November 12 through December 17, 2003

Cycling Africa

Myths like Tribal Warriors carrying spears and big game Animals lurking in the jungle are easily dispelled. They don’t exist any more than Cowboys, Indians, Bears and Buffalo do back home. Oh sure, they’re still there but mainly in shows for tourists. In reality most of the places we’ve visited are far more developed than we thought they would be. The range of sophistication runs from Satellite Imaging like Moctar’s Ecological Survey Company to Ox Carts moving freight into less accessible areas. Or, modern Ferries plying rivers next to Pirogues of hollowed out logs. Thus far we have always been able to find enough edible food and most of the time we drink mineral water in plastic bottles.

Sure, there are villages with grass roofed huts and people in the country that were few cloths but more often than not, they wear Nike T-shirts and sandals. People in the country live without electricity and the quality of drinking water needs to be improved but they usually know about the rest of the world and the things that they don’t have. Even in areas where there is no power we see TV Satellite Dishes probably powered by electric generators.

The big difference is, like always, GOVERNMENT. When you cross the border from a country like Senegal into Guinea Bissau the change is immediate. The roads deteriorated and infrastructure is non-existent. Food that’s abundant in Senegal is scarce in Guinea Bissau. In deference to Guinea Bissau, the food in Senegal isn’t all that available to the poor who make up a huge percentage of the population.

You’ll meet some People who make a difference. People like the Peace Corp Volunteers who give so much time and effort here. People who make a difference like Teddy, a Doctor from Louisiana, here learning about Africa and treating those who need his help. Or Dennis, who came with the Peace Corp 40 years ago, went back but never got Africa out of his mind. You’ll meet them and many more in this chapter.

The people of Africa have been friendly and helpful, for the most part. As our friend Duncan of www.DuncanDoesAfrica.com puts it, “You’ll meet a few bad apples just like everywhere but by in large, the people are just people, just like back home.” We’ve only seen one case of leprosy since leaving Dakar and there are no starving or sick skinny people sitting along the road, either.

Africa is still locked in the past in some ways yet it is rapidly emerging into the future in so many others. Keep your eyes on her progress and our observations.

We hope they’ll have a positive affect on your understanding of,
“THE DARK CONTINENT”.

November 12, 2003
Dakar, Senegal

Breakfast in for the sake of brevity. We didn’t like the bread so we asked for extra croissants but the girl said they didn’t have any more. Coffee and our allotted then she appeared with an extra croissant. How nice.

Back upstairs, we packaged up our things to be mailed then headed for the Poste. Another learning experience, not un-similar to that of a trip to a US Postal Office. After an agonizing hour wait in line we had to buy boxes and address them. Once finished with that task we asked for tape. The woman called a guy and he began pressing the boxes into mailing shape then asked us for tape. Okay, we now knew that we would have to go back, get our tape then bring the packages back to the Poste.

On the way we detoured into the Internet Shop we made a quick check of messages and sent a request to Base Camp, Charlie, to try again to set up separate accounts for the proceeds of sale of our house so that the money is insured. As we left we were mobbed by sellers of things. They had been hovering around a couple that was seated on the high curbstone there. One of the boys pressed us then said, “They are from America, too”. I had to ask and sure enough, they were from Detroit, and African Americans. We talked, most of the conversation centering on how aggressive these sellers of things were. In fact, even as we talked the boys kept pressing until I tried the camera trick. Amazing, they not only know what no means but they all begin saying, “No photo” and backing away. What a great tool! We were so intent that I failed to get their names written down. As we walked away I wished that we had taken a picture with them. It is so rare to meet Americans here.

Abdellah, our friend in Morocco who has helped us so much, had given us the name of a man here in Senegal to call on for help. We e-mailed him two days ago and were happy to find a message that he had called this morning. After several attempts and busy signals I finally got through. The voice at the other end, Mr. Moctar, said, “I will send a car for you, now.” We asked if it would be okay to have a bite of lunch first so he told us the car would be here at 2:00 or 2:15.

Back toward the Poste, we knew that we had better eat first or we’d surely miss lunch. Café Ali Baba is on the corner near the Poste. The food wasn’t as good as Adonis and we were slightly disappointed. However, there was a blond haired guy seated nearby so I had to ask if he spoke English. Amazing, another American, Donald is from Maryland but has been living in Paris, France for the past 5 years. He’s traveling light, just a small backpack with some cloths. He told us of being robbed twice, in the same day, in Italy. Donald’s a Computer Programmer and he seems slightly naïve to be traveling alone here. He’s just hitching rides or riding the Gran Taxis. Although he had already finished eating he joined us and we compared stories as we ate.

Too late for the Poste, we hustled back to Hotel Ganale only to wait. The driver finally made it through the traffic at 2:40. We were almost ready to give up when he pulled up. The car had air-conditioning, what a treat. Moctar’s office is out the beach, toward the area where Eric and Sylvie live. His company is called Centre of Suivi Ecologique, he is Director General and a busy guy but took time to sit and talk.

When Moctar asked how he could help we told him we’d like to find someone with a Van or Pickup to take us out of town rather than risk riding back on the dangerous road. He introduced us to Mamadou, another of his drivers and told us that he will pick us up on the 14th and drive out of Dakar. After a couple of pictures Mamadou drove to the DHL office around the corner where we sent the necessary papers back home for the sale of our house.

The Poste is nearby, too. We had a parcel of things that needed to be off the bikes and back home. The young guy at the counter was happy and helpful. I gave him our card and as we were leaving he handed me one of his own. This is his DAY JOB, in reality he’s an Artist, struggling to be discovered, struggling to sell some of his work. He reminded us that we could mail some home.

Back at Ganale we met Alain after he got off work. We had CDs for him and the others with pictures of our party. He brought a list of Hotels and guesthouses that we may stay in on our route. He drank a beer with us then hurried off for dinner at home.

November 13, 2003
Business as Usual in Dakar

Early to rise, we had bananas in the room, OJ at the little store across the street and coffee in a very cute Patisserie. The scene of homelessness and leprosy just outside the window dampened the joy of sipping café au lait in this wonderful place.

Next stop, CitiBank, we want to try to set up accounts for the proceeds of the sale of our house. The FDSA will insure accounts up to $100,000. Being conservative, we really want to make sure the money is safe, it’s our retirement. Our friends, Charlie at Base Camp and Ron who has a Banking background tell us that the new “Patriots Act” back home doesn’t allow anyone outside the US to open new accounts? This is only a small loss of personal freedom compared to some of the reports we’ve seen on CNN but this affects us, directly!

The clerk in the window referred us to 4th floor of the building next door. We went to the first door, the 4th floor and found that we were in the wrong building. Down and out, then in the next door and up to the right place. The guys there were friendly and gave us their fax number once they understood what we wanted. The ATM is another door or 2 further down the street. As we passed one of the severely handicapped guys that are so abundant on the streets he said, “How about a little help for me”? His English skills and huge smile almost stopped us in our tracks. The ATM shelled out big bills. We started back up the street and the smiling face once again called out, “Don’t forget me next time you come by, okay”?

So many hands, so little money!

I had to talk with this guy, we went back to the CitiBank counter and got some 500 CFA notes. With two in hand we walked back toward the big smile and his friend. I knelt down and gave them our card then explained our trip. I gave them each a 500 then asked if we could have a picture for our web-site? They were ecstatic, the BIG smile was really big, the other was thin lipped but obviously happy. We had only given them about a dollar each but it is big bucks in the begging business. (We confirmed later that they, like the similarly affected people in Mauritania, were victims of the early Polio Vaccine.)

How do you decide whom to give something to? How can you pass so many and then give to these two guys? I guess that our donations will be limited to the most photogenic? There are so many Lepers, with no fingers on the hand they hold out. There are so many homeless just sitting, holding a plastic cup and jingling a few coins, hoping for more. I have seen a woman with 3 kids, living on a street corner. Once as we passed, her youngest was sitting on a potty chair doing her jobby, the older daughter was washing dishes in dirty, cold water and the boy was sweeping the sidewalk with a homemade broom. To them this is their home, to them this is normal.

