10. Senegambia

(Day 78-93, 7.191km cycled)

Rosso

On the northern Bank of the Sénégal river, the natural border between Sénégal and Mauritania lies a notorious and nefarious city. Rosso, the largest border crossing between Mauritania and Senegal. 

Rosso, the name for a deep red color, described as the color of blood, or also the name for a sweet italian white wine mixed with herbs and caramel. For many travelers, the Rosso border means trouble. The border is well known among travelers for elaborate scams, rip-offs, corrupt officials, long waiting times, persistent begging and offer of services. That is, you are aware of these dangers. 

I was aware. I had read the stories and long comments of bike-travelers, overlanders, motorcyclists etc. that crossed here before me. I looked at the cheap, beaded bracelet that I bought from a scammer/beggar in the Atlas mountains of Morocco and I remembered the promise to myself to not let myself be scammed anymore. Rosso would be no exception!

So I knew that at the border people would try and get a hold of my passport, sell me services that don't exist, try to pickpocket, officials would try and extract subtle bribes, all of the above. I also had looked up exchange rates, which network provider to use and where to sleep the night. I came prepared, boy!

Before I arrived at the border on the Mauritanian side, everything seemed normal and the city Rosso itself didn't look any more run down than other cities. I later heard a story of a traveler that had been intercepted by scammers even before he could reach the city, drawing him into a clever yet expensive rip-off scheme. 

The second I rolled onto the yard where trucks and people were already waiting for the ferry crossing, I was swarmed by 3-4 guys wanting to help me. "Hey my friend, I work here, come with me. This is my ID card, look its official”, ''Hello, give me your passport, I work for the frontier", "Come this way, I will take your passport and get you the stamp.", "I need to check your passport, give it to me.". The traffickers or border servicemen were all trying hard to be the first to get a hold of the white man on a bicycle. There was a police guard sitting by the gate (He was wearing a uniform and black boots, unlike the other guys). I asked him whether these people are police, he shakes his head, I ask him if I am obliged to talk to them, he shakes his head again. Reassured that these guys are actually not part of the official process, I make my way to the kiosk-like window where I will get my passport stamped. In the meantime, the 4 guys keep talking to me "It is this way, you need to go here, come I show you.", "Hey, why don't you let me help you? I help you, you help me a little.", "Hey white man, why don't you talk to me? You don't talk to black people? You are a racist!". I knew these guys would try anything to make me budge, to give them a reason to engage me in a conversation and to start telling me lies and manipulate me. And they knew, once I handed my passport through the barred window to the police man, their bid to get any money for "helping me" would lapse. The policeman, however, grumpy as he was, took my passport. He didn't seem to be happy that I did not take any of the servicemen's offers. It is obvious, these servicemen love to target white tourists. They add little to no value to the police, yet they are well welcomed at the border, left unbothered to do their work -> rip off the tourists. Why does the police not expel them from the premises? Does the police maybe benefit another way if these scammers earn money from the tourists? Will they ask a share from the scammers for using their border? Speculations. But we all know corruption when we see it. And I saw it that day, a lot.

1. Senegalese side of the Rosso border

Anyway, I had received my check-out stamp and was now standing next to the trucks waiting for the next ferry boat to bring us across the river. One of the traffickers/scammers kept me close company. He chatted a bit with me, calmly, asking me if I had a ticket for the ferry yet. A reasonable question I thought.  "It is 500 Ouguiya, I can bring it to you, you wait here" 500 Ouguiya translates roughly to 10€. Unfortunately for him, I knew the ferry did not require you to buy a ticket. It was a free service if you are a foot passenger, and I told the scammer so. His friendly attitude became immediately annoyed and he said "If you say so. It is 500 Ouguiya, they will not take you if you don't pay." But I declined. I even asked a bystander if I needed a ticket and he confirmed that it was free. 

The ferry arrived and all passengers, including me, had to cross through ankle high river water to board it. Standing on board with wet socks and shoes, I thought the worst had been overcome. 

2. Leaving/boarding the ferry through water

Upon arrival, I waded through water once more and found myself at a kiosk desk to receive my visa on arrival. 

A kind truck driver on his way to Dakar then redirected me to the right window. We talked a little and he welcomed me to Senegal. After I got my visa, he showed me the way to customs, where I would get my confirmatory stamp in my passport and was free to leave. We passed the green gates of the border, where a police man sat and let us pass. Right behind the gates he led me into a small alleyway. 

