ON THE SEA, DAKAR – CASABLANCA
A very slow-paced day, but not what I'd call boring. Passed most of it reading The Pendragon, with interruptions for meals-- the French cooking has me euphoric, after weeks of rice with sauce. I guess I'm lucky to have not been seasick, as I usually am on ships, though I've had vague little gas pains coming and going for a couple of weeks and they sometimes make me a little queasy. Spent a very peaceful hour sitting on deck late tonight.
November 29, 1980
ON THE SEA, DAKAR – CASABLANCA
Lulled to sleep in our sweat-house cell by the gentle rocking of the ship. I woke with no idea of the time, having no windows and no watch nearby. Had a pleasant continental breakfast and spent the morning reading in the sunshine of the deck. Lunch was overwhelming: tender beef in wine sauce with noodles and fries; a cold platter of potatoes, tomatoes and fish with fresh mayonnaise; wine; cheese; pastry; and mandarins. Accustomed to "food avarice" for the past ten weeks, I'd had thoughts of coming to lunch twice, but for the first time on this trip, I actually left a little on my plate when I rolled out of the cafeteria.
Life has been reduced to trying to stretch activities as long as possible-- to make my book last all the way to Casablanca, I force myself to put it down and stare out at what little of the ocean I can see between the lifeboats. It occurs to me that I'd enjoy scully work on board ship for a couple of weeks, like my cabin-mate is doing. Although there's less to do here than in Dakar, for some reason-- maybe just because I've accepted the situation, maybe because the open sea is so unconfining-- it's enough to just sit on deck for hours at a time and the day actually passed very quickly, when I watched the sun set into the water, as I'd done a hundred times in Oswego.
I'd hoped for some sort of evening entertainment for us, but there was only checkers, so we all hit the sack at 9pm.
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Lulled to sleep in our sweat-house cell by the gentle rocking of the ship. I woke with no idea of the time, having no windows and no watch nearby. Had a pleasant continental breakfast and spent the morning reading in the sunshine of the deck. Lunch was overwhelming: tender beef in wine sauce with noodles and fries; a cold platter of potatoes, tomatoes and fish with fresh mayonnaise; wine; cheese; pastry; and mandarins. Accustomed to "food avarice" for the past ten weeks, I'd had thoughts of coming to lunch twice, but for the first time on this trip, I actually left a little on my plate when I rolled out of the cafeteria.
Life has been reduced to trying to stretch activities as long as possible-- to make my book last all the way to Casablanca, I force myself to put it down and stare out at what little of the ocean I can see between the lifeboats. It occurs to me that I'd enjoy scully work on board ship for a couple of weeks, like my cabin-mate is doing. Although there's less to do here than in Dakar, for some reason-- maybe just because I've accepted the situation, maybe because the open sea is so unconfining-- it's enough to just sit on deck for hours at a time and the day actually passed very quickly, when I watched the sun set into the water, as I'd done a hundred times in Oswego.I'd hoped for some sort of evening entertainment for us, but there was only checkers, so we all hit the sack at 9pm.
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November 28, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
Having finished Gulliver's Travels, I bought a big book about King Arthur, which should last me to JFK. Also took to the task of combining my two bags, since only one is allowed on the boat for free.
After checking out at noon, I was faced with the problem of keeping myself busy until 9pm, when I could board the Massalia. The weather was typically nice, so I read in the park for a while, ate a long lunch, went to the library when it reopened, where I saw a film on apartheid in South Africa, walked around, ate a long dinner, walked around more, etc., etc. While strolling around the seedy area of the port, at night, this guy asked me something I didn't understand: Was I -------? We kept this up for about two minutes-- he asking me if I was, me saying I didn't understand, until finally I realized he was asking if I were queer. Moved along briskly after that.
9pm finally came and after the usual police paperwork, I boarded and found my cabin, a 7 x 10 room for four people, on the bottom of the ship, under the garage. Two of the other guys are Frenchmen my age, who have traveled/worked in Africa and are returning home. The third is a few years older and is working on the ship for his passage back to France-- something I'd be glad to do, not only to save money, but to occupy myself during the trip.
Waited around on deck until we shoved off at 12:30am, then went below to the cabin-- which was a real sweat-house for the next several hours.
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Having finished Gulliver's Travels, I bought a big book about King Arthur, which should last me to JFK. Also took to the task of combining my two bags, since only one is allowed on the boat for free.After checking out at noon, I was faced with the problem of keeping myself busy until 9pm, when I could board the Massalia. The weather was typically nice, so I read in the park for a while, ate a long lunch, went to the library when it reopened, where I saw a film on apartheid in South Africa, walked around, ate a long dinner, walked around more, etc., etc. While strolling around the seedy area of the port, at night, this guy asked me something I didn't understand: Was I -------? We kept this up for about two minutes-- he asking me if I was, me saying I didn't understand, until finally I realized he was asking if I were queer. Moved along briskly after that.
9pm finally came and after the usual police paperwork, I boarded and found my cabin, a 7 x 10 room for four people, on the bottom of the ship, under the garage. Two of the other guys are Frenchmen my age, who have traveled/worked in Africa and are returning home. The third is a few years older and is working on the ship for his passage back to France-- something I'd be glad to do, not only to save money, but to occupy myself during the trip.
Waited around on deck until we shoved off at 12:30am, then went below to the cabin-- which was a real sweat-house for the next several hours.
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November 27, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
When I went back to the American Library this morning, I discovered it was closed in honor of an American fête, whereby extended families get together for the purpose of pigging out. I tried not to think of it as I ate my usual meager fare.
My second aborted effort of the day was my 3-4 mile walk to a museum mentioned in one of my pamphlets, which, it turns out, is no longer a museum. By now, Dakar is getting to be a bit of a drag and with nothing better to do, I spend many of my waking hours anticipating my return home.
I spoke to my travel agent about the possibility of disembarking at Safi, a city within easy hitching distance of Casablanca, since I'd have 4-5 days in Morocco and I've already done Casa pretty well. Because of some breakable souvenirs, however, the less traveling, the better.
When I went back to the American Library this morning, I discovered it was closed in honor of an American fête, whereby extended families get together for the purpose of pigging out. I tried not to think of it as I ate my usual meager fare.
My second aborted effort of the day was my 3-4 mile walk to a museum mentioned in one of my pamphlets, which, it turns out, is no longer a museum. By now, Dakar is getting to be a bit of a drag and with nothing better to do, I spend many of my waking hours anticipating my return home.
I spoke to my travel agent about the possibility of disembarking at Safi, a city within easy hitching distance of Casablanca, since I'd have 4-5 days in Morocco and I've already done Casa pretty well. Because of some breakable souvenirs, however, the less traveling, the better.
November 26, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
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his morning's project was to see the IFAN museum of art. There were collections of ceremonial masks and totems, statuettes, jewelry and various other carvings. I usually whisk right through these places, but this stuff was so fascinating and well-documented that in spite of its small size, I spent two hours there.
I spent the afternoon at the library again. You can tell when I start getting tired of a town, because I start seeking our American culture. Also, I learned how to eat and drink out of a coconut.
My laundry came back so clean that I hardly recognized it, but as I feared, my shirt didn't hold up too well. After sewing up a 3-1/2-inch tear in the back, which I couldn't blame them for, since the cloth had deteriorated so much, I put everything on and gazed at myself for half an hour. You could hardly imagine anyone getting so much pleasure our of seeing himself in faded denim rags, but cleaned & pressed, they looked like a million bucks to me.
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his morning's project was to see the IFAN museum of art. There were collections of ceremonial masks and totems, statuettes, jewelry and various other carvings. I usually whisk right through these places, but this stuff was so fascinating and well-documented that in spite of its small size, I spent two hours there.I spent the afternoon at the library again. You can tell when I start getting tired of a town, because I start seeking our American culture. Also, I learned how to eat and drink out of a coconut.
My laundry came back so clean that I hardly recognized it, but as I feared, my shirt didn't hold up too well. After sewing up a 3-1/2-inch tear in the back, which I couldn't blame them for, since the cloth had deteriorated so much, I put everything on and gazed at myself for half an hour. You could hardly imagine anyone getting so much pleasure our of seeing himself in faded denim rags, but cleaned & pressed, they looked like a million bucks to me.
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November 25, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
After a good breakfast of coffee, bred, eggs and liver with onions, I headed out to the embarkation point for Goree Island. Goree was for several centuries the most important holding station for slaves before being transported to America. Just before the ferry took off, a dozen black Americans, mostly over 50, arrived with a tour guide.
