Laura and I wrapped up our three weeks in West Africa with a return to Dakar. We decided to not stay downtown this time, but to get a hotel up near the northwestern coast. For the last two nights we have wound down the evening on the patio of our hotel, just feet from the beach and ocean. This is more of a local beach than a tourist one. Families play on the beach and in the water, local fishermen bring in their nets or set off in their pirogues down the beach. There seems to be some sort of organized work-out for men here, too. Each day, one or two groups of a few dozen men go through a series of exercises on the beach. They run a few hundred feet one way, then run backwards back to the starting point. Then they do run and slides, like baseball players sliding into home base. Then a really weird squat jump, where they look like they are all playing a giant game of leap frog. Yes, this has been our entertainment. Since we haven’t seen a movie theater since we arrived, and the tv in the hotel gets one channel, this will have to do.
This has not been an easy trip. West Africa is hard. It is miserably hot, the infrastructure ranges from awful to non-existent; the hotels are more than twice what we’ve paid on other vacations, but (for the most part) only half as nice; reliable and consistent electricity supply is not a given. Except for Mali, we have been constantly harangued by local touts, trying to chat us up before launching into whatever sales pitch they are bound to have. No is not an answer easily or quickly taken. Anti-malaria pills wreak havoc on the intestinal system. This is probably why Laura and I have seen very few westerners here simply on vacation (most we've met are in this area either with the Peace Corps or missionaries).
And yet, despite all that, this has been a great trip. Trekking through Dogon country in Mali led me to sights like I’ve never seen before. Experiencing the unbridled generosity of the Mali people, knowing how little they have compared to us, was heartwarming. Once out of reach of the touts, the Gambian coast is beautiful. And, of course, Timbuktu. I have now been to Timbuktu. I’m not sure how to top that, but I’m sure to start trying. Tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
A few more notes from The Gambia
I can’t believe I forgot to put this in my earlier post… While in The Gambia, Laura and I had a little wildlife adventure moment. We went to the Kachikally Crocodile Pool, a tourist attraction but also a sacred spot for Gambians, so it is visited by both tourists and locals. The pool was originally a natural well, and has been built out so now it is probably around 200 feet in diameter. You enter the area by first going through a small museum, then walking down a path surrounded by giant banyon trees, tropical plants, and the occasional monitor lizard scurrying across your path. Then, as we rounded the path, there were a few guides sitting around on a bench. To their right, two big crocodiles, just laying about. Another on the other side of the path, hanging out under a tree. The more you looked, the more crocs you saw. All within 10-20 feet of us, all loose, no ties or restraints or fences.
The guide brought us over to one of the crocs - a big one, at least 8 feet long - and encouraged us to pet it. Pet a crocodile! That is insane! So insane, Laura went first. Then I did it. This has to rank up there as one of the weirder things I have done. As we looked within the algae covered pond, we could make out at least another dozen crocs. They say between 80 and 100 are in there. Just slightly disconcerting. I was constantly eyeing the surroundings for escape routes, but I’m pretty sure none would have worked. Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel and beach, I was glad to have worn a simple silver ring that passes for a wedding band. My fictional husband came in handy many times when touts started asking questions a bit too personal, or inviting us back to their restaurant or shop or out for drinks or dancing later that night. A weird thing we’ve encountered is these guys asking us, almost immediately, for our email addresses. We’re not really sure why, but figure nothing good would come of it. Laura sometimes hands out a fake address. I just say, “My husband would not approve of me giving my email address to another man”. That usually works. Fake husbands are so handy to have around.
And, now, a comment on crossing the border into The Gambia…
Our share taxi from Dakar arrived at the border crossing mid-afternoon. It looked like a centuries old flea market, with rickety stalls selling various wares, food and drink. Even before the taxi came to a complete stop, a swarm of money changers and touts descended on the taxi, barely giving us room to get out of the car. Laura and I were happy to have made friends with Morro, a young Gambian man in the same taxi. He helped us change money and waited as we navigated through customs and immigration, even though he could have walked through in under a minute.
The lack of formality at the border was astounding. In Customs, I was told to put my bag on the counter. (I had packed a duffle, leaving my main suitcase with the hotel in Dakar.) I did, unzipped it, and without even peeking inside, the customs officer waved me off. Laura put her backpack on the counter, started to do the same, and was told to “take a hike” by the same officer. With that, we left Customs.
In the Immigration office, we were called into a back office to get our visas. Officially, you are supposed to have your visa before arriving at the border. Laura and I knew from other travelers that they could be issued on the spot (and for considerably cheaper than obtaining in advance). We each filled out a visa form, and were told the fee was 350 Dalasi (about $14 US). The immigration officer filled out a receipt, using a carbon copy form. I watched as he filled out all sections except for the amount. Then he switched to a pen with no ink, and “wrote” something on the amount line. Then he took the hard board, and put it between the original and carbon form, and wrote in 600 dalasi as the amount, handed us the receipt and said it was for both of us (even though only Laura’s name was on it). I knew the game. Writing with the pen with no ink, he made a different amount show on the carbon form in the official receipt book. When I looked closely at the top copy that we got, I could tell what it was. Official record = 300 dalasi. Actual amount received = 700 dalasi. A nice bonus for the immigration officer, especially in a country where the average wage is $2 a day. My lips were zipped. Now that we're back across the border into Senegal again, I'm ok with publicly posting the fact I've probably entered a country illegally. Was that on my bucket list???
The guide brought us over to one of the crocs - a big one, at least 8 feet long - and encouraged us to pet it. Pet a crocodile! That is insane! So insane, Laura went first. Then I did it. This has to rank up there as one of the weirder things I have done. As we looked within the algae covered pond, we could make out at least another dozen crocs. They say between 80 and 100 are in there. Just slightly disconcerting. I was constantly eyeing the surroundings for escape routes, but I’m pretty sure none would have worked. Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel and beach, I was glad to have worn a simple silver ring that passes for a wedding band. My fictional husband came in handy many times when touts started asking questions a bit too personal, or inviting us back to their restaurant or shop or out for drinks or dancing later that night. A weird thing we’ve encountered is these guys asking us, almost immediately, for our email addresses. We’re not really sure why, but figure nothing good would come of it. Laura sometimes hands out a fake address. I just say, “My husband would not approve of me giving my email address to another man”. That usually works. Fake husbands are so handy to have around.
And, now, a comment on crossing the border into The Gambia…
Our share taxi from Dakar arrived at the border crossing mid-afternoon. It looked like a centuries old flea market, with rickety stalls selling various wares, food and drink. Even before the taxi came to a complete stop, a swarm of money changers and touts descended on the taxi, barely giving us room to get out of the car. Laura and I were happy to have made friends with Morro, a young Gambian man in the same taxi. He helped us change money and waited as we navigated through customs and immigration, even though he could have walked through in under a minute.