I suddenly got skeptical. Customs would be inside the gates of the border, not outside. We then stopped right in front of a guy, sitting on a plastic chair, dressed in a gray shirt, slippers and shorts. He demanded to see my passport. My alarm bells started to ring and I knew that this was definitely not an official customs. I asked the man if he was the police, to which he did not have a proper answer. I took a good look inside the "customs office" that looked just as unofficial. The guy demanded my passport again but I did not think of giving it to him for a single second. 

I then said that this wasn't an official customs and that I would be leaving. The "truck driver" then said I would be checked further down the road and that it was a mistake to leave but I had made up my mind that this was a sketchy scam. So I left and was never checked ever again for any sort of "customs stamp". 

I was in Sénégal and I had not been scammed, ripped off, kidnapped or anything worse at the famous Rosso border. I was honestly proud.

3. Green rice fields on the river banks

4. Cow herd crossing the road

5. Cow herd in the distance on a dry field

6. A shaky bus-taxi on the way to St. Louis

7. Poor village during rainy season. One can only imagine how dry and hard life is during draught season here...

Remember the guy I mentioned that got drawn into the scam scheme before even reaching the border? He ended up paying 600€ for useless documents and other shenanigans at the same exact border. 

Off to New Shores

The next day, I rode 130 km to the Zebrabar camp, just behind Saint-Louis. It was to be a location where I spent 5 days, bird watching, sleeping, sightseeing in Saint Louis, calling friends and family and talking to other travelers that made a halt at this infamous junction of Africa travelers tracks. I enjoyed my time there a lot. It mirrored the relief I felt, basking in the green new found flora and fauna. 

I had come to Senegal just after a long rainy season that bestowed the region with plenty of much much needed fresh water. Grass was growing a meter high on the sandy grounds, trees were carrying green leaves and animals were to be seen all around. One quiet morning when I was the only camper there, I was woken up in my tent by unfamiliar noises. I sat up in my tent and looked straight in the eyes of a large group of shocked monkeys. They were just as surprised to see me as I was surprised to see them. There were probably 20 monkeys, young and old, now playing in the grass, chasing each other around the empty bungalows and climbing in the trees. I rubbed my eyes and quietly took some photos of the private show.

8. Zebrabar camping

9. Overlooking the natural reserve

10. Sunset view

11. Monkeeeey!!

12. Bird with long orange beak (in the center on the grass)

13. Birds with shiny, dark blue and purple feathers 

Just three days ago, I was in an environment where the only living creatures were sand-colored small birds, invisible snakes and crabs. Now I saw wild monkeys, exotic birds with long beaks or feathers that shone in a mysterious black-purple, a bright red/orange or vivid yellow. In Saint Louis, people were selling melons larger than I had ever seen, stacked up in huge piles. But they also sold bananas, apples, oranges, pineapples, all that is delicious and sweet. 

14. Absolutely massive fish at St. Louis market (The woman wanted to throw ice at me because I took the picture)

15. Fruit stand

16. Melons. Massive.

17. Baobab tree with fruit

18. Cattle grazing the now lush green dunes

People behaved differently too, still most muslim, the people were engaging in loud discussions, they would call after me and greet me, kids were playing openly and cheering next to the roads, something I had rarely experienced in the previous African countries.

Senegal had turned things around 180° the second I stepped over the border. 

The eating culture was different too. Water was now sold in plastic bags and not in bottles. I saw people eat collectively with their hands or a spoon out of huge bowls of rice, fish and vegetables. As soon as they spotted me observing them, I was waved over, got a spoon in my hand and was invited to join in. Nobody ever asked money from me for eating and the people who shared the bowl also seemed to be only acquaintances, maybe even strangers. These big plates of rice were not only delicious but also dirt cheap. What seemed to be a kilo of rice with fish and veggies would cost only one or two euros. People here were looking out for one another and were genuinely kind and welcoming. 

19. Guys who invited me to eat with them. Almost finished bowl of rice visible at the bottom border of the picture.

For me, arriving in Senegal was like taking a refreshing plunge in a cold pool after cycling the hot, dry desert for weeks.

Leaving Saint Louis and the Zebrabar behind, I headed for Dakar. I passed through green landscapes with rolling hills, herds of cattle and small secluded villages on the side of the road, where tiny round houses with thatched roofing were still to be seen but the scenery was already dominated by brick-built houses with tin roofing. 

