Medicinal Mileage
Emerging reluctantly from the previous night's coma I shuffled out into the dawn to go and fetch my bike from the pharmacy and brought it back to the guest house where I began corralling my portable possessions from the places they'd migrated to throughout the room. There was none of the usual nervous anticipation that came with packing up. This was instead as forced and uncomfortable a procedure as a post-operative urination. I felt weak, pained and worthless as I completed the chore with determination (but without inspiration).
The previous afternoon my good friend Ron (who I'd met at Zebrabar in St. Louis with his beer-destroying riding buddy Hannes) paid me a visit on his wonderful, old red BMW R100 GS which would take him all the way to Namibia. He'd been to South Africa before and didn't have the appetite to return to the harshness of the land I'd called home. We strolled down to the Lebanese-owned charcoal chicken shop and had a nice lunch and good chat.
I was grateful for Ron. He was empathetic and insightful and I respected his quiet, gentle bravery. I knew by how he looked at me that my inner struggle was clearly visible to him beneath the artificially sweetened banter and self-effacing jokes. Like many people I met on this trip Ron became counted as a dear friend belied by what added up to only a few hours in each other's company. We were two modest men forging quietly ahead on our lonely missions that the brashest, boldest of our peers back home would only dream of attempting.
Buoyed by Ron's gentle encouragement I prepared for my day trip to Tambacoundaâabout 400 km south-east of Dakarânear the tip of the jagged tentacle of The Gambia, a country encapsulated by Senegal, where it ends its eastward struggle into the African interior. Travellers often pass through Tambacounda while circumnavigating The Gambia on their way north or south so as to avoid the wily extractors of bounty manning the border posts and river ferry.
Tambacounda grew out of a small, ethnically diverse village which lay on the regular migration routes of Fulani cattle herders. It was injected with fuel for further development when glinting, colonial railway tracks came to replace the mottled, dusty trails left by cattle. The official population recorded in 2007 was about 80,000 but as with most African statistics it was safe to double that number on the day I set off to encounter its residents eleven years later.
Like many a nomadic herder or steam-train conductor before me I checked over the assets in my care and prepared for departure, ready to give myself over to what may lie along the ancient, well-worn track. Shuffling my paraphernalia out of the narrow entrance of Espace Thially I encountered an arriving group of MĂ©decins Sans FrontiĂšres volunteers who had just pulled up in an ancient, brown Mercedes bus. On some kind of humanitarian jaunt, they presented more like a pack of rowdy Spring-breakers on their first night in Cancun than earnest protectors of the health of those less fortunate.
I was envious of their light-hearted, social and temporary adventure into Europe's exotic southern playgroundâa little out of bounds but a quick flight home to France if things got a bit uncomfortable. I thought of the long, hard and lonely kilometres that lay between me and either end of my originally planned journey.
So it was out along the sandy lane from Espace Thially (after accepting well-wishes and making promises to write and return), down through the busy, shambolic streets of Patte D'Oie and past the pharmacy where my bike had spent each night and where I pulled in to drop off a small CFA bonus for my angelic guardian Adama. He wasn't there, so I handed it over to one of his security-guard mates who may or may not have passed it on and may or may not have extracted a commission on the way.
From there, I found the on-ramp to the A1 and climbed back onto its aching, concrete spine which rose above the clutter of Dakar and transported me east into uncertainty.
The road was in good nick and my journey was only occasionally interrupted by the perpetual works required to support traffic that the original engineers underestimated by an order of magnitude. The national route took me back past Saly and Mbour, inspiring another mental replay of the previous week's eventsânot that I needed any assistance rewinding the tape.
As it stretched into the interior, the A1 began to escape the influence of Dakar's urbanisation and gradually metamorphosed from a six lane motorway into a modest two lane regional road supporting the usual procession of cars, trucks, buses, Indonesian motorcycles, donkey carts, bicycles and ambling pedestrians which typically flow surprisingly harmoniously along these restricted, narrow arteries.
It was a clear, bright and beautiful day and the riding was easy but my mood was still complicated and my spirit struggled to act natural in its surroundings. I was distracted and anxious, grinding through each kilometre as if it was me pushing the heavily loaded bike rather than the purring V-twin beneath me. Nevertheless the day was without external incident and I made good time.
I arrived in Tambacounda in the early afternoon, having booked myself into a bungalow beside the pool at the relatively luxurious Hotel Oasis Oriental Club which with wi-fi, air-con, a working TV and a decent restaurant on site was described as "a little bit pricey" at 2,000 CFA (US$40) in the iOverlander app where I discovered it. While dismounting in front of the hotel's reception I attracted the attention of an excitable group of NGO workers. One particularly energetic and articulate young delegate, Said, spoke impeccable English (with a slight faux-American accent) and ran me through the initiatives they were in the area to supervise, including "entrepreneurship" and micro-finance projects. Said insisted that I be introduced to His Excellency The Minister who was not quite as energetic, articulate or young as Said but also seemed to be having a jolly good time.
Having been bowled over by two boisterous groups of non-profit enthusiasts in a day it had me wondering whether disseminating donations was overtaking football as Senegal's favourite sport or whether it was just that everyone's disposition seemed manically enthused in comparison to my own.
After making use of the traditional plastic bucket I found in the shower in my room to do some overdue underwear washing I wandered down to the restaurant for a restorative meal and a few beers in front of the TV. I had an inkling of accomplishment: I was somewhere new. Despite extreme emotional inertia I had in fact managed to move myself a little east of Dakar though I wasn't quite ready to admit that the trip had officially resumed. Fed and watered, I felt a hint of my normal self as I strolled back to my room after dinnerâthe warm evening air tossing echoes of the A1's trucks, buses and shouts over the concrete panel wall of the hotel's compound.
Lying on the slightly sagging king sized bed in my circular, blue room I absentmindedly flicked through my passport, landing on the page where my hard-won Senegalese visa was neatly pasted and remembering the gruelling few days leading up to it gaining an entry stamp at Diama. As I looked a little closer at the stamp I felt a tingle of mild horror flush my cheeksâmy visa was expiring the very next day.
