Senegal, Monday, 13th March 2006 (Corinne)
We finally do start to get into real travel mode -- haggling over the price of tomatoes at the market isn't a nuisance, it is fun. Playing the game with the policeman at the checkpoint, although not always what you want to do, can be fun also. Although we aren't 100% there yet like we would be if we were backpacking (we don't have the nightly hotel haggle or the 24 hour bus ride with the locals), we do have our fun. Isn't it always about playing the game? You just have to know who is playing, what they really expect and what you are willing to give up.
So we hear horror stories about the border between Mauritania and Senegal--the town of Rosso. Over and over again, we heard from every type of traveller and guidebook, this border crossing is possibly rated the worst in the world. Although we didn't hear too many firsthand experiences about what the real hassle was all about, we did know it had to do with money, endless questions/offices/hassle and time. We have now learned that this border crossing has cost many many people up to 500+ euros--like $750 per car (that is A LOT of money here!), a short ferry ride (also pricey, can be $50-$100) and 6+ hours of hassle/waiting. The border officials here have worked this border entry into a piece of art, an experience you have to endure to get in, and one that you will never forget. But, knowing this and taking this advice to heart, we decide to go for another border crossing--less hassle, a bit out of the way. And thank goodness we did!
The one thing with the Diama border crossing is it is off road--well, in more overlanding terms, you drive on a piste to get there--translated--dirt road. Some corrugations. Some up and down hill. Some huge HUGE potholes that you only see 1 second before...some you brake for, others you fly into the air with. But our car is built for this so we are ready. And it is a beautiful drive. On the edge of the Senegal river (the most fertile land we have seen in weeks) in the middle of a national bird park (that really has birds!), through sleepy villages. The only thing we didn't know was how to find the piste (the turn off from the main village) and how long it was. We could guess looking at the maps, but we have easily found out that road distances or directions aren't ever really accurate on a map (and realize that the maps we have only show major towns), most people you ask don't really know how long it takes or where it is either, and trying to drive with a GPS waypoint as your only guide can be a bit of a challenge (remember that a GPS draws a straight line between where you are and where you are going...and with no maps of Africa available for the GPS units like they are of cities in the USA, the GPS doesn't account for water you can't cross, the ocean, roads zigzagging north and south...so 50km could really mean 100 on the actual road. But here you anticipate that, most of the time....)
So how to find the road? Well, we are in Rosso, the town we don't want to cross the border in. And we have heard if you start to go near the border crossing, you are stuck. So if you don't find the piste, you are out of luck. And at first, unknown to us, we start heading in the wrong direction. People surround our car. No one is sticking their hands in or trying to take stuff, but they all want to 'show you' the way to the border...just for a small fee. But we know this is not the border we want, we want the piste. And luckily, two policeman walk up and ask us where we are going. Diama. Which way? Well, that way, one answers (pointing in the opposite direction, not at a road, just the other way. Just go that way.). Why do you not want the Rosso border? No, no. We answer. We want to go to Diama. So within a minute, the police move all the people out of the way and help us make room to reverse the car...remember we don't have power steering and we are a BIG car...it takes some time, patience and talent to do this with 30 people, goats, trucks, and cars passing in a very busy town...but Patrick does it like a pro. So off to look for the road again. uugggh...we know we will find it but sometimes you don't want to do this for 1 hour...But we spot no road. But after another 10 minutes of driving and turning around, we stop at a gas station to ask someone else. And luckily there is a French guy, who obviously lives locally, and is willing to direct us (in the right direction!) without asking for a 'cadeau'. Oh it is to the right, 150 meters away. Take the lower road. Should take about 2 hours. Good choice...Diama.
And we find it. Yippeee! We are on our way. And it was nearing 2:00 by then so we knew we would be bush camping...not trying to cross the border (exit one country, enter another, get to another campsite) today. And of course it didn't take us 2 hours but more like 4. About 85km or so...although we originally thought it couldn't be more than 50 But it didn't really matter. You do anticipate these things and we NEVER drive at night. We always start to look for camping or a place to stay, around 3-4ish, about 3-4 hours before sundown. This way, if something doesn't work out, you have plenty of time. This is the fun part.
Although there are very few other overlanders here, other than the real desert drivers that come from Europe to play in the sand for a month or the retiree, fully decked campervans, we did spot some today! The Belgians! We had met this Belgian couple at the last campsite and they too were on the same route. Fun people--they are about our age, but on motorbikes, a bit more adventurous (or stupid?) than us (and something I would never do!). So we stop and have a chat. So you want to camp together tonight? Yeah, sure. The girl had tipped her bike over earlier and hurt her leg so they were really ready to stop. Ok, so let's look for a spot.
