Down to Dakar

With a few mild, sunny days standing between us and the expiry of our temporary vehicle import permits (TIPs) and being in a place more accommodating to the whims of Western visitors there was an opportunity to slide into the comfort of being a relaxed, oblivious tourist rather than the constantly vigilant and tenacious traveller I'd become.

There was time for sightseeing and places of interest. I also had friends with an interest in seeing these sights and places making it all a lot more fun. Being in a self-sufficient group made it easier to brush off the over-eager "guides", hawkers and touts which inevitably appear wherever tourists do, vying intently for a wayward Euro or two.

An exploration of the town of St Louis took us to fascinating fish markets, sleepy Rastafarian bars and even a sprawling, oversubscribed cemetery where—just as we entered to find an elderly man carefully tending a tiny child's grave—we were chased away angrily by a group of ample and not unintimidating women.

In an old part of town packed with crumbling colonial buildings, restaurants, bars and curio sellers we met some French humanitarians in their seventies haggling loudly with a man in a flowing white kaftan over the price of an antique sabre. We chatted to the odd, extravagant couple who were probably Jacques and Pierre (though I forget their actual names) as they unloaded their best travel tips all the while waving away street urchins begging for "one milk!" with the familiarity of an Australian stockman waving away flies.

J & P insisted that we visit the Casamance region as during their junket they had met a bus-load of young French nurses and they were certain we'd be very interested in meeting them, too.

Leaving St Louis and bidding farewell to the oasis of Zebrabar our explorations took us south to Lac Rose on a speed-bump infested road—some Senegalese town planner's overzealous experiment in road safety which saw Filippo's little Honda catch a decent amount of air on a number of unexpected occasions.

At Lac Rose we found another ex-pat-owned patch of paradise where we camped beside the swimming pool, ate like kings and drank like fish while chatting to the haphazard cast of guests which included a group of four high-achieving British girls based in Dakar for diplomatic work, a salty journalist of questionable moral character who travelled the world while writing articles in the journals of the PVC pipe industry and even a group of fellow overland bikers: a couple, Roberto and Sabrina, he on an old Africa Twin and she on a Tenere (both in the mint condition all Italian ADV bikes seem to be) and Irish "Johnny Nomad" on his DRZ 400 which he would be riding down to Cape Town and back to Europe along the east of the African continent.

Lac Rose itself is a fascinating scene, with dark, red water where you see glistening, strong bodies toiling in the water to carry salt up from the lake bed and collect it in little wooden boats. The lake shores are lined with piles—almost dunes—of salt, each one owned by a small cooperative of salt-collectors stockpiling it for sale.

Further south and a couple of days later we reached the fringes of Dakar—a mysterious, enchanted African city so famous in our motorcycling circles for the rally it once hosted, but yet so completely unknown to most of us. I found it complex, culturally rich and grappling with the African realities of poverty and chaos but it also had an air of sophistication, pride, intelligence and even a bit of that oh-so-French arrogance—truly the Paris of Africa.

Unlike in the sometimes-seedy tourist areas in Dakar you are less of a novelty, many locals not wanting to stoop to the level of giving you attention which would somehow imply their inferiority. I found people to have confidence and independence in Dakar but they were still overwhelmingly respectful, friendly and genuine in their warmth.

I'd earmarked a guest house posted on another Australian's ride report (and verified in the iOverlander app) and the boys agreed that we should give it a go. Down a sandy lane in Patte d'Oie we found a wonderful haven through a small, gated doorway in an otherwise inconspicuous, white wall.

The guest house was co-owned by a French couple and their lifelong friend, a Dakar local who was a maternal force of nature and not to be messed with. The guests were a mix of tourists, aid workers and professionals starting sabbaticals and it struck me what a difference language makes in our travel choices. Dakar has much to offer, and is probably considered as common as Bali to the French, but to us English-speakers it seems completely out of reach.

Matron was insistent that we could not leave our bikes outside in the street as she didn't want the trouble if they got stolen, so we set off to find somewhere to park. Valerio had the bright idea that we might be able to find a pharmacy and ask the security guards to watch over them overnight. Every pharmacy in Dakar has a permanent security guard in a little hut out front (as do many other businesses)—and after asking a couple we found one who agreed to safeguard our girls for a small fee for the night. We manhandled them up onto a narrow stretch of pavement and set off in search of some local cuisine, hoping they'd still be there in the morning.

Even in those few hours in Dakar I felt immediately at home there. The culture was conservative but welcoming. People seemed respectful and well-behaved despite their economic challenges, and there was hope. Much of that was likely invested in the possibility of escaping to Europe one day, but it seems that at least the pride of being Senegalese would remain for those who departed.

My hope was that the opportunities could emerge here, and that Dakar could build itself into a thriving, cosmopolitan city—perhaps one day less the Paris and more the Singapore of Africa.