Wind Scattered Part II: Bus

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Read Part 3

Even in the painfully early, hung over morning, when the rest of Bamako was dead silent, the main bus depot was a buzzing hive of activity.  We stood in line for tickets at the open air kiosk, sat on flimsy wooden benches by the window, anxiously listening to garbled West African French over the low quality loud speaker, urgently hoping not to miss our bus.  It was impossible not to eyeball the only other white person in the room, blond, tan, stubbled, with curls falling to his shoulders.  He was toting camera bags.

Eventually there was a surge of motion in the ambling crowd, and we sensed it was time.  We went and stood in another newly formed long line to deposit our luggage and board the bus.  Another round of anxious waiting, of eager inquiries in a second language to ensure our bags were sent with the proper coach.  We climbed the staircase into the bus, and our journey, already massive in geographical proportions, took on an even more distinct chronological character.  The interior of the bus was a vision of the seventies, covered in red suede, with velvet curtains to match.  In typical West African style, people filed onto the bus until it was stretched beyond capacity.  My friends and I were spread around the bus.  I shared the seat in the absolute back with a large Senegalese nene (read mother-type).  The real departure began.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Three hours in, just as we begin to put distance between us and the city, as we venture out into the desert, the bus breaks down.  Passengers spill out into the roadside to buy water and plastic sachets from emaciated children, and hours tick by.  Eventually, the West African MacGyver spirit triumphed, the engine rumbled back to life, and we were back on.

At the stop for dinner, nene and I share a meal and a soda; I had immediately ingratiated myself with her by exchanging greetings and carrying on some small talk in fulani, her native language as well as that of my Peace Corps region.  I bought a woven reed fan, and we took turns fanning each other the remainder of the ride.  The friendship was cemented.  Lucky too, because the engine was in the back, right under our seats, and without that fanning, the combined mechanical and meteorological heat might have overtaken us.

We reach the Senegalese border a few hours after sunset - apparently about half an hour after it closed for the night.  This is apparently non-negotiable.  We sleep outside, in the cool desert night, under the partial shelter of an open air waiting area by the border facility.  The masses huddled together in the huge desert night.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Safely across the border, rolling through the brown dustiness and comically stunted trees of Eastern Senegal.  We're stopped at a customs check, and wait while hundreds of rolls of colorful fabric are unloaded from underneath the bus, counted, and compared to a list presented by the driver to men in fatigues, wearing berets and carrying large weapons.

The rambling journey continuing, stretching across the second day, blending the passage of time an inconsequential triviality, sucking us in to a weird, timeless odyssey across the sparsely hutted countryside, painted in browns and greens and yellows.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

into

Fifty one hours after departing Bamako, we arrived by the National Stadium in downtown Dakar. By then we had befriended the other white, a frenchman from Lyons named Amaury who was happy to share a cab with us to the hostel district in the early morning hours.

Advice for travelers in francophone countries: pay special attention to the difference between deux (two) and douze (twelve); it can be tricky to distinguish, and occasionally lead to disagreement.  For instance, when Amaury negotiated our cab, and we exited and prepared to pay, there was  a disagreement as to whether we owed the driver two thousand or twelve thousand CFA.  There was much angry shouting, and for a hot minute I thought we were really going to get in to something, but ultimately it all ending with everyone angrily walking away.

Another nervous moment as we hunted down the hostel that we'd chosen on a whim and a friendly recommendation, hoping that they'd even be open well before the crack of dawn.  But of course we were traveling with a sort of serendipitous momentum, and it wouldn't have left us stranded.  In fact, it led us straight to our beds, where the four of us happily collapsed.