The lack of formality at the border was astounding. In Customs, I was told to put my bag on the counter. (I had packed a duffle, leaving my main suitcase with the hotel in Dakar.) I did, unzipped it, and without even peeking inside, the customs officer waved me off. Laura put her backpack on the counter, started to do the same, and was told to “take a hike” by the same officer. With that, we left Customs.
In the Immigration office, we were called into a back office to get our visas. Officially, you are supposed to have your visa before arriving at the border. Laura and I knew from other travelers that they could be issued on the spot (and for considerably cheaper than obtaining in advance). We each filled out a visa form, and were told the fee was 350 Dalasi (about $14 US). The immigration officer filled out a receipt, using a carbon copy form. I watched as he filled out all sections except for the amount. Then he switched to a pen with no ink, and “wrote” something on the amount line. Then he took the hard board, and put it between the original and carbon form, and wrote in 600 dalasi as the amount, handed us the receipt and said it was for both of us (even though only Laura’s name was on it). I knew the game. Writing with the pen with no ink, he made a different amount show on the carbon form in the official receipt book. When I looked closely at the top copy that we got, I could tell what it was. Official record = 300 dalasi. Actual amount received = 700 dalasi. A nice bonus for the immigration officer, especially in a country where the average wage is $2 a day. My lips were zipped. Now that we're back across the border into Senegal again, I'm ok with publicly posting the fact I've probably entered a country illegally. Was that on my bucket list???
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Third of Three - in The Gambia
Laura and I are wrapping up three days spent on the Atlantic coast in The Gambia. We came for Gambia’s famous coastline, dotted with hotels and beachside resorts, to get some beach (or pool) time following the last week or so in Mali’s desert sun.
Someone out there once said, “Getting there is half the fun.” Well, that someone apparently has not tried to travel by public transportation from Dakar, Senegal to Banjul, Gambia. It took us 4 taxis and a ferry ride to get here. One of those taxi rides was a 5 ½ hour drive from Dakar to the Senegal/Gambia border in 7 seater station wagon probably older than I am. This is how the locals do it. OK, this is how just about anyone who doesn’t fly does it.
About ½ of the ride was spent not on regular, paved road, but on the absence of road – either pavement so pockmarked by giant potholes that there were more holes than road, or long stretches where the driver went off road through fields (this is why they also call them bush taxis), because the road condition was worse than off-roading.
Once we went through border control and were in Gambia we still had to take another taxi to Barra, to catch a ferry to Banjul. During this short taxi ride we could tell we were in a different place. The roads were, well, roads. Paved, maintained, even those nice little lines down the middle and on the sides. Light posts, even sidewalks in some areas. Cars drove the speed limit, within the marked lanes. No off-roading here. Homes along the way were still rustic, by our standards, but nicer than what we saw through most of Senegal. The ferry port was clean and relatively orderly.
The ferry ride was long, though. Almost an hour across the bay where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Gambian River. It was dark when we arrived. Morro was still with us. Coming off the ferry, it was a solid wave of people crushing through the small exit area all at once. As we were almost out of the port, I realized we needed our ferry tickets to exit. I had put them in my purse, in the same pocket as my camera. I pulled out the tickets, handed one to Laura, and got out of the port. As I sat down in our final taxi of the night, I realized my camera was gone. Someone with a deft hand took the opportunity of a few seconds when I was handing Laura her ticket, and found themselves a new camera. Damn. I have always been so careful, and in all my travels have never been pickpocketed before. The camera can be replaced. But pictures can not be.
It could have been worse, though. Luckily, Laura’s standard travel gear includes not just her camera, but a portable hard drive for periodic downloads. We had downloaded my pictures after our Dogon trek. I had lost just a few days, but that included our day in Timbuktu, including the video I made of landing in the airport.
After one night in a guesthouse that lost power and left us sleeping in a sweat box, we upped our standards and moved over to Cape Point hotel. Balcony overlooking the pool and affording an ocean view, beach access, air con, and the best shower I’ve had in 3 weeks. As this is low season, only one week before high season begins, it is a bit dead. We are two of five guests here (out of 60+ rooms). The pool is ours, the beach is ours. And, unfortunately, the local touts have no one else to focus their attention on, so they are all ours, too. They are aggressive, but not in a dangerous way. Just immensely annoying. They are hard to shake and back off only when you get back in their face. Of course, just when you shake one, another is there at your side. Argh.
Now mother nature was not cooperating with our plans of 3 days of beach and pool time. We hit some cloudy weather the first two days – nothing too bad to ruin a day, though. We got in enough time at the pool, chatting with two English ladies, Sadie and Joyce, who have been coming here for 2 months a year for 20 years. We hit the beach this morning, taking a dip in the ocean and searching for shells on the beach.
Then, about 1:00 this afternoon, about 10 minutes after we rented bikes to do some exploring down the coastline, a torrential rain storm appeared out of nowhere. We picked up the pace as the first sprinkles came down, knowing we were close to our Sunday brunch destination. And we arrived just in time. Within a minute of getting under cover at the Butchers Shop, it poured. And I mean pour. Just buckets coming down. But it wasn’t all bad. The Butchers Shop is a local restaurant owned by a famous Moroccan chef. We were forced to stay there for over 2 hours (forced, I say) sitting just a few feet from a fabulous Sunday brunch buffet. Pastas, couscous, veggie dishes, sausages, eggs, potatoes, lasagna, pancakes made to order (with honey and/or chocolate sauce), and a selection of fresh squeezed juices made for good company while waiting for the rain to subside.
When the weather cleared up we biked back to the hotel, needing to make our 6:00 massage appointments. We stopped at the local craft market along the way, did some hard bargaining for a few souvenirs and gifts. We aim for the stalls run by men. The women here are exceptionally hard negotiators, and we know we can’t get as good of a bargain from them.
We head back to Dakar tomorrow, reversing the long route that brought us here just four days ago. Then, just one day in Dakar and then back on a plane to Cleveland for me.
Someone out there once said, “Getting there is half the fun.” Well, that someone apparently has not tried to travel by public transportation from Dakar, Senegal to Banjul, Gambia. It took us 4 taxis and a ferry ride to get here. One of those taxi rides was a 5 ½ hour drive from Dakar to the Senegal/Gambia border in 7 seater station wagon probably older than I am. This is how the locals do it. OK, this is how just about anyone who doesn’t fly does it.
About ½ of the ride was spent not on regular, paved road, but on the absence of road – either pavement so pockmarked by giant potholes that there were more holes than road, or long stretches where the driver went off road through fields (this is why they also call them bush taxis), because the road condition was worse than off-roading.
