Senegal 2003 - Dakar

Table of Contents

Arrival (6-7 June 2003)

I was lucky this trip--all of my flights were on time. I was worried when I booked the flights, because I had to change airlines in Paris for the Dakar leg of the trip. But it all worked fine.

The plane touched down in Dakar just before 8pm. It was hot and muggy (to me), and the last light of the sun disappeared as the plan taxied to the terminal. The other passengers were unusually aggressive in rushing to get off the plane. I didn't see the hurry, as we walked down the stairway to the tarmac, and then into a shuttle bus to the terminal building.

Once inside, I saw why the locals had hurried--they wanted to get into the customs line quickly, because it moved painfully slowly. When I finally reached the customs officer, he seemed scandalized that I didn't have a local address. I had to pick a hotel at random out of the guidebook before he was satisfied (a friendly NYU student who spoke much better French than I helped out here, otherwise it would have taken me a long time to figure out what the officer wanted).

Exiting the airport, I was reminded of Cairo. It was a hot, dark evening, and I had to navigate through shoals of hustlers. Even before I picked up my bags, young men were asking me what I was doing, where I was going, what hotel I was staying at. This time I fended them all off and walked around for a bit to get my bearings. An older, more responsible gentleman with a badge saying he worked for the airport taxi stand finally saw me, and directed me to the taxis. He shooed off the other hustlers and placed me in the care of a taxi driver.

"Hotel Ganale?"

"Oui."

Once again, I was in the back seat of a taxi in an unfamiliar country at night where I could only barely communicate with the driver. It was the usual experience: cars in various stages of breakdown jockeying for position on a mostly unmarked road. Very few cars had all of their lights working, and even then it was difficult to see because of all of the dust in the air. Pedestrians would cross at various places, waiting until a critical mass had accumulated so that cars had to stop in their own self- interest. We passed one accident--there was only one car on the road, so I'm guessing an unlucky pedestrian was hit. It was impossible to tell what was really happening, however, because there was a throng of people around the car and the ambulance. The driver clucked in sympathy.

Talking was painful, but we did manage to talk a bit. He told me that Senegal had just beaten Gambia today, 3-1, as part of the African Cup. We passed the Senegal soccer stadium, where the game had been played. He also mentioned that Youssou N'Dour was in town, and would probably be playing tomorrow night at his nightclub.

On the whole it was a friendly conversation, but of course he had to try to scam me. He said he needed gas (the gauge was indeed close to empty), and asked if I could pay a bit now. He asked for 50 dollars. I was sure I'd mis-heard, and asked "5 dollars?" No, he said, 50. I just laughed, and told him I'd pay him at the hotel.

He took me through a web of dark side streets, which was starting to make me nervous, but we pulled up in front of the hotel as he'd promised. I went inside and grabbed a room (they tell me I can only stay here one night). Then I asked the hotel clerk what a fair price for a taxi from the airport was: 3000 francs, roughly 5 dollars. I paid the driver 10, which I thought was more than fair but he was obviously disappointed.

Sunday in Dakar (8 June 2003)

I woke up fairly early on Sunday, and went down to have breakfast. Hotel Ganale's restaurant would have looked completely at home in Belltown (a triendier part of downtown Seattle). Bright modern colors with track lighting illuminated walls of artwork. It was very hip and I started to see why the guidebook liked this hotel.

There was a lot I needed to do in Dakar. I had to find a new hotel right away. I didn't have a visa for Gambia yet, and I didn't even have any money.

As in most other cities I've visited, a wandering Westerner is a sure target for touts (a term I borrowed from Turkey, but it basically means anyone perpetrating a scam or at least interested in separating you from your money). Here, at low season with few other tourists about, the touts were thicker than flies. As soon as I had shooed one off, another appeared.

At first I would greet everyone who approached and only push them away later, but that's not a good tactic. After a while I would just say "Non, merci" to anyone who walked up.

