In The Gambia, I worked with the MRC, the Medical Research Council which is affiliated with the UK government and has been working in Gambia for over 50 years. It's now the 2nd largest employer in the country after the Gambian government. Their role is to provide clinical care and clinical research relevant to the local population. For example, the new meningitis vaccine funded and championed by the Gates Foundation as the first vaccine developed to treat a disease that affects the developing world rather than the developed world, underwent clinical trials at MRC.
As you saw from my West Africa Profile post, the country is extremely poor and health and development needs are great. However, the political situation in The Gambia is making it increasingly difficult for NGOs and other nonprofit organizations like the MRC to continue functioning. The President, Yahya Jammeh, who per his official website carries an astounding 6 titles: "His Excellency Chief Sheikh Professor Alhaji Dr," has been in power since a coup in 1994. Despite being democratically elected 3 times since then, he has been increasingly consolidating power and censoring the media and all opposition.
Apparently, anything the President decides to do can have no competition. And he decides to do a lot. He has been entering into every realm of business in the country and pushing out all competitors. He has a bakery. An NGO that grew mangoes as part of its work to sustainably support local communities had to leave when the President decided to start mango farming. Even more difficult for health-related NGOs, the President offers his own cure for HIV/AIDS. Yes, all people with HIV/AIDS can leave their cumbersome antiretroviral medications behind and go to the President's house, where he will lay his hands on them a-la Jesus and thus cure them. His "cures" are performed and presented on national television on a weekly basis. Of course, anyone with basic knowledge or education should know that if someone infected with HIV does not take their medications to keep their viral levels low and their immune system strong, they unfortunately will not have long to live (as those who were alive in the early 80s before the ARV medicines were developed will remember).
Even more difficult than trying to keep your organization's goals and activities from offending the President's next investment whim is attempting to partner with the existing political system in order to create sustainable aid projects. The hospital directors, in addition to the government Ministers, are politically appointed positions. The newest Minister of Health is a young woman in her 20s with absolutely no health-related experience. Hospital administrators are often equally inexperienced. Even so, they could be trained on the job, but political favour shifts quickly and most Ministers and Directors are fired, or sometimes jailed, within a year of their appointments, just as they begin to figure out how the systems they've been "running" were supposed to work, and just as NGOs have finally negotiated agreements for partnership and buy-in on their projects.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Children of West Africa
The children were one of the best, and the worst parts of the trip. Everywhere we went, especially in rural areas, groups of children would smile, point, and call out "toubab"--white person. Often they would run up to us for high-fives, and sometimes two children would take each of my hands and a whole entourage would form as groups of children walked along with us hand-in-hand.
However, I say "the worst" part as well because it was tragic to see how many of the children had sores and skin infections all over them. I saw a boy with ringworm fungus covering an entire arm. Some of the kids had scabies all over their arms and scalps. Most people bathed in the rivers--you could see them gathered there in the evenings--but I saw one or two children so caked with dust and dirt that it must have been months since they had had access to any spare water to wash with.
Many of the children in the villages also had clear signs of malnutrition--their black hair had turned a rusty red, their bellies were big and swollen--kwashiorkor, serious protein deficiency. Here some of the kids did not have any clothes at all to wear, or they had only a T-shirt and no pants. Looking at their bulging bellies I thought about the high rates of child death in the area: in Mali 1 in 5 children die before their 5th birthdays, in Gambia 1 in 10. These rural villages were probably below the national average. I wished I had peanuts or eggs or some form of high-protein food to give to these kids. They clearly needed it.
But then there was the problem of whether or not to give things to children. Were I to give food to them, how would it influence their perception of toubabs as they grew up?
Locals of all ages saw white tourists as a source of easy money. An unfortunate tension seems to have developed between foreigners and locals. The locals view the tourists as a source of income, a free drink or meal, some sort of handout, rather than as people with the potential for friendship and cultural exchange. They resent that tourists have much more money than they do and yet are not as generous as they think we should be with it. Although most locals start conversations with big smiles and by welcoming tourists to their country, it was extremely rare to have a genuine conversation with a local that did not end with them somehow asking for something. Sadly this left me trying to avoid talking with locals at times, usually the part of traveling I enjoy most as a way to understand a new place and culture.
Sometimes, especially in the cities, rather than joining us out of curiosity or to play, the children would approach to ask for pens, candies, soccer balls, or simply hold out their hands and demand "cadeau" - gifts. Some of the children asking would clearly be very poor and living by begging, but others would appear relatively well-off, which made me wonder about the culture that is now engrained at a young age of asking white people for gifts. Some children need things to survive, whereas others just want toys and candy. The tourists must give children things occasionally or the ones who don't need to beg wouldn't bother asking.
Yet for many there clearly is a need for assistance. In addition to the poor hygiene and malnutrition I mentioned, most children don't have any toys to speak of. They can often be seen racing old bike tires through the dusty streets. I saw some children playing with a "car" that they had made out of an old tin can and plastic bottles that they pulled along on a string. They drop out of school at a young age because their families can't afford their uniforms or school supplies.
And, unlike with adults, the things the children ask for are often inexpensive and therefore easier for us to give away. For instance, many children wanted used plastic water bottles which they would then reuse or play with as toys. The bottles had no value to me after they were empty, so I could hand them over almost without thinking about it, and giving them to the children was a good way to recycle them. Yet it was still a "gift" given to children by foreigners.
So, should we give gifts to children when visiting poor countries, or does this engender a culture of begging, of expecting to receive something for nothing, as well as a culture where children are sent to beg for the family because they arouse more sympathy and so are able to bring in more money? What if you give them something they need, like pens for school or protein-rich food, or even toys? What to do and how to help, or at least not harm, is not so black and white.
Photo: Children in a rural Dogon village in Mali mob our hiking companions, Justin and Jeremy
However, I say "the worst" part as well because it was tragic to see how many of the children had sores and skin infections all over them. I saw a boy with ringworm fungus covering an entire arm. Some of the kids had scabies all over their arms and scalps. Most people bathed in the rivers--you could see them gathered there in the evenings--but I saw one or two children so caked with dust and dirt that it must have been months since they had had access to any spare water to wash with.
Many of the children in the villages also had clear signs of malnutrition--their black hair had turned a rusty red, their bellies were big and swollen--kwashiorkor, serious protein deficiency. Here some of the kids did not have any clothes at all to wear, or they had only a T-shirt and no pants. Looking at their bulging bellies I thought about the high rates of child death in the area: in Mali 1 in 5 children die before their 5th birthdays, in Gambia 1 in 10. These rural villages were probably below the national average. I wished I had peanuts or eggs or some form of high-protein food to give to these kids. They clearly needed it.
But then there was the problem of whether or not to give things to children. Were I to give food to them, how would it influence their perception of toubabs as they grew up?
Locals of all ages saw white tourists as a source of easy money. An unfortunate tension seems to have developed between foreigners and locals. The locals view the tourists as a source of income, a free drink or meal, some sort of handout, rather than as people with the potential for friendship and cultural exchange. They resent that tourists have much more money than they do and yet are not as generous as they think we should be with it. Although most locals start conversations with big smiles and by welcoming tourists to their country, it was extremely rare to have a genuine conversation with a local that did not end with them somehow asking for something. Sadly this left me trying to avoid talking with locals at times, usually the part of traveling I enjoy most as a way to understand a new place and culture.
Sometimes, especially in the cities, rather than joining us out of curiosity or to play, the children would approach to ask for pens, candies, soccer balls, or simply hold out their hands and demand "cadeau" - gifts. Some of the children asking would clearly be very poor and living by begging, but others would appear relatively well-off, which made me wonder about the culture that is now engrained at a young age of asking white people for gifts. Some children need things to survive, whereas others just want toys and candy. The tourists must give children things occasionally or the ones who don't need to beg wouldn't bother asking.