But it took another hour before we found something, since a lot of the land was marshy and not really drivable. Beautiful but not drivable. So we get to a checkpoint. No problem. Oh you are 25km from the border and it is about 4:30. Are you going to the border (well, the next day find out the border was just over 5km away!) No. we are going to camp around here. Great. Have fun. No problem here. Enjoy this place. You are safe. And so off we went. Found a place a few km away from the checkpoint.
It was a long day and stopping was exactly what we wanted to do.
So we set up camp and are lucky to be witness to the Belgium's first bush camping experience. After all, you have to be up for the adventure of camping in the middle of nowhere to enjoy it, and also being on a motorbike leaves little luxury unless you meet another overlander--they carry little water and food, which means you have canned good or pasta for dinner, and a bit of water or flask of wine to drink...they even said they conserve their water (very smart!) so much that they usually don't even wash their sandy, dirty, sunburnt face. So being with us was a luxury--let's cook together (fresh veggies, meat, etc.) and please use our water (we carry 200 liters, they carry 13) for your face, to drink, etc. And we had a ball. We share a bit...they share a bit...They have nuts, wine and pasta. We have veggies, vodka, cooking dishes, 2 burners, and chef Patrick. And what a nice night. Having fun chats. Camping in the middle of a national bird park....very cool.
And as we had a drink and a snack as we set up camp, a car stops. Not just any car but an army car. It is nearing close to 7 and just about dark. Ok what hassle is this. Out come 2 army cadets walking towards us. A slight smile...a slight air of I am the army. And there are big hellos....Bonjour...Ca va?? Are you good? Having a nice time? Well, we just wanted to tell you that we saw you here. Do you have a cadeau (gift) for me? Pens, cigarettes, etc. (In Mauritania they usually ask for a gift rather than money or a bribe, so we are used to this by now.) Well, P and I decide that we can fork over a few cigarettes. So I run to the car and fetch a few. In the meantime, a 3rd person emerges from the car...the Colonel. Big black man. He walks towards the cadets, waving them away with the look of, you better NOT be asking for cadeaux. The Colonel walks up to Patrick and shakes his hand and the Belgium guy's hand. The Belgium girl then puts her hand out to shake....with the most elegant gesture the Colonel puts his hands in the air, with the sign, 'I can't do that.' To a strict Muslim, touching a western girl's hand is not allowed. He wasn't upset or offended by the western gesture, but elegantly pointed out that it isn't done that way here...
So the Colonel continues... Ahh, yes, I see that you have met my men, hope they haven't bothered you. Well, we are part of the Mauritanian army. We just wanted to let you know that we know you are here....you are incredibly safe here, I personally guarantee your safety. Have a wonderful night. We are so happy that you are our guests......Wow we thought! Wish that would be the same where we live... On one hand, nice to know we are being looked out for, and on the other, just a nice hello. No hassle. Just relaxed. But now...continue on....
And we are all very hungry. So now it is nearing 10pm and the veggie, tomato, meat, cheese, pasta are not kidding 1 minute away from completion. Oh Shitola---are those car lights again? Army guys--no, they were here a few hours ago. Who is it now? Taking all necessary precautions, we start to pack the major things in the car--laptops, Inmarsat, camera, wine (remember this is an Islamic state...no alcohol here)...appearances are everything, right! We all quickly agree that if there is hassle, we pack up our tents and go further on...not really wanting to do this, but a bargaining tool. So who is it? Not 1 but 2 guys, in local outfits...not an official looking anything. 'Hello. We are here to tell you that you need to pay to stay here.'
'What? We were told it was ok to camp here....'
'Yes, it is ok but you must pay the official park fee.'
Well, we know this routine, so we say...'ok if we need to pay you need to show us your badge, and we also want an official receipt.'
'Ahh, no we can't give you that, but you have to pay.'
Sorry guys, we aren't that stupid so no we won't pay you. We did know that something like this would happen...typical, and of course right at the point when you won't pack up and go.
'Well,' they say, 'you have to pay, but if you don't then we will go.'
Cool. Maybe we played this game well...maybe they were official, maybe they weren't. Regardless, we didn't pay. So let's eat. And as P is about to dish out the pasta, another set of headlights. This time not 1, 2 but 5 guys looking very proper. A few cops (not military--military are a much bigger, professional and elite thing here), the 2 local guys that had just stopped by and the official park cop. Hey wait...2 of these guys are the ones from the checkpoint who said we could camp here. So what is going on? They begin by saying...Hello! Hello! Are you having a nice time? (Yes, but we are just about to eat?) Ohh, no problem. We are just stopping by to let you know that you need to pay a park fee. So if you quickly pay. We will leave and let you eat. You should have paid earlier to these guys, but you didn't so we all need to be here to ensure you pay....See, we even have the official national park receipt booklet (a receipt is rare in most places).