Walking around town, early on Sunday, is not the best way to discover Dakar. No one is around, and the deserted streets just add to the sense of anomie. It felt like a battered war zone, with all the shops shuttered and only a few desperate touts to keep me company. Most of the streets reeked of urine. On top of it all, the sky was overcast, so it was hot and muggy, oppressive.

I looked for some cash machines. All of them were listed as being at the Place de l'Independence, a large square in the middle of town. The square was practically deserted, and all the banks were closed. Each bank had a guard posted, and they would watch me as I walked past. I didn't see any cash machines, so I moved on.

I stopped at one recommended hotel, the Hotel St-Louis Sun. It was charming, next to a small mosque, and the interior had a small courtyard with a few tourists relaxing and eating breakfast. However, they had no rooms available.

The next hotel, Hotel le Miramar, was far less quaint. It was also next to Place de l'Independence, which on this Sunday morning was again only full of hungry touts. Even they only had a single room available for just one night.

My third option was Hotel Al Afifa, not too far from my original hotel (Hotel Ganale) and St-Louis Sun. It didn't look like much from the outside, but they did have a room available for two nights. So I took it.

I quickly discovered that Al Afifa was in fact a very nice hotel. Like much of Dakar, the charm of the place is carefully hidden away inside the walls on the street. The bed was comfortable (unlike Hotel Ganale) and breakfast was served "a la piscine," which of course is the hotel pool.

After I had moved all my bags over, I slept for a while. Then I got up (in the afternoon now) and asked the hotel clerk where the nearest cash machines were. He said the same thing as the book: Place de l'Independence.

"Are they open on Sunday?" I asked, suspiciously. It looked like everything was locked up.

"Of course," he said, somewhat surprised that I wasn't used to the concept. "Just ask a guard."

Sure enough, although the banks are closed, the cash machines in their lobby are open. When I went back to Place de l'Independence, all I had to do was ask one of the guards, and he let me in.

Stepping out of the lobby, with cash in hand, I felt my mood improve considerably. Also, the sun had burned off a lot of the haze, so it was brighter out, and although the shops were still closed, there were many more Senegalese out walking through town. So it started to feel more and more normal.

I walked around to the far side of Place de l'Independence, to the water. Amidst the rather run-down buildings I hit an oasis: the Hotel Teranga, a luxury hotel. There was a rustic wood pedestrian overpass from the hotel grounds, over the coastal road to the hotel pool and beach. An impeccably dressed guard watched over the entrance. A beautiful stone staircase wound its way down to the waterfront, where a pool, the beach, and several bars were situated. It felt rather Disneyland-ish, actually.

I took some photos, but it didn't feel like the real Dakar, so I kept going.

I walked back up around by the Presidential Palace again, and down to the large hospital at the end of that road. Then I looped back to the large cathedral, which was only a block or so from the hotel. I stopped off at a small shop, and bought some food to snack on. But rather than look around some more, I headed back to the hotel. I asked the clerk if there was anywhere to get my photos taken for the visa, and they knew of a place but my French wasn't good enough for me to understand the directions. I was going to just have them repeat it until I understood, but as soon as it was clear that I wasn't understanding the bellhop offerred to walk me there. It was only a block or so away.

Finally, I was ready for The Gambia: I had my passport photos, and I'd located the Gambian consulate. The guidebook said they issued visas within 24 hours, so I was hopeful that I'd be on the road by Tuesday.

I headed back to the hotel in high spirits. Once there, I crashed again (still jetlagged). I slept on and off until 7 the next morning.

Monday in Dakar (9 June 2003)

I woke up, had a pleasant breakfast by the hotel pool, and then walked out into Dakar again.

My first task was to get my Gambian visa, but I was thwarted yet again: the Gambian consulate was closed, even though it was Monday. Apparently it was some sort of local festival--many other shops were closed, although the city was far more vibrant than Sunday.

The next thing to do was to look for a rental car. I didn't find the Budget Office (it had either moved or closed, or my map was wrong). I did find a Europcar office, but the manager wasn't in yet. One of the workers there suggested I come back around 6:30 in the evening.