Yet for many there clearly is a need for assistance. In addition to the poor hygiene and malnutrition I mentioned, most children don't have any toys to speak of. They can often be seen racing old bike tires through the dusty streets. I saw some children playing with a "car" that they had made out of an old tin can and plastic bottles that they pulled along on a string. They drop out of school at a young age because their families can't afford their uniforms or school supplies.
And, unlike with adults, the things the children ask for are often inexpensive and therefore easier for us to give away. For instance, many children wanted used plastic water bottles which they would then reuse or play with as toys. The bottles had no value to me after they were empty, so I could hand them over almost without thinking about it, and giving them to the children was a good way to recycle them. Yet it was still a "gift" given to children by foreigners.
So, should we give gifts to children when visiting poor countries, or does this engender a culture of begging, of expecting to receive something for nothing, as well as a culture where children are sent to beg for the family because they arouse more sympathy and so are able to bring in more money? What if you give them something they need, like pens for school or protein-rich food, or even toys? What to do and how to help, or at least not harm, is not so black and white.
Photo: Children in a rural Dogon village in Mali mob our hiking companions, Justin and Jeremy
Friday, April 1, 2011
Border Crossing
We had to cross the border between Senegal and Gambia to get to Fajara, where we would be working at Medical Research Council (MRC) for the last week of the trip. This involved driving from Toubakouta to Karang, the border town on the Senegalese side, having our passports stamped by Senegal officials, walking across to the Gambian side (all the while being chased by money-changing hawks and young girls selling cashews), presenting our passports to Gambian officials, then taking a Gambian taxi to the north side of the Gambian River at Barra, waiting for a ferry, then crossing the river to reach the capital city of Banjul, and finally taking another taxi from Banjul to Fajara. None of these 4 taxi/ferries traveled more than 15km each.
We accomplished the first travel leg flawlessly due to a stroke of pure luck. The owner of our hotel in Toubakouta happened to be driving to Karang for some groceries when we checked out, and she offered to take us in her spacious 4-door pickup truck (with working seatbelts, the first I'd seen in 3 wks). For free. We tried to pay her and she refused. This was absolutely unheard of, and the only time we ever got something genuinely for free while in West Africa.
The Gambian border office had about 7 employees and 2 customers (us); some were wearing uniforms and some plain clothes so unclear how many were actually employed, but at least one of the plain-clothes (shorts, sandals) people present spoke to us with authority as though he were an official employee. After walking between 3 different rooms and showing our passports to all 7 employees present, someone in the final room set about a 20 minute process of stamping our passports. The stamp itself is of the fill-in-the-blank variety like you might buy for your child as a toy. It says (no joke): "Valid for a single journey to _____" where they handwrote their country name, "The Gambia," into the blank, followed by several other blanks where they handwrote an entire novel including today's date and the generous allowance of a 14 day duration of stay.
We thought we were done after this, but one of the first guys (also wearing plain-clothes) identified himself with a laminated card as part of the "President's Club Against Narcotrafficking" (or some such thing--but I think it was called "club" and it defintely looked like an elementary school library card). He stated that he was going to search our bags to make sure we weren't carrying any drugs. We said fine. He then took us to another room and began to open each pocket of our bags. He pulled out and closely examined everything. Oddly, he paid very close attention to several items that were clearly not drugs, and asked questions about them. I got the impression that he was actually just curious about us and what sorts of things we had brought from the Western world rather than looking for drugs. He leafed through my book, "The Girl Who Played With Fire," and asked if I had ever been to Sweden (the author is Swedish). He read a few lines of our Lonely Planet. He asked if my Burt's Bees chapstick was made with beeswax. He examined Geoff's inflatable neck pillow and asked whether it was for taking blood pressure.
Interestingly, according to rumours we've heard while in the Gambia, the President's new war on drug-trafficking is an elaborate scheme to detract attention from the fact that the President himself operates and profits from a vast drug-trafficking network (or perhaps just to eliminate his competition).
Finally he returned our things and sent us out to the Gambian side of the border to find our taxi to Barra (Gambian border town). We got one with just 5 adults and 1 child in a 5-seat sedan, so that was pretty lucky.
In Barra, we bought our ferry tickets and sat down to wait. 2 hours later, the ferry could still be seen sitting on the other side of the river (maybe 10km away). Apparently there are 3 ferries, but for whatever reason (you shouldn't ask too many questions about why in West Africa because even if you were to get a straight answer, it would never make sense to your worldview) just 1 was operating that day. Then we found another helpful citizen who pointed us in the direction of a small wooden boat that was going to load passengers and make the crossing "immediately" for just 10 times the cost of the ferry (I think this was actually the cost of 4 tickets, 2 for us and 2 for our new "friend" and his accomplice, but whatever as long as we got there faster). We boarded the boat and waited for it to fill. The ferry was still sitting idle on the other side of the river.
Eventually we had close to 100 people on board and our drivers motored a little ways away from the pier. There was hesitation and we sat circling close to the pier. Apparently the boat operators had decided that the boat next to us (which was still in the process of its hundreds of 50-lb bags of grain or whatnot being unloaded onto the pier) would be a better boat for the crossing, and that all 100 passengers should wait for it to finish being unloaded, and then switch to the other boat before we departed. An argument broke out between the passengers and the 2 or 3 operators.
I was picturing an angry riot. I was also picturing the boat toppling over when all 100 people tried to stand up and rush to switch boats at the same time. Around this time, the ferry began to make its way towards our side of the river. After about 30 minutes of arguing and motoring in circles 5 feet off the pier, the operators apparently also realized the potential for a full-scale riot, and/or the abandonment of all passengers in favor of the cheaper ferry now on its way to our side--unclear which, and finally set off steadily toward Banjul. Several people we met in Gambia afterwards gasped in horror at the ridiculously dangerous idea of taking a small boat rather than the ferry across...but it seemed reliable enough aside from its riot potential.
We accomplished the first travel leg flawlessly due to a stroke of pure luck. The owner of our hotel in Toubakouta happened to be driving to Karang for some groceries when we checked out, and she offered to take us in her spacious 4-door pickup truck (with working seatbelts, the first I'd seen in 3 wks). For free. We tried to pay her and she refused. This was absolutely unheard of, and the only time we ever got something genuinely for free while in West Africa.
The Gambian border office had about 7 employees and 2 customers (us); some were wearing uniforms and some plain clothes so unclear how many were actually employed, but at least one of the plain-clothes (shorts, sandals) people present spoke to us with authority as though he were an official employee. After walking between 3 different rooms and showing our passports to all 7 employees present, someone in the final room set about a 20 minute process of stamping our passports. The stamp itself is of the fill-in-the-blank variety like you might buy for your child as a toy. It says (no joke): "Valid for a single journey to _____" where they handwrote their country name, "The Gambia," into the blank, followed by several other blanks where they handwrote an entire novel including today's date and the generous allowance of a 14 day duration of stay.
We thought we were done after this, but one of the first guys (also wearing plain-clothes) identified himself with a laminated card as part of the "President's Club Against Narcotrafficking" (or some such thing--but I think it was called "club" and it defintely looked like an elementary school library card). He stated that he was going to search our bags to make sure we weren't carrying any drugs. We said fine. He then took us to another room and began to open each pocket of our bags. He pulled out and closely examined everything. Oddly, he paid very close attention to several items that were clearly not drugs, and asked questions about them. I got the impression that he was actually just curious about us and what sorts of things we had brought from the Western world rather than looking for drugs. He leafed through my book, "The Girl Who Played With Fire," and asked if I had ever been to Sweden (the author is Swedish). He read a few lines of our Lonely Planet. He asked if my Burt's Bees chapstick was made with beeswax. He examined Geoff's inflatable neck pillow and asked whether it was for taking blood pressure.