I'm so accustomed to seeing black women in flowing robes, etc., that the sight of all these Fort Lauderdale ladies in wigs, bursting out of tight slacks, complete with panty- and girdle-lines, had me cracking up. They went wild, spending money at every possible occasion, thinking $20 for a necklace was a great deal, etc.
The slave house on the island is not as big as I'd expected, but, considering the way they packed them in, I suppose it held a shipful. The tour group was guided by the curator, in English, so I tagged along.
There wasn't much to see, really, but a lot of little rooms in a 300-year old building, so the curator covered the walls with little placards containing his poetic thoughts on slavery. The guide said that some black Americans cried like babies when they were there, but this group took it all pretty calmly. I eventually talked to some of them—they're all from New Orleans, on a big package-tour, staying at the fabulously luxurious and expensive Hotel de l'Independence, in town. Whenever I feel bad about spending an extra dollar or two, I'll think of the thousands that these people have dished out and I'll take cheer.
This afternoon, I finally made it over to the American Cultural Center-- apparently every national capital has one of these, in order for people to appreciate the good life they're missing. Browsing through the library, I was surprised to find a book on contemporary music education and that busied me for the rest of the day.
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After a good breakfast of coffee, bred, eggs and liver with onions, I headed out to the embarkation point for Goree Island. Goree was for several centuries the most important holding station for slaves before being transported to America. Just before the ferry took off, a dozen black Americans, mostly over 50, arrived with a tour guide.
I'm so accustomed to seeing black women in flowing robes, etc., that the sight of all these Fort Lauderdale ladies in wigs, bursting out of tight slacks, complete with panty- and girdle-lines, had me cracking up. They went wild, spending money at every possible occasion, thinking $20 for a necklace was a great deal, etc.The slave house on the island is not as big as I'd expected, but, considering the way they packed them in, I suppose it held a shipful. The tour group was guided by the curator, in English, so I tagged along.
There wasn't much to see, really, but a lot of little rooms in a 300-year old building, so the curator covered the walls with little placards containing his poetic thoughts on slavery. The guide said that some black Americans cried like babies when they were there, but this group took it all pretty calmly. I eventually talked to some of them—they're all from New Orleans, on a big package-tour, staying at the fabulously luxurious and expensive Hotel de l'Independence, in town. Whenever I feel bad about spending an extra dollar or two, I'll think of the thousands that these people have dished out and I'll take cheer.This afternoon, I finally made it over to the American Cultural Center-- apparently every national capital has one of these, in order for people to appreciate the good life they're missing. Browsing through the library, I was surprised to find a book on contemporary music education and that busied me for the rest of the day.
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November 24, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
Cashed some traveler's cheques this morning and after paying my hotel bill through the 27th, I found I had more money than I'd figured on, so I celebrated with an ice cream cone and by bringing my clothes to the cleaners. In the past week, I've had to sew a patch onto my shirt, close up several little holes and replace the zipper in my pants. I'll be lucky if they survive the washing, as it's probably the dirt that's holding them together.
Reconfirmed my passage on the boat and discovered that my ticket had the wrong departure time: I leave not at 8am but at midnight the 28th. Took a walk to the port to find the embarkation point.
Cashed some traveler's cheques this morning and after paying my hotel bill through the 27th, I found I had more money than I'd figured on, so I celebrated with an ice cream cone and by bringing my clothes to the cleaners. In the past week, I've had to sew a patch onto my shirt, close up several little holes and replace the zipper in my pants. I'll be lucky if they survive the washing, as it's probably the dirt that's holding them together.
Reconfirmed my passage on the boat and discovered that my ticket had the wrong departure time: I leave not at 8am but at midnight the 28th. Took a walk to the port to find the embarkation point.
November 23, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
Despite a very strong natural tendency to stay in bed all morning, I've been trying to get out early, because the markets and the coast are most enjoyable then. There's a good, inexpensive bakery a block away that has the first solid, bulky bread I’ve seen in ages. The meat and the fish in the market have practically no rancid odor at 8am and there's loads of fresh fruit.
I spent the entire morning walking along the coast road with a view of all three sides of the peninsula. I don’t know where the "largest port of west Africa" is, because I only saw a couple of ships. Most of the coast, not surprisingly, is lined with private clubs, very fancy restaurants and elegant houses. The posted beaches are tiny little things, though there's supposed to be a big one a couple of miles away. Returned to the hotel at noon, exhausted, with my things already moved to my new room, which is just as big and has the same view, only lacks a shower and toilet, which are nearby.
For lunch, I went back to the restaurant I'd been to last night and had a big plate of fish and lots of rice with sauce, for $1.25. With this place, it'll be easy to spend only $4.00/day on food.After a rice-and-fish dinner (the national dish of Senegal), I sat in the mid-town plaza for a while. It's a Sunday evening and the city seems deserted. There’s a steady breeze coming from the sea and for the second time this month, I had the absurd thought that it was cool enough to seem like autumn, before realizing that it had actually been autumn for two months.
I talked for a long time to another guy sitting in the plaza. When I told him about the hooker in my room, he said he preferred boys because they didn’t have diseases, but he wasn't on the make or anything-- even showed me a picture of his wife. Homosexuality isn't treated with much horror here.
He also showed me his gri-gri, a length of snake skin used as a charm, and he swore very sincerely that someone carrying it could not be pierced by bullets or blades and that they would survive auto wrecks unharmed.
The friendship ended when he finally asked me for cigarette money. It's not that I couldn't spare it and it’s not that it had all been a con-- it's just that after two months of never talking to an African who didn’t eventually ask for a handout, I’m sick and tired of it.
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November 22, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
There was a big, full moon tonight, but I think it affected some people much earlier in the day. After another fruitless morning of searching for cheaper digs, I passed the siesta hours in my room, with the door open, writing and doing a crossword puzzle. A girl peeked in once and apparently was looking for somebody else, so she excused herself. Twenty minutes later, she came back, said Hi, asked where I came from, how long I would be here, was I alone, etc. I began to suspect something and when she closed the door and reached inside my pants (my fly is broken), I decided that my suspicions were correct. Head to tell her au revoir and she sulked away.
Later in the afternoon, she came back when I was lying on my bed, reading. She sat on the edge of the bed and asked me what was wrong, why didn't I want to faire l'amour, could I give her 50¢ for a taxi… The subject changed to the price of hotel rooms and here she was an expert, rattling off the prices of a dozen hotels around town. The clerk told me that tomorrow I can change to a $9 room, and judging by this expert's information, it may be the cheapest around.
The other moon-worshipper appeared on my way to dinner. A black guy, about my age, stepped out and started the usual over-friendly patter of the sidewalk hawkers, though I didn't see any merchandise. He spoke in English, shook my hand constantly, and must have told me thirty times ore more that he wanted to welcome me to his country, his name was Ali, and what was my name? When I started getting tired of this, he ingeniously slid a necklace from under his sleeve onto my arm, while shaking my hand. I told him I didn't want it and he told me thirty times that it was a gift, for free, he swore to God, would he lie to god? It was a gift, for free, if he went to my country, he would be glad to accept a gift from me, what was my name? his was Ali.
I couldn't for the life of me figure out his game, but was getting exhausted with the conversation, so I accepted the "free gift" and tried to move on. In a flash, he whipped out an intricate silver bracelet and stuck it in my hand. Now he really had me baffled and I refused it, but he insisted it was a gift and put it on my wrist. Finally, he told me that maybe it would be proper if I gave him a tiny present, just enough for a Coke or something. I insisted he tell me exactly how much he would need for a Coke, so he leaned real close and whispered in my ear "$60." I left him in the dust, with his mouth hanging open, as though he never expected that I wouldn't gladly go along with it.
There was a big, full moon tonight, but I think it affected some people much earlier in the day. After another fruitless morning of searching for cheaper digs, I passed the siesta hours in my room, with the door open, writing and doing a crossword puzzle. A girl peeked in once and apparently was looking for somebody else, so she excused herself. Twenty minutes later, she came back, said Hi, asked where I came from, how long I would be here, was I alone, etc. I began to suspect something and when she closed the door and reached inside my pants (my fly is broken), I decided that my suspicions were correct. Head to tell her au revoir and she sulked away.
