Welcome to Africa On A Wing And A Prayer

MOROCCO

Interrogation, deportation,humiliation, berbers,Casablanca- Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Begman, Kasbahs, medersas (quaranic schools) the veil,the scarf, skinny jeans, kohl eyes, zellij (tile work), story tellers, water sellers, souqs, medinas, sun, sea, desert and dunes, the rif, the kif, cous cous, tajines, harira, spices and mint tea.  'mens' clubs',  hammams and so much more.

DAKHLA

We're just passing through Dakhla and spend a few hours wondering around trying to get a feel of the place.   We're obviously in the new part of town.  Wide avenues, wide beautifully tiled and clean pavements. Families out for ice creams and a run about, meaning women and children.  The men are all glued to the TVs watching football at the numerous side walk cafes which we call 'mens' clubs'.   Maybe we should have stayed a day or two.  The beaches coming into Dakhla look absolutely stunning.  Too late, our bus a big airconditioned mother with reclining seats beckons.  One to a seat, nobody sitting in the aisle, no bodies and no baggage on our laps.  Bliss.  It's a 19 hour trip to Agidir, but we are styling and even  manage to put in a good few hours sleep.

AGIDIR

Agidir is not about to win the Miss Personality of the year award but even downtown is clean.  I know way back John was never going to put his foot downtown again,but on our budget we have no option.  Our hotel is great for R100 a night for the both of us.  The food is good and cheap.  We frequent a nice little restaurant close by, it's really nice, I promise.  No street cuisine here in Agidir.  R5 buys a bowl of Harira soup with a delicious little sweety thingy and R20 a huge Chicken Chwarma with chips and salad.  We have always said that Morocco has the best food out of all the places we have been.  Move over Jaffa and Valencia, Morocco has the best oranges ever. Our expert here has them for breakfast, lunch and supper and freshly squeezed in between so he should know. 

The beach is a 15 minute walk and like most beachfronts it's a tourist trap de luxe.  Obviously a delight to all those package tourists. Restaurants, beach front hotels and apartments.  The beach is lovely and well protected from the wind.  It does not take us long to settle down and do what normal people do on holiday.  It's an easy life, sun, sea, rest and relaxation.  Not quite sure how long we can take the luxury.

Well before too long I get the craving for another adrenalin fix, none to be found here.  I'm starting to think I've become one of those adrenalin junkies so I'm pretty glad to be moving on, wondering what is around the next corne            

 Agidir Beaches                                  Not your itsy bitsy teeny

                                                            weeny bikini

      ' Old  Bag'    Lady                                                Knock  Knock

 ESSAOUIRA

The craving for the adrenalin fix is assuaged with a little bus journey to Essaouira.  I talk John into taking a local bus.  It's really dark inside.  Like a disco where glitterball has been stolen and the strobe lights have fused.  By the time John gets on the bus there is no seat fro him. Talk about fuming.  He would just love to throttle me.  As usual all turns out Ok.  Seating is soon sorted out.  Those who purchased their tickets before boarding the bus get the seats and those who purchased their tickets on the bus get the floor.  No little stools here.

Not ten minutes on the road and the 'connie' starts handing out those little black plastic bags. We remember years back on our first visit to Morocco, how impressed we were when they handed out these 'litter bags.' We soon discovered that they were 'whoopsie bags'.  Moroccans obviously have delicate stomachs and suffer a fair share of travel sickness.  I can sympathise.  As it turns out I have to take a tablet to quell my nausea which I'm not sure is caused by the journey or by the sound of so many wretching individuals.

We end up wishing again for our own cat-cat.  The route along the coast is exquisite.  We don't want to be rushed.  One minute you're way down at sea level , can almost feel the spray of the sea and the next you're way up looking down.

We have been looking forward to Essaouira. We have fond memories from a previous visit.   For the first time we let ourselves be seduced by a mother and son duo of hotel touts who lead us to a wonderful place right in the medina, and need I add for a price. The architecture is typical of Essaouira, tiles, tiles and more tiles, blues being the most predominant and it  has such a bohemian quality.  Almost feels like a movie set just waiting for the actors to arrive. Quite a few movies have been filmed her.  Orson Welles' Othello for one.

Just as well we never gave into any hasty decisions to jettison our fleeces and longs because it's cold and windy here. The cold Atlantic makes it's presence felt, right down to the bones.  So I guess it's goodbye to our tans.  There is no comparison to West Africa, it's like being on another planet. I'm really into my window shopping which does have it's irritations. These guys are so sharp , the tiniest falter in one's step, the slightest glance and they're at your heel with more than just a little persuasion trying to drag you into their shops. 

There is so much beautiful stuff around, the workmanship fanatastic, all being carried out in little alleys and beyond open doors to entice you in.  Next time, next time loaded with money I hope to win on the lotto we will be doing a lot more than window shopping.  I know just how we will be redecorating the house.

We wander around the ramparts, the fishing port, the medina and take in another sunset remembering another time when Tarynn, Louiza, Leanne, Aileen and Gaby were here with us.  For those Jimi Hendrix fans  a good few kms up the road holds claim that he once rented a house and partied more than just the nights away.