Interestingly, according to rumours we've heard while in the Gambia, the President's new war on drug-trafficking is an elaborate scheme to detract attention from the fact that the President himself operates and profits from a vast drug-trafficking network (or perhaps just to eliminate his competition).
Finally he returned our things and sent us out to the Gambian side of the border to find our taxi to Barra (Gambian border town). We got one with just 5 adults and 1 child in a 5-seat sedan, so that was pretty lucky.
In Barra, we bought our ferry tickets and sat down to wait. 2 hours later, the ferry could still be seen sitting on the other side of the river (maybe 10km away). Apparently there are 3 ferries, but for whatever reason (you shouldn't ask too many questions about why in West Africa because even if you were to get a straight answer, it would never make sense to your worldview) just 1 was operating that day. Then we found another helpful citizen who pointed us in the direction of a small wooden boat that was going to load passengers and make the crossing "immediately" for just 10 times the cost of the ferry (I think this was actually the cost of 4 tickets, 2 for us and 2 for our new "friend" and his accomplice, but whatever as long as we got there faster). We boarded the boat and waited for it to fill. The ferry was still sitting idle on the other side of the river.
Eventually we had close to 100 people on board and our drivers motored a little ways away from the pier. There was hesitation and we sat circling close to the pier. Apparently the boat operators had decided that the boat next to us (which was still in the process of its hundreds of 50-lb bags of grain or whatnot being unloaded onto the pier) would be a better boat for the crossing, and that all 100 passengers should wait for it to finish being unloaded, and then switch to the other boat before we departed. An argument broke out between the passengers and the 2 or 3 operators.
I was picturing an angry riot. I was also picturing the boat toppling over when all 100 people tried to stand up and rush to switch boats at the same time. Around this time, the ferry began to make its way towards our side of the river. After about 30 minutes of arguing and motoring in circles 5 feet off the pier, the operators apparently also realized the potential for a full-scale riot, and/or the abandonment of all passengers in favor of the cheaper ferry now on its way to our side--unclear which, and finally set off steadily toward Banjul. Several people we met in Gambia afterwards gasped in horror at the ridiculously dangerous idea of taking a small boat rather than the ferry across...but it seemed reliable enough aside from its riot potential.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Transit in West Africa: Part 2
Part 2: Attempts at private transport
Chapter 1: Do I need 4-wheel drive?
After numerous fumbling attempts at public transport, paying a bit extra to hire a private taxi was looking better and better. On the way home from the Dogon trek, our guide had arranged a car to come pick us up in Dourou, a Dogon village, and take us back to Bandiagara (23km). We were planning to spend the night in Mopti, another 1.5hrs beyond Bandiagara, as were the other 3 people in the group, so we decided to hire the same car to take us the additional 75km from Bandiagara to Mopti as well.
The car that came to get us was a 1980s Mercedes sedan, driven (and ostensibly owned) by a police officer. (Unclear whether he was on or off-duty while running this little transport side business, but my guess from what I've seen in the region would be on-duty).
The road from Dourou to Bandiagara was bad. Really bad. Tons of potholes. About 5km into the 23km bumpy journey, we heard a loud noise behind the vehicle. I looked back to see a 2.5-foot long piece of the car lying in the middle of the road. We pulled over, retrieved the piece, and sat by the side of the road while the driver looked underneath the car. He eventually put the piece in the trunk, but apparently the pipe it fell off of was now hanging onto the ground and he had to tie it up (with a flimsy piece of twine) to the underside of the car. 3km later, the pipe fell down again: stop #2 for a retie. This happened about every 2-5km for the rest of the journey. After stop #3, I quit counting.
In Bandiagara, we waited and played sing-a-long pattycake with a bunch of schoolgirls while a "mechanic" "fixed" the car before continuing on to Mopti. At least the highway from Bandiagara to Mopti was paved. 5 minutes into the highway journey, we hit a bump and a harsh scraping noise reared its ugly head. Pull over. Yes, the "fixed" pipe has fallen down again. End result: a journey of just under 100km (62mi) took just under 6hrs. We had reached a record low of 10 mph average speed, and this was in a private car costing 10 times the price of the public!
Below: Our car (notice the ground clearance), and its muffler
Chapter 2: Commissioning a boat
Fast forward ahead a ways in the trip: we wanted to go from Joal to Toubakouta (back in Senegal now). We thought we had to take 3 separate public minibuses north, east, and then south again to get there, likely waiting for each one to fill (Reference Part 1, chapter 1 for details on how long that might take). Our hotel manager helpfully suggested that we could take a boat along the interconnected river channels of the Sine-Saloum delta directly there instead. We just had to take the bus 20km to Ndiange and we would be on the river network. And he conveniently had a friend who owned a boat who could arrange it for us. We spoke to his friend by phone before setting out, who told us that he had 2 other customers wanting to make the same journey that day, and that we could split the cost, 25,000 CFA each.
After a frustrating trip with a taxi driver who barely spoke French but nevertheless tried to dump us in a village only halfway to Ndiagne, claiming that it was "also called Ndiagne" (I checked, it was named Samba), and then restart negotiations for the taxi price he himself had offered up front, we arrived to discover that the other 2 people weren't going to take the boat after all. This was uniformly our experience with all of the privately-negotiated taxis we had tried since returning to Senegal from Mali: they arrived at the destination and then were upset when you paid them the amount that was initially agreed and they tried to demand more.
We almost left, but now we were 4 buses away from our destination instead of just 3, so we reluctantly agreed to pay 50,000 CFA (100 $USD, a lot of money in Senegal) for a boat directly to Toubakouta (supposedly a 3-4 hr journey). The friend of our hotel manager, Moustafa, claimed that it was going to cost 43,000 just in gas. We boarded our boat, which turned out to be operated by some 3rd party, not by Moustafa himself (also a frequent occurence: many middle men are involved in all transactions to thoroughly spread our money around).
2 hrs later the boat driver asked us which hotel we were staying at. Having been monitoring our map, and also the time, we were pretty sure that we weren't in Toubakouta yet, so we asked if the city ahead was Toubakouta. No, the boat driver said it was Foundiougne. We explained that we had paid to go to Toubakouta, not Foundiougne. The boat driver claimed that he had been told Foundiougne, that he had been paid just 38,000CFA (suspiciously less than the supposed 43,000 in gas costs alone), and that it was too late in the day and he was too short on gas to continue to Toubakouta. We called Moustafa for help. He claimed he had told the boat driver Toubakouta. He talked to the boat driver. Then he told us the boat driver would leave us in Foundiougne and give us back 3000CFA to cover the cost of public bus transport from Foundiougne to Toubakouta.
First of all, if we had wanted to take the bus, we would have paid 7,000CFA (total cost of all 3 bus rides from Joal to Toubakouta for 2 people) to take the bus, not 50,000 to take a pleasant boat journey. Second of all, it was now 5:30pm and we wouldn't be able to get to Toubakouta before dark, so we were stuck spending the night in Foundiougne, not in Toubakouta where we wanted to be. Third of all, the boat driver refused to take us to a dock that we specifically pointed out that led into Foundiougne, and instead dumped us out in shallow water that we had to wade through for about 250 yards to reach the nearest building, before another taxi ride for the additional 2-3 miles into town. This was the most unbelievable misadventure of all. I was livid.
The next day, we set off for Toubakouta in a sept-place (which quickly became nuff-place as we picked up more people along the way), then transfered to a minibus (From Foundiougne to Toubakouta was 2 public buses, instead of the 3 from Joal where we had started yesterday) for the 2nd half of the journey. We were driving on the worst, most pothole-racked road ever (when possible the drivers would drive on the shoulder or off in the dust to the side of the road rather than on the road itself). The whole journey took 3 nauseating hours to cover 60km and cost close to 7000CFA (the original pricetag for Joal-Toubakouta you'll remember, and more than twice the amount we had been "refunded" from the boat ride). I wanted to return to Ndiagne, find Moustafa, and wring his neck.