Back at Camp Ganale, we learned that we wouldn’t have a guide today, the one they tried to get was booked. Okay, we’ll go it alone. As we walked out we ran into the Marathon Man from France. He suggested a taxi that was parked across the street and said it should only be 500 CFA to the harbor. We walked and asked, “C’est combien” and he said, “1000”. This is part of the deal here that we really hate. We told him we’d pay 500 and he said no. We started to walk when Marathon Man called out. When he heard the deal he spoke to the Cabbie in French then told us that he would take us for 500! Awe, the power of language!

The trip to Ile de Goree is a must when you visit Senegal. The main feature is a hallway with a door leading to the sea. It is called the “Door of no Return” because it is the last door the slaves would pass through when they were shipped out to Britain, France or of course, The United States of America! La Maison des Esclaves, the house of the slaves, seeps of the feelings of chains and servitude. You wonder what thoughts went through the minds of those who were going, they knew not where? On the way over we met a guy, Teddy, an African American Doctor here from Louisiana for a week. He says that they are busy, tending to people here on the island and trying to see as much as possible of Dakar and Senegal. Of course we told him of our love of Zydeco music and our 10 years of fun playing it with our Acadiana Band.

	Story of Slavery

We’re fast studies, we see places and are ready to move on before some of the groups were even re-organized and started on their tours. The Cat was anxious to get on the 1:00 PM boat back because we need to get to the Gambian Embassy to retrieve our Passports and get our Visas. After our personal quick tour, we decided to have a quick bite to eat before the boat came in. We took a seat with a view of the dock and ordered a little avocado and shrimp thing. The boat came in and docked. We asked the waiter to hustle because we had to catch it and he told us that it would rest here until 2:00 so we could relax.

As we relaxed we struck up a conversation with another guy from Louisiana. Unlike Teddy, Milton is here to study and assist with business in Senegal. (Interesting, we don’t usually post last names here but his is unique, Senegal!) He talked about wanting to seek roots but now knows that he will have to come back because it will be a time consuming task. He’s pretty sure that his forefathers came from here and he knows the name of the Family that purchased his forefathers. Not much to go on but then, most of us are lucky to find real proof of forefather relationship beyond 4 or 5 generations back.

Milton said it, we agree, we’re lucky that we live where we live. Life is better there for more of us than it is for the majority, here. His forefathers had no choice, they were bought and brought. Mine were just poor dirt farmers who left poverty seeking opportunity but most of them stayed pretty poor for several generations. I guess that they were all slaves of one sort or another. This isn’t an attempt to compare the journey of my family to his. There is no similarity in the conscious choice made by my forefathers and the way his were taken to America but we do agree, we are the lucky ones.

Another interesting guy, Sven, had cycled from Europe to Dakar a few years ago. He was here with his girl friend and parents, reliving those days and introducing them to Africa. He relates well to the difficulties we’ve endured, he’s been there and done that!

Boat back, another negotiation session with Taxi Drivers, an extra 250 CFA and we were back in our neighborhood. Though late, we had no problem getting our Visas.

Another afternoon at the Cyber Shop, I came back to the room intent on typing. Cat stayed and worked through the messages. I did spend quite a bit of time pushing the staff here to get CNN up and running again. We had reported the loss this morning and it was still out when I got back in. The tech did come to the room then go up on the roof and adjust the satellite. With a great picture and no more staff in the room, I pulled out the computer and started this new chapter of our journal.

A glass of wine in the comfort of AC then down for dinner. Cat took a table and I ran down the street to see if Charlie had returned our e-mail re: the bank accounts. No such luck but we did get a message from some guys that we met in Amsterdam and our friend Mary from California sent a message that my favorite non-profit, The Coalition to End Domestic Violence has completed the refinance on the building that I helped them purchase. So, that is a big load off my mind and a wonderful thing for all the Women, well mostly Women, who need help.

As I hurried back a guy called out to me, “Hey Pat, how are you? I recognize you, do you remember me? I meet you in California!” I looked at him, he even invited me into better light but I can honestly say that I don’t remember ever meeting him. He started naming names of people we know but he only used first names like, “Jack, you know Jack, he is married to my Sister”. I suggested that he give me his e-mail address or telephone since I was late for dinner. He began to stall then finally, the HOOK! He asked if I could help with some money for Petrol, his car is out of gas? I told him that I had no money then invited him to stop at the Hotel. He thanked me but said he had to get back to his Mother then he asked it I remembered his dear old Mother? I had almost been had, again!!!

Dinner was the usual, pretty good. Our favorite waiters, Alain and Jean Luc served then wanted a picture with us. I got the camera and a gal we haven’t seen before, Gray, the Sister-in-law of the Hotel owner took the photo. She is from Denmark and confided with Cat that she hates it here, she has two kids and a Husband that doesn’t understand her. She does like riding bicycles and wants Dakar to make paths like they have in Copenhagen.

I checked us out, well, I paid the bill to date including tonight’s dinner and our 6, yes I said 6 days rent here. All in all, not too bad, almost inside our budget.

November 14, 2003
Dakar to Saly-Portugal
23 kilometers

The usual included bread and coffee then things bags down, bikes unlocked and we were ready to go. Mamadou pulled up in the Centre de Suivi Ecologique 4WD pickup at 8:45 and the flurry began. We lay the bike in, one on the other then filled in around them with bags. I had to remove the front wheels to make them fit. They were still a little too long so I strapped them up on the cover frame. They were stable and we were off at 9:05 AM.

Mamadou had to run past his office to get a fuel purchase order. We thought we might have the opportunity to see Moctar again but no such luck. We waited in the truck. Then, we re-traced our ride in and re-confirmed the decision that had us riding in Mamadou’s truck rather out there in the dust. Morning traffic was only slightly lighter than the mess that we cycled through getting into Dakar.

Dangerous Dakar  

 At the turn off Mamadou swung south on Highway #1. We were about to give up 20 kilometers in order to see some animals. Moctar had suggested that we should really see the Bandia, the animal reserve. I was ready to re-trace our ride and cycle back down until we saw the condition of the road. It was under construction most of the way. Dirt and gravel, dust and traffic, a very bad bike ride, indeed. As we neared the gate of the Reserve I decided to reserve the decision until later.

Dirt and Dust  

Moctar had said that Mamadou would stand by and watch our bikes and bags while we toured the Bandia. At the gate Mamadou began to talk with the Rangers about storing the bikes while we toured. I really didn’t like that option when suddenly he indicated that we should buy two tickets and he would drive. Tickets cost 7000 CFA and we had to pay a guide, Samba, 3000 for his contribution. The huge savings is that by using the 4WD we save 35,000 CFA, almost $70.00. We were off to see the animals.

The most exciting stop of the moment was at the fairly large herd of Giraffe here at Bandia. What strange and beautiful animals they are. Gangly, long necked, slow moving patchwork coats of the most unusually evolved animal in Africa, maybe the world? As we watched Samba assured Cat that they weren’t dangerous and wouldn’t charge. Then a couple of them began to fight. Samba laughed and said, “They want to make a baby”. Oh boy, the boy had his tool out and was trying to mount. I shot a picture then waited, Samba laughed and said, “Paparazzi, if you get that picture you will sell it for a million dollars”. After a couple of failed attempts we decided to give them their privacy.

	Necking Giraffes

Winding our way through ruts and over bumps with Samba sitting on the window, spotting animals. Our first experience was what he called the most dangerous animal, if not in the wild, at least in the park, the buffalo. He says that they will charge at a moments notice. We could see their ears pinned back and their nostrils flaring as we drove up to them. The next hour was spent viewing lots of different antelope. Then in mid tour we stopped at the Park Restaurant. Pizza for us, Mamadou and Samba are fasting, Ramadan you know. We were seated on the edge of a pond that was stocked with Crocodile. We could see their snoots occasionally but never more than that.

