St Louis, Senegal: it seemed like forever since we'd been pushing to get here. Ever since Southern Morocco, really, the goal had been to get to St Louis for Christmas. We'd be riding through the desert, dreaming of all the beer we'd drink and all the jazz we'd listen to once we got there. Having it as a destination was a huge part of what motivated us to do our big push through Western Sahara and Mauritania, knowing that at the end of the road there was a country with beer and no visa deadlines.
Crossing the border from Mauritania was a little hectic, a little hustly, but in the end not as bad as we had been led to believe. We jammed onto the overcrowded ferry and got off in Senegal, into what really seemed like a new world-it's crazy how the landscape changed from dusty to almost jungly just by crossing the river. As far as border formalities, we surrendered our passports to the police officer on duty, who in turn surrendered our passports to the tourist hustlers, who in turn stamped them for us amidst some interesting back-room dealings. I guarded the bikes while Steve schmoozed with the hustlers, and after some entertaining conversations and handing them a couple of euros for their "help", we were on our way, passports in hand, relatively certain that we were in the country legally.
We rode all the way into St Louis that night, planning to take a good week-or-so break here before continuing on. We found a guesthouse, ditched the bikes, and went out to explore and find the beer store. Initially, I really liked the city. It has lots of neat old buildings to look at, and I'm always a little partial to any city on the water, with its fishing villages and boats and beaches and the cool sea breezes.
It wasn't long though before St Louis became a little exhausting. We quickly realized you can't walk 2 blocks without someone stopping to talk to you... and it all starts out very friendly: "Welcome to my country, etc. etc...." but it always ended the same: "come look at my craft shop/restaurant/mothers jewellery store/djembes/whatever else one could possibly try to sell you. Which really, you can't blame them for asking... but it was the insistance that was tiresome. You'd say no, they'd keep talking. You'd say no and walk away, they follow you and try to guide you around the city. You'd say you want to be left alone, they'd lay a guilt-trip on you because they were just trying to help and why did you come to their country if you don't want to talk to anyone there?
Even worse was the amount of able-bodied, decently dressed men asking for handouts-most often they'd want you to buy them a milk (?). Between the artists, the milk guys, and the begger children, even a simple excursion around the corner to buy bread was pretty daunting.
St Louis wasn't all bad though. We met some great people and had a delicious Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas day brunch with our hotel owners and some of their friends. We even met a fellow Vancouverite and her Senegalese husband who now splits her time between Montreal and St Louis. We also hopped on a bush taxi to do a tour of the Djoudj National Bird Sanctuary nearby-so many pelicans!
When boxing day rolled around, we tried to get up to motivation to leave. We didn't really want to stay any longer, but something had happened to our desire to get back on the bikes. We just didn't really want to. We'd both been pretty sick while in St Louis, so put the low energy down to that combined with the stagnation of being in the same place for a week. We also wondered if the constant attempt of everyone to get money out of us was wearing us down. We took turns pep-talking each other and forced ourselves to pack up the bikes and get back on the road, hoping we'd get back into it.
The first day out of St Louis was actually a very unfortunate string of negative experiences that did absolutely nothing to make us feel welcome. Everyone on the road asked us for things as we passed, but it wasn't the joyful happy "cadeaux" kids we'd ridden past in Mauritania, who were just as happy to wave and smile if you didn't give them anything. Today, people of all ages were scowling and not just asking, but demanding for things-money, presents, anything. Any attempt to reply with a 'hello' or a 'how are you today' made them repeat the initial demand, louder and more insistant. And when you didn't give, they would scold you and tell you off! We stopped at one gas station to try to fill up our water from the tap, and the attendant wanted to charge us at least double what it would have cost had we bought bottled. We left town, relying on finding a more reasonable person down the road.
A bit further on we pulled over for a snack, and to re-assess our situation-what was wrong with the miserable people along this stretch of road? It was quite unsettling, this whole 'you're white so give me stuff now' attitude. We sat there for awhile, eyeing a sheperd not far off, afraid that he would come over and ask us for money too.