Chapter 3: So you think you found a 4-wheel drive?
After an interesting week working in the Gambia, it was time for a final African transport adventure. We had to arrive in Dakar, Senegal in time to catch a 10:30pm flight back to Europe on Friday. There are air flights connecting the two; however they only leave at 12:45AM Friday or 12:30PM Friday, and apparently they are regularly cancelled or delayed so when planning to catch a major international flight for example, one might not want to rely on them running. So instead, we opted to take a private car to drive 300 km (190 miles) from Banjul, the Gambian capital, to Dakar, the Senegalese capital. Normally one might allow 3-4 hours for such a distance.
We left for our adventure at 6:00AM on Friday in a nice 4WD LandRover. The first (and largest anticipated) hurdle was the ferry crossing over the Gambian River in Banjul. There are 3 ferry boats and the first crossing is at 7AM. Since cars and large cargo trucks can line up for hours to try to cross, we were advised to make the first ferry. We were also told that your chances of boarding a ferry depended not on the order in which you arrived, but more so on your driver's "powers of negotiation."
The first ferry was seemingly full by 6:30 when we arrived, but the boat wasn't even there yet. After multiple negotiations with ferry staff, our driver's neighbor, conveniently a ferry employee, arrived and promised us transit on the 2nd ferry. However, the "7AM" first ferry did not arrive, load, and depart until 9:30, and there was once again only 1 of the 3 existing ferry boats in operation. We were starting to worry about exactly what time that 2nd ferry would depart, since it takes over an hour each way to load, cross, and off-load. (The backup plan was to abandon our LandRover, cross on foot, and rehire a new car on the other side, although we really didn't want to let our spacious LandRover go.)
Then we received news that they were pumping the water out of a 2nd ferry boat. Our car was directed into the front-row of the loading zone for the 2nd ferry. Finally it arrived, cars loaded, then the gates for foot passengers were opened and literally hundreds of people streamed on board to find a place anywhere they could (photo), and we started chugging across with just 1 engine in service. We were finally in Barra on the other side at 11AM. Next we had to cross the border (another 1.5hrs spent waiting in line to clear the car through customs).
Finally, the bulk of the driving began. Unfortunately the majority of the road for the first half of the trip is in terrible condition. (It's the same road that we used during our shorter trip from Foundiougne to Toubakouta.) It looked like I imagine a road might look after suffering air shelling during a war. Even in a 4x4 LandRover, we were bouncing and rocking every which way. It was rough going. There were potholes in potholes. Cars and trucks drove wherever they could find the "best" path...often on the complete opposite side of the 2-lane "road." Our whole LandRover nearly disappeared into one of the potholes and I thought it might not be able to climb back out the other side!
Despite all this adversity, we were able to arrive at the Dakar airport by 6pm, concluding a 12-hour journey at a record average speed of 15.5 MPH, and thus conclude our grand West African adventure.
Chapter 1: Do I need 4-wheel drive?
After numerous fumbling attempts at public transport, paying a bit extra to hire a private taxi was looking better and better. On the way home from the Dogon trek, our guide had arranged a car to come pick us up in Dourou, a Dogon village, and take us back to Bandiagara (23km). We were planning to spend the night in Mopti, another 1.5hrs beyond Bandiagara, as were the other 3 people in the group, so we decided to hire the same car to take us the additional 75km from Bandiagara to Mopti as well.
The car that came to get us was a 1980s Mercedes sedan, driven (and ostensibly owned) by a police officer. (Unclear whether he was on or off-duty while running this little transport side business, but my guess from what I've seen in the region would be on-duty).
The road from Dourou to Bandiagara was bad. Really bad. Tons of potholes. About 5km into the 23km bumpy journey, we heard a loud noise behind the vehicle. I looked back to see a 2.5-foot long piece of the car lying in the middle of the road. We pulled over, retrieved the piece, and sat by the side of the road while the driver looked underneath the car. He eventually put the piece in the trunk, but apparently the pipe it fell off of was now hanging onto the ground and he had to tie it up (with a flimsy piece of twine) to the underside of the car. 3km later, the pipe fell down again: stop #2 for a retie. This happened about every 2-5km for the rest of the journey. After stop #3, I quit counting.
In Bandiagara, we waited and played sing-a-long pattycake with a bunch of schoolgirls while a "mechanic" "fixed" the car before continuing on to Mopti. At least the highway from Bandiagara to Mopti was paved. 5 minutes into the highway journey, we hit a bump and a harsh scraping noise reared its ugly head. Pull over. Yes, the "fixed" pipe has fallen down again. End result: a journey of just under 100km (62mi) took just under 6hrs. We had reached a record low of 10 mph average speed, and this was in a private car costing 10 times the price of the public!
Below: Our car (notice the ground clearance), and its muffler
Chapter 2: Commissioning a boat
Fast forward ahead a ways in the trip: we wanted to go from Joal to Toubakouta (back in Senegal now). We thought we had to take 3 separate public minibuses north, east, and then south again to get there, likely waiting for each one to fill (Reference Part 1, chapter 1 for details on how long that might take). Our hotel manager helpfully suggested that we could take a boat along the interconnected river channels of the Sine-Saloum delta directly there instead. We just had to take the bus 20km to Ndiange and we would be on the river network. And he conveniently had a friend who owned a boat who could arrange it for us. We spoke to his friend by phone before setting out, who told us that he had 2 other customers wanting to make the same journey that day, and that we could split the cost, 25,000 CFA each.
After a frustrating trip with a taxi driver who barely spoke French but nevertheless tried to dump us in a village only halfway to Ndiagne, claiming that it was "also called Ndiagne" (I checked, it was named Samba), and then restart negotiations for the taxi price he himself had offered up front, we arrived to discover that the other 2 people weren't going to take the boat after all. This was uniformly our experience with all of the privately-negotiated taxis we had tried since returning to Senegal from Mali: they arrived at the destination and then were upset when you paid them the amount that was initially agreed and they tried to demand more.
We almost left, but now we were 4 buses away from our destination instead of just 3, so we reluctantly agreed to pay 50,000 CFA (100 $USD, a lot of money in Senegal) for a boat directly to Toubakouta (supposedly a 3-4 hr journey). The friend of our hotel manager, Moustafa, claimed that it was going to cost 43,000 just in gas. We boarded our boat, which turned out to be operated by some 3rd party, not by Moustafa himself (also a frequent occurence: many middle men are involved in all transactions to thoroughly spread our money around).
2 hrs later the boat driver asked us which hotel we were staying at. Having been monitoring our map, and also the time, we were pretty sure that we weren't in Toubakouta yet, so we asked if the city ahead was Toubakouta. No, the boat driver said it was Foundiougne. We explained that we had paid to go to Toubakouta, not Foundiougne. The boat driver claimed that he had been told Foundiougne, that he had been paid just 38,000CFA (suspiciously less than the supposed 43,000 in gas costs alone), and that it was too late in the day and he was too short on gas to continue to Toubakouta. We called Moustafa for help. He claimed he had told the boat driver Toubakouta. He talked to the boat driver. Then he told us the boat driver would leave us in Foundiougne and give us back 3000CFA to cover the cost of public bus transport from Foundiougne to Toubakouta.
First of all, if we had wanted to take the bus, we would have paid 7,000CFA (total cost of all 3 bus rides from Joal to Toubakouta for 2 people) to take the bus, not 50,000 to take a pleasant boat journey. Second of all, it was now 5:30pm and we wouldn't be able to get to Toubakouta before dark, so we were stuck spending the night in Foundiougne, not in Toubakouta where we wanted to be. Third of all, the boat driver refused to take us to a dock that we specifically pointed out that led into Foundiougne, and instead dumped us out in shallow water that we had to wade through for about 250 yards to reach the nearest building, before another taxi ride for the additional 2-3 miles into town. This was the most unbelievable misadventure of all. I was livid.