Later in the afternoon, she came back when I was lying on my bed, reading. She sat on the edge of the bed and asked me what was wrong, why didn't I want to faire l'amour, could I give her 50¢ for a taxi… The subject changed to the price of hotel rooms and here she was an expert, rattling off the prices of a dozen hotels around town. The clerk told me that tomorrow I can change to a $9 room, and judging by this expert's information, it may be the cheapest around.
The other moon-worshipper appeared on my way to dinner. A black guy, about my age, stepped out and started the usual over-friendly patter of the sidewalk hawkers, though I didn't see any merchandise. He spoke in English, shook my hand constantly, and must have told me thirty times ore more that he wanted to welcome me to his country, his name was Ali, and what was my name? When I started getting tired of this, he ingeniously slid a necklace from under his sleeve onto my arm, while shaking my hand. I told him I didn't want it and he told me thirty times that it was a gift, for free, he swore to God, would he lie to god? It was a gift, for free, if he went to my country, he would be glad to accept a gift from me, what was my name? his was Ali.
I couldn't for the life of me figure out his game, but was getting exhausted with the conversation, so I accepted the "free gift" and tried to move on. In a flash, he whipped out an intricate silver bracelet and stuck it in my hand. Now he really had me baffled and I refused it, but he insisted it was a gift and put it on my wrist. Finally, he told me that maybe it would be proper if I gave him a tiny present, just enough for a Coke or something. I insisted he tell me exactly how much he would need for a Coke, so he leaned real close and whispered in my ear "$60." I left him in the dust, with his mouth hanging open, as though he never expected that I wouldn't gladly go along with it.
November 21, 1980
DAKAR, SENEGAL
After what may have been my first hot shower in two months, I set myself to the business at hand: to find a cheaper hotel before I had to pay $16 again for the same room. Armed with the Tourist Bureau list of hotels and their ratings, but without much of a map, I got to know the hotel quarter pretty well, which is to say which hotels are full and which have gone out of business since the list was made. Then I devoted an hour or more to finding a certain hotel in another quarter, near the port. Finally found it and got a room for $12.50, with a possibility of switching to a $9 room tomorrow. This room is also pretty nice, on the third floor, with a terrace overlooking the street in front and a sort of porch with a table and chair outside the room. Inside, two single beds inadequately combined to make one; a large armoire; a desk and chair; two night stands; and a large bathroom.
After settling and resting again, I set out for a walk along the coast. Dakar is a peninsula, with a port—the most important in West Africa—on the east side and a couple of deserted beaches and residences on the west. The view is terrific, because the city's on a plateau and you watch the sea from up above. There are several little islands nearby and a crowd of people on the beach were dragging in a fishnet. It occurred to me that if I had to live I one of the African cities I've seen, it would be
On past the Moslem cemetery, I finally came to the artisans' village, a co-op for creating and selling wood, ivory and metal sculptures; gold, silver and other jewelry; pottery; clothes and fabrics' baskets; leather goods; and a book bindery. The vendors, especially of sculptures, were as aggressive as ever, pushing and tugging at me, insisting that I "just come and look," "just hold it," "just buy it and three more like it but bigger." Actually, I saw loads of stuff I liked but confined myself to three purchases.
Back at the hotel, I was lucky enough to find a box suitable for all my gifts. Supped, read, and hit the deck early again—I'm really glad I decided to get out of Bamako fast and spend my week here.
November 20, 1980
BAMAKO – DAKAR
The first distinction of the day was to have had the worst coffee I the world for breakfast. Bought other foodstuffs off the tops of people's heads, at stations. Spent a couple of hours in the middle of the day, sitting on the steps between cars, riding in the open air. The day was sunny and I enjoyed watching the world fly past. We arrived at Dakar, Senegal, about 2pm-- earlier than I had figured. My roommate had, as is the custom on train trips, bought stocks along the way and by the end of the trip, our cabin was overflowing with fruit, cola nuts, brooms, boxes and three live chickens!
I quickly found the tourist bureau, which was still in siesta, so I toured a bit. Referring to the guidebook I brought, I started looking at cheap hotels, meanwhile inquiring at any I saw. There's such an overwhelming lack of vacancies that I took the first one I found. Normally a $20 room, knocked down to $16 because the A/C was out, it's the most luxurious room I've had yet, with a private bathroom as big as some bedrooms I've had in Morocco. After settling and resting, I found the tourist bureau open and got some literature on the town. I was pleased to find several bookstores with novels in English, but most of these were trashy romances, detective stories, etc.-- almost gave up when my diligence was rewarded with a copy of Gulliver's Travels, something I've recently wanted to read.
Dakar seems to be modeled after Paris, with its big, modern boulevards, expensive sidewalk cafés, etc. and there are many French who live and work here. Between Swift and the International Herald Tribune, I read myself to sleep.
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The first distinction of the day was to have had the worst coffee I the world for breakfast. Bought other foodstuffs off the tops of people's heads, at stations. Spent a couple of hours in the middle of the day, sitting on the steps between cars, riding in the open air. The day was sunny and I enjoyed watching the world fly past. We arrived at Dakar, Senegal, about 2pm-- earlier than I had figured. My roommate had, as is the custom on train trips, bought stocks along the way and by the end of the trip, our cabin was overflowing with fruit, cola nuts, brooms, boxes and three live chickens!I quickly found the tourist bureau, which was still in siesta, so I toured a bit. Referring to the guidebook I brought, I started looking at cheap hotels, meanwhile inquiring at any I saw. There's such an overwhelming lack of vacancies that I took the first one I found. Normally a $20 room, knocked down to $16 because the A/C was out, it's the most luxurious room I've had yet, with a private bathroom as big as some bedrooms I've had in Morocco. After settling and resting, I found the tourist bureau open and got some literature on the town. I was pleased to find several bookstores with novels in English, but most of these were trashy romances, detective stories, etc.-- almost gave up when my diligence was rewarded with a copy of Gulliver's Travels, something I've recently wanted to read.
Dakar seems to be modeled after Paris, with its big, modern boulevards, expensive sidewalk cafés, etc. and there are many French who live and work here. Between Swift and the International Herald Tribune, I read myself to sleep.PHOTO CREDIT 1
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November 19, 1980
BAMAKO - DAKAR
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Didn't receive my 6:30 wake-up call, so after a year or so of being on the other side of the hotel desk, I had the pleasure of making the complaint for once. I usually feel guilty spending more than rock-bottom prices, but when I saw the train and imagined spending two days between six smelly people without ever being able to stand up-- and in my state of fatigue-- I knew the bed was the only way to go. In fact, it's not so luxurious, anyway-- I have the top of two bunks in a cabin, it's difficult to see out the window, and the sink has standing, dirty water, with a large cockroach doing the back float. What's nice is, besides being able to lie down, being able to leave my bag in relative security while I walk around.
I'm still surprised that so many people actually live in little villages of mud huts with thatched roofs, even though many wear western dress, most speak French, and a boy who asked for my address today was even studying English at school. If all the addresses I've handed out to strangers are used, I'm going to be getting some pretty weird mail.
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November 18, 1980
BAMAKO, MALI
By noon we reached (supposedly) Bamako and I truly think my arse will never be the same after Africa. I feel like I have no more padding than the awful benches in the taxi-brousses. We were not exactly downtown and most people were catching taxis, but I decided to walk. On the way, I saw a Malien student I'd met this morning in another town and he decided to walk in with me and when a friend of his drove by, we got a lift. Lucky thing— the damned truck had left us more than five miles from town.
I got out at the train station so I could make inquiries about the famous train to Dakar, Senegal. I'd planned on spending about two days here, but it turned out there are only two trains per week: tomorrow and in four days. Because I'm not five-days interested in Bamako, but am more than four-days interested in Dakar, I decided to get tomorrow's train.
I've been warned countless times about the fatiguing nature of this train trip and it was suggested that I spend the extra bucks for a reserved bed. The extra turned out to be $40 more than first class, but there were no first class seats and I knew second class was not to be reckoned with, so I went all the way. My travels from here on are strictly deluxe and all pre-purchased: my $100 two-day bed to Dakar, by $375 luxury liner to Casablanca and my flight to New York. I'm not going to miss the taxi-brousses!
After an hour's wait at the Police Speciale for an exit stamp, I went to the hotel attached to the train station. I always look for the crappiest hotel I can find, expecting a bargain; then when it turns out to be no bargain, I'm too tired to lug my bags elsewhere. Such is the case here. It looked OK at first, $7.50 for the room, but there's another mandatory $7.50 for the dinner, breakfast, tax and service and hell, the room overlooks the train tracks, ten feet away!