As we ate our very expensive Pizza Mamadou got a call on his cell phone. He has to get going on to Thies for a business pickup. We thought that might mean that we would miss seeing the parks Rhinoceros herd. We took a picture together as I stood under a set of horns. I mention that because when I first proposed the shot Samba warned me not to get too close to the set of horns I originally chose. I questioned the reason and he pointed to a small spindly-legged spider there and said, “This animal can attack you”! Yikes, every once in a while we forget that we’re in Africa and some little things here are just as dangerous as the big game.

Samba introduced us to another guide, Ousmane, who had lived in Atlanta, Georgia for 2 years. He spoke great English with a slight southern drawl. I said that if he really lived there then he must pronounce it, "Atalanta". He laughed and said, “Yes and everything is named Peach Tree, the streets, the shopping center, everything”. He’s definitely been to Atalanta!

Back on the bumpy trails we were pleasantly surprised to see that we were on the trail of Rhino. Ousmane had clued Samba as to their whereabouts. We circled then honed in. There they were, 2 of those prehistoric looking beasts, lying under a tree. We stopped and I shot a pic from the window then Samba said, “Come quietly Pat”. I got out and we moved slowly toward them. I took pictures but they were of their heads. They were sheltered from my lens by the bushes. I asked if we dared go around the tree. Samba smiled, waved his hand as a signal to follow and we moved around in a half circle. There they were, directly in front of us but still lying down. Samba reached up, took the branch of a tree and bent it until it snapped. The ears of the Rhino nearest us began to wiggle. Snap, he did it again and it rose up on its front legs. Snap, one last twig and the beast was looking directly at my lens and us. Samba urged me to get the picture and slowly back away. He didn’t have to tell me twice.

I was glad to be out of there and feigned fear as we neared the truck. Cat seemed worried but Mamadou was laughing at my antics. Funny, he enjoyed the tour as much as we. He confessed that he had never been in the park before. Then, he was all business, he had to get to Thies.

At the gate, he quickly helped us off load the bikes, shook our hands and left in a cloud of dust. Samba took a picture of us in front of the sign for the park then we were off to Saly. Our first experience in a Game Reserve and it was a great one thanks to Moctar and Mamadou.

By now it was late and the bikes were both having shifting problems. Saly is 2 kilometers off the Highway. The wind came up and opposed us the entire way. We stopped at an Elf Station for a soft drink. No one there spoke English, no one there could help us.

Onward, we rode to a sign that pointed toward the beach. The road turned to dirt then became a promenade. Some guys there pointed ahead and told us to go on and we’d find a Hotel. A guard at a Hotel gate indicated that we had to go around to find the entry. Then we were dumped out onto the main street of Saly. It may be a beach community but Newport it’s not! The main is full of sandy stretches. A guy, muscular and insistent, began to shadow us and tell us he could get a Hotel for us. When we told him we would got to the Hotel behind the fence on our right he insisted that it was closed and again urged us to follow. We rode away and thanked him but didn’t offer the reward he sought.

At the end of the main we found a little Motel. We got soft drinks from the outside bar and Cat checked the rooms. Pretty basic and it is quite a way from town and food. We told them that we would take a room but had to go to the Bank for money. No one here takes credit cards.

Back through the loose powdery sand and left to the bank. Cat tried the CASH without success. It won’t take our ATM and rejects our Visa card because we don’t have that damned four-digit code number. Then the guard told her to go to the bank, it is open. Voila, she was able to draw on our Visa card.

As she worked the bank I walked to the gate of the Hotel that Mr. Muscle had told us was closed. The Guard at the gate indicated that they were indeed open and had rooms. When Cat returned we pushed into the compound. It is a destination Resort Hotel and they told us that they did accept Visa cards.

The place is sort of like a Club Med. Nice grounds, all French guests. Our room is a cottage and it is spacious. Plenty of room for the bikes. Not only no CNN, no TV. We showered then explored. A walk to the Super Market and we had the essentials, water and wine. On the way back through the gate of Hotel Bougainvillea the Guard called out and challenged us. “No water, you can’t bring water here”. We were astounded, I told him that was BULL. He continued to rail, we walked and told him to take it up with the front desk. He conceded, we guess that they try to keep the tourists from buying food and drink in town? Bad for their bar business?

The dinner buffet was a real spread. We enjoyed the food and ambience. It was fun, people watching and trying to figure out what they were talking about. They’re definitely only here short term, looking for sun and fun.

November 15, 2003
Saly to Ndangane
65 Kilometers, Piste and Bumps

The breakfast buffet was simple. Bread, cereal and cold, hard-boiled eggs. A short walk to the beach and an argument with the front desk. They claim that our Visa Card wouldn’t clear. We know that’s BS because Cat got money on it just before we checked in last night. Eventually we lost and had to pay cash. We were on the bikes and out the gate past the gaping Guard at 9:30.

It was a 2 km backtrack to the highway in headwind. The highway deteriorated into potholes and bumps. Cycling through a town called Mbour was a challenge, between the street condition and aggressive traffic.

Hungry, we found the Pub/Bar Cuban in Joal-Fadiout. They have a patio and invited us to bring the bikes around to the side and inside. A Cuban style chicken, almost like Jamaican jerk chicken. A guy, Mamadou came in, a jovial fellow who told us that he’s an artist. He took a seat and several others came and went, bringing pieces of their works of art to him. He seemed in control, he spoke to us in French and when Cat told him that her French wasn’t very good he switched to very good English. His wife, Malvine, owns the restaurant and he only does art. They are an interesting couple. She is Catholic and he, Muslim. When I asked for a picture with his wife he asked, “Which wife, I can have 4 wives but she can only have 1 husband”. She punched him and said something in local language. It was pretty warm but we enjoyed their company and the food.

I took the wonderful picture of them, the Muslim and Catholic in front of a picture of Che Guevara. So two religions and one who renounced religion. Mamadou insisted that we must ride 5 minutes and see the famous bridge that connects Joal with the island, Fadiout. It is built on shells that have piled up over the centuries.

We took his suggestion and rode to the bridge. If it hadn’t been so far to Ndangang we would have liked to ride across and explore. Mamadou had told us that the road would be the same from here to Ndangane as it was in front of the restaurant.

Joal-Fadiout is actually two towns, Joal is mainland and Fadiout’s an Island. Mamadou told us that the Island is made up by an accumulation of clam shells left there over the centuries. It is only reached by a footbridge and no cars exist there. Mamadou insisted that we ride down and at least see the famous bridge. The ride was on rough dirt, the bridge anti-climatic. We decided to shoot a pic and move on.

Mamadou had also told us that the road to Ndangane was the same as that out front of the Café. This proved to be incorrect. The pavement ended in less than ½ kilometer and we struggled on loose dirt and potholes for most of the rest of afternoon. It took us 4 hours to ride the next 22 kilometers. Tired, thirsty and road weary we finally reached the crossroad. As we tried to buy soft drinks a crowd of kids and one old man surrounded us. The kids were fairly aggressive and we had to keep asking them not to touch the bikes. The old guy wanted us to buy a sort of tomahawk looking ax that he had made. I have wished since we left that area that I had taken his picture. He was so disheveled and sad looking.

Senegal Swamps 

Onto the pavement, we did find cold soft drinks. Another crowd of kids gathered round. They asked for gifts and we told them “No”. They seemed to accept that then laughed and played. Suddenly they broke into song. I was lucky to get it on our little video. A woman came out and scolded them but they didn’t seem to care. In fact as we rolled away several of them jumped on their bikes and followed for quite a while.

Singing Kids 

It’s 8 km from the crossroad to Ndangane. Fatigue aside, we were happy to be flying along though we still had to dodge potholes. Several signs have been leading us to a place called Cordon Bleu, an encampment/hotel. The final sign pointed down a dirt road. It soon became loose sand and a struggle to push through. We pushed into Cordon Bleu, leaned the bikes and learned, to our disappointment, that they were fully booked, no room in the Inn. The owner, a gal, took Cat by the hand and while I drank another soft drink they went across the sand to another small place, Auberge les Anacardiers. They had a room, we had a place for the night.

We got a cold bottle of white wine and made reservations for dinner then pushed across. They have a solar system that cut the edge off the cold but after today’s ride, a cool shower felt great.