                                                          Colours  of  Essaouira

                                                    Sights  of  Essaouira

                 Sitting on the Dock of the Bay                                 Miss India - Lucky Legs

RABAT

We arrive in Rabat just before dusk and it's as usual taxi touts trying to rip us off.  Everybody loves to give the tourist a bit of a jerk around.  We stand our ground a find a taxi driver willing to be a bit kinder.  There is yet more confusion as we try and pronounce our hotel's name.  We are battling with the more guttaral pronuciations.  And sixty tries later we sort of get it.  Our hotel reminds me of a kitch habedashery store with gaudy plastic flowers plastered all over the show.  At night it takes on a gauzy bordello type of glow.

We're finding Rabat a lot more interesting the second time round.  We make our way down to the beach.  Surfers are out in full swing, but the wind and the cold water  and the compulsory use of wet suits serves as no incentive to get me in.  Getting our visas for Turkey turns out to be a cinch and in the meantime we get to see a lot more of Rabat than just the medina, which by the way is an easy one to navigate.  Sale's medina just over the river proves a little more intricate and eventually somebody directs us out.  Obviously our attempt to look nonchalant and in control fools nobody.

The medina at night is so alive, it's almost as if it's the weekend every night.  The most amazing food stalls.  Anything and everything is being sold.  There are people queuing up to eat snails off a straightened safety pin, porcupines, babies and their mothers are being sold along side baby tortoises and their fathers.  Where do they get them all?  But the best is the little boys selling the silkworms.  Fat big white ones and those stripey black and white ones.  I have to quell the hysteria I feel looking at them.  Way back in my childhood I can still feel those sticky feet on my hand and then the silky soft bodies as I squeeze and fling one away that promptly lands on my helenca pants. All hell breaks loose and it takes some time for my hysteria to subside.  In later years when Kendall and Tarynn take to breeding, feeding and making some extra pocket money out of their silkworms I have to exercise the greatest control to keep the hysteria at bay and try my best not to let my fear show.  Can't be seen to carry this aversion and ridiculous phobia onto the future generations can I?

Maybe now is the time to make mention of this. No sooner have we arrived in each place here in Morocco that we are approached and not to subtely as to whether we are in the market for a little bit of kif or hash.  Something I blame purely on John's little goatee which gives him that 'I used to be a hippie/hippy (can't even spell it anymore) ' look.  Of course our scruffy unkempt appearance does not help.  The fact that both of us have not all that much hair left in which to wear flowers matters not one little bit.

I always regret  not having gone to see a  movie when I was in India so this time round we decide to go to the movies, seeing that  Morocco has lured even the Hollywood set to film here and that Morocco has quite a booming film industry.  Tickets cost R25 each .  The floor of the movie house is as sticky as hell and you hear  and feel that distinct snap crackle sound when you walk.  Just as well the seats in front of us have little footrest which insures we don't get glued to the spot.  The cinematography is world class (so says John) Village life so well depicted that we even get to thinking that we spent time in that very village while we trekked in the High Atlas last time round.  Acting's not too bad and the initial story line held some promise.  But unfortunately no moral to the story and the baddie ends up driving in to the sunset.  John tries to placate me saying that there will be a Moroccan Dream 2 where the baddie gets to pay his dues.  I guess you're wondering how we did so well considering the movie was in Arabic with French sub titles? 

          If the shoe fits.                           Harry Casual                             Bordello nights

                      Rabat   Kasbah                                               Short cut to Heaven

                                               Move over Jaffa and Valencia

CHEFCHAOUEN

We're looking forward to Chefchaouen, it's one of te places in Morocco that we have yet not visited.  Time to get on a bus a again and amazingly enough both of us opt not for the luxury 'liner' but instead for the rough and ready type we have become so accustomed to.  We must be losing it.  Here we get to share our lunch and in turn get to sample the lunch and snacks of the other pssengers.  It's on this bus that I get to share my seat with the the cutest cuddliest little boy, who has ever so lightly been dusted wth a touch of Down's Syndrome.  He is loving and talkatve, immitating all we say, just like any other toddler. 

The scenery is stunning, fields of wild flowers of yellows and purles, reds and whites cut swathes across the country side.  Wild poppies every where, donkey drawn carts laden with produce to or from the market.  Donkey carts transporting families to and from the market.  Morocco is a country with such contrasts.  The old and the new.  In the countyside and even just a few kms out of the cities one is transported time and time again to times long gone.  Fileds being ploughed with donkies and horses and one time even spotted a camel doing his bit.

Our first view of Chefchaouen is magical.  It's late afternoon the light is just starting to change , and it's just a little cloudy with the last rays of sunshine sweeping Chefchaouen as it nestles in the shadows of the Rif mountains. Almost like a spot light shining on a prima donna.  The stage not the performance fail to impress. Practically all the buildings are painted white with touches of different hues of blue. It looks just like a pop up story book and we feel like excited children who can't wait to be part of the happily ever after story.