So the game begins again. Dinner gets cold again. And I now get angry. It is now getting close to 11 and the official park guy has now decided to take my seat. So here we are...5 of them, 4 of us...all crowded around the table. I couldn't help but say in the nicest terms, 'really? This is how it is in Mauritania? Of course they just wanted a few bucks, but it was the wrong moment for it. They said we could camp there, they said no problem. We know the police guys felt really bad about being dragged their with the park official, but couldn't do anything about it.
So after some back and forth, we tell him we didn't have any money to pay him. We really didn't have any Mauritanian money (we do have euros/dollars) left and knew they would never wait until the next day for payment. So finally the Park official guy looks at P. Ok...'Chef' (what they call the head of a company, village, etc.--these guys labelled him this which is a big status thing here). Chef, what are you going to do. You need to pay. This is the fee...I will write you a receipt. And with that the Belgians decide to step in and say they have money and they will pay for all of us. The big guy looks to P...so Chef is that what you want to do? Well, it was late, we could have played the game a bit longer, but the money was already offered so maybe it was best to end the game. OK, P says, sticking with the original story, I don't have the money, but if they want to pay, that's fine with me. So the Belgians give the money. The big guy says, Ok Chef, what's your name? P tells him to make out the receipt to the Belgians, who are paying him. Oh, no... you're the chef, payment is made in your name, your name only. And then the receipt is written in P's name. And then the big guy starts to go off....'See Chef....this has been a big f***ing waste of time....for nothing.....yeah, all this time for nothing....your time, my time...wasted...your dinner is cold, my dinner is cold....wasted...for nothing... P violently agrees - yes a big waste of time! And with that, we're all on equal grounds again and they left. We couldn't help but have a bit of a laugh after that. So overall, a bit annoying at this late hour....a bit of the experience....a bit of learning...$6 we didn't want to cough up...Oh well.....a good story I guess.
Next day. All in all, we had a nice sleep after that eventful evening. Probably a warthog or 2 was wandering around camp during the night...doesn't matter we are on top. So we are now awake, have coffee.. On our way. We decide to stop and fill our petrol tank p with some of our jerry cans....after all, there had been stories at other borders of officials making you pour out all of your jerry cans (taxes....you can't import gas)...turned out to not be necessary at all, but we did it anyway.
So thinking we still have about 45 minutes to drive, we set into driving mode. Hey, wait. Is that the border? Only 8km, about 10 minutes, we were at the border.... Here we go, put the border negotiation skills head on......and P is brilliant.
We are in and out of Mauritania exit within 30 minutes, 2 offices and didn't pay a dime. P just decided the story was....'we don't have any money.' The customs guy got such a kick out of this that he started laughing, patting him on the back. 'No money? No way!'. P says, 'really no money. We will wait until we go to a bank in Senegal.' Well, the Belgians paid $50 per person, and we ended up paying nothing...well one official guy asked for a t-shirt (and we offered a dirty white Hanes one and he started laughing--no way! Forget it). We think the guy was so amazed that Patrick said we had no money and was willing to chat about it for 30 minutes that he appreciated the effort....not many people try to do that. Most pay up....well we don't. So mission 1 accomplished. Now the Mission 2...entry into Senegal...the biggest challenge...
So as it always is...not even a mile in between the borders but it always is no mans land, no one's territory....and now the entry to Senegal...Over the bridge....and the big barrier...STOP. And there is a guy who has the job to lift the bridge gate...'Hello. Welcome to Senegal. That will be 20 euros (about $35).' What? To lift the bridge barrier (really?_)...you have to be kidding me. Mind you there is still immigration and customs offices to go through......So P says, 'No way. We have no money.' They guy looks at us with a big smile...you have no money? (of course we do but not any we want to part with, and we definitely have no local money the CFA).....yeah right. This is the Senegal border crossing, you need money to get in. You of course have 20 euros. Nope says P, we don't. So the guy walks away, a bit surprised that we have no money. But we are in NO hurry, we are here to play the game. We are absolutely ready to sit here for the day if we have to. And we do...well 2.5 hours, just because we wanted to.
The Belgians went through in about an hour and paid another 60 euros...we only paid 20 in total for everything....according to other travellers...that has never been done before. But we played the game and had an excellent time with stories like....'We don't have any money....so maybe we will just drive to Mali instead of go through Senegal. You want too much money......' So how much do you have (and changing your amount from minute to next isn't a problem here)? Well, we do have 10euros, but that is for the customs guy....we need our carnet stamped (our car 'passport'). Oh only 10 euros. Yes. That is it. So for 2.5 hours it is back and forth. Back and forth. A guy who got a Masters in London and another one in Germany, both Senegalese, come up for a chat (they also somehow work here or run operations here),...'so what is the problem?'
