Senegal – Losing a bag, finding Teranga

Summary: A few days in Yoff & Dakar without luggage fail to impede my desire to undertake the Senegalese experience. Cheated, sweaty, dirty and tired, Dom chugs along to determine that Dakar is a city easily avoided in future. Despite all the challenges, one gleaming aspect overshines the unpleasantness – Dom finds Teranga.

Stepping out of the Boeing 737 onto the tarmac at Dakar's Aeroport International Leopold Sedar Senghor, you instantly know that you're in Africa. Baggage throwers creep from their precious spots of shade under fuel tankers to offload non-human cargo while a bus awaits at the bottom of the stairway to take you to immigration control. Saying “merci” to the cabin crew, you step into the African sun and are blasted by Senegalese heat; your near constant companion while on the continent. After a compulsory stamp from an immigration officer, you enter directly into a dusty, warm baggage claim where one noisy baggage track jerks and jolts. At one side, an older gentleman is hard at work grabbing all the bags that are wrapped in plastic and proceeds to toss them into a pile at his side. While the pile grows and grows until it becomes a small mountain and passengers from the flight grab their bags, I don't see my rucksack. Wrapped in a Pacsafe, an anti-theft steel wire mesh cage, my green Lowe Alpine Contour IV 90 + 15 is hard to miss. I went to the window to see if more bags were being off-loaded from our plane, but the cargo hold had been re-sealed. Thinking there might be an oversized luggage area, I started to move to the big pile of bags to have a butchers when I heard my name being beckoned in an African accent. With a few other passengers in tow, the man from whom the voice emanated told us in French to follow him – at least that's what it seemed like. In a back office past a very lax security checkpoint, I was handed a luggage chart and asked to identify my bag. Apparently, in the London/Lisbon-Brussels-Dakar blitz, my bag didn't follow me. I've had bags lost by airlines before, but in Africa, there's no guarantee someone's looking into it and I was mildly concerned. With the help of a girl from D.C. who was in the same boat but who spoke French, I was able to inquire about when the bag might arrive. I was asked when I was leaving Senegal and when I told the baggage agent 4 days from now, he said “will probably be here by then”. I, for the first time in what will undoubtedly be many times during this journey, silently thought, T.I.A. - This Is Africa.

So sans baggage, I left the baggage area with the bag of goodies for Yuri in search of an ATM. The first three countries I am to visit use the same currency, the FCFA (when spoken, called “say-fa”). Within 4 seconds of exiting the airport doors, I was met by five Senegalese guys who were all asking me what I needed. I'd dealt with touts before, so I ignored them and continued around the corner to where Lonely Planet had said there was an ATM. It was then that I realized that my planned ATM stop in Brussels had been missed in the chaos to get on the plane. As it was Sunday, the bank was closed. With the five guys still all over me, I got flustered and my brain accepted that if the bank was closed, so would be any ATM. With that fuzzy logic, the only option was to engage these guys and do some business. With security guards and gendarmes around, I was leery about exchanging money in plain view; a Senegalese jail is not something I want to see – ever. Still, I needed some local currency and these guys had it. So, with the €50 note given to me by Paul & Chrissy for my birthday (thank you, both!), I negotiated a rate of CFA650 to the Euro and some guy used his cell phone calculator to produce a figure of just over CFA23,000. With everything that had happened in London, Brussels and now with my lost bag in Dakar, my brain failed to catch that I should have received CFA32,500. I'm considering it an African tax on pleasures not yet had.

The same chap who'd done my on the currency exchange was also keen to bring a friend with him as he walked me outside the airport to catch a “cheaper” taxi. By now, my spidey-sense was tingling and although jovial chat about footy flowed, I was sure I was gonna get charged an incorrect fee for the ride. My first inquiry to price was met with something I'd heard before in Vietnam: “no money, just friends”. After I heard that, I switched into traveling mode and immediately went full-court press on this guy. I threw out a number and he threw back his “special price” of CFA3,000. This is twice what it should be. Rather than fight him, perhaps physically, I pushed for CFA2,000 and that seemed to work. Arriving at the Via-Via hostel in Yoff to the North of Dakar, I quickly shooed my companions away and told the guy I'd call him tomorrow to help me with my bag. I think I still have the business card of that guy. Maybe if I go back to Dakar I'll go get my CFA10,000 back – I'm pretty sure I could take him.

