…although we did have the crisps…And you couldn’t wander off to far, for entertainment purposes or to pee, cause of land mines. Turned out to be rush hour along this road and a car came along which miraculously had tools. Got it all fixed in a jiffy, paid the driver of the car (can you believe they had to pay some bloke to use his tools in the middle of the desert? Not so giving, huh?) and off we went. All of this actually produced a bit of camaraderie amongst us and Dave’s guitar was pulled out and we had a bit of a sing along (Dave and I softly chortled various words out to various songs, and then this Moroccan dude serenaded Christina with some Spanish songs). My decks of cards came out and a rousing game of gin rummy, Moroccan rules occurred (only pick up the last discard, and you put your discard in front of the next player, which at first just looks like a mess but is a pretty cool idea). I find it amazing that all these card games make their way around the world.

By now Dave and I were dying for food, and loudly discussing the big bags of crisps when baguettes and cheese immerged and we ate like bulimics. Thank god for that bread too, cause we would have faded away to nothing without it. Love Moroccans.

Finally got the border of Morocco. Made some nice chit chat with the officer there, was offered some bread in fact, which is just not something you expect to happen when you’re at a border, let alone a border in the middle of the desert his and off we went into no mans land. You should have seen us. We had all been sleepy and groggy from driving so long. Certainly became bright eyed once we entered that mine field! We all stood, well, stooped, and tried to see as best we could outside the window. This is when you are happy to have a driver who really really knows the route. Of what route we saw! Honestly there were tracks going off in all directions; I mean, you know the ones that end at blown up vehicles is probably not the right way, but what if they flew through the air? And most of those cars belonged to germans, by the way. Don’t know why, but bad things tend to happen to german people.

We made it to the Mauritanian border without a hitch, or blam or boom, and were welcomed by touts offering accommodations in Ndibou (too tough to spell each time). There we were, blowing away in the wind, surrounded by mine fields, not even stamped into the country and the touts managed to smell us out. Amazing ability, sniffing us out like that. Oddly our van mates became quite protective of us and basically planned on sticking with us till we were safe and sound at our place of choice and would not let these touts annoy us any further.

What a boring place to work though. These border guards must have been plenty disappointed when they learned of their post. It’s not like you could even take a stroll when you got bored or annoyed with your workmates. Land mines!

Got stamped in and managed to avoid giving a cadeau to the officers, meaning bribe, which they like to do in these parts. Got away with it because the first person they asked was Theresa and she honestly didn’t know what or how much they wanted and wanted to ask our fellow passengers how much. At one point an officer overheard her complain of having a headache (probably dehydration) but he must have though it was the bribe that made her ill and he interrupted an officer just as he was about to ask D for one. Brilliant move on T’s side, deliberate or not.

While we were filling out our currency declaration forms, you know, to declare all the gold bullion you lug around with you, one gentleman officer who spoke some English was asking various questions. When asked where we were staying we answered Auberge Abba (chosen because of it’s name) he became very excited. “Tents”, he exclaimed and made a peaked shape with his fingers just above his forehead. “You stay in Mauritania house which is a tent! Tent!”

We arrived in Nbidou without any trouble, just nearing sunset. Have to say the highlight of entering that town was seeing a camel riding in the back of a very small pickup that was driving into a gas station.

Checked ourselves into Abba, got some money changed thanks to our local Moroccan friend (Tina’s serenading friend) and made our way into the very exciting town for some fairly expensive grub. Kinda crazy how pricey Mauritania is, but then there’s not a whole heck of a lot of farm land or anything.

Our plan was to leave the next day on the night ’bus’ for Noaukchott, to get D’s visa for Senegal (US and Canada are free) and basically mission it through Mauritania for Senegal.

Woke the next day and had a lovely breakfast thanks to the kitchen we could use (we’re dying for Theresa to make some tortillas though; she’s from New Mexico) and headed out to sightsee. Basically Ndibou consists of a port, one side of the town is a no go area filled with land mines, and then there’s the train station that’s actually just a small square building on one side of the land mines. The iron ore train that stops here is the longest in the world, approx. 2.3 km long, and we got the pleasure of seeing it. It seemed to go forever. Unfortunately we didn’t get to see the mad rush of the passengers that attempt to board.