Did what I could to explore Bamako in my one afternoon here, but I was beat after no sleep last night and had to nap for a while. The required dinner wasn't bad, but not great either. Later, a crazy African/Hispanic band entertained millions in the hotel courtyard.
. . . Went out for a late-night snack and the hotel entertainment is really cooking now: there's a chorus line of topless girls chanting folk songs with the drums and about 100 spectators. Now I know what I'm paying for here— unfortunately, I'm tired and have an 8am train to catch.
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By noon we reached (supposedly) Bamako and I truly think my arse will never be the same after Africa. I feel like I have no more padding than the awful benches in the taxi-brousses. We were not exactly downtown and most people were catching taxis, but I decided to walk. On the way, I saw a Malien student I'd met this morning in another town and he decided to walk in with me and when a friend of his drove by, we got a lift. Lucky thing— the damned truck had left us more than five miles from town.
I got out at the train station so I could make inquiries about the famous train to Dakar, Senegal. I'd planned on spending about two days here, but it turned out there are only two trains per week: tomorrow and in four days. Because I'm not five-days interested in Bamako, but am more than four-days interested in Dakar, I decided to get tomorrow's train.I've been warned countless times about the fatiguing nature of this train trip and it was suggested that I spend the extra bucks for a reserved bed. The extra turned out to be $40 more than first class, but there were no first class seats and I knew second class was not to be reckoned with, so I went all the way. My travels from here on are strictly deluxe and all pre-purchased: my $100 two-day bed to Dakar, by $375 luxury liner to Casablanca and my flight to New York. I'm not going to miss the taxi-brousses!
After an hour's wait at the Police Speciale for an exit stamp, I went to the hotel attached to the train station. I always look for the crappiest hotel I can find, expecting a bargain; then when it turns out to be no bargain, I'm too tired to lug my bags elsewhere. Such is the case here. It looked OK at first, $7.50 for the room, but there's another mandatory $7.50 for the dinner, breakfast, tax and service and hell, the room overlooks the train tracks, ten feet away!Did what I could to explore Bamako in my one afternoon here, but I was beat after no sleep last night and had to nap for a while. The required dinner wasn't bad, but not great either. Later, a crazy African/Hispanic band entertained millions in the hotel courtyard.
. . . Went out for a late-night snack and the hotel entertainment is really cooking now: there's a chorus line of topless girls chanting folk songs with the drums and about 100 spectators. Now I know what I'm paying for here— unfortunately, I'm tired and have an 8am train to catch.
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November 17, 1980
FERDESSEDOUGOU, IVORY COAST
Many of these smaller towns are particularly pleasant in the early morning and in the evening, when the heat's not so brutal—although it's not nearly as humid here as it was in Abidjan and the temperature is bearable by 4pm. This morning, I walked about a mile to get breakfast and everyone was chugging along, setting up business for the day. Afterwards, I went to Post Office to ask where I could get some postcards, fully expecting to be told it wasn't their business. Instead, one of the clerks walked down the street with me, brought me to a store and waited for me while I stopped.
The kids are friendly, too. Even the tiniest ones seldom miss a chance to say "Ça va?" to me. yesterday I was bending over to stretch my lower back and when I looked up, there was a four-year old mimicking me, while lifting his feet up and down— he seemed to think it was a dance and I couldn't help cracking up.
At 2pm, went to the auto-park. A mini-bus was waiting, so I bought a ticket to Sikasso, Mali, loaded my pack and sat down to read for a couple of hours. At 4pm, we were full, which is to say six rows of five people each in a six-foot wide truck. I had a window seat, so I was relatively comfortable.
My outlook on African transport has definitely changed, though maybe that's because the trip's nearing its end. I take it at the temp the locals do, expecting a million stops, not minding them, treating the trip as a prolonged adventure, instead of just a painful period between two desirable places. Five miles from town, we passed our first community— a little village of thatched, mud-brick huts, one of which had the inevitable "Coke" and "Fanta" signs. Saw lots of tropical savannah countryside, including several baobabs.
I'd been thinking about staying for a day at Sikasso, but we arrived at midnight and I didn't want to look for a sleeping place at that hour, so I took the connecting truck to Bamako, the capital of Mali. Though we'd had a half-dozen police stops in seven hours, I miraculously got no stamps in the passport, not even for leaving Ivory Coast or entering Mali.
The second leg of the journey was in a real taxi-brousse: the same deal that I refused to take part in a month ago, packing no fewer than 14 people, with luggage, on benches in the back of a small, covered pickup. During the next 12 hours, we became very close.
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Many of these smaller towns are particularly pleasant in the early morning and in the evening, when the heat's not so brutal—although it's not nearly as humid here as it was in Abidjan and the temperature is bearable by 4pm. This morning, I walked about a mile to get breakfast and everyone was chugging along, setting up business for the day. Afterwards, I went to Post Office to ask where I could get some postcards, fully expecting to be told it wasn't their business. Instead, one of the clerks walked down the street with me, brought me to a store and waited for me while I stopped.The kids are friendly, too. Even the tiniest ones seldom miss a chance to say "Ça va?" to me. yesterday I was bending over to stretch my lower back and when I looked up, there was a four-year old mimicking me, while lifting his feet up and down— he seemed to think it was a dance and I couldn't help cracking up.
At 2pm, went to the auto-park. A mini-bus was waiting, so I bought a ticket to Sikasso, Mali, loaded my pack and sat down to read for a couple of hours. At 4pm, we were full, which is to say six rows of five people each in a six-foot wide truck. I had a window seat, so I was relatively comfortable.
My outlook on African transport has definitely changed, though maybe that's because the trip's nearing its end. I take it at the temp the locals do, expecting a million stops, not minding them, treating the trip as a prolonged adventure, instead of just a painful period between two desirable places. Five miles from town, we passed our first community— a little village of thatched, mud-brick huts, one of which had the inevitable "Coke" and "Fanta" signs. Saw lots of tropical savannah countryside, including several baobabs.I'd been thinking about staying for a day at Sikasso, but we arrived at midnight and I didn't want to look for a sleeping place at that hour, so I took the connecting truck to Bamako, the capital of Mali. Though we'd had a half-dozen police stops in seven hours, I miraculously got no stamps in the passport, not even for leaving Ivory Coast or entering Mali.
The second leg of the journey was in a real taxi-brousse: the same deal that I refused to take part in a month ago, packing no fewer than 14 people, with luggage, on benches in the back of a small, covered pickup. During the next 12 hours, we became very close.
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November 16, 1980
FERDESSADOUGOU, IVORY COAST
Got to Ferkessadougou, one of the northernmost cities of Ivory Coast, at 7:15— after 16 hours in the train. At the station, I had a quaint breakfast of millet, eaten out of a gourd, with a gourd spoon. Had to practically walk through a forest to get to the town, which was already hopping. Walked up and down the main street, looking for the downtown section, then realized I must have passed it. Considering that it's one of the biggest cities in the country, it's pretty damn small. Each end of the road leads to a plantation of some kind. In the middle are all the street vendors. The cheapest room I could find was $7.50, but it's pretty nice. Just haven't been able to find those crappy $3.00 rooms like I had in Morocco.
Asked around for transportation to Sikasso, the first town in Mali, halfway to Bamako. I was directed to a taxi-brousse full of sweltering people wondering when they were going to leave. Went back to my room to catch up on lost sleep.
I was a genius for deciding to stop in this town— although there's very little to do, it's good to take it slow and see something other than the capital cities. Besides, 450 miles in one long hop is too much in a taxi-brousse. And finally, spending a few days really bored and anxious to get home might stave off my wanderlust for a while.
Ate dinner at a restaurant for the first time in a while— steak, salad (with cucumbers, even!), a big plate of rice with sauce and chunks of beef, buttered bread and a soda: $2.50. (I notice that I write a lot about money, now that I'm on my last lap.)
Right now, half the town is at the Bruce Lee movie. He's a big influence in Africa— his films are in every town and I always see little kids (and once, two men) spinning around, kicking each other in the solar plexus. One of the movies playing in Abidjan was "Kung Fu versus Yoga."
Did a lot of walking today and I was about to hit the sack at 8:15, when a dozen or so people outside started talking louder and louder, then all screaming at once. I went out to watch the argument— it was five minutes before I realized they were speaking French— such is the accent here. Lulled myself to sleep with their screams.