Dinner was a little disappointing, too. Tough steak and cold French fries. Back at Anacardiers we met a young guy, Patrick, from Germany. He’s traveling alone, exploring West Africa. He turned out to be a great source of info for us. Though he speaks great English it’s with a strange accent. He spent 2 years in South Africa doing community work and has traveled the West coast extensively. A tired Cat went off to bed but I stayed and listened to stories of Patrick’s travels.

Sunday, November 16, 2003
Ndangane to Foundiougne
Slow Boat up the BIG River

Continental breakfast with Patrick. He has just a week left then it’s back to work as a consultant in Hanover. He has a girl friend but she couldn’t get time off so he came on alone, partly to practice his French language. The time he spent in South Africa was in lieu of doing military time. All Germans are required to spend 2 years in the Army or doing community work. He’s been around and it’s obvious that the travel bug has bitten him.

The consensus was that we’d have to pay between 50,000 and 75,000 CFA for the boat trip we have planned to Foundiougne. The plan was born out of info in the LPGB that we could take a boat through the mangroves for 25,000 CFA. (About $50.00) We walked into the village and found Jimmy, the boat trip dealmaker. He began by sounding like he had a boat and would take us but his price was 100,000 CFA. Wow, double what we thought it would cost. We began to make alternate plans to cycle back to the crossroad and two days to Foundiougne. The thought of losing a deal prompted him to cut the price to 75,000. Our decision was to ride if we couldn’t make a deal at 50,000. As we turned to go Jimmy the Dealmaker made a deal. (We justified spending $100 by figuring the cost of being on the road for the next two days.)

Another push through the sand then off loading bags, lifting bikes aboard and by 11:00 AM we were ready to get underway. Jimmy had chosen two young guys to pilot the boat. As we prepared to push off they stalled the engine. Try and try again, they couldn’t fire it back up. This worried us. They used poles to get back to shore then a nice guy we’d met at Jimmy’s shack office sort of took over on the repair. We told Jimmy that we weren’t confident in the young guys. He tried to assure us but when we began to insist he caved in, Mohamed would be our Pilot.

Trapped	Boat to Foundiougne

The trip was mangroves, birds and other Pirogues. Through channels and along the shore of Islands. The trip was long, arduous and hot! Fun, almost exciting at first, we were soon overheated and bored. When we finally saw the village of Foundiougne ahead it seemed to take an hour to get there.

Starving, we helped lift the bikes and bags out, Mohamed and his helper carried them ashore. I loaded the bags for security sake while Cat went into the nearby Spaghetti Café. The owner, a guy from Italy kept saying “It’s catastrophic, it’s catastrophic” but finally said that he would find some food for us. Though we had a tough time understanding him we did get the point that the road ahead was dirt and we’d find no Hotel in the next village. The spaghetti with muscles was okay. The Italian told us that there were two places, close by, where we could stay.

Cat checked our guidebook, one is a Hotel the other an encampment. They are both down the same dirt road so we pedaled toward them. The gate of the Hotel was closed and no one in sight. I unlashed it and we pulled into the driveway. There were several people sitting around the pool who just stared. A clerk finally came out and told us their room rate. It was beyond our budget so we rode on.

L’ Indiana Club that Alain, our friend in Dakar, had recommended was more our kind of place. Small and simple, they had a thatched roof cottage for us that and it was affordable. We moved in, and started to shower when we discovered that there was no water. So, was that the reason the price was right? The owner, a very relaxed looking guy with a pony tail laughed and said, “Plenty of water in the swimming pool.” Though his English language skills are limited we did finally get his point and then understood the Italians “Catastrophic” moaning and groaning. The Chateau d’ Eau (The Castle of Water) was broken and there is no water in town. They didn’t know when it would be fixed so we took their advice and swam. It was cool and refreshing.

Paul, the ponytail guy, and Martine, his wife, are the Patrones. They are ex-pats from Switzerland. Paul says that this is his second life. He hated his business and life in Switzerland when they saw this place and bought it. They spend a lot of time at the end of the bar, sipping wine and chatting with guests.

I began to type journal pages but started feeling icky. Cat wrote about some of the missing days, I crawled in bed and slept. When I awoke 2 hours later I was again a victim of “The African Guff Guff”.

Dinner at 8:00, I joined Chris, another guest, in sharing a bowl of rice. He too had been down with the diarrhea. What a nice young guy, he’s from Holland and he too, like Patrick, is working on improving his French. Cat liked the fish and rice but the boxed Rose wine left something to be desired.

A gal sitting with her feet tucked up under her at the bar was chatting with Paul and Martine in French. When I said hello to her she responded in great English. She, Soiziclh, is an adventurer. She comes from Brittany on the French Atlantic coast. Her vocation for several years had been teaching Scuba Diving but it was seasonal. She came to Dakar, bought a sailboat and took up “live aboard” residence there. Now, a friend of hers who has been taking people out on his boat tired of the life and asked her to take over. She says that she keeps very busy and is fairly booked up with guests who come to sail the river with her. She’s even sailed solo to the Cape Verde Islands, 600 kilometers off the coast. She told of having to wake up every 10 minutes throughout the night to make sure she wouldn’t hit another ship.

An enjoyable evening, wish I had felt up to it.

November 17, 2003
Lost Day in Foundiougne
Guff Guff Got Me Down

It was an up and down, diarrhea night for me and sleepless for Cat because of my frequent trips to the toilet. Shaky and tired I called off today’s ride and crawled back into the mosquito net. Cat ate breakfast and I slept.

She made a trip into the village for bananas and found an Internet site. She did find that our friend Donald Hunt was going through problems with friends and family over his health. When you have lots of things there is bound to be a squabble over them. This fracas has started even before his demise. He amassed wealth during his life, I’ve only saved memories. Nobody seems to want to take them away from me, maybe because I share them so readily?

Chicken soup from our camp pantry and local rice for me at lunch. Chris took a Pirogue trip down river and had a few stories about the village they stopped in. Soiziclh came in, her tour couple has departed and she’s free for a few days. The four of us sat and talked the afternoon away. These two understand the feeling of freedom and the value of travel. Kindred souls. We parted, great pals, at 4:30 PM. I lay back down. Cat tried to rest but she’s not very good at that! After a few minutes she took the notebook outside and wrote back journal memories. She was a real meal for the local mosquitoes.

Feeling slightly better, Cat rousted me out and we joined the others at the bar. A new couple from France, and a new Spanish speaking guy, Juan from Cadiz, Spain who says he saw us on the road yesterday. Another guy who seems to be a close friend of Soiziclh filled out the newby group. Our little group was splintered by language. Chris and I filled up on carrot soup and rice again. Cat had chocolate cake for desert, I decided yogurt might be best for me.

November 18, 2003
Foundiougne to Toubacouta
70 Kilometers

Early to rise and early to load up. Breakfast, bread and coffee then off down the bumpy dirt road toward our next step in this great adventure. Potholes and dust to Passy, the village that has no Hotel then a paved road. Well sort of paved for local standards. The cars and vans swerve and drive on the dirt shoulder raising clouds of red dust. It covers and chokes the foliage just like it covers and chokes us.

Off to Toubacouta 

The word for the day is Toubab, the kids all call it out as we ride by. Being slightly cynical, we assume that it means “Give me money”? It resonates from behind bushes and even out of some adult mouths.

At the village of Sokone we pulled into the first Hotel we saw. We were hungry and they had a restaurant. There was a truck with bike wheels and parts aboard, surrounded by a bunch of nice looking yellow bikes. A group of moderate cyclists from France were lunching there. We took a table then introduced ourselves. Nice people from France, Holland and Switzerland, which presented the usual language difficulty. They only ride 15-20 Km each day and are sagged. They stay in one place and take day trips. Nothing like our trip but still a great way to see a little of Africa. They ate a gourmet feast, we had chicken and fries. Though I was still feeling a little queasy it went down nicely.

Our money supply is running low. Cat read about a Hotel 20 Km from here at Toubacouta that accepts the Visa Card. We have to find it and they have to take the card or we’re in trouble. The sign for both Hotels points down a long bumpy looking dirt lane. Concerned about whether to go on into the village or take the turn, Cat decided to go for the dirt. Hotel Les Paletuviers was on the left, they’re the one that LPGB says will do the Visa thing so we took a turn in their direction.

