Wednesday, January 30, 2013

To Market to Market to Buy a Fat Pig, Then Home Again, Home Again Jigity Jig

Getting back to “home” Dakar from our campement in Palmarin was more difficult than the trip to Palmarin from Dakar.  We expected to get a bus to Joal that “goes by the place all the time” in the morning.  We saw one go by at 9:00 and another go by at 9:10 as we walked casually out the gate to the road.  We thought we had it made; another would be by in a few minutes. 

You guessed it.  No more busses for at least the next 40 minutes.  So, we sought Amat’s assistance and he flagged down a car whose driver agreed to take us up the road for a small fee to the next town about 10 km away where there is a transportation hub.  There we boarded a minivan that jammed 18 passengers and the driver inside plus two guys on top with various bags and boxes.  This minivan was to take us to Joal, where we could board a big bus bound for Dakar. 

Just short of Dakar, we were overtaken by a bus which stopped in front of us.  It was a very nice, well-equipped, clean, white bus.  Sandy and I were told to get on it because it was going to Dakar – too, too simple to be true.  That's the minivan below after we left it for the comfort of the bus.

Somewhere along the side of the road north of Mbour, now about an hour later and half way to Dakar, the bus stopped, everybody except Sandy and I got off to buy snacks, and nobody got back on.  A blue bus from hell pulled up alongside ours and all baggage and packages on the top of our bus were transferred to it.  At the same time, everybody from our bus was packed into the already full hell bus through the back door.  When we figured out what was going on and got to look inside the hell bus, Sandy refused to get on.  I don’t blame her, but we really had no choice.  Coaxing and prodding of the bus conductor got him to “find” two empty spaces near the front of the bus, and a “there’s no way we’ll ever get a taxi here” from me, finally convinced Sandy to board.

About an hour and a half later, when we had reached the outskirts of Dakar, the hell bus was pulled over for a traffic violation or perhaps a random God-sent inspection.  We took this opportunity to abandon ship and get a city taxi to the B&B.  Finally, a smile returned to Sandy’s face.

The smile was reinforced by a great meal of grilled Thion (local fish) at a restaurant on Pointe du Amadies, the western-most tip of Africa.   We could see America if we stood on tip-toes.