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:
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