Travels with a Dakar - The Long Road Home - Meanderings

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Travels with a Dakar - The Long Way Home - Meanderings

I take my final farewell of Geoff and Mark, and Kay and Amadou and ride out of Sevare to the sound of church bells calling the faithfull to Sunday mass.

Market

15 miles outside the village there are two, but mostly four, wheeled carts drawn by donkeys and horses. They full of brightly clad groups of people, families, friends chatting and laughing.

"Did you hear about Mrs. Bagayoko? No? Well I hear that she........"
"Never, who would have thought it and she so devout"
"It just goes to show still waters run deep"

"The price of millet has just gone through the roof"
"Don't I just know. I don't know how we will survive this year".

"Who does that Mrs. Samake think she's fooling wearing those colours?"
"You'd think at her age she'd have more sense!"

There are dozens of carts, travelling alone or in groups. Tall, stately men ride sedately on ancient bicycles. A few are walking. Herdsmen drive cattle and sheep. The whole area is descending on the village. It is Sunday. It is market day.

It is a small non-descript village. It could be any of hundreds. For the rest of the week it is quiet. Its rickety wooden stalls stand like skeletons by the side of the road. Today though it is teeming with life. Stalls, trucks, vans line the street. Men and boys with barrows run around wheeling bags of charcoal, bundles of wood, vegetables, tyres, oranges, tomatoes, onions, yams, millet, rice, dried fish shouting at people to get out of the way. Everything is loud and noisy. Whispering just never caught on here. They push and shove their way through the crowd of people who stand and talk and barter, oblivious to all around them. The road through the village comes to a standstill. It is completely blocked by the chaos. Traffic comes to a halt. Nobody cares. People are here to bargain and shop and enjoy themselves. Through traffic is a minority activity. The few passing vehicles come to a standstill, then try to edge gently forward. People look at them, then carry on with their business. What's your rush? Where are you going? Finally, grudgingly, they move apart and I pass through to emerge at the other end of town. The stalls sell all the necessities of life and more. You want a used tyre? What size? The range of bald tyres to choose from is extensive.

"How about these lovely oranges".
"What, those tough old ones! I broke a tooth the last time I bit into one".
"Well, you try getting better in West Africa"!.

A Walk by the Niger

There is no bridge at Segou. The nearest bridge is further north on the road to Niono. The vast Niger river can only be traversed by one of the many prioques and ferries that ply their trade carrying people and goods from Segou on the south bank across this wide watery thoroughfare of this part of Africa to the hinterland of the west. I walk by the river during the late afternoon. At the western end of the river front is the "artists market". Busloads of tourists are dumped from coaches and minibuses and flock in their droves to buy pots and cloths. Their 30 minute stop is part of the tour. In the centre is the main hive of activity of the river front. . Ferries of all sizes come and go depositing people and goods on the quayside. Fishermen with lines sit on the jetty catching their evening meal. Others paddle out into the river in canoes to fish on a larger commercial scale.

In the river women do their washing and gossiping. Multicoloured clothes are hung out to dry quickly in the heat of the afternoon sun. I walk eastwards where houses come right down to the river bank. An artisan is weaving matting from rushes. He is thoughtful, bending the rushes into geometrical patterns. He stands back to admire his work. He notices me watching him and smiles and carries on with his work.

There is shouting ahead of me further along the bank. Two young men are embroiled in a serious fight. Friends are trying to seperate tham. They succeed eventually and one is held by his friends and is being led away. The other takes advantage of the lull to grab a long pole and renew his attack on his opponent. He is clearly not happy with the outcome so far. Further intervention does succeed in seperating them and this time successfully. Later when I walk back it is as though nothing has happened. All is calm and serene.

Children congregate around me. Their requests for a cadeau, bon bon, stilo etc. is automatic but is soon abandoned when I tell them my name is "donnez moi or give me". They smile broadly when I ask them for gifts, sweets and biros. They accompany me for the rest of my walk, shaking hands, laughing with me and at me.

Another "match of the day" is in progress on an open sandy piece of ground. It is seriously competitive. Each of the teams has a complete football strip. Supporters shout encouragement. Tackles are hard but the referee is respected. There is no arguing. Premiership prima donnas might learn from them.

As I return to the hotel I think how different it is to live life outside, on the streets, on the river instead of in our Western cells.

Migo

I leave Segou early in the morning. It will be a 10 hour day to get to Nioro near the Mauritanian border. There is something magical about being on the bike early in the morning in a warm climate. The air is still cool and the light clear. The smells of charcoal and eucalyptus combines to give a heady perfume. Children walk and cycle along the road to school. People are starting another long day in the fields. In the towns and villages shutters are being raised as shopkeepers get ready for business. Traffic is light.

Then there's Bamako! I enter the outskirts and am immediately surrounded by an entourage of Chinese step throughs. hundreds and hundreds of them. I half wish I could change the Dakar for one, at least for getting through Bamako. It takes me an hour. We arrived in Bamako at night and I did not get a sense of the layout of the town. We were guided by J-M and I was too busy dodging traffic to notice anything else. I stop constantly to ask the way. People want to be helpful but directions are not always so. Traffic is heavy and aggressive. Owners remove indicators as soon as they buy a car. At one point I find myself in what must be the gare routiere for West Africa. I joke not. And then it's throttle open and I'm heading north.

