Into Africa

Written by Sandra Phinney

It is mid afternoon. Sweat oozes from every pore of my 60-year old body. Using the bottom of my T-shirt, I wipe my face, only to smear a day’s worth of sand and grit across by brow. I look at my sister, Carmen. We exchange weak smiles that imply “We’re almost there.” There—meaning the Banaba Café, a campement on Lac Rose, in Senegal, West Africa.

Campements usually consist of small cement huts with thatched roofs. They have beds with foam mattresses and mosquito nets. The doors may or may not lock and the plumbing may or may not work. It matters not. We’ve been on the road for eight hours and looking forward to landing in this particular spot, as it’s owned by a British couple.

We’ll be able to communicate in English; pick up some survival tips! And, mercy of mercies, have a refreshing swim in Lac Rose (famous salt lake)—our first swim since landing in Senegal ten days earlier.

As we near our destination, our driver stops in the centre of a small village to ask directions. In less time than it takes to sip some tepid bottled water, we are swarmed by villagers. They bang on the windshield and badger us to buy beads, brightly colored pants, and plastic pots. They insist that it’s impossible to get to our destination by road; we will have to hire someone with a pirogue (canoe-like boat made of heavy planks) and cross the lake to the Banaba Café.

We have paid for the driver, Pape Loum, to deliver us and we’re not about to budge. Seeing a road to our right, we bark in unison, “A droit!” Pape would prefer to drop us here, but he’s an honourable man. He swallows his thoughts and puts the car in gear. Onward!

Alas, because of a two-year drought, Lac Rose has shrunk. The shores are parched and cracked. Ownership of the campement has changed. Things are not as they were. We decide to stay for one night then more on.

A man approaches us. He insists on taking us for a pirogue ride to see the sights. We’re too tired to argue. The pirogue is a seven-foot punt that’s used to collect salt from the bottom of the lake. There are no seats, so we sit precariously on sticky salt-crusted edges as our guide poles across the water.

The “sights” turn out to be mounds of salt on the far shore. Our self-appointed guide then proceeds to proposition us. Surely we need a young man in our lives? Imagine how well we would sleep after a massage! We are not amused. (Later, we learn that many women from France come to Senegal for sex.)

But the day isn’t a total disaster. The evening meal is Poulet Yassa, a superb Senegalese chicken concoction with a fabulous mustard and onion sauce. And—surprise, surprise—although there is no electricity, our hut has an outdoor washroom replete with a cold water shower spout that actually works.

We each take a shower by the light of the moon. I feel like howling, but fear that our ‘guide’ will interpret this as a mating call. Before I crawl into bed, I place a paring knife under my pillow. Then I start to giggle. In fact, I get somewhat hysterical. Here we are my sister and I, backpacking in West Africa. Surely we’ve lost our senses.

People have since asked “Why Senegal?” Well, at the ripe age of 56, my sister graduated from the Dalhousie School of Nursing here in Nova Scotia. To celebrate this milestone, we decided to take the ‘trip of a lifetime.’ Carmen read something on the Internet about drumming lessons, pirogue rides, and bird sanctuaries in Senegal. It sounded exotic and fun.

But the guidebooks don’t prepare you to deal with hundreds of “Talibes” in the city of Dakar—children who beg for their religious leaders; how to avoid being swarmed; how to haggle for a “bush taxi”; and the hairy drives—often in ditches (better by times than the roads) in vehicles that defy description.

But we finally discovered that the further away we were from the city, the more we could relax and appreciate Senegal and her people. They are resourceful, spirited and kind. They are superb hosts and we were often touched by their grace.

For example, our journey south of Dakar brought us to Campement de Palmarin, a co-operative venture between four villages. We were the first guests to visit in several weeks. The manager, Robert Diouf, had to scurry to gather ingredients for our meal yet he cooked an incredible dinner over a grate of coals—fresh mullet (fish), french fries, and that amazing onion-mustard sauce.

The next morning I heard swish-swishing sounds. A handful of men, bent over homemade whisks, were painstakingly sweeping the grounds—a daily ritual. In spite of not having visitors for weeks, they were preparing for guests. Every movement was like an unspoken prayer. It was poetic and powerful.

Knowing that we were anxious to find a trustworthy soul to take us on a 50-mile river ride inland to Foundiougne, Robert wrote a letter of introduction to a friend on the coast who owned a pirogue. A real lifesaver! At one point, skimming along between the mangroves, Carmen stood up in the boat, raised her arms, threw her head back and grinned with glee. The journey was exquisite.

A friend asked me recently what I brought home from my trip. I brought home three shells. I brought home an altered vision of Africa. I have also changed. Not that I am a better person. But, somehow, I am different. I feel it in my bones.

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