Oh no problem we say, we just don't have any money.
No money? Why don't you have any money?
We just don't. So we have a chat. Oh we are doing a volunteer education program for kids that helps teach about Africa being a wonderful beautiful place...ohh...really?....and they walk off....
and then P has another talk here and there...and then we have a bite of bread and water (we aren't in a rush!)...and then another talk over there.....and another there....not kidding there are 20 different people roaming the border...some officials, some just wandering, some we don't know what they were doing. It is like the biggest game of chess or Life or whatever...but real life fun....And it all continues....
So the next minute, we are told by the bridge guy, if we can't pay, maybe we should go back to Mauritania and onto Mali (which we told him we were ready to do). He comes over, grabs my hand and says ok? (with the smile saying, of course you aren't.....just pay) Pats me on the back as I fake sulk (sulking wife works great in this situation)...it is going to be ok....So we reply, sorry, we have no money. We can go to the bank later but we have nothing. So more waiting. And then would you believe that in another 10 minutes, another guy comes up...I can drive you to St Louis to the bank and then back. Then you have money. See problem solved. Then you can cross the border.
And of course this is not an option for us. We never leave the car, although it probably would have been ok. Remember it is a game.... So OK, if you aren't going t pay, then you must move the car OFF the bridge. Fine we say. And in reverse we go.
So we are now parked off the bridge and the European schooled guys approach again. 'What are you still doing here?'
Well, we have no money.
And after another 10 minutes, we are told that they will help situate this.....how much do you have in total (Dollars are worthless here which we learned, so we say $15 and 20 euros)...ok so you have 20 euros...ok go and explain with brochures and flyers that we do have an education program and why you are in Senegal ('P says-if we can't enter the country, then our school kids won't learn about Senegal.... Oh well... Mali is really pretty too')...and we do....and I stay by the car....one by one they come up to P with a new deal....and then P comes back to verify with me, the sulking wife....back and forth....back and forth.... And then after 2 1/2 hours or so, they were all sick of us hanging around, or having too much fun playing the game, and they settle it all...5 euros to the bridge gate guy, 5 euros for each passport, and 5 for the car...and they even gave us change in euros (knowing we had more than 20 euros)...And this deal is final? This will guarantee our entry? And all went as planned. Within another 20 minutes, off we went.... If I could frame the smile on Patrick's face as we left the border, I would have.....there are not many times in life when the smile is sooo big....so 'I won'.....so so.so...just so wonderful....this is a game we didn't know really how to play and we won bigger than few have before....go P...go P....go P.........that minute I turned into a CHS cheerleader...
And we then headed into a glorious country....Senegal, called the gem of West Africa, and we can see why. Our first real Black African country...the big mammas, the colors, the beauty, the cutest kids, the deepest beautiful black color of their skin, their style....stilettos under bright colored gowns....the way the carry themselves....this is a place where people are proud...proud of their culture, beauty, life and their beat...Senegalese are known for their music and rhythm and my hips just can't move like theirs and my hands just can't beat a drum like theirs can.... it just is in their blood and you see the difference....
And as we made our way into town, we again are stopped at a checkpoint. Really? After a morning of playing the game, we were kinda done. But no stopping this one. SO the policeman comes up to P's window. Welcome to Senegal. What are you doing here? Well, we are tourists. Ok...ummm (we know he is looking for a bribe)...I want to see your car insurance, and we show it and he doesn't even glance at it. Ok...then I want to see your car papers....again not looking at it. Ok...then your health passports, we attempt to show it...(he is not interested, he just wants us to pay.) Ok so Patrick where are your warning triangles, you need 2 in Senegal. So out Patrick goes. The car is opened up, the triangles are shown. Ok...where is your fire extinguisher...so P shows him not just 1, but the 3 we have. And P can now see that the police guy is getting annoyed in that he can't find 1 thing to charge us with. So after a few more minutes of asking questions, he finally finds something we don't have...reflectors on the back of the car. Great! This is all we need. But being in the game playing mode, P says we have no money. We just arrived and the money we did have was taken at the border. 'So you don't have 40 euros to pay the fine?' No we say, really we gave it all at the border. And with that the police taps P on the shoulder and says go, with the nod of 'you probably just spent your life savings and 5 hours at the Rosso border, so go on now. I understand why you have no money.' So game 3 completed--another award for P today. But now, we are done. Let's just get to the famed Zebra bar campsite--what we now call backpacking for overlanders (and much needed after a long day).
