Senegal 2003 - St. Louis

Table of Contents

Arrival (11 June 2003)

After driving though several markets, I hit the (????) Bridge, built by Eiffel, moved to Senegal and named after a French colonial governor. Even now, 100 years later, it is a pretty impressive span, with strong ironwork that reminded me of Eiffel's tower.

I didn't have much time to look around. I didn't want to get stuck navigating in St. Louis after dark, so I decided to head straight to my hotel, and explore the city in the morning.

I had to drive quickly through the town (on an island in the middle of the river), then across a small bridge on the far side. The west side of the Senegal River (at that point) is a very thin peninsula that snakes down from Mauritania to the north. My hotel was near the southern end.

On the map, there was a broad road depicted, that should have led me right to the hotel.

Instead, the tarmac ended at the bridge, and there was only a sandy track heading south. Furthermore, it was a populous african suburb, now busy and humming with life as people prepared for the evening.

I drove south gingerly, dodging chickens, goats, small children, and a small herd of cattle. South of the suburb there was tarmac again, but it was mostly potholes, and what few drivers there were had to weave crazily through to save their suspension (and tires). With my 4x4 I didn't have to worry so much about the car, but potholes are uncomfortable no matter what you're driving, so I weaved like the taxis I passed.

Happily, I found my hotel (Hotel l'Oasis) just before sunset. My first impression was of a hippy commune--young men and women in dreadlocks were walking around with beautific smiles on their faces. The main receptionist was a cute young french twenty-something, but any flirtatious thoughts were killed both by my poor french and her t-shirt which read (in English):

"Private Property. Please keep off."

The hotel was well-situated, behind the dunes along the Atlantic coast. After I had dropped my bags off in my bungalow, I walked across the dunes to the sea, and watched the sun set. As foolish as it was to drive so far for such a short stay, it felt worth it.

The hotel's common area (and restaurant) was closed for the evening, so I walked down the peninsula to the next hotel, which had a pleasant outdoor restaurant, lit by candles and incense to keep the mosquitos away. Although it was late by my travelling standards (8:30), I was the first person to eat for the evening.

I walked back out to the ocean after dinner. It was a full moon, so I couldn't see many stars. I looked at Jupiter through my binoculars, but they were too weak to resolve any moons.

I walked back to my bungalow, set up the mosquito netting around the bed, and fell asleep.

Departure (12 June 2003)

I woke up later than I intended. After a quick breakfast and a look at the ocean, I checked out and drove back up to St. Louis.

I navigated the peninsula again, and drove around the downtown. I had been hoping that I could spend a few hours walking around, but it was already 10 and I was worried about reaching The Gambia in time to catch the last ferry. So, believe it or not, I drove around but never actually got out of the car in the historic island of St. Louis. After gawking at a few buildings, I headed down the highway again. I wish I could have stayed longer, but in retrospect leaving then was the right decision.

It was another long drive through Senegal. In fact, this was to be the longest drive of the trip, since I had to traverse the full length of Senegal, and then catch the ferry in The Gambia.

This time, the Senegalese stretch passed without incident. No policemen stopped me, and I made good time on the roads. I stopped in Kaolac for lunch, around an hour ahead of schedule. I spent a bit of time enjoying the meal (and the break from driving), before heading down for the last short stretch of driving.

Anyone who has been in Africa before can tell you that you can't judge driving distance by looking at a map. And in fact, I kind of knew that, and had checked with various people (friends in The Gambia, and various hotel staff) that it was realistic to make the drive in the day. But I was unprepared for how long the last little stretch would take.

The road south of Kaolac was fairly beat up, and again traffic spent its time weaving around potholes. Finally I reached the Gambian border. I made it through the Senegalese checkpoint, and then the customs office.

At the Senegalese customs I was handed a piece of paper to track the car. It ended up being much more important than my visa.

I shot by the Gambian border checkpoint without realizing it, and heard a yell of villagers behind me. I stopped and looked back, to see everyone waving at me to come back. So I threw the Pajero into reverse, backed through the small market by the border, and stopped at the police station. The police there eyed me with a bit of annoyance.

