the long road to dakar
Arranging buses to ferry 80 something people to Dakar was meant to ease travel frustrations. Generally it works well because we can put all of our passport info together ahead of time to cut down on the time at the border crossing, plus time haggling over taxi prices, etc. This year we had a giant bus and a smaller, 30-seat one. Everything started off well enough: at 5:20 a.m. we were driving south toward the border at Rosso. Although it may be Mauritania’s most-traveled, this is still a two-lane road and requires a certain amount of attention to avoid kids, goats, barely moving cars and other hazards. A couple hours in, it became clear that the driver of the larger bus-who was about 70 years old to begin with-was also half blind: he had a habit of swerving the giant bus to avoid things in the road, after which it would sway and those following in the short bus would hold our breath.
We were stopped at a police post for a couple of minutes and lost sight of the bus. When we found it, the bus had plowed into a small sand dune along the side of the row. The reason? A roadcrew had put a black wheelbarrow in the road to force people to either a) swerve around them or b) hit the wheelbarrow. Our bus did both. Long story short, there was a lot of digging and pushing and two towing attempts before it got out.
this didn't work, actually
Somehow we made it onto the last ferry before the three-hour lunch break (when the ferry does not run) thanks to magic orchestrated by PC's Cheikh Gueye, who always wears a shirt, tie and pointy alligator shoes, even on road trips. We pulled onto the ferry aftera herd of about 200 camels were driven off. I was outside of the bus just then with my back turned, and actually jumped out of the way. Camels are big, tall, and move faster than you would think.
the ferry from senegal, loaded down with camels
On the other side of the river, the border cops decided they wanted all 80 volunteers' birthdays and place of birth, which were not listed with the passport numbers on the sheet Cheikh had made up. So that was two hours. Meanwhile, the short bus had developed a problem with the alternator just as we'd driven onto the ferry. This meant that a guy who worked for the ferry actually had his hand in the engine (which was located inside the bus) holding something together while we drove on. Apparently it was really hot. Even after our passports were okayed, the alternator problem had still not been resolved, so we drove back and forth up the two-lane road, doing precarious three-point turns (raised road, no shoulder) while they tried to fix it.
Leaving St. Louis after a quick lunch break, a mere four hours or so behind schedule, some people in the front seat tried to show our driver knew where exactly he should drop us off in Dakar. First he refused to look at the map, saying that he would rather we just explain it along the way. Then he changed his story and claimed to have been to Dakar so many times that he didn't even need a map, and was actually insulted to be shown one. So we drove. And it seemed like this was not the road to Dakar, seeing as it was all twisty-turny and there were no other cars. Are you sure this is the right road? Of couse. He asked a herder guy along the road where Dakar was, and like all herder guys, he vaguely motioned behind him (not really indicating any particular route) and said "that way." See? I told you, the driver said.
Fifteen minutes later, the pavement stops. Both buses pull into a tiny village on the water, all cute little houses and palm trees. The men in the village confirm that this is not Dakar. The short bus driver nods, then, instead of backing up, pulls the bus forward into deep sand to try to circle around. Tires sink. The wheels spin. Stop doing that! we yell. The men in the village laugh and acknowledge that despite his being Mauritanian, our driver does not understand sand. We all get out and inspect the damage. The entire village has come out by this point, and the trip to this point has been so bad that it's actually funny, so we all hang out while there is more digging and pushing. The village men are nice enough, but then someone decides that they shouldn’t help unless we pay them, so pushing is 100 percent volunteer. The bus is out, again. The kids walk us back to the buses and we're out of there. On the way back, we saw monkeys.
the village at the end of the road
The road is two lane most of the way to Dakar, until you get into the city and it's a four-lane boulevard, jammed with traffic, with people crossing and the occasional horse cart. We made it to the club at 10:30 pm, where we got picked up by our hosts... The rest of WAIST is history-there was RIM Pirate softball, affordable beer, and a first-place trophy for the third consecutive year. Alhamdulilaaargh.
We were stopped at a police post for a couple of minutes and lost sight of the bus. When we found it, the bus had plowed into a small sand dune along the side of the row. The reason? A roadcrew had put a black wheelbarrow in the road to force people to either a) swerve around them or b) hit the wheelbarrow. Our bus did both. Long story short, there was a lot of digging and pushing and two towing attempts before it got out.
this didn't work, actually
Somehow we made it onto the last ferry before the three-hour lunch break (when the ferry does not run) thanks to magic orchestrated by PC's Cheikh Gueye, who always wears a shirt, tie and pointy alligator shoes, even on road trips. We pulled onto the ferry aftera herd of about 200 camels were driven off. I was outside of the bus just then with my back turned, and actually jumped out of the way. Camels are big, tall, and move faster than you would think.
the ferry from senegal, loaded down with camels
On the other side of the river, the border cops decided they wanted all 80 volunteers' birthdays and place of birth, which were not listed with the passport numbers on the sheet Cheikh had made up. So that was two hours. Meanwhile, the short bus had developed a problem with the alternator just as we'd driven onto the ferry. This meant that a guy who worked for the ferry actually had his hand in the engine (which was located inside the bus) holding something together while we drove on. Apparently it was really hot. Even after our passports were okayed, the alternator problem had still not been resolved, so we drove back and forth up the two-lane road, doing precarious three-point turns (raised road, no shoulder) while they tried to fix it.
Leaving St. Louis after a quick lunch break, a mere four hours or so behind schedule, some people in the front seat tried to show our driver knew where exactly he should drop us off in Dakar. First he refused to look at the map, saying that he would rather we just explain it along the way. Then he changed his story and claimed to have been to Dakar so many times that he didn't even need a map, and was actually insulted to be shown one. So we drove. And it seemed like this was not the road to Dakar, seeing as it was all twisty-turny and there were no other cars. Are you sure this is the right road? Of couse. He asked a herder guy along the road where Dakar was, and like all herder guys, he vaguely motioned behind him (not really indicating any particular route) and said "that way." See? I told you, the driver said.
Fifteen minutes later, the pavement stops. Both buses pull into a tiny village on the water, all cute little houses and palm trees. The men in the village confirm that this is not Dakar. The short bus driver nods, then, instead of backing up, pulls the bus forward into deep sand to try to circle around. Tires sink. The wheels spin. Stop doing that! we yell. The men in the village laugh and acknowledge that despite his being Mauritanian, our driver does not understand sand. We all get out and inspect the damage. The entire village has come out by this point, and the trip to this point has been so bad that it's actually funny, so we all hang out while there is more digging and pushing. The village men are nice enough, but then someone decides that they shouldn’t help unless we pay them, so pushing is 100 percent volunteer. The bus is out, again. The kids walk us back to the buses and we're out of there. On the way back, we saw monkeys.
the village at the end of the road
The road is two lane most of the way to Dakar, until you get into the city and it's a four-lane boulevard, jammed with traffic, with people crossing and the occasional horse cart. We made it to the club at 10:30 pm, where we got picked up by our hosts... The rest of WAIST is history-there was RIM Pirate softball, affordable beer, and a first-place trophy for the third consecutive year. Alhamdulilaaargh.