The Bar Hits Me On the Head

At six in the morning, someone knocked on my door at the crappy, overpriced Hotel Niji in the dust-ridden Senegalese town of Tambacounda.

I ignored the knock, then eventually changed out of my pajamas, walked down to the front desk, and inquired as to why exactly someone had been knocking on my front door.

"There is a leak from your bathroom into the backyard."

Oh. Okay. I thought they'd want to fix it, so I suggested they come take a look.

The clerk motioned for me to follow him to the backyard. He showed me my window and said "That is your room." He said a man from Gambia had called him about the leak. We looked, I shrugged, and he left. What was I supposed to do? Fix it with my utility knife I'd forgotten back in Jersey City?

The Bar Moves

The Dutch family and I had Bird Safari Camp breakfast at seven this morning. Sigh. More baguette and Nescafe. I admire that Bird Safari Camp has a bread-baking oven in the backyard, but I'm so sick of bread that I don't even have any words left that could satisfactorily disparage it. Nescafe doesn't rate as having ever been good, so there's no point in disparaging that at all. I used to carry around my own coffee and travel press, but in time decided it would be easier to just give up coffee. That, of course, hasn't happened, and I now consume any rancid product that involves caffeine in the mornings.

After breakfast, we all went through the chaotic and laborious process of settling our drink bills, then loaded up the two Peugeots. The burgundy station wagon still had a dented back, and the rear passenger doors didn't open and shut quite right, but the mechanics of the car were sound.

The Peugeot with the smashed radiator had been returned to us yesterday afternoon, with some of that epoxy you'd get at Wal-Mart sealing up the leaks. I wished the Dutch family M well with their journey back to the coast. They'd go north this time, maybe stop at Wassu on my recommendation, and they could probably drop the cars off in Barra and take the ferry without the cars. A bonus of taking the north road was that they could avoid the policemen who'd watched the accident, and also another cheeky one who'd wanted to marry one of their daughters.

Going to Gambia

I woke up early, intending to head to Gambia on the double. But first there was breakfast—a wide assortment of bread products—to be had, and then I ran over to the ATM to get money. I wouldn't be able to use my bank ATM card in Gambia as only debit-cards with Visa branded on them work there.

And then while I was out anyway, I noticed that my Kindle-guidebook map (ugh, what a pain the maps are to read on a Kindle) showed a clinic right down the street from the ATM. My meningitis vaccine expired a few years ago. I'd intended to get it at home, but at $140 a shot, I only intended this long enough to be horrified. My last one had been twenty dollars at The Surgery in Kampala in 2005. I'd searched for a place in Melilla without luck, and with a clinic right here, it seemed foolish to pass up the opportunity.

But luck wasn't with me. The clinic receptionist instructed me to go to the big Pasteur Institute down by the Corniche. Or something. I actually have no idea where I went. He wrote it on a slip of paper and told me the taxi fare. I hailed a taxi and shoved the paper at the driver.

Ile de Goree

Here are some more photos of Ile de Goree.

Day in Dakar: Part Two

Gambian visa acquired, I headed to Ile de Goree, a calm-and-pretty colonial-style island with a reputation for having been a major site in the slave trade. The slave trade part of Goree's history has been proven to have been short-lived and overstated (this was a slave trade port, complete with dungeons, but "only" 300 people a year were traded here of the 20 million wrenched from their homes and forcibly taken overseas) but it's still an interesting and scenic "must-do" when you visit Dakar.

Interesting name

"Is it safe for me to walk around with this?" I motioned to my handbag at hotel reception.

"Of course," said the desk clerk. He looked baffled that I'd even asked. Maybe Dakar's reputation was as overstated as Goree's role in the slave trade?

I got a little lost walking to the ferry in the hot sun, but finally stumbled over it in time to discover I had plenty of time to wait for the next ferry anyway. And the tourist price had skyrocketed since the guidebooks were written. 500 CFA, or a dollar, had become 5000 CFA. Ten dollars. I crankily forked over the dough at the ferry desk.

Day in Dakar: Part One

I'd just gotten to where people were recognizing me in the cafe and striking up conversations when it was time to leave Saint-Louis. I had to get to Dakar to get a visa for Gambia, or maybe I didn't. Seems I could just get something at the border. Or maybe not. I'd prefer to show up with my papers in order, though.

I haven't heard particularly good things about Dakar, and hotels aren't cheap there. I decided to go early, to try to stay only one night. And I scoured hotel websites and the guidebooks. There were some in the fifty dollar range. Okay, that one. It's got a restaurant that serves hummus. Good enough reason to shoot for a place.

In the end, I didn't go early after all. The electricity in the hotel was off, and when it came on at 7:30, I raced through some work. Late start.

Caleche and Croissant

Saint-Louis, Senegal, was a decent place to stop for a few days. I'd gone off-schedule by a day in Essaouira, then lazed around an extra day in Dakhla, so I didn't hang around more than I'd planned in Saint-Louis. Just two nights, and I didn't really even do anything in this UNESCO site. I was just enjoying the coffee and pastries of the patisserie on the street level of the Hotel du Palais. Breakfast in West Africa had so far been bread and Nescafe. Espresso and chocolate croissants were a godsend.

The flies liked my pastries too. I'd swat them away while drinking coffee and using the café wi-fi. Ah, my tax return showed up! Another month of life without going into my savings. I'd panic when I thought about the inevitable slowdown of cash.

In the afternoon, after I'd tired of pretending to be a customer when mostly I just wanted somewhere to use the wi-fi (by that time the only other "customer" was watching soccer on the television), I opened up my guidebook. Or rather fired up my Kindle. What were the must-sees here in Saint-Louis?

Soaking up the atmosphere was the must-see. Well, I was doing that.

I walked around the old streets and looked at brightly colored, deteriorating buildings. I checked out the bridge, the only one onto the island from the mainland. My taxi had crossed it yesterday, but I'd been too sick to care.

Walking wasn't getting me the tourist thrill I needed, so I decided to go on the tourist circuit in a caleche, or horse and carriage. Sure. Why not? I'd be a little embarrassed, but maybe I'd see something I wouldn't see otherwise.

Intro to Senegal

One disadvantage to being in the passenger seat, I learned as we pulled into the Mauritania side of the Rosso border, is that you're a sitting duck. Bait for the wanna-be guides.

I was spotted instantly and by the time our Peugeot parked near the line of vehicles and the closed gates across the border (looks like the closed for lunch rumors are true), a gaggle of young men in their twenties surrounded the car.

The taxi driver chose one and chased away the others.

"You go with this boy. I know him. He will take care of you."

Okay. The best choice in a situation like this is to choose one guide so that he will keep the other aspiring guides at bay. I followed the guy, whose name I've forgotten. Was it Mohammed? He shouldered my backpack. Hell, I'd tip him for that alone.

"You change money?"