I had to at least title this entry in French. I'm currently in Banjul, The Gambia, which is a tiny little outpost of Anglophone-ness buried within Senegal, and I'm suffering from a bit of French withdrawal. Banjul is a pretty sleepy little place, but actually mighty fine for a bit of puttering and visa shopping - but more on that a little later.
When I last jumped on the narrative train, I believe it was a couple weeks ago in Nouakchott, where I was readying myself for the meander down to the Senegalese border and on towards St. Louis. I suppose, then, I'll just jump right back in.
Borders are strange things. They're unpredictable, even when you think you know the general spirit of a place pretty well. The Mauritania-Senegal one is an especially good example of this, with what must be the only collection of pushy and unpleasant people to be had in all of Mauritania lurking around their side of the Senegal river (which forms a border) demanding dubious "fees". I was tired, and couldn't be bothered getting into an endless argument, so I ended up throwing a couple of bucks into the pot o' bribes. Not a big loss, but an annoyance. The whole process on the Mauritanian side is a bit obnoxious, but once you've found yourself a boat across the river and been stamped in (with no fuss) to Senegal, it's easy-peasy.
The change was immediate. Suddenly, the terrain was largely greenish savannah and irrigated farms, and suddenly there were ads and billboards everywhere! It's odd how these little visual cues are the first thing to make an impression. The villages on the Senegalese side often look like your imagined typical African scene, with mud and thatch huts clustered around little dirt yards.
After a couple of hours in a shared taxi which (miracle of miracles!) only had as many bums as the 7 seats would hold, we rolled into St. Louis, the first French settlement in West Africa. It's quite the place. Coming into the downtown (which is on an island in the Senegal River), you roll across the Pont Faidherbe, which was the technological marvel of 1897, when it's mobile iron spans were built to cross the Danube. Being unemployed up north for whatever reason, it was shipped down to Senegal and riveted into place.
The island itself is a lovely place, all full of crumbling old French buildings in shades of ochre and pastel, balconies and flowers and washing lines everywhere. It comes really alive about once a year, in May, when it hosts an international jazz festival, but even now it was a revelation to see beer signs and old creaky bars on corners. After dropping my stuff off at the youth hostel (where I had a room, and a balcony! oh, low season), I made a beeline for a cold Flag, and my goodness it was lovely.
I've realized how important a part of my day a good cold beer really is. It's bloody hot and humid here, in the 35 range most days, and most days I'd gladly sacrifice a good meal if it means I can afford another icy cold lager with my feet up. It's highly important for my sanity - and it's a mighty fine way of meeting local folk! My favourite place in St. Louis turned out to be the local fire station (!!) which concealed a little bar for the firefighters that had the coldest and cheapest beers around. In Senegal, it's definitely a quality/quantity tradeoff: for about the same price is 330 mls of Flag, a pretty solid lager, or 630 mls of Gazelle, a slightly weaker but perfectly passable one. Needless to say, I'm a Gazelle sort of fellow.
Arriving on a Sunday, unfortunately, the music scene was a bit dead until the next weekend. I passed a couple of lazy days in St Louis soaking up the atmosphere before taking off again, this time only 20 kms down the coast to a campement (campground/inn) called Zebrabar, run by a European couple in the midst of the Langue de Barbarie national park. It's a gorgeous place - the Senegal river runs parallel to the sea for quite a while, separated from the Atlantic by only 100 metres or so of peninsula. Much of the south end, where I was staying, is a national park to protect the masses of birdlife and other species that live there.
The campement itself had everything I could ask for - a little beach, a hut to sleep in, a terrace looking out over the river, an observation tower to look over the countryside, hammocks to laze in, and ice-cold beers to accompany the lazing. Not bad. Even better, they had loaner kayaks, and since I was the only guest, I had pick of the litter! Arriving early in the morning, I took the kayak out and paddled downriver, silently sneaking up on cranes and terns, hearing the Atlantic crash on the other side of the trees. Superb. After 5 hours on the water, though (going upriver is hard!) the rest of the day was devoted to swimming and lazing. The next day, same deal - although the wind played up and gave me a chance to play with the kayak a little bit more actively, whee!
After a couple days there, I caught a ride into town with the owners, and managed to snag a cheap bus to Dakar, instead of the pricey shared taxi. As I was well aware, this was a bit of a slower proposition, and it took all day to get to Dakar - not helped when our driver pulled off the road into a sandpit and all the passengers had to help push the bus out! Dakar being on a peninsula, there is only one main highway in and out of a city of 7 million people. That highway is currently being rebuilt, which leaves just 3 or 4 lanes of snarled road to negotiate into the core. It took the better part of 3 hours to get in from the outskirts.