This beautiful spot, on the edge of the Senegal river, in the middle of a real bird national park, with a nice relaxed atmosphere, a watchtower, drinkable water (we haven't yet had to use our water filter anywhere), hot solar heated showers, cold beers in the fridge, hammocks to swing in....a gorgeous spot to be in. Built by a Swiss couple about 5 years ago....everything is solar powered. No electricity in this part of town. If you wanted to run a place like this, they did it right. They live on these acres in a gorgeous house with their 2 small very cute kids.
So the best thing we did was relax. Since we were 20km outside of town, unless we wanted to go into town for 1/2 day or so, it wasn't worth finding a taxi, the 45 min ride in, find a taxi back with another 45 min drive. So we spent a few days just relaxing, for the first time. It was the first time we both actually pulled a book out, sat in the sun, drank a cold beer, talked to other travellers, and even had time for a nap. Relaxing...ahh. Nice. Each night we made a campfire, cooked up some good meals and within minutes had a few fellow travellers coming over for a chat by the fire. The only part missing was that we were secluded from the local community. But, for now, it didn't matter. We were just relaxing.
Senegal, Tuesday, 25th April 2006 (Patrick)
With all the work on the education program, I definitively got behind on updating you. We're now in Burkina, and I haven't put a word on paper about Mali yet, but at least I finally got us out of Senegal. It's a bit fragmented, but I hope it will give you a feel for what it was like in Senegal anyway.
Our first week in Senegal we spent camping at Zebra Bar in the Langue de Barbarie National Park just south of St. Louis - a perfect combination of city and country. We wake up surrounded by birds in the morning and go for a walk in the bird park or on a canoe trip down the Senegal River. Or at least that's the plan. But since we finally decided to slow down, catch up on work and try to relax for a bit, the reality is more like, a sleep-in, catching up on some writing and finally making a start in that book . In the afternoons we take a shared taxi up to St Louis, to go to the market and soak up the atmosphere of the old colonial town. St. Louis used to be the capital of Senegal. The old centre is on Ile de Senegal (the island in the middle of town) and is filled with beautiful old French colonial buildings. The island is connected to the mainland by a long bridge (built by Eiffel), where the new city centre is. On the other side, a small bridge connects it to the old fishing town with busy markets and sandy streets. It's almost as if you have three towns in one, held together by two bridges and the great 'spirit of St Louis'.
But there's more to do in Senegal than Saint Louis alone, so after a while we move on towards Dakar. We decide to spend the night in the tiny little village of Bayakh, about 50 km away from Dakar. We have a stroll though the sleepy village, stop for an occasional chat, and play around with the kids a bit, but mostly just enjoy how incredibly quiet and peaceful the little village is. OK, the village is quiet, but our campsite is close to the 'church' of a local sect. I don't mind the occasional chant, and have come to really like the sound of the call to prayer, but this is different. A set of loud speakers that would make the average rock band green with envy, plays the repetitive chanting of a group of drugged madmen - for four hours, non stop. After that it takes another hour for the ringing in my ears to go down enough to be able to hold a conversation. The next day we make a stop at Lac Rose, which indeed has a reddish glow, but really is barely worth the stop for a photo.
And then… there it is… Dakar. Dakar is one of the busiest, most modern cities in West Africa, and is known for its vibrant atmosphere. And so it is! The streets are wide and congested, the buildings tall and modern. This is a city where every foreign company or aid organisation has an office, and where plane loads of American and European tourists fly to, to start a West African holiday. Famous for its music as well as its hustlers and pickpockets. Both seem to be a bit exaggerated. Pickpockets are probably around, but since we haven't been looking for them, we didn't spot any, and hustlers and touts must have been out of practice after a the long period of inactivity during low season - an occasional lame attempt to sell us something or be our 'guide' most of the times was abandoned before it had properly started. As for the music - the place is definitively happening, and the Senegalese love their music, but the city doesn't exactly have music dripping from its pores. It just isn't the musical explosion I expected of what is referred to as the musical capital of Africa... I had somehow expected a place more like Salvador, with music coming from every building, drum bands marching the streets and people jamming away on every corner. But instead of a place so filled with music, that even I can't help but dance in the streets, we find a stately, almost sedate town, where the only music comes from the occasional ghetto blaster of a CD vendor, and even then at almost too civilised a level. That doesn't mean it's not a nice place though. Cars and minibuses, every bit of empty space between the traffic carefully filled up with people, create a constant flow of noise and movement. Smokey scent of meat skewers being cooked up on small barbecues on the pavement. Street vendors sell everything from fake Rolexes to fruit and cold drinks. Women in bright coloured, flowing traditional dresses, walk alongside others in jeans or designer suits. Ex-pats and aid-workers in short sleeve shirts briefly brave the heat in the short walk from air-conditioned offices to their white Toyota Land Cruisers. At the call from the Minaret, men stretch out their mats and bow down to pray. In Dakar, all worlds come together and are held together by a glue of concentrated Senegal. Except for Sunday, that is, when the entire city is quiet and deserted, and in the silence of the streets you can hear the echoes of your own footsteps - a deceptive lull before the storm of Monday's markets, when the city comes to full life again.