The next day, we set off for Toubakouta in a sept-place (which quickly became nuff-place as we picked up more people along the way), then transfered to a minibus (From Foundiougne to Toubakouta was 2 public buses, instead of the 3 from Joal where we had started yesterday) for the 2nd half of the journey. We were driving on the worst, most pothole-racked road ever (when possible the drivers would drive on the shoulder or off in the dust to the side of the road rather than on the road itself). The whole journey took 3 nauseating hours to cover 60km and cost close to 7000CFA (the original pricetag for Joal-Toubakouta you'll remember, and more than twice the amount we had been "refunded" from the boat ride). I wanted to return to Ndiagne, find Moustafa, and wring his neck.
Chapter 3: So you think you found a 4-wheel drive?
After an interesting week working in the Gambia, it was time for a final African transport adventure. We had to arrive in Dakar, Senegal in time to catch a 10:30pm flight back to Europe on Friday. There are air flights connecting the two; however they only leave at 12:45AM Friday or 12:30PM Friday, and apparently they are regularly cancelled or delayed so when planning to catch a major international flight for example, one might not want to rely on them running. So instead, we opted to take a private car to drive 300 km (190 miles) from Banjul, the Gambian capital, to Dakar, the Senegalese capital. Normally one might allow 3-4 hours for such a distance.
We left for our adventure at 6:00AM on Friday in a nice 4WD LandRover. The first (and largest anticipated) hurdle was the ferry crossing over the Gambian River in Banjul. There are 3 ferry boats and the first crossing is at 7AM. Since cars and large cargo trucks can line up for hours to try to cross, we were advised to make the first ferry. We were also told that your chances of boarding a ferry depended not on the order in which you arrived, but more so on your driver's "powers of negotiation."
The first ferry was seemingly full by 6:30 when we arrived, but the boat wasn't even there yet. After multiple negotiations with ferry staff, our driver's neighbor, conveniently a ferry employee, arrived and promised us transit on the 2nd ferry. However, the "7AM" first ferry did not arrive, load, and depart until 9:30, and there was once again only 1 of the 3 existing ferry boats in operation. We were starting to worry about exactly what time that 2nd ferry would depart, since it takes over an hour each way to load, cross, and off-load. (The backup plan was to abandon our LandRover, cross on foot, and rehire a new car on the other side, although we really didn't want to let our spacious LandRover go.)
Then we received news that they were pumping the water out of a 2nd ferry boat. Our car was directed into the front-row of the loading zone for the 2nd ferry. Finally it arrived, cars loaded, then the gates for foot passengers were opened and literally hundreds of people streamed on board to find a place anywhere they could (photo), and we started chugging across with just 1 engine in service. We were finally in Barra on the other side at 11AM. Next we had to cross the border (another 1.5hrs spent waiting in line to clear the car through customs).
Finally, the bulk of the driving began. Unfortunately the majority of the road for the first half of the trip is in terrible condition. (It's the same road that we used during our shorter trip from Foundiougne to Toubakouta.) It looked like I imagine a road might look after suffering air shelling during a war. Even in a 4x4 LandRover, we were bouncing and rocking every which way. It was rough going. There were potholes in potholes. Cars and trucks drove wherever they could find the "best" path...often on the complete opposite side of the 2-lane "road." Our whole LandRover nearly disappeared into one of the potholes and I thought it might not be able to climb back out the other side!
Despite all this adversity, we were able to arrive at the Dakar airport by 6pm, concluding a 12-hour journey at a record average speed of 15.5 MPH, and thus conclude our grand West African adventure.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Transit in West Africa: A Significant Contributor to Morbidity?
*Caveat: As I mentioned in my last post, West Africa is one of the poorest regions in the world with a significant lack of access to health care and a resultantly high disease burden. This blog post does not intend to discount the genuinely difficult health struggles its citizens face, but only to make light of the difficulties I personally encountered trying to use public transit within the region.
Chapter 1: An introduction to Senegalese Public Transit
After a day and a half in Dakar (more than enough in this overwhelming, polluted metropolis) sorting out our Malian visa, we decided to go to Saint-Louis, a coastal French colonial outpost 243km (151 miles) to the north, while we awaited the visa preparation.
Lonely Planet had recommended getting to the bus station (gare routiere) no later than 6:30am to avoid traffic, but we were tired and couldn't bear the thought of getting up so early on a vacation, so we showed up at the reasonable hour of 9:30am. A "helpful" citizen directed us to a minibus rather than to the sept-place (station-wagon taxi for 7 people). We were assured it was departing promptly. I knew this was a lie to convince us to pay and that it wasn't going anywhere until it was full, but I didn't imagine that this would take 3 hours! By 12:15pm, we finally had a full load (about 20 people crammed 4-5 to a row in a standard sized van) and we took off. So we wasted 3 hours. At least we were moving now. How long could it take to cover 151 miles anyway?
45 minutes later the bus driver and manager had one-by-one rearranged the 25 or so cars that were blocking us deep inside the gare, and our 1970s van had actually pulled out of the station, sputtering onto the highway. We immediately hit stop-and-go traffic. You know a city has a bad traffic problem when people are making their living walking in between cars in traffic jams selling everything from food and drinks to toothbrushes, cell phone credit, universal remote controls, and kitchen blenders. About an hour and a half into the highway drive when the traffic finally started to pick up the pace, I was sweating like crazy and unable to stretch my hips, shoulders, or knees. I saw a sign for Rufisque and checked the Lonely Planet map: we had made it just an astonishing 15km outside of Dakar...
I want to point out that this was not a bad road. It was a nicely paved two-lane highway. Any delays were the result of traffic, excessive stops by the driver, and the ancient condition of the vehicle, not of undeveloped road infrastructure. After stopping dozens of times along the perfectly good road to buy fruit, nuts, and other snacks from vendors along the highway, and for the driver to collect mysterious pieces of paper that he would then drop off or exchange 20km later, as well as for the driver to occasionally relay messages or check in with a friend for a quick chat...we arrived in Saint-Louis at 5:30pm (Yes, 8hrs later, or an average of 18.75 mph). Somewhere along this journey, I realized that we had grossly underestimated West African travel and that our general travel plans included way too much city-to-city travel to ever be feasible.
Chapter 2: Acquired Scoliosis in a sept-place
On the way back to Dakar from Saint-Louis, we vowed not to make the same foolish mistakes. We arrived early at the gare and headed straight for the sept-place. No 20-seat minibus this time; surely they would find 7 passengers in much shorter order. They actually did find enough people and we set off within 45 minutes of arriving. Much more reasonable.
However, now we were in a sept-place. We thought the minibus had crowded an unbelievable number of people on board. We hadn't seen anything yet. The sept-place is a station wagon where they load 7 passengers in addition to the driver. This is just 3 in each of the 2 rows in back, and 1 person up front. But a station wagon is designed to carry 7 people, you say? Maybe. But not 7 full-sized adults (and this is the strange thing about the whole concept of African travel: people in Africa are not small. They range from average to veritable broad-shouldered giants measuring well over 6'5".) for a journey of several hours duration!
I was occupying the very back row, and when the final passenger got in the back I decided it was better to push him to the middle and stake a claim to the right-hand side so at least I would only be squished against another person on one side. I had not noticed, however, that the ceiling sloped down on the sides. In the side seat, my head hit the ceiling unless I sat with my spine curved in a C-shape and my neck creaked to one side. The C-shape was further forced by the fact that the right side of my seat was on the metal seat edge while the left-side was on degraded cloth that sloped my bum precariously toward the guy in the center seat next to me.
After about 2 hours into this nonsense the aching in the muscles in my back was unbelievable. I tried to read my book but I couldn't concentrate on anything other than the need to stretch my back. I began to think my back would never straighten again. I decided that sadistic torture of a human being would include placing them in a small space where they did not have room to move. 4.5 hours later (yes, we're still at a 33 mph average on a well-paved highway) we finally arrived in Dakar. I've never been so relieved.