It was 9am in the morning, and I really hadn't gotten myself anywhere. So I decided to try the next thing on my list: see the Ile de Goree, a small but famous island just a few kilometers out of Dakar.

I had missed the previous (9 am) ferry by a matter of minutes, and the next ferry was at 10, so I had time on my hands. As I looked around the docks, locals kept approaching me and telling me that they would be my guide on Goree. I waved them off, and wandered up the street where a nearby market was humming.

Once again I was approached by touts. One of them, however, had much more genial patter and a less aggressive pitch. I talked to him for a while in the market, and then asked him to be my guide on Goree. Lemin (his name, which I'm sure I'm misspelling) agreed, and that was a good thing for me--he saved me from being hassled by other touts for the rest of the day, and he had colorful (if not always accurate) descriptions of everything we saw in Dakar and on the Ile de Goree.

Lemin was also a devout muslim, and most of the topics of discussion (everything from the port structure to the island architecture) usually ended up as some sort of moral tale. But he came across as a very sincere and honest man, which after all the touts I kept running into was a very pleasant change.

I returned to the car rental establishment as planned at 6:30. They only had a beat-up pickup truck, but I was so desparate for a vehicle that I didn't bargain very hard, and I ended up with a somewhat bad deal which I regretted later that night. But I thought a deal was a deal, so I'd show up to collect the car as planned at 1pm on Wednesday.

Tuesday in Dakar (10 June 2003)

On Tuesday I explored Dakar a little more. It was even busier now, since some shops had been closed for the feast on Monday.

The first thing to do was to drop by the Gambian consulate, to get my visa. I gave them my photos, and the money, but they also required my passport. Even worse, it would take over 24 hours, and I couldn't pick up the visa until Wednesday afternoon. So not only could I not leave for the Gambia, I couldn't even leave Dakar, because I didn't have my passport.

I was pretty annoyed at that, but I thought I might take some day trips around Dakar in the meantime. So after doing some shopping in the morning (maps and a book: Moby Dick) I headed off to the car rental shop.

To my surprise, the agent wasn't there. The man at the front said that he'd be back around 4:30 or 5:00. And here I had agreed to pick up the truck at 1:00, and due to my poor bargaining I was probably one of their best customers.

I took his disappearance as a breach of contract, and wandered off to another car rental place, near my hotel. Here I bargained a bit harder, but in retrospect I was still pretty well suckered. I wasn't able to negotiate a flat fee (no per-kilometer charges), and that would bite me later.

Still, things were looking up today. My visa was being processed, and I had a cool new 4x4 (Mitsubishi Pajero) instead of a beat-up pickup truck. So the light was finally at the end of the tunnel. I had been starting to worry that I might miss the wedding, but now I was sure I'd be on the road by Wednesday.

I went back to my hotel and booked my room in The Gambia (at the Ngala Lodge). I didn't know much about it but it was highly recommended by both my guidebook and the people I knew in The Gambia.

I decided to walk down around the southern tip of the peninsula on which Dakar sits. In a short time I was out of the crowds (and away from the touts), and walking along the road with only a few other Dakaroise.

The Palace of Justice was a bit of a letdown, but the views from the peninsula were spectacular.

I ran into Lemin (my guide from the previous day on the Ile de Goree). He was happy to see me, since apparently most of his family was ill and he needed money to visit them and buy them medication. It was a little disappointing, but after all it's his job. I wished his family several generations of health and said goodbye.

I wandered back into town, and by the time I got to my hotel it was dinner time, so I walked to a restaurant near my hotel. I ate another great meal (Senegal is noted for its good food, unlike some other countries I've visited), and then crashed for the night.