The last straw was a full-grown, decently dressed man, in a car, pulling over next to us, sticking his hand out and yelling, very aggressively, "where is my present?" Taken aback, we replied with a 'hello, how are you today sir..' which was ignored completely. "My Present, where is it? give me my present!". I was actually scared of how forcefully he was demanding things from us. What we had really needed right then was someone to pull over and see if we needed anything, as people had been doing for the last 3 months. Instead, we got the opposite, which just made us feel worse about being here, and even more astounded at this expectation that we were only there to hand out money and presents. In the end Steve demanded he give us his car. He got out, with the car still in gear and rolling away, his kid in the backseat, and offers up the car. A laugh and handshake ('you'd better go catch your car..') and he was gone. It had ended well, but the damage had been done - we went to bed that night feeling unsafe, unwelcome and thinking "What the hell are we doing here?".
Thankfully, the next day was better. We turned onto a smaller side road that was inhabited by the usual, friendly people we had come to expect-people waving and smiling and being friendly. It was much needed reassurance that Senegal actually was the welcoming place we had been hoping for, and really it had just been this stretch of road between St. Louis and Louga that was awful.
Unfortunately, we noticed a disturbing trend over the next couple of days to the Gambian border. Whenever we'd pass a 'hostile' village, it would also be accompanied by a large sign at each end of it indicating some type of foreign aid. The friendly villages did not have these signs. We began to wonder what effect foreign aid actually has on the people it is meant to help. Does it try to do good but in the end causes resentment and unreasonable expectations? Is it presented in a way that people can still have a level of pride in their villages after someone has come along and improved it for them? And does it have something to do with the fact that we are expected to hemmorage money and presents because we're white? I don't know enough about the politics and implementation of aid in these villages to say... but we both came away a little disillusioned about this notion of "helping Africa".
The next few days to Banjul were mostly friendly, though I've lost count of the number of times I've heard "Toubab, hey, Toubab" (It means 'white person' in Wolof). We had the easiest border crossing of our entire trip going into The Gambia, and we gunned it for the Banjul ferry, timing it perfectly to get there just as the sun was setting and the ferry was loading. As enjoyable as these days were, we still hadn't found the enthusiasm that had driven us to St. Louis.
And you know what? We never did. That first night out of St-Louis we had a long talk about what to do. And while riding the next day. And again the next night. Over the 4 days it took us to get from St. Louis to Banjul, we realized that we just weren't into it any more. As nice as the people are, as pretty as the scenery is, neither of us were really that interested in being here. I almost felt like I'd just eaten a delicious meal and had a big slice of cake, and someone offered me another piece of cake. And I'm sitting there thinking hmm... do I want more cake? It would taste good... but at the same time, I'm perfectly full and satisfied with the dinner and cake I've already had-any more would ruin it. There's a line in the book I'm reading that kind of sums up how I've been feeling while riding; it's from The Old Patagonian Express by Paul Thoroux, as he's visiting the red light district in Laredo, Texas:
That first day out of St Louis really hadn't helped the motivation, but there was more to it than that, because even when the villages turned friendly again, something was still missing. For one thing, we didn't really feel like we had a purpose being here. We didn't feel like we were helping anyone, and we almost started to worry if our presence was having a detrimental effect on some of the people. For example, when you ride through a village, and every kid in the village runs, screaming and happy, to the road, and they want you to stop, and instead you keep riding... I just don't know what to do, and I'm afraid of dissappointing anyone for not doing the right thing. And you can't stop for everyone-we'd still be in Morocco.
I've got about 10 pages written in my journal of the thoughts and feelings about wanting to leave, wanting to stay, wavering, deciding what to do next.... I think we both just hit our expiry date on the cycling Africa adventure. The trip up until now had been pretty much perfect-I couldn't be happier with it-but we were both ready for a change. And in the end, we did exactly what we set out to do: Start in Spain, ride into Africa, and keep riding until we didn't want to ride any more.