I know that tall figure in the distance. He and his bike are unmistakeable. I have been riding with him on and off for a month. I start waving half a mile away. It's Migo. We stop. It's great to see him again, and back on the bike. He is heading east to join up with Mark and Geoff. Maybe. Migo always has his own schedule and there is another project he wants to visit in Segou and he might or might not go to Tomboctou and he may spend more time in Dogon country than the others. We have always been a loose grouping.

With the help of bike websites he traced the problem, got the parts and repaired the bike himself. He is not particularly mechanical but is learning fast and is rightly proud of his achievement. The bike is working fine apart from the electrics. He now has no lights. Maybe Geoff's naming of the bike as a Krap Touring Machine is prophetic and appropriate after all! For the time being Migo will ride in daylight. It is a brief reunion. We wish each other well and part for the last time to ride off in opposite directions.

Stagefright

My last night in Mali. Nioro has not much to offer by way of accommodation so I opt for it. I feel somehow cheated that my last night in here is to be spent in a run down auberge and not celebrated in some special way. At the auberge I fall in with three retired French teachers who come to Mali each year to train Malian teachers. They speak good English. While we eat, two of their Malian colleagues join us. One is the headmaster of the local high school. I am invited to what I understand to be a concert there and soon we are trooping to the school. The excitement amongst the pupils is intense as they line up outside the school for admission. We are honoured guests and a path is cleared for us to the entrance. We sit in the front row. The 9pm start drifts away into the distance of the warm, starry night as technicians try to set up the sound system. Finally the performance starts just after 10pm. Children walk around the stage declaiming passages of prose. Don't ask. The sound system goes wrong so we have another 15 minutes "testing, testing, testing". The children start again but it is difficult for them to compete with the noise of the audience. The performance is applauded enthusiastically.

Drums beat. The music? No. Only the introduction to a play on the issue of womens' roles and rights and access to land. Played by men. I have to take the headmaster's word for that. The children behind me seemed to enjoy it hugely particularly the irreverent references to local dignitories.

There is a lengthy process of instrument tuning as the kora player, a local musician, gets ready. Well, you know what artistes are like. He starts to play. The cool night air is filled with the most exciting and moving airs. A young girl dances rhythmically and the audience and I are in raptures. She comes into the audience and invites one of the female French teachers to join her in the dance on stage. She does, gracefully.

The drummer leaps to his feet and whirls around the stage dancing wildly. Oh shit, he's coming towards me. Before I know it I'm on stage, leaping around like an idiot, rhythmically of course, and bringing the house down! I'm sure they thought I was the comedy turn for the evening.

The kora playing is followed by a performance of a traditional dance of the blacksmith by singers, dancers and drummers. The action takes on a life of its own. There is a co-ordinator but very soon he loses control and the performers abandon themselves completely to the dance. Health and safety goes out the window. The cameraman and sound recordist has to employ a young boy to put out the various straw fires that continuously threaten his equipment. The dance goes on and on. The dancers becoming more and more intoxicated. They are taken over by the rythym. Outside intervention is required to gracefully bring it to an end but even then a few of the group make brave attempts to start again.

The evening is rounded off with another group of drummers and singers playing us into the finale.

A surprising and unforgettable last evening to my visit to Mali.

Desert Dawn

I leave the lights of Nouakchott behind me. Travelling in the dark in Africa is not my most favourite pastime. Anything might happen. Animals wander on to the road. Other vehicles may be saving their batteries. Cyclists and pedestrians may be about. It's cold. Very cold. It's dark but the road is lit by the stars and a crescent moon. Imperceptibly a horizon starts to appear. A faint light begins to show in the east. Slowly, very slowly the sky brightens to become pink and then the tip of the sun emerges over the horizon. It grows and grows to become a golden ball. It hangs like a fireball but without heat. Later it will beat down relentlessly draining life as well as giving it but just now it is light. The sand dunes are red. Their shapes are picked out in incredibly sharp detail by the light and shadow of this early morning magic. They march like dolphins on either side of the road threatening to engulf everything, as inevitably they do. It is the time to be riding a bike.


The Frenchman and his Campervan

I spoil myself again and go for a posh hotel so I have a luxurious and peaceful night. I set off from El Jadida to Chefchaoun full of joy and good cheer. The long way home is nearly over and getting to Chefchaoun is a major landmark. This is where my African journey started all those weeks ago. Firstly, some fuel before I hit the autoroute. I pull into an Afriquia service station. On the other side of the pumps is a French campervan, its owner already in a heated argument with the harrassed attendant. It seems he is arguing over the price of the fuel before he has bought a centilitre. Not, mind you, that the attendant is in any position to do anything about that. If anything this Frenchman should be taking it up with the board of directors of Afriquia Inc. Another customer intervenes and pours oil on troubled waters. My French friend continues to complain but seems to accept that the price is fixed. The attendant starts to fill the campervan. He is berated by my French friend. The cause of this disatisfaction is lost on me. In the meantime more and more customers are lining up. There is only one attendant. One customer gets fed up and leaves. The campervan's tank is full. Great, we can get a move on. No. Despite the price and total being clearly marked on the pump the Frenchman takes out his calculator and labouriously starts to work out how much he owes. Lord, give us a break! Some of us have nothing to do but we'd like to be able to do it today. The attendant is beside himself with fury as the calculations proceed, slowly, but is too polite to do anything. He has to wait for his money.