Wednesday: Dakar to St. Louis (11 June 2003)

I woke up and ate breakfast by the pool again, then walked down the block to the car rental place. My vehicle was ready, the big (for Senegal) Pajero crouching with two wheels on the curb, looking like it was ready to sprint away. Perhaps I was only projecting my own anticipation, but I was eager to get started. I said goodbye to the hotel staff (Al Afifa is a great hotel, if you're ever in Dakar) and the bellhop followed me with my bag down the block to the Pajero. A man from the rental place was there to show me how the car worked. I loaded it up, got in the driver's seat, and turned the ignition.

Nothing happened.

I tried a few more times, but there was obviously no electricity getting through to the ignition at all. The man from the rental place nodded-- "Corrosion" he said with a nod. We popped the trunk, and he spent some time cleaning the terminals with water and wrenches (!?). Sparks flew more than once.

Finally, he had the terminals cleaned and we started the car. I was feeling a bit worried, but I figured we'd give it a test drive and make sure that the car would start again. The first thing to do was to drive to the gas station to fill it. The rental agency man directed me as I gingerly made my way through the narrow, crowded side streets of Dakar.

Finally we reached the petrol station, and had the tank filled. When I tried to start the car again, nothing happened. Once more we spent a few minutes cleaning the battery terminals, and then started the Pajero and headed back to the rental agency.

"We go to the garage," said the agency man on the way.

"Yes."

From the rental agency, the agency man took the wheel. He was obviously no stranger to driving in Dakar, and accelerated madly (I thought) through the crowded streets, missing pedestrians and other cars by mere inches.

We pulled into a dirty alleyway, although to be fair it probably wasn't any dirtier than other alleyways in Dakar. This particular alley was distinguished by a large quantity of derelict and stripped-down vehicles.

The agency man conferred with the mechanic, and a small army of men and children searched the alleyway's cars for terminal parts. In the meantime, we ripped off the old corroded terminal, and set to scrubbing the battery connection. We found a clean connector, fixed up the cable, and attached it to the now-clean battery connection. The car started immediately. The agency man started and stopped the car a few times with obvious pride, but also to demonstrate that the problem was indeed fixed. I congratulated him and we returned to the rental agency.

After dropping off the agency man (I wish I could remember his name, because he was indeed competent and sincere, although even aggressive businessmen were a welcome reprieve from the touts) I drove out of Dakar.

I hadn't really yet decided where I was going. I had time to make up my mind-- you have to drive a fair ways out of Dakar, off the peninsula, before there are other highways to choose from.

What would I do? Head to Kaolac, near the Gambian border, and spend time in a rather average Senegalese town? Or sprint for St. Louis (way in the north of the country), and spend a few hurried hours there before driving back down to The Gambia?

In the end, I opted for St. Louis. Partly it was just the exhiliration of being mobile again, and also it was the principle of the thing: I had intended to go to St. Louis, and I wasn't going to let my poor planning (getting the visa so late) stop me.

So I raced for St. Louis. Once out of the congested highways in Dakar, the Senegalese roads were straight and well-maintained. The only problem was that intersections were never marked. More than once I headed off in the wrong direction before doubling back to find the right road. Even when I chose the route correctly, there was usually a half hour of doubt until I found some obvious sign (a milemarker or the name of a nearby town) that convinced me I was on the right track.

Just north of Dihouane, I was stopped by a traffic policeman (or a soldier, I couldn't tell). He asked for my permit, passport, and the various paperwork that you need when driving a car in Senegal. Fortunately I had the appropriate International Driver's License, and the rental agency had furnished me with all the correct paperwork.

The policeman looked at the paperwork, grunted, and handed it all back, except for my Driver's Permit, which he kept hostage in his hand.

"What is the currency in the United States--the Euro?" he asked teasingly.

I was starting to see where this was going.

"Um, no the Euro is for Europe."

"Give me some money, Thomas," he asked, dropping any pretense of subtlety.

"Why?" I asked, trying to sound as if I was expecting a legitimate purpose for the request.

"I need to buy a Coke."

"No, I'm sorry," I said apologetically. But he held on to my License. This went on for a while, until he noticed my new Smith polarized sunglasses I'd just bought from REI for this trip.

"Those are nice sunglasses," he said.