Bakel, Senegal
The scenery wasn’t much, just scrub, thorn trees, yellow grass and rolling dunes. The area around Bakel was much the same. When I arrived, I walked into town to the hotel feeling hot, hungry and tired. The hotel wasn’t much but it was central and super cheap. I had a dollar’s worth of rice and sauce before heading upstairs to read about Senegal – having finally felt like I arrived – and to snooze away the aches and pains in my hips and knees.
The hotel seemed to be run by women, but they had a high school aged boy who delivered my change from lunch, told me he loved me and that hi s name was Ibrahim. As he’d woken me from a sleep so deep I felt knackered, I simply shut the door in his face. That afternoon he spontaneously appeared on the terrace and made as though he was going to just enter the room, but when he caught sight of the look on my face, he changed his mind. He proved to be a real hassle, though, as the next day he was on the terrace dusting by 8 a.m. and I had to tell him to go away. He was back a half hour later and going through my trash, which I found thoroughly embarrassing.
After my siesta, I went for a walk around town, hoping to see some of the river. But along the way, a guy named Samba stopped me and we got to talking over beers. He’s opening a new hotel complex and talked a little about life in sleepy Bakel. Then he told me he’s a Rasta – without dreads – and things started to go ff the rails. He asked if I smoke herb and I said no, but he insisted we would go tot he river and smoke together. Once it got through his head I wasn’t interested, he suggested we get some meat and take it to his place for dinner. We compromised and got meat grilled on the street – some very tasty lamb with salt and mustard. But the dynamic had shifted from it being a simple, pleasant conversation with a new acquaintance to feeling like I was being pursued.
The next morning I was up and out early and walking to the gare routiere without having seen the river. At the taxi brousse station, it was a two hour wait for the car to Dakar to fill and the man taking the money was a swindler and a cheat. (In the end, I paid a reduced fare, so he got what he deserved.) I was only going as far as Podor, about eight hours down the line, but it took about 13 hours to reach. When we stopped for lunch, the car disappeared and wasn’t’ ready for another three hours! Gave me lots of time to study the inner workings of a roadside chop stand, where a cauldron of rice was mixed with sauce, poisson et legumes and served en masse in big silver bowls. It was your choice whether you rolled the rice into balls and ate it with your hands or whether you took it with a spoon. It was delicious, but afterward I watched the boys wash the dishes in the tubs of water where people washed their hands and errant donkeys and goats would come for a surreptitious slurp of water.
The news showed the Pope was in his final hours, and then, because it was Friday, the station played hour after hour of Islam-oriented programming, none of which I understood. I hadn’t realized it, but no one in my car spoke fluent French. They were all Wolof, making Senegal the first place I’d visited where the colonial language wasn’t the common language.
By 4.30 p.m., we were back on the road and any hopes I had of arriving before dark were dashed. The driving was slow and dangerous, with the road rutted and in some parts, completely gone. It was narrow and the Senegalese drive with their brights on. It’s like a constant game of chicken.
I got out at Tjeri, an intersection with nothing of note. The tro tro drivers had me shuttling back and forth, back and forth, before they finally got reasonably full and could leave. No one had to call a stop, as the driver knew everyone and where they lived. I’m fairly certain he overcharged me, but it was only a dollar. The campement listed in the guidebook as near the gare routiere but not sign posted was closed, but I ended up at a clean, empty place that looked like a university dorm. I thought I’d never get to sleep over the sound of the air conditioner but either it got quiet or I’m a deeper sleeper than when I left Toronto. My whole body ached – my right hip especially – and I was worried I’d given myself toxic shock syndrome, as it had been roughly 14 hours since I’d put my tampon in. I had a shower, did some laundry and toddled off to find water after turning on the faucet and finding brown liquid spilling out.