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Got to Ferkessadougou, one of the northernmost cities of Ivory Coast, at 7:15— after 16 hours in the train. At the station, I had a quaint breakfast of millet, eaten out of a gourd, with a gourd spoon. Had to practically walk through a forest to get to the town, which was already hopping. Walked up and down the main street, looking for the downtown section, then realized I must have passed it. Considering that it's one of the biggest cities in the country, it's pretty damn small. Each end of the road leads to a plantation of some kind. In the middle are all the street vendors. The cheapest room I could find was $7.50, but it's pretty nice. Just haven't been able to find those crappy $3.00 rooms like I had in Morocco.
Asked around for transportation to Sikasso, the first town in Mali, halfway to Bamako. I was directed to a taxi-brousse full of sweltering people wondering when they were going to leave. Went back to my room to catch up on lost sleep.
I was a genius for deciding to stop in this town— although there's very little to do, it's good to take it slow and see something other than the capital cities. Besides, 450 miles in one long hop is too much in a taxi-brousse. And finally, spending a few days really bored and anxious to get home might stave off my wanderlust for a while.Ate dinner at a restaurant for the first time in a while— steak, salad (with cucumbers, even!), a big plate of rice with sauce and chunks of beef, buttered bread and a soda: $2.50. (I notice that I write a lot about money, now that I'm on my last lap.)
Right now, half the town is at the Bruce Lee movie. He's a big influence in Africa— his films are in every town and I always see little kids (and once, two men) spinning around, kicking each other in the solar plexus. One of the movies playing in Abidjan was "Kung Fu versus Yoga."
Did a lot of walking today and I was about to hit the sack at 8:15, when a dozen or so people outside started talking louder and louder, then all screaming at once. I went out to watch the argument— it was five minutes before I realized they were speaking French— such is the accent here. Lulled myself to sleep with their screams.
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November 15, 1980
ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST
My train was to leave at 5:15 pm and the hotel clerk said I could hang around until then, s I had a lot of time for my last tour of the modern paradise of Abidjan. I’ve made a pact with myself to try as many unfamiliar foods as I can, so I went to the market at lunch time—a chaotic place at its most chaotic time—and had a sandwich of some green mush I’ve been looking at for days. Went looking for the American Cultural Center bookstore, but it had moved since my map had been made, so I settled for a Daphne de Maurier mystery from another store. By early afternoon, it had rained three times, once violently like last night.
I found myself pigging out a lot again today. I find that the women vendors are almost always honest, while the men, boys and girls will try to get whatever they can. For example, I thought that a big banana cost 25 CFA (11¢), so I took one from a woman and gave her 30 CFA. Instead of 5 CFA change, she gave me two more bananas. This is one fruit they don’t lack around here—fresh, fried or broiled and very cheap.
I’d heard that I should be at the station two hours early, but I was surprised to see the gates already open and a few people on the train. Fearing a pile-up like on the last trip, I took a seat right away and waited there for two hours n the heat, before we pulled out. It was not as crowded as last week— only two people per seat— and more fun because of lots of young women with babies, though one baby was a real screamer. It got dark soon, but I kept the light on and read as long as I could. After a while, some people got off and I had the seat to myself.
Unfortunately, the guy across from me must have had some kind of business scheme, because in addition to the four big suitcases he came with, he bought about 200 bananas at one stop and crammed them into every possible nook. Then he bought three big bags of cola nuts— enough to keep you awake for a year. Slept off and on, uncomfortably.
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My train was to leave at 5:15 pm and the hotel clerk said I could hang around until then, s I had a lot of time for my last tour of the modern paradise of Abidjan. I’ve made a pact with myself to try as many unfamiliar foods as I can, so I went to the market at lunch time—a chaotic place at its most chaotic time—and had a sandwich of some green mush I’ve been looking at for days. Went looking for the American Cultural Center bookstore, but it had moved since my map had been made, so I settled for a Daphne de Maurier mystery from another store. By early afternoon, it had rained three times, once violently like last night.I found myself pigging out a lot again today. I find that the women vendors are almost always honest, while the men, boys and girls will try to get whatever they can. For example, I thought that a big banana cost 25 CFA (11¢), so I took one from a woman and gave her 30 CFA. Instead of 5 CFA change, she gave me two more bananas. This is one fruit they don’t lack around here—fresh, fried or broiled and very cheap.
I’d heard that I should be at the station two hours early, but I was surprised to see the gates already open and a few people on the train. Fearing a pile-up like on the last trip, I took a seat right away and waited there for two hours n the heat, before we pulled out. It was not as crowded as last week— only two people per seat— and more fun because of lots of young women with babies, though one baby was a real screamer. It got dark soon, but I kept the light on and read as long as I could. After a while, some people got off and I had the seat to myself.
Unfortunately, the guy across from me must have had some kind of business scheme, because in addition to the four big suitcases he came with, he bought about 200 bananas at one stop and crammed them into every possible nook. Then he bought three big bags of cola nuts— enough to keep you awake for a year. Slept off and on, uncomfortably.
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November 14, 1980
ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST
Jean-Luc didn’t show, so I went back to the travel agent—as I said, I’m anxious to get these reservations made so I’ll know where I stand. She could get me the boat but not the plane from Casablanca to New York. I couldn’t believe that, so I went to the Royal Air Maroc office and found that the $375 standby is not available in that direction. But—the regular flight is only $391. I booked it for Dec. 6, the first flight after the boat reaches Casa, Dec. 2. Then the bad news: the airlines have their own exchange rates which, for someone carrying CFAs, like myself, is a rip-off. In this case, to the tune of $70! Have to do it though.
Jean-Luc hadn’t been by with info about freighters, so I booked the passenger ship, Dakar – Casa. at $350. Pretty expensive for the distance, but it’s deluxe— a present I’m giving myself at the end of my trip.
Today I ate like a pig. For breakfast, a piece of flat Arab bread, two boiled eggs, two cups of yogurt and three bananas. For snacks, a soda, a couple of doughnut balls, a big carrot and a bowl of too-sweet coffee. For lunch, a pint of creamy milk with two little cakes. Dinner: half a loaf of French bread, a fried fish and ¼ kilo of cheese. Not my usual starving traveler’s diet!
Stopped at the truck park to ask for a lift to Mali tomorrow. I figured the bus would be crowded and it supposedly makes about 200 police stops. And the train, which goes half-way there, I’ve already taken. I was directed to different places and finally found that a truck ride is not $40 but $75. I’ll take the half-way train ride for $20, then see what’s what. Since I already paid for my room tonight, I’ll leave tomorrow evening and save a night’s rent by sleeping on the train. It’s a shame that I haven’t seen more of Ivory Coast, but I don’t want to miss my boat, so I’ll hurry to Dakar, then act like a tourist for a while.
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Jean-Luc didn’t show, so I went back to the travel agent—as I said, I’m anxious to get these reservations made so I’ll know where I stand. She could get me the boat but not the plane from Casablanca to New York. I couldn’t believe that, so I went to the Royal Air Maroc office and found that the $375 standby is not available in that direction. But—the regular flight is only $391. I booked it for Dec. 6, the first flight after the boat reaches Casa, Dec. 2. Then the bad news: the airlines have their own exchange rates which, for someone carrying CFAs, like myself, is a rip-off. In this case, to the tune of $70! Have to do it though.
Jean-Luc hadn’t been by with info about freighters, so I booked the passenger ship, Dakar – Casa. at $350. Pretty expensive for the distance, but it’s deluxe— a present I’m giving myself at the end of my trip.
Today I ate like a pig. For breakfast, a piece of flat Arab bread, two boiled eggs, two cups of yogurt and three bananas. For snacks, a soda, a couple of doughnut balls, a big carrot and a bowl of too-sweet coffee. For lunch, a pint of creamy milk with two little cakes. Dinner: half a loaf of French bread, a fried fish and ¼ kilo of cheese. Not my usual starving traveler’s diet!Stopped at the truck park to ask for a lift to Mali tomorrow. I figured the bus would be crowded and it supposedly makes about 200 police stops. And the train, which goes half-way there, I’ve already taken. I was directed to different places and finally found that a truck ride is not $40 but $75. I’ll take the half-way train ride for $20, then see what’s what. Since I already paid for my room tonight, I’ll leave tomorrow evening and save a night’s rent by sleeping on the train. It’s a shame that I haven’t seen more of Ivory Coast, but I don’t want to miss my boat, so I’ll hurry to Dakar, then act like a tourist for a while.