I arrived at the Lac Rose just outside of Dakar. This once rose colored lake, due to its incredibly high salt content, was a place for relaxation. Here I met the mosquitoes. Although I had seen the mosquitoes in Saint Louis before, now there were literal swarms of them. As soon as the sun set, I could only flee into my tent that was mosquito proof for shelter. I laid there inside my tent, sweating buckets from the residue heat of the day, hearing and seeing hundreds of mosquitos sitting on the mesh of my tent, extending their greedy stingers in my direction, hungry for blood. Yuck. Luckily I didn't stay long and reached Dakar where I picked up a package with spare tires and some snacking-goodies that my family had sent. It was also time to indulge in some delicious ice cream before heading out of Dakar, on my way south.

Dakar was in essence what every major big city in West Africa is like. It is a juggernaut, inhabiting a quarter of the population of Senegal. Grey, unfinished appearing apartment buildings are sprouting everywhere. Outside the center, traffic is congested, dominated by falling apart buses, cars, bikes and trucks. The exhaust fumes are blasted unfiltered in my face in a thick black cloud of smoke. Honking and speeding is prevalent making navigating the traffic extremely stressful and dangerous. At the side of the road, legal and illegal mechanic shops line for kilometers, cattle is traded, butchers cut up meat in the scorching sun and hang it up to dry, vendors sell Balenciaga, Dior, Gucci, shirts or slippers for a euro or two. The resulting waste is discarded right onto the road on the outskirts of the city, resulting in sometimes bestial smell. Reaching the center, the city becomes prettier. Roads are paved and traffic is more or less regulated. I have even seen traffic lights being built! 

It becomes evident that especially in the center, wealth is starting to form for a large part of the population and stylish large apartment towers are sprouting. There are restaurants, bakeries, large supermarkets, electronics-, and fashion stores. Everything a modern city needs for a modern society. 

20. Monument de la Renaissance africaine

21. View over the city

22. Even in modern parts of Dakar -> Donkey carts are essential

23. Riding into Dakar. Dakar outskirts. Old Marcedes busses that function as collective taxis.

24. Riding into Dakar

But it is not the ideal place for a cycle tourist. So with my package collected, I made my way out of the big city that had been drowsed in heavy rain the night before. The traffic for the next 70km was horrible. On three occasions, a truck passed by me so close that if I had swerved 10cm left, it would have killed me. It was so bad, I had to stop, yell after the truck, calling him really bad German insults and taking a minute or two to breathe and recover from the shock. I did check my pants. They were still clean. Time to move on.

Drivers were incredibly insensitive towards me who was riding on the shoulder-less road. But of course, they didn't care. 

After a while and after leaving the congested conglomerate area around Dakar and Rufisque, traffic became calmer and so did the riding. The stress of the day reduced and I could take in the beautiful, green, moor-like landscapes that had these immensely large, hundreds of years old baobab trees and meter high termite nests reaching from the ground.

The road to The Gambia was more and more quiet and compared to the ride into and out of Dakar, it was almost meditative. I chose shortcuts that would lead me through dirt-trails, only used by the locals that lived in one of the villages along the way, where the people would be shocked at the sight of me but still greet me and wave kindly. I had a wonderful time riding here and enjoying the tranquility. 

25. Leaving Dakar after a heavy rainfall. Pro tip: follow the motorbikes for secret trails of avoiding big puddles like this one

26. Got mud bro? Riding on a road work in progress with no tarmac.

27. Rice dish with okra, fish anc chili sauce. Cost: 1.50€

28. Calm and lonely shortcuts

29. Tight road with trucks overtaking and cars blowing smoke. Where is my FFP2 mask? 

30. Personal ice cream supply and AC-recharging point

31. Typical market at Fatick

32. Fresh produce at the market

33. Landscape

34. Wild flamingos. Probably the same group I saw in the Camargue.

35. Baobab tree. Lukas for size refernce

The Smiling Coast

I reached The Gambia about 3 days after leaving Dakar. It is a small country oddly located on the Gambia river, fully surrounded by Senegal. Looking at the location of the country, one easily understands just how random the splitting-up of the African continent between colonial occupants was. 