Once we went through border control and were in Gambia we still had to take another taxi to Barra, to catch a ferry to Banjul. During this short taxi ride we could tell we were in a different place. The roads were, well, roads. Paved, maintained, even those nice little lines down the middle and on the sides. Light posts, even sidewalks in some areas. Cars drove the speed limit, within the marked lanes. No off-roading here. Homes along the way were still rustic, by our standards, but nicer than what we saw through most of Senegal. The ferry port was clean and relatively orderly.
The ferry ride was long, though. Almost an hour across the bay where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Gambian River. It was dark when we arrived. Morro was still with us. Coming off the ferry, it was a solid wave of people crushing through the small exit area all at once. As we were almost out of the port, I realized we needed our ferry tickets to exit. I had put them in my purse, in the same pocket as my camera. I pulled out the tickets, handed one to Laura, and got out of the port. As I sat down in our final taxi of the night, I realized my camera was gone. Someone with a deft hand took the opportunity of a few seconds when I was handing Laura her ticket, and found themselves a new camera. Damn. I have always been so careful, and in all my travels have never been pickpocketed before. The camera can be replaced. But pictures can not be.
It could have been worse, though. Luckily, Laura’s standard travel gear includes not just her camera, but a portable hard drive for periodic downloads. We had downloaded my pictures after our Dogon trek. I had lost just a few days, but that included our day in Timbuktu, including the video I made of landing in the airport.
After one night in a guesthouse that lost power and left us sleeping in a sweat box, we upped our standards and moved over to Cape Point hotel. Balcony overlooking the pool and affording an ocean view, beach access, air con, and the best shower I’ve had in 3 weeks. As this is low season, only one week before high season begins, it is a bit dead. We are two of five guests here (out of 60+ rooms). The pool is ours, the beach is ours. And, unfortunately, the local touts have no one else to focus their attention on, so they are all ours, too. They are aggressive, but not in a dangerous way. Just immensely annoying. They are hard to shake and back off only when you get back in their face. Of course, just when you shake one, another is there at your side. Argh.
Now mother nature was not cooperating with our plans of 3 days of beach and pool time. We hit some cloudy weather the first two days – nothing too bad to ruin a day, though. We got in enough time at the pool, chatting with two English ladies, Sadie and Joyce, who have been coming here for 2 months a year for 20 years. We hit the beach this morning, taking a dip in the ocean and searching for shells on the beach.
Then, about 1:00 this afternoon, about 10 minutes after we rented bikes to do some exploring down the coastline, a torrential rain storm appeared out of nowhere. We picked up the pace as the first sprinkles came down, knowing we were close to our Sunday brunch destination. And we arrived just in time. Within a minute of getting under cover at the Butchers Shop, it poured. And I mean pour. Just buckets coming down. But it wasn’t all bad. The Butchers Shop is a local restaurant owned by a famous Moroccan chef. We were forced to stay there for over 2 hours (forced, I say) sitting just a few feet from a fabulous Sunday brunch buffet. Pastas, couscous, veggie dishes, sausages, eggs, potatoes, lasagna, pancakes made to order (with honey and/or chocolate sauce), and a selection of fresh squeezed juices made for good company while waiting for the rain to subside.
When the weather cleared up we biked back to the hotel, needing to make our 6:00 massage appointments. We stopped at the local craft market along the way, did some hard bargaining for a few souvenirs and gifts. We aim for the stalls run by men. The women here are exceptionally hard negotiators, and we know we can’t get as good of a bargain from them.
We head back to Dakar tomorrow, reversing the long route that brought us here just four days ago. Then, just one day in Dakar and then back on a plane to Cleveland for me.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Pictures!
Traveling with a tech savvy photographer has its advantages. Laura has been uploading photos to her flicker page along the way. Here is a link to some photos that Laura has posted:
www.flickr.com/photos/farflung
And, if you want a second viewpoint of our adventures, here's Laura's blog address:
farflungtravels.com
Enjoy!
www.flickr.com/photos/farflung
And, if you want a second viewpoint of our adventures, here's Laura's blog address:
farflungtravels.com
Enjoy!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
To Timbuktu (and back)
Flying into the Timbuktu airport is pretty cool. Flying into the Timbuktu airport while sitting in the jumpseat in the cockpit of the airplane… That is more than cool. That is so amazing there just aren’t words for it.
So, this is how it started… Laura and I boarded our flight in Mopti. The flight consisted mostly of us and a group of around 15 travel agents from various parts of Europe, doing a whirlwind tour of Mali. As the plane started to taxi to the runway, to the tunes of Jimmy Buffet, the captain came on. First a voice in French, doing all the obligatory announcements (I assume, since I don’t speak French). Then, a different voice, and not just English, but decidedly American. Doing the same obligatory announcements, but this time in that lounge lizard-style voice our pilots do so well. I asked the flight attendant where the pilot (or co-pilot) was from, and he confirmed America. So I asked if we could say hello after the flight.
About midway through the 45 minute flight, the flight attendant came back and said we could see the pilot. But only one at a time. Having the aisle seat, I went first. I went up and met the co-pilot, Noah, from Connecticut. I sat in the jump seat, and we chatted about how he ended up in Mali (dearth of pilot jobs in the US), what it’s like to live in Mali, etc. Soon, the descent procedure was starting. Noah asked if I wanted to stay in the cockpit for landing. “Is that allowed?”, I asked. Noah just looked at me and said “This is Africa.” So there I was, sitting in the cockpit, looking out the windshield (is that what they call them in planes?) as we made our descent into Timbuktu. I was absolutely giddy. With a set of headphones on, I could hear all the descent calls and landing checklist, but hoped my mic wasn’t live as I whispered all sorts of exclamations to myself.
Upon landing, I asked Noah if he was this geeky about his first landing in Timbuktu. His experience beat mine – he had to deal with a herd of goats crossing the runway.
OK, now a little about actually being in Timbuktu… It’s a small town with a big town attitude. The town is covered in red dust, and if you took away the electrical lines and the cars, you would think you had stepped back in time 1,000 years. Homes are made from mud brick, or sometimes sandstone and mud. There are still giant yert-like tents within the city (and also in the desert outside the city) where some people permanently live. The tallest building was 3 stories high, and that was the exception. There is a strong influence from Morocco, which shows in the beautifully decorated doors and windows of even the most modest homes. People dress in all sorts of manners – jeans & t-shirts, men in long pant & robe sets with full “I’m heading out into the desert on my trusty camel” style turbans, women in the colorful, traditional Mali dresses, and outfits hand-made of local cotton dyed in indigo.
