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| On the eck of the boat |
Finals Week was like any other finals week in the US. Naturally, most of us left our projects until the very end, but since most of the longer essays were reflections...we weren't too worried about it. However, my housemates and I managed to get our hands on the first book in the Hunger Games series...and though we studied diligently, we managed to download/borrow the entire series. All of us finished our essays
and read all the books. Each study break would find us swapping computers to see who had the best copy, as we yelled at each other across the apartment about which part of the story we were at. It was like the last Harry Potter movie all over again- When the 2nd part of the 7th Harry Potter series was released, we had 4 computers downloading the movie at different places in order to combat our impossibly slow internet speed. Every time one computer would reach the end of the amount loaded, snacks, sometimes drinks, and maybe a person or two would go flying as we rushed to grab the next computer and resume our place. Then all 10 of us would huddle once again, cramped, unbearably hot, but exhilarated around the computer screen. The conclusion of the movie...was the final chapter of our childhood. For all of us, these books defined our worlds from the day we first got our hands on them. Not one of us didn't stay up half the night for an entire month surrounding our 11th birthdays to get the letter from Hogwarts (admittedly, some of us until we were 16..)...
But I digress. So after finals we were itching for an adventure, and we had heard that the Casamance was the place to go for white sand beaches, beach-front bars, and an atmosphere that refreshed the most stressed out Dakarquoise resident. We'd heard about the regional conflict taking place in that region, and took Katharina Kane's Lonely Planet advice on figuring out if it was safe enough to go. The conflict in the region began around the same time as Senegal's independence. Separated from the rest of Senegal by the Gambia, the Casamance feels a stronger relation toward Guinea-Bissau, just to the south, and the Gambia to the north, than they do to the rest of Senegal. Civil war broke out several times throughout the 80s, but died down in the 90s. There hasn't been any official acts of secession from the rebel King since the peace agreement signed in 2004. Violence that breaks out now is not officially connected with the separatist movement (or so the rebel king claims), but rather bandits that take advantage of a politically sensitive situation to get money from tourists. However, there is still a large problem with landmines we well as bandits. There have been efforts to extract them, but it is a very expensive and slow process which the government hasn't extensively focused on. As a result, tourists need to be careful where they travel, especially in the bush where it is likely landmines still exist. Besides the effect on the tourist industry (the region's financial lifeblood) the landmine problem has a disastrous effect on local communities. In the interior of the Casamance especially, where entire communities are essentially isolated from any outside contact due to the danger of travel. Thus, traveling at night is not recommended due to frequent "safety roadblocks." We investigated the safety of traveling but getting in contact with the cousin of a friend of ours who lives in Zinguinchor, the port capitol of the Casamance. He told us all was safe as long as we avoided certain areas known to be occupied by separatist militias, namely the Oussouye region/town. He offered to pick us up from the port on our arrival as well as open his home to us so we wouldn't need to pay for a hotel. So all of us set off-- Me, Aloura, Quincey, Jessica, Theresa, and my Senegalese friend Arfan (as our teachers told us it was a good idea to bring someone Senegalese with you to help with translations and so forth, and Arfan was an English masters student here in Dakar we'd made friends with).
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| The Girls! |
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| 8 person cabin on the Cosama boat |
We set off the same day as our last class, as we had booked cabins on the Cosama boat for the 14-hour over-night voyage to Zinguinchor. We loaded up on snacks, packs, and drinks, and after a hellish boarding at the port, finally got to our 8-person cabin. Boarding was essentially like getting on a boat to a whole new country. Our bags were searched, then the large ones were checked. Then we stood in a long, sweaty, line for the first passport examination, followed by security scanner. Then another long line in the sun for the visa check, then the bag scanner for our carry-on bag (which had a broken computer.. but oh well). This was followed by a second security check. Then our tickets were checked, and we waited in the port departure chamber for an hour before our passports/tickets were checked
again, then we boarded the damn boat. Arfan was booked with the men, and the rest of us were spit up into two different cabins. When the three of us walked into our cabin, it was already filled with a bunch of chatty old women getting comfortable in their beds. We shared our snacks with them, and basically exchanged life stories, until the rest of us left for the deck to meet up with our friends. We watched the sunset over the city of Dakar from the 4th floor of the ship, eating chicken sandwiches purchases from the small food stand on deck. The boat left the harbor after dark, and we watched flying fish leap around the boat until we returned to our cabins to sleep.
