Breakfast at a roadside café in Kidira, just before the border: a grand baguette filled with a two egg plus onion omelet, and a cup of instant coffee. All for just a dollar. The café, like usual, is just a table, a few chairs and a roof made of straw and plastic, carried by a number of thin wooden poles. We chat with the younger man who owns the café – an unhappy Ivorian. He complains about the lack of money, and explains that he plans to go to Morocco where he would board one of the small boats that, inshallah, would take him to Spain. He is the oldest son of his family, so he has to shoulder the responsibility to support both his parents and his siblings economically. He imagines Spain to be the key to ease that burden, but says that he “isn’t yet ready for the adventure.” So he stays here to run the café for still some time.

The Senegalese immigration is awkwardly situated in the middle of town instead of being along the main road to the border as is often the case. But once we find it, we quickly and without fuss get our exit stamps. We cross the Falémé River on a busy bridge. On the other side, we find the Mali immigration only after passing the whole border town Diboli, as well as a long line of trucks parked on the roadside.

A lone policeman meets us, and says that his boss has taken off with the arrival stamp. “He will soon return,” the officer says, whilst giving us his own phone number. The latter doesn’t come to much surprise – in Africa, the constant seeking for new friends and contacts is a way to enrich an else quite uneventful everyday life. Later, a nervous Senegalese man appears. He makes so much noise when he, too, doesn’t get his exit stamp, that the officer finally snatches our papers, walks into his office and stamps them. The stamp was obviously not missing at all, so maybe he just made it up so to get a chance to chat.

We stop in small village Kouiloumbo to look for water in a shop, and get invited to lunch (rice and meat) by the owner and his family. The small shop is actually just a single, simple shelf leaned against one of the walls in the room. The shelf is filled with small necessities such as tea, sugar, candy and cigarettes. Most of it is divided into small, transparent plastic bags; individual portions small and cheap enough to buy only when there is money to be had. A woman passes by and barters a freshly killed, beheaded lizard (i.e. food) for some tea and sugar.

In a small town further up the road, Ambidédi Sima, we are invited to sleep at the home of an elder woman.

We leave the village early morning after we’ve bought some bread for breakfast – burning hot from the small bakery. After 50 kilometers, we stop to have lunch at a bus stop. The people around us, that come and go with the busses that pass by, look at every step we take; everything we do. But they rarely speak to us or ask for anything. They just observe.

The roadside bus stops can be found at those villages that lie too far away from the road for its people to be able to wait for transport at home. They usually consist of a sitting area made by tree logs or thick branches, elevated about half a meter up on four large poles. Another meter or so above is usually a thatched roof that gives shade although isn’t thick enough to protect from any rain. If there is no roof, there is often a large tree instead that can give shade during the day’s hottest hours. If as sometimes the roof is missing or has broken, the place is useless. You rarely see anyone sit at those bus stops.

Reaching the village Sinthiou Fissa, there is such a bus stop by the main road, just by the intersection where a small dirt road leads down to the actual village. There are some men – waiting for transport, or maybe just watching passersby. We ask them whether or not we would be able to find bottled water in the village. “No, there is no water – but there is an American living here,” they reply with excitement. A visiting toubab is a ‘thing’ in most villages, so I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was surprised by the hype, though maybe for an American being a substitute for bottled water!

We become curious anyway, and besides are quite tired, so we pedal down to the village center. The sandy square is enclosed by some houses and two small shops. Some men at outside one of the shops tell us that the American is a volunteer from the Peace Corps, and he appears not long after. He comes on his bicycle from work in the fields a few kilometers away. Greg is his name, and after we’ve asked he invites us to camp on his host family’s compound. We all find it nice to chat with another muzungu (East and Southern Africa), faranji (Ethiopia), toubab (West Africa) or whatever they call us white folks. Every now and then, it is nice to share our experiences of the culture and life here with someone from a similar background as ours.