We hired a guide, Mahmoud, who met us at the airport with a car. We dropped our bags at our hotel – Colombe II – and set out for a walking tour of Timbuktu. We saw three mosques (only from the outside, non-muslims can’t go in), houses of famous explorers who “found” Timbuktu, and a museum or two. We went for tea at an artisan market, which is really an opportunity for a salesguy to have a captive audience for a half hour or so while the tea is brewing. But it was a welcome break from the heat, so it was ok with us. We bought a small watermelon from the market and ate it with our tea.
After parting with Mahmoud for the day we found ourselves an entourage – two boys, around 10 years old – that followed us from our hotel to the post office to a museum to the internet café. They didn’t want anything, just a chance to speak English to a few strange Americans and hang out for a while. I guess when you’re living at the end of the world, the tourists are the entertainment.
So, this is how it started… Laura and I boarded our flight in Mopti. The flight consisted mostly of us and a group of around 15 travel agents from various parts of Europe, doing a whirlwind tour of Mali. As the plane started to taxi to the runway, to the tunes of Jimmy Buffet, the captain came on. First a voice in French, doing all the obligatory announcements (I assume, since I don’t speak French). Then, a different voice, and not just English, but decidedly American. Doing the same obligatory announcements, but this time in that lounge lizard-style voice our pilots do so well. I asked the flight attendant where the pilot (or co-pilot) was from, and he confirmed America. So I asked if we could say hello after the flight.
About midway through the 45 minute flight, the flight attendant came back and said we could see the pilot. But only one at a time. Having the aisle seat, I went first. I went up and met the co-pilot, Noah, from Connecticut. I sat in the jump seat, and we chatted about how he ended up in Mali (dearth of pilot jobs in the US), what it’s like to live in Mali, etc. Soon, the descent procedure was starting. Noah asked if I wanted to stay in the cockpit for landing. “Is that allowed?”, I asked. Noah just looked at me and said “This is Africa.” So there I was, sitting in the cockpit, looking out the windshield (is that what they call them in planes?) as we made our descent into Timbuktu. I was absolutely giddy. With a set of headphones on, I could hear all the descent calls and landing checklist, but hoped my mic wasn’t live as I whispered all sorts of exclamations to myself.
Upon landing, I asked Noah if he was this geeky about his first landing in Timbuktu. His experience beat mine – he had to deal with a herd of goats crossing the runway.
OK, now a little about actually being in Timbuktu… It’s a small town with a big town attitude. The town is covered in red dust, and if you took away the electrical lines and the cars, you would think you had stepped back in time 1,000 years. Homes are made from mud brick, or sometimes sandstone and mud. There are still giant yert-like tents within the city (and also in the desert outside the city) where some people permanently live. The tallest building was 3 stories high, and that was the exception. There is a strong influence from Morocco, which shows in the beautifully decorated doors and windows of even the most modest homes. People dress in all sorts of manners – jeans & t-shirts, men in long pant & robe sets with full “I’m heading out into the desert on my trusty camel” style turbans, women in the colorful, traditional Mali dresses, and outfits hand-made of local cotton dyed in indigo.
We hired a guide, Mahmoud, who met us at the airport with a car. We dropped our bags at our hotel – Colombe II – and set out for a walking tour of Timbuktu. We saw three mosques (only from the outside, non-muslims can’t go in), houses of famous explorers who “found” Timbuktu, and a museum or two. We went for tea at an artisan market, which is really an opportunity for a salesguy to have a captive audience for a half hour or so while the tea is brewing. But it was a welcome break from the heat, so it was ok with us. We bought a small watermelon from the market and ate it with our tea.
After parting with Mahmoud for the day we found ourselves an entourage – two boys, around 10 years old – that followed us from our hotel to the post office to a museum to the internet café. They didn’t want anything, just a chance to speak English to a few strange Americans and hang out for a while. I guess when you’re living at the end of the world, the tourists are the entertainment.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Dogon Adventure
There are some things you do on vacation not really because you want to do them, but because someone else talks you into it, or because you know it is the thing you are supposed to do while there. I’ll admit it. That was pretty much me and the idea of trekking for three days in an area of Mali known as Dogon Country. Dogon consists of a series of villages built on or at the base of a 500 meter high escarpment jutting out from a vast area of flat land. The Dogon people settled here a thousand years ago, and life here has not changed much since. Villages consist of two kinds of buildings – mud huts with mud roofs for the people, and mud huts with thatch roofs for the millet. Villages house a few hundred people and are separated by a few miles, most of which is filled with millet fields or other crops. With few exceptions, there is no electricity, no modern plumbing, no modern conveniences (except strangely good cell phone service). Wells, where they exist, are outside the village walls, so all water must be carried in. Your doctor is the village medicine man. Anything you need that you don’t grow, make or kill is bought at markets which rotate from village to village. This means walking miles with your goods for sale, and back with whatever you bought. This is mostly women’s work. Dogon women learn at an early age how to carry large loads on their heads, including very large buckets of water, without toppling or spilling a drop.
A tourist market has cropped up, where people pay money to walk from village to village, tour the village and spend the night sleeping under the stars. This is what Laura wanted to do. Really, really wanted to do. Me? Trekking 3k to 7k at a shot in 100+ degree heat for 3 days? With no “real” toilets or showers? Wearing the same thing for 3 days to keep our packs light? Yeah, not so much.
Not only did I do it, I am glad Laura talked me into this. It was an incredible experience.
It started on Thursday morning, when our guide, Seydou, picked us up. We drove about 45k, then switched cars where we drove another 20k up a slow incline. We arrived at our first stop – the village of Djigubombo. We walked around, talked to the elders, and learned about the village. For the next 2 days we walked around 20k – not a huge distance, but throw in extreme heat, and walking conditions that ranged from dirt road to sand to steep paths made from huge rocks, and it was a challenge for me. We covered two villages per day, stopping for lunch and a break from the mid-day heat & sun (or, in one case, a swim under a waterfall), then going on to a second village where we spent the night. It gets dark by 6pm, and by 9:00 we were heading to bed, to sleep on a rooftop under more stars than I have ever seen. (Mosquito nets provided by the villages, luckily.)
Our last night was spent in the village of Benemato – my favorite. It sits on top of the escarpment, and getting there was no easy task. A steep succession of large rocks created our path, and it was hard climbing for me (easy going for Seydou), but the view from the top was worth it. A vista point slightly outside the village provided a view of more land than I have ever seen from the ground. It was perfectly flat and went forever. The view of the village from above seemed surreal. It is really hard to believe people still live like this when there is a modern (comparatively) city so close by.
