Moving
Almost a month had passed in Senegal: a lot of the time it has meant moving around, from city to another city or inside the limits of a city. Rufisque, Dakar, Fimela, Toubab Dialaw, Mboro...the time spent in various vehicles of public transport or walking would make something like 60-70 hours in total, I guess.
The local transport that I used for moving inside Dakar during one week consisted mostly of blue "Dakar Dem Dikk" (= Dakar aller-retour) buses. I was proud to be able to mainly use the public transport, although it is a lot hotter and more time-consuming than taking a private taxi. Although taxis would cost something like 1,5 euros to 6 euros maximum in the Dakar city area, it feels ridiculous to pay that much when I know that a bus, 10-20 times cheaper, will also take me to my destination. My decision could have been different if I had not stayed very near of the end stop of the bus line 7. Getting into the bus with the first passengers meant that I could get a seat, something which on the second stop was already impossible. I tried once the minibuses with less clear routes to go the centre as well, but I would say that the DDD buses are a lot more comfortable and trustworthy than the dubiously assembled minibuses, notorious for having problems with brakes...
Tickets for the Dakar Dem Dikk bus and the minibus Dakar-Rufisque
When I ventured out on the bus to some routes or stops I did not know, I had to rely on other passengers to tell me where to get off, and they were always adorable: if the one I had asked for directions had to get off earlier, s/he entrusted me to someone else sitting in front of me, for example, and if even that one got off the bus earlier, it was made sure that again someone else would take care of me. Such was the case when I took the bus to visit a Finnish cultural/social centre Sunu Keur (”our house”) in Grand Yoff, a poor neighbourhood in the northern parts of Dakar (blog in English, article in Finnish. I was told to get off at the Shell station of Patte d'Oie - ”everybody knows it” - since for some reason directions are often given with the help of petrol stations. Anyway, with the help of three successive helpers in the bus, I got off at the right stop and phoned the responsible at the centre who came to pick me up from Shell a few minutes later.
The by far most expensive ride that I took was on a taxi from Rufisque to Mboro – 30 euros, around 100 kilometres, 3 hours, and a stop at the police station in some random village. The driver failed to show a proper sticker in the windscreen, apparently a marker for an assurance or for a tax. The taxi driver only spoke Wolof, so the reasons were not quite that clear - in any case he had to follow the officer to a some kind of a station. While my driver was inside ”negotiating” to get his driver's licence back, I waited in the car and quickly became the general amusement for the village kids. Half a dozen of them approached the car first very cautiously, waving me shyly, then coming closer and closer while giggling and shouting out ”bonsuur”.
The taxi with wunderbaums parked in a village.
After the taxi driver returned from the police station, swearing for a while in Wolof, and we continued our way to Mboro, he seemed to be a bit lost on the way. It turned out he really did not know how to get there in the first place. We stopped to ask maybe from 7 different people on the route, and finally found our way to Mboro, although I could have told him the same directions with the help of my map, if only my language skills would have been sufficient. When I asked him to sign a receipt for me after the trip, it turned out that he was also illiterate, which might explain feeling lost on the way - at least I could read the various nameplates (shops, road names etc.) of villages and towns to see where we were situated.
Now installed in Mboro, I have switched into walking as the most frequent method of transport. The public transport is scarce, but I also quite enjoy walking the 3-kilometre distance to work, ideal in my opinion. Some 7-seater taxis swoosh by on the route that goes just past my house: the other direction leads to the sea, and the other to the town itself where my workplace is situated. In the morning there are few people walking, but in the evening the road is much more lively, with joggers, women with firewood, horse carts and more taxis coming and going to and from Mboro.
The long road to Mboro.
In Mboro it is not even that hot before 10 am and after 5 pm – and even during the hottest hours it feels like nothing compared to the inner country, such as Fimela which I visited two weeks ago (blog text in Finnish, but with photos). Here I can still function and move around during the day without a constant fear of a heat stroke. I have read that the sub-climate in the Niayes region, the patch on the coast stretching north from Dakar all the way to St. Louis resembles Mediterranean or South African climate: it is never unbearably hot, always with plenty of wind, and the nature is quite green even now, during the dry season.
The latest form of moving for me is running: on my last day in Dakar I stopped at Citysport, a fancy sports equipment store, where the salesman switched into American English after my first phrase in French – quite annoying, really. I switched back into French and asked for jogging shoes to try on, finally exiting the store with an addition to my Visa bill and a brand new pair of shoes. I tried the shoes first time in action yesterday - jogging to the beach and back - and realized that I really need to run more after all this sleeping and eating I have been focusing on so far. With the running shoes and lovely foresty environment I am living in now, there are no more excuses for not doing any exercice!