Chapter 3: Malaria, tendinitis, heatstroke, and anxiety in Mali
In Mali (fortunately we discarded the idea of taking a 36+hr "epic" bus or train ride from Dakar to Mali and instead opted to fly), we spent a day resting in Bamako, the capital city, before setting off to reach Djenne, home of the UNESCO world-heritage designated giant mud brick mosque, for the weekly market-day. This time we arrived at the gare at 9:15AM. We checked the 3 "good" bus companies that had been recommended, but unfortunately they didn't have any buses going until late afternoon, which would have guaranteed an arrival well past midnight to the actually distant (415 km) Djenne.
Instead, we found a full-sized bus scheduled to depart at 10AM. We couldn't believe our good fortune at finding a full-size bus. One with just 2 people per seat! No more crowded minibus or sept-place for this journey! We bought our tickets and I sat down in the bus waiting area while Geoff went to load our bags. I waited amidst a veritable circus of vendors selling homemade cakes, fruit, toys for the kids, genuine fake designer sunglasses, purses, rugs...the list goes on. Meanwhile mosquitos swarmed my feet and ankles.
A little girl about 3 years old waiting with her mother next to me seemed really fascinated by me and I played with her for awhile, then noticed that the dolls they were selling were white with blonde hair and blue eyes. It probably took Geoff about an hour to get the bags on board. I watched as people milled around the bus, passing up large packages to be tied onto the roof. The load included about 10 to 15 large chicken coups. 3 hours later, I suppose they had finally amassed enough passengers to fill the "10:00" bus and we were allowed to board for departure. After 3 hours of malaria-ridden mosquitos feasting on my ankles in the bus waiting area, I actually counted 30 mosquito bites. There were more; I just gave up counting after 30.
Once on board, we were in for an unpleasant surprise. There were just 2 people/seat like in a standard bus, but unlike in a standard bus they had managed to cram at least 10 extra rows of seats on there, and they had filled the aisle with people as well. At least we had a seat, but there were actually no more than 6-8 inches of space between the back of the seat in front of us and the front edge of our seat. I couldn't put my legs straight forward, but with them spread-eagled I could squeeze my knees into the space. My kneecaps were jammed up against the seat in front of me, and the back of my knees crammed against my own seat. As the ride went on, the seats of the people in front of us were so old that they actually separated from the backrests and slipped further and further back into our already limited space. I literally could not move my knees an inch. This was problematic for my tendinitis, which tends to worsen when I sit with my legs in the same position for a long time, and ended up leading to a huge flare requiring large doses of ibuprofen over the next several days to calm the pain.
I haven't mentioned yet that the average temperature in Mali while we were there was 105F (41C). There were only two windows 6 inches high in the whole bus. There was an emergency exit on the top, but we couldn't open it due to the chicken coups and all the other crap loaded up there. I guess if we had crashed, exiting would have been a major problem, but that was the least of my present concerns. The heat index inside the bus had to be at least 120F. Of course, 20 min after the bus made its long-awaited departure from the station, it pulled over and stopped on the side of the road for 45 minutes, eliminating the small but crucial amount of ventilation provided by the two 6-inch windows. There was a point during the extended stop when I really thought I might have a panic attack. I just couldn't handle the heat and the inability to move my legs.
9hrs later, like the clockwork predicted by our cynical British hotel manager in Bamako, we arrived at the highway junction for Djenne (This was an avg of 29mph once the journey had begun; 21.5mph if you include the wait time at the station. And yes, this was also a well-paved two-lane highway). Of course, that was after several stops to off and on-load passengers in random rural villages, unload the chicken coups, and a few stops for Muslim prayers. I was exhausted and my body hurt all over.
Loading the chicken coups on top of our bus:
Chapter 4: Traumatic Injury
After that miserable trip to Djenne, the last thing I wanted was more transit. But unfortunately we had pre-booked a trekking tour through Dogon, which was supposed to be a highlight of Mali and which we were especially looking forward to, and we had to get ourselves to Bandiagara to meet our guide. After a trip to the Djenne gare to figure out what transport was leaving the following day for Mopti (just 130km away), we discovered that in Mali they had nuff-places, not sept-places (i.e. they crammed 9 people into the same station wagons). I had nearly acquired scoliosis with 3 adults to a row...I didn't think I could handle 4 to a row. In addition, it was departing at the hideous hour of 6:30AM, and a ferry crossing limited options, so 6:30AM was the only option for the day.
A local friend we had made in Mopti, Mangala, was taking his motorcycle to Mopti the following day to see his mother, and offered that we could ride on the back. I was fully opposed to the idea of risking life and limb on a motorcycle, on the insane highways of Africa no less, but I was even more fully opposed to cramming myself into a nuff-place at 6:30AM. So, Mangala recruited another friend with a motorbike for the trip and we each hopped on the back of one. We had to cross the river, but rather than wait for the ferry, we hired a pirogue (a small row boat) and loaded up both the motorcycles and ourselves in it!
Motorcycle context: Bamako, the capital of Mali, is crammed full of motorbikes and someone told me that 21 people/day die in motorcycle accidents in the city. No one wears or even owns a helmet. Within 1 hour of arriving in Bamako, we witnessed a (minor) crash between a motorcycle and a car.
Despite the significant risk of traveling by motorcycle, I have to say that this was by far the most superior method of transport attempted to date in West Africa. We had a breeze so it didn't feel as ridiculously hot, we could move and stretch (slightly), and we actually covered 130km (80 miles) in 2hrs including the pirogue river crossing, at a record average pace of 40mph, and arrived in Mopti in time to nap, eat a leisurely lunch, and still explore the city (unlike our usual arrivals to new cities well after dark)!
Unloading our motorcycles from the rowboat:
Chapter 1: An introduction to Senegalese Public Transit
After a day and a half in Dakar (more than enough in this overwhelming, polluted metropolis) sorting out our Malian visa, we decided to go to Saint-Louis, a coastal French colonial outpost 243km (151 miles) to the north, while we awaited the visa preparation.
Lonely Planet had recommended getting to the bus station (gare routiere) no later than 6:30am to avoid traffic, but we were tired and couldn't bear the thought of getting up so early on a vacation, so we showed up at the reasonable hour of 9:30am. A "helpful" citizen directed us to a minibus rather than to the sept-place (station-wagon taxi for 7 people). We were assured it was departing promptly. I knew this was a lie to convince us to pay and that it wasn't going anywhere until it was full, but I didn't imagine that this would take 3 hours! By 12:15pm, we finally had a full load (about 20 people crammed 4-5 to a row in a standard sized van) and we took off. So we wasted 3 hours. At least we were moving now. How long could it take to cover 151 miles anyway?
45 minutes later the bus driver and manager had one-by-one rearranged the 25 or so cars that were blocking us deep inside the gare, and our 1970s van had actually pulled out of the station, sputtering onto the highway. We immediately hit stop-and-go traffic. You know a city has a bad traffic problem when people are making their living walking in between cars in traffic jams selling everything from food and drinks to toothbrushes, cell phone credit, universal remote controls, and kitchen blenders. About an hour and a half into the highway drive when the traffic finally started to pick up the pace, I was sweating like crazy and unable to stretch my hips, shoulders, or knees. I saw a sign for Rufisque and checked the Lonely Planet map: we had made it just an astonishing 15km outside of Dakar...
I want to point out that this was not a bad road. It was a nicely paved two-lane highway. Any delays were the result of traffic, excessive stops by the driver, and the ancient condition of the vehicle, not of undeveloped road infrastructure. After stopping dozens of times along the perfectly good road to buy fruit, nuts, and other snacks from vendors along the highway, and for the driver to collect mysterious pieces of paper that he would then drop off or exchange 20km later, as well as for the driver to occasionally relay messages or check in with a friend for a quick chat...we arrived in Saint-Louis at 5:30pm (Yes, 8hrs later, or an average of 18.75 mph). Somewhere along this journey, I realized that we had grossly underestimated West African travel and that our general travel plans included way too much city-to-city travel to ever be feasible.