It looked like a couple of dogs crossing the road ahead of us? Then as we drew closer they loped back across. Their posture, low in front, high in the rear and the long tails made it clear, we had just seen our first wild monkeys.

Picha, a gal from Belgium who manages the Hotel, greeted us. She and her husband Piet have cycle toured and she was pretty excited to have us here. Piet was napping but she knew that he would be over as soon as he got up. Yes, they do take Visa but the bad news is that they only do full board and the cost for room, dinner and breakfast would be over $140. We gulped when she told us but knew that we had no other choice.

The room was large and almost too cold. Too cold felt pretty good but I had just found the secret of the controls when we got a knock on the door. Piet was very excited to meet us. He and Picha traveled in Central America on bikes and he has toured much of Africa. I told him about our wheel problem and he said, “Tomorrow, we fix it tomorrow morning”. He took a look at the bikes, he’s very technical, and asked several questions about the AutoShifter.

Picha said, “Don’t worry about the room, we are going to sponsor you, you still have to buy food but the room is no cost”. We objected slightly then graciously accepted. Amazing what empathy can lead to, sometimes. They understand our lifestyle and relate directly to the effort we expend. We asked them about the “Toubab” thing and they said it’s not a slam or meant to embarrass us it just means “White Stranger”. Piet gave us a word to call back that means “Black person” but we decided not to go there.

Piet told us stories of his adventures and asked about ours. He has done some amazing cycling. He’s the epitome of rough out bicycle touring. All that is behind him right now, they have two kids, Viktor age 7 and Charlotte age 4. He still dreams of a big bike tour but for now it’s work and raise a family.

As we walked across the open space toward the office a huge lizard. I mean, about 2 feet long huge. I told Piet and he said, “Yea, that’s one of the babies, you should see the Mother”! I told him about our monkey sighting earlier. He said that they have several families of monkeys and a couple of small baboons that live nearby.

A glass of wine at the outside bar and we met 5 nice people also from Belgium. Jan, Nathalie, Lien, Maarten and Hilde are all here for just a week and love it. The resort is touristy in a nice sort of way. We thought of our pals, Paul and Roos in St. Josev Olen. They should come down here with their bikes. They could ride several directions safely and enjoy the tropical weather at the same time.

Pretty Scary 

Dinner was okay, no TV in the room so it was early to bed.

November 19, 2003
Toubacouta to Banjul, Gambia
45 Kilometers
The Gambia, Our 21st Country

Early to breakfast, Piet was just finishing and preparing to take Charlotte to pre-school. He told us he’d be back soon and we’d fix the wheel. Breakfast including eggs sunny side up, a real treat.

Piet pushed my bike around to the Hotel shop. They have a full mechanical shop that deals with problems from truck to refrigeration repairs. He pulled the wheel apart, greased the bearing and pondered the problem. For some unknown reason the plastic pulley between the gears and the wheel has pulled down onto first gear. Puzzled, they tried to make a washer to place between the two but the idea failed. Finally we just put the wheel back together and I adjusted the shifter a little further away from the low gear.

Piet kept saying, “Forget leaving, you’re staying the day here”. I knew that he was enjoying the feelings of his history and wanted to hold onto them as long as he possibly could. What he didn’t know was that The Cat and I were beyond ready to get into Banjul, The Gambia to find money, comfort and CNN.

Cat was loaded and ready to roll. We jammed my bags on then pushed out into the parking lot. Piet took a turn around the Hotel Driveway on Cat’s bike and Picha said, “Oh no, now he’ll want to take off again”! He road toward the camera then told a story of cycling across the Algerian Sahara and how he survive and carried enough water to ride 760 Kilometers. We hope that you can view the little video, “Condom Containers”. It’s pretty funny.

Condom Containers

It was noon by the time we finally pulled ourselves away from Piet and Paletuviers. Although hungry we chose not to eat because we could easily fall into the trap of another day here. The soft life with Piet and Picha was very tempting.

One the road we saw several guys on bikes bringing their catch of fish to market. We got a picture of one but I wish that we’d taken some of the other guys who have boxes of various goods on the back rack. They are like little mobile stores, some have drugstore items, one had tools and electrical connections.

Another wildlife sighting, a small reddish colored baboon sauntered across in front of us then stood in the bushes and watched our passing. By the time I pulled up and we shuffled trying to get the camera out he turned his tail less tail and disappeared into the bush.

A couple of over loaded motorcycles followed by a 4WD passed and honked. Down the road a ways we came upon them, parked and having a snack. The two motorcycles are from Sweden. Daniel, Helena and Niklas are riding from Stockholm to Cape Town. They’re taking a year so our paths may well cross again. Marcel, the 4WD driver is from Holland. He met the others and is just tagging along.

It’s a slow ride through potholes that looked like a minefield to our wheels. We could only imagine what it’s like to weave through with the large overloaded motorcycles? Occasional small villages cling to the terrible roadway. The 20 Km took more than 2 hours to complete. Karang is the little village at the border to The Gambia. The place was crowded and dirty. I went inside the shack that acts as an office to check us in. What a surprise, the people were friendly, they didn’t ask for money, they smiled and welcomed us. Nothing like the horror stories we’d heard?

The next challenge was Gambian Military. A young guy in olive drab t-shirt and beret held his hand up and when we stopped he looked at my bike like he was looking at a naked girl. Then he reached out and stroked the handlebars. He liked it and that made us nervous. Our LandRiders aren’t expensive bikes, most of us in the States could easily afford one. Here however they are worth 3 or 4 months wages. Cat faced the Military guys while I held off the lusting soldier. He kept saying “Nice, expensive”? (Remember, they speak English here in The Gambia.)

Cat told me that she showed our Passports and as the guy checked them another young soldier fondled the taillight on her helmet. They really liked our equipment. We were ready to move on.

It was getting real hungry out, it’s been a long time since breakfast. There are no Cafes or stores but we did find bread. Sitting on a bench at the side of the road we choked down the entire baguette and a third of our remaining peanut butter. Dry and tough to swallow with only water to wash it down but it was nourishing.

Another 20 Km of bad, bad road and finally we were at The Gambia River. It was chaos, a line of trucks and cars impatiently waiting for the few Ferries that ply the river. The road is rolling potholes of soft dust ground to fine powder over the centuries. We cycled past the rows of cars, vans and trucks to the gate of the ticket office. The crowd crushed in on us as we tried to park. The Swedish motorcyclists were there in the midst of the fray, looking at maps and talking to other Europeans. One young guy wearing an Australia t-shirt tried to attach himself to us. He could help, he could get tickets, and he had connections. I doubted his ability but loved his gutsy approach.

I pulled the bikes into the walkway to the ticket windows but a guard came up and challenged me. He was indicating that we couldn’t park there because we were blocking the path. I said that all but the very fat people could get by. He became insistent to the point of pushy then one of the uniformed guys burst forth with a spew of words. The only one we recognized was “American”. Suddenly everyone was friendly. One of the uniforms indicated that we should follow. He took us inside the gated area, helped us buy tickets for the boat then asked us to wait there, away from the crushing crowd.

Nervous, fearful that we’d miss the 5:00 PM Ferry, we kept asking and the guard kept trying to calm us. When the passengers started coming down the alleyway from the Ferry after it docked we got up and ready. He again indicated that we should relax. We couldn’t! Finally he opened the gate and we pushed upstream against the off loading and were almost the first aboard. It’s hard to believe how many cars and trucks they pack on board. I went topside and shot the following photos. The most unbelievable thing I saw was guys unloading cargo from the big Canoes tied up next to the Ferry. They put big bags of rice or boxes of things on their heads then wade across to a dock and set them up, high and dry.

