Teo and Mia in their new school uniforms
Our neighbours and their donkey
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Gambia and not busted!
The next day, we were heading to the Gambia, passing through some pretty horrendous towns, some really beautiful rural
villages and some terrible roads. But we made it. 4pm on the 5th Nov, exactly on schedule. Not even one puncture. I
would like to tell you exactly how many miles we did but from Bilboa onwards, Pinky mileage was always a surprise. On
her worst day she had done 999680 km and yesterday she'd only done 17540. Denbo, our landlord's son had just
washed her so I think she felt good as new. Now she doesn't have the trailer, we haven't found a road she can't cope
with and believe me, we've tried. We live 6km away from the tarmac on a road that's deep sand in place and she great.
Life in the Gambia is so much better than we could ever have imagined. The people are fantastic, the children are so
gorgeous. We spent the first week up on the expat strip in Fajara but it was costing us the same for one night there as a
month where we are now (1000 dalasi which is about 25 euros). We are living in a 'compound' with a large extended
family. We have a little two room house with porch and long-drop out back. There's no electricity in the village but we
have the twin battery system in Pinky and the inverter so we can have all the light and power we need. We've even got
internet here because we bought a special USB stick with a SIM - its only good for emails really hence the tardiness on
the blog! We've got borehole water piped to a tap just outside the compound. I've even start a little garden. The family
we live with are Jola tribe so we're learning a bit of that. Safi, our landlady is a wonderful person, so skilled at everything
she does. She is trying to teach me to cook with the ingredients we can get at the market here in Makumbaya which is
fish, salt fish or smoked fish. She's also teaching me how to perserve food without a fridge. We went to the big market in
Brikama last week so I could find out the real cost of things, not just 'toubab' (whiteman) price.
We also bought fabric to have outfits made for Tabasci, the most important festival in the Muslim calendar here. After
morning prayer on Friday, everyone returns to there compound and slaughters a ram in remberance of when God offered
Abraham a ram to sacrifice rather than his son Ishmail/Isaac. I presume we put on our new outfits after the slaughter bit
but who knows. I think Mick is taking Yacuba, our landlord, to buy the ram on Thursday and we'll stick it in the car. You
never know we might win a ram, everytime you buy petrol or mobile phone credit you're entered into draws to win
Tabasci rams! They're really expensive - the smallest is 50 euros this year.
Teo and Mia have started school here in the local village. The headmistress lives in our compound and she is very nice.
We took them there the first day, but from then on they insisted on going on their own. It's only about 300m but I never
imagined they would feel that comfortable that quickly. The tailor has made them uniforms costing less than 5 euros for
two sets each. As to the quality of the education, well, they have absoluteley nothing. Being a nursery school (where they
stay until 7 years old), they don't even get individual slates and chalk, they just have to go up and write on the
blackboard. The alphabet is painted on the walls and that's it. Cement floor, no glass, no equipment what so ever. Whilst
our kids enjoy it, its fine at least we have choices but these local children have no choice. They say aren't they lucky to
have a school and they are.
Our work with the Beecause charity has it's ups and downs. The politics of who we should work with etc doesn't interest
us and sometimes it is hard to get beyond that. However, having the opportunity to get out there and meet interesting local
people doing worthwhile things is great. Next week we will be going up onto the north bank of the river, the real rural
backwater of the Gambia, to conduct a survey of beekeepers who participated in a training scheme part funded by our
charity earlier in the year. We want to see how they're getting on now they're approaching the first harvest. We've also
been looking at a charity called WYCE, (www.wonderyearsce.co.uk) supporting a village in the south of this region. We
went because we heard they had a good apiary but we found a fantastic example of what people can do when they
concentrate their efforts.
On the road to St Louis .........Mimi fell asleep straight away and Teo was bright as a little button, fascinated by all the birds coming in to roost over the marsh lands we drove through. We had been told of a brilliant campsite 16 km south of St. Louis, about 90 km in total on
a road with the deepest potholes we'd encountered. Now it was nearly dark so all three of us were on pot-hole watch.
