BoJo's brother and the sparkly unicorn

I didn't sleep very well - I think because the fan in my shack sounds like a combine harvester.  I learnt about them early on when we used to see one doing its thing in the local field - for years, I thought 'combine harvester' was one word - in fact, there have been multiple moments of disappointment when the realisation that certain things were not words in their own right, dawns - 'width restriction'; 'Prime Minister' (don't let's get started on that one - although when one of my plethora of Rainbow units wrote to their MP who happens to be the now PM's brother after Parliament Week telling him all about what they like and dislike about their local area, mainly requesting more parks and sparkly unicorns, they did receive a reply in acknowledgement); anyway - other words synonymous with this multi-word thing include 'War Memorial' and probably, most confusingly, 'cupboard-under-the-stairs' - I was in my mid-twenties when I realised that that is actually four separate words - that was shattering.

I'm surprised the fan kept me up - I live in Plumstead where the night sky is punctuated with search helicopters most nights.  As I wrote in my veritable 'Ode to the Plumstead People' which wasn't even placed in 2016's Plumstravaganza Poetry Competition (although I did come third in 2015, so mustn't complain) - 'And my friends, it has to be said / Plumstead doesn't feel right without a chopper overhead'.  

I was just about to upload last night's blog in the trusty restaurant I have frequented since arriving, when I decided to do a spot more editing as it all felt a bit jumbled - there is so much to share! But just as I was editing, the electricity went off and the place was plunged into immediate darkness - no lights, no gentle hum of background music, and ultimately, no router.   All the local insects from across the vicinity gathered on poor Yoga's luminous screen which didn't aid the editing process one bit.  

It got late - I'm always wary of being in an unknown place, alone, in pitch darkness.  Fortunately, having done this before, I know to always have a torch in an accessible place, along with a mixture of other vital equipment, including my 'toilet pocket' which contains loo roll (folded, obviously - an actual roll would be a bit bulky, plus a handy anti-bac hand-sanitiser spray which slides very neatly into one's pocket and is also very useful when walking #DogFriend.

After a broken night, I struggled to get up.  Once I did, having untucked my trusty mosquito net which had protected me all night (along with a sneaky additional coating of Deet spray) it was bucket shower o'clock! One realises when there is no running water, quite how much water one actually uses.  There's something oddly refreshing about tipping a cup of water over one's head.  I'm glad I had my hair cut shorter before I travelled - longer hair and a bucket shower would be more complicated.  They bring you huge bottles full of water; the place has taps, a sink and a toilet as though there may have been running water once, although they may be for show.  I'm definitely making good use of my borrowed universal sink plug too.  

Post-bucket shower, I headed over to the reception area for the longest most leisurely breakfast ever - it lasted for around three hours.  So much of this life is spent dashing from place to place like a thing possessed, that it was very liberating and also very hydrating to be able to sit for three hours munching a big chunk of bread with butter and apricot jam, peacefully devoid of angry cats, although I am coveting the resident goat Timmy as my own (although I think biblically I shouldn't covet my neighbour's goat), sipping a huge Thermos full of tea, plus a cup of indeterminable purple Senegalese juice.

It was here that I made a new acquaintance - Tidiane - he works for, that's right - the Ministry of Tourism for Senegal / 'Agence Senegalaise de Promotion Touristique' - he's a photographer and has been tasked with driving around Senegal taking pictures.  I told him all about the blog and he may well be reading - 'Bonjour Tidiane!' He said he would put a link onto their website - www.visitezlesenegal.com - but I suggested he take a look first.

The big question is this - why aren't there many tourists in Senegal? I was delighted to find some postcards in the reception of this quirky restaurant I've started to frequent - I purchased three and am wondering if - by the state of them - anyone else has ever purchased any before as they seem to have been there since Senegal was established and are very grubby (apologies to the recipients in advance - although I'm likely to see you in person before they arrive).  

Senegal is utterly beautiful and awash with beautiful beaches and peaceful rivers.  The sense of peace is something else.  Travelling around using public transport is easy, particularly with a bit of French - just go to a bus park, ask around until you find something heading in your direction, then bundle in and off you go.  Once you're there, whatever you want can be arranged via your hotel or guesthouse or campement.  I'm going on a trip in a pointy boat tomorrow after breakfast, to explore the mangroves - very exciting.

I think generally at home if people are heading 'on holiday' to Africa, they will be going to South Africa, Morocco, Egypt, Tunisia, Kenya, Botswana; but there is so much more to this continent - 53 countries, all with their own unique culture and character; local languages which even differ from one village to the next; local dishes, local drinks, as well as Coca Cola, which can be found in seemingly every village in Africa if you look hard enough.  When I was in Mali in 2002, I went to a bar with a Coca Cola sign and ordered one - 'moment, Madame' - I think watched the vendor cycle to the neighbouring village and back, a crate of Coca Cola lashed to the back of his  bicycle.  I think that's possibly the only village that didn't have Coca Cola at that time.  The lodgings are as complicated as you want them to be - if you're good with bucket showers, and throwing a bucket of water into a toilet bowl (human flush - it's all in the wrist action), then there are places for you; if you want an international hotel with all the trimmings, there are also here, albeit a bit more infrequently; but those types of places will organise transport for you to anywhere in the whole country and probably beyond.  They've got fancy buses, uniformed staff and great big locked gates at the front.  There are plenty of mid-range places too which are somewhere between the two.  Lonely Planet is useful, as are other sites.  Booking.com seems to have every type of hotel imaginable in most countries in the world; that said, Foundiougne was a bit of a struggle and involved a bit of trawling.  I didn't used to book accommodation ahead of time and instead used to cherish arriving, then finding somewhere.  That was 19-year-old adventurer me.  Thirty-something adventurer me prefers to pre-book, safe in the knowledge that there is a bed waiting for me, even if it's a bit tricky to find (see earlier entry about trying to find the place in Saly and the angry taxi driver); it also means that you are less likely to end up inadvertently staying in a brothel.