The next morning I was up and out by 8 a.m., hungry but signed up fro the Dakar car, which left after about a half an hour. The ride was excruciatingly uncomfortable after five days, my tailbone, hip bones and knees had had it – and there really wasn’t enough room for three of us. The scenery, again, was uninteresting, although we did pass a car accident. Mostly it was southward sand.
The hotel seemed to be run by women, but they had a high school aged boy who delivered my change from lunch, told me he loved me and that hi s name was Ibrahim. As he’d woken me from a sleep so deep I felt knackered, I simply shut the door in his face. That afternoon he spontaneously appeared on the terrace and made as though he was going to just enter the room, but when he caught sight of the look on my face, he changed his mind. He proved to be a real hassle, though, as the next day he was on the terrace dusting by 8 a.m. and I had to tell him to go away. He was back a half hour later and going through my trash, which I found thoroughly embarrassing.
After my siesta, I went for a walk around town, hoping to see some of the river. But along the way, a guy named Samba stopped me and we got to talking over beers. He’s opening a new hotel complex and talked a little about life in sleepy Bakel. Then he told me he’s a Rasta – without dreads – and things started to go ff the rails. He asked if I smoke herb and I said no, but he insisted we would go tot he river and smoke together. Once it got through his head I wasn’t interested, he suggested we get some meat and take it to his place for dinner. We compromised and got meat grilled on the street – some very tasty lamb with salt and mustard. But the dynamic had shifted from it being a simple, pleasant conversation with a new acquaintance to feeling like I was being pursued.
The next morning I was up and out early and walking to the gare routiere without having seen the river. At the taxi brousse station, it was a two hour wait for the car to Dakar to fill and the man taking the money was a swindler and a cheat. (In the end, I paid a reduced fare, so he got what he deserved.) I was only going as far as Podor, about eight hours down the line, but it took about 13 hours to reach. When we stopped for lunch, the car disappeared and wasn’t’ ready for another three hours! Gave me lots of time to study the inner workings of a roadside chop stand, where a cauldron of rice was mixed with sauce, poisson et legumes and served en masse in big silver bowls. It was your choice whether you rolled the rice into balls and ate it with your hands or whether you took it with a spoon. It was delicious, but afterward I watched the boys wash the dishes in the tubs of water where people washed their hands and errant donkeys and goats would come for a surreptitious slurp of water.
The news showed the Pope was in his final hours, and then, because it was Friday, the station played hour after hour of Islam-oriented programming, none of which I understood. I hadn’t realized it, but no one in my car spoke fluent French. They were all Wolof, making Senegal the first place I’d visited where the colonial language wasn’t the common language.
By 4.30 p.m., we were back on the road and any hopes I had of arriving before dark were dashed. The driving was slow and dangerous, with the road rutted and in some parts, completely gone. It was narrow and the Senegalese drive with their brights on. It’s like a constant game of chicken.
I got out at Tjeri, an intersection with nothing of note. The tro tro drivers had me shuttling back and forth, back and forth, before they finally got reasonably full and could leave. No one had to call a stop, as the driver knew everyone and where they lived. I’m fairly certain he overcharged me, but it was only a dollar. The campement listed in the guidebook as near the gare routiere but not sign posted was closed, but I ended up at a clean, empty place that looked like a university dorm. I thought I’d never get to sleep over the sound of the air conditioner but either it got quiet or I’m a deeper sleeper than when I left Toronto. My whole body ached – my right hip especially – and I was worried I’d given myself toxic shock syndrome, as it had been roughly 14 hours since I’d put my tampon in. I had a shower, did some laundry and toddled off to find water after turning on the faucet and finding brown liquid spilling out.
The next morning I was up and out by 8 a.m., hungry but signed up fro the Dakar car, which left after about a half an hour. The ride was excruciatingly uncomfortable after five days, my tailbone, hip bones and knees had had it – and there really wasn’t enough room for three of us. The scenery, again, was uninteresting, although we did pass a car accident. Mostly it was southward sand.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 6:19 AM
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