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November 13, 1980
ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST
Didn’t meet Jean-Luc until 12:30, but it was good to see him. We got caught up on each other since we’d last met at the Algeria/Niger border. He’s got no job or apartment, but is still with Eric and Raymond and they may work it out in a day or two. Meanwhile, he was staying with a friend’s brother, where we went and had a grenadine. He thinks that the Dakar-Casa boat is too expensive and will talk to a friend in the maritime transportation industry about getting me on a freighter.
We made arrangements to re-meet and Jean-Luc recommended a Lebanese restaurant where I could get Shawarka—something like a gyro sandwich. Afterwards, I bumped into the friendly Gambian pusher who’d directed my guide and me to my present hotel. He and his friends gave advice on how to reach Bamako. I’m thinking that a truck will be best.
Out on the Plateau again, I passed rows of tall trees that were thick with bats, hanging upside-down in clusters of five or six. After some waiting, I got back my passport with, hopefully, my last required visa for this trip. My nervousness now is over my return flight arrangements. It occurred to me that one of the conditions of my $375 NY-Casa ticket may have been very early reservation of the return flight. If this is so, I may have to spend more than I’d figured— and I don’t have much extra. I’m peeved that the travel agent put me off for two days— tomorrow we’ll see what’s what. The sooner I get these larger transportation arrangements made, the sooner I’ll be able to know just how much money I can live on.
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Didn’t meet Jean-Luc until 12:30, but it was good to see him. We got caught up on each other since we’d last met at the Algeria/Niger border. He’s got no job or apartment, but is still with Eric and Raymond and they may work it out in a day or two. Meanwhile, he was staying with a friend’s brother, where we went and had a grenadine. He thinks that the Dakar-Casa boat is too expensive and will talk to a friend in the maritime transportation industry about getting me on a freighter.
We made arrangements to re-meet and Jean-Luc recommended a Lebanese restaurant where I could get Shawarka—something like a gyro sandwich. Afterwards, I bumped into the friendly Gambian pusher who’d directed my guide and me to my present hotel. He and his friends gave advice on how to reach Bamako. I’m thinking that a truck will be best.
Out on the Plateau again, I passed rows of tall trees that were thick with bats, hanging upside-down in clusters of five or six. After some waiting, I got back my passport with, hopefully, my last required visa for this trip. My nervousness now is over my return flight arrangements. It occurred to me that one of the conditions of my $375 NY-Casa ticket may have been very early reservation of the return flight. If this is so, I may have to spend more than I’d figured— and I don’t have much extra. I’m peeved that the travel agent put me off for two days— tomorrow we’ll see what’s what. The sooner I get these larger transportation arrangements made, the sooner I’ll be able to know just how much money I can live on.PHOTO CREDIT
November 12, 1980
ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST
Gave myself an even bigger walking tour today. Found the travel agency that books the Dakar-Casablanca boat, but they couldn’t tell me anything until Friday (14th). Did the market for a while, until it was time to pick up my passport at the Mila Embassy. Brought it from there directly to the Senegal Embassy for my final visa. Walked a long way to the National Museum, which was closed for the mid-day siesta, so I took my own siesta outside the National Library.
Picture postcards of cities usually crop out the ugly sections and show the small section of skyline that gives an impression that the entire city is modern and beautiful. In Abidjan, the impression is true—everywhere you look, you see beautiful, modern buildings, waterfront parks, everything clean—what cities should strive to be like… European and American cities, anyway. To achieve this, Abidjan has largely sacrificed its African character; by being prosperous, it’s necessarily commercial. Still, it’s an interesting change from the other tiny capitals I’ve seen.
The library opened first, so I browed through it for an hour. There wasn’t much to read in English, but it was good to be in a library—a natural environment for me. I even found a French hi-fi magazine with a large section on Stravinsky. I’m planning an intensive Stravinsky study upon my return to the States.
The museum, like all good museums, overpowered me. There were so many fascinating, beautiful, hideous statues and masks that I couldn’t stop at every one long enough to appreciate it. Many tall mahogany statues; masks of all sizes and many materials; ivory carvings as tall as 14 inches; smaller figures and jewelry in bronze, silver, gold, ebony and clay; a room full of doors carved in bas-relief.
When I finally got back to the hotel, with a few groceries for supper, there was a note waiting for me from Jean-Luc, whom I had given up on. He’d been by at 2:30 and will come around again tomorrow morning at 10:00. Maybe he can get me out of this too-expensive room; maybe he can advise me on the best transportation to Bamako (Mali); at the very least, he’ll provide some companionship—looking forward to it!
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Gave myself an even bigger walking tour today. Found the travel agency that books the Dakar-Casablanca boat, but they couldn’t tell me anything until Friday (14th). Did the market for a while, until it was time to pick up my passport at the Mila Embassy. Brought it from there directly to the Senegal Embassy for my final visa. Walked a long way to the National Museum, which was closed for the mid-day siesta, so I took my own siesta outside the National Library.
Picture postcards of cities usually crop out the ugly sections and show the small section of skyline that gives an impression that the entire city is modern and beautiful. In Abidjan, the impression is true—everywhere you look, you see beautiful, modern buildings, waterfront parks, everything clean—what cities should strive to be like… European and American cities, anyway. To achieve this, Abidjan has largely sacrificed its African character; by being prosperous, it’s necessarily commercial. Still, it’s an interesting change from the other tiny capitals I’ve seen.The library opened first, so I browed through it for an hour. There wasn’t much to read in English, but it was good to be in a library—a natural environment for me. I even found a French hi-fi magazine with a large section on Stravinsky. I’m planning an intensive Stravinsky study upon my return to the States.
The museum, like all good museums, overpowered me. There were so many fascinating, beautiful, hideous statues and masks that I couldn’t stop at every one long enough to appreciate it. Many tall mahogany statues; masks of all sizes and many materials; ivory carvings as tall as 14 inches; smaller figures and jewelry in bronze, silver, gold, ebony and clay; a room full of doors carved in bas-relief.
When I finally got back to the hotel, with a few groceries for supper, there was a note waiting for me from Jean-Luc, whom I had given up on. He’d been by at 2:30 and will come around again tomorrow morning at 10:00. Maybe he can get me out of this too-expensive room; maybe he can advise me on the best transportation to Bamako (Mali); at the very least, he’ll provide some companionship—looking forward to it!PHOTO CREDIT 1
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November 11, 1980
ABIDJAN, IVORY COASTSlept fairly well, considering the circumstances: my unventilated room is on ground level and people hang out next to my window all night and their talking sounds like it comes from right in the room. The lack of ventilation in the room is compensated, though, by the shower: the first time I've had one in my room this trip. I use it two or three times a day, to cool off.
This morning I got a real walking tour of Abidjan—through Treichville, the slummy-but-colorful section where I live across the bridge over the lagoon, to The Plateau. This is like stepping out of the haunted forest and seeing Emerald City. This part of Abidjan is completely Europeanized and urbanized—highways and skyscrapers and buses and supermarkets. I went to the Sureté Nationale to check into Ivory Coast, since no one stamped my passport on the train. No one seemed quite sure why I was there and after the usual shuffle, I was told that no checking-in was necessary. A marvel, after the bureaucracy of Niger. When I asked for the Malien Embassy, I got shuffled all over town, but got a good tour this way. The Mali visa cost $12—making my living budget even tighter.
Had a fried banana sandwich for lunch and fried fish for dinner.Ivory Coast is in the sub-tropical and equatorial climate zones— equatorial at Abidjan, They have two rainy seasons per year, the lighter of which is in October/November. Both yesterday and today I noticed heavy clouds in the morning, clearing by early afternoon. Today it fooled me, though, and around 6pm I was caught in a sprinkle a mile from my hotel. I hurried back but at half a block from safety, I was hit by a sudden downpour so heavy that I might as well have walked the whole mile in it—I was drenched.
Afterwards, I went out looking for a pineapple-sicle, had an orange instead—so strange to see orange oranges instead of green ones. And the golden delicious apples that cost about $2 in Niamey cost only 10¢ - 20¢ here. Later, had sweet café au lait and buttered bread.
When the conversation outside my window died down to a loud discussion, I called it a day.