The entrance to Via-Via is in an alley off the Rue de Cimetières. Through a small double door, the hostel opens to reveal a pleasant, if small courtyard with a small thatch-covered restaurant. Recommended as a backpacker's favorite, I picked it because it was the best sounding of the cheaper options in an area where most “budget” hotels double as brothels. In French so atrocious it would make Sarkozy order me to never again attempt, I threw out “J'ai un reservation du nom Cronshaw” to a guy I later realized was a gardener/cleaner. He was kind enough to bring me to reception where my reservation was hiding under my first name and further disguised in light pencil amongst a sea of other names. After laughing at perhaps my useless French, my not knowing my own name or a combination of the two, the guy at the desk showed me to my room. A clean but poorly lit single on the 2nd floor, the room named “Missirah” had a bed, mosquito net, mounted oscillating fan and some shelves and in the corner, an en suite bathroom. Seeing the room, I was glad I'd chosen the joint; after further inspection of the bathroom, there was no forgetting I was in Africa. Shrouded by a beautiful black and tan batik, the 1m2 tiled area had a sink, shower with cold water and no curtain and a flush toilet. In all seriousness, the presence of a half roll of TP and a bar of used soap was a pleasant surprise. With but one set of clothes, this would also be my laundry room for at least one day. “Perhaps my bag will be here tomorrow,” I thought with a solid sense of naivety. I was grateful to have shelter and left my things to head to the thatch-covered restaurant where I hoped a cold beer awaited me. With my first gulp, I was sure that this beer, this 1L bottle of Gazelle, had been brewed, bottled, shipped, chilled, and opened just for me. Unnerved, but alive, I had made it to my first stop in Senegal. The rest of day was spent with a Frenchman named Didier Pajot who, although spoke about as much English as I did French, spoke nearly fluent Spanish. A instructor of Djembe who had returned to Senegal to visit friends in Casamance in the South, he and I undertook various tasks together including checking out the beach, hitting an ATM (not closed on Sunday!), and trying to find malaria pills for him. Missions completed as much as possible, we returned to Via-Via for some dinner and to crash. I was 98% toast and twice nearly fell asleep in my plate. With a 5:00am ride to the South, Didier wasn't up for a late night either and we both retired around 9:00pm. Sleep, though, would have to wait – I had laundry to do in the shower.

30 July 2007 .:. Daylight creeps through the curtains bringing with it birdsong and the sounds of children playing. Naked, I crawl out of bed to look at myself in the mirror, ready to slap myself to make sure yesterday wasn't a dream. Seeing the shower, there was no escaping the truth: I was indeed in Africa with no luggage and not enough French to confidently remedy that problem. Rather than shy away from that, I tossed on my shower-washed clothes from the day before and headed down to breakfast under the thatched roof. West African breakfast is very basic and often consists of bad French bread, a bit of confiture and, if you're lucky, a Nutella-type substance. Via-Via also hooks you up with tea or coffee, so, bonus! And so, sipping my cafe au lait, chowing down on cardboard, I continued to write about all of the craziness from the previous day. As I finished what I can only very loosely call bread, I was approached by a girl from Barcelona named Anna Puig. Didier and I had met her and her two traveling companions the night previous at dinner. In my hazy, exhausted state I had said maybe three words to them. Still, this morning, Anna had come by to have a look at my Lonely Planet and chat. Sitting with Anna, I was glad I'd learned Spanish in school; it was becoming oddly very useful in Senegal. The night prior, they were explaining how they'd been scammed upon arriving in Senegal from Barcelona a few days prior. Their bags were also lost, but on the Barcelona-Casablanca-Dakar route and when they left the airport they were approached by a guy who said he worked for the hostel and he'd help them with what they needed. At some point, the girls became separated from each other and then from about €120 when they gave it to the guy to go change money. It sounds foolish, but given that I'd been convinced to get into a cab with two Senegalese guys I didn't know, I suppose strange things happen in Africa. Anna wanted to know where the Malian embassy was in Dakar as they were to travel overland on the Dakar-Bamako train that I had originally hoped to take, but they had yet to obtain visas for Mali. With little to do but wait for my bag, I asked if I could go with them. 20 minutes later, we were off.

