16. Banjul, Gambia to Bamako, Mali

Banjul-Ziguinchor, Senegal, Saturday, Nov 27, 1982

(DAN) Since we had to wait for the glasses place to open, we enjoyed our last breakfast brought to our room. I then set out for the hospital with full pack and boots in case my glasses were not ready and the people needed a hint as to the urgency. They were ready when I arrived, but I was disappointed once I put them on. The left eye is okay, but the right has a bad aberration such that as I look from side to side things go in and out of focus. The Swedish woman was not in, and the clerk said that if I wanted to complain, I would have to come back Monday, I went ahead and tried them today, and they bother but do not cause a headache. All agree that my “new” glasses are replicas of Henry Kissinger’s.  I shall try to have the one lens changed as soon as possible.

Today’s was a relatively short trip of about 150 kms., but it took from 10:00 to 18:00 to accomplish, another adventure in African travel!  We had our things in a taxi to Brikoma and were about to get in when a man physically impeded our attempts and started to pull our packs out onto the ground. It turned out that the chauffeur (duly chastised) had moved up in the line of waiting bush taxis.  We had to move onto a pick-up, and that took an hour to load. The trip to Brikoma was uneventful over a good paved road, but once we arrived, we had to change to a Land Rover and wait for it to fill up.  Among the passengers were four French “punk rockers” with bleached hair and “far-out” clothes. Over two hours later we finally got our 12th passenger and were all settled when another Land Rover drove up.  Of course we had to unload everything and get reacquainted with the new vehicle. In the transaction we gained a 13th passenger who appointed himself to share our three seats. He even had the audacity to tell Maureen that she would have (in so many words) to give him the window because he is a man. When the dust set­tled, Maureen still had her window and Mr. Latecomer was in the middle. We traveled for an hour through increasingly thick forest over sandy tracks until we got to the Senegalese side of the border.

Senegales village near the southern border of Gambia, and the empty mango trees we saw during most of our trip.

 

We all got down to show our passports, and when the soldier had all 7 (including the French ones) he declared that we would all have to pay 300 CFA apiece to get into Senegal “because it is after noon on a weekend.” The French were fairly passive, but Maureen’s nostrils were flaring. She told him that we had entered Senegal the first time on a Saturday afternoon and did not have to pay, “but, we would be glad to pay if he could produce the laws regulating this.” His nostrils flared and he shouted. “This is an independent country; when you are here, you must obey the laws!” “If you won’t pay, you must go back to Banjul.”  Things were looking bleak when a busload of real tourists showed up. The soldier must have had a bigger scam up because he handed back our passports stamped with an innocuous stamp, picked up his “re­ceipt book,” and met with the tourist bus driver behind the building. In the wake of the event we went out and tried to get on our jeep as quietly as possible, but no, the drivers of two ve­hicles had unloaded our bags off the jeep and onto a Peugeot pick-up. We had to wait 15 minutes while the drivers haggled over the price.

Our current route, yellow denotes rail travel, pink denotes road travel.  Map copied from Times World Atlas.

We set off merrily down through Diouloulou and across the Diouloulou River (all paved) until Bignona. The driver decided that this was as far as he was going, so he drove into the taxi park and sold all of the through passengers to the “station chief” - which meant that we all got off, got our  bags down, put them on another pick-up, and waited for it to fill. It filled after a time and rattled all the way into Zinguinchor at dusk. There are reportedly only two “travelers’ hotels” in this very touristed town, but we got the last room at the Hotel Tourisme. It had air conditioning and our own shower--too posh, but we had to take it.

One view of the Casamance region, vegetation which would have originally been transition to rainforest.

Ziguinchor-Velingara, Senegal, Sunday, Nov. 28, 1982

(HELENA) After a nice restful night free from mosquitoes and “Senegambia Hall” noises (albeit the air conditioner was a bit noisy for me) we struck out for the gare routier.  We were very lucky to get a mini-car (pick-up) that was nearly full, so we didn^’t have to wait long at all. Our mini-car took us to Janaff, a place not far from the Guinea-Bissau border, where we changed to the oldest vehicle we^’ve yet taken. Not only was it the most beaten up, but it had baggage piled high up on top of the luggage rack. In Ziguinchor they tried to charge 100 CFA extra for each of our packs, but Dan didn’t give in, offered to take them off, and they acquiesced.