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November 10, 1980
OUAGADOUGOU - ABIDJANSlept better than I expected I would. Watched the daylight come in, but it was earlier than I at first thought. The landscape had changed since the evening before: there were forests now, instead of isolated trees, dense fields of shrubbery, vines and general overgrowth, and everything was drenched with dew, unheard of in Niger. I was hungry and bought something to eat at nearly every stop: oily sandwiches of onions, tomatoes, lettuce, a little meat; hard-boiled eggs; oranges; bananas, much larger and cheaper than in Niamey.
I usually don't feel too obviously out of place here, because no one makes much of a fuss over me. Even in rural areas, everyone speaks some French—it all gives me the impression that I'm just one of thousands of whites the see every day. Every now and then I think of this and look around. For instance, I'm sure I'm the only white on this train that has a few hundred passengers. When I was watching a soccer match in Niamey, mine was the only white face in the crowded stadium. Except in Niamey, when I see a white face on the street, it stands out as unusual to me. Maybe it's only the season, but there seem to be far fewer tourists here than I generally assume.
As we approached Abidjan in mid-afternoon, I could see that it was not a town like the last two capitals I'd seen. This was a real city, with highways and with a half-hour ride from outskirts to center. Again there were no police checks or customs at the station.The first thing I wanted to do was find Jean-Luc, so he could help me get settled. On my two-day trip from Niamey to Ouagadougou, I'd managed to get more filthy than I had on my two weeks in the desert and I desperately wanted to wash myself and my clothes.
I found the Post Office of the quarter, the only place I could make a phone call, waited a half-hour or more to have my call put through and when I asked for Jean-Luc, the party hung up! Didn't have time to go through that again, so I put it aside and decided to get a room. I asked around for a cheap hotel and a guy offered to find one for me. I'd read that Abidjan was one of the most expensive cities in the world, close to Tokyo, but he said he could get me a room fro $3 - $5. After literally walking through garbage dumps—this was Treichville, the African slum section of Abidjan—the best deal we could find was $10/night. Defeated, I accepted.
My next project was to get my clothes washed. I could never go to a consulate looking for a visa if I looked like that. I'd tried washing my own clothes in hotel sinks before and not done a very good job, so I asked for a laundry. The place I was directed to looked like a dry cleaners—they did regular wash, but it was not self-service. One shirt and one pair of pants? No problem, only $45. Tonight, I learned to clean my clothes perfectly in a hotel sink.
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November 9, 1980
OUAGADOUGOU, UPPER VOLTAAfter three weeks in Niamey, the most remarkable thing about Ouagadougou, Upper Volta is that the coffee vendors use a different brand of condensed milk. Because I'm anxious to get my boat and plane reservations made (from Ivory Coast) and because I didn't expect Upper Volta to have a markedly different character from Niger, I planned on the first train to Abidjan, Ivory Coast, which would leave at 1:30pm. Because it's Sunday, I couldn't send any letters, so I spent the morning reading in the train station. At 8am, it was already too hot to do a tour of the town, especially since, for the first time in a month, I had to carry my pack with me. As I returned from getting a few provisions, at about noon, the crowd made a rush for the departure gate. I was in the middle of it and until I found my way to the side wall, I was really afraid of being trampled. Got a window seat, though, so I was happy.
I hadn't been able to find out just when we'd arrive in Abidjan, but had the impression it would take more or less a full day. Every two adjacent seats faced each other and each fit two people snugly. After a while, there were three people in all the seats and I was really cramped, but everyone was doing it and everyone shared space willingly, so I accepted it in the same spirit.
I also continued in the spirit of enjoying the ride. We made frequent stops, but they were all a gas—women and girls, a few boys, would rush over to the windows, standing below us with all kinds of food on their heads. I'm always amazed at the things they can balance there: trays of eggs, huge bowls of bananas, even small tables equipped with all their merchandise on their way to set up a vending stall. They paraded past us, running when they spotted a customer, frantically making last-second sales as the train started off. Around dinner time, many of them showed up with fried chicken; in general, the menu became gradually more varied with new items, as we progressed south to the port city.We stopped around 8pm at Bobo Dioulasso, Upper Volta's second biggest city. A couple of hours later, we must have crossed the border to Ivory Coast, but miraculously, there were no police checks of any kind. Night fell suddenly. I was pretty tired, but there were not many comfortable ways to sleep. The one fortunate thing about having six people packed into those two seats was that if we fell asleep, at least we couldn't fall over.
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PHOTO CREDIT 2
November 8, 1980
NIAMEY – OUAGADOUGOUAs we pulled out, we left the rough road behind us and moved onto the most unbelievably terrible road in the world. We spent the whole day snaking our way around and over "pot holes" that were deep enough to hide hippos. We never reached more than a jogging pace. We were thrown around in the cab like dice being shaken. Sometimes my head hit the ceiling a foot above me.
A curious thing happened. My strongest regret of the taxi-brousses is the number of unexpected stops along the way, but now, with just the four of us, I was finally relaxing enough to actually enjoy the stops, the chats, the sights, having a Fanta with the driver, meeting African tourists, talking to kids. It occurred to me that it didn't matter to me how long it took to get to Ouagadougou. I checked my watch less often. I was enjoying the voyage, instead of just looking toward my next point. An existentialist flash!
Just after leaving a village this evening, the truck developed problems—something in the oil distribution, I think. The middle-aged passenger, who'd planned on reaching Ouaga much earlier, immediately flagged down another truck and continued with him. I was "at peace" and comfortable to stay with this truck— also, some kind of loyalty was involved: the driver was good to me, buying me refreshments all the way.After an hour, it was fixed. Unfortunately, we'd picked up another passenger in back, who now moved up with us and we got no reprieve from crowdedness.
We rolled quite a while in the night, finally pulling into a truck park, 40 k from Ouaga. Ate, relaxed, maintained the truck and, to my surprise, drove again, just to the outskirts of Ouagadougou. We had dumped our extra party, ridden comfortably for a while, then picked up a big Mama! Fortunately, the road from this truck park was (shout Alleluia!) paved! We reached speeds of 40 mph, only occasionally careening into a pothole that would almost break our bones. At this point outside town, we threw the straw mats under the truck and slept until morning.
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PHOTO CREDIT 2
November 7, 1980
NIAMEY, NIGER
Got up early: 4:30. I'd been told that there was a very early taxi-brousse that avoided the agonizing waiting all day to be filled. Wrote a goodbye note to Jon and quietly left. Arrived at the autogare at 5am. The place woke up at 7-- eventually I found that there were no seats left for Ouagadougou. Worse, I met two Cameroonians who'd been trying for two days. I decided to try to find Jens' driver. On the way, I spotted an Upper Volta truck, found the driver and secured a ride-- only 4,000 francs, in the cabin, likely to be more comfortable and more direct than the bus. While I waited, he told me to lie down in his hammock, which I did, reading and munching dates-- must've been quite a sight. He said we'd leave at 4pm and I was astonished to see that we left at only 4:30. Three hours and three police checks later, we had to stop for the night, due to a police check-point that had closed early so that the village could make a profit from stranded passengers.
I heard that this road, although the only route between two adjacent capitals, is rough. It is. I had a good view though, and felt less bad about missing my trip to Ayrou, because I saw so many little villages and isolated huts along the way. Also enjoyed the fabulously, hideously fat and stubby baobab trees. The driver was a gentle, soft-spoken man, his mechanic-mate not so friendly to me and, to my regret, we'd taken another passenger, a middle-aged man, and the cab was packed. Slept outside the truck.
PHOTO CREDIT
Got up early: 4:30. I'd been told that there was a very early taxi-brousse that avoided the agonizing waiting all day to be filled. Wrote a goodbye note to Jon and quietly left. Arrived at the autogare at 5am. The place woke up at 7-- eventually I found that there were no seats left for Ouagadougou. Worse, I met two Cameroonians who'd been trying for two days. I decided to try to find Jens' driver. On the way, I spotted an Upper Volta truck, found the driver and secured a ride-- only 4,000 francs, in the cabin, likely to be more comfortable and more direct than the bus. While I waited, he told me to lie down in his hammock, which I did, reading and munching dates-- must've been quite a sight. He said we'd leave at 4pm and I was astonished to see that we left at only 4:30. Three hours and three police checks later, we had to stop for the night, due to a police check-point that had closed early so that the village could make a profit from stranded passengers.