So this is me doing my bit for tourism in Senegal - come and see it for yourself.  But this does beg the question - why did I come here? Why did I choose Senegal? 'Do you know anyone there?' people asked - 'No, not yet', I replied.  But I do now.    

I'm glad I'm not a spider

I covered myself in suncream and have cracked open my new Jungle Formula spray, which I meant to take to India but found behind my bed a couple of weeks ago - it must have slid off as I was packing.  

I sprayed my arms and feet with the Jungle Formula - I'm not sure if it's meant to make your feet look all wet and soggy and grim, but it did.  It took me a while to do this as it was all slimy - I'm glad I'm not a spider because eight legs would take ages to cover in suncream and insect repellent.  That said, I've never seen a spider trying to use such products - I'm not sure how they'd get the lid off for starters.  

I then read the small print which said 'do not mix with other products such as suncream' - well, it was too late for that! It also says - 'up to 3 hours maximum protection' then 'use once a day only' - well how does that work? There were 24 hours in a day last time I checked.  Maybe the scent sends a secret message to malarial mosquitoes in their little mosquito heads which says 'she is a diligent traveller and has had this spray on for three hours, therefore she must not be bitten' - yes, that's probably it.    

What's the worse that can happen combining these things - I don't know actually.  It's a bit like the Doxycycline which helpfully advises 'do not expose skin to sunlight whilst taking this medication - I'm in Equatorial Africa - there is going to be sun and there are going to be mosquitoes.

I had my breakfast as planned - I was encircled by tiny, aggressive cats, but all was well.  I had to gobble my breakfast due to the hotelier suddenly informing me that the taxi driver was coming earlier than planned, which of course he then didn't; I sacrificed one piece of banana bread to the feline friend I had 'breakfasted' with yesterday.  

The taxi took me to the gare routiere as planned.  The hotelier had offered me a taxi all the way to my destination but at a cost of the rest of my entire budget for the trip, so I had politely declined, asking him to organise to take me just to the gare routiere.  African bus parks are places of complete intrigue which have to be experienced to be fully understood.  I'll do my best here, but you really need to visit one.  They are best described as epitomising organised chaos.  I know - 'organised chaos' is such a cliché and such an over-used term, but then, that's why we have clichés, because everyone understands what they mean; they aptly describe something.  My life is in a constant state of organised chaos; somehow most things happen at one point.  

You arrive at the bus park and the chaos is palpable - hawkers with everything from bananas to those stupid wireless headphones which have come into fashion - to me they look broken, or like someone forgot to finish making them before they hit the market.  Then there are small children tugging at your clothing and holding their hands out in the hope of a few CFA - that is very hard to see.  

Once I'd found the sept place for Fatick, the changing point for the next destination, I bundled into the back-back-back of the Peugeot 505 and my trusty orange tortoise was shoved into an aptly-available space right behind me in the back-back-back-back.  As the vehicle gently filled-up, two boys poked their heads in through the window and were singing - 'pourquoi chantent-ils?' / 'why are they singing?' I asked the lady beside me - 'pour l'argent' / 'for money'.

One of the passengers was - I think - being helped to top-up his phone from a mobile phone guy with a t-shirt; another purchased nuts wrapped tightly in a plastic bag; water in those sealed plastic bags was everywhere.  Whilst personal space is non-existence, there's a certain respect when the vehicle is ready to start the journey; the hawkers withdraw and the journey begins.  I say it begins - the driver drove to just outside the exit, then promptly got out and went to speak to someone - I didn't think too much of this until I realised that he hadn't put the handbrake on and the vehicle gently rolled backwards.  No-one was remotely perturbed by this, not even the driver, who didn't seem fussed that the vehicle, containing seven passengers wasn't where he had left it.  My tiny blue Renault Clio Chloe often doesn't seem to be where I left her, but that's because I get lost in multi-storey carparks and rarely remember where I've left her - I know - it's wrong on every level.

There wasn't a whole lot of conversation this time - the older lady who was wedged against me didn't seem to like the look of me - to be fair, some people don't - but I had a window seat and was quite happy soaking up the journey.  'When you rush so fast to get somewhere / you miss half the fun of getting there'.  

I was saddened that the entire landscape from Mbour to Fatick appears to be strewn with rubbish.  It makes Mount Everest look quite tidy.  There doesn't seem to be provision for getting rid of rubbish - anyone who finished anything in the sept place or subsequent bus just threw it out of the window.  I just can't accommodate that - it is utterly ingrained in me to take rubbish home with me - they tell me on the tube every day - 'customers are requested to take litter home with them', so I always scoop up a bag or two.  I commended a woman for carrying her dog up the escalator on the Bakerloo line the other day, heeding the instruction that 'dogs must be carried'.  I hadn't been able to find one.  

