Day 15/part 2: Dakar - Race to the airport.

Behold Dakar.

Cesspool of ready to be demolished cars. The city from afar looks like a mushroom of black cloud, caused by smog. The business of automobiles and spare parts is possibly Senegal's only legal commerce engine, so to speak.. The fact is cars that are illegal in possibly all other continents apart from Africa end up here for usage. And though the rest of the world after renewing their pollution free cars, automobiles in Africa, that originate from industrialized countries, are deteriorating the world's atmosphere nonetheless.
It is shocking for both of us to arrive in a traffic that lasted from 70kms from the center city, on 'deflowered' roads and in the midst on a merry hydrocarbonoxmonodioxidian exhaust emission party.



Our goal is to arrive in time for my flight at 1am for my return to Milan, already one day late.

The sun starts to set at 6.30pm when our Honda, that has pulled through approximately 550km with more or less 250 kgs of weight, blew a tire. We were in the outskirts of Dakar about 40 kms away from the airport with no money and I feared to have maxed out with credit card, so Red had to come with to be sure that all was good.

It took us an hour and a half after asking around, being refused, and pushing around the motorcycle for a few kms to find finally a person who can fix the tire, in the backside of this shanty town raised on the strip of asphalt that leads to Dakar. The boys worked on sand and took more than an hour to change the tire. In the meantime, I was in the midst of continuous messaging with a friend in Vienna to book the flight, Red was involved in transactions for the purchase of the scooter and eventually a trade with a barter that includes yours truly..

Turns out that the next flight was at 6.30AM.
We had more time that night which was spent on going back and forth to the 'mechanic', finding a hostel that was decent, and sleeping less than 3 hours before waking up and going to the airport.

I don't exactly know why but we were really picky that night with choosing sleep quarters more than usual and we were actually more tired than usual. However, I can only defend myself by underlining the difficulty between accepting what's available rather than accepting what is embarrassing.
Between a hotel with not-so-warm water with little pressure in a hotel that physically looks like shit since it was brown all over and smelled, and another hotel than was youthful, seemed clean but had the john and shower closed partially by a wall a.k.a. completely visible, I had to chose where I'd have more privacy when doing my business with the flush toilet.

We ended up sleeping at past midnight.
Me, all washed and Red, brown like the sheets of his bed.

Day 15: Saint Louis - Dakar

I slept like a princess under a veil with the insect cover protecting me.
Red was mosquito bait (as usual) having slept on the floor.
Can I laugh?

The SH50 is an amazing scooter. We were by now riding in 2 with baggage and the roads were filled with crater-like holes. Red masterfully drove and I didn't object to being the passenger. The downside of riding behind is extreme butt cramps after some time.

Headed towards St. Louis and found a colorful sea town where food and drinks are at tourist price, and you see evident clash of class societies while drinking orange juice on a terrace perched by the delta next to children bathing in near to port water.
Their smiles are nonetheless beautiful.









Our stop was brief. We headed for Dakar immediately, only to be stopped by a 'policeman' who declared that we were speeding. Simply an 'incidental' guest, considering he had no scanner with him at all. Red insisted on getting a receipt and that lowered the fine amount to about a third of what was mentioned. He took the 2 receipts and promised to rain hell in Dakar. (why 2? who knows.. )

The rest of our ride was calm. The road taken was near the shore and were almost all flatlands which made it populated. Seemed that there were villages starting and ending at a distance on 5 meters for the whole trip for St. Louis to Dakar. We made 1 stop to touch up the SH50 and fill the oil then was good to go at a reasonable speed. I loved the view of this road and to see how the people lived. I even notice the Cedafi branches in buildings copied from that in Ndiangue.

It was early afternoon, we passed an enormous lot prepared for housing and looked like a tomb of power boxes, all prepared but no construction had initiated. It was supposed to be a residential area turns to quaint running spot for the military men from their nearby structure.

As we start to view the sea from afar, it was clear that Dakar was near.
Automobiles starting to run around fiercely, wait... IT'S TRAFFIC!!

Day 14/part 2: Ndiangue (Chèvre au Cimentre)

Left stranded in the middle of the road. 5kms from the lights of a small village.



Nightfall had arrived. Red was pushing the scooter. I was trying to keep up.

Counting on the kindness of strangers that passed by, a motorcycle with 2 Senegals stopped and gave us about a half liter of fuel taken from their own tank. When asked if they wanted compensation, they refused, after all that's life. "C'est la vie," he says. Life happens. In this moment they are giving a favor to us and in the future, in someway, the deed shall be returned.

The village Ndiangue was probably less than 1 km long and is concentrated on one single lane. We found the only 'hotel' in town called the Cedafi which is a national association for the education of women, teaching them to sow, draw, cook and so on. Cedafi at night becomes housing for different men who rents out the rooms and, luckily, us travelers. Our room was memorable for the collection of dead bugs inside 2 half vase shaped lamp shade attached on the wall.

We went out to eat and discovered that at 10.30PM restaurants were already closing and had finished their rations for the night. Riding back and forth this very small town and not finding a sign indicating food. We stopped and were asked by a local if we needed anything, then offered to go to his small shack extended on the facade of a 3 square meter shop. We entered the shack where in front pieces of meat, looked like goat, were hanged. Tiered in front of the meat there was long white layer of grease. We were accommodated on a small bench at the entrance of the shack and in the middle some carpet were men were lying down. With very brief exchange of words they set out to cutting half kg of meat, onions, pieces of grease and barbecued it all together on a perforated slate of metal with wood fire, turning the ingredients while it cooked with the same machete used to slice them. I was offered an 'african cigarette' and found that home cultivated tobacco actually has a darker taste to it, decisively particular.