Camping in Dakar is impossible, so we set up camp in the enclosed parking of a beach hotel just outside the centre. And for a while it feels like colonialism is still alive. A lively, semi-chique place, very adequate at creating a 'colonialism just before the fall' sort of feel. The cars are expensive, bikinis on the beach are cut to the latest fashion (or at least they appear to be, but what do I know). Here local officials in impeccably pressed dark suits, rub shoulders with wannabe expats in one notch too casual 'casual Friday' shorts. French soldiers from the nearby base flex their muscles in a re-enactment of the volleyball game in Top Gun. Prostitutes and slightly more innocent girls with similar intentions exaggerate their admiration, hoping to be the one to be wined and dined that night. Journalists discuss this week's papers over pastis or tea, and jointly agree on Senegal's state of affairs for this week. OK, it's not really like that. The officials in sharp suits and wannabe expats both know they're talking to the wrong person to make any change in their favour. The girls all know that the soldiers all have to be in bed by 9 (and probably have seen Top Gun, so know the score about Tom Cruise, in spite of what Katie Holmes thinks). And the journalist have far nicer hotels to discuss what should be in the news this week about Senegal. Still, even if only on the surface, for a while colonialism still seems very much alive (and it may very well be). But later at night when they all have left (we're not part of 'them'; we cook our food in the parking lot - we may be strange, but not 'them'), the place becomes its own again. The sound of silenced quasi-sophisticated European music is gone, as is the steady rhythm of 'drums for tourists', and is replaced by excited chatter in of people speaking in their local tongue. And in my light slumber I can almost understand what they are saying. Or at least I think I can, since so many words sound so familiar. It almost sounds as if they are speaking French, yet the words are slightly different. It makes me wonder if the language evolved incorporating French words or if it was purposely made to sound more French to confuse colonists. The laughter and chatter goes on in waves until late at night, occasionally swelling and dying out. The night has fallen and colonialism of the day has completely disappeared. I wonder if it has always been that way... when the white man goes to sleep, colonialism leaves with him.
The next day the colonialism doesn't reappear. It's Monday, so the day-guest are at work, and apart from a few men who bring their girlfriends in for a couple of hours at night, the hotel is completely deserted. At first we feel a little exposed camping on the parking. We are in the main walkway between rooms and reception and restaurant, so people walk by constantly. And since, when you're camping, you live 90% of your life outside, this means people are pretty much walking through your living room all the time, so it does feel a bit like we're living in the Big Brother house. But the strange thing is that as much as we feel exposed at first, we actually start to like it after a while. The morning starts with a friendly "Bonjour, la famille. Bien dormi?", and during the course of the morning, while we're having breakfast or doing a bit of work everyone drops by for a chat. How was your day? How do you make that dish? I just visited my grandmother. Yes, she’s doing fine thanks. We have become part of the family. When we walk out to go to town, one of our 'family members' makes sure we're not overcharged for the taxi or tells us which market has the best veggies. When we come back, a chat and a helping hand carrying our groceries to the car.
Having said that, now three months into our trip, we have learned that there is something very strange about camping. For some reason, camping is interpreted - by other tourists and locals alike - as an open invitation to come into your 'house'. Granted, the mog is a bit 'different' and I can totally understand people wanting to have a look at it or trying to get a peek inside. But while most people would be hesitant to start an uninvited conversation with someone, one table over in a restaurant, let alone, pull up a chair, when we are having a bite in the privacy of our 'home', no one will think twice about sitting down in one of our chairs and interrupt us mid-lunch and mid-conversation for whatever they have on their mind. Apparently living 'outside', means your life becomes public domain. Don't get me wrong, we love having people over, and we're the first ones to offer someone a drink or a snack, or share a meal. But in this case we have lost the right to choose who we do and do not invite to our 'house'. People will come by and sit down whenever they feel like it, and a friendly 'I'm working' or 'we're eating now' has no effect. OK, an occasional person will ask if it's OK if they have a look or sit down, but most people (again locals and other tourists alike) see it as their inalienable right to sit around at our car, talk to us whenever they feel like it (even when it's clear that it's an inconvenient time), or get a drink our of our fridge. Guess I finally understand why Big Brother was such a hit.