Dakar is a difficult city to quickly describe. For some reason, my brain keeps tending towards comparisons with Nairobi. At some level, that makes sense - capital of English East Africa and capital of French West Africa, both the regional powerhouses of modernity, yadda yadda. The two, though, are very different places - and given the choice, I think I'd rather hang out in Dakar.
My experience there was certainly coloured by circumstance. Thanks to the wonders of Couchsurfing.com, I was able to avoid spending 25 dollars a night on a downtown fleapit, and instead was run around town by the highly awesome Lizzie, a Wolof-speaking American doing some vaguely-defined volunteer work for the summer before starting a paid English teaching stint in the fall. Being a guest is always nice. Being a guest in a big, complex city is even nicer, especially when your host (unlike so many expats) has a social circle that includes a great many Senegalese, not just other foreigners.
After a hurried couple of phone calls, Lizzie picked me up near the bus station, and we were then picked up by a friend of hers, the ever-characterful DJ Sega (Sega being his real name, kick ass), a local fellow who is apparently a fairly big deal on the party scene. We passed the evening at his place, wandering the neighbourhood and saying hi to all and sundry, being fed and greeted and all that, before winding down the day with a beer on the roof of the hotel of a Canadian co-worker. Not a bad intro to Dakar.
Lizzie lived in N'gor, which is effectively a village that happens to be within the city limits, 12 kms north of downtown. A really pleasant little place, far from the hustle and bustle of the big city (the headaches of which, I think, are exaggerated). We met another of her friends, got some great local grub (I love peanut stew!!) and I took some time to putter around the centre of town. It being a weekend, the goal of my Dakar visit also included some going-out, and we managed that with a giggle. On the Saturday night, we went out for a birthday of a Gabonese fellow to a club downtown which provided us with what is certainly one of the definitive (if odd) west African experiences: being the only people in the club who are neither French soldiers nor prostitutes!
It was actually a rather fun night - unlike American GI's, French soldiers aren't afraid to get mighty funky on the dance floor. There are a number of photos lurking somewhere of one of them who took a shining to me and repeatedly picked me up, threw me around, and planted big wet kisses on my head. Not my normal milleu, but an experience nonetheless! The next day, we managed to take in 2 Dakar institutions. First came heading to a stadium to catch a few bouts of les luttes, traditional wrestling, the Senegalese national sport. What a time that was - these fellows are massive hunks of muscle who win matches when they knock the other guy solidly down, usually with a combination of punches and holds. Some matches last 30 seconds, others 5 minutes. What with the drumming and the dancing and the chanting, it's a whale of a time. The star attraction was the current mega-champ, Elton "Le Bulldozer", a massive mound of muscle in the midst of whose fans I was sitting. Needless to say, when he handily won his match, they went nuts.
Apparently, when your guy wins in the ring, part of the victory celebration is to chase the other guy's fans from the stadium and have a wee riot in the streets! I was glad that we lingered at the top of the stadium, because things got pretty dicey for a bit, with the Elton fans routing the others through the neighbourhood, pelting them and their buses with fist-size rocks. Oi! We snuck out the side way, with our heads happily un-smashed, and finished the evening with another Dakar classic: music at Just 4 U, a small garden bar/resteraunt that hosts concerts every night, 7 days a week - indeed, they often host 2. These aren't small timers, either - people like Orchestra Baobab play, as does Cheikh Lo, who we had the pleasure to see. Bad-ass. After his set, a Senegalese jazz band came on and did some mighty fine things; adding djembes and other local rythm-makers makes for a great sound.
I spent one more day in Dakar, touring the lovely Isle de Goree, the ancient French island town in the harbour that was a transshipment point for millions of African slaves; there are a couple great exhibits on the island about it, and the place itself is one big historical hangover with no cars, just cobbles, pastel houses, and flowers everywhere. With a wee bit of tout-dodging when you arrive, it's even tranquil. Not bad. All in all, a good rounding out of the Dakar experience.
After the odyssey of roadwork that it took to escape the city, I hopped a series of shared taxis down the Petit Cote to the village of Palmarin. The taxi-ride was something special, largely through terrain that could have been drawn from a Dr. Suess book. The Senegalese savannah is just that - not quite forest, but with plenty of trees about 15 metres apart from each other. Lots of these (especially the amazing Baobabs) look pretty otherworldly, which makes for grand starin' if you get a window seat in the taxi.