Our Peugeot 504 bush taxi, with bags loaded simply wating for the 12th passenger

Our destination for the day was Velingara, but we^’d been told to take a mini-car from Ziguinchor to Kolda and another from there to Velingara. In actual fact, we changed several more times.  Just minutes after we chugged out of Janaff, we met a mini-car going the other way. The drivers stopped their cars and started conversing.  After a time we were told that we were to change cars--out in the middle of nowhere.  S-o-o-o, they switched all of the luggage (the other one even had several goats up on top) and passengers, money changed hands, and although I didn’t see it, Maureen says that they even put gasoline from one tank into the other. Very confusing!

Offloading goats at one of the stops during the day where passengers and cargo were bought and sold.

We went through beautiful countryside where bananas and oranges were plentiful enough to be cheap. We bought some; later we were sorry we’d not bought more because there was very little fruit at our next stop.

Kolda was having a big celebration when we arrived, the 25th anniversary of the Catholic mission in that area_, so we got to see a bit of dancing while we waited for the mini-car to Velingara to fill up. Just last night Dan was lamenting the fact that we’ve conversed very little with local people. Well, on the trip between Kolda and Velingara, Maureen had quite a conversation with a young man. Most notable was the fact that his father has two wives, one with 8 and the other with 10 children.

We arrived in Velingara right at dusk, so we headed straight for the Catholic Mission.  All of the nuns were at Kolda for the celebration, but fortunately the priest was there, and he was glad for us to stay in a round grass hut. It was nice and cool there at night, so the mosquitoes left us alone (we put up our nets anyway).  Maureen and I got showers, and we had a nice cup of tea made with water the nuns heated for us. They had returned later in the evening and were very friendly. Our reception was amazing because the priest said he had had visitors continually for the past two months.

Helena (left) and Maureen at the traveler's accommodations at the Catholic Mission in Velingara

All three of us really liked the atmosphere. There were a lot of tall trees, it was cool, and you could hear drums beating in the distance, so, we are still “traveling mellow”.

Velingara - Tambacounda Senegal, ( Nov. 28, 1982

(DAN) Our “mellow feeling” continued all day. We walked through the dusty streets to the mini-car park, bargained with the driver to the exact price, and had sufficient wait to have a hot cup of cafe au lait. Once the mini-car filled, we had a direct trip to Tambacounda. Though none of the maps showed it, the road was paved all the way. This meant that except for a stretch just across the border from Gambia, we have traveled completely on paved roads in Senegal-Gambia, quite a good system. Except for the buying and selling of passengers, we have been impressed with transportation here-- fixed prices, fuel efficiency (the cars never leave until they fill), and in our experience reliable.

Tambacounda is a sprawling dry town. We arrived at 11:30, and though it was too early to eat, we found a place that offered to hold our bags until lunch, and we went off to find the Mission Catolique.  They have a very large compound, and we wandered around the schools and convent before we finally found the priest. The shack-restaurant where we left our bags had offered to put us up, but we thought that first we would check with the priest.   Normally we would not have bothered the priest, having an alternative, but we needed a good night’s sleep before our 24 (?) hour train ride, and there was not much quiet or privacy at the truck park.  The priest was rather reluctant, and we had trouble understanding his French; I was rather sorry we’d come.  Maureen asked if he were from France; no, he was Spanish.  Well, I don^’t know how long it had been since he had spoken Spanish, but he perked up infinitely when we spoke to him.  Why yes, if we didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, they had a hut for travelers.  There was no shower, but we had full use of a bathroom.  It was within the compound, and safe, so in all was a perfect place to relax before the long train trip.

Tambacounda street scene

The priest, Alfredo Porrajo, is a Saleciano from Galicia.  He has been in Africa for two years and still has trouble with French. We never met another person in all of Senegal who spoke Spanish, so it must be an extremely lonely life.

