Africa 2006

In my guidebook, the train between Dakar and Bamako was billed as one of Africa’s last great train journeys. The Malian train takes about three days to complete the 1225 kilometre journey. There is no defined schedule – a new departure time is set once the train arrives in a city.

I was on my way to the station for the scheduled departure time of 13.00 when we discovered that the Express had been delayed until 16.00 – not an unusual development. I returned to the flat, and went to the station at 15.00. After waiting for about an hour and a half I was told that the train was again delayed for repairs until 19.00.

A few minutes before the new scheduled departure time, the faded green and yellow cars of the Express inched into the station. Hundreds of passengers crowded on. Many were traders, mostly in the free-for-all seating of 2nd class, with their sacks of onions and rice and fabrics. First class seating has assigned seats, although admittedly with the same torn cushions and dirt as second class.

I had opted to splurge on my ticket, and had purchased couchette, which entitled me to one bed in a cabin of four. Each bed is comprised of a piece of hole-filled foam, about 7 cm thick, and an extremely diry cover sheet (everyone had brought their own linens). Ostensibly there is a restaurant car, but it was closed for this trip.

We had boarded the train by about 19.30, by which time the sun had set. There are no lights on the train until it starts moving, so we were in complete darkness, with only the malaria carrying mosquitoes and dozens of cockroaches for company (my compartment mate kindly pointed out all the creepy crawlies to me with her flashlight). As we were stationary, the heat continued to rise, the air was stifling, and I was a sweaty mess.

And we waited to depart.

And we waited….

And we waited….

At 23.30, after fours hours onboard the stifling dark train, and after several very pleasant conversations with the other incredibly tolerant passengers, I took a stroll along the platform to casually inquire (I say casually because there was no point in getting upset about anything; it was just as interesting to have a chat with someone) about what might be causing the delay. I was told by friendly officials (who first wanted to know where my husband was) that the train would leave once all the traders’ bags were loaded onto the train, and was assured this would happen before midnight. Inside the main terminal building, there were literally hundreds of sacks left to load, and a handful of men standing around them not doing much of anything.

And that, dear readers, was the end of my experience on the Dakar-Bamako Express. For in fact, I am a quitter.

I headed straight to the nearest telecentre and called Arona and Miriama and said that I wanted to take the plane to Bamako since the departure was not in sight.

I returned to the train to pack up my things and bid farewell to my brief travel companions. As I endured a walk of shame along the full length of the train, my hands full of water and food for the journey (which I gave away to the other passengers), many people who had set up rugs outside on the ground to lie and wait called to me: “Madame, are you leaving the train? Why?” I felt lazy and guilty as I had to explain that I didn’t have much time in Mali and the train probably wouldn’t arrive until very late Friday at the earliest (this was Tuesday). What a spoiled rich Westerner.

But once I got back to the flat, I felt much happier with my decision. I’ve taken long train journeys before, and I’ve met lots of local people on this trip so far, so I wasn’t missing my only chance to do such things. And, quite frankly, although I am taking this trip to some extent to be independent and adventurous, this just wasn’t any fun.

So first the eggs (see my first blog entry), and now the Express train – but I’m happy with the decision.

I took the Air Sénégal flight to Bamako yesterday. (The friendly people at the station even fully refunded my train fare!)

Wolof and French are the main languages of Senegal. The Wolof word for “yes” is Waaw, pronounced Wow.

It’s my last day in this friendly country, and I think waaw, in both senses, sums it up well. The scenery is fascinating (baobab trees, huge termite mounds, and sandy beaches), and the people incredible. For much of that I must thanks my hosts, Arona and Miriama, who have ensured that I was helped every step of the way on my visit. But everyone I have met so far has been welcoming and generous. I hope you all get a chance to visit one day!

My Senegal Top 10 (in no particular order):

1. Getting met not only at the airport, but immediately at the bottom of the aircraft steps – the best possible introduction to Africa.

2. The impressive use of contacts to help people out. I thought this was unique, but then I also remembered how helpful my contacts and friends-of-friends were when arranging this trip.

3.  The failed attempt at the Dakar-Bamako train – I’m glad about my decision and impressed by all the others who stuck it out uncomplaining.