On our last day in Dakar, we make a day-trip to the nearby Ile de Goree. A huge contrast with the always busy streets of Dakar … Goree is possibly even sleepier than Bayakh. Colourful colonial houses climb up against the hill in the north of the island. Strangely enough they look more like the colonial style you find in the Caribbean than the French colonial style you see in the rest of Senegal. Flowers rain down from the walled gardens, making the narrow streets bright and colourful. The village is so pretty and peaceful that it's almost impossible to imagine that from here, millions of slaves were shipped to the Americas. The old fort is now the history museum - each room is dedicated to an era. Pre-historic, bronze age, the various kingdoms, colonial times and finally independence. And the great thing about independence is that you become you own master, which in this case is perfectly symbolised by the fact that the room dedicated to independence is… the souvenir shop.
After our visit to Ile de Goree, we pick up some fruit, veggies and meat at the market and headed towards the 'gare routiere'. We jump on a minibus to Ngor, the village we stay in. We are one of the first ones on the bus, so we're lucky enough to have a seat, but soon enough the bus fills up. Properly. You can't move a finger, let alone get to the back of the bus to get a ticket. Someone taps on my shoulder, hands me 500 francs and says 'Yoff'. What??? Ah, I get it. I lean over, tap the man who sits next to the ticket window on the arm, and hand him the 500 francs... 'Yoff'. The man turns around and hands the money to the conductor. A while later the ticket and change finds its way back in the same way. 'Psss...' I look up again and, some more coins are handed over... 'Ngor'. Now that people have seen that I understood how my new job works the hisses and money come in from every direction, and the Chinese whispers of destinations work their way through the bus... Ngor... Yoff... Aeroport.... Yoff... When we get off in Ngor the conductor thanks us with a big thumbs up and appoints a new assistant conductor.
Off to Toubab Dialaw, a tiny village about 60km south of Dakar. Having been called toubab by every little kid we've seen in the past two weeks, we have finally figured out that toubab means 'white man', so we are a bit confused about the name of the village. Later we learn that the Portuguese used to come here to trade, and so the village became know as the place where the white man comes in the Dialaw region, or Toubab Dialaw. A tiny village on the ocean - a perfect place to relax and have the last 'beach experience' we will have in the next four months. The hotel we stay at, or rather, where we camp at the parking, has a couple of live-in dancers and musicians that practice in the little theatre they have.
In the 10 days we spend there, we get to know them all quite well, and that gives us a little insight into life in Senegal. We learn a bit more about music and dance, which I still have to say, is a bit disappointing to live up to Senegal's claim to fame. All musicians we meet (and in Senegal, especially in and around Dakar, you meet a lot of 'musicians'), speak passionately about their music: it's their inspiration and source of life. But the reality looks more like a passion for the life of Bob Marley than a real dedication to music. I probably should be happy about that though, because I hate Bob Marley, and the typical Kora music you hear in Senegal is possibly even more repetitive than reggae. But without the music there is more time to talk, and again we become part of the family.
'Is it really true?' I stop stirring the ratatouille that I'm brewing up in the back of the car, and turn around. 'Is it really true that you are the one who cooks?' It's one of the middle aged women who works at the hotel. 'Somebody told me, but I couldn't believe it, so, is it really true that you always cook?' I smile, 'Yes, I love cooking'. She shakes her head. 'Et Madame? She doesn't do anything?' I try to explain that we try to divide the work a bit, and that besides, I like cooking. It's no use. 'You don't have a problem with that? You cook and Madame does nothing?' She can live with the fact that I cook because I like it. It may be strange, but then again, toubabs are strange. But at the same time she can't respect Corinne. She's a woman, and should be cooking. If you don't, the only explanation can be that you're a lazy bitch. It's an interesting contrast with two weeks earlier in Dakar. The situation was almost the same, but the reaction very different. We just set up camp on the parking lot of Monaco Plage, and I'm making a lazy attempt at sort of cleaning the table with a half damp piece of cloth. 'Are you cleaning?' Two girls look at me with big smiles on their faces. 'Well, I'm trying' ' What? Don't you have a wife or something?' 'Yeah, she's inside', pointing at Corinne who just stuck her head out of the side door. They run towards her and practically squeezer her to death with their hugs. 'So great to meet you, you are a good strong woman.' They also think it almost impossible that I'm doing any household chores, but that doesn't lead them to disrespect Corinne thinking she's lazy, but rather, to worship her because she told her man to get of his lazy ass and do something for a change. In the mean time, all men think I'm a total sucker. Being a chef in restaurant is one thing - that's a job, but cooking at home is a woman's job, and any man who does that is a sissy.