Laura and I made it back to Mac’s Refuge – our home away from home in Sevare – around 5:00 Saturday night. The only thing I could think of was shower, shower, shower. Then shower some more. I was dirty, smelly and tired. But very glad Laura persisted in getting me to experience Dogon Country.
A tourist market has cropped up, where people pay money to walk from village to village, tour the village and spend the night sleeping under the stars. This is what Laura wanted to do. Really, really wanted to do. Me? Trekking 3k to 7k at a shot in 100+ degree heat for 3 days? With no “real” toilets or showers? Wearing the same thing for 3 days to keep our packs light? Yeah, not so much.
Not only did I do it, I am glad Laura talked me into this. It was an incredible experience.
It started on Thursday morning, when our guide, Seydou, picked us up. We drove about 45k, then switched cars where we drove another 20k up a slow incline. We arrived at our first stop – the village of Djigubombo. We walked around, talked to the elders, and learned about the village. For the next 2 days we walked around 20k – not a huge distance, but throw in extreme heat, and walking conditions that ranged from dirt road to sand to steep paths made from huge rocks, and it was a challenge for me. We covered two villages per day, stopping for lunch and a break from the mid-day heat & sun (or, in one case, a swim under a waterfall), then going on to a second village where we spent the night. It gets dark by 6pm, and by 9:00 we were heading to bed, to sleep on a rooftop under more stars than I have ever seen. (Mosquito nets provided by the villages, luckily.)
Our last night was spent in the village of Benemato – my favorite. It sits on top of the escarpment, and getting there was no easy task. A steep succession of large rocks created our path, and it was hard climbing for me (easy going for Seydou), but the view from the top was worth it. A vista point slightly outside the village provided a view of more land than I have ever seen from the ground. It was perfectly flat and went forever. The view of the village from above seemed surreal. It is really hard to believe people still live like this when there is a modern (comparatively) city so close by.
Laura and I made it back to Mac’s Refuge – our home away from home in Sevare – around 5:00 Saturday night. The only thing I could think of was shower, shower, shower. Then shower some more. I was dirty, smelly and tired. But very glad Laura persisted in getting me to experience Dogon Country.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Mali Way
Bus travel in other countries is always an adventure. You never know what the passenger to seat ratio will be (almost certainly more passengers than seats), what assortment of sounds, smells and sights – both on the bus and off - the trip will bring. This was no different.
The bus started out full, and soon became packed, with people sitting on luggage and water canisters in the aisle, children on strangers' laps. Laura and I were the only non-Mali aboard, as far as we could tell. We were traveling like the locals do.
We met Setti, a young teacher from a town nearby Sevare. He was a fountain of information, as he grew up in Timbuktu, now works near Sevare (our destination), and travels often to visit family in Bamako (where we were coming from). He explained the education system, the areas we were traveling through, even how he lost the girl he loved because she found someone that made more money than him (teachers are also poorly paid in Mali). So he wrote a hip hop song about it. He told us about the various foods that were being sold at each of the bus stops, and even brought us a bag of peanuts.
At each bus stop the doors would open and people would jam on, holding various food items in the air, shouting what was for sale. We saw bread and sweets, fruit, something that looked like a cross between a carrot and celery (later identified as heart of palm), and various nefarious looking bottles. Children would sing songs – religious songs, I think – outside of the bus begging for money. Then the doors would close and we’d move on to the next town. Or seemingly random stops at the side of the road where people would get off/get on from the middle of nowhere.
About 6:30 – 11 hours after we left Bamako - we pulled into the Mopti station, were swarmed by young men wanting to carry our luggage or be our taxi. There are no “official” taxis here, nothing yellow with a lit taxi sign. Just men with cars of questionable reliability. Setti stepped in again to help, found a driver for us and a fair fare.
We arrived at Mac’s Refuge, on the edge of Sevare (about 2km away) in just a few minutes. We were greeted by a wonderful aroma coming out of the main house. We had arrived just in time for dinner. We threw our bags in the room, rinsed our faces and joined a full table for a fabulous four course dinner – 2 kinds of soup (bean and yogurt), beef ragout with potatoes and yams, salad (guaranteed to be safe, as all veggies were washed in purified water), and, for dessert (dessert!), sesame cakes, home made vanilla ice cream and warm chocolate sauce. The company was just as delightful – four Norwegians and Mac. Mac’s parents were missionaries in Mali, and he grew up here. In an “It’s a small world afterall” moment, we learned that Mac’s family home is in Cuyahoga Falls, and his brother still lives there. He has amazing stories of growing up between Mali, the US, and boarding school.
After hearing about all there is to do in the area, we spent time Tuesday night reworking our plan. We decided to change our flight to Timbuktu to shorten our stay there, and have more time in the Mopti/Sevare area. We went back to our original plan of a 3 day trek through Dogon country, and are hoping to do a day trip to Djenne, a nearby market town after the trek. If there is time, maybe a sunset boat ride on the Niger.
Mali is treating us very well. We leave tomorrow for our trek. I hope I can hold up under the heat, but I have no worries that the people along the way will do everything they can to make sure we have the best time possible. That is just the Mali way.
The bus started out full, and soon became packed, with people sitting on luggage and water canisters in the aisle, children on strangers' laps. Laura and I were the only non-Mali aboard, as far as we could tell. We were traveling like the locals do.
We met Setti, a young teacher from a town nearby Sevare. He was a fountain of information, as he grew up in Timbuktu, now works near Sevare (our destination), and travels often to visit family in Bamako (where we were coming from). He explained the education system, the areas we were traveling through, even how he lost the girl he loved because she found someone that made more money than him (teachers are also poorly paid in Mali). So he wrote a hip hop song about it. He told us about the various foods that were being sold at each of the bus stops, and even brought us a bag of peanuts.
At each bus stop the doors would open and people would jam on, holding various food items in the air, shouting what was for sale. We saw bread and sweets, fruit, something that looked like a cross between a carrot and celery (later identified as heart of palm), and various nefarious looking bottles. Children would sing songs – religious songs, I think – outside of the bus begging for money. Then the doors would close and we’d move on to the next town. Or seemingly random stops at the side of the road where people would get off/get on from the middle of nowhere.
About 6:30 – 11 hours after we left Bamako - we pulled into the Mopti station, were swarmed by young men wanting to carry our luggage or be our taxi. There are no “official” taxis here, nothing yellow with a lit taxi sign. Just men with cars of questionable reliability. Setti stepped in again to help, found a driver for us and a fair fare.