I had dozed off in the sept place, when it stopped abruptly by the side of the road - 'Madame - ici c'est Fatick'.  I jumped out, grabbed my bag, then after fending off multiple moped drivers who were happy to take me wherever I wanted to go, I walked around the corner to the bus park.  I'm glad I speak enough French to say 'no, I don't want to hire an entire vehicle and pay for seven people, thank you, one place is fine'.  I waited with a couple of other people who were heading for Foundiougne.  I was worried that it would take a while for five others to appear to fill a sept place.  As has often happened when I'm travelling in Africa, people often appear in droves, from nowhere.  'La bus, elle va au Foundiougne' came the phrase - so we can't even fill seven places, but we can fill a bus.  I wasn't complaining, I bundled into a bus with a disproportionate number of others, with my poor orange tortoise shoved underneath the front bench, closely guarded by the woman next to me who seemed friendly initially, but that soon faded.  I fear that my trusty giant orange tortoise might be on the way out - she is struggling, the poor old thing, from years of being dragged all over the world, starting with a Duke of Edinburgh Expedition, inadvertently spotting llamas in the Ashdown Forest, in 1996, from which she never really recovered; she's been to Five World Centres; to numerous camps and Brownie Holidays; on hundreds of flights to every continent, except Antarctica, which is very cold; she has been on boats of every description, on the back of donkey carts, shoved into the tiniest of spaces in bush taxis.  Goodness - if she could talk, her blog would be much more interesting than mine.  But she is ailing and I'm not sure how much longer she will remain in this life.  She is a simple but perfectly-formed creature, with one main pocket, which sub-divides thanks to a trusty drawstring.  They don't make 'em like that any more.  

After the usual Tetris-style bus-passenger-packing routine, we were off, stopping periodically to put even more passengers into an ever decreasing space.  On arrival at the port, there was a piroque to meet the bus and I climbed in - 'piroque' - what a fantastic word - it is a simple 'pointy boat' which takes you from one place to another.

I quickly located my lodgings, which is the simplest yet - hello bucket shower, it's been a while! After a doze with the fan pointing directly at me, I wandered into a nearby restaurant and asked if they were serving food.  Well. 

Bonjour Madame, c'est possible de manger ici?' 
'Tu veux manger?'
'Oui merci'
'Non, c'est pas possible'

'Hello Madame, is it possible to eat?' 
'You want to eat?' 
'Yes please' 
'No, it's not possible'.  

The big sign outside which said 'restaurant' had suggested otherwise.  She went on to explain that the restaurant would open later and that they cooked to order, so I could order now.  I sat and had a drink overlooking the river whilst perusing the menu.  I didn't understand most of it, so went for a poisson a bole - poisson was enough for me - you know what you're doing with a poisson, so I ordered that and have just enjoyed it, with a spot of white rice and indeterminable vegetables - legumes - what a great word.

I've got a short queue of people wanting to organise trips for me in pointy boats, so I will have a think and organise something low-key whilst I'm here, although it would be extremely easy to sit by the river sipping Coke in the day, then beer in the evening, doing very little besides sharing my thoughts and reading.  I finally finished that wretched book! It was page 216 whe something tangible actually happened - surely that was about two-hundred pages too late?!  Now I can move onto the next book I have been trying to read since February 2018 - a spot of non-fiction about what drives people to extremism.  

Darkness fell fairly rapidly and the mosquitoes arrived en masse, unprompted, but I am awash with Jungle Formula - even I wouldn't go near me.

The cat and the reindeer

It was 1255 for about three hours yesterday, until I realised that my watch had stopped due to the tiny dial on the side being dislodged.  But it didn't really matter - time is a social construction anyway, albeit a fairly useful one.  

I have just enjoyed a few moments in the sea.  For the second time today, I donned my trusty tankini.  Anyone who has been anywhere with me before will know how I worry about the theft of possessions and never leave anything unattended - this is the result of two bad experiences - I was mugged in Kumasi in Ghana in 2002, which included the loss of my passport (but the reissued one had 'British High Commission, Accra' as the place of issue which was quite quirky - always look on the bright side), then in 2004 I had all of my stuff stolen from a long-distance bus in Mombasa - that was almost worse because I didn't see who took it.  It was there one minute, then I went to get something from it and it had gone.  I'd learnt by that point to always have valuables stashed in a money belt and to wear loose clothing otherwise one looks three months pregnant.  Anyway - my point is that when travelling alone it is awkward to know how best to avoid stuff being stolen.  I figured that hidden under a towel on the bench which I've coveted as my own, in the guesthouse, was the most risk-averse solution and I could see it from the sea.  All should be ok, unless the threat comes from within, like in Spooks, where that honest and faithful older character - Gwen or Betty or something, turned out to be a baddie, and there was a note in a smashed earthenware Toby Jug to prove it.  

I had finally plucked up the courage to go into the sea, my belongings as safe as they could be; there I was, anxiously tankini-clad, edging closer, step-by-step to the crashing waves and perfectly soft yellow sand, when a woman who has been hassling me since I arrived shouted - 'Madame! Tu veux l'ananas?' Did it honestly look likely that I was going to purchase a pineapple at this precise moment?!

I had spent breakfast with a feline companion who actually sat opposite me.  Things were going well until, in a split second, he went for the butter, planting his sharp teeth and entire furry self into the tub which contained three lumps of butter.  I didn't quite know what to do for fear of angering him, so I let him have the butter.  Butter doesn't seem to be routinely served with bread here, and if it is, the accompaniment is an angry cat.

