WAW 17

Remember coal-powered irons? They still make them and Bamako market is full of them. Fortunately we didn't have one, it was bad enough airing the clothes in the top of the great iron fireplace;
"Look Mum, somebody's chimney is on fire."
"Oh my God! It's ours!"

My last evening I had dinner with a nice young lady from New York. A fellow traveller, she is finishing her degree studies here in Bamako before joining the wicked world of commerce. Aviva, I wish you well and good luck for what the future holds. She is the first TT member I have met in 5 years!

A final farewell to the Carrefours des Jeunes was a worthwhile detour as the teenagers were rehearsing a dance session accompanied by drums and xylophone. Great music, and, boy, those kids got rythmn! After they had exhausted themselves a dance lesson took place for a couple of expat girls but, saly, after the locals' exhibition, they appeared as graceful as clockwork woodentops.

The Three Stooges were present, though only one was polishing off the gin. The happy one whom I thought of as Smiler, chuckled as he held his glass aloft for yet one more refill. I asked the fateful question, "Going home for dinner with your family after this one?" and he burst into tears! It turned out his wife had left him for his best mate, the daughters were at home and daddy got pissed each night! Gaawd, I felt like "Dear Marge"!

Hallowe'en dawned as I trudged the awakening streets of the market. For once the fates were with me and a taxi strike had left the roads a lot clearer for me. The 0800 bus was only an hour late and we left the filth of Bamako on the good tarmac that I had been told stretched clear to Senegal, for which I was glad as my seat was right behind the driver, leaving little legroom. Passing through a village, 2 hours into the journey, my spirits plummeted as I read the name of the huddle of houses: Didiema! Oh no! That lies at the beginning of that horrendously bad piste which had broken the Land Cruiser and almost ended my life on the Sahara crossing of 2005! Sure enough, the tarmac ended with the village boundary. So much for the "new" route, I mused. The bus adopted Kangaroo-mode and the red dust engulfed us. Not expecting this, I had packed my mask. Africa must have been rubbing her hands with glee.

But, fortune looked down on me once more and after only 60 kms the new tarmac duly appeared! Even so, my coccyx thought I'd been sat on a runaway jackhammer and the pain in my neck was outrageous. Had I really survived 18 hours of this torture only 2 years ago? I must be getting soft.

We charged westward, the fat driver filling his face, made Kayes in 9 hours and had negotiated the sprawling truck stop that is the Malian border post, crossed the river and been processed by Senegalese immigration by 2100. Things were going smoothly now, how could this roller-coaster ride last the promised 36 hours? The answer came as the driver backed into the rail yard of Kidira, parked in front of the customs office and announced "We shall sleep here until 7 o'clock!" Another uncomfortable and sleepless night in a cramped bus seat. Oh well, happy Hallowe'en.

0700 came and went as we awaited Customs to give us the one tick in the box we lacked, at their leisure. This they did after a gentle stroll to work, along with our driver who had spent the night in a bed somewhere in town, and when sufficient other vehicles had arrived to form a proper African screaming scrumdown. When the human cargo was accounted for and all systems were GO the driver suddenly remembered he had only had one breakfast and left us all while he headed to the shack that masquerades as the station restaurant for an omelette roll.

It as 0900 as we drove out of Kidira, our passing unnoticed save by a single Vervet Monkey sqatting on the branch of a roadside acacia. Rolling savannah now predominated - very East Africa. Actually the land until Tambacounda would make an ideal game reserve - just ship out the humans and re-stock with game.

The road was atrocious. If Mali had worked wonders at upgrading this major route, Senegal seemed determined to undo the good work. What had been shaken the previous day was now rattled and rolled. The driver, accustomed to good roads, carried on regardless, his mate keeping up a steady flow of sustenance. At each relief stop I dragged myself from the bus to get my knees working. My back was rather evil and my neck so bad I was beginning to look like a hunchback. To further insult us, police checkpoints (should be called cashpoints) double in frequency this side the border, as did the amount of "dash" they extracted from our driver. I was fervently wishing the Wednesday train had been running.

As e crept alon through Dakar's infamous traffic jams a crowd at the back were all for rushing the driver o force him to let them off at various intermediate stops. They were contained by the rest, who just wanted to get to the terminus asap and put an end to this torture. The driver blissfullyignored the noisy ruckus and happily munched on an apple. 37 hours after leaving Bamako (remarkable time estimating) we came to a halt in downtown Dakar. I had to be helped from the bus and shovelled into a taxi. We sped away as the shouting match now took over the luggage retrieval.

In the suburb of Yoff the VIA vIA guesthouse prides itself on its reputation for friendly and helpful service. I clung to the reception desk while the friendly lady informed me "we have no record of your reservation". This was the second time they hadgot it wrong. They had no room but their fallback option (they must make a habit of it?), an auberge just along the lane did, although being strict Muslims they had no beer. So a quick shower to get the first layer of grime off, and I was back at Via Via with a welcome Gazelle. "Is there any chance of food, even a little bread and cheese would do?"
"No sir, the kitchen is closed. You can take a walk along the road, there may be a shop still open" was the friendly and helpful reply. I decided my body wouldn't make it so went without (I hadn't eaten properly for three days). An hour later a couple of guets returned from a nocturnal wander and ordered food! Seeing them chomp on, guess what, bread and cheese really got me miffed. I stomped off to bed.

ahhhhh the joys of travel in west africa!!! and you just keep coming back for MORE???? to quote (or misquote)Kipling...
"you are a better man than I am, Gunga Din" ;-)

As they say, truth is always stranger than fiction. Thanks for this highly amusing account. Did you go back just to see if it really was that bad, or because it became exotic in retrospect?

I'm glad I'm doing it the easy way. Although it will be interesting to see just how "easy" it is.

It's like childbirth.... the worst of it dims with time.

They had those coal irons in Cambodia too.

You must have been exhausted, stomping off to bed. I would have had
my bread and cheese along with the other guests..... arrrrrgh