We made pretty good progress, all things considered until we were 500m from the camp site. We saw the sign for the
campsite but it was unclear exactly where the road was. We took our best guest but it turned out to be deep sand and we
were stuck. I got out and found a perfectly good hard track just 10m to our right. We tried pushing her back but to no
avail so Mick uncoupled the trailer by which time loads of kids had turned up, all ready to push. This time Pinky flew
back at great speed, straight into the trailer - ahhhh. Luckily she only smashed her tail lights, but poor Pinky, it was like
she'd been subjected to rape and battery. We finally found the campsite, which was amazing and had our first beer for
over a week (a long time for us as you all know) - (my praying mantis is back but this time he's on my little finger making
typing quite difficult.) When we woke the following morning it was hard to believe that Paradise could possible be that
close to Hell.
The campsite was in a nature reserve on the edge of the river which is separated from the Atlantic Ocean at this point by
a long spit of land called the Langue de barbarie. They had canoes with which we could cross the river and walk over to
the sea and then explore the inland waterways full of herons, egrets, hornbills etc. In the campsite they had loads of play
structures including treehouses and tight-ropes. It really was heaven so we stayed three days, just about enough to
recover from our Rosso experience, although having just relived it to write about it, I'm not sure I'll ever fully recover!
Next stop Sali, the french equivalent of the Gambia to the British. All the beach front taken up by big hotels, just alittle
more chic and subdued than the British version. We had to drive right through the town before we found a sign to the
beach. We followed the road which passed through some gates and into a large field scattered with building plots.
However, there was the sea so we parked up to investigate - it was lovely. The security guard appeared and we asked if
we could camp there, no problem came the reply. So there we were right on the beach between huge holiday complexes.
On the road to St Louis .........Mimi fell asleep straight away and Teo was bright as a little button, fascinated by all the birds coming in to roost over the marsh lands we drove through. We had been told of a brilliant campsite 16 km south of St. Louis, about 90 km in total on a road with the deepest potholes we'd encountered. Now it was nearly dark so all three of us were on pot-hole watch.
We made pretty good progress, all things considered until we were 500m from the camp site. We saw the sign for the
campsite but it was unclear exactly where the road was. We took our best guest but it turned out to be deep sand and we
were stuck. I got out and found a perfectly good hard track just 10m to our right. We tried pushing her back but to no
avail so Mick uncoupled the trailer by which time loads of kids had turned up, all ready to push. This time Pinky flew
back at great speed, straight into the trailer - ahhhh. Luckily she only smashed her tail lights, but poor Pinky, it was like
she'd been subjected to rape and battery. We finally found the campsite, which was amazing and had our first beer for
over a week (a long time for us as you all know) - (my praying mantis is back but this time he's on my little finger making
typing quite difficult.) When we woke the following morning it was hard to believe that Paradise could possible be that
close to Hell.
The campsite was in a nature reserve on the edge of the river which is separated from the Atlantic Ocean at this point by
a long spit of land called the Langue de barbarie. They had canoes with which we could cross the river and walk over to
the sea and then explore the inland waterways full of herons, egrets, hornbills etc. In the campsite they had loads of play
structures including treehouses and tight-ropes. It really was heaven so we stayed three days, just about enough to
recover from our Rosso experience, although having just relived it to write about it, I'm not sure I'll ever fully recover!
Next stop Sali, the french equivalent of the Gambia to the British. All the beach front taken up by big hotels, just alittle
more chic and subdued than the British version. We had to drive right through the town before we found a sign to the
beach. We followed the road which passed through some gates and into a large field scattered with building plots.
However, there was the sea so we parked up to investigate - it was lovely. The security guard appeared and we asked if
we could camp there, no problem came the reply. So there we were right on the beach between huge holiday complexes.
Total rant - probably best ignored.