I had a pleasant swim in the guesthouse's little pool which is quite sizable - the 'swimming pool' in the hostel in Belize last year was more accurately described as a large puddle, but that wouldn't sound quite the same on Hostelworld.com .  I put on my tankini, one only its second outing since purchase in California last year - I first wore it at Sangam, India, where I led a little trip earlier this year, which you may have heard about - if you haven't, that's the reason I haven't been in touch and offer apologies.  It was a wonderful experience and the end is finally in sight with the fundraising.  You can help by choosing us as your cause on easyfundraising - and please tell your friends because I've told both of mine.  

I've very nearly finished the book I am reading - I hit page 156 and was convinced that something was actually about to happen - the anti-climax was palpable.  I'm still waiting and the whole thing finishes in about twenty pages.  

I just watched a traditionally-built French woman break-up a fight between a group of boys on the beach - I didn't see what had happened to precipitate this and would normally intervene myself (but have been told by multiple people who care about me that I shouldn't do that, and that is my message to young people - don't intervene in a fight as you might get hurt - it's like Lisa in the cartoon strip at one of the places I deliver training - she gets killed because she tries to get between two people who are fighting, one of whom has a knife.  Obviously, with an emotional or verbal bullying situation it is different, and the role of the 'active bystander' is encouraged, as in, do something, report it, take action, don't just let it happen.  

Her Senegalese companion was totally un-moved by this, choosing to fiddle with his iPhone whilst his mrs walked straight into potential danger.  The same boys have now brought her some pretty shells to look at, so all seems to be well now.

The traditionally-built woman walked back towards me and I asked her what had happened, in my best French - I thought she had replied 'some of them had feet', (which was no surprise to me) - what she actually said was 'some of them were armed with stones' - maybe my French needs a bit more work than I thought.  

I had been busy taking notes about this woman breaking up the fight, making assumptions about her, as one never should, when, unprompted, she came over and started chatting to me! It was almost as though she knew I'd been writing about her! She's not French at all - she's Italian and on holiday here from the mission she runs in southern Senegal.  She told me at length about her various projects trying to make the world a better place for children and asking me to direct anyone with money to her to help sponsor her next project.  She gave me all her contact details and hopes to hear from me soon.  She's also busy bringing homeopathy and traditional medicine to Senegal - I didn't like to break it to her, but methinks that's already been done, some centuries ago.  

Last night I did a spot of washing thanks to my trusty universal sink plug, epic laundry paper and of course, that which is stronger than cotton and ideal for washing lines - that's right - dental floss.  I read that when I first travelled in Ghana - always take dental floss in your travelling kit - that said, mine is mint-coated, therefore the newly-washed clothes have a slight minty scent to them.  

If you've never come across a universal sink plug, that too should be an integral part of your travelling kit - I have never seen a sink plug in the types of places I stay whilst travelling and one is extremely useful for washing clothes in a sink.

I rigged up a makeshift washing line with my dental floss.  Those knots I learnt at Guide camp all those years ago have definitely come in handy - if you know anything about knots, you'll be familiar with the aptly-named 'round-turn-and-two-half-hitches' which is traditionally used to tie up a goat, due to the way in which the knot slides to enable some freedom.  Or it might have been a 'boat', I forget.  Either way, it would be fairly useful here, for goats, boats or washing lines.  A 'clove hitch' is also very useful for starting your washing line.  

I rigged all this up between two chairs in my tiny room, then pointed the trusty fan at them in the hope that it would dry overnight.  

Next it was time to charge my gadgets, so I plugged in my trusty adapter, then into the multi-socket adapter thing.  At this point, all the electrics in the entire guesthouse went down - all the lights, the fan, the router - everything.  Whoops.

Now, there is a candle and matches in the room, suggesting that power-cuts are not unusual, so I'm going to go with that, rather than the fact that it was, most probably, my fault.

I fancied a late lunch so headed back to yesterday's lunch venue with my eye on the succulent fish the people on an adjacent table had - only to find the place entirely devoid of everything - no people, no bar, no furniture, no vast array of beverages displayed on the counter.  Nothing.  Rien.  Nichts.  This was discombobulating - had the whole thing been a surreal dream?

I wandered on, coming across a bar teeming entirely with men, not a woman in sight.  I was quickly encircled and pretended to be looking for my traditionally-built Italian friend - once they'd confirmed they hadn't seen her, I hurried on and found.... a cheerful, hearty man with a kindly face and long white beard, welcoming me to his happy abode - that's right - I'd found where Father Christmas spends most of the year!! That's right - contrary to popular fable, he is running a restaurant in Senegal!

I wanted to ask some testing questions just to be sure - 'Pardon Monsieur, votre mode de transport prefere, c'est quoi?' / 'Excuse me sir, what is your preferred mode of transport?' - if he'd replied with, well, whatever the French word for 'sleigh' is, that would seal it, although I don't know the French word for sleigh, so it might not have done.  I thought I could also ask if he has any pets, although I have forgotten the French word for pets - I know that in German it's Haustiere, or is it Hausaufgaben - one is pets, the other is homework and I always get them muddled up - both relate to the house (Haus).  If he's got a bunch of reindeer with noses of various colours as pets, that answers the question.  I'd list them, but I get mixed up between the names of Santa's reindeer and the names of Jacob's twelve sons - it's something like this - Rudolf, Donner, Blixen, Dancer, Gad, Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Asher, Zebulun, Benjamin; oh and Joseph, he was quite important in that whole story.  

Maybe don't tell the children - methinks the whole North Pole story is a bit more plausible.

I had struggled to get to sleep last night, worried that the taxi driver I'd angered during the day might come after me - but then I figured that he'd probably struggle to find the place.