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| Casamance River |
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| Our Hotel in Zinguinchor |
We woke up the next morning and we were already heading up the Casamance River to Zinguinchor. We disembarked and waited another hour until all the cargo was unloaded. Then they opened a side door to come claim your baggage, and hundreds of people swarmed in a free-for-all for the door, only to spill into a huge cargo room to shuffle through all the bags. It was like a Where's Waldo? search, with no order or organization. Outside, we met up with Ñass, our friend's cousin. He was tall, with long dreadlocks, and an air of humor and ease. Most of the girls promptly obtained a new man-crush. We got taxis to a hotel (apparently the addition of Arfan to our group threw off the plans of staying with him) and every street corner found someone yelling his name and waving. Several people would hang out of windows of Car Rapides or buses and try and to to slap his outstretched hand as we zoomed by. "So you are pretty popular...is there a story behind this?" "I used to play soccer in Dakar," he said. "So everyone knows me because I grew up here and left to play. Then I got injured and came home to open up a salon." Ok. No big deal. We were to be shown around the Casamance by a semi-famous ex-soccer player. Only problem was, it took us a long time to get anywhere because people were always bombarding him in the street. But at least we were definitely in with the cool crowd...
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| Caught in another thunderstorm after dinner-taking cover at a corner store. |
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| After it rained, snails came out in force, they were all as long as my hand. |
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| Flower obsession.. |
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| By far the coolest taxi we've been in... |
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| On the Pirogue |
That first day we just stayed around Zinguinchor, visiting local markets and eating a lot of food. This week (as opposed the Gambia, mostly revolved around food and relaxation, with a few eventful exceptions). We knew from extensive perusal of Katharina Kane's book that our first hurdle would be manatees. All of us were mildly obsessed with the idea of these [endangered] aquatic bovine-like mammals and were prepared for the 1.5 hour pirogue ride to go to their reserve. We met up with a couple Swedish girls in a restaurant the night before we set out, and we agreed to split the cost of a small pirogue, since they were island hopping all the way to Cape Skirring. The next morning, we were arrived at the pirogue beach to set off, and in the customary Senegalese fashion, waited another 45 minutes for our boat-driver to finish his breakfast. The 1.5 hour pirogue ride turned into a 3 hour sunburn-fest since apparently our motor was struggling. Every now and then our driver would get up, kick it, and sit back down. Apparently Evinrude had seen better days. After 3 hours on a hard wooden 2x4, rocking from side to side and threatening to pitch me overboard, the soft river sand of Pointe St. George was an immense relief. We set out to find Pierre, the man in charge of the manatee reservation. This was no hard task, seeing as he was the only white man in the whole village, something of novelty since tourists are rare. He was the embodiment of the "roaming Frenchman."
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| The Girls, Swedish and American! |
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| Ñass' crazy dreds |
Travel Tangent #1::
Whenever you travel to a seemingly unknown place, with the taste of discovery sweet on your lips, your footsteps quiet enough to make you believe (if just within yourself) that you are the first person to ever discover this place..... when a sweaty, long-haired, slightly pudgy, over-tanned, cigarette smoking Frenchman bursts out of a quaint little hut and shatters all your daydreams. Not that I'm bitter...but I digress.