Next stop the border of Senegal. We had been warned by every guide book and fellow traveller that the border at
Rosso into Senegal was one of the most hassly in west Africa. The alternative was to turn west just 300m before the
border post and drive 90km along a dirt track to Diama Barrage. The problem was we were new to off-roading and
didn't know that Pinky Ponk was a 4x4 in disguise. So when people in the town said that the road was too bad after the
rains, we believed them. When we said that we didn't want to go through their border because we had heard that it was
very stressful and full of scammers and conmen, they said no no it's fine, we'll help you -ha, ha.
And so began the worst experience of our trip so far. We were quite calm at first, the river Senegal was quite lovely, the
ferry was there waiting, all looked fine. We just had to visit various offices handing over wads a cash for various stamps,
this was easy, just expensive. The whole time your not sure what's legitamate, even though they hand you all these
preprinted receipts for the money. Eventually we came to the customs which had just shut until 3 pm. We waited patiently
as the temperature rose. There was nowhere to get even a drink of water. We went to the river to paddle but the bottom
was littered with unspeakable things so we just sat there whilst the blokes around us cleaned every orifices of their bodies
in the water. Eventually, the customs man returned and although we were at the front of the queue, he took everyone
documents first before dealing with any of them which put ours on the bottom. By this time the ferry is almost full and
leaving. The car queuing system had worked the same as the customs office - we were at the front of the barrier which
turned out to be unopenable so all the cars behind us were loaded first and we were still there. I finally got our Laisser
Passer stamped but it turned out that it was a different guy who had to write the export details in the passport and he
wasn't there! At last he arrived, this time I was last so I had high hopes, but no - this man was methodical about order!
Eventually he did mine and I was about to run back to the car when I was informed it needed to be stamped. Ok, stamp
it - but that required a third man who wasn't there! The poor kids are in the car, it must have been 40 degrees plus, the
ferries engines were running. The guy finally arrived only to be unable to find the stamp - 30 minutes later the first guy
produced it from the drawer of his desk. I ran to the car and we drove to the ramp. Luckily for us the ferry had
developed engine trouble and was delayed. We found the ferry captain and asked if we could squeeze on the end, there
was plenty of room. He walked backwards and forwards studying the car and then the space and finally said to show him
our ferry ticket. Ah, no ticket for the trailer, this was going to be very expensive. There we were, front wheels on the ferry
when all of a sudden the whole of the port decided to get involved in our discussion. It was chaos - one minute someone
waved Mick on, then 4 or 5 blokes would push on the car to stop it - loads of shouting - god knows who was actually in
charge. In the end I gave one man about 5 euro equivalent and this seem to do the trick for the majority of the mob so the
fought off the nay-sayers and Mick put his foot down and we were on. By this time it was about 4 pm and our trouble
hadn't even begun.
We arrive at the other side and I leave as a foot passenger with the kids and the man who is 'helping' us so that I can do
the 'formalities' ie subject myself to government extortion. We handed in the passports and waited to see Mick - all the
other cars had long passed and still no Pinky Ponk. Eventually Teo spot her being drag around the corner by about 20
Senegalese. She was now straight on the road so the pushed her up to the exit gate where it materialised that the whole
ignition was buggered. The key had broken in the lock whilst Mick was trying to start it on the ferry! It was decided by
the crowd that we should be pushed out of the customs area and into the main street of 'Hell'. I had to clear passport
control, get a Laisser Passer and insurance at the worst border in west Africa with to very hot tired children on my own -
which was definately the cushie number out of the two of us. Poor Mick first had to find the spare keys and see if they
would work but his problem was that as soon as he moved away from the drivers seat, it was filled by at least 10 black
men. He fought his way back in with the key but it was appropriated by one of the guys who managed to break that one
as well - can you believe it. Then, instead of just letting Mick back into his own car to hot-wire as he was quite capable
of doing, they insisted on calling the 'mechanic' and his mate who duly arrived with their full tool kit of two large hammers.