Nearly everything is up for negotiation in Africa, especially if you're white (e.g. a tourist). From cab rides to cabbage prices, you can fight for almost every CFA, Cedi, or Birr. Negotiating here is a skill, but unlike in the Western world, it has a few unique facets including the “walk away”. Say you're negotiating a cab to take you and your three friends from Yoff to the Malian embassy in Dakar. You'll likely be approached by a cab, you tell the cabbie where you want to go and you'll be met with a price. Unless you know it's a fixed price (from an airport, for example), feel free to scoff, look offended and offer half of whatever's been said. You will likely get back something lower than what was originally quoted. If you still aren't happy after a bit of this, just stand up and begin to walk up the street. If the guy was trying to milk you and wants the fare, he'll chase you down and yell another price at you. If you like it, you get in. If not, you start the process again with another cabbie. It's not the most efficient process, but after a while, it can be kind of fun. One word of advice is to pick a car that looks like it can make it the whole way there – all of the cabs are old, but some are downright death traps. I'll be writing more about negotiations as GlobalTrek:Africa continues, I'm sure.

With the sun bearing down on my untempered skin, the three Spanish girls and I arrived at the Malian embassy. With little to do while they filled out applications but read my little French handbook that Auntie Rose so kindly gave me prior to departure, I sat in one of the two shady seats available and tried not to get eaten alive by mosquitoes. As it was Monday and the girls were leaving on Wednesday, I wouldn't have been at all surprised if they'd had to delay their departure while the embassy took their time to issue visas, but to everyone's delight, they told them to come back the next afternoon. It all seemed so easy and the incredible hassle and expense of sending my passport to Brussels to get my visa seemed unnecessary now. Still, I had my visa and so the biggest concern for me was to get a bottle of water from the roadside shack outside the embassy; a manageable task even without French. Water is, in my mind, the most undervalued asset in the developed world. Look for a future post dedicated exclusively to water. The rest of the afternoon saw the four of us traipse around Dakar looking for poulet yassa, a cyber and a beach – finding all three without much difficulty but through oppressively hot taxi rides, persistent touts and a lengthy walk. With sweat dripping from every inch of my body, we stopped at a pastissiere for some refreshments. In West Africa, these aren't just places to get bread, but have lavish desserts and are often places you take people you want to impress. With that in mind, I wasn't far off in hoping for air conditioning and was partially correct! As we sat down beneath a massive LG AC unit that was flush mounted with the ceiling, I ordered and large bottle of water; despite it costing CFA1500 (about $3), I was happy to pay three times the street rate for something cold. Sadly, the AC never came to life and so we sat and sweated through the entire experience. Ironically, as we left, it was clear that the air outside was cooler than inside. Tired, sweaty, and ready to call it a day, we hopped a taxi back to Yoff. The return journey was nothing short of astonishing. Perhaps it was the ancient Peugeot we'd found ourselves in or the tired driver who seemed hesitant to make the trip North, but this taxi ride opened my eyes to the fact that in Senegal, there are no rules of the road. Cars move from left to right, taking whatever space is available with little concern for speed beyond avoiding slamming into the car ahead. Buses pull off at random intervals, motorcycles squeeze in between cars that would easily win in a collision. Once we'd left Dakar, we entered the poorer outskirts of the city passing the main stadium and a massive market that looked like something out of Mad Max. Hollow-eyed shadows of human beings atop years of garbage and sewage hawking dirty, greasy pumps seemed to stare directly into my eyes, but without any sentiment at all. I wondered what creatures operated towards the center of this tragic place, what wears they clung to – not out of pride of ownership but of utter necessity for the basics of life. There wasn't much time to be shaken by the situation, however, as our driver quickly tired of the traffic and swung a right down a back road. While the sandy path was a sign we were close to the coast and our hotel, the threat of getting stuck was all too real and I was too tired to push a taxi out of a sand pit. The final intersection was the epitome of gridlock. A 4-way intersection if you count our sandy alley, there were vehicles attempting to travel in six directions and a horse-drawn cart attempting a seventh. We were sitting there for 5 minutes before we got through and walked the rest of the way back to Via-Via.

The thatch-covered patio of Via-Via is a relative paradise after such a ride and while the girls were quick to head up to shower and get ready for dinner, I was stuck wearing the same funky gear I'd arrived in 28 hours earlier. Someone was going to call about my bag, but when I half-way inquired, it appeared it hadn't happened. I was told to wait. I want to say I was cool with it and was able to roll with it, but no. I asked 2 more times, mostly with gestures, before one of the girls who worked there remembered that her cousin was a soon-to-be-teacher of Spanish at the University of Dakar and lives, literally, around the corner. She called him to come over which he did 4 minutes later. A thin and hugely cheerful fellow of 27, Arona was happy to help and advised me to wait until tomorrow and if no one had called, he'd call for me. With my gratitude, he left but not before showing me where to find him around the corner. Given that I had nothing to do the following day, I asked if he would be willing to teach me some French, a request to which he agreed. After returning to Via-Via, I ate dinner with the girls and retired upstairs to once again wash myself and my clothes in the shower with no curtain before nakedly crawling under the mosquito net and falling asleep. The day's verdict: Dakar is a loud, busy city that will quickly shock you into a new mode of thinking and can be easily voted off a trip to Africa.