My good cheer has evaporated. My karma is shot to pieces. I intervene. As far as I know I ask the Frenchman to hurry up and go, there are others of us wanting to get on with life, politely of course. You'd think I'd asked him to jump into the nearby ocean. Now why didn't I know the French for that! If looks could kill I would not be writing this. At least it had the effect of extricating the poor attendant from his fate.

An hour later I come to the pay station on the autoroute.

"What? You're joking! I have to pay the same as a car? Listen sunshine I've only got two bloody wheels. I don't care if it is the policy of the company".

I'm with the Frenchman here.

Cold

From Nouakchott north it is cold on the bike. Early morning starts and the desert combine to send the temperature plummeting. Even during the daytime being hot becomes a distant memory. I'm only reminded of it by the smell of my bike gear which is pretty high by now. During the day comfortable is the warmest I feel. I spend my last night in Morocco in the Hotel Rif in Chefchaoun. It is less that two months ago that Martyn, Steve and I spent our first night in Morocco there. It seems a lifetime ago.

I leave Chefchaoun in the early morning. It is dark, it is cold, it is raining. The border crossing is quick but there is a frustrating two hour wait for my ferry as other ferry companies come and go. The ride along the autopista of the Costa del Sol is easy. It is bright and sunny and there is very little of the wind that can make this journey scary on a bike as it blows you off course crossing arroyos. But it is cold. I ride north from Malaga and in the distance, rising above Granada, are the snow capped Sierra Nevadas. It is clear there have been heavy snowfalls. I had heard rumours in Morocco that there had been a lot of snow in Spain. By the time I reached La Carolina and my stop for the night I am feeling distinctly chilled.

I have the sense not to start in the dark and wait until after sunrise. It makes little differance, I think, as I head north to Madrid. By now I have all my winter layers on, my winter gloves and silk liners. The heated grips are on full blast. After half an hour I cannot feel the heated grips. Everything just feels cold. I stop to eat, drink and warm up. 45 minutes. At this rate it'll take two days to get to Bilbao. As it turns out I need not have worried. I have completely lost track of time and find I have an extra day!

I'm back on the bike. The sun is shining. People in warm cars roar by. I pass trucks whose drivers are sweltering! Coaches have happy, smiling and warm passengers. I am still very, very cold. I manage to last 90 minutes this time before another compulsory break is required. I remember riding years ago and almost suffering from hypothermia because I did not stop. Not only unpleasant but dangerous.

My ride through Madrid comes as a welcome relief. I have to slow down. There is no wind protection on the Dakar so the enforced slow pace around the city cuts down on the wind chill factor.

All the way north the road climbs over a series of mountain chains. Each range is covered in snow. Is it my imagination or is the temperature climbing? A degree or two perhaps? At least I am beginning to feel the heated grips. Then I realise I am down on the plains and see the road climb over the next hills. The temperature drops again.

I reach Burgos and know there are only the Picos to traverse and the thought spurs me on. One last stop, one last warm up, one last effort and I am there. I had dreamed all day of a hotel room with a bath but by the time I reach the outskirts of Bilbao I stop at the first one I see. The Etape chain seems to have taken its lead from some of the Japanese hotels I have read about. Everything is modular. A toilet module, yes, a shower module, yes, a sleeping module, yes, a bath module, decidedly no. That luxury has to wait another night when I spent my last night in Spain in the Hotel Miramar, I've always wanted to stay in a hotel called Miramar, in Castro Urdiales on the Cantabrian coast. The bath water is so hot memories of yesterdays arctic conditions slowly fade and two months of accumulated grime and dirt dissovle and swirl down the drain.

Is that it then?

Well, not quite. My plan to ride from Portsmouth home during the night is abandoned by the time I reach Oxford. It is cold and raining, the lights on the bike barely illuminate a few metres ahead of me. I have been told there is fog and frost awaiting me further north. B&B it is then.

I start in the continuing cold and rain on my final leg north but that soon changes to large patches of frost in the fields I pass. By the time I reach Northumberland there is serious frost and ice about and for the last few miles freezing fog.

Welcome back to England!

But then, how would you know you were hot if you didn't feel cold or having a good time if you didn't have bad times?

Thanks for sticking with me. I've enjoyed your company.

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Comments

[Jophiel Wiis]

Thank you
for such a wonderful blog :) I found you through Marks blog, which I've been following for a while, and between the two, I'm now convinced that I'll ride Africa at some point! My first trip riding, however, is New Zealand and Australia for six months starting January 11. I can't figure how many you are riding with, but best of luck to all of you! In my last blog post (at jophielsbigadventure.blogspot.com) I linked to your post from November 3 about Ziguinchor, as I was glued to the screen reading it :) Best Jophiel