I arrived after completing half of my task to see the car full of blokes, two of which were beating the poor Pinky Ponk as
hard as they could in the steering wheel area. Mick was nowhere to be seen, then I heard him saying, 'if I can just get .....'
it was coming from underneath the huge throng of people outside the drivers door. Eventually he managed to stop the
hammering and hot-wire in his own way. I finally cleared customs and we were ready to leave - but no, we were now
expected to pay every single one of Mick's 'helpers' and they didn't want none of that crappy senegalese CFA, they want
hard currency. Eventually, we agree to pay the mechanic but the rest weren't happy. By this time I'm in tears, telling them
they are all a bunch of evil, insensitive bastards - the whole street was laughing at me. We get in and try to drive off, but
being 'Hell' there are so many lorries coming in the opposite direction that its grid-locked. The crowd are still hassling and
we can't even keep the windows shut because when they pushed the car, they broke all the window catches. We finally
got moving fast enough to loose the crowd. The lorries kept coming and stopped for no-one, we had just been squeezed
into a junction by one when another turned past us and took out the corner of the trailer! Mick leapt out and started
ranting, I leapt out and started crying - and the street laughed! We then checked the damage and saw it was superficial so
in we got back in and got out of 'Hell'.
More mauritanian photoes
Mauritania
Next it was the border exiting Western Sahara. We arrived mid-afternoon but decided to sit tight until morning so that we would be able to utilise the full three days of the visa in Mauritania. We parked the Pinky Ponk right in front of the border gates once it was shut so we were in poll position. So next mornng, as we headed off into 6 km of trackless, mined, no-mans land, we had no-one to follow!! We had been told to keep left, but how left? Needless to say we didn't go left enough and got stuck in deep sand. Before we could even loosen the waffle boards, a truck load of Mauritanians appear from the opposite direction and pushed us back onto the right 'track'. From then on I walked in front to check for sand so we made it safely to the Mauritanian border. It wasn't as daunting as we expected - they just wanted money for everything 20 euros per visa, 10 euros for the car etc. We tried our magic tea - not good, the general opinion was why would I want tea when I can have money instead - they were obviously not as stupid as we were.
We decided to skip Nouadhibou, the most northerly town in Mauritania as we were scared we might not have time to get to the border. We headed straight on down the coast towards Nouakchott. Within a few miles we hit an intense sand-storm, poor Pinky could only just manage 70km/h against the wind. We saw a sign for a steam train and thought 'how quaint' then heard the bdum, dbum of train tracks and then a very loud train whistle! Luckily, in our ignorance, we'd crossed the tracks just seconds before one of the world's longest and slowest trains carrying potassium ore would have blocked our route for hours. I got out to try to take a photo but it hurt so much that I got straght back in again.
We managed to drive the 470km to Nouakchott that day and we booked into an 'auberge' in the city. It was really quite sophisticated, patisseries everywhere selling millefeuilles and baguettes and Lebanese restaurants. The sand on the main highways made driving quite difficult and many of the cars had lost almost every body panel, light, doors etc - it was like Mad Max. Right from the border, Mauritania appears to be a car graveyard, the roads littered with completely totalled vehicle and it was in Nouakchott that we realised they lived their final years in a half death-like existance.
We got completely lost on the way out the next morning, we toured the huge slum area to the south. At one point we passed a goat market so we got out to have a look. Within a couple of minutes, Mick had apparently agreed to by one and it was being tied up for transportation. The farmer was most agrieved when we explained that there really wasn't any room in a R4 for a goat.
