Part II - Senegal and Beyond
As luck would have it, our January 4th flight to Dakar was cancelled at the last minute. Scott and I spent a tortuous day waiting through dozens of lines, trying desperately to reach Dakar.
I finally found an empty seat on a late night flight but Scott wasn't so lucky… so there wasn't much choice. I left; he stayed.
My flight was full and miserable and seemed to take forever. It was here that I learned that in Africa, pushing, shoving and cutting lines is a way of life. If you don't push and cut lines with the same unabashed rudeness as the natives you'll never get out of the airport.
So after being pushed around like cattle for six hours I finally landed in Dakar on the Atlantic coast of Senegal, North Africa. I pushed my way through the customs line, then shoved my way to the baggage carousel to see if my luggage had by some miracle made it to the same destination. I saw my bags and reached for them when I heard the voice of a rather large African man speak. "Theeese are yoo bags?"
"Yeah."
"Come wif me. I em yer security. Follow me."
By the time I muttered a response he'd already grabbed both bags and was halfway to the door. As I followed, he said "Geeeve me sumtheen."
"What?"
"Geeeve me sumtheen. I am yur security. I help you."
Then I learned my second lesson about Africa: nobody does anything for nothing, and nothing happens without paying someone off. Okay. I'd heard that ink pens were in demand in Africa, so I rummaged around and found a couple of ink pens and handed them to him. He ungratefully shoved them in his pocket and said "Geeeve me sumtheen else." I came up with a couple of French francs for him which he received with equal ingratitude.
We emerged from the customs office in what I thought to be a back alley that ran around in some remote location behind the airport… it was dark, crowded with undesireables and looked like the worst part of Manhattan at 3 am on a Friday night. Then I looked up and saw the sign over the airport and realized that this wasn't the back alley at all… it was the main road leading up to the airport's main gate!
My self-appointed African security guard took me to a taxi, dumped my bags on the ground and again asked me to give him something. I told him we'd already had that conversation and got in the taxi, making sure my blue duffel bag was close by. Two more rather large African men were in the front seat. I told them to take me to the Hotel N'Gor, and we proceeded to zip down a series of dark dirt roads that led, I was sure, to a deep river where my body would be weighted down before disposal. I felt around inside my blue duffel bag and discreetly withdrew a bottle of police-strength pepper spray and a James Bond-like nylon defense knife, concealed inside a comb and invisible to airport metal detectors. I had laughed to myself when I bought it, but now the purchase didn't seem even remotely funny. I was determined to take a couple of them out with me.
After a nervy ten-minute ride we emerged in a somewhat civilized area in front of what I first thought to be an extraordinarily filthy Motel 6 run by the mafia. This, I was told, was the Hotel N'Gor. I should count my blessings to be in such a nice hotel, since everything was booked solid for the Dakar. Pleasantly surprised at the fact that I was still alive, I got out of the taxi, paid them 50 francs for what I later learned was a 20 franc ride, and scrambled into the hotel.
I got to my room, locked the door and looked around. Two single beds. One television with two working channels. Dirty carpet that was thankfully brown. No visible bugs, scorpions or spiders. So far so good. An hour and a half later Scott showed up claiming that he was lucky to be alive. These big African guys at the airport had escorted him to a taxi and he was sure he was going to die… he'd paid 150 francs for the taxi ride… how much did I pay?
We ventured out onto the balcony that overlooked the beach and compared stories. The smell of the ocean was strong, mixed with an unpleasant African scent that you can only escape by leaving the continent. We turned in for the night and spent the next day getting our visas in order for the rest of the trip.
CONTINUE Part III: The Routine
My flight was full and miserable and seemed to take forever. It was here that I learned that in Africa, pushing, shoving and cutting lines is a way of life. If you don't push and cut lines with the same unabashed rudeness as the natives you'll never get out of the airport.
So after being pushed around like cattle for six hours I finally landed in Dakar on the Atlantic coast of Senegal, North Africa. I pushed my way through the customs line, then shoved my way to the baggage carousel to see if my luggage had by some miracle made it to the same destination. I saw my bags and reached for them when I heard the voice of a rather large African man speak. "Theeese are yoo bags?"
"Yeah."
"Come wif me. I em yer security. Follow me."
By the time I muttered a response he'd already grabbed both bags and was halfway to the door. As I followed, he said "Geeeve me sumtheen."
"What?"
"Geeeve me sumtheen. I am yur security. I help you."
Then I learned my second lesson about Africa: nobody does anything for nothing, and nothing happens without paying someone off. Okay. I'd heard that ink pens were in demand in Africa, so I rummaged around and found a couple of ink pens and handed them to him. He ungratefully shoved them in his pocket and said "Geeeve me sumtheen else." I came up with a couple of French francs for him which he received with equal ingratitude.
We emerged from the customs office in what I thought to be a back alley that ran around in some remote location behind the airport… it was dark, crowded with undesireables and looked like the worst part of Manhattan at 3 am on a Friday night. Then I looked up and saw the sign over the airport and realized that this wasn't the back alley at all… it was the main road leading up to the airport's main gate!
My self-appointed African security guard took me to a taxi, dumped my bags on the ground and again asked me to give him something. I told him we'd already had that conversation and got in the taxi, making sure my blue duffel bag was close by. Two more rather large African men were in the front seat. I told them to take me to the Hotel N'Gor, and we proceeded to zip down a series of dark dirt roads that led, I was sure, to a deep river where my body would be weighted down before disposal. I felt around inside my blue duffel bag and discreetly withdrew a bottle of police-strength pepper spray and a James Bond-like nylon defense knife, concealed inside a comb and invisible to airport metal detectors. I had laughed to myself when I bought it, but now the purchase didn't seem even remotely funny. I was determined to take a couple of them out with me.
After a nervy ten-minute ride we emerged in a somewhat civilized area in front of what I first thought to be an extraordinarily filthy Motel 6 run by the mafia. This, I was told, was the Hotel N'Gor. I should count my blessings to be in such a nice hotel, since everything was booked solid for the Dakar. Pleasantly surprised at the fact that I was still alive, I got out of the taxi, paid them 50 francs for what I later learned was a 20 franc ride, and scrambled into the hotel.
I got to my room, locked the door and looked around. Two single beds. One television with two working channels. Dirty carpet that was thankfully brown. No visible bugs, scorpions or spiders. So far so good. An hour and a half later Scott showed up claiming that he was lucky to be alive. These big African guys at the airport had escorted him to a taxi and he was sure he was going to die… he'd paid 150 francs for the taxi ride… how much did I pay?
We ventured out onto the balcony that overlooked the beach and compared stories. The smell of the ocean was strong, mixed with an unpleasant African scent that you can only escape by leaving the continent. We turned in for the night and spent the next day getting our visas in order for the rest of the trip.
CONTINUE Part III: The Routine