We returned to the restaurant and had our rice and peanut sauce.  The woman who served us said they had just started the restaurant, and as far as we could see, we were the only customers.  We went back after dark to boil some water for tea, and we ended up staying to talk for about three hours.  It took a long time for the water to boil over the coals, and when the tea was finally ready, it was some of the best I have ever had.  The moon was full, and we sat out on benches in front of their shack sipping tea with lemon and talking with Fartu Kine.  She is 17, just finished high school, has never left Tambacounda in all her life, yet spoke perfect French and was a source of much information.   She is an only child, her mother is an only child, and together with her grandmother forms all of her extended family.  She can speak Wolof, Fulani, Mandinga, and French (she is Wolof).  One of the things that we discussed was what lay ahead for her in the way of marriage.   She says that she will receive proposals from strangers (not known people); if she wants, she accepts, and the man pays “a lot of money”.  Under Muslim beliefs one can have  four wives and more.  At least two wives are common in Senegal.  We asked her if women minded being a second wife, and Fartu answered, “Well, it’s the custom.” We also discussed the custom of the mini-car parks and “station chiefs” who collect all the money.  It is related to the fact that most of the cars have absentee owners, and the station chiefs report (for a fee) what business their vehicles have been doing, a check system on the chauffeurs, I guess.

Fartu Kine and her mother in front of their restaurant, Velingara

The other major item we talked about was Bob Marley and Rastafarianism. Reggae music is very popular here, and Maureen says that it is very popular in the States though I had never heard of it before. 

Tambacounda, Tuesday, 30 November, 1982

(HELENA)  I started my birthday well by getting up with Maureen to go to the 6.45 a.m. mass.  Just as it did in Nouadhibou, Mauritania, it gave me a good, peaceful feeling.  Our day was spent with one idea in mind: BE PREPARED FOR TONIGHT’S TRIP!  Everyone we’d talked to had told us that the train between Dakar and Bamako, Mali, is a terrible thing--full of thieves, dark, over-crowded, etc.  We knew it couldn’t be as bad as they said, but still, we formed this image of a dark train teeming with thieves where someone had to be on guard full time.

We changed enough money to buy the tickets, shopped for oranges and peanuts (they really know how to roast them so they’re salted just right) and headed back to our hut.  Maureen treated us for my birthday with a “Golden Orange” (the soft drink we’ve come to love) and Dan got a small watermelon at the market to celebrate.   We tried desperately all afternoon to sleep but to no avail.  I don’t know if it was nerves, the heat, or the buzzing flies, but.....

We took all of our stuff over to Fartu Kine’s place and had a last cup of tea with her and with her mother who speaks no French at all.  We headed for the station at about 21:30, and Fartu Kine was nice enough to accompany us.

Dan was able to buy our tickets at 23:00, at which time they told him that the train should be through at about 00:30. That time came and went and at 1:00 they said the train would be there in 6 or 10 minutes. The next thing we knew, they were closing the station and telling every­one to come back in the morning, as the train had derailed!  We decided to just stay at the station, so while Dan and I stretched out on the sleeping bags, Maureen kept watch for 2 hours. Then Dan took his turn, and finally my turn brought us to daylight, really a pretty restful early morning!

Dawn at the Tambacounda station, Dan and Maureen wating for the derailed train to appear

We cheered ourselves up with a good hot, SWEET “cuppa” and settled in for a long day of waiting.  Every once in awhile there was a bit of activity on the tracks (engines going back and forth with different combinations of cars) and at 9:00 the engine pulled in with one carload of passengers from the derailed train. We saw several toubabs (term for two white foreigners in West Africa) get off, and we eventually joined forces with two Swedish men.

At about 10:00 Dan decided to get on one of the passenger cars that was to go out to the derailing site to bring the rest of the passengers in. He did a lot of waiting, but it really paid off.   While Maureen, Lars, Anders, and I sat around talking (with a huge audience of little kids) Dan went out to the “Scene” and defended his six seats while women and young men piled contraband goods on top of the seats, under the seats, on the racks up to the ceiling, in the aisles, and every conceivable corner.  Dan arrived at Tambacounda at 14:00, and it was a big relief to get seats. The petit comerçantes would have gotten all of the seats filled with things if Dan hadn’t braved them from the start. 

(DAN)  Now, I’ve been in fuller public trucks before, but it was the fullest bus or train I ever hope to see.  As the relief train (5 cars to take the load from 10 derailed cars) pulled into the scene of the accident, people ran alongside throwing the first load of baggage on.  Next was a rush for seats.  Six very large women reserved 8 sets of facing seats, and for the next two hours, they and as many others loaded bag after basket after box of goods. By the time we pulled out, four of the sets of facing seats were full of produce up to the backs of the seats, with one woman perched on top. The main items I could identify were millions of bouillon soup cubes, 25  lb. bags of rice, canned goods, dried fish in open baskets, laundry soap,  plastic chamber pots, salt bags, etc. Ah yes, an open bucket of peanut butter.  The  Swedes said that when the train derailed, the bucket of rather liquid peanut butter was the only thing that did not fall off the racks.