We had unwittingly hired a taxi/guide. Had no intention of doing such a thing but it came about by us trying to explain to the driver that we wanted to see the shipwrecks on the beach just near the train depot. Basically I asked for hi to take us to ’the plage avec mort bateau’. No? Good, I thought, but then my French bites the big one. I quickly looked up the word for ship in my not so handy phrase book and repeated mort (insert French word for ship). David came up with an excellent pantomime, a la Houses are Tents, and placed his hands vertical against his face, and tilted his head to one side. “Mort bateau, oui?“ Finally he got it, but not until he took us way too far. Whatever. Now we had to find out if it was safe to walk along the beach to see the boats. This was actually quite easy. Just a simple fingers walking, Boom sufficed. It was ok, sorta. Off we went, along possibly the windiest, shell strewn beach ever. These little shell bits almost cut our skin in this breeze. But there was certainly a number of dead boats to see. Good, cause it was a highlight for Dave.

We got to the gare routiere around 4 to catch our bus, which was a rather large van set up with 2 long benches running the length of the van. We were told the bus would leave in 10 minutes and too hurry it up. The bus left at around 7. D and I managed to get seated close to the front, away for the square barred window that would definitely be cold throughout the night. Unfortunately Teresa and Christina were by that, with David across the aisle, sandwiched between 2 Mauritanians, who provided great warmth for him throughout the journey. There was about 20 people seated, with the front taken over by a family; mama seated on top 2 tires, with the young mom and her baby on the bench across us, and the youngest daughter and dad.
Passes the best billboard on our way out of town. It was a painting of a child walking towards a land mine. Then a painting of that small boy blowing up, followed by a picture of the child with one leg. Horrible, I know, but it was very amusing at the same time. You just had to see the painting.

It was a stunning night for a trek through the desert. First the red sunset. We had to stop during this for the passengers to get out and pray along the side of the desert. This was indescribably beautiful; the men’s blue robes flowing in the wind. Then, as we began the drive again, the full moon rose over the chilly expanse of the desert.
We had heard that a road had been built to Nouakchott, which was partially true. It ended quit often and we drove bumpily across sand pistes in the light of the moon often; again thankful for the knowledge of the driver.

The ride was as comfortable as you could imagine, seating on a bench squashed between people with no backrest, but during one stop the mama on the tires rearranged her arrangement and set out the 2 tires along the aisle, placing a blanket atop and thus creating her own bed, completely stealing our leg room. There was really no where to put my feet so I put on my ipod to save myself from certain insanity. I was actually inspired by David who had already put his on, and was sharing his tunes with the dude beside him. After awhile of personal music enjoyment I decided to do the same with the boy on my side. He really enjoyed drums and as we listened I would tell him where each artist was from. He, as everyone who’s heard him, really enjoyed K-Os out of TO. Then Talvin Singh came on and he exclaimed ’Singh! Ma musique!’ Thanks Kirk, for providing entertainment for people all over the world (he had sent me music for my journey the day I flew out of Toronto).

At around 2 am we arrived at the restaurant that we would be sleeping at for the night. This was actually a small wooden hut beside a huge tent (house?). It was absolutely freezing and we all headed into the tent and tried to stretch out while enjoying each others body heat. We were awoken 2 hours later and told we were leaving, but found the van wouldn’t start. So there was a lot of pushing the van up a slight slope and pushing it as quickly as possible for it to wake up. Finally it revved and off we went again, smooshed into the van one more time.

We finally reached Nouakchott at about 7:30am, with D winning the lotto. We had created an eta game for eta sleep and eta arrival time as well as eta for leaving sleep. Found our way to Auberge Sahara, which is an excellent little oasis of a lodge in Nchott, and D went to get his Senegal visa. Have to say I didn’t do much in Nchott. The place was so comfy and we had a kitchen once more so…

We stayed for a couple days. The place was crawling with French gypsy types and I was quit glad to leave the moochers (Do you have tea I can have? Any sugar? How bout garlic? How bout you go to the store across the street.) We left for the frontier of Senegal, Rosso with a Senegalese bloke and his French girlfriend. This is a whole other blog though and I’m tired so until then….

By the way, this was written on a laptop in the comfort of my auberge in Senegal thanks to Teresa and David. Love it. And it explains the sheer length, doesn’t it?

Love and misses,thi