Dakar Noir

Dakar, Senegal. Our transport to Dakar, the capitol of Senegal, is a rickety old Minibus with a thick spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. Inside are three bench rows, each comfortably seating four people; which is strange, because I am certain that with a little Vaseline and a crowbar would could easily fit another fifteen. Many woman here are decked out in brilliant attire, intense primary colors that contrast wonderfully with their dark skin. The woman directly in front of me is wearing a brightly colored purple dress and a bouffant head wrap cut from the same cloth, making her look a bit like a birthday present. Though one should think twice about attempting to unwrap such a tempting gift; I would have a one in three chance of contracting any number of exotically indescribable venereal diseases, like SyphaHerpatitis Simplex B.


The Minibus drives deep into the Sahel, the semi-arid region characterized by frequent periods of drought. The grass is patchy, dry and yellow, the bushes and trees widely spaced, like a receding forest hairline. Random goats and herds of zebu graze lazily. I seem to have a penchant for sitting on the sunny side of the vehicle and I am baking in the heat. For some incomprehensible reason the windows are never open on these rides. It's 150 bijillion degrees out and the drivers seem either unwilling or unable to manipulate the muscles which control the arm, which, when sufficiently torqued, can crank in such a way as to roll down a window. Maybe they don't want the car to fill with the dust that kicks up on the sandy roads, but I would gladly inhale lung-fulls of dirty air, like a Hoover, for a chance at the faintest, cooling breeze. I settle for placing a jacket across the window, which partially obscures my view. Ancient baobab trees start to appear. Their thick trunks and stumpy, leafless branches look completely unnatural, like a tree planted upside down. We pass countless wrecks on the side of the road, the obvious victims of high velocity collisions. On several occasions we stop, and the vehicle is swarmed by woman selling nuts, fruit, fried dough balls, and small plastic baggies filled with chilled water. The water bags are the best - you either bite off a small piece of plastic from the corner, careful not to spill a precious drop, and sip the contents; or you hurl them at your friends, which is equally refreshing. If I were a budding African entrepreneur I would add a goldfish to the bag, providing not only a hydrating beverage but a nutritious snack. The drive continues. A little girl sitting nearby spends the entire trip just staring at me, her large brown eyes soaking in my countenance. As the middle child in my family I've been ignored most of my life, so it's interesting being the center of attention. Large buildings, completely incongruous in this rural landscape, this land of thatched hut villages, appear on the horizon.



Dakar is a big, burly, beast. Home to a motley crew of silver-tongued salesman, shrewd swindlers, and cantankerous con-men, it is a city where the people move as fast as the cars and you have to be careful to watch your back. It is bit scary, but still fun, like riding a New York City subway after midnight. After a bit of exploration we settle on a budget hotel just off the Place D'Independance, the city's main square, and a popular spot for getting fleeced. One of the interesting facts about budget accommodations in Dakar, even according to our guidebook, who, with the approval of their lawyers still recommends them, is that they all double as brothels. The sex trade is alive and kicking in this fair city, and it is not uncommon to see a tall, skinny, buxom local, perhaps with a little junk in the trunk, walking arm in arm with a pudgy, middle-aged, white man, who I have determined, using my own internal probability calculator, is probably not her Godfather. We explore the markets and shops, restaurants and bars, patisseries and Nescafe stands. Given the lack of sophisticated cuisine throughout most of the continent, we are surprised at the quality of the food. Dakar is home to both an amazing burger and the most amazing patisserie on planet earth. The burger, a thick juicy patty fried up on an oiled griddle, then placed inside a massive bun that is stuffed with french fries, slathered with mayo and ketchup, and topped with a fried egg, is heart-stoppingly good; so much so that the joint has a full-time doctor on call to help with frequent cardiac arrest. You'd think this bad for business, but when someone hits the ground like a sack of bricks, it frees up the table, which is good for the impatient line of customers waiting outside the door. The patisserie was equally impressive. Stacks of golden baked breads, trays of sweets, and row upon row of the most decadent looking pastries I have ever laid eyes on: chocolate enrobed ganache, decorated in gold leaf; custard filled tarts piled high with glistening fruit; fanciful layer cakes, full of caramel, nuts, creams, and sponge. I was skeptical at first. Those who frequent such institutions know that there is an invariably an inverse relationship between the visual presentation of a showy dessert and its taste, a dissemblingly regal cloak that hides nothing other than peasant bread. This place blew that theory out of the water. I try four distinctly different desserts, each is orgasmic taste and quality.



Just a few doors down from us we have a couple of drinks at the Imperial Bar, a surprisingly classy place. It takes us a few drinks to realize that the bevvy of beautiful women who are draped across the bar aren't there for the beer. From time to time a foreigner leaves the premises with one of these chocolate courtesans and hops in a taxi, presumably heading to my very hotel room, which is currently available since I am busy having a drink at the bar. That night I double-check my sheets to make sure they are clean, which, thankfully, they are. It isn't until the next day that she catches my eye. She is beautiful and sexy, a fiendishly clever seductress. She calls to me and I obey, her wish my desire. I am a weak man, truly I am. Perhaps one of stronger fortitude or sounder mind could resist, but not I. Some might find it morally reprehensible to spend money on such a thing, but then again, some find it repugnant to take a shower without a bathing suit. God have mercy on my soul, I paid the dough and took her for the ride of my life. Xander, obviously jealous, laid out some of his own money so he could join in the fun. We had bought our bicycles. Our new path: Senegal; The Gambia; Casamance; Guinea-Bissau; Guinea; over 700km South. The real adventure has only just begun.