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| Manatee Conservation Map! |
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| Flowers found on our exploration of the village |
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| Tower to monitor illegal fishing |
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| Awesome tree |
We found out from Pierre and some local guides that the manatees were not currently in residence, so to make our trip worth it, they decided to take us on a tour of village. This turned out to be eventful on several levels, as it was the first time on this vacation we were confronted by the very things we learned about in class. The village itself was like paradise, and each thatch hut had a walled (of sticks) garden with dozens of different vegetables, grains, and fruits. The air was finally free of all pollutants and instead smelled of earth, vegetation, and flowers. The village dogs followed us for a short while, and every now and then we would need to kick (gently) a variety of poultry off the path. Everything was serene and beautiful, seemingly caught forever in a dreamy, lush spell. Then, we came across the first burned out building. Just visible underneath black scorch marks were the words "marine" and "militaire." Our local guides told us we had reached the local marine outpost. (aka.. red flag #1) This, we thought, seemed like a bad place to take tourists for a little "promenade." However, our 4 local guides assured us that it was safe, and gestured for us to continue down the path. Around the corner, we saw a group of 4 or so teenage boys relaxing under a tree. We all murmured a polite wolof greeting...and then saw that each boy was not smiling (like the other younger village kids we came across). They remained grim and made effort to exchange pleasantries. Then we saw the AK-47s at their feet, resting against a nearby tree, or slung across their backs. We decided the best course of action was to simple walk away, seeing as they weren't hostile, just not overly inviting. We traversed the rest of the military base, and the buildings got more and more damaged. We were trying to reach the school, which we could see situated across an open field, as the guides told us it was an interesting place to visit. Right when we were about to step from under the cool trees and into the direct sunlight, a man in a camo uniform, with an assault rifle across his back, leaped out of a fox-hole (which was equipped with large machine gun) and ran over to us. He told us to go back to the village, as it was too dangerous to walk in that area. Our guides had no news of this extra security, for as we looked more guards stationed around the edge of the trees began to appear. I asked what the danger was, between landmines, rebels, or bandits. He said all three, that the field was too dangerous to cross. So. Needless to say, we turned back. Instead of walking through the village again and passing the boys with guns, we instead made a b-line for the beach, and walked all along the river back to the boat. We found the fishing tower where guards watched for illegal fishing (unmanned, but still a great climb to the top), and dug for shells in the soft sand. When we reached our boat, we looked over the water and saw grey shapes appearing and disappearing at the surface of the waves. A small family of bottle-nose dolphins was about 50 feet off the shore, and staying pretty much in one spot. Once or twice a more adventurous one would jump out of the water. My friend Theresa and I looked at each other, and in unspoken agreement, stripped down to our swimsuits and sprinted for the water. And there, we met and unexpected adversary. The soft river sand, when you are actually in the river, turns to river mud which vigorously sucks down your legs and holds on to your feet. Our sprint turned into extremely ungraceful galloping, quickly followed by a face-first fall into the water. We were 30 feet off shore, past our knees in mud, with the water at our waists. We forged deeper until we could literally not move, for even attempting to sit on top of the mud elicited a small battle in order to escape, and there we sat, the dolphins 15 feet away but impossible to reach. But the attempt was worth it, because we were still 15 feet away from wild dolphins! We struggled back to shore, washed ourselves off, and got back in the boat, ready for another 3 hours in the pirogue.
The ride back was more eventful than the ride there.. for a little while, the dolphins followed the boat, then left to (I can only assume) harry the fisherman and steal some of their catch. We cut up several huge, sweet mangos, some oranges, and busted out the chocolate chip cookies. We were admiring the beautiful cloud formations in the sky, how they caught and reflected the light, making it look like an entire city was in the sky...when we realized that underneath the cloud was a sheet of very, very dark rain. We looked at each other, and took stock of what was in the boat. Two of us had raincoats (including myself) and I also had an umbrella.. but a camping umbrella that only protects one person.. So be it. We piled all non-waterproof baggage in the middle of the boat, and four girls huddled over it, trying to take advantage of the scant protection from the umbrella. Aloura and I, meanwhile, glorified in the feeling of our raincoats (so like home again in rainy Oregon!) We didn't have to wait long. As our Evinrude engine coughed and spluttered, the rain caught up with us. It was so heavy it obliterated all visibility, and made the boundary between the surface of the river and the air extremely indistinct as the huge raindrops thundered over us. I'll never forget seeing a man, fishing alone on his tiny pirogue, looking like a ghost in a steel-gray world, for at that point, everything had turned the same color. The sound of the rain and thunder deafened us. We screamed, we laughed, and I think we might have cried a little in fear, watching the water level rise in the boat, and the engine trying it's best to compete with the conditions. The end of the rain was like the re-birth of the sun. For it stopped suddenly, and just as suddenly, everything was awash in sunlight, bringing all color and brightness back. The moment quickly turned surreal as the world was revealed once again, shining and newly minted.
