Accepting Africa

Kayes, Mali, to Ziguinchor, Senegal

I like to think I am a tough woman.  I know Africa can be rough and exhausting, but I don't mind because I can handle it.  When I am stuck in traffic in intense heat, I just sit back and pretend I am in a sauna.  When I am patted down at a police checkpoint, I think of it as a complimentary massage. Accepting small annoyances allows me to enjoy Africa more. It makes everything easier, and I really do love to love this place.  But my limits were tested during two consecutive days of hellish travel.  By the end of the second day, I had reached a point where, for the first time in my adult life, I felt like calling my mother to ask if she could pick me up and take me home.

     It started in Kayes, Mali.  I had spent the night in the most disgusting youth hostel in existence, and I was eager to leave town.  I went to the station and was lucky enough to find an old bus, possibly the first ever made, departing for Tambacounda, Senegal.  After haggling over the price for about ten minutes, I purchased my ticket and hopped on.  For a moment I thought, "I hope this old thing doesn't break down." But then, all the cars in Africa are old and they usually to get where they're going.  250 kilometres and 14 hours later, I got where I was going, too.  After several stops to tighten a wheel that seemed to be loose, a four hour wait at Senegalese customs, and the loss of the bus door, we pulled into Tambacounda.  I was tired and my face was covered in dead insects from sitting too close to where the door had fallen off (we stopped to put it back on, but it wouldn't stay so the driver left it by the side of the road.) I found a hotel nearby and passed out for the remainder of the night.

     The next morning, I legged it to the autogare to catch a bush taxi to Ziguinchor, also in Senegal.  Bush taxis, in many West African countries, are old Peugot station wagons with one passenger seat in the front, three in the middle, and three more where the trunk should be.  In several countries, two people are condemned to the front seat, four suffer in the middle, and three languish in the back.  Luckily for me, the Senegalese taxis take seven passengers instead of nine.  I found one heading to Kolda, a town on the way to Ziguinchor, argued again over the price, then waited several hours for the car to fill up before hitting the road.

     By the time the taxi reached Kolda, the sun was starting to set. The driver offered to continue on to Ziguinchor and picked up several new passengers.  When I asked him if we'd reach Ziguinchor that evening, he replied, "Of course!" I briefly considered spending the night in Kolda, but decided to it was better to go to Ziguinchor, even if I did arrive late.  As the sun dropped out of sky, I leaned back in my seat and dozed, hoping to wake up at my destination.

     At 9pm the car pulled over  in a village.  The driver said something in the local language and everyone got out of the car.  Confused, I waited a moment before moving.  When no one got back in, I stepped out and asked one of the passengers why we were stopped.

     "We sleep here tonight, " he said casually.

     "Sleep where? In a compound? In someone's house?" I questioned.

     "No."

     I turned around and stared at the car, already feeling the kink I'd have in my neck the next morning. "In the car?" I asked, dreading his response.

    "No."

     No? What was he talking about?  Where were we supposed to sleep if not in a home or in the car?  Surely we weren't going to...camp?  I looked past the man to where some of the passengers, all male, were laying out thin, plastic sleeping mats.

    "Oh dear."

    This was not what I had expected.  I was expecting to arrive in Ziguinchor late at night, maybe around 10 or 11pm, and to check into a hostel where I could sleep in the next day. Instead, I would fall asleep on my tiny mat in the company of strangers.  Nor was I looking forward to relieving myself in the dark (there really are snakes all over Africa, you know!)

    I didn't want to do this, I decided.  I couldn't. I was too exhausted from the previous day to rough it anymore.  I wanted a bed.  I wanted a mattress.  At the very least I wanted somewhere to hang my mosquito net.  None of these things were possible, though, and I was soon resigned to my fate.  I moped around for a bit, feeling miserable.  I bought a soda but didn't drink it because I knew I'd have to pee it out later.  I talked at a local child in English for several minutes, telling her how tired and unhappy I was until she walked away.  Finally, I crawled onto my mat, curled up into a ball, and tried to go to sleep.

     About an hour later, I heard everyone moving around.  The other passengers were picking up their mats and searching for cover.  I looked up at the sky. It was windy, but it didn't look like it would rain. "I'll just stay here," I thought.

     A man poked his head out of the door of a bakery slightly up the road from me. "Madame! Come! Come sleep in here! It will rain!" he shouted.

     I didn't believe him, but my mind felt comatose so I followed his orders.  I picked up my mat and purse and walked over to the bakery.  When I stepped inside, I saw several people sleeping on the floor.  The man who had called me motioned for me to come behind the counter.  I did as he wanted and saw that there were two large bread cubbies underneath it, one occuppied by a tiny snoozing gentleman, the other by a small stack of baguettes.  It quickly dawned on me that this was where I would be sleeping.  I looked down at my feet and saw a cockroach scurry past.  I sighed, crouched down and wedged myself into the cubby.  I could feel something like flour or crumbs on my skin.  

     Despite my fatigue, I couldn't sleep for more than half an hour at a time.  The bakers were working away in the back, making lots of noise as they went, and I was too conscious of rubbing my head against the baguettes piled next to me. At 2:30 am, after another short sleeping spell, I awoke to a slapping noise.   I listened to it and decided that it had to be the bakers slapping bread dough around.  It sounded as if they were whacking it against any available surface.  I stared at the ceiling of my cubby and tried to think positively about my situation, but I found the task too difficult.  Soon I heard another sound, soft at first, then pounding. It was raining.

     I listened to the sky fall against the tin roof of the bakery.  I was wide awake now.  As I inhaled the scents of dough and wet earth, I whispered to myself, "I accept this."  Then I waited for daylight.