4.  My sojourn into the Gambia under the watchful eye of Mme. Samb.

5.  Arona and Miriama’s generosity and hospitality. Fascinating company in great surroundings and great food.

6.  Breaking the fast outside in the courtyard in Geoul.

7.  The sheer intensity of my first big Africa city experience: the smells, the sweat, the smiles.

8.  The tranquility, despite the heat, of the Ile de Goree.

9.  My first transport experience and the various related tests of my patience.

10. How impressed people were at my few minimal attempts at Wolof.

I took a short trip to some villages of Northern Senegal with Suleymane, a cousin of Arona’s. He comes from Geoul, a three-hour drive north of Dakar. I stayed there with his extended family on Friday night. We broke the fast in the courtyard under the full moon (well, they did; I haven’t been fasting) and I taught the many children around how to sing English songs. The high birthrate was quite evident, and there were friendly children everywhere, all of whom waved and smiled and followed me when I walked around the town. The whole family was incredibly welcoming and generous, cementing my positive impression of Senegal.
Suleymane introduced me to many of his friends, including Sharif, who Suleymane told me isa descendent of the Prophet Mohammed. Sharif is a shepherd to 3000 camels of which he is very proud. He offered to build me a house in the village if I wanted to move to Senegal. He also wanted me to find him a Canadian wife – anyone interested can drop me an email!
My main trip in the north was to the city of St Louis, also a UNESCO site. It is tantalizingly close to the Mauritanian border (about 100 km), and Sharif, who is of Mauritanian origin, had offered to accompany me there even though I didn’t have a visa. Unfortunately, though, I had to return to Dakar to be able to wake up early for my next journeys.
The route back to Dakar was my first evening car ride, and while Suleymane drove much slower than he had during the day, the various evening threats are clear; my “favourite” was on the capital’s outskirts when we saw a crammed mini-bus driving without any lit headlights – on the wrong side of the divided highway!

The Ile de Goree is a 15-minute boat ride from Dakar harbour. There are no cars or bicycles allowed on this tiny island, only 300 x 900 metres. It has 1200 inhabitants, 800 of whom are Muslim and 400 Christian.
Between 1536 and 1848 (when France abolished slavery), the island served as a point on the slave route, where people taken from the interior were imprisoned in several buildings on the island and sold as slaves in the Americas. Over the nearly three centuries, between 15 and 20 million slaves passed through here.

My trip to the island was today’s excursion, and I was accompanied by Arona’s aunt, Coumba, and her five-year-old son, Mohammad. The Ile is a much calmer place to explore than Dakar, and despite the persistent souvenir sellers, is a very relaxing. In addition to the musee des esclaves, which explains the island’s history, I enjoyed slowly basting in the sun as I walked around the dusty alleyways and pink houses.
And I bought my first souvenir, a necklace made from coconut shells, a purchase made not so much for its beauty or value but for the fun of watching the saleslady, Amina, and Coumba debate the price in animated Wolof (the lingua franca of Senegal). Judging from the gestures and the occasional French word, I suspect the genial conversation was something like:

Amina: Eliza is so nice and she is my first customer of the day so I have a special price for her of 5000 CFA (about 8 Euros).
Coumba: Outrageous! This is just a small necklace made from coconut. It is not worth more than 2000 CFA.
A: (Laughs uproariously). Ah, that’s a nice try my friend but look at the quality of the workmanship!
C: Pah! You are taking advantage of a foreigner. I would never pay more than 2500.

… And so it went, until we settled on 3000.
And now I am back in the apartment with my necklace. Arona’s friends and family have been generously planning extensive trips for me in the coming days (to St Louis in the north tomorrow and then later to the Gambia) so stay tuned….
PS: You might be wondering where all the photos are. I have been taking them, but they are about 3 mgs each and my technically challenged mind cannot figure out how to make them small enough to post on this site. So for the moment I will try to write descriptively and you’ll have to use your imaginations.

My first moments in Africa began well.

Beyond the visual feast, was a feast (of sorts) for my nose: odourfully (?) speaking, the markets (especially the marche Tilene which I visited this morning with Arona’s aunt) are a pungent combination of raw meat, overly ripe fruits, piles of raw and smoked fish, exhaust fumes and the occasional snippets of sweat or flowery fragrances from the soap section. It was at times nauseating, at times pleasant, and always memorable.

This morning I also paid a visit to the Embassy of Mali, where I applied for my visa to the country (the current plan is to take the train to Bamako, the capital of Mali, next Wednesday – if it is running, which seems uncertain until just a few hours before departure). Filling in the French-only application reminded me that it would be very difficult to get by here without any ability in that language; very few people seem to speak English.

En route to the Embassy and back, I noticed that if there was anything I had forgotten to buy at the market, it could have been sold to me while I waited in the always heavy traffic, as salespeople ply the roads offering products you never knew you would need (my favourite was a man with a metre-long office-style fluorescent light bulb). There were also a lot of goats on the streets.

***

I could go on and on, but I will rest now before this evening’s eating begins again (yesterday night there was a wonderful chicken tagine). Tomorrow I am going with Arona’s aunt to the Ile de Goree, just off the coast, which is a UNESCO listed heritage site, an old Portuguese trading base and later a point on the slave route.

If anyone has questions or wants more detail on anything, just drop me a comment to the blog. I am verbose enough as it is without encouragement, but at least I can try to make it relevant!