"Sorry," I offered.

"Park there," said the policeman, pointing.

I parked, and walked out to the police checkpost. At the time, I was shocked at how run-down it looked. Only later did I find out that it had been gutted during the riots three days earlier [there were riots in Gambia following the Senegal/Gambia football game, and the border had been closed for a day].

There was a group of men sitting in casual clothing at a table. They asked for my papers. I declined, suspecting it was some sort of scam, and walked over to the police instead. It ended up being a very dubious procedure, where I had to get papers stamped by three or four different people, with random fees each time. I asked what the fees were for, but the only response I got was a somewhat vague "so you can pass."

After I had gotten all the various documents stamped (my passport, and a bunch of stamps on the paper for my car), one of the police officers asked me to do him a favor.

"This man needs to go to Banjul," he said, pointing to another man sitting nearby, again in casual clothing. "Can you give him a lift? He is a police officer."

Uh-huh. Sure. But the man looked to be decent enough, and hadn't taken part in any of the petty bribery. So I agreed.

The man ran off and grabbed his bag, as well as two live but tied-up chickens he'd bought at the market. He threw his bag and chickens into the back of the Pajero, and off we went.

It turned out that the man, Mustapha, really was a police officer. In fact, he was one of the officers in charge of customs. There were many police checkpoints on the way down to the ferry at Barra, and at each one the police would smile and wave at Mustapha.

The road to Barra was more potholes than tarmac. It was only 20 kilometers, but it took me as long as 100 kilometers on a Senegalese road. As one of the Gambian ex-pats remarked: "If you see two ears sticking out of a Gambian pothole, it isn't a rabbit. It's a donkey." I avoided the potholes as best as I could, and in fact wherever possible I drove in the dirt on the side of the road instead. But I occasionally misjudged or took the lesser of two evils, and hit a pothole. The vehicle would jar, and the chickens would squak in annoyance.

After the potholes, police checkpoints, and inevitable pedestrian and animal traffic in the small towns along the way, we finally reached Barra. It was a small, dusty town, with no tarmac on the roads at all. We had just missed the ferry, and had to wait for the next one. Once again, I had to go through a dance with the various police officers and ferry security, getting my ticket marked and paying another "fee" at the police station.

But finally we were allowed to go through the gate, and enter the narrow alleyway by the dock where the vehicles and foot passengers queued. Two large trucks were abandoned at the end. Mustapha pointed at them and shook his head.

"I feel sorry for them," he said, referring to the owners of the trucks. "They were damaged in the riots."

Apparently there were riots even here in the ferry terminal. One of the security guards had stitches on his face and above his eyes--from rocks that had been thrown at him.

Since we had just missed the ferry, we were one of the first vehicles in line, and there were only a few foot passengers. As we waited, more vehicles and passengers showed up. Only a few additional cars arrived-- there was only room for five or six on the ferry. But there were a fair number of people. These were Gambian families and workers on their way back to Banjul for the evening (I had arrived in time for the 6pm ferry). The chickens would squak every once in a while.

The ferry arrived from Banjul, and disgorged a flux of people--far more than were waiting to go back in the other direction. Mostly they were Gambians who worked in Banjul, coming home to Barra. But there were also a fair number who had been shopping, and were carrying animals or clothes. A few wheeled carts stacked high with furniture. One man had a cartload of goods without a cart, so he patiently made several trips to carry everything off the ferry, including a large mattress.

Finally we were allowed to drive on the ferry. It was a careful business, navigating the ferry ramp with pedestrians streaming around and in front of me. I was glad I had practice driving through town markets.

The ferry ride was short but pleasant, the ferry taking a zig-zag route to navigate the currents where the Gambian river met the sea.

Once in Banjul, it was a quick drive through the city streets, and then along a coastal road to Serekunda, the town just outside of Banjual. I dropped Mustapha off here, and once he'd collected his bag and chickens, we shook hands and said goodbye.