The local transport that I used for moving inside Dakar during one week consisted mostly of blue "Dakar Dem Dikk" (= Dakar aller-retour) buses. I was proud to be able to mainly use the public transport, although it is a lot hotter and more time-consuming than taking a private taxi. Although taxis would cost something like 1,5 euros to 6 euros maximum in the Dakar city area, it feels ridiculous to pay that much when I know that a bus, 10-20 times cheaper, will also take me to my destination. My decision could have been different if I had not stayed very near of the end stop of the bus line 7. Getting into the bus with the first passengers meant that I could get a seat, something which on the second stop was already impossible. I tried once the minibuses with less clear routes to go the centre as well, but I would say that the DDD buses are a lot more comfortable and trustworthy than the dubiously assembled minibuses, notorious for having problems with brakes...
Tickets for the Dakar Dem Dikk bus and the minibus Dakar-Rufisque
When I ventured out on the bus to some routes or stops I did not know, I had to rely on other passengers to tell me where to get off, and they were always adorable: if the one I had asked for directions had to get off earlier, s/he entrusted me to someone else sitting in front of me, for example, and if even that one got off the bus earlier, it was made sure that again someone else would take care of me. Such was the case when I took the bus to visit a Finnish cultural/social centre Sunu Keur (”our house”) in Grand Yoff, a poor neighbourhood in the northern parts of Dakar (blog in English, article in Finnish. I was told to get off at the Shell station of Patte d'Oie - ”everybody knows it” - since for some reason directions are often given with the help of petrol stations. Anyway, with the help of three successive helpers in the bus, I got off at the right stop and phoned the responsible at the centre who came to pick me up from Shell a few minutes later.
The by far most expensive ride that I took was on a taxi from Rufisque to Mboro – 30 euros, around 100 kilometres, 3 hours, and a stop at the police station in some random village. The driver failed to show a proper sticker in the windscreen, apparently a marker for an assurance or for a tax. The taxi driver only spoke Wolof, so the reasons were not quite that clear - in any case he had to follow the officer to a some kind of a station. While my driver was inside ”negotiating” to get his driver's licence back, I waited in the car and quickly became the general amusement for the village kids. Half a dozen of them approached the car first very cautiously, waving me shyly, then coming closer and closer while giggling and shouting out ”bonsuur”.
The taxi with wunderbaums parked in a village.
After the taxi driver returned from the police station, swearing for a while in Wolof, and we continued our way to Mboro, he seemed to be a bit lost on the way. It turned out he really did not know how to get there in the first place. We stopped to ask maybe from 7 different people on the route, and finally found our way to Mboro, although I could have told him the same directions with the help of my map, if only my language skills would have been sufficient. When I asked him to sign a receipt for me after the trip, it turned out that he was also illiterate, which might explain feeling lost on the way - at least I could read the various nameplates (shops, road names etc.) of villages and towns to see where we were situated.
Now installed in Mboro, I have switched into walking as the most frequent method of transport. The public transport is scarce, but I also quite enjoy walking the 3-kilometre distance to work, ideal in my opinion. Some 7-seater taxis swoosh by on the route that goes just past my house: the other direction leads to the sea, and the other to the town itself where my workplace is situated. In the morning there are few people walking, but in the evening the road is much more lively, with joggers, women with firewood, horse carts and more taxis coming and going to and from Mboro.
The long road to Mboro.
In Mboro it is not even that hot before 10 am and after 5 pm – and even during the hottest hours it feels like nothing compared to the inner country, such as Fimela which I visited two weeks ago (blog text in Finnish, but with photos). Here I can still function and move around during the day without a constant fear of a heat stroke. I have read that the sub-climate in the Niayes region, the patch on the coast stretching north from Dakar all the way to St. Louis resembles Mediterranean or South African climate: it is never unbearably hot, always with plenty of wind, and the nature is quite green even now, during the dry season.
The latest form of moving for me is running: on my last day in Dakar I stopped at Citysport, a fancy sports equipment store, where the salesman switched into American English after my first phrase in French – quite annoying, really. I switched back into French and asked for jogging shoes to try on, finally exiting the store with an addition to my Visa bill and a brand new pair of shoes. I tried the shoes first time in action yesterday - jogging to the beach and back - and realized that I really need to run more after all this sleeping and eating I have been focusing on so far. With the running shoes and lovely foresty environment I am living in now, there are no more excuses for not doing any exercice!
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