Dusk was closing in as the over loaded boat pushed off into the swift moving river water. They drift downstream then power across and up to the awaiting dock at Banjul. During the ride we befriended a young guy with a t-shirt that said, “Success Comes Through Hard Work”. As I tried to talk with him 3 young Senegalese toughs came up and squeezed in next to us. One said something to him and he clamed up. I turned to the little tough but he hid behind his French language. As we sat I felt his hand moving into my pocket. I grabbed it and twisted. He complained then I put my hand in his pocket and threatened to take his things away. He was pissed but he didn’t react. We drew our lines of defense and kept our distances for the rest of the cruise.

Our Ferry had to wait while another filled and pulled away from the dock. As we waited a lot of the other walking passengers climbed onto the loading boat and headed ashore. The 3 toughs and our little friend were among them. We had to wait for the big truck and several cars to get off before we could drag the bikes up over the railing and down onto the dock. Between the fumes of the boat engines and the idling cars and trucks it was hard to get a breath of fresh air. It was dusk, almost dark by the time our wheels were finally firmly on dry ground.

Competing with the remaining trucks, we moved off into darkness, lost except for a street name. We decided to go to Corinthia Atlantic Hotel because it was close and sounded clean. It’s expensive but we justified the decision by telling ourselves that we could move at break of day. The streets were dark and traffic was heavy and moving fast. We rode until we found a Shell Station. The guy there wasn’t very helpful but did say that we should keep going. At a huge gate that towers above the street a guard shouted at us. We were trying to get around a chain that blocked our way. Little did we know that only President Yahya Jammeh was allowed to cross under it. (Don’t you love the name, Yahya? Do you remember the old Rock ‘n’ Roll tune, “Sittin’ in my Lala waitin’ for my Yahya, unhuh, unhuh”?

The guard took it upon himself to guide us down the street, around the corner and through the gate of the Hotel. Nice guy, yes he wanted a tip but we had no money. I kept trying to tell him that but he insisted. We could tell by the look on his face when we shook his hand that he hadn’t believed us.

Just being off the dark dirty streets was a relief. The Atlantic Hotel was a bonus. Oh sure it is a tourist haven for sun seeking Brits but then we needed a haven and they did accept the Visa Card. We were at home and wouldn’t be moving. Despite our earlier vows of poverty we knew that we’d be here until we found enough money to move on.

After checking in and pushing the bikes into our room we headed for the restaurant. They shooed us out, no shorts allowed. The waiter told us we could be served on the patio. They have a pizza and ice cream place. Pizza sounded pretty good but the waiter there told us that they had just closed and the oven was turned off. We were getting pretty angry and vocal. As we argued with the guy Chef Henri waded in and began to scold him. He arranged a great meal and we truly enjoyed it, except for the relentless sting of mosquitoes on our bare legs.

The AC and CNN were a great way to end an interesting day.

November 20, 2003
No Mon, No Fun!!!

The breakfast buffet is included in our room rate and it’s pretty good. Eggs cooked to your request, good juice and coffee. All more reasons to justify staying here. Our objective today is to get to the bank and free up enough cash to pay up and move on.

There is a contingent of yellow t-shirt guys with official looking plastic badges hanging around the gate of the Hotel. As we headed out one of them attached himself to us and told us that we must have a guide. When we asked why he said, “It’s Ramadan and it’s dangerous out there”.

“I thought that Ramadan was a religious holiday, why would it be dangerous for us”, I asked?

“Oh, those boys out there, they’ll be in your face, they’ll try to sell you shirts and things”, he said in his interesting British/African accent.

When I told him that we’d been in Dakar and walked Ave. Pompidou he said, “You will probably be okay here then” and he gave up without any further fight. Interesting, we watched most of the other guests take the offer of a guide. They just didn’t have the experience that we did. The streets here are really calm compared to Dakar. We were never really pushed by the sales people. In fact we were rarely approached.

There are no Banjul city maps but the place, like the country, is pretty small. We found the only bank that advertises an ATM cash machine and Visa card acceptance. Standard Chartered Bank, has a cash machine on the porch area but it wasn’t user friendly to us. After a couple of tries we went inside and fell into a very long, slow moving line. Impatience set in and Cat went to a window without a line to ask who we should be talking with. The gal was friendly and told us that we could use the machine. After relating that we’d already failed there she suggested that the machine wasn’t working but we could go to another branch and get cash there. The other branch is in another city 15 Km from here so we asked her to call and confirm that the machine was working there.

The phones weren’t working that well, either. When she did get through she was surprised to hear that the ATM was out of service there, too. We asked her to advance cash on the Visa card here, inside the bank. Now the truth be known, she confessed that they had discontinued their relationship with Visa due to lack of use by locals. So, were we doomed? She thought that another bank in town might accept Visa and sent us in that direction. They not only didn’t but indicated that they probably never would! It began to look like we’d have to ask Charlie our Base Camp Manager to turn to Western Union again.

Since Hotel Atlantic does accept Visa we decided to try there first before paying the cost of wiring funds. Mrs. Job is the Financial Officer but she wasn’t in. We waited in the room then asked again. She would be back later this afternoon so we went to lunch. Here we were, stuck in a Hotel again, living off our credit, unable to eat or drink anywhere else. Oh, it isn’t all that bad, in fact this is a pretty nice place to be marooned if you must be marooned.

Lunch, Pizza on the patio and we met a couple, Joan and Mike from England. They are here relaxing on her first days of retirement from a career in Social Services. Both love birds and love watching them. They have a book about Birds of The Gambia. We loved watching them as they got excited over the birds that flittered around the patio. Mike says that they aren’t fanatical like some bird watchers but do it for the sheer joy.

We got another version from Joan about the origin of the word Toubab that many yell out as we pass. She says it comes from the wage that most Brits offered when they first colonized The Gambia. Two Bob a day was the standard wage offered so the locals began to call the Brits, “Two Bob” and it evolved from there. (We’re not sure what a “Bob” is but we liken it to a quarter, which is often called “Two Bits” in the US.) An interesting theory and story but later I began to wonder because they were using it in Senegal too and it had been a French Colony? The story did point out the absurdity of Colonization and the way it chopped the African Continent into little pieces controlled by outsiders. Even to the point of language and cultural differences that now often lead to dispute and violence.

Mrs. Job was cordial but made it clear that she would have to get the General Manager to agree before she could help us. Assuming the best, we asked her to advance $200 dollars, half in local Dalasi currency and half in CFA. She did say that they only use Dalasi and we’d have to exchange that at the bank. (A good indication that we would be able to do a deal.)

Another interesting aside, quite a few of the women around the pool sunbath topless. We don’t hear any French being spoken so assume that the usually staid Brits let it all hang out when relaxing in the sun, too? Another hint that they’re Brits is their pasty pallor. Some look as though certain body parts have never seen the sun. Others look as though they’d probably look better covered.

I spent the afternoon at the computer keyboard, Cat spent 3 hours and most of our few Dalasi at the Internet Shop down the street.

Mrs. Job called with good news, they would help us with our cash crunch problem. We zipped our pant legs on and went out to celebrate. At dinner we met a couple of gals from Germany, Monika and Patricie. They too came to soak up some sun and relax. Their biggest problem is that they don’t speak much English and they’re the only Germans here.

November 21, 2003
We’re In The Money!!
Day of R & R and Journal

After breakfast we met Mrs. Job at the front desk. She carries herself with and air of elegance. Her English skills are very British sounding. After a few minutes of chitchat we got down to business. They would advance the $200 in Dalasi. We asked where to take half of it in order to get a reasonable exchange rate? After a moment of thought she said, “Let me send it out, we get a much better rate”. So, we were back in the money. We took the pile of Dalasi and she kept the other for exchange.

When we walked out the front door the Security Guard, Bindo, cheered, clapped and chanted, “Pat and Cat, Pat and Cat”. Maybe just going for a tip? Maybe truly interested, maybe even inspired by our crazy effort? Whatever it was, he got the same fun cheer going every time he saw us.

Lunch in, a quick look at the bikes then I typed and Cat spent 3 hours sorting out messages at the Internet Outlet.

Dinner in, at the Buffet, pant legs on, of course. Not as good as last night but not bad. They have a local dance show scheduled for tonight so we ate slowly then moved onto the open area in front of the stage. The dancers were from Guinea, the drums were great. They invited anyone up from the audience to dance with them and Cat accepted the challenge. We really enjoyed the show, the group has a great sound and look. After they finished they called us back stage then hit us up for money. We would have given something but we had left the pile of Dalasi in the room and frankly we’re worried about making it back into Senegal with the little money that we now have.