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| Tol, a locally grown fruit |
We got off the boat giddy and still laughing, but in all physical appearances we looked like half-drowned cats. The rest of the day was spent eating a large dinner, and watching a lutte match on TV.
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| Tol tastes like Warheads.. |
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| Casamance countryside |
The next day we had planned on leaving for Cape Skirring, a town on the Atlantic coast famous for its food, outdoor activities, white sand beaches, and local hospitality. After the muddy river, we had dreams of teal and white waves, clean water and leafy jungle retreats. Just as we were about to get into our sept-place bush taxi (the same as those featured in the Gambia "vacation," and obtained in much the same way--with much arguing, haggling, and eventual friendship), one of our cell phones rang. The American professor from our last program was calling to inform us of two attacks on the same highway we were about to take. She didn't have much information, just told us to be careful while traveling. So we sent out our two Senegalese friends to find more information, since usually tourist towns like Zinguinchor are best informed of local incidents, as it directly impacts their business. They came back with the news of not two, but three attacks that had happened at varying times up to 2 days before. First, there was a rebel attack on a village, just a few miles off the highway where we were to be traveling. Second, bandits shot at a van of nuns who refused to stop at a "checkpoint." And lastly, a family of tourists was robbed as they traveled between regions. The common factor in all of these incidents was the time: all took place at night, the time which we already knew was dangerous for travel. We decided to go anyway, thinking that since we were traveling during the day, danger would be greatly reduced and security would be much tighter just after the attacks. But we took extra precautions. We took all the cash we were carrying and stashed it in random places on our bodies (in bras, interior pockets, multiple places) and also in the sept-place itself (under the seats, in the cracked siding, in the sagging roof material. We took the memory chips out of our cameras and hid them away from where we stowed our cameras so we wouldn't lose our pictures, even if our cameras were stolen. With these preparations, we nervously set out. It was a beautiful drive, with only minor scares: like seeing a group of monkeys and yelling so loud that a sleeping Theresa thought we were being attacked, and Quincey thinking she saw a man on the side of the road with a large gun, when in reality it was just an umbrella. We reach Cape Skirring with no mishaps whatsoever, and proceeded to a
campement owned by some of Ñass' friends.
Campements are mixes between camping quarters and hotels, and are a lot cheaper. So we walked a couple miles down the beach (which apparently is a highway for herds of cattle, local packs of dogs, and other animals.. thus the white sand beaches we were expecting tended to have landmines of a different kind riddling the sand). After investigating the premises, however, we decided that camping in the middle of the rainy season was simply asking for trouble. So we continued on to the villas we saw perched on the cliff over the beach. We got rooms for roughly $10/night including breakfast, dinner for 2 out of the 5 nights we were there, and music around the clock provided by some fellow Italian tourists.
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| View from the campement |
Once we obtained our rooms, we went into full relaxation mode, spending our dinners in town, exploring the markets and shops, and spending lots of time wandering the area around the beach. Days blur together, so I really can't say what happened when, so here you go: the main events of our stay in Cape Skirring are as follows::
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| Hotel Mirage |
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| Demon Bug |
1. There were bugs that transcended normal classification and passed straight to dinosaur status. They were sometimes 5" long and would chase us (you think I'm kidding) out of our huts with their pincers, hissing, and scuttling legs. Spiders a bit larger than my palm (meaty ones, too, not just long legged) lurked in the thatch of the huts, coming out at night and running faster than we could. At the first appearance of these...creatures...Theresa and I joined forces and shared a bed for solidarity. Like in the Gambia, Travel Guide: Bug Check was implemented each time someone entered the huts.