The awkward biscuit transaction

I breakfasted at the quirky guesthouse which had been home for three happy nights.  The proprietor's wife sat with me for a bit, explaining how to get to Saly, my next destination, then a newly-arrived French girl came and sat with me - we conversed and I understood the bulk of the conversation, I think.  Then I chatted to two newly-arrived Spanish backpackers who had overheard and had assumed I was French due to my excellent accent.  Methinks the accent is there - it's the words I struggle with and they are what constitutes the conversation really, although in every training I deliver I find myself telling the trainees that the bulk of what one says comes across in one's body language - I'm not quite sure how that works when one is struggling to remember how a word translates - the body language then is entirely of frustration, regardless of the topic.

Awkwardly, I was telling my new French friend all about my early travels in Africa as a naïve 19-year-old gap-yearer, doing my best to explain how my perspective has matured since then, only to discover that she was now me - first year of university, a student intrigued by the world.  I can't believe that those first travels of mine were 17 years ago - seventeen!!

Africa gets inside you, in more than a malarial sense (although hopefully my trusty stash of Doxcycline from Herbert Road will take care of that); something drew me to Ghana in 2002 - that was my first experience of this land of culture and friendship, intrigue and difference.  Go into the travel section of a bookshop, then find the Bradt Guide to Ghana - look up 'Women Travellers' and you'll find my blurb.  I don't think I realised how uncommon a lone female traveller would be then, and it still seems to be now.

I chose to study at Leeds University because they offered a semester's study in Uganda - so I completed part of my theology degree at Uganda Christian University.  Then Ethiopia called, then Namibia, South Africa, Rwanda, but West Africa will always have a special place in my heart, so here I am.

After checking out of Ker Jahkarlo, I headed to the gare routiere where a kindly man walked me to a 'sept place' which was bound for Mbour, close to Saly.  'Sept place' literally means 'seven places' - these are rusty Peugeot 505s which ply the various routes across West Africa.  I had a touching nostalgic moment as the first family car which I remember, aged about 6, was a Peugeot 505 and this model was exactly the same, albeit with the steering wheel on the other side and the ceiling gently peeling away to reveal a curious cross-section of cladding which I'd never contemplated constituted the roof of a car. 

I quickly made friends with the man sitting to my right, who was cradling a 2-year-old who was sweet but had a terrible cough; an angry young woman sat to my left, who looked away as soon as I greeted her - give me a chance, I thought inside, all I've said is 'bonjour' - that was clearly enough for her and she wasn't going to engage further.  

I was in the 'back-back' of the Peugeot, as we used to call it when I was little, as opposed to the 'back' which is the first tier of seating behind the driver, or the 'back-back-back' which others might more traditionally call the 'boot'.  

I chatted away with the man sitting to my right with the coughing 2-year-old for the first hour or so, then when he started telling me about his family, it transpired that the angry young woman to my left who had blanked me, was in fact, his wife! Awkward.  I think perhaps she was a bit narked that he'd chosen to sit next to me, rather than to her.  

Every time the vehicle slowed, hawkers would quickly emerge, keen to sell their wares to whoever might slow even a flicker of interest.  There were huge bags of nuts (I'm EpiPen-trained you know), packets of chewing gum, water in tiny plastic pouches as well as plastic bottles - the European plastic obsession is far from a consideration here where the tap water is not potable), fruit drinks, hats, kitchenware including drying racks and utensils - when better to kit out your kitchen than in an African bush taxi?

To me, there is never a good time to go shopping, hence having a Tesco Fairy who appears each Thursday (if I am there, I always give them a treat, usually a KitKat - strangely the same Fairy rarely returns).  However, the traditionally-built lady in the middle seat in the back-back decided that it was a good time to buy a huge multi-pack of biscuits from a hawker, just after the vehicle had started to move away after waiting for what looked like all the cows in Senegal, to cross the road.  

It was surreal - the girl gently increased her pace as the vehicle picked up speed; a fellow hawker produced a black carrier bag into which the traditionally-built lady put the multipacks of biscuits; the actual transaction consisted of the traditionally-built lady rummaging in her oversized handbag to find some scrunched up CFA notes - we were doing around 10mph at this point, with the poor hawker having to pick up speed - unfazed and just chuffed to have made a sale, she grabbed the notes and nonchalantly made her way to the next vehicle of potential biscuit-buyers.  

I haven't been to Africa for a while, so haven't seen this typical buying behaviour recently, but it made me smile, reminding me of the time I waited eight hours for a bus to fill up at Sunyani in Western Ghana - I was heading to Bui National Park, but unfortunately it transpired that no-one else was.  That day, I brought all sorts through the window of the bus, sitting in the gradually filling bus - biscuits, water, nuts, fruit, batteries for my ailing torch, a handkerchief to mop my sweating brow.  I wrote a whole radio play about that village and entered it into the BBC African Writers' competition - I didn't win, due to not being an African writer.  Let me know if you'd like to read it.  I've written three plays and sent them to the BBC - they routinely send me a 'thank you, but don't bother in future' postcard which is, I suppose, very marginally better than nothing.  

Oh wow - I never thought I'd write this - I have just seen a border collie riding a quad bike up the beach.  Yes really! My train of thought has totally gone now - what would #DogFriend say?! (On closer inspection, it's possible that there were human hands on the handlebars - or were there?)