We just did out shopping in the only 'grocery store' the village has. Here, almost everyone grows their own veggies, so the market has very little selection, and is more a place for the women to trade their surpluses than a real market - our daily shopping would easily empty out two or three of the market stalls. So in spite of our preference for markets we end up at the local veggie store, which has a great selection, and remarkably reasonable prices. On our way back we decide to make a stop at the local internet café. We are a bit surprised that there is one (only 150 meters away from our hotel), since at the hotel everyone told us that there was nothing in the area. Two days before we walked two hours to the next village only to find that the internet cafe was closed. Not that it wasn't a nice walk, but in this case it was the destination and not the journey that counted. When we walk by to inspect the cyber-cafe a guy walks by, says hello, then utters some incomprehensible words in Wolof, and starts explaining what the words mean and how they fit in to the typical greetings in Senegal. From this, a conversation evolves and before we know it, we have been standing there chatting with Idi, as we now know is he is called, even though his real name is Asane. It's getting close to twelve, so the hot sun is climbing towards its highest point - it's so strong it makes my forehead itch. It's time to go back, sit in the shade and get some work done. But Idi will not hear of it. He agrees its way too hot in the sun, so why don't we come in to his place, sit down, talk and have some tea. At first we're bit reluctant, since we planned on getting some work done, but it's no use. In Senegal, you don't decline an invitation for tea, so after some mild objections we agree and follow him inside.
Inside one of his friends sits on a low bench in front of a gas cooker. Foam bubbles softly from the little kettle he holds over the stove. He looks up when we walk in, smiles and utters a soft 'salaam aleikum' in response to our 'bonjour'. Idi tells him to make some tea, while he scurries around for chairs.' Sit, sit… Sit down and talk. Talk and have tea. In Senegal tea brings people together. It stimulates conversation. If you ever find yourself alone, make tea and people will come' He sits on a plastic chair, slightly bent, tall, skinny and shirtless. His chubby friend sits huddled over the burner, pouring frothy tea from one cup into the other. Each glass of tea is different, Idi explains. The first one is dark, strong and bitter, like death. But it's also like youth. Nice circle of life, I'm thinking. It's strong like the young man in his physical prime, but also dark and bitter, since he still has much to learn. The second one is lighter, a bit bitter and a bit sweet. It's the middle aged man, who has tasted some of the sweetness in life, but knows he still has many obstacles to overcome. The last one is weak and sweet. This is the old man. He has lost much of his physical strength, but it's sweet, because he is wise and can look back on a life full of achievement. I wonder why I didn't get the third one, but now that I know the meaning of the ritual, I guess I should be happy I got a second one.
It's time for us to go, but again Idi won't hear of it 'you must have lunch with me'. We really planned on getting some work done today, but since we're offered a glimpse into life in Senegal, we accept anyway. We are invited into his room, and sit down on the mattress in the corner. He turns on the stereo, and the by now a bit too familiar tones of 'no woman, no cry' fill the room. 15 minutes later a black out shut Bob up, and this is the first time I hope a black-out will last. Idi stretches out on the floor. 'My cousin will come soon with lunch. Let's talk.' He grew up in this village, and all his friends and family live here, yet you can see he's lonely. In some way he doesn't belong here anymore. He went off to go to school, while all his mates learned how to fish. He speaks French and English in a village where 'toubab cadeau' is the only 'French' you learn as a kid. He speaks of developing, where most people think of surviving. A big bowl of tieb bou djenne is brought in, and while we all dig our spoons into the large communal dish, Idi, without knowing my thoughts, sums it up in a perfect way: '… to the people in my village, I am white'. To them, his education turned him white, and to some extent, it is easy to see why. He not only speaks the toubab language, he speaks of toubab things… hygiene, mosquito nets, development… He works with a small development organisation and brought an internet café to a village where literacy is less than 40%. It's not just that, though. While he was in school in Rufisque and later Dakar, his old friends heard the old tales of village history, learned to deal with the social structures in the village, and conquered their position in this micro-society. When he returned, his education had taught him many things, but at the same time had left him a stranger to his community. He is respected for his knowledge and the fact that he had brought some development projects to the village, but shunned, because he is no longer one of them. He now is an educated young man, but lacks the guidance and sounding board of his 'elders'. Without that interaction, all his thoughts and views go unchallenged and new impulses are rare and often unbalanced. Without at least some guidance from the wise men in his society (whether they are 'educated' in the Western sense of the word or not), he will never mature into the well balanced person he could be. Education or not, and all good intentions set aside, this makes him ineffective in helping his village (and in the worst case even harmful). He already knows he won't last here and, within two or three years, will move to Dakar. Maybe he really has become a white man.
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