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| Aloura getting competitive |
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| The road to the hotel |
2. The dog pack. There were a pack of local dogs which adopted us. One took up residence on our hotel grounds, while the others lived in
campements along the beach. Whenever we swam, walked along the beach, or explored the lush green area between beach and hotel, we would have a guard of about 5 dogs. They were a source of entertainment until one stole Quincey's dress while we were swimming. We searched for 2 days (whenever we took walks on the beach) but to no avail.
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| Road to kayaking |
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| Beautiful trees |
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| Church in a small village on the way to the kayaking excursion |
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| About to kayak! |
3. The kayaking day was by far the most eventful day of the Cape Skirring visit. We arranged an excursion through The Lonely Planet Guidebook, and for once Katharina Kane came through with shining colors. We took bush taxis to the river village, winding our ways past secluded villages, under enormous trees covered in vines, and the average puddle which was usually as deep as the bottom of our car. At the village, we met up with a pirogue driver, who then shuttled us to the hotel where we were to rent the kayaks. It was deserted of visitors, being the off season, so there was just the owner, our guide, and some random hotel employees. We had rented three kayaks, since Ñass had gone back to Zinguinchor, so there was just Arfan and the five of us girls. We paired off, with Arfan and I in the same kayak. It took a rather frustrating and tedious hour for Arfan to get the hang of kayaking, seeing as he had never done it before. But I would resist beating him over the head with my paddle, and focused instead on the beautiful scenery I was in the middle of. Mangrove trees lined the wide, shallow river, with the branches of larger trees sending spots of shade over the water. The birds were deafening, and sometimes blinded our vision with color if we were too loud near their nests. However, I learned the hard way that if your kayaking partner refuses to listen to your suggestions, and ends up ramming the boat into said mangrove trees....spiders will indeed drop into your lap/hair while you panic and your kayak partner laughs at you. At this point, you beat your kayak partner.
After about 2 hours, we stop for a swim, anchor the kayaks by an oar thrust into the mud, and try to not get swept up by the current. We tried to break into some mangos, but discovered that leaving them in a plastic container in the sun for a long time greatly speeds the ripening process. We all took one bite, and once we realized that the mango tasted very strongly of sangria, figured we should probably abandon that plan. While we were swimming, the water was deliciously cool, and was a welcome break from the hot sun and water reflection.
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| Replanting mangroves! |
We continued on, as the paths between the mangrove trees grew smaller and more web-like, we realized how incredibly competent our guide was, winding his way smoothly between each tree while half the time we were suffering minor collisions. We stopped at one point to replant some mangrove trees, feeling like were were pretty accomplished-and starting the future of better fishing grounds and sustaining the health of the river ecosystem! About 3 hours in, we looked at the sky, ahead of us was clear, beautiful sky...while behind us-black thunderclouds which made it look like half the sky was already experiencing all the blackness of a moonless night. As we expressed mild concern, lightening turned that night to brief day, and thunder boomed across the river. A strong wind picked up, blowing the kayaks into the mangroves and forcing us farther down the river. The rain caught up with us about 5 minutes later, and we were soaked within 30 seconds. It was so strong we had to wear our lifejackets just to protect our skin from the harsh rain. We were so thick in the trees at this point that as the water got progressively shallow, we had to get out and pick up the kayaks to carry them across stretches of water about a foot deep until the water got deeper again. The temperature dropped dramatically, to the extent that the cool refreshing river water soon felt not warm, but hot, as our bodies cooled off in the rain and wind. At first, this was another hilarious, yet oddly cruel, moment. We were laughing and loving the exotic nature of the thunderstorm...but after about 30 minutes, our laughter turned to grim determination just to make it back to the open water again, as the storm was taking on semi-apocalyptic proportions.
