Road notes: Day 3 West Africa, Day 129 Africa crossing
Dakar/ 0 miles
Magnifique! I arrived at the airport and my 2 fixers had done all the work. The carnet de passage (a document used to import motorcycles temporarily into countries one’s visiting) was signed and stamped and all that had to be done was to receive the bike. A real blessing as I’d been imaging a few hours muddling my way thru various Customs offices.
Several cargo personnel helped me unstrap the bike from the pallet and one reconnected the battery. “Do you want the pallet? The wood is yours.” Nope, keep it. Generous guy that I am. I tipped them upon their gentle suggestion, and soon was on the long road back to town, following Basinu’s car to my new hotel, L’hostelle de Francisco.
Shifting into 6th gear, I discovered that once I hit 90 kilometers it wouldn’t go any faster; the engine would simply rev louder. Same problem as I had in Dilla, Ethiopia. This time though my heart didn’t sink as far. Just another thing for Mad Bikes, the mechanic shop I’ve picked out to take the moto in to have the air filter replaced tomorrow.
It hit me after a little while, as we whizzed along at a top speed of 90 Kmh on the new expressway from the airport to Dakar, that I was riding in … West Africa! The first time. I tried to really soak that in and to a small extent, I did. But what happens in many of these special moments is that the urgents and necessities of the present, of the next hours, overwhelm the big picture.
The owner of the hotel is an Italian woman who speaks no English. To communicate with me, she put her grown niece, who lives in Dublin, on a video call. An exhuberant, pretty twenty something, she seemed excited that a motorcycle traveler was staying at her aunt’s hotel. She wanted to know my route but didn’t seem to have a good grasp of African geography, so that fell apart. She also was thinking of going to South Africa on vacation but had heard from friends it was dangerous. I reassured her repeatedly that she’d be fine but doubt I changed her mind.
Later, I reflected on how things have changed for me — it’s now ME advising someone who’d lived long in Africa (Senegal), about Africa.
In the evening, I set out again to find live music, but the established bar restaurants I went to that Lonely Planet had indicated might have live shows, had none. I’d imagined a city that vibrated, danced, imbibed live performances, but was finding out that this was not the case.
Finally gave up and decided on seafood in one of the rustic, cheap eats, seafood places near the American Embassy. Plastic chairs, rickety wooden tables, cement floor, no view of the sea, etc… But the owner brought over 2 recently caught fish, 2 different types, and I chose one to eat with rice — Incredibly delicious. Not so cheap in absolute terms — $14… but prob half the cost for something that fresh and good in Tucson.
Whilst waiting for my food, a group of young Senegalese mamas came in, with two kids in tow, and sat right behind me. They all looked at me with smiles and curiosity. I responded in kind and was rewarded, after 5 or so minutes, with an invitation to join them. It definitely elevated my night, my experience, so very grateful for it. But alas, our language skills were mutually not good so after a few minutes, and lots of vigorous but not understood sign language, they went back to their own conversation and left me to talk with the kids.
The little girl, maybe 8 years old, rose to the occasion nobly. She kept foraying various conversational gambits, seeing if I’d understand any. I finally hit on the idea to show her some photos on my phone, which worked great. Dog pics always win with little girls… And also my big 5 safari animal pics. At one point, the mamas enquired with much effort whether I was married. Oui. Than, they pantomimed, ‘Where”… “Alemagne” (Germany)… “Oh!” And they looked at me with jaundiced eyes, you old Roui, you gallivant… The implication always — if you’re alone, you’re fooling around. I laughed along with them, secretly pleased that I hadn’t quite reached the age where the potential for fooling around would seem obviously ridiculous. That I don’t fool around isn’t the point here; rather, that I’m still, just barely admittedly, in the zone where it could be conceivable that I did, makes me feel young.
As for the live music — I finally got some! A trio of musicians playing some kind of local instruments, came to our table and performed a few songs for us. They asked for our names and would weave them into the words. These 3 guys were in their 30s, 40s, scratching out a living this way. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but at one point, sensed one of them was singing from the heart, and it was like listening to an old Blues man, telling us about the pain and sorrow, smiling as he did so. I closed my eyes right there at the table and let the music carry me for a bit.