While the fire crackled due to the grease that was dripping down and burning up good crusts on our meat, the thought came to mind on how they were going to serve our dish. Previously, Red had to get his own soda at the nearest market and then we both had the pleasure of sharing tea, from the same cup, with the rest of the guests. We're not squeamish and I'm of the thought that authenticity always adds up to the taste of certain meals. We're dining in with the locals and they eat altogether with food served on the floor by hand. I've eaten fried larva in Thailand but do worry of possible diarrhea for lack of hygiene. The sight of that one single rusted plate was not comforting but the cook tore out a piece of paper from a brown paper bag from below the slice deck, batted the dirt off, then served our meat on the paper on top of the plate.

It was the best meat we've ever eaten.

Of course the view of the paper bag in front of us gave more information than needed. There was a huge writing in print that was a little bit difficult to read to lack of light in the shack and the dirt on it. The print is a logo in writing and bears the name of a cement brand.

It was still the best meat we've ever eaten. Whether is was good cement or not, we will never know.

Day 14: The Longest Ride to Nowhere in Senegal

A fresh start after what was to us royal treatment.
Breakfast at sunlight in our patio lying down at perfect timing like requested at 8.30AM.
Red woke up earlier than I did that day which was odd.

We said our goodbyes and parted, only to stop 20 meters from the gates of Auberge Amach.



Red cleaned the sparkplug, then changed it, then we went off, at 20km/h, then 30km/h, then 15km/h, then stopped, cleaned it, parted again, stopped, changed it, stopped, cursing away under the sun almost reaching it's high point on a clear blue sky bathing us with heat along the way, burning us everytime we stopped. Being tested for patience is bearable when you know the reason to the chalenge. Red was at the end of his wits and is angered by the fact that there was no clear reason to the cause of the ill-burning sparkplug. And so, just to use all possible ideas since none of the 3 mechanics that had placed their hand on the Aprilia has though of it, he took off the muffler in a rather violent manner, only to discover that it wasn't the problem.

There was no solution to this problem.
We had to go through that 170 km to the border at the velocity that the Aprilia manages which fluctuated frequently. Furthermore, Red having forced to take off the muffler had also bent the tube and now we have another problem. The Red man is now not only audible from 5kms away but the distinct repetitive noise of the 2 stroke is worst than a firing Tommy gun. Our drive by attracted many people that lived alongside the road, especially children who were the most curious. However, from afar you could see also a different kind of reaction. We were scaring people and animals. I'd see from afar (because I myself needed to stay away from the noise) children running away and camels, goats, birds, mules freaking out and stampeding off. Red later tried to connect it back. Forcing was no use and after series of trials to tied it up with plastic bands, strings, elastics only to have the exhaust fall out a dragging, Red was praying for more patience and I was about to just give up my scooter to end his suffering. It was of course unknown to me that we had to both arrive at the border and to leave the scooter in the middle of the road would make crossing to Senegal harder.

We arrived at Rosso, Mauritania, around 4.30PM. It took us 7 hours to cross 170kms.


View Day 14 in a larger map

Along the way during some stops people would offer to buy the scooters. It was the same at the border but the men were not just interested in a deal. They were like hungry vultures. In plenty, surveilling us to see if there was something they could gain from us. In this folly, we actually managed to sell the Aprilia for the cost of our ferry passage to Rosso, Senegal, for the pay of customs and we earned 150 dollars. Senegal lives from the black market of vehicles. However, I can't understand why they would buy anyway a scooter that was not working and wasn't even too sure that the part of this plastic bike already ruined from past accidents would be that much of value.



Our patience was tested also at the border. Red was dealing with endless lines for bureaucratic means and also with our Machiavellian 'broker' who paid our way since we had no more money, but tried to give us false prices in the meantime. I was dealing with questions about topics that ranged from selling my SH50 to my origins and then eventually about sex in a crude manner. At some point after 2 hours, we've crossed the river onto Senegal, and after having waited not in peace, I lost my head and yelled at a very insistent boy who was also hammering Red for money for his 'services', in his opinion already rendered.

Once the money issue was settled, we took the necessary items from the glove compartment and just gave almost every tool we've purchased to the mob. We then waited another half hour for the clearance on customs on Red's passport due to the 'missing' Aprilia. At that point, we've lost the tank with 15 liters of fuel and our tent. We had wanted to give it away anyhow but it got stolen before to good deed was done.

Once cleared by the border police, we were off on the SH50 with 2 backpacks.. I think that totals to more than 200kgs.. on a 50cc.. Smiling again. Happy it was all over and that we were again on the road.

We didn't have a map or book of Senegal and was quite surprised that St. Louis was 80 km away, so we went off to the nearest village about 8 kms from the fork to Richard Toll. I loved the smell in the air of burnt fields. A smell of cultivation of a country close to tropical. It was already nightfall. We were laughing away our moments of the days and then the scooter stops...

We ran out of fuel... and so we marched, heading towards the nearest light, singing away.