Crossing the border from Mauritania was a little hectic, a little hustly, but in the end not as bad as we had been led to believe. We jammed onto the overcrowded ferry and got off in Senegal, into what really seemed like a new world-it's crazy how the landscape changed from dusty to almost jungly just by crossing the river. As far as border formalities, we surrendered our passports to the police officer on duty, who in turn surrendered our passports to the tourist hustlers, who in turn stamped them for us amidst some interesting back-room dealings. I guarded the bikes while Steve schmoozed with the hustlers, and after some entertaining conversations and handing them a couple of euros for their "help", we were on our way, passports in hand, relatively certain that we were in the country legally.
We rode all the way into St Louis that night, planning to take a good week-or-so break here before continuing on. We found a guesthouse, ditched the bikes, and went out to explore and find the beer store. Initially, I really liked the city. It has lots of neat old buildings to look at, and I'm always a little partial to any city on the water, with its fishing villages and boats and beaches and the cool sea breezes.
It wasn't long though before St Louis became a little exhausting. We quickly realized you can't walk 2 blocks without someone stopping to talk to you... and it all starts out very friendly: "Welcome to my country, etc. etc...." but it always ended the same: "come look at my craft shop/restaurant/mothers jewellery store/djembes/whatever else one could possibly try to sell you. Which really, you can't blame them for asking... but it was the insistance that was tiresome. You'd say no, they'd keep talking. You'd say no and walk away, they follow you and try to guide you around the city. You'd say you want to be left alone, they'd lay a guilt-trip on you because they were just trying to help and why did you come to their country if you don't want to talk to anyone there?
Even worse was the amount of able-bodied, decently dressed men asking for handouts-most often they'd want you to buy them a milk (?). Between the artists, the milk guys, and the begger children, even a simple excursion around the corner to buy bread was pretty daunting.
St Louis wasn't all bad though. We met some great people and had a delicious Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas day brunch with our hotel owners and some of their friends. We even met a fellow Vancouverite and her Senegalese husband who now splits her time between Montreal and St Louis. We also hopped on a bush taxi to do a tour of the Djoudj National Bird Sanctuary nearby-so many pelicans!
When boxing day rolled around, we tried to get up to motivation to leave. We didn't really want to stay any longer, but something had happened to our desire to get back on the bikes. We just didn't really want to. We'd both been pretty sick while in St Louis, so put the low energy down to that combined with the stagnation of being in the same place for a week. We also wondered if the constant attempt of everyone to get money out of us was wearing us down. We took turns pep-talking each other and forced ourselves to pack up the bikes and get back on the road, hoping we'd get back into it.
The first day out of St Louis was actually a very unfortunate string of negative experiences that did absolutely nothing to make us feel welcome. Everyone on the road asked us for things as we passed, but it wasn't the joyful happy "cadeaux" kids we'd ridden past in Mauritania, who were just as happy to wave and smile if you didn't give them anything. Today, people of all ages were scowling and not just asking, but demanding for things-money, presents, anything. Any attempt to reply with a 'hello' or a 'how are you today' made them repeat the initial demand, louder and more insistant. And when you didn't give, they would scold you and tell you off! We stopped at one gas station to try to fill up our water from the tap, and the attendant wanted to charge us at least double what it would have cost had we bought bottled. We left town, relying on finding a more reasonable person down the road.
A bit further on we pulled over for a snack, and to re-assess our situation-what was wrong with the miserable people along this stretch of road? It was quite unsettling, this whole 'you're white so give me stuff now' attitude. We sat there for awhile, eyeing a sheperd not far off, afraid that he would come over and ask us for money too.
The last straw was a full-grown, decently dressed man, in a car, pulling over next to us, sticking his hand out and yelling, very aggressively, "where is my present?" Taken aback, we replied with a 'hello, how are you today sir..' which was ignored completely. "My Present, where is it? give me my present!". I was actually scared of how forcefully he was demanding things from us. What we had really needed right then was someone to pull over and see if we needed anything, as people had been doing for the last 3 months. Instead, we got the opposite, which just made us feel worse about being here, and even more astounded at this expectation that we were only there to hand out money and presents. In the end Steve demanded he give us his car. He got out, with the car still in gear and rolling away, his kid in the backseat, and offers up the car. A laugh and handshake ('you'd better go catch your car..') and he was gone. It had ended well, but the damage had been done - we went to bed that night feeling unsafe, unwelcome and thinking "What the hell are we doing here?".