We arrived at Mac’s Refuge, on the edge of Sevare (about 2km away) in just a few minutes. We were greeted by a wonderful aroma coming out of the main house. We had arrived just in time for dinner. We threw our bags in the room, rinsed our faces and joined a full table for a fabulous four course dinner – 2 kinds of soup (bean and yogurt), beef ragout with potatoes and yams, salad (guaranteed to be safe, as all veggies were washed in purified water), and, for dessert (dessert!), sesame cakes, home made vanilla ice cream and warm chocolate sauce. The company was just as delightful – four Norwegians and Mac. Mac’s parents were missionaries in Mali, and he grew up here. In an “It’s a small world afterall” moment, we learned that Mac’s family home is in Cuyahoga Falls, and his brother still lives there. He has amazing stories of growing up between Mali, the US, and boarding school.
After hearing about all there is to do in the area, we spent time Tuesday night reworking our plan. We decided to change our flight to Timbuktu to shorten our stay there, and have more time in the Mopti/Sevare area. We went back to our original plan of a 3 day trek through Dogon country, and are hoping to do a day trip to Djenne, a nearby market town after the trek. If there is time, maybe a sunset boat ride on the Niger.
Mali is treating us very well. We leave tomorrow for our trek. I hope I can hold up under the heat, but I have no worries that the people along the way will do everything they can to make sure we have the best time possible. That is just the Mali way.
Bad Taxi, Good Mali
The last few days have been an adventure in travel. It started on Monday, with our cab ride to the airport in Dakar, heading to Bamako, Mali. First, I got into a yelling match with the cab driver arranged by the hotel when he demanded twice the price that was arranged with the hotel. This must have looked funny from the outside as he didn’t speak English, and I know only a few words of French (luckily including the amount of cab fare), so we are standing on the street in the dark at 6am shouting at each other in two languages, barely understanding the other. I won. So we get in, and he seems to be fumbling for the keys. I was so involved with the yelling I didn’t notice what Laura did – that he appeared to be drunk, and even was peeing in the street just as she came out of the hotel. He sets off for the airport, and from the back seat I can see his gas tank is on empty, with the fuel light on. He stops at a gas station, turns around and demands some money. It’s 6am! The gas station is completely dark and closed. I shout “ferme!”, refuse to give him money, and he goes on his way. In route to the airport, there were numerous swervy lane changes, 1 near miss hitting a pedestrian, and two near-miss cases of the engine stalling. But we got there. He refused at first to get out of the car to open the trunk for our luggage, but when he finally did he shoved Laura out of the way, and threw our bags on the ground and stomped back into his cab.
Things got better. Much better. The flight to Mali went well. After we landed I approached an older man with an Audi baseball cap that said “racing” on it. My instinct that he would speak English was right. I asked about how to get a taxi, and we started talking. Loot is from South Africa, Johannesburg, and works in Bamako. From that conversation, we ended up not only having Loot arrange for his Malian colleague, Agibou, to drive us to our hotel, but Agibou also acted as our negotiator for getting a Malian SIM card and phone card so we could have phone access here. Upon arriving at our hotel, neither Agibou or his driver would accept any payment, saying this is the way things were done in Mali. You do good for people. Plain and simple.
We dropped our bags at The Sleeping Camel, met a nice young German couple, and headed out in a taxi for some lunch and to get our plane tickets to Timbuktu. Downtown Bamako is another world – we crossed a bridge over the Niger river to a strange mix of modern and third world. One street would have modern buildings – multi-story banks, offices, etc., paved roads, sidewalks, and general order; the next would be a step back in time to one story mud like buildings with almost hut-style fronts going straight up to the streets, dirt roads, and people selling food cooked from open pots right on the street. The heat was relentless, and made managing the chaos even more difficult. But we took it all in with a sense of adventure.
We ate lunch at, of all places, a Chinese restaurant. Interesting. That’s about all I can say about it. Then we went back and forth between a travel agent and a local airline office figuring out our Mali itinerary. The last travel agent we dealt with was amazing. Bathily spent a lot of time helping us get our tickets, and answering all sorts of questions about the trip. When we mentioned we were going from her office to the main bus station to get our bus ticket to Mopti, she offered to share her cab and went to the bus station with us to help us buy the tickets. This all took about an hour, after a long work day. She apologized (!) for not being able to invite us to her home for dinner, as she had a meeting to go to that evening. When we tried to explain just how amazed we were at her generosity, just as with Agibou, she explained this is how things were done in Mali – you do good for people.
Thailand is known as the land of smiles. Mali should be known as the land where people bend over backwards to help out total strangers without an expectation of anything in return. Or is that too long to fit on a t-shirt?
Things got better. Much better. The flight to Mali went well. After we landed I approached an older man with an Audi baseball cap that said “racing” on it. My instinct that he would speak English was right. I asked about how to get a taxi, and we started talking. Loot is from South Africa, Johannesburg, and works in Bamako. From that conversation, we ended up not only having Loot arrange for his Malian colleague, Agibou, to drive us to our hotel, but Agibou also acted as our negotiator for getting a Malian SIM card and phone card so we could have phone access here. Upon arriving at our hotel, neither Agibou or his driver would accept any payment, saying this is the way things were done in Mali. You do good for people. Plain and simple.
We dropped our bags at The Sleeping Camel, met a nice young German couple, and headed out in a taxi for some lunch and to get our plane tickets to Timbuktu. Downtown Bamako is another world – we crossed a bridge over the Niger river to a strange mix of modern and third world. One street would have modern buildings – multi-story banks, offices, etc., paved roads, sidewalks, and general order; the next would be a step back in time to one story mud like buildings with almost hut-style fronts going straight up to the streets, dirt roads, and people selling food cooked from open pots right on the street. The heat was relentless, and made managing the chaos even more difficult. But we took it all in with a sense of adventure.
We ate lunch at, of all places, a Chinese restaurant. Interesting. That’s about all I can say about it. Then we went back and forth between a travel agent and a local airline office figuring out our Mali itinerary. The last travel agent we dealt with was amazing. Bathily spent a lot of time helping us get our tickets, and answering all sorts of questions about the trip. When we mentioned we were going from her office to the main bus station to get our bus ticket to Mopti, she offered to share her cab and went to the bus station with us to help us buy the tickets. This all took about an hour, after a long work day. She apologized (!) for not being able to invite us to her home for dinner, as she had a meeting to go to that evening. When we tried to explain just how amazed we were at her generosity, just as with Agibou, she explained this is how things were done in Mali – you do good for people.
Thailand is known as the land of smiles. Mali should be known as the land where people bend over backwards to help out total strangers without an expectation of anything in return. Or is that too long to fit on a t-shirt?
Monday, October 4, 2010
A rose by any other name...