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| Mildly concerned for our safety |
The mangroves got thicker and thicker, to the point where we would be fighting our way through "paths" that were just wide enough to fit our kayaks. We were getting separated from each other just trying to navigate, so our guide (who was a young man in his early 20s, a local who knew the waterways very well) tied all the kayaks together so and proceeded to
stand on his single kayak to look for the right direction. Eventually, however, we battled our way to a river path again and could cruise more easily. After another 20 minutes, our guide looked around and noticed only Arfan and I were keeping up with him, the rest of the girls were struggling to stay within sight as the river path curved and twisted. He asked if I was tired, which I wasn't. I was so happy to be back on the water, that even though most of the post-nationals Crew fitness was gone, I was still in better shape than the rest of the girls and was exhilarated just to be in a boat (any boat!) again. So in the interest of getting back sooner rather than later, he switched up the pairs, giving me his single kayak and putting Arfan and himself with the other girls. We were around the corner from the main body of the river, when the pirogue that took us to the secluded hotel came around the corner. Apparently between the storm and the length of time we'd been gone, they were concerned for our safety and were commencing a rescue mission.
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| Evidence of the van boy |
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| The Damn Door |
Getting home was mildly dangerous, but simple. We returned to the village (where our taxis had not waited) and the hotel manager offered to give us a ride back in his van. After giving us a bag of locally grown mangoes, we loaded into an extremely old, white VW van. The side door didn't close, I was sitting on an unstable wood bench along one side opposite the door, while a couple others were sitting in plastic lawn chairs. The bumpy, uncomfortable ride was concerning in the sense that if the driver swerved in a certain direction, or suddenly braked, there was a legitimate possibility that we would all tumble off our sketchy seating arrangements and out the door (potentially at high speeds on the highway). One boy rode on the back ladder which was attached to the back of the van. Sometimes he rode on top, scanning for debris littering the road. Sometimes he was in the window, and sometimes he vanished to scramble on top of or around the van. Every now and then, the wind whipping within the van would double as he opened up the back door to yell something at the driver.. while hanging off the back.. going 70 m/hr down the highway. Right before we pulled into our hotel parking lot, one of the men pulled the side door shut. Wow. Thank you for realizing our danger way too late.
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| Awesome walk, terrible escort! |
4. Our awkward hotel manager. Theresa and I saw the clouds of an impeding rain storm one day and figured that would be the perfect time for a long beach exploration. Most unfortunately, our hotel manager, named (for the sake of the blog) Muusa, saw us leaving and told us he would accompany us and show us around. Despite our polite refusal, he caught up with us (wearing just a speedo) and proceeded to turn our relaxing beach/rain walk into an hour of pure awkwardness. After asking us about our homes, he immediately started on our relationships. We told him that we both had boyfriends (true) and when that didn't deter him, we told him that they were actually closer to fiancees and we were probably going to marry them (not necessarily true). When he insisted on telling us about Senegalese men and how wonderful they are, we simply made every effort to distract him from the topic. As we planned, the rain came in force. When we walked back up the cliff to the hotel, the stone stairs were like a waterfall rushing around our bare feet and despite Muusa's incessant chatter, Theresa and I managed to appreciate the beauty of the tropical rain and how it transformed the landscape. Instead of letting us go back to our huts, Muusa insisted on taking us for a walk around the hotel grounds. He figured out my obsession with African flowers, since I always stopped to inspect them. Thus, he picked a large handful of them for me, then picked some of the local fruit,
tol for Theresa and I. By the end of the walk, he was staying way too close to me for comfort, and Theresa turned into a weird third wheel as Muusa tried to endear himself to me. I had reluctantly accepted the flowers, but had to slap his hand away as he tried to hold mine. At the end of the walk, he tried to talk privately with me, but I almost literally dragged Theresa away, refusing any and all invitations to be alone to...talk. The rest of the trip was spent playing an extended hide and seek game. I was hiding. He was seeking. No matter what I said, of my disinterest, my boyfriend, my wish not speak with him, he would not leave me alone. Though I was sad to leave Cape Skirring, I was delighted to get away from Muusa.