Thankfully, the next day was better. We turned onto a smaller side road that was inhabited by the usual, friendly people we had come to expect-people waving and smiling and being friendly. It was much needed reassurance that Senegal actually was the welcoming place we had been hoping for, and really it had just been this stretch of road between St. Louis and Louga that was awful.
Unfortunately, we noticed a disturbing trend over the next couple of days to the Gambian border. Whenever we'd pass a 'hostile' village, it would also be accompanied by a large sign at each end of it indicating some type of foreign aid. The friendly villages did not have these signs. We began to wonder what effect foreign aid actually has on the people it is meant to help. Does it try to do good but in the end causes resentment and unreasonable expectations? Is it presented in a way that people can still have a level of pride in their villages after someone has come along and improved it for them? And does it have something to do with the fact that we are expected to hemmorage money and presents because we're white? I don't know enough about the politics and implementation of aid in these villages to say... but we both came away a little disillusioned about this notion of "helping Africa".
The next few days to Banjul were mostly friendly, though I've lost count of the number of times I've heard "Toubab, hey, Toubab" (It means 'white person' in Wolof). We had the easiest border crossing of our entire trip going into The Gambia, and we gunned it for the Banjul ferry, timing it perfectly to get there just as the sun was setting and the ferry was loading. As enjoyable as these days were, we still hadn't found the enthusiasm that had driven us to St. Louis.
And you know what? We never did. That first night out of St-Louis we had a long talk about what to do. And while riding the next day. And again the next night. Over the 4 days it took us to get from St. Louis to Banjul, we realized that we just weren't into it any more. As nice as the people are, as pretty as the scenery is, neither of us were really that interested in being here. I almost felt like I'd just eaten a delicious meal and had a big slice of cake, and someone offered me another piece of cake. And I'm sitting there thinking hmm... do I want more cake? It would taste good... but at the same time, I'm perfectly full and satisfied with the dinner and cake I've already had-any more would ruin it. There's a line in the book I'm reading that kind of sums up how I've been feeling while riding; it's from The Old Patagonian Express by Paul Thoroux, as he's visiting the red light district in Laredo, Texas:
" 'If you're not interested in this' said a pretty girl hiking up her skirt with a casually lazy gesture, 'Why are you here?' It was a good question, and, as I had no answer, I left."
That first day out of St Louis really hadn't helped the motivation, but there was more to it than that, because even when the villages turned friendly again, something was still missing. For one thing, we didn't really feel like we had a purpose being here. We didn't feel like we were helping anyone, and we almost started to worry if our presence was having a detrimental effect on some of the people. For example, when you ride through a village, and every kid in the village runs, screaming and happy, to the road, and they want you to stop, and instead you keep riding... I just don't know what to do, and I'm afraid of dissappointing anyone for not doing the right thing. And you can't stop for everyone-we'd still be in Morocco.
I've got about 10 pages written in my journal of the thoughts and feelings about wanting to leave, wanting to stay, wavering, deciding what to do next.... I think we both just hit our expiry date on the cycling Africa adventure. The trip up until now had been pretty much perfect-I couldn't be happier with it-but we were both ready for a change. And in the end, we did exactly what we set out to do: Start in Spain, ride into Africa, and keep riding until we didn't want to ride any more.
Beautiful post Lainners. I can absolutely relate to your thoughts on when is help actually helping, and when is it hurting everyone in the long term. I've been going through the same thoughts from our short trip to Nepal. By virtue of where our souls were born we are blessed with so many things - hard to know how to use those gifts without actually taking away from another person's dignity.
ReplyDeleteNicely written Elaine: I had the same feelings of declining motivation both at the end of my Feb 2010 Mexico trip and at the end of the Summer of Squamish climbing fun in 2007. When having fun becomes an obligation then it is work and not fun.
ReplyDeleteThanks guys, nice to know it's not just me who wrestles with these experiences:)
ReplyDelete