African Dance	More African Dance	Cat Can Dance

November 22, 2003
Banjul to Brikama
45 Kilometers

Breakfast, goodbyes to our British bird watching friends and the German gals. I went to the Engineering cage to retrieve the bikes. There was no one around. One of the security guys said he’d get someone with a key so I waited. After 10 minutes I tired of the wait and slipped under the fence. The wire was covered with dust and grease, I got some of it on my shirt, another waffle print. That was a disappointment but an even bigger one awaited. The rear tire on my bike was flat. The key man finally showed after I had unlocked and pushed to the gate. With both bikes in tow I pushed to the entry doors. There near the steps, with half a dozen well meaning guys giving me verbal assistance, I pulled the tube out. Another nail, a long thin skinny nail had found its mark. This is the second time that a nail has penetrated our thorn proof tubes. Remember the first, in Rabat, Morocco? That’s pretty good when you consider the miles we’ve covered and the tough roads we’ve ridden. It was after 11:00 a.m. by the time I had it patched and back together.

We posed for a picture with Mrs. Job in front of Hotel as we were leaving. She had the Desk Clerk check for Hotels in Brikama. One option was Motel Dormor Dima but she thought it might not be too nice. Our Gambian Desk Clerk agreed. He called and talked to someone then said, “Go to West African Mission, ask for Mr. Lee, there is a Hotel close by.”

We pushed to the nearby Shell Station looking for air pressure. A tall bushy haired guy walked along with us and tried the old line, “Remember me, we met at the encampment”? I wasn’t in a great mood but I waved him off telling him that he was wrong, we’d never been to the Encampment. He said it was a guy that looked just like me. I started not liking him.

At the Shell they didn’t have or didn’t want to give us any free air for the tires. Bushy hair said, “Come to my shop just across the street.” Another lie, guys like this always tell you that they own the shop then lead you there and expect a cut from the owner.

He walked across where the Shell Station guy had pointed and said something to the mechanic there. The guy was working on another flat tire but stopped and pumped mine. Then Bushy hair said, “You pay him for the air, 150 Dalasi”. I stood up in his face and said, “That’s Bull Shit, I could buy a new tube for that much money.” Then I took our 25 D’s knelt down and put it in the Mechanic’s pocket. He was Senegalese and only spoke French. When I stood back up I told bushy hair that I wasn’t paying him anything and that I thought he was a bad guy. Several others gathered around and watched. One older guy in robe and small hat smiled and gave me us a smile and a thumbs up. A young guy said, “You don’t give him money, good”. Bushy hair just stood and stared as we mounted up and rode away.

The road was wide and the surface good. We crossed a bridge then and came upon a Police Checkpoint. The guy in reflector vest talked and acted like he was drunk or out of it. He made us come to the station house about 100 meters across dirt. There he started talking about Ramadan, and the dangers. We told him that we weren’t afraid and that the people here are good people. He tried to ask for money but I worked around him, he finally gave up and told us to go on.

It was hot but the road remained good. We stopped along the roadside and ate bread, cheese and meat that Cat had found on the Breakfast Buffet. The roads became confusing, we passed what probably would have been the shortest route and went on out toward the beach area. The smell of decaying flesh scorched our nostrils but was music to the taste of the vultures that swarmed around the carcass. I tried to get a picture, they took off. I settled for them in a tree.

Brikama is a teaming cross roads and a cross section of humanity, trucks and cars. We pulled into the Shell Station. The first guy we talked with said, “Why are people always asking me these questions”? I told him it was because he is the Shell Man and knows everything. He did smile at that and pointed to another guy. He directed us to the next left turn then out the highway for about a kilometer and said we would see it on the right. Then he got a paper out and asked for a donation for the children’s community garden. We gave 50 D’s, about $1.60. He confirmed, ask for Mr. Lee.

A swarm of kids, one said, “Mr. Lee’s wife is beautiful. They hovered around as we entered the grounds. One edged up and started talking very good English. He skirted the issue, hinting about needing money then told us that he needed 50 Ds so that he could buy shoes. Cat pointed to his feet and said, “You have shoes”. They won’t let me wear these sandals in school and I want to go to school”, he replied.

A guy at WAM, Suwaibou, told us that Pastor Lee has been gone since 1999. Now they have Pastor Kim. He was at another Mission but would be back later. We sat with him and a hired guard and waited. After more than an hour we decided to go back into town and find the Motel Domor Dima.

The kids swarmed us as we rode out the gate. On the road, a teenaged boy cycled up and tried to talk to us. We are so wary that we almost shunned him until he held out our bottle of chain lube and one of our wrenches. They had been taken from the little bag under my seat, the boys had unzipped it and taken everything from it. We turned around and followed him back. In the dusty street another older boy had one of the kids by the arm and a couple more of the missing tools. He hit the little boy and gave us the items.

They thought that they might recover more of our missing items but we decided to go on with our plan. Back in town we found an Internet Shop only to find that the 3 machines were in use and there were at least 20 names on the list ahead of us. I asked about the Motel Domor Dima and one of the guys said he would take us, then checked the list to see when he would get a machine. He stepped out the door and said, “This is my brother, he will show you”.

The brother took us through back alleys but got us there. We sat, sipped a cold soft drink at a table out front. I offered one to our guide but he told us he was fasting. I gave him 50 D’s and told him to buy one later tonight. He was pretty happy. Another boy who had started walking along with us and talking with Cat asked for money. “I know much more about this town than he does”, he said. I told him that the other boy had volunteered and was our guide, we only needed one guide. The second boy hung around, pssst pssting through the bushes, trying to get something, anything.

The Motel was pretty basic but would have been okay for one night if they had had a place for the bikes. They wanted us to leave them out front and they’d move them in when they close? They are open to the wee small hours during Ramadan. Not a good option. We tried to figure a way to get them into the tiny room but that wouldn’t work, either. Finally, we headed back toward the WAM.

Suwaibou talked with us then went inside a building and came back with a telephone number, a cell phone number for Pastor Kim. When I told him we had no phone he pointed across the road then let me out a locked gate into the soccer field. I walked across the road to the Telephone Boutique but it was out of service. They pointed to another just a little way down the road. My friend, the boy who wanted 50 D’s for shoes so he could go to school, followed like a puppy dog. He is bright and knows a lot about the area. I enjoyed his company. He has 2 brothers and 2 sisters. The call was a surprise to Pastor Kim. He said they would be back in an hour.

Back at WAM, we sat, talked to the shoeless boy and two of his friends. One of them, was proud to tell us that he is the only son of his Mother. Then he told us that his Father had died but had two wives and the other wife had 11 other sons. They must live on the very edge of poverty?

A truck pulled in, honking, a young Korean guy, Byun, jumped out of the back, he and another young guy ran around, sort of exciting the group. They unloaded some bottled water and other boxes. Later, a 4WD pulled in, Pastor Kim and his wife. They were gracious and kind. We told them that we had food, they invited us to eat Gambian food with their group but being fearful of diarrhea we asked if we could use a stove to boil some water for pasta. They showed us to a room, there were several bedrooms in what they called their guesthouse. A young woman, Sue, also Korean but a volunteer from Australia, was staying in the other room. Though she spoke English she was shy and she said, “A little sick”.

Cat cooked while I got the other things ready for dinner. As she stirred the pot she talked with Mrs. Kim about their life here. Mrs. Kim isn’t all that happy with their assignment here. Life is difficult and health is a constant concern especially for their two children. She told Cat that they were robbed when they first arrived, the house was broken into and a lot of their personal things were taken. That’s when they hired the guard that we had met earlier.

We ate at the desk in the bedroom then slept in mosquito net.

Sunday, November 23, 2003
Brikama to Bignona
112 Kilometers

Awoke to our second flat tire in as many days. The nasty nail that caused the first had left a second puncture on the inside of the tube. I applied my improving skills and it was a fast fix. (An old axiom from my early days in sales, “Repetition is and aid to learning”.)