… may not be a rose after all. At least that’s the case of La Lac Rose, a salt water lake about an hour north of Dakar. We were drawn to La Lac Rose upon promises, by the guide books, websites and tourist agencies around town, that we would see a beautiful lake that glistened pink under the Senegalese sun. Not quite. La Lac Rose is a pretty lake, but we just weren’t seeing the pink. An orangish-brown, maybe. Not pink.
From the time we got out of the car, we were accosted by an endless string of people wanting to be our guide, or to sell us something. It must be low tourist season, as we were the only ones around. We finally shook them, walked away from the main tourist area and went next door, past a resting herd of camels and a tout with a monkey, to find a tranquil hotel tucked away behind all the tourist oriented madness. No touts, no guides. It did have an open air restaurant with a lake view, a gazebo perched on stilts just at the edge of the water. With the price of lunch came the privilege of enjoying the calm, swimming off their shoreline, and relaxing under the shade of a thatch roof veranda, watching the birds and lizards go by. Floating in the lake was bliss – no effort required, as the salt content is 10x of the ocean. (A bit tingly, though. Ladies, don’t shave your legs the morning of a visit to a salt lake!) Our driver came to get us just as our dessert had arrived. We quickly ate our crepes and fruit, showered off the salt and changed, and left this little oasis to return to the madness of Dakar.
The ride to La Lac Rose (and back) made the trip quite an adventure. A modern highway leaving Dakar quickly turned into a more rural route with an endless chain of attractions along the side of the road… roadside markets, with throngs of locals buying everyday wares; beautifully and brightly dressed women carrying loads of food, or other items on their heads (I even saw one woman with a kerosene tank on her head!); goats, goats, and more goats; donkey carts riding side by side with busses and motorcycles; and it goes on… Then the road turned to countryside, then the road turned to barely no road at all… you could tell it once was a road, with a strip of asphalt down the middle, now almost totally obscured by sand and dirt. The taxi driver chose, wisely, to avoid that part and just stick to impromptu off-roading, following the dirt berm most of the way. Then we went through a few small towns/villages, sharing the ever narrowing road with children playing soccer, more women carrying even larger loads on their heads, donkey and horse carts, and, of course, goats.
After a dinner of middle eastern mezes (seems to be popular around here), Laura and I returned to the hotel to pack our bags. Tomorrow we head to Mali, to begin our trip to Timbuktu.
From the time we got out of the car, we were accosted by an endless string of people wanting to be our guide, or to sell us something. It must be low tourist season, as we were the only ones around. We finally shook them, walked away from the main tourist area and went next door, past a resting herd of camels and a tout with a monkey, to find a tranquil hotel tucked away behind all the tourist oriented madness. No touts, no guides. It did have an open air restaurant with a lake view, a gazebo perched on stilts just at the edge of the water. With the price of lunch came the privilege of enjoying the calm, swimming off their shoreline, and relaxing under the shade of a thatch roof veranda, watching the birds and lizards go by. Floating in the lake was bliss – no effort required, as the salt content is 10x of the ocean. (A bit tingly, though. Ladies, don’t shave your legs the morning of a visit to a salt lake!) Our driver came to get us just as our dessert had arrived. We quickly ate our crepes and fruit, showered off the salt and changed, and left this little oasis to return to the madness of Dakar.
The ride to La Lac Rose (and back) made the trip quite an adventure. A modern highway leaving Dakar quickly turned into a more rural route with an endless chain of attractions along the side of the road… roadside markets, with throngs of locals buying everyday wares; beautifully and brightly dressed women carrying loads of food, or other items on their heads (I even saw one woman with a kerosene tank on her head!); goats, goats, and more goats; donkey carts riding side by side with busses and motorcycles; and it goes on… Then the road turned to countryside, then the road turned to barely no road at all… you could tell it once was a road, with a strip of asphalt down the middle, now almost totally obscured by sand and dirt. The taxi driver chose, wisely, to avoid that part and just stick to impromptu off-roading, following the dirt berm most of the way. Then we went through a few small towns/villages, sharing the ever narrowing road with children playing soccer, more women carrying even larger loads on their heads, donkey and horse carts, and, of course, goats.
After a dinner of middle eastern mezes (seems to be popular around here), Laura and I returned to the hotel to pack our bags. Tomorrow we head to Mali, to begin our trip to Timbuktu.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
On a mission...
On our first full day in Dakar, Laura and I had a few missions to accomplish. First, get our flight to Mali arranged. Second, see the Ile de Goree. Sounds simple enough.
We were prepared enough to know the Senagalese version of normal is that things do not go as planned. Well, we thought we were prepared. First, our tickets. Here’s the short story – Air Mali doesn’t exist, or at least not where they say it should; and their phone number doesn’t work. Senegal Air exists, but no one knew where it was, and the address we had proved almost useless. When we finally found it, Senegal Air could process our tickets, but only accepts cash. Which I didn’t have enough of. 3 bank lobbies and 3 ATM attempts later, including a mad dash down three blocks in a skirt and 90+ degree heat to get to a bank that just closed, I got the cash.
By then it was a little after noon, and we decided to spend the afternoon at the Ile de Goree. This is a small island (about .25 mile length) a 20 minute ferry ride away. It is famous, or infamous, for being the departure point for slaves that were taken to Cuba, South America and the USA. We just missed the 12:30 ferry, but no problem, we’d catch the 1:30. Except there is no 1:30 ferry. It’s at 2:30. Ok, still not too bad. And from there the day got better. We spent about three hours on the island, traipsing around remnants of an old castle repurposed many times over, taking in the view of Dakar across the water, having a lovely lunch with a bird’s eye view of the ocean (and, luckily, a somewhat cool breeze).
Of course, we also needed to see the main sight – La Maison des Esclaves - a horrible reminder of man’s ability to be inhuman to fellow mankind as we visited the primary holding place and departure for the Africans sold off into slavery. The categorization of slaves into various rooms was clearly defined – women, men, men who needed to be fattened up to reach the minimum weight for slave trade (130 lbs), “recalcitrants”, and, most horribly, children. The old trader lodges upstairs now house a museum of shackles, chains and weapons used to control the slaves, as well as placards with history (in French, of course).
Our two missions accomplished, we took the evening ferry back to Dakar, rather exhausted from the heat and a full day. We enjoyed dinner with some French wine and Senegalese beer (not too bad, actually), and ended the day with a sound night’s sleep.
We were prepared enough to know the Senagalese version of normal is that things do not go as planned. Well, we thought we were prepared. First, our tickets. Here’s the short story – Air Mali doesn’t exist, or at least not where they say it should; and their phone number doesn’t work. Senegal Air exists, but no one knew where it was, and the address we had proved almost useless. When we finally found it, Senegal Air could process our tickets, but only accepts cash. Which I didn’t have enough of. 3 bank lobbies and 3 ATM attempts later, including a mad dash down three blocks in a skirt and 90+ degree heat to get to a bank that just closed, I got the cash.