Gateway to the Sahara
In Guelmin, the "Gateway to the Sahara", we suffered our first (and hopefully last) scam. We had committed the first sin of seasoned travelers - being lost and showing it. A man on a motorbike stopped and asked if he could help us, we told him we were looking for southern highway, he said 'no problem follow me'. He was true to his word and he got us onto the right road. Coincidently, his garage was just there so he invited us in to take tea. He said that was actually Mauritanian and travelled there regularly so he had lots of tips to offer us. After telling us where all the petrol and water stops were, he said the most important thing to know about mauritania was that you couldn't buy tea and that inorder to bride police and border guards, tea was better than money. OK, since when has anything been better than money but hey, we're gullible. So we asked how much tea would we need, 'Oh about 6 kgs should be enough' 'How much is it a kg' I ask. He thinks its about 20 euros which I say seems expensive. I say that we will pick some up in the next town but he advises against it because 'everyone is buying tea there so the price is really high' Ha ha. Anyway he had a cousin who sold tea so we could go there and get a good price. So obligingly off we went, me crammed in the back between the kids, pillows, teddies etc. Off Mick went to the shop, coming back with carrybags full of tea, 120 euros poorer. You all know how small the Pinky Ponk is so now we had to find room for all this. We knew we'd been ripped off as soon as we drove away - we asked each other we hadn't we checked the price in another shop - because we were stupid.
The coast of Western Sahara consists of a few towns spaced at least a couple hundred kms apart intersperses by 'fishing villages' - don't be thinking Mevagissy and thached cottages - just scout style tents in groups of about 5-30 all men and nothing else. They spend their time fishing from the huge undercut cliffs to catch fish that get collected about once a week. These are transported in tankers taking them to the fish processing factories in the towns where they're turned into fishmeal etc. The result of this rather bleak industry is that all the towns stink of fish and between them, you come across laybys swimming in the most fowl black slime exuding the most obnoxious smell imaginable where they load and transfer the fish. Layounne, a surprisingly swish garrison town full of UN 4x4's was covered in signs saying 'Jus de Poisson Interdite'.
We saw first proper sand dunes at Chebika wadi between Tan Tan and Layounne. It was a beautiful spot where we could camp right on the estuary with the crashing waves of the Atlantic behind a spit of sand. Standing motionless on the edge of the water were huge blue herons fishing. Come night fall the sky was luminous with so many more stars than we see even at Le Coty. The scene of perfection was only marred by one thing - the beautiful powder-soft sand we thought we were camping on turned out to be pure clay - a fact we discovered the minute the sun went down followed immediately by the heavy evening dew. Within minutes we were all walking around in platform sandals, anything we put on the ground instantly acquired a thick clay bottom. The only solution was to sit tight around the fire and look at the stars. In the morning we were woken by the sound of birds flying over, they sounded like seaguls at first. I poked my head out and saw that they were a huge flock of flamingoes just landing on the spit in front of us. It couldn't have been more perfect .
From here on we were in desert mode - every container we owned full of water or fuel, waffle boards (part of a disintegrating carpark surface in Lisbon) at the ready, stockings on the air inlet even the GPS loaded with waymarkers- everything!!! But somehow, the desert always remained at arms length and fuel and water stops always appeared before we were desparate. Apart from a few noteworthy incidences, usually involving 'the authorities', driving across the Sahara by the coast road is as easy as driving through France. Our map was a bit misleading as the size of towns, some like Boujdour appeared to be small but was a thriving town full of restaurants, banks and even a proper campsite whereas the next town south, Echtoucan, marked as the same size didn't exist at all. Dahkla, built at the end of a 30 km spit of land, was itself uninteresting but the area was amazing, white sand dunes rolling down to shallow sea almost too warm to be comfortable. We camped in between a contingent of long-stay campervans, mainly French, with satelite dishes and garden furniture, and also huge monster trucks, mainly Dutch. It was here that the children had their first (and last so far) bout of sickness and diarrhea. It started at about 3 am and within an hour every item of bedding we owned was awash. We had to delay our trip and spend the next day washing. The kids spent the day on the beach and were fine by lunch time. That was the advantage of following the coast, we could nip off to the beach most days.
Marrakesh and beyond
Firstly, sorry about the photos, I've got loads of videos but I just can't upload them.