We ate over leftover baguette with jam at the desk. Loaded and ready to roll we asked Mrs. Kim if we could get a picture of them for our journal. She told us that Pastor Kim was not feeling well and they thought that he had Malaria. Through the doubt he appeared and stood with her and the group for a quick pic. He looked a little peaked as my Grandma would have said. Sue, our housemate was there when we asked for the photo then disappeared. As we put the camera away and shook hands she reappeared with fresh makeup on and looking good. She had missed the photo opp. By the way, these are really nice people doing what they think is the right thing. I just hate to see locals who need things and want things coerced to believe things in order to get them. You know what I mean? Well, recruiting is a big part of the Religion Game.

As we pushed out the same boy, Lamm, appeared with the same story, he wanted money to buy shoes so that he could go to school. On the road by 9:30 AM, he walked along beside us then loped as we gathered speed. I stopped and told Cat I had to give him the 50 Dalasi. (About $1.65) I thought of the time when I was in 3rd grade, Mom came to parents day then all the other Moms let their kids buy a hot dog and coke. I couldn’t, we didn’t have the money. It cost a dime. Maybe he was scamming us but I felt empathy. I’d been there and I knew the feeling. He just stood and stared at the bill in disbelief. I shook his hand then helped him stuff it into his pocket before one of the bigger kids could take it away. I’ll never know whether he got his shoes or not but I will never forget the feeling I had and the lump in my throat as I looked back at him in my mirror.

Pastor Kim had told us to go about 2 Km to the Police Checkpoint then turn right. We stopped at the service station next to the checkpoint and bought bananas. Each of us ate one in front of the staring crowd then rolled down to the right a ways and ate the rest in tropical solitude.

The road went from bad to the worst! There were more holes in the asphalt than solid areas. A huge old truck caught us, tailed us then in a mighty effort, passed us. It spewed black smoke every time the driver applied the accelerator. By now the road was so bad that he couldn’t pull away from us. We were trapped in his tail pipe trail and it along with the dust choked off all air and a lot of the light.

The road though terrible is flat. We think that the weaving back and forth between the potholes is like walking through a minefield. It may add 20% to the length of the ride? The scenery though covered in a cloak of dust for the first 10 feet, is tropical and beautiful. When we reached the Military Checkpoint on the border a rope with rags tied to it raised up as a barrier. The uniforms were seated on the porch of the outpost shack. The guy pulling on the rope relaxed it and they indicated that we should come inside. Our plan is that one of us, this time Cat, stays with the bikes, a ways from the checkpoint and the other takes both Passports and faces the system.

Back in the Jungle 

As I stepped though the door a short, crass guy got into my face after looking at my Passport and asked, ”Have you read this”? I looked the Visa page over and told him that I had. “You must stay for 30 days”. He snarled at me.

“Oh no, look it says anytime during the 30 days”.

“Yes, but you can’t come back in,” he said as though it was a penalty.

“That is not a problem”, I answered, “We don’t intend to come back”.

He faded, he had been fishing for a little money but knew that he had lost the battle. A small win but one that felt pretty good. He tried to extend his authority by insisting that he personally stamp my Passport. The other clerks seemed to like the way it was turning out. Some even smiled and nodded as he stamped and signed.

“Who is that woman”, he asked in a slightly more friendly tone.

I told him Cat was my wife and he said, “Bring her here”!

“No, I’ll go watch our bikes and she’ll come in”, I told him with conviction. I was getting a little cocky but why not go for it?

He was a sweetheart to Cat and in just minutes we were ready to get out of The Gambia, into the Casamance and onto our next adventure

As we started to mount up a guy came out from a little booth and asked if we wanted to change money. I thought it was a good idea but Cat wanted to hold out for a bank where she thought we might get a better exchange rate. I traded my Dalasi for CFA at the rate of 27.50 to 1. Cat thought that we should get 30, I feared that we might have a pocket full of souvenirs if we didn’t get rid of the Gambian money here and now.

Between here The Gambia and Casamance there’s a 2 Km strip that they call the Frontier or “No Man’s Land”. Funny but there are houses, farms and people going about daily lives in this “No Man’s Land”?

The guard on the Senegalese side looked at our passports and waived us on without question or fanfare. It was more of the beautiful tropical terrain. The road went from terrible to great at the border. The tropical scenery thickened and we loved the look and feel of the place. We passed an armored vehicle with heavily armed soldiers sitting around watching us with interest. We could only hope that they were the good guys.

Diouloulou is a crossroads. We would be turning to the left and out toward water. A small cluster of buildings and a store mark its existence. We bought soft drinks and sipped in the shade. There is a Teleboutique across the street so we decided to try to get a call in to Dennis, the US Embassy Warden that Rita had introduced us to. He was in and reminded us that we should stop and say hello to the people at the Mission Catholic. He is a very open friendly sounding guy and we’re anxious to meet him.

The Mission is just a couple of one-story buildings. A local pointed them out and we cycled across to them. As we rode in Father Jean Bernard greeted us. He was on his way to a meeting but asked us to stand by for a few minutes. We sat on his porch and started eating our left over pasta. He came back out and insisted that we join him and the others on the back patio. Dennis had been close to correct, he said, “They’ll offer you a beer.” Their offer was a shot of rum. They laughed and joked. They say that Father Jean Bernard is called J. B. just like the whiskey.

The others are Frs. Bernard D., and Antoine ‘Tony’ S. There were several Nuns there, we only got the names of 2, Sr Lea and Sr Christine. They were holding a round table discussion and relaxing with a drink. We ate our pasta and accepted Cokes. Fr. Bernard D. was stiff and sore, the effects of a Soccer game he played yesterday. He slugged down 2 aspirin with his drink then took some of our bread to help digest.

Another treat for us, Marie-Laure, is visiting from France. She is a cyclist, in fact her avocation is teaching mountain bike skills. Her Mother is involved with the Mission and visits every two years. Our conversation was slightly hobbled by language problems but we enjoyed just being with her and the others and relaxing out of the hot sun.

As we reluctantly re-mounted Cat asked about a bank where we could exchange our remaining Dalasi. Father Jean Bernard shuttered and told us that there was no bank in Senegal that would accept it. E-gads, we would have about $50.00 worth or worthless currency. As we lamented Fr. J.B. spoke with Fr. Tony and they decided that they could exchange it as they go into The Gambia often. What a great deal for us!

Our LPGB told of an encampment in the village of Baia. We crossed a bridge over the river and slowly cycled through the village looking for any sign of a place to stay. Baia is only a cluster of 8 or 10 small houses. We couldn’t see anything that looked even suspiciously like an encampment so, although we were hot and tired, we rode on.

The 20 Km was flat and hot, we were ready to get off the seats. Bignona is another crossroads. There’s a hotel here but it’s pretty well hidden. We asked at the Shell Station and the guy pointed across at a side street. Once across the highway we caught a sign but it was unclear which of the two streets would lead us to it. Our questions, to the group of locals that gathered when we stopped, set off a big discussion that ended in a consensus that we should take the second street. The street is lined with small booth shops offering all sorts of goods. There are crowds of shoppers or lookers in front of each one.

The street dwindled to a sandy trail and we had to push. Hotel le Palmier is at the end of that trail. The Hotel is an old looking building. Desire, the manager was seated out front reading his mail. He showed Cat the room, pretty basic but it does have a toilet and shower of sorts. With the bikes safely inside we turned to the bar. Desire is also the bartender. Cat decided on beer instead of a soft drink. I took a sip of the icy Gazelle and changed my order to beer, too. The first went down so easily that we each had another.

After a cool shower in our slightly less than adequate bathroom we went to work on dinner. Desire had told us that they only cook if they know in advance that a guest wants food. We were out of luck except that they had pots and pans and would let us cook some of the food that we had on board.

Jessica, a cute teenager working here, who speaks great English, helped fan the fire and cook our dinner. In the midst of squatting next to the cook stove and fanning the flame she got a cell phone call. This seems to be the epitome of the collision between the old and new Africa.