Back in Tambacounda we loaded another 200 passengers onto an already full train.  Although it was altogether uncomfortable, it was actually a pleasant trip, mostly. The Swedes, Anders and Lars, sat with us, and there was good conversation all the way.

As it got dark we entered country that reminded me pictures of eastern Yucatan with very little ground vegetation and open forest of acacia and thorn trees. The moon was full, so we could see fairly well, and we were surprised once we got into Mali that there were fairly large hills.  Once it got light, we were heading back south-southeast into more moist environments. From here on in it was a complete surprise to us. We had been expecting Bamako to be a desert town; instead it is in an area of wooded hills that go right down to the Niger River. There were even some sandstone cliffs surrounded by the woods between Bafoulabe and Kita. Looking on a physiographic map, I realize that somewhere in the area is the “continental divide”: everything north and west of the region (Karat on our map) drains into the Senegal River basin (or Gambia) and everything south and east flows to the Niger River which runs clear over to the Bight of Benin.

Inside the train we had continual diversion from the passengers. There were other passengers to be sure, but the main show was provided by the clan of the six women. The three older women were very large, and the largest woman was unquestionably the boss of the car. I cannot remember when I have seen a person who exuded power to the extent that she did. At times she stood on the mounds of goods and directed what was going on in the whole car.

For them the trip was uneventful until we got to the Mali side of the border. A group of soldiers got on at the border, and for the next ten hours they made various trips through the train, ostensibly searching for contraband goods. Everybody including the soldiers knew that everybody was sitting on mounds of the stuff, but they did not let on.  There were efforts to conceal most of the goods before the border, but always there was something of de­cided value showing. As the soldiers passed through, there were continual raging arguments, and apparently randomly the soldiers just picked up the showing goods and “confiscated” them. Most of the charade proceeded in remarkably high spirits. The women would argue, protest and even pretend to fight for the confiscated goods, but they would have a smile on their faces. The soldiers were yelling back, but they were smiling, nay, beaming as they walked through the car. Two even stopped to chat with the boss-woman before they continued through carrying their bag of bouillon, soap, or once a brand new jacket.

I wish we could have understood everything that went on. There was one soldier who was the exception. When he came through the car (twice) the women clammed up, hid their goods, and looked at him through slit eyes. Then the next soldier coming through would make threat­ening gestures, rattle his handcuffs, and then sit on the back of the boss-woman’s seat and chat amiably.

All the while we wondered what would make it worth it to the women to make the week-long round trip to Dakar and back, but as it got light and we started arriving at Mali stations, we began to see some of the benefits. When they pulled into a station, the women would man (sorry) the windows, and the young men would stand at the doors, and they would sell to people in the station. The big item was the Maggi bouillon cubes. They sold countless bags of around 20 large cubes at 3000 Mali francs or about $5 each. The boss-woman stayed astride her treasure and simply collected all the bills and continually made them into nice neat stacks.  I had wondered at the strange, long narrow bags that the rice and salt were in until I realized that they were just the right size for handing out through the window. I think that nearly everybody in the car had his or her eyes on her growing pile of money. We would love to have known what was their organization or relationship, family, tribe, etc.

The night was something else to remember.  We were all fairly uncomfortable, Maureen so much that she and Anders alternated sleeping in a slot in the aisle. Lars’ legs are about the length of Daddy’s so he had a seat to himself, and still did not know what to do with his legs from the knee down.  Helena and I had a good night, alternating sleeping on each other’s lap and staying awake watching the things. We had to get off once on the Senegalese border and once in Kayes.  Our instructions were vague on the Senegal side, so I got down one stop too early and as I was walking to the head of the train, it started moving. I ran along the side of the train until I was even with the car ahead of ours, and I jumped on.  Both I and the people back in the car got more than a little worried because it was five minutes before I worked my way into our car (no lights of course). If I had been left, the only alternative would have been to wait three days for the next train. It was a long night and a long day and a real relief to limp into Bamako at 14:00.

Senegal:  Money spent per day per person (minus visa expenses): $US 7.61

The Gambia: Money spent per day per person (minus eye glasses): $US 6.41