The Peace Corps was founded by John F Kennedy in the 1960’s. We met several of its volunteers in The Gambia, Senegal, Mali and Burkina Faso. It seemed that all of them were to stay for two years – Greg had already been in Sinthiou Fissa a third of his time. It seemed nothing like ‘doing time’ though – he told us that although it could be stressful at times, it was also a great experience. For once, this aid was about more than just easing ones conscious by donating clothes or cash. Greg’s mission was to teach environmental issues at the local school, from the perspective and through the practice of agriculture. Composting, effective water usage, etc.

Summary Senegal
Senegal was like two different countries. For us that travelled by bicycle, the country was divided into the part to which most tourists go, and the to which fewer tourists come. The coast versus the inland. The local people by the coast were really a test of our bearing. They begged – or rather demanded – our things again and again. Young as well as old; both in the city and in the village. They asked for a pencil, candy, the shirt I wore or Lina’s bicycle. However inland we didn’t experience any such problems. Kind, hospitable and warm people hosted us in the villages we passed by.

Senegal also has – I think – the best food south of Sahara. Crispy, often fried rice, mixed with tasty but not very strong spices, topped with slices of lime, pepper, fish, vegetables such as okra and fruits like papaya. The rice is a fresh staple in comparison with the usual African corn porridge. The pieces of fish, vegetables and fruits are also more fresh than the usual mushy meat stews in which one can barely discern the ingredients.

Lunch in small village Talibadji. While Lina stays at the bus stop by the road, a young man from the village shows me to its only shop. On our way there – as we cross the railway – he explains, “This is a small village – only one shop. In bigger ones, maybe two or three. But here only one.” Further on, by the outskirts of the village, he points at a small house on which wall is written “tele sentre.” It is a phone booth, run by a solar panel on its roof. I buy some rice, onions and sugar at the shop before we turn back.

At the bus stop, a minibus has got an engine failure and halted to wait for assistance. We chat with the passengers while preparing some of our rice for lunch. A mechanic from Ivory Coast has a scar from a machete over his forehead. “The rebels in southern Senegal did it,” he says, then continues, “I was a soldier, but my heart has changed side. I’m not evil anymore.”

After lunch, we pedal another five kilometers to Bouigheul-Bamba, where we spend the night. The owner of its small shop lets us camp just behind, in a corner of a large inner yard. The compound is bigger than usual, and seems to be shared between several families. A couple of women bring us a bucket of water to wash ourselves with. Adjacent to one of the houses is an open-air room, enclosed by a high mud wall. In the middle of the room lies a flat stone on which to put ones bare feet – sandals left by the entrance. It feels good to wash away the thin layer of fine, red dust. To shower is one of those simple, daily habits that has no value at home but has grown into something more during this trip – something worthwhile. With a day’s cycling behind you and a good night’s sleep ahead, it is a beautiful moment in which to think back on the day that’s past; on the people you’ve met. The fresh, cool water and the faint twilight breeze revives body, mind and senses. The scorching feel on ones skin after a long day in the sun disappears. I look up at the stars above and think to myself that it is truly a beautiful world we live in. I might even say it out loud to myself, just be sure it’s not a dream. It’s almost religious!

After that we’ve pitched our tents, I use the last few minutes of light to write. Around us stand more than a dozen children and women, all of them watching us with curious eyes. One of the women says over and over again that her skin isn’t good, but that ours is. I, of course, try to contradict – say that we are all the same; that we are no different from one another. Another woman arrives with a young baby, bringing it close to me only to laugh loudly when it starts to cry. Many young children in rural Africa are afraid of white people because they’ve only seen them rarely. Soon we all laugh together; agree on how bizarre it is to be afraid of someone because of their skin color. Through the laughter, we unite in a conviction that we are all the same.

When stopping for lunch in small village Kochari, we meet Modou who invites us to camp at his home. Both I and Lina feel quite weary and tired, and accept his invitation despite the early hour. On our way to his house, I ask him what he works with:

“I work with Michelin,” he says.