Chapter 2: Acquired Scoliosis in a sept-place
On the way back to Dakar from Saint-Louis, we vowed not to make the same foolish mistakes. We arrived early at the gare and headed straight for the sept-place. No 20-seat minibus this time; surely they would find 7 passengers in much shorter order. They actually did find enough people and we set off within 45 minutes of arriving. Much more reasonable.
However, now we were in a sept-place. We thought the minibus had crowded an unbelievable number of people on board. We hadn't seen anything yet. The sept-place is a station wagon where they load 7 passengers in addition to the driver. This is just 3 in each of the 2 rows in back, and 1 person up front. But a station wagon is designed to carry 7 people, you say? Maybe. But not 7 full-sized adults (and this is the strange thing about the whole concept of African travel: people in Africa are not small. They range from average to veritable broad-shouldered giants measuring well over 6'5".) for a journey of several hours duration!
I was occupying the very back row, and when the final passenger got in the back I decided it was better to push him to the middle and stake a claim to the right-hand side so at least I would only be squished against another person on one side. I had not noticed, however, that the ceiling sloped down on the sides. In the side seat, my head hit the ceiling unless I sat with my spine curved in a C-shape and my neck creaked to one side. The C-shape was further forced by the fact that the right side of my seat was on the metal seat edge while the left-side was on degraded cloth that sloped my bum precariously toward the guy in the center seat next to me.
After about 2 hours into this nonsense the aching in the muscles in my back was unbelievable. I tried to read my book but I couldn't concentrate on anything other than the need to stretch my back. I began to think my back would never straighten again. I decided that sadistic torture of a human being would include placing them in a small space where they did not have room to move. 4.5 hours later (yes, we're still at a 33 mph average on a well-paved highway) we finally arrived in Dakar. I've never been so relieved.
Chapter 3: Malaria, tendinitis, heatstroke, and anxiety in Mali
In Mali (fortunately we discarded the idea of taking a 36+hr "epic" bus or train ride from Dakar to Mali and instead opted to fly), we spent a day resting in Bamako, the capital city, before setting off to reach Djenne, home of the UNESCO world-heritage designated giant mud brick mosque, for the weekly market-day. This time we arrived at the gare at 9:15AM. We checked the 3 "good" bus companies that had been recommended, but unfortunately they didn't have any buses going until late afternoon, which would have guaranteed an arrival well past midnight to the actually distant (415 km) Djenne.
Instead, we found a full-sized bus scheduled to depart at 10AM. We couldn't believe our good fortune at finding a full-size bus. One with just 2 people per seat! No more crowded minibus or sept-place for this journey! We bought our tickets and I sat down in the bus waiting area while Geoff went to load our bags. I waited amidst a veritable circus of vendors selling homemade cakes, fruit, toys for the kids, genuine fake designer sunglasses, purses, rugs...the list goes on. Meanwhile mosquitos swarmed my feet and ankles.
A little girl about 3 years old waiting with her mother next to me seemed really fascinated by me and I played with her for awhile, then noticed that the dolls they were selling were white with blonde hair and blue eyes. It probably took Geoff about an hour to get the bags on board. I watched as people milled around the bus, passing up large packages to be tied onto the roof. The load included about 10 to 15 large chicken coups. 3 hours later, I suppose they had finally amassed enough passengers to fill the "10:00" bus and we were allowed to board for departure. After 3 hours of malaria-ridden mosquitos feasting on my ankles in the bus waiting area, I actually counted 30 mosquito bites. There were more; I just gave up counting after 30.
Once on board, we were in for an unpleasant surprise. There were just 2 people/seat like in a standard bus, but unlike in a standard bus they had managed to cram at least 10 extra rows of seats on there, and they had filled the aisle with people as well. At least we had a seat, but there were actually no more than 6-8 inches of space between the back of the seat in front of us and the front edge of our seat. I couldn't put my legs straight forward, but with them spread-eagled I could squeeze my knees into the space. My kneecaps were jammed up against the seat in front of me, and the back of my knees crammed against my own seat. As the ride went on, the seats of the people in front of us were so old that they actually separated from the backrests and slipped further and further back into our already limited space. I literally could not move my knees an inch. This was problematic for my tendinitis, which tends to worsen when I sit with my legs in the same position for a long time, and ended up leading to a huge flare requiring large doses of ibuprofen over the next several days to calm the pain.
I haven't mentioned yet that the average temperature in Mali while we were there was 105F (41C). There were only two windows 6 inches high in the whole bus. There was an emergency exit on the top, but we couldn't open it due to the chicken coups and all the other crap loaded up there. I guess if we had crashed, exiting would have been a major problem, but that was the least of my present concerns. The heat index inside the bus had to be at least 120F. Of course, 20 min after the bus made its long-awaited departure from the station, it pulled over and stopped on the side of the road for 45 minutes, eliminating the small but crucial amount of ventilation provided by the two 6-inch windows. There was a point during the extended stop when I really thought I might have a panic attack. I just couldn't handle the heat and the inability to move my legs.
9hrs later, like the clockwork predicted by our cynical British hotel manager in Bamako, we arrived at the highway junction for Djenne (This was an avg of 29mph once the journey had begun; 21.5mph if you include the wait time at the station. And yes, this was also a well-paved two-lane highway). Of course, that was after several stops to off and on-load passengers in random rural villages, unload the chicken coups, and a few stops for Muslim prayers. I was exhausted and my body hurt all over.
Loading the chicken coups on top of our bus:
Chapter 4: Traumatic Injury
After that miserable trip to Djenne, the last thing I wanted was more transit. But unfortunately we had pre-booked a trekking tour through Dogon, which was supposed to be a highlight of Mali and which we were especially looking forward to, and we had to get ourselves to Bandiagara to meet our guide. After a trip to the Djenne gare to figure out what transport was leaving the following day for Mopti (just 130km away), we discovered that in Mali they had nuff-places, not sept-places (i.e. they crammed 9 people into the same station wagons). I had nearly acquired scoliosis with 3 adults to a row...I didn't think I could handle 4 to a row. In addition, it was departing at the hideous hour of 6:30AM, and a ferry crossing limited options, so 6:30AM was the only option for the day.
A local friend we had made in Mopti, Mangala, was taking his motorcycle to Mopti the following day to see his mother, and offered that we could ride on the back. I was fully opposed to the idea of risking life and limb on a motorcycle, on the insane highways of Africa no less, but I was even more fully opposed to cramming myself into a nuff-place at 6:30AM. So, Mangala recruited another friend with a motorbike for the trip and we each hopped on the back of one. We had to cross the river, but rather than wait for the ferry, we hired a pirogue (a small row boat) and loaded up both the motorcycles and ourselves in it!
Motorcycle context: Bamako, the capital of Mali, is crammed full of motorbikes and someone told me that 21 people/day die in motorcycle accidents in the city. No one wears or even owns a helmet. Within 1 hour of arriving in Bamako, we witnessed a (minor) crash between a motorcycle and a car.
Despite the significant risk of traveling by motorcycle, I have to say that this was by far the most superior method of transport attempted to date in West Africa. We had a breeze so it didn't feel as ridiculously hot, we could move and stretch (slightly), and we actually covered 130km (80 miles) in 2hrs including the pirogue river crossing, at a record average pace of 40mph, and arrived in Mopti in time to nap, eat a leisurely lunch, and still explore the city (unlike our usual arrivals to new cities well after dark)!