With crossing the border, a welcome change  became apparent. The official language in The Gambia is English. For almost two months I had been speaking nothing but French and with the crossing of one border, suddenly people spoke English, a language I am more comfortable in. Actually, they call it broken English because it does have a strong local accent.

In Barra, after struggling at the ferry ticket office to reach my hand through the people-swarmed, barred ticket kiosk to obtain my ticket, I crossed the Gambia river and arrived in the capital City of Banjul.

36. Bara town, woman in batik dress and lively scenery

37. Sails are set for Banjul

38. Trustworthy, rusty ferry

My goal wasn't the capital however. I wanted to reach the famous, promising beaches of The Gambia and so I kept cycling through the afternoon traffic jam of the central district Serrekunda and all the way to the fishing town of Tanji. Just another few kilometers through the "bush" and I arrived at a heavenly beach. 

Fine white sand, blue ocean with shallow waves and not a soul in sight. The only form of human life was the small beach bar that seemed like it had just recently opened its services to new customers.  The rastas that were running the place were okay with me camping on the beach for a couple nights. Together with the rastas, I spent the evening drinking beer, relaxing on the beach and the guys introduced me to the customs of The Gambia. I really felt like I had arrived in a beach-haven. Smiley, an ever-stoned rasta that was one of the guests, welcomed me with the words "Welcome to the Smiling Coast. The more you smile, the more you get brown." And I, who had a lot of catching up to do in terms of tanning, took these words very seriously for the following day. 

39. The bush leading down to the beach

40. Jonnys beach bar

41. The rasta men

42. Vulture on the beach 

43. Green monkeys at Senegambia forrest. Only one of them pooped on me

44. Orange monkeys

45. Happiness 

46. Thanks to Aladeen and Jonny for having me

I don't know what moved me to pack up and continue, only two days later. The place on the beach was wonderful. I think it might have been that I ran out of cash and unfortunately the next ATM was not exactly around the corner. 

Onwards

Cash strapped, I continued my journey back into Senegal, crossing the border at Katong. This border crossing was kind of half a border only. I did obtain my exit stamp on the Gambia side, yet, when I reached the opposite river bank via tiny boat, there was nobody to give me an entry stamp into Senegal. So technically, I wasn't in Gambia, nor in Senegal. According to my passport, I was nowhere. 

47. Border crossing in a nutshell

48. Gambian borderpost

But small unimportant details like this are really no biggie in the region. The Police in Ziguinchor told me that I should get the stamp at one of the land border crossings. Clearly they couldn't care less about this minor detail. Regardless of the stamp still missing, I obtained my Guinea-Bissau visa in the city. 

But to jump back in time a little, how did I get there? Ziguinchor is the capital city of the Casamance region, a region renowned for its beautiful beaches, lush mangroves and abundant wildlife. To me, it looked a lot like the region following the town of Fatick. It was a very beautiful region. Was it exceptional? Meeeh, I don't know. My previous very positive experiences in taking routes that are "off the beaten path" or in my case "off the tarmac road" lead me to taking a long detour and trying to discover more of the Casamance. Yet the scenery was already quite familiar, yet beautiful. The uncommon route I took had me sleep at the house of a village chief as there were no guest houses anywhere (and camping alone in Africa still creeps me out). I spent my literal last money on lunch with an old lady that I asked if by any chance she was about to cook lunch and could cook some extra for me. She was very happy to have me for lunch and was delighted to hear that I am German. She told me all about her time working as a maid for a German counsel at an embassy in Dakar. He was a very kind man from what I understood. Absolute win for me, and thank you kind councilman for leaving a positive impression. In general, people think very highly of Germans. Never have I met a person in Africa that spoke negatively about the Germans. Why? I don't know. 

49. More puddles to cross

50. Shady forrest. Much appreciated cool

51. Travelbus

52. Ants 

53. Red earth and green fields

54. Green

Fast forward back to Ziguinchor. I eventually joined the main road leading to the larger city. It was cobblestoned. A first ever sight for me on this continent. The three types of road usually were:

1. Tarmac

2. Destroyed undrivable tarmac

3. Dirt road

Now I could add another one: Destroyed, undrivable cobblestone. Wow. 

Guinea-Bissau was now only a stone's throw away, leaving Senegal, The Gambia and Senegambia (the party beach area of The Gambia) behind. I packed up my Mosquito net and air mattress and was on my way to a new country and a new chapter.

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