“Aha, changing tires; A mechanic?” I ask.

“Yes! I’m a mechanic!” he exclaims, happy about me understanding what he meant.

Modou and his wife Fatou are really friendly. They invite us for both lunch and dinner, and let us take rest during the day. I make use of the extra time to wash all my bags, clothes and the bike – but water appears to be surprisingly hard to fetch. One year ago, Modou tells us, the water tower that used to deliver tap water broke. Until recently, when the whole village turned out to demonstrate, the government showed no will to repair or replace the tower. In despair, the villagers blocked the main road that cuts through town, and only then were promised a new tower by the government.

But until that promise is fulfilled, the nearest water source is a twenty (!) meters deep well. They fetch the water using a rope and a bucket, but the bucket is broken and loses half its contents on the way up. It is a heavy labour to fetch all the water that is needed for a day, but Fatou and her neighbor help each other. They pull every second time, and sometimes clap their hands in between the pulls to get a rhythm. It goes quicker when they’re two, and less water is lost through the broken bucket on its way out.

After Manda, where we stop for a quick lunch break, the distances between the villages grows longer. Man-high grass and brushwood spread out by the roadsides. It is dry – along the road also a minor bush fire. Despite the monotonous landscape, we’re treated with seeing a group of monkeys, and crossing a beautiful, narrow one-way iron bridge over the Gambia River.

We reach the larger town Tambacounda as a small rain passes. We first find our way to the post office, as I need to send home a few CDs with pictures on. To be on the safe side, I always burn two copies of my pictures at Internet cafés along the road – I keep one of them in the baggage, and send the other one home. The post office is just by the market, which – after a short downpour like today – is enclosed by a thick carpet of sticky mud.

After I’ve finally had my mail sent, we meet a Gambian at the market. He sells dried fish, but has already packet his things together and shut his stall for the day. Together we walk the couple or so kilometers north through town to his home. A beautiful sunset meets us as we cross the muddy suburban streets; try to find a dry path between the potholes. We camp outside his one-room apartment.

I go to buy bread at the bakery in the morning. It’s a small room – only a few square meters. Three young men work there as bakers. They make the dough in an old bathtub, and then leave the baguette loaves to rise in white bed sheets on the floor. Later, they are put to bake on a bed of burning charcoal inside a grand brick oven – a centerpiece in the room, opposite the bathtub. Baked, the breads are put to cool down on the floor, leaning aslant against the wall. I buy a few – still warm inside – for me and Lina to eat for breakfast with red fruit jam inside.

After a ten kilometer dirt road, we cross the border to Senegal at Badiara. Another ten km’s further up the same road, we reach Velingara and there also a larger tarred road. We eating lunch – bread with mayonnaise and boiled eggs – at a roadside café in the outskirts of town. We meet Diallo. He invites us to stay with him and his family, and so it is.

We cross the border to The Gambia – as swift and easy as the last one – and reach Banjul in the afternoon. Banjul is the country’s small capital, with a population of only half million. We continue some ten or so kilometers further south to Bakau – a suburb of the capital. There, Cheikh – a man we met a few days earlier in Senegal – has put us in contact with a friend of him: Commissioner Jallow of the Gambia Police Force. Jallow lives in Mile Seven, a residential area residing almost none else than military and police officers. We get to camp behind Jallow’s house, and stay for four nights – get a lot done (e.g. visa to Nigeria) and enjoy good times with Jallow, his family and his neighbors.

We once again camp in a small, roadside village. We are directed to the chief’s compound. The chief himself is not present, but his younger brother gives us permission to stay, and we pitch our tents on the open yard between the houses. They give us a bucket with water to shower with. A piece of fresh watermelon is another gift – it seems to be in season as they have plenty of it.