The morning of 31 July 2007 began at around 06:00am when the heavens opened and thunder and lightning replaced birdsong as a wake-up-call. Although too tired to get up to see it, one flash pierced my eyelids and the vicious crack of thunder soon after assaulted my inner ear. Today, I thought, might be a wash (no pun intended). Even my 10:00am appointment with Arona might be missed on account of this torrent. When I descended at around 8:00am, staff were scurrying about plugging leaks and bailing out water from somewhere behind the bar and the guests huddled under the covered patio. Some brought down headlamps to fight the darkness while others looked on in disappointment that they may be at the hostel all day. Just before 10:00am, there was a brief break and I took the opportunity to get a move on to Arona's. Not 2 minutes away and I didn't make it before another massive downpour got me and I had to run to seek shelter in his courtyard entrance. He was up and ready and we headed to a telecabine to phone the airport to see about my bag. The bag had arrived, so we hopped in a cab and headed to the airport where I quickly popped in and grabbed it – finally, my stuff!! I quickly dropped it in my room, changed my shirt and headed back to Arona's for some help with French. A single story unit down an alley from the Rue de Cimetières, Arona's building had about 14 rooms arranged around a sandy pit no more than a meter and a half wide that flooded during any significant amount of rain. After hopping over the pool, I entered Arona's room where he and three other men were laying on thin mattresses on the floor. With a window opening with no window and a curtain for a door, the 9' by 11' room was home to these four guys. Taking a seat next to Arona, we began to speak a few phrases of French. Despite his selected profession, he had no real method of teaching and the lessons quickly digressed into conversations in Spanish about his life and his family while we drank numerous cups of sweet tea. Two hours passed while I sat and read my little French phrasebook and Arona played with his cell phone. Opting for the chairs at Via-Via, I thanked Arona and his roommates for their hospitality and made my way back to continue writing and reading. I felt far away from home and yet my world was becoming very small. Thoughts of mutual funds and how the Rapids were doing were completely gone, replaced by thoughts about Wolof, sweet tea, and having my bag. When I returned to Via-Via the Spanish girls were sitting with their guide from their previous trip to Senegal and we all went out to dinner with him at a shack down the street where a news report showed that 90mm of rain had fallen in Dakar – nearly four inches in just one day, normal for this time of year. After dinner, the Spanish girls were all under the weather with varying degrees of the Senegalese variant of “Delhi belly” and we canceled our planned round of Butifara, the game they'd taught me the night before. Shame, I'd really been looking forward to that before heading off the next day for Île de Gorée. Still, I smiled as I didn't have to do any shower laundry that night.

Having well over-stayed my reservation at Via-Via, and with them politely encouraging me to leave it was time to head on to my next destination. Originally, this had been Saint-Louis up in the North near Mauritania, but as SN Brussels is basically useless and had lost my bag, that option disappeared. Perhaps, given the experiences thus far, it was meant to be so; inshallah. My only remaining tasks were to pay the bill, say goodbye to the Spanish girls and pay one last visit to Arona to thank him for his help. Through it all, he never asked for a thing. Such is the nature of the people of Senegal and they have a word for it: Teranga. To help others and to be a good host are the basic principles behind Teranga, but there's a warmth to it as well that I wish I had more time to explore. Arona, a true lion of Teranga was a man from Sokoro who helped a man from Boulder and over all the touts, over all the calls of “my friend!”, it is he who forms my opinion of the Senegalese people. Sadly, the pace of this journey leaves experiences to be desired and rather than spend more time with Arona, I could only offer a token of my appreciation for his help. My bag packed, save one important element, I took the item I'd left out and headed to Arona's house. He was there, laying on his mat, enjoying his time off school as I entered. I expressed how much I appreciated his help and gave him my favorite England jersey as well as my contact details and asked him to keep in touch with me. He showed little emotion, perhaps due to his roommate looking on curiously, but I'd like to think the sentiment translated effectively. After popping back to Via-Via to grab my bag, I negotiated a taxi ride to the ferry that would take me to Île de Gorée for the night before my flight to Mali. Senegal was nearly a closed chapter in GlobalTrek:Africa, but there was one solid story left.