Sunday, July 17, 2005
Sedhiou, Senegal
After a wrong turn in Bignona, we found ourselves stranded by a tired, sluggishly moving river that our already deficient guide books forgot to mention. With nothing else to do, we had to wait for the twice daily ferry to depart. The Stingray, our markedly conspicuous vehicle for the long voyage ahead, had minutes before decided that the electrical system would not be one of its strong points. The radio had stopped working, leaving only a pungent burnt rubber smell in its place as if in explanation. The drive up to this point was through some of the most scenic areas in the Cassamance region of Senegal, with towering African mahoganies, baobabs and silk cotton trees filling out the gallery forest overhead and scores of monkeys and baboons regularly scurrying across the roads. With the rainy season concluding its first month, emerald green patches of grass were steadily consuming the normally monotonous brownish grey expanses between the groves of forested land. Men and women were eagerly planting corn, millet and peanuts in expansive fields near their small grass roofed villages.
When we finally boarded the ferry, it was obvious that on the first day of our journey we were already making miserable time. We had only covered about 100 miles and to make matters worse, there was only an hour of sunlight left and we were still in the heart of Cassamance on a dirt road inexplicably absent on all of our maps. This region of Senegal had been the scene of fierce fighting during the past twenty years, as ethnic Jolas struggled to form a break away republic. A peace agreement signed with the Senegalese government less than eight months ago had been recently broken with a series of deadly attacks on a number of military outposts in the area.
On the opposite bank of the river we began exploring the small fishing town for some sort of place to sleep for the night. Camping in the bush was not an option as large portions of Cassamance were heavily mined throughout the 1990s. After asking around, we found a Senegalese man who told us that we were still nearly 60 kilometers from the nearest town with any rest houses. With muddy roads behind us and nightfall rapidly approaching, we knew that we had little time to spare. Remarkably, the road which so far had given us little hope quickly opened up into a very drivable dirt thoroughfare and we reached Sedhiou, our unanticipated rest stop, by evening.
Earlier in the day, we had left the Gambia in high spirits. After a misguided and ultimately futile attempt to obtain African Union passports from the Ambassador of Guinea Bissau, we headed out with Serge, a Canadian paramedic who had recently been awarded an official Gambian police identity card vesting him with all 'the powers, immunities and privileges of a police officer', who we hired to escort us out of the Gambia. In the months prior to our departure, we were forced to keep the Stingray off all main roads in the Gambia and studiously avoid police and military checkpoints who were rigorously enforcing a new law banning right hand drive vehicles. This necessary escort served us well and we cleared customs without delay. Now in Sedhiou with luck back on our side, we found ourselves by accident in one of the most important regional centers for HIV/AIDS in the country.
After a wrong turn in Bignona, we found ourselves stranded by a tired, sluggishly moving river that our already deficient guide books forgot to mention. With nothing else to do, we had to wait for the twice daily ferry to depart. The Stingray, our markedly conspicuous vehicle for the long voyage ahead, had minutes before decided that the electrical system would not be one of its strong points. The radio had stopped working, leaving only a pungent burnt rubber smell in its place as if in explanation. The drive up to this point was through some of the most scenic areas in the Cassamance region of Senegal, with towering African mahoganies, baobabs and silk cotton trees filling out the gallery forest overhead and scores of monkeys and baboons regularly scurrying across the roads. With the rainy season concluding its first month, emerald green patches of grass were steadily consuming the normally monotonous brownish grey expanses between the groves of forested land. Men and women were eagerly planting corn, millet and peanuts in expansive fields near their small grass roofed villages.
When we finally boarded the ferry, it was obvious that on the first day of our journey we were already making miserable time. We had only covered about 100 miles and to make matters worse, there was only an hour of sunlight left and we were still in the heart of Cassamance on a dirt road inexplicably absent on all of our maps. This region of Senegal had been the scene of fierce fighting during the past twenty years, as ethnic Jolas struggled to form a break away republic. A peace agreement signed with the Senegalese government less than eight months ago had been recently broken with a series of deadly attacks on a number of military outposts in the area.
On the opposite bank of the river we began exploring the small fishing town for some sort of place to sleep for the night. Camping in the bush was not an option as large portions of Cassamance were heavily mined throughout the 1990s. After asking around, we found a Senegalese man who told us that we were still nearly 60 kilometers from the nearest town with any rest houses. With muddy roads behind us and nightfall rapidly approaching, we knew that we had little time to spare. Remarkably, the road which so far had given us little hope quickly opened up into a very drivable dirt thoroughfare and we reached Sedhiou, our unanticipated rest stop, by evening.
Earlier in the day, we had left the Gambia in high spirits. After a misguided and ultimately futile attempt to obtain African Union passports from the Ambassador of Guinea Bissau, we headed out with Serge, a Canadian paramedic who had recently been awarded an official Gambian police identity card vesting him with all 'the powers, immunities and privileges of a police officer', who we hired to escort us out of the Gambia. In the months prior to our departure, we were forced to keep the Stingray off all main roads in the Gambia and studiously avoid police and military checkpoints who were rigorously enforcing a new law banning right hand drive vehicles. This necessary escort served us well and we cleared customs without delay. Now in Sedhiou with luck back on our side, we found ourselves by accident in one of the most important regional centers for HIV/AIDS in the country.
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