Anyway, the sept place took me to Mbour, then the father of the coughing child and husband of the angry woman instructed a passing boy to take me to the place where I could catch another vehicle to Saly.  Now, I figured that Saly isn't that big, so I was bound to spot my next accommodation easily, right? Wrong.  

Once the other passengers had departed (got out of the vehicle, rather than died), I asked the remaining passenger and the driver if they knew of the place I am staying, anticipating a hearty 'oui, bien-sur!', meaning 'yes, of course!', but the answer was 'non' which sort of translates itself.  

The poor driver than spent half an hour driving down every tiny backstreet in this twisty-turny place asking every person in Saly if they had heard of it.  Hang on - I was thinking to myself - it's on Booking.com, it can't be that remote, surely? Wait a minute - what if it doesn't even exist? What if it's all a conspiracy? What if Booking.com is a conspiracy?! I only booked through Booking.com because it generates a donation for 1st Chislehurst Guides through easyfundraising (likewise, I booked the flights through Expedia - that donation will pretty much complete the India fundraising!) - anyway, I felt a bit bad taking him off his 'quatre place' route, but he kept saying he didn't mind.  Eventually, we found the place and I paid him a substantial amount for his trouble.

Fast-forward a few hours and I have happily checked-in - the place definitely does exist and they were expecting me.  I've paid in cash before it gets spent on something else.  This is another basic guesthouse, right on the beach, with hammocks, comfy benches, a tiny swimming pool (currently containing a couple who look like they are doing what most couples would usually do in a room), plus a plethora of hungry-looking cats meandering around.  The palm trees are bending in the breeze and there are all sorts of children and young people playing in the sea or playing football.

I wandered along the beach earlier and found a quirky restaurant where I enjoyed another fish straight from sea to grill - this time I had sole - cue the jokes: always good to explore your soul / no longer a sole traveller / pas seulement moi (that one won't work if you have no French, and it doesn't really work written down in French, or at all to be fair, so you'll just have to imagine I'm saying it to you).  

How to lovingly wash your favourite goat

The day began in the morning and I opted for 'le petit dejeuner' here at the quirky budget guesthouse which will have been home for three nights.  The bread, butter and jam were yummy, but I'm not convinced as to what the accompanying tea was - it had an air of eucalyptus combined with a Glade plug-in about it, so I'm not too sure.  But it was part of the necessary hydration in these climes, so I'm not complaining.

Prior to coming here, I purchased and printed a couple of relevant Lonely Planet chapters - unfortunately, I failed to tell the printer to 'print to size of page' or whatever the wording is, therefore the letters are so tiny that I can't really read what it says.  Still, it proves to me that the letters which Specsavers will insist on sending me every five minutes about an eye-test I should have had five years ago, aren't entirely wasted.  I think that's what they say anyway.

Beset with guilt about the passing of time, questioning my entirely self-indulgent voyage where I am travelling alone, to wander, to be, to think, to read, to write, to soak up a new place, then swiftly concluding that it was ok to be doing this, I set out to explore.

I walked along Yoff Beach, in the opposite direction to yesterday, passing plenty of people doing exercise.  A lot of people seem to do this worldwide.  I did exercise once and it didn't go well.  I prefer to take a bus.  But they all seemed quite happy, variously jogging, doing press-ups, kicking balls around and the like.

One man sat at the edge of the sea, the waves lapping over him - he appeared to be cradling something - on closer inspection I realised that it must have been his favourite goat.  I watched for ages as he appeared to be almost baptising this beloved animal, variously brushing it, then untangling its matted fur, whilst at the same time constantly stroking it on the head as if to reassure it.  I just hoped that this was a genuine display of affection for this goat, rather than an elaborate bathing ritual before the end of its goatly life.  As per yesterday's blog, that goat may be about to become a statistic - 80% of meat eaten worldwide is goat, you know.  Holy Goat.  

I strolled along and soon fell into conversation with Alin who runs a little campement right on the beach.  This consisted of a whole load of carefully crafted shade-creating structures under which one could sit and pass for the time.  For a few hundred CFA, I spent a good few hours there, variously reading, writing, dozing and watching the world go by - a teenager staggered past with an enormous board with hundreds of pairs of sunglasses for sale perched on top - it was quite a spectacle.  

The resident dog dozed under a nearby wooden structure, in a small hole he had dug in the sand.  He periodically awoke, dug a bit more of a hole, then returned to slumber.  He was perfectly contented.  His name in Wolof translates as 'contented and happy' and I can see why.  

I was just starting to feel hungry when Alin appeared, asking if I was hungry - I concurred.  He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a vast plate of freshly caught grilled fish from the sea, beautifully adorned with potato chips, salad, plus some sort of accompanying divine onion concoction.  Now, this is fish and chips - none of this deep-fried, battered malarkey - these two fishes - one large, one a mini-fish hadn't been long caught, and were now sating my hunger.  Absolutely delicious.  

I said farewell and wandered back along the beach - by now it was heaving with people enjoying their Saturday afternoon - there were thousands of people of every age soaking up the atmosphere - tiny children digging in the sand, women grilling fish of every description on their makeshift stands - I think I saw the twin of the larger fish I had eaten earlier, I'd certainly seen him some plaice before anyway.  