By then it was a little after noon, and we decided to spend the afternoon at the Ile de Goree. This is a small island (about .25 mile length) a 20 minute ferry ride away. It is famous, or infamous, for being the departure point for slaves that were taken to Cuba, South America and the USA. We just missed the 12:30 ferry, but no problem, we’d catch the 1:30. Except there is no 1:30 ferry. It’s at 2:30. Ok, still not too bad. And from there the day got better. We spent about three hours on the island, traipsing around remnants of an old castle repurposed many times over, taking in the view of Dakar across the water, having a lovely lunch with a bird’s eye view of the ocean (and, luckily, a somewhat cool breeze).
Of course, we also needed to see the main sight – La Maison des Esclaves - a horrible reminder of man’s ability to be inhuman to fellow mankind as we visited the primary holding place and departure for the Africans sold off into slavery. The categorization of slaves into various rooms was clearly defined – women, men, men who needed to be fattened up to reach the minimum weight for slave trade (130 lbs), “recalcitrants”, and, most horribly, children. The old trader lodges upstairs now house a museum of shackles, chains and weapons used to control the slaves, as well as placards with history (in French, of course).
Our two missions accomplished, we took the evening ferry back to Dakar, rather exhausted from the heat and a full day. We enjoyed dinner with some French wine and Senegalese beer (not too bad, actually), and ended the day with a sound night’s sleep.
Ahhhh... Africa
It all started so smoothly… a five minute wait to get luggage and get through immigration; my driver was waiting for me right outside the airport; a temporary room had been set up for us until our reserved room was ready later in the day. I cleaned up, rested a bit, then psyched myself up to go out into the Senegalese heat and start exploring Dakar. Laura’s flight wouldn’t be in until later in the day, so I had the day to myself.
Dakar is the country’s most modern city, home to over a million people, but downtown really isn’t anything to write home about. The buildings are really sort of bleak and depressing, not a lot of charm. The people, are diffent, though. The women dress in beautiful, colorful tailored wrap skirts and matching fitted tops. Many of the men are in traditional dress of loose slacks covered by a long robe-like shirt, also in bright, vibrant colors. The people make up for what the city itself lacks. My job for the day was less exciting than the Senegalese dress – running errands. I needed to go to the bank, get information on flights to Mali, get to the Gambian embassy to get information on visas. No problem. It was even a little overcast, so the extreme heat of the morning had been tempered a bit. Then I got my wake up call. I went to the Gambian embassy – we had found out a week or so ago that they had stopped issuing visas at the border, which we were counting on. It seemed to be a temporary thing, so I asked if we could get visas at the border. I was told “maybe”. Maybe. That is the official answer of the Gambian embassy. Maybe. ahhh. Africa.
I had a nice lunch in a lovely garden patio surrounded by art galleries. After lunch I walked out into the street, started to turn the corner and was suddenly stopped - the entire street was filled with men prostrating to the call to prayer. I tried to go to the next block, but same thing. For 3 or 4 blocks, each east/west street was packed for as far as I could see with men praying. Even on the north/south streets, men were out on the sidewalks and streets on their prayer rugs. I had to walk through makeshift rows, gingerly watching my step so I didn’t step on prayer rugs, shoes or people. ahhh. Africa.
Went back to the hotel, where I found the power was out. Was told by an Aussie couple the hour or so I was there in the morning was some of the little time they had power in the last 3 days. This means no lights, no internet, and, most importantly, no air conditioning. The desk clerk couldn’t understand why I wanted to change hotels, and why we wanted the deposit (one night stay) returned. ahhh. Africa.
After picking Laura up from the airport, we found a new hotel. With electricity. Most of the time. And, with less than 12 hours in-country, I received my first Senagalese marriage proposal. From the proprietor of our hotel. I declined.
We met another American at the hotel, and had a traditional Senegalese dinner of rice & fish, and couscous and chicken. Also tried – and fell in love with – bissap, a juice made from hibiscus flowers. It’s almost like a combination of pomegranate and grape juice. Our waiter then brought ginger juice and made a lovely mixed drink from the two. By the end of dinner, the 36 hours without sleep caught up with me and all I wanted was a shower and bed.
Dakar is the country’s most modern city, home to over a million people, but downtown really isn’t anything to write home about. The buildings are really sort of bleak and depressing, not a lot of charm. The people, are diffent, though. The women dress in beautiful, colorful tailored wrap skirts and matching fitted tops. Many of the men are in traditional dress of loose slacks covered by a long robe-like shirt, also in bright, vibrant colors. The people make up for what the city itself lacks. My job for the day was less exciting than the Senegalese dress – running errands. I needed to go to the bank, get information on flights to Mali, get to the Gambian embassy to get information on visas. No problem. It was even a little overcast, so the extreme heat of the morning had been tempered a bit. Then I got my wake up call. I went to the Gambian embassy – we had found out a week or so ago that they had stopped issuing visas at the border, which we were counting on. It seemed to be a temporary thing, so I asked if we could get visas at the border. I was told “maybe”. Maybe. That is the official answer of the Gambian embassy. Maybe. ahhh. Africa.
I had a nice lunch in a lovely garden patio surrounded by art galleries. After lunch I walked out into the street, started to turn the corner and was suddenly stopped - the entire street was filled with men prostrating to the call to prayer. I tried to go to the next block, but same thing. For 3 or 4 blocks, each east/west street was packed for as far as I could see with men praying. Even on the north/south streets, men were out on the sidewalks and streets on their prayer rugs. I had to walk through makeshift rows, gingerly watching my step so I didn’t step on prayer rugs, shoes or people. ahhh. Africa.
Went back to the hotel, where I found the power was out. Was told by an Aussie couple the hour or so I was there in the morning was some of the little time they had power in the last 3 days. This means no lights, no internet, and, most importantly, no air conditioning. The desk clerk couldn’t understand why I wanted to change hotels, and why we wanted the deposit (one night stay) returned. ahhh. Africa.
After picking Laura up from the airport, we found a new hotel. With electricity. Most of the time. And, with less than 12 hours in-country, I received my first Senagalese marriage proposal. From the proprietor of our hotel. I declined.
We met another American at the hotel, and had a traditional Senegalese dinner of rice & fish, and couscous and chicken. Also tried – and fell in love with – bissap, a juice made from hibiscus flowers. It’s almost like a combination of pomegranate and grape juice. Our waiter then brought ginger juice and made a lovely mixed drink from the two. By the end of dinner, the 36 hours without sleep caught up with me and all I wanted was a shower and bed.
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