Here, like in so many other villages that we’ve passed the past days, they use solar power for light. In many towns and villages, we’ve also seen small, self-supporting phone booths, driven by solar energy and connected to the world by a satellite mast on the roof. It’s cool to see these villages that have developed from having no electricity at all directly to solar energy, thus skipping the bulky and costly work of building cable grids. Those villages are the future concretized – a long-term and durable society in the middle of the Africa that many people think of as undeveloped and old-fashioned.

We continue south through a Senegal less busy and for us more pleasant, than the country we met along the N2 north of Dakar. At times, the silence is complete. I remember one occasion, when men had gathered around a wooden gaming table by the roadside. They were playing games at midday, when the heat doesn’t admit much work. When I cycled past them, I could hear the faint sound as the dice fell to the board. Then again, complete silence as if in space.

From Fatick, we detour on a smaller road closer to the coast. It takes us through desolate, wide open wetlands. A few palm trees rise from the else low vegetation. By five p.m., we finally see a hut by the roadside. We meet three young men there who allow us to camp next to their dwelling. They’re brothers and work together in the surrounding fields. Apart from the agricultural farming, they also have some cows and goats – the latter ones corralled inside a simple enclosure of branches. The walls of their hut are made of straws. The roof is thatched. The sinking sun tints the surroundings in a beautiful, golden light. A lone wolf howls.

The brothers share us some of their water, which they’ve brought in bright yellow plastic jars – presumably from Fatick. We cook pasta for dinner; the brothers eat rice. We tried to offer them some of the pasta, but they said that only rice is good enough for them to manage the heavy labour in the fields. They cook the rice in a big, sooty cast iron kettle over an open fire.

After we’ve eaten, I go to lie down in my tent and write. I’m safe harbored from the mosquitoes outside, but still able to see through the net (no flysheet). Starry night. The crickets sing. On a cart, the brothers sit in the moonlight, chatting. A lone spark glows from the dying fire.

We leave around eight after having a cup of coffee. Bruno gives us some of the family’s homegrown bananas for the road.

In Mbour, we find an Internet café where we stop to surf a little, burn pictures on DVDs and make lunch. While the owner of the café burns the DVDs for us, we set up our multi fuel kitchen on the sidewalk outside and make lunch. Anyway, the burning ends up taking much more time than expected, so we leave only just past five in the afternoon. Just a few kilometers later, we start looking for a good place to camp.

We meet Cheikh in his Jeep, parked by the roadside. “Follow my car,” he says, and shortly after we’ve reached his family’s compound and pitched our tents. Cheikh turns out to be a traveled man, working at a radio station in Mbour. He is also doing an interesting project in the same town, in which he constructs a typical village compound. His plan is to use it in education together with screenings, concerts, etc. A kind of culture centre, that looked quite promising when we visited it the following day. Cheikh had a great energy!

In Keur N’Diaye Lô, we visit Bruno. We met him just after crossing the border between Western Sahara and Mauritania, and he invited us to his home nearby Rufisque (about 20 km from the capital Dakar). He was born in France but now lives here in Senegal with his Senegalese wife and their children. We have a great time together, and are served some of the most amazing Senegalese food – something out of the ordinary. A variety of vegetables and fish covers the usual bed of spiced rice. On top of their two-story house, Bruno has built a roof terrace. We stay there and chat until late at night, and then sleep side by side on mattresses under the stars.

On our second day, I go to the small village’s center to get a haircut. The hairdresser is not present, but someone goes to fetch him when I arrive. The small (about two square meters) tin shack is just big enough to accommodate a chair for me to sit on and the hairdresser standing. Along the walls, narrow shelves carry the necessities like scissors, razors and sprays. The walls are covered with various wallpapers – most of them Barça and Ronaldinho. In excitement over having cut a toubab’s (white man) hair for the first time – and with good result, too – he shakes my hand at least a dozen times before we part. His wide smile is infectious; I find it difficult to leave. To visit a hairdresser here is so much more than just getting ones hair cut – it’s also a meeting with a new friend.