After a siesta, I returned to the place I went to last night and was greeted like a long-lost friend.  I chatted away, sipping Flag beer - there are certain things I only do when abroad, including drinking beer and drinking Coca Cola.  I was delighted to be presented with a glass bottle of Coca Cola last night complete with lid for my collection - anyone who has been anywhere with me ever, will understand the significance of this - I have begged an angry bar-owner in El Salvador to re-open just so that I could have a Coke lid; I delighted in India when presented with one, after days of Pepsi.  I have visited every bar in Cyprus in search of a Coke lid.  Obtaining one in Senegal was effortless and that worked for me.  Just in case you're not sure why I do this, they have the name of the country where they are bottled written on the rim, hence being exciting to collect, in my humble opinion.  One day I'll get round to affixing them all to my scratch-map which continues to sit securely in its tube, cruelly untouched.  One day.  

I like the temperature here - it's not sunstroke-inducing Goldtastic-type heat, it's a comfortable 'chaleur' - one still needs a hat and I coat myself in factor 50 suncream every few hours, which makes me look a bit slimy, but rather that than sunstroke.  

I like the curious ambiguity here as to who works where.  The friend I made in the bar sat with me most of the time this evening, so I am wondering if he does actually work there, or if something was lost in translation.  I was in Iceland in Eltham High Street the other Friday afternoon, in fact, I am in Eltham High Street most Friday afternoons, grabbing what is needed for Rainbows that evening (in line with the carefully procured term plan of course) - a lady asked me where the frozen sausage rolls were.  I obliged, giving her specific directions.  It was only afterwards when I was walking back to my tiny blue car that it occurred to me that she must have thought that I worked there, due to being in uniform, albeit Girlguiding member wear, rather than Iceland staff clothing.  Hey ho - whatever works.    

A pile of goats and the fish are finished

Bienvenue au Senegal! I write to you from another world.  I'm sitting on a plastic chair on the beach, overlooking Senegalese youths playing football, watching the ball periodically dart into the sea, swiftly retrieved, then put straight back into play.  Up and down this vast coastline, people are selling fish, grilled on curiously wonky barbeques atop makeshift legs which punctuate the beach.

I'm sipping Coca Cola and water and have been chatting with the vendor about her business selling grilled fish.

The transfer to my guesthouse last night was eventful - we were more than two hours late leaving, then the baggage took more than an hour to make its way off the plane and onto the carousel.  I was worried that the driver I had arranged to collect me from the guesthouse might give up on me and go home, and I wouldn't have blamed him.  I had sent a message to the owner of the guesthouse but it was 3am by then and perhaps not the most social time to receive a message.

The palpable relief when my trusty orange tortoise in its large cosy black soft-shell (the rucksack which has been faithfully strapped to my back for twenty years - not continuously, obviously, that wouldn't make me very popular on commuter routes) glided towards me on the conveyor belt (amongst a million other pieces of luggage, most of which were awkwardly shrink-wrapped for some reason), was beautiful, as was the sign clutched by the driver, Marcela, I soon found out, when I finally emerged from the 'Nothing to Declare' channel - 'Byrant - Helen Beacher' - in this situation, any combination of words which look even vaguely like my name is totally acceptable.  He had been waiting for me for over four hours by this time.  I also hadn't given much thought to how far away the airport is from the city - it's 'in Dakar' in the way that Heathrow is 'in London'.  Someone profound once said, if God had wanted us to fly, he'd have built the airports closer to where people live.  I hasten to add - there are obvious exceptions to this, and there isn't a whole lot about air travel in the Bible, or about the moon-landings, but that's a whole separate blog for another time.

Marcela waited even longer for me whilst I tried to persuade an angry AGM to cough up from CFA for me, which was a bit of a struggle.  I figured that after waiting four hours, another few minutes wouldn't make too much more of a difference, and he seemed to be ok with that.  

We chatted for ages as he drove, swerving gigantic long lorries, the likes of which you only see in Africa, along with horse-drawn carts piled high with goods, plying the endless road to the early morning markets - there were no lights at all, so I fear a full risk assessment is yet to be completed.  My French language skills gradually came back to me - I just don't speak it often enough, save for the occasional French person I come across, most of whom are called Julie.  

I did my best to stay awake for the most part of the journey, I think.  I don't like the phrase 'it had been a long day', because all days are the same length, but this really had been an exceptionally long day, due to two lots of plane delays, the potential though not actual disappearance of my baggage, and general confusion over the time difference.  Senegal is one hour behind Morocco, meaning that Marcela had waited even longer than I thought.  Whoops.

At one point, Marcela was saying 'Madame, nous sommes ici' and before I knew it, the Italian owner of the guesthouse was being roused from his slumber at 4.30am and was ushering me to my room.  I swiftly untwirled the mosquito net thoughtfully positioned above my bed, rummaged through my bag to find my pyjamas, tucked the net in, then fell asleep in about four seconds.      

I spent the day acquainting myself with the surrounds.  I'm staying in a basic but very friendly guesthouse in a place called Yoff.  It's moments from the town and moments from the beach, which was bustling with people this evening - from families enjoying vast picnics, tiny children playing in the sand, to young men playing football, people wandering around selling their wares, plus there were hundreds of people in the sea, presumably trying to escape from the heat.  There are all sorts of shady areas which people can pay to rent and enjoy some beach-time.

I spent the day wandering and doing perfunctory things like finding the bank.  I walked past what looked like a huge pile of depressed goats.  I know a great deal about goats you know - did you know that goat is the most popular meat in the world? I once wrote a poem about eating goat, as anyone who went to LaSERIO may remember - 'the knee-cap of the billy goat might get stuck inside your throat / so be aware and take great care / eat the meat and not the bone / or else your stomach shall surely moan'.  It went on to explore the exciting statistics around goat meat, which unfortunately didn't stay with me, although I do remember that 80% of meat eaten worldwide, is goat.  Or at least it was then - this may have changed since the vegan revolution.  Although I'm sure someone somewhere has developed vegan goat.  