Our entrance into the hostel leaves us wondering if we have walked into somebody's home.  Just a few steps into the entrance hall is a lovely corner , warm and toasty with a fire going.  It's filled with nookies and crannies, tiles and more tiles,  art and lovely little bits and pieces collected throughout the years.  Our room has a beautiful view of the mpuntains and we're lucky enough to have two terraces to relax on and take it all in.  It's cold especially at night.  A good thing we did not jettison our fleeces etc.

It's the Rif mountains, and we are approached again and again to partake in the kif.  We're not only parents but also grandparents now and the possibilty of a Moroccan prison holds no allure. So the  decision to say no is an easy one.  Although I have to remind John over and over again of the above to keep him on the straight and narrow.

The walks in the mountains leave us in no doubt that we will be back again one day to tackle a few more.  John reckons when he wins the lotto this is where he is coming back to spend some of his winnings.

               Pop up story book                       Another view              That's why they call it the blues           Rocky Rif

TETOUAN

At last a place with the bus station right in the centre of the city.  After the usual hassle with hotel touts we soon ensconsed in our hotel, another Lonely Planet special. Right on the town square. Tetouan is a bustling city, and the market place made us feel quite claustraphobic again and by this stage we're marketed out.

It's unbelievable to think that there are no fewer than 20 mosques in the medina.  Needless to say we never got to see them all. The Royal Palace is a sight to behold but we're a little nervous of taking pics remembering our last encounter just being in the vicinity of the presidential residence in Bamako on Mali.  The Spanish heritage is evident in the many beautiful buildings, a lot of them very nicely looked after. 

We decide to take a bus out of the city and head for the beach.  Language is still a problem and after about 15 minutes we reckon we've been misunderstood again anare heading for another market place in yet another village when all of a sudden we're seeing wide beaches and blue, blue seas.  The mediterranean in all it's glory. I can't believe how I miss the sea and my board.

By evening we take up our places with the rest of the mens's club devotees watching  the sun go down behind the Rif Mountains, drinking coffee in a real cup with real milk and just watching he world go by.  It's hard to believe here we are ordering toasted sandwiches at shoozy little cafes after all the street cuisine, terrifying bus journeys and hardships that presented themselves in West Africa.  Oddly enough although Morocco appears to be economically on the up, tourist infrastructure really in place, transport, industry and agriculture all seem to be well developed, unemployment is a huge problem and it seems that  begging is far more prolific than in most of the countries we have visited. Perhaps just a perception.

                                                                  Room with a view

MARRAKECH

At long last we get to board another train.  All our well laid plans to take a few train trips throughout West Africa have come to naught.  The trains had either derailed or broken down or just did not pitch.  Now we're on an overnight train from Tangier to Marrakech.  No money for a couchette so we're set to share a compartment with possibly another 6 people, that means seated the whole way in 2nd class.  To start off with we've got the whole compartment to ourselves, settling down ready for bed as though we own the place.  Not for long though before a young guy comes in and sits down.  After about five minutes he explains as best as he can that he would like to lie down and go to sleep.  We think he is referring to all the space we are taking up, until he scoots in under the seat.  Then it dawns on us he has no ticket and is in fact wanting to 'stow away'.  We're trying to convince him that it is not on because soon others passengers will be joining us, but already he is feigning sleep.  In desperation we mention the police and for good measure passports, why passports the Lord alone knows, but it works.

Not ten minutes later another young guy comes into the compartment pointing at the seat.  John immediately lets him know in no uncertain terms.  No, No, No,  No, his arms outstretched , doing a scissior type of movement,  Sort of reminiscent of Manuel from Fawlty Towers explaining to the health inspector that there were no rats in his kitchen. The guy obviously gets the message.  Rather luckily he does not get the message and returns a few minutes later.  Luggage in tow and a ticket as well. 

Well for some of us it was a pretty uncomfortable journey,  The three other passengers get to share one seat and John and I the other.  Yours truly, stretches himself out and manages to do pretty well while the rest of us can't wait for morning to come.

We're in for a bit of a surprise. Prices of everything have risen a fair amount since our last visit. After one night we move out of our pokey little room and head for something better.  We're very excited at seeing our family again and plans are afoot to surprise the London contingent by arriving a week early.  We cannot wait.

Marrakech must be one of the most magical places ever.  The Djemaa el-Fna is the heart of Marrakech and does it beat.  During the day it buzzes with tourists entering the Aladins cave of the medina with it's souks, filled with people hunting down a memento or two, bargaining with masters of the craft.  Coming away thinking they have done pretty well until they round the next corner and discover that they could have got that tajine at least 30% cheaper.  Nothing detracts from the colour the scents,the spices, the pottery , the tiles, the leather, the men at work, beating brass and copper, weaving carpets to die for and restoring and making furniture our hearts so desire.

Every night it feels like a celebration.  Food stalls selling all manner of food, beautifully displayed with a young men trying their utmost to convince you that there food stall is the best in town.  They have obviously all been schooled by the same master because all the sales patter is the same.  Some have even imported their accents from London to Dublin , from Germany and even from South Africa.  Stalls selling juices and dried fruit, puddings and snails and harira soup.  Most amazing is that the tourists are amongst the minority. It's the locals who come out each night especially to listen to the story tellers, the poets, the soothsayers and the fortune tellers. They draw the biggest crowds.  It's the