I heard that this road, although the only route between two adjacent capitals, is rough. It is. I had a good view though, and felt less bad about missing my trip to Ayrou, because I saw so many little villages and isolated huts along the way. Also enjoyed the fabulously, hideously fat and stubby baobab trees. The driver was a gentle, soft-spoken man, his mechanic-mate not so friendly to me and, to my regret, we'd taken another passenger, a middle-aged man, and the cab was packed. Slept outside the truck.PHOTO CREDIT
November 2-6, 1980
NIAMEY, NIGER
Among the exciting things I've done during the past five days is: gone to a soccer game; started a new book at the American Library, swam in an Olympic pool and seen Michel. Jonathan offered to lend me $300 to make my trip more comfortable, which I gladly accepted. With this buffer, I convinced myself to take my previously aborted trip to Ayrou, a primitive Nigerien village where a Peace Corps volunteer could show me around. I was feeling a little guilty about not seeing the "real" Africa and bought a bus ticket. Because these buses don't leave until full, I sat in this one for 3-1/2 hours, before coming down with diarrhea. Gratefully, I had sense enough to call the trip off and was able to get my money back.
Meanwhile, I'd decided to get an extension on my visa, which would expire on Nov. 9, because my money might not come in by then.
I went to the Sureté Nationale (a sort of national police), who sent me to a building nearby. Here I ws told I needed to write a letter saying exactly what I wanted to do and bring it to the first Sureté office. I went home, wrote the letter, brought it to the Sureté receptionist, who didn't know what the hell I was doing. Back at the second office, a different man told me that no, the letter must say where I live and be stamped with a seal. Whose seal? The seal of the person I'm staying with. He doesn't have a seal? Who does he work for? Peace Corps. Get it stamped with a seal from the Peace Corps Office. I also had to buy a stamp for $5. From where? The treasury building across town. This I did, but couldn't find Jonathan before all the offices closed for the day.
Next day, we went to the Peace Corps office, got some official stationery, typed the letter that said I lived with Jon and brought it to the secretary, who wouldn't stamp it because it wasn't official PC business. She rewrote the letter for me and told me to bring it to the Commissariat de Police (local) to get it stamped. I retyped it and went. The policeman was about to accept it, then refused because it didn't say "Certificat d'Hebérgement" at the top. It was now noon and all the offices closed. At 4:00, I went back to the PC office and retyped the letter with the proper heading. At 5:30 Jon and I went back to the Commissariat, but they had closed early. Jon said we could go back in the morning.
Next morning (today), I went to the bank and found that my money had finally come and I wouldn't need to stay in Niger past the expiration date of my original visa. Jens had found a truck leaving for Ouagadougou tomorrow, 5000 francs. We couldn't find the driver, to ask if there was room for another. I threw a wine & cheese & fruit party for Jon and me. Went to bed late.
Among the exciting things I've done during the past five days is: gone to a soccer game; started a new book at the American Library, swam in an Olympic pool and seen Michel. Jonathan offered to lend me $300 to make my trip more comfortable, which I gladly accepted. With this buffer, I convinced myself to take my previously aborted trip to Ayrou, a primitive Nigerien village where a Peace Corps volunteer could show me around. I was feeling a little guilty about not seeing the "real" Africa and bought a bus ticket. Because these buses don't leave until full, I sat in this one for 3-1/2 hours, before coming down with diarrhea. Gratefully, I had sense enough to call the trip off and was able to get my money back.
Meanwhile, I'd decided to get an extension on my visa, which would expire on Nov. 9, because my money might not come in by then.
I went to the Sureté Nationale (a sort of national police), who sent me to a building nearby. Here I ws told I needed to write a letter saying exactly what I wanted to do and bring it to the first Sureté office. I went home, wrote the letter, brought it to the Sureté receptionist, who didn't know what the hell I was doing. Back at the second office, a different man told me that no, the letter must say where I live and be stamped with a seal. Whose seal? The seal of the person I'm staying with. He doesn't have a seal? Who does he work for? Peace Corps. Get it stamped with a seal from the Peace Corps Office. I also had to buy a stamp for $5. From where? The treasury building across town. This I did, but couldn't find Jonathan before all the offices closed for the day.
Next day, we went to the Peace Corps office, got some official stationery, typed the letter that said I lived with Jon and brought it to the secretary, who wouldn't stamp it because it wasn't official PC business. She rewrote the letter for me and told me to bring it to the Commissariat de Police (local) to get it stamped. I retyped it and went. The policeman was about to accept it, then refused because it didn't say "Certificat d'Hebérgement" at the top. It was now noon and all the offices closed. At 4:00, I went back to the PC office and retyped the letter with the proper heading. At 5:30 Jon and I went back to the Commissariat, but they had closed early. Jon said we could go back in the morning.
Next morning (today), I went to the bank and found that my money had finally come and I wouldn't need to stay in Niger past the expiration date of my original visa. Jens had found a truck leaving for Ouagadougou tomorrow, 5000 francs. We couldn't find the driver, to ask if there was room for another. I threw a wine & cheese & fruit party for Jon and me. Went to bed late.
November 1, 1980
NIAMEY, NIGERInstead of recording the events of an uneventful day, today's log will be a portrait of Niamey.
Niamey is the capital and largest city of Niger, with about 200,000 people. It's in the southwest arm of Niger that reaches down toward a cluster of smaller coastal countries and is situated on the Niger River. Except for the new university, the town is largely built on only one bank of the river. The main landmarks are the three market places: the Big, Small and New Markets.
The Big Market is a giant maze, easy to get lost in. It's generally laid out in rows, but the exceptions are such that you can never see far down any alley. Everything is clustered together so that you can't see far enough to know how to get anywhere. To find your way around, you've just got to memorize the place.
In the market, you can find local produce (onions, cola nuts, peppers, spices, green oranges and peanuts); kitchenware; hardware (nails, etc.); motorcycle & bike supplies; clothes; many shoe stores; the standard food stall products (powdered milk, canned mackerel and sardines, sugar, cigarettes, candy); jewelry; watches; beds & bedclothes; restaurant and coffee stalls; a truck/bus park; and a million and one other things. The other markets concentrate more on produce, having such exotic items as tomatoes, carrots, pineapples, bananas, potatoes, celery, green beans—all for about ten times the US price. There are also many artisans' shops in the Little Market.Along the road that runs by the Big Market are garages, gas stations, hotels, stores, private businesses and in one part, a row of shacks—the closest thing Niamey has to a slum section.
Niamey hasn't always been Niger's capital and apparently it's not a very old city—there's no old run-down section with cheap hotels and eateries. The streets, however, are lined with tables where you can buy 1) coffee or hot milk with bread or 2) rice or macaroni with a fiery hot sauce, served with or without chunks of gristle. This is nearly the only thing you can eat outside of European restaurants and supermarkets. There is really only one of these that resembles an American supermarket: SCORE. Not really as big as ours, but it still drives us non-wealthy westerners crazy with milk, cheese, ice cream, wine, apples and other fresh produce, canned vegetables, meat without flies, cookies & crackers— all at record-high prices and frequented only by well-to-do French expatriates.Most of the buildings in Niamey are one-storey. Two-stories are rare, and I could probably name every one that's taller, notably the El Nasr building, on the 12th floor of which is the Citibank office, where I tear my hair out every morning.
Most stores and offices are open from 9 to 11 or 12 and from 4 to 5 or 6. This can be a pain if you've got more than two things to do in a day, but I haven't had that problem in a while.
There is a variety of people here. Most Africans approximate western dress— the women wear dresses, but always with brilliant patterns and colors, often with bare shoulders and almost ankle-length. Men often wear something like a seizure suit or a single caftan-like garment. Striped, cylindrical hats, about five inches tall are common. Occasionally I see a Tuareg, with a draping robe and long cheche wrapped many times around his head and under his chin and always carrying a sword— these are the people that dominated the Agadez area.
The streets are filled with little French cars— Peugots and Renaults— many motorcycles and an occasional camel. Most streets are paved, but some residential sections like Jonathan's have short dirt roads. These neighborhoods usually have nice-looking but not extravagant little houses with lots of greenery. Often there is one or two beggars stationed on a street or someone who's set up some cardboard boxes and a mat to live in.If I could reconcile myself to living in Niger, Niamey wouldn't be a bad place—it's mostly clean, except for the open sewers running along the main streets. It's mostly modern. It's not overcrowded with people or buildings. The weather is tolerable, at least at this time of year. There are three or four movie houses, an American library and many Americans living here. I would mostly miss the food I'm used to, which I could never afford here. I've reached the point where I frequently daydream about food— much of it junk food, always something rich— I have a feeling I'm going to be filling my face senselessly for the first month I'm home.
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