Anyway, these goats didn't look too happy, and looked even less happy when I tried to converse with them, in French - a goat is 'un chevre'; I remembered this slightly too late - I addressed them first with 'Bonjour les chevaux' which, awkwardly means 'horses', so I accept that this may not have helped the situation.  You only get one chance to make a first impression in this life. 

Or maybe goats just have miserable faces.  Who knows.

Evening came and after a siesta it was time to find some dinner.  I went to a quirky restaurant I'd seen on the beach earlier; plastic tables and chairs with parasols shading the patrons, plus long deck chairs for relaxation.   I made some friends, chatting at length about Senegal, London and most other topics.  

I ordered some fish, only to be told that 'the fish are finished'.  How the fish can be finished when we were next to the actual sea, is beyond me, but they guaranteed something equally tasty; my French is still fairly rusty but they gave me an elaborate francophone description which led me to envisage some huge, probably angry (judging by the goats), crustacean being presented to me on a giant plate.  Therefore I was pleasantly surprised when a plate with two tastefully arranged large shrimps appeared, who, although abundantly dead, were still smiling.    

Travel broadens the mind the gap

I decided to escape the searing heat by flying to Equatorial Africa, as one does.  I write to you from 10,000 feet or thereabouts, over northern, approaching West Africa.  I am gently sandwiched between a kindly lady who seems to be faffing endlessly with about sixteen pieces of hand luggage and a less a kindly man who took my window seat – but I’m fine with that, no really – I didn’t handpick it or anything.  Really, it’s fine. 

It’s a miracle I have caught this flight – for some reason we were more than two hours late leaving London (despite the Royal Air Maroc website assuring me that the plane had left on time, which was perturbing as I was still in the boarding lounge, thankfully the rest of the passengers were too) – my new Gambian friend from the first flight who lives in Scotland and has un-naturally large feet that I wished he would stop picking – assured me that our luggage wouldn’t make it onto the next flight.   I’m hoping he’s wrong, although realistically, I’d just buy a handful of things and continue on my way.  I didn’t read the small print about my flights until we were approaching Casablanca, at which point I noted that my flights are not ABTA / ATOL protected.  Now, I’m not certain what that means, but it always strikes me as a good thing to be.  (I hasten to add that when taking groups abroad, I commit the small print to memory, but it’s a different story when it’s just me) 

So if Royal Air Maroc goes bust whilst I’m away, I may have to walk home.  I like walking, so that’ll be ok – but I might not be back until Christmas.  Christmas 2020.

The first flight was unpleasant – I don’t remember a flight as noisy as this one, both the engine noise and the noise of the passengers.  Even passing birds covered their ears with their tiny feathery wings as they flew past the Boeing 737.  I sympathised.

I variously snoozed, dozed and nibbled my way through chicken and rice, curiously accompanied by a slab of shrink-wrapped raw fish and a yoghurt.  Yum.  (although I had exactly the same meal on the second flight – I think it was even the same chicken).

I also started to read something I’ve come across recently called a ‘book’.  I borrowed one of these from the library recently, but as time went by I started to receive angry messages saying that the library wanted its book back! I do understand this, but I hadn’t quite finished reading it (or even got half way).  To be fair, it was in my trusty rucksack for three months and was taken on every journey I went on during that time.  But when I go on a journey, I morph into a mobile office, relentlessly churning out hundreds of e-mails to organise events, fielding e-mails from all angles, reading through training courses I’m en route to deliver, and trying to grab training work where I can; hence reading for pleasure is limited to my exploratory adventures.  I ended up taking that library book back and giving it to an angry, non-empathetic machine which demonstrated a stark lack of soft skills, gobbling up the book I'd become quite attached to and bleeping angrily – it was as if it knew that I’d failed to read it.

I do like libraries though, despite the angry book-gobbling bleeping machines.  I have spent a great deal of time in libraries recently for various purposes and have realised that they are places of joy, providing free and accessible meaningful entertainment for everyone, from tiny babies enjoying Rhyme Time with their parents and carers, to Book Groups full of people who have probably never had to return a book to an angry bleeping machine, English classes and all sorts of other sessions, free internet access, study space for whoever wants it.  Go and visit one today!

I made my first friend before I’d even left London Bridge station.  Due to the abundant heat, the trains were on a go-slow, with speed restrictions, meaning some trains may not reach their destination until Tuesday.  I was on the platform and there were two trains impending, both Gatwick-bound.  Just as I was endeavouring to calculate which would reach Gatwick first, I fell into conversation with a kindly French man who was wondering the same thing.  We chatted all the way to Gatwick and even onto the magic shuttle train – he then flew to Athens and I flew to Casablanca. 

I’d envisaged three hours in Casablanca, possibly even venturing out of the airport to re-visit the second biggest mosque in the world which I first saw in 2003, on an inter-railing jaunt through Spain, Andorra and Morocco; instead I found myself galloping through Casablanca airport like a horse possessed, worried that I’d missed the connection.  I had to gallop at even greater speed when I realised that I’d misread the board and gone to the wrong gate! Fortunately, my galloping skills are well-honed.  

I dealt with more e-mails in those two hours at Gatwick Airport than in the rest of the week combined, so if you were waiting on something from me, it may be sitting in your inbox.  More likely, it may not be.

More soon team - enjoy.