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| Bar in Cape Skirring |
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| Post-rain thatch |
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| Grasshopper! |
5. It was here in the Casamance that we made a small travel breakthrough...The Unigarment.
Travel Guide:: The Unigarment
-purchase a large mumu from any local shop keeper.
-there is no need to worry about size, all are a uniform XXXXL, focus on pattern and color.
-benefits: cool and comfortable, since it's like wearing a billowy curtain;
-it eliminates the need for undergarments, as it is so large and uniform;
-makes traveling easier, as you don't need to pack so many clothes, or do as much laundry;
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| Sunset from my hotel verandah |
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| Impromptu drumming session |
6. On our last day in Cape Skirring, we decided to check out the local fishing market, since we heard the best sea food was to be found there. Lunch time found us walking the beach to the market, only to run across pirogues unloading the day's catch right in front of us. It consisted mostly of sharks. We looked at each other. We had been seeing these boats fishing in the distance (but not
that far away) while we swam in the ocean for the whole week. No one,
no one, at the hotel had bothered to tell us that there were lots of sharks by
our beach. Though the sharks weren't big enough to be completely full grown, where there are average sized ones, it only follows there are big ones. Great. Just another unknown danger we had been right in the middle of. We decided to forgo sea food on the beach.
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| Local fishing spot |
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| The Atlantic |
7. Our last night out, we met up with the same Swiss girls who came with us to Pointe St. George. They told us of a drum and dance exhibition on the beach at their hotel, which was a good way down the beach from us, so we took a cab. The same cab driver had been taking us around town pretty much all week, so after dinner we invite him to come to the party with us so he wouldn't be waiting for us all alone in the taxi. We found the girls with a group of 5 or so Spanish guys, all of whom were eating dinner and watching the drumming/dancing. We got drinks and relaxed on the beach, watching the African equivalent of a Luau. The Spanish guys were really friendly and all of us had a great time mingling and dancing under the stars, in front of a large bonfire. At about 1:30 AM we decided to head back, since we were to travel in the morning. Only to find that the taxi car wouldn't start, and had to enlist nearby people to push it around and try and fix it. Eventually, after waiting for about half an hour in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, we were able to return home.
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| Going for a walk.. |
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| "Our" coast |
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| View from our hotel in Zinguinchor |
The trip back to Zinguinchor was uneventful. We bought seats in a small bus, with comfortable seats, and stayed in an inexpensive hotel on the river. The last day was spent relaxing and eating, our favorite past time, and playing cards in the hotel lounge area. The boat ride back was entertaining for me, and pure hell for my friends. This time we purchased seats, rather than reserving a cabin, and it was a terrible idea. All the 100 or so seats were in one large cabin area, with TV screens playing the same 20 minute news reel. We immediately left our things in our seats and proceeded to the deck. There, we go to see the dolphins again as they jumped in our bow wave, and the flying fish making the top of the water sparkle. However, going down into the main cabin once we were underway was impossible. 80% of the people were seasick, and the room was full of retching and the smell of vomit. All of my friends got extremely sick, and I was the only one who felt normal. The Spanish guys from the beach party were on the boat as well, and several of them gave up their cabin beds to the sickest of my friends, since they would be able to sleep better there. I stayed on deck until about 4 AM, because going inside was unbearable. Aloura, a couple of the Spanish guys, and I gave the bar great business until they closed, and exchanged travel stories and life philosophies until we fell asleep. It was a surreal and wonderful experience, knowing we were chatting on the top deck of a boat, in the middle of the night, just of the coast of West Africa, and toasting our survival skills with our glasses of
pastis.
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| Hotel Lobby-site of many card games |
The return to Dakar found us saying goodbye to each other, since everyone but Aloura, Arfan, and I were going back to the US. I moved into my temporary host family for one night, and Quincey and I left early the next morning for the Gambia...
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| Our last lunch-and we were caught in another rain storm for an hour. So, we just ordered some hot chocolate and waited it out.. |