When we wake up, everyone in the village is busy cleaning up – they even pick up rubbish from the streets. As we continue south, we see more signs of the approaching fête. In almost every village, groups of men stand gathered around a recently slaughtered cow. Some of them fiercely chop it with big axes; others cut it with machetes that they’ve sharpened against the tarred roadside. It is the big fête – the end of Ramadan. In Pout, I’m waved in behind a fruit stall. There, a man gives me some meat stew with bread as I wait for Lina.

Lina comes, and a short way further up the road, a man once again waves at us from the roadside. He sits together with some friends behind his butcher stall, and we are invited to make them company. They invite us to share three (!) different dishes, one after the other. First a bowl of couscous, a spicy, oily sauce, pieces of meat and lots of onions. Then another meat stew with bread, and finally a meat stew with macaroni. Soon, we’ve been invited to stay overnight, too. We join the man through the village to his home.

The radio plays cheerful music from Guinea-Bissau, and later a live recording with Jimmy Cliff. Between his two white plastered houses is a small open courtyard. It is, unlike most around here, covered with green grass. There are also a couple of banana plants, two big mango trees and a passion fruit plant, even though none of them bear ripe fruit at this time. Most Africans tend to keep their yards clean from verdure and instead only let there be dirt or sand, as the damp setting is also the where mosquitoes (and with them malaria) thrive. Another dinner is served in-between rounds of strong tea. It’s a great atmosphere!

We eat lunch in the village where the current president was born more than 80 years ago. On a small porch outside a shop, we sit down to cook our food. But – as usual here in Senegal – we are asked by the shop owner for ‘donations’ as we pack up to leave, since “we’ve used his porch.” That is despite us buying several groceries from him. The children shout “kado” (gift) and “bic” (pencil) after us. We don’t give anything – it is better to support those who work – but the nagging is still tiresome.

In a small village, we are allowed to camp on an elder man’s compound. Once again, we are assumed to give something in return. When they see something they’d like to have, they just point at it and say, “Give me that!” Intrusive, to say the least. The road along the coast has obviously seen way too many tourists through the years.

The border crossing is almost too easy to be true. There are none of the insistent salesmen and money changers that usually swarm around borders, and the Mauritanian immigration is helpful. It doesn’t take long for one of them to go inside the office and stamp our passports – possibly eager to resume the chatting and tea-drinking with his comrades by a table outside.

On the other side of the Diama bridge, we even have to wake up the Senegalese counterpart (immigration). There is no police or customs. The door to a small house opens up and an immigration officer peaks out – his eyes barely open. As Swedish we don’t need a visa, but he gives us our entry stamp. Soon, the man has returned inside the house and closed the door – as suddenly as he first came out – and we must lift the road barrier ourselves to finally be able to enter the country.

As we continue, we are met by the most wonderful green you can imagine, not the least after months of just sand or at best a few bushes. Sounds of countless birds and insects fill the fresh, clean air. The rainy season has just ended, so the difference couldn’t have been more obvious. A sudden change for us in only a couple of days.

We cash out some CFA (a common currency used in many West and Central African nations) at an ATM in St Louis. It’s a beautiful city, but the romantic image is lacerated as we pass the outskirts of town, where a group of children sniff thinner by the beach.

Here in Senegal, people constantly ask for money, pencils, or even our bicycles. From the kids on the street, which is acceptable, to the owner of the shop in front of which we just cooked our food after being invited. Tiresome!

In Barale Ndiaye, we meet French couple Elise and Brieg (www.unmondeavelo.blogspot.com – French). They are also cycling, but shorter stretches divided up on more or less every continent. Senegal to France will be their last, final leg on their tour. Together with some goats, chickens and birds, we camp on a family’s compound in the small village. It’s good to exchange experiences from the road; tips and ideas.