Unloading our motorcycles from the rowboat:
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
West Africa Profile
My travels covered 3 countries: Mali, Senegal, and Gambia. This is the poorest and least developed region in the world. Of 16 countries in West Africa, not a single one is on the OECD list of developed countries. In fact, all 16 rank "low" (bottom 40) on the human development index. 8 are in the 20 least developed in the world, and 5 are in the 10 least developed (including Mali).
A few pertinent facts to provide perspective:
Religion: 90% Muslim
Polygamy: Prevalent
Languages: Dozens of tribal languages are the first tongue for almost everyone. Majority in Mali-Bambara; in Senegal-Wolof; in Gambia-Mandinka. The official language taught in schools is French (Mali and Senegal) or English (Gambia).
Mali
Human Development Index (How much is developed?): 30.9%
Population: 13.1 million
Life expectancy: 49 yrs
Under five mortality rate (% of kids who die before their 5th birthday): 19.1%
Lifetime risk of maternal death (how many women will die related to childbirth): 1 in 22
Rate of Female Genital Cutting: 85%
Number of physicians/population: 8/100,000
Total Literacy (% of population who can read): 26%
Female literacy (% of women who can read): 12%
Rate of Child Marriage (% of people married before the age of 18): 71%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: 77.1%
GDP per capita: $392/yr
Percent of people with phone access: 27%
Percent of people with internet access: 2%
Senegal
Human Development Index: 41.1%
Population: 12.5 million
Life expectancy: 56
Under five mortality rate: 9.3%
Lifetime risk of maternal death: 1 in 46
Rate of Female Genital Cutting: 28%
Number of physicians: 6.9/100,000
Total Literacy: 42%
Female literacy: 29.2%
Rate of Child Marriage: 39%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: 60.4%
GDP per capita: $707/yr
Percent with phone access: 44%
Percent with internet access: 8%
Gambia
Human Development Index: 39%
Population: 1.7 million
Life expectancy: 56
Under five mortality rate: 10.3%
Lifetime risk of maternal death: 1 in 49
Rate of Female Genital Cutting: 78%
Number of physicians: 11/100,000
Total Literacy: 45%
Female literacy: 27%
Rate of Child Marriage: 36%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: 82.9%
GDP per capita: $304/day
Percent with phone access: 70%
Percent with internet access: 7%
United States
Human Development Index: 90%
Population: 314.6 million
Life expectancy: 79
Under five mortality rate: 0.8%
Lifetime risk of maternal death: 1 in 2100
Number of physicians: 230/100,000
Literacy: 99%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: (I would assume <5%)
GDP per capita: $47,123
Percent with phone access: 87%
Percent with internet access: 74%
*Sources:
Lonely Planet
Wikipedia
UNICEF
World Development Indicators
A few pertinent facts to provide perspective:
Religion: 90% Muslim
Polygamy: Prevalent
Languages: Dozens of tribal languages are the first tongue for almost everyone. Majority in Mali-Bambara; in Senegal-Wolof; in Gambia-Mandinka. The official language taught in schools is French (Mali and Senegal) or English (Gambia).
Mali
Human Development Index (How much is developed?): 30.9%
Population: 13.1 million
Life expectancy: 49 yrs
Under five mortality rate (% of kids who die before their 5th birthday): 19.1%
Lifetime risk of maternal death (how many women will die related to childbirth): 1 in 22
Rate of Female Genital Cutting: 85%
Number of physicians/population: 8/100,000
Total Literacy (% of population who can read): 26%
Female literacy (% of women who can read): 12%
Rate of Child Marriage (% of people married before the age of 18): 71%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: 77.1%
GDP per capita: $392/yr
Percent of people with phone access: 27%
Percent of people with internet access: 2%
Senegal
Human Development Index: 41.1%
Population: 12.5 million
Life expectancy: 56
Under five mortality rate: 9.3%
Lifetime risk of maternal death: 1 in 46
Rate of Female Genital Cutting: 28%
Number of physicians: 6.9/100,000
Total Literacy: 42%
Female literacy: 29.2%
Rate of Child Marriage: 39%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: 60.4%
GDP per capita: $707/yr
Percent with phone access: 44%
Percent with internet access: 8%
Gambia
Human Development Index: 39%
Population: 1.7 million
Life expectancy: 56
Under five mortality rate: 10.3%
Lifetime risk of maternal death: 1 in 49
Rate of Female Genital Cutting: 78%
Number of physicians: 11/100,000
Total Literacy: 45%
Female literacy: 27%
Rate of Child Marriage: 36%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: 82.9%
GDP per capita: $304/day
Percent with phone access: 70%
Percent with internet access: 7%
United States
Human Development Index: 90%
Population: 314.6 million
Life expectancy: 79
Under five mortality rate: 0.8%
Lifetime risk of maternal death: 1 in 2100
Number of physicians: 230/100,000
Literacy: 99%
Percent of population living on less than $2/day: (I would assume <5%)
GDP per capita: $47,123
Percent with phone access: 87%
Percent with internet access: 74%
*Sources:
Lonely Planet
Wikipedia
UNICEF
World Development Indicators
Monday, March 21, 2011
Blog return/Africa
Friends, I am officially back from my long-time blog absence. I have good intentions of filling you in with a few prior posts on the gaps, but for now I'll give a quick summary of where I've been in the last few months:
After Chinle/Zuni Indian Reservations I returned to Boston for the summer. I then spent September doing a rotation at UCSF in San Francisco. After that, I was in Geneva, Switzerland working with WHO for 2 months, during which time I traveled around Switzerland and France, and to Paris, Porto Portugal, and Morrocco. Photos can be seen on my google photos page. Finally I returned to Houston for Thanksgiving and then began a marathon of residency interviews all across the United States. In February I traveled to Turkey for 2 weeks, and then departed to West Africa, where I am now wrapping up 1 month's travels. Next week I will return to Geneva to restart my work with the WHO until graduation at the end of May.
I have been inspired by all the (mis)adventure in Africa, and will write at least a post or 2 on this. The highlights have beeen:
-Thousands of birds surrounding us during a boat trip through the Parque Nacional des Oiseaux Djoudj in northern Senegal
-Brightly-colored French colonial cities in Saint-Louis and Ile de Goree, Senegal
-Market day at Djenne in the plaza in front of the world's largest mud-brick building
-Watching many different cultures fish and live in small villages all along the Niger River in Mali
-4 days trekking through and exploring the culture, people, and sights of traditional Dogon villages in Mali
-Kayking through narrow mangrove-lined saline river channels in the Sine-Saloum Delta of Senegal
-Relaxing along the beaches of Senegal and Gambia
After Chinle/Zuni Indian Reservations I returned to Boston for the summer. I then spent September doing a rotation at UCSF in San Francisco. After that, I was in Geneva, Switzerland working with WHO for 2 months, during which time I traveled around Switzerland and France, and to Paris, Porto Portugal, and Morrocco. Photos can be seen on my google photos page. Finally I returned to Houston for Thanksgiving and then began a marathon of residency interviews all across the United States. In February I traveled to Turkey for 2 weeks, and then departed to West Africa, where I am now wrapping up 1 month's travels. Next week I will return to Geneva to restart my work with the WHO until graduation at the end of May.
I have been inspired by all the (mis)adventure in Africa, and will write at least a post or 2 on this. The highlights have beeen:
-Thousands of birds surrounding us during a boat trip through the Parque Nacional des Oiseaux Djoudj in northern Senegal
-Brightly-colored French colonial cities in Saint-Louis and Ile de Goree, Senegal
-Market day at Djenne in the plaza in front of the world's largest mud-brick building
-Watching many different cultures fish and live in small villages all along the Niger River in Mali
-4 days trekking through and exploring the culture, people, and sights of traditional Dogon villages in Mali
-Kayking through narrow mangrove-lined saline river channels in the Sine-Saloum Delta of Senegal
-Relaxing along the beaches of Senegal and Gambia
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