After visiting a few rather disappointing coastal town, we decided to head inland to Marrakesh (I am still confused as to any connection with the Beatles or was that just Rishikesh?). It's a beautiful city when the sun is low in the sky - the deep reddy purple tones of the Altas mountains in the backgroud is reflected in the deep red render they use on most of the buildings.
We found a great campsite with a lovely pool which the kids loved. It was quite tempting to just hang around the pool and avoid the hustle and bustle. We forced ourselves and it was worth it. The souk (market) goes on forever - talk about shopping legs - we were desparate to just sit down but there's nothing but tiny shops as far as the eye can see and around every corner. Ah at last we came out into the main square by which time it was dark. The place was absolutely buzzing; foodstalls, snake-charmers, terrible magicians, sooth-sayers (a praying mantis has just landed on the side on my computer screen and is alternately waving his front legs at me.)
To all those that we promised we wouldn't cross the Altas mountains -sorry. We decided the only sensible route from Marrakesh south was to take theTis-n-Test pass over the High Altas, reaching a height of 2 km. Poor little Pinky Ponk got a bit hot towards the top but she did it. We camped right at the top of the pass - fantastic views all round. Couldn't help singing 'I'm on top of the world' at the slightest provocation.
We decided we would avoid Agadir as Mick kept bursting into 'Agadoo Doo Doo' every time it was mentioned and so became teinted in our minds. This meant that from here on we would be leaving civilisation and heading into wild west frontier territory but we were in for some surprises.
The good thing about getting away from civilisation is that you also get away from the millions of plastic bags that cover almost every inch of Moroccan countryside. Even in the middle of nowhere, you know when a village is within 5 km because of the plastic. Roll on peak oil!
Africa at last
It has been nearly a month since we arrived in in Africa and this is the first attempt I've made to update the blog. It is practically impossible to find an internet connection that will allow you to upload photos. These two took 45 minutes!
We started our African adventure in Tanger, Morocco and within 15 minutes of disembarking from the ferry (9.30pm) we were completely lost and stuck on the steepest hill imaginable right in the middle of the kasbar. Poor Pinky Ponks clutch was smoking and she just gave up. We couldn't go back due to the huge traffic jam behind us. For a minute or two it looked really bleak and then a gang of young lads came by and they pushed us right up to the top of the hill - trailer and all.
We all loved Tanger, within the first day we found camels on the beach, monkeys at the campsite and snake-charmers in the kasbar - the children were so impressed.
Heading south, we took the auto-route peage at first. By lunch time we came off to find something to eat and en route asked a policeman whether there was an alternative, less expensive route we could use. No problem, he said, the route nationale goes along side. He was obviously having a laugh! This road still remains the absolutely most terrible road we have encountered - it took us 4 hours to go 48 km. And yes it did follow the autoroute we kept going under it again and again but we just couldn't get back on it.
This detour meant that we found ourselves driving into Casablanca at sunset/rushhour. This has got to rate as one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. Traffic from all sides, so stay in the inside lane which is full of donkey carts, bikes and buses, none of which had lights - the on-coming traffic had only full-beam. We passengers just sat so tense telling Mick every time we could see vague movements in front of us. We couldn't even stop because there were too many 'things' at the side of the road. We finally stopped when we managed to turn off the highway about 40km south of Casablanca - our first opportunity!! We just found a bit of waste ground, put up the tent all climbed in and went to sleep. % minutes later we were woken by pack of dogs mentally barking just outside the tent - they were obviously perturbed by this strange dome thing in their territory as they kept barking at it for most of the night!
Once south of Casablanca, the real Morocco starts - very few cars, lots of donkeys extremely friendly people. They always found it really amusing to see whities in a Renault 4. Renault 4's are actually one of the most common cars in Morocco, probably second only to the Mercedes. The children loved shreaking at the other Renault 4s on the road and waving madly - we usually got a similar response from the other proud owners.
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