Palmarin itself is actually a series of villages, more substantially built than most (ie, tin rooves and concrete, not thatch), and fairly heavily Christian, which leads to the presence of pigs and booze even in the smallest hamlet. I stayed at a little campement that gave me a hut to myself - with my first private bathroom of this whole trip! The girl working there dissolved in giggles at my excited reaction to the toilet. Understandable, perhaps. This place also did it's job well with the hammocks and beer, and I spent lots of time wandering the villages and countryside, chattering with locals and snagging a family meal in someone's courtyard.
On leaving Palmarin, I set course for the place I wanted to spend my birthday, which involved a night in the city of Kaolack on the way. Even the Senegalese, even those from Kaolack, rag on Kaolack. I must say, they have some reason - it is Senegal's capital of 3 things: heat, beggars, and flies. It also makes a good claim to leadership on garbage and mud. That being said, the market was quite a sight, and there were a couple survivable spots to the place. I've been in many armpits of the Earth, and this place ain't near the bottom of that list. Nonetheless, I wasn't too sorry to clear out the next morning, especially with my destination:
I chose to birthday gift myself 2 nights at Keur Bamboung, an epically awesome ecotourism project in the mangrove swamps of the Sine-Saloum delta. I don't regret the choice. The site itself is gorgeous; to get there involves a boat to an island in the heart of the protected area, than a donkeycart ride across the island. You get put up in thatch and brick huts, all built of locally sourced materials by the village folks, with solar power and rain water. They all sit up on a sandy bluff overlooking one of the channels through the mangroves, so you can jump in for a swim whenever you like.
Better than the setting, though, was the history. Some years back, in the early 90s, the 14 local villages got together and realized that overfishing and other exploitation was destroying the local ecosystem, and that their future lay in ecotourism. Without government help, they created a protected area, forbade fishing and hunting, and enforced it with their own volunteer patrols as they worked to build the lodge. Some years later, the government embraced the place and declared it all a national park, but the lodge and the people involved are still overwhelmingly locals.
It wasn't even that much of a splurge. For $44 a night, you get your own little hut, all your meals, and guided excursions. We hiked through the savannah, seeing boars and birds and eating fresh cashew fruit on the first evening, then I spent my birthday morning on a mangove "hike", a 2 hour walk done largely in hip-deep water. Rounded out with some kayaking, lots of swimming, and the world's friendliest staff, and it was not a bad choice, not a bad choice at all.
Leaving there, I needed to head to the Gambia. This trip had potential for headache and delay, involving, in order: donkeycart, boat, motorbike, shared taxi, walk, border, walk, border, shared taxi, boat. It could have taken all day, but the travel gods smiled on me and had me in Banjul within 3 hours! I suppose, for the statistics to work, Murphy's law does have to have an opposite. I'm in Banjul now, and I'll leave the narrative there.
As far as Senegal in general goes, my first couple weeks (I'll be back in the south soon) left me pretty impressed. As a traveller, in Senegal you are met with a decided indifference. Not unfriendly indifference, but merely the indifference that comes from people
a) having seen plenty of white folks before, so big whoop
b) having lots of their own business to attend to
c) being somewhat intrinsically reserved.
It's funny, as Senegal markets itself as the country of "Teranga", hospitality, and tries pretty hard to promote that image to tourists. I don't really see the need. It was actually refreshing not to always be the centre of attention, and when you actually need help or information or just want to chat, people were nothing but friendly and forthcoming. Every country seems to try and set itself up as especially welcoming, and obviously it can't be true for all. Senegal feels more like it's global image (as far as I've always percieved it): like a country that's going places. It's rather neat. It'll also be interesting to see how the psyche changes as I head to the Casamance, the area south of The Gambia that has traditionally been more isolated, host to a slow-burning separatist rebellion, and also very explicitly known for it's hospitable welcome to travellers. Only time will tell, and I can't wait.
Peace
Josh
Apparently, when your guy wins in the ring, part of the victory celebration is to chase the other guy's fans from the stadium and have a wee riot in the streets! I was glad that we lingered at the top of the stadium, because things got pretty dicey for a bit, with the Elton fans routing the others through the neighbourhood, pelting them and their buses with fist-size rocks. Oi! We snuck out the side way, with our heads happily un-smashed, and finished the evening with another Dakar classic: music at Just 4 U, a small garden bar/resteraunt that hosts concerts every night, 7 days a week - indeed, they often host 2. These aren't small timers, either - people like Orchestra Baobab play, as does Cheikh Lo, who we had the pleasure to see. Bad-ass. After his set, a Senegalese jazz band came on and did some mighty fine things; adding djembes and other local rythm-makers makes for a great sound.
I spent one more day in Dakar, touring the lovely Isle de Goree, the ancient French island town in the harbour that was a transshipment point for millions of African slaves; there are a couple great exhibits on the island about it, and the place itself is one big historical hangover with no cars, just cobbles, pastel houses, and flowers everywhere. With a wee bit of tout-dodging when you arrive, it's even tranquil. Not bad. All in all, a good rounding out of the Dakar experience.
After the odyssey of roadwork that it took to escape the city, I hopped a series of shared taxis down the Petit Cote to the village of Palmarin. The taxi-ride was something special, largely through terrain that could have been drawn from a Dr. Suess book. The Senegalese savannah is just that - not quite forest, but with plenty of trees about 15 metres apart from each other. Lots of these (especially the amazing Baobabs) look pretty otherworldly, which makes for grand starin' if you get a window seat in the taxi.
Palmarin itself is actually a series of villages, more substantially built than most (ie, tin rooves and concrete, not thatch), and fairly heavily Christian, which leads to the presence of pigs and booze even in the smallest hamlet. I stayed at a little campement that gave me a hut to myself - with my first private bathroom of this whole trip! The girl working there dissolved in giggles at my excited reaction to the toilet. Understandable, perhaps. This place also did it's job well with the hammocks and beer, and I spent lots of time wandering the villages and countryside, chattering with locals and snagging a family meal in someone's courtyard.
On leaving Palmarin, I set course for the place I wanted to spend my birthday, which involved a night in the city of Kaolack on the way. Even the Senegalese, even those from Kaolack, rag on Kaolack. I must say, they have some reason - it is Senegal's capital of 3 things: heat, beggars, and flies. It also makes a good claim to leadership on garbage and mud. That being said, the market was quite a sight, and there were a couple survivable spots to the place. I've been in many armpits of the Earth, and this place ain't near the bottom of that list. Nonetheless, I wasn't too sorry to clear out the next morning, especially with my destination:
I chose to birthday gift myself 2 nights at Keur Bamboung, an epically awesome ecotourism project in the mangrove swamps of the Sine-Saloum delta. I don't regret the choice. The site itself is gorgeous; to get there involves a boat to an island in the heart of the protected area, than a donkeycart ride across the island. You get put up in thatch and brick huts, all built of locally sourced materials by the village folks, with solar power and rain water. They all sit up on a sandy bluff overlooking one of the channels through the mangroves, so you can jump in for a swim whenever you like.
Better than the setting, though, was the history. Some years back, in the early 90s, the 14 local villages got together and realized that overfishing and other exploitation was destroying the local ecosystem, and that their future lay in ecotourism. Without government help, they created a protected area, forbade fishing and hunting, and enforced it with their own volunteer patrols as they worked to build the lodge. Some years later, the government embraced the place and declared it all a national park, but the lodge and the people involved are still overwhelmingly locals.
It wasn't even that much of a splurge. For $44 a night, you get your own little hut, all your meals, and guided excursions. We hiked through the savannah, seeing boars and birds and eating fresh cashew fruit on the first evening, then I spent my birthday morning on a mangove "hike", a 2 hour walk done largely in hip-deep water. Rounded out with some kayaking, lots of swimming, and the world's friendliest staff, and it was not a bad choice, not a bad choice at all.
Leaving there, I needed to head to the Gambia. This trip had potential for headache and delay, involving, in order: donkeycart, boat, motorbike, shared taxi, walk, border, walk, border, shared taxi, boat. It could have taken all day, but the travel gods smiled on me and had me in Banjul within 3 hours! I suppose, for the statistics to work, Murphy's law does have to have an opposite. I'm in Banjul now, and I'll leave the narrative there.
As far as Senegal in general goes, my first couple weeks (I'll be back in the south soon) left me pretty impressed. As a traveller, in Senegal you are met with a decided indifference. Not unfriendly indifference, but merely the indifference that comes from people
a) having seen plenty of white folks before, so big whoop
b) having lots of their own business to attend to
c) being somewhat intrinsically reserved.
It's funny, as Senegal markets itself as the country of "Teranga", hospitality, and tries pretty hard to promote that image to tourists. I don't really see the need. It was actually refreshing not to always be the centre of attention, and when you actually need help or information or just want to chat, people were nothing but friendly and forthcoming. Every country seems to try and set itself up as especially welcoming, and obviously it can't be true for all. Senegal feels more like it's global image (as far as I've always percieved it): like a country that's going places. It's rather neat. It'll also be interesting to see how the psyche changes as I head to the Casamance, the area south of The Gambia that has traditionally been more isolated, host to a slow-burning separatist rebellion, and also very explicitly known for it's hospitable welcome to travellers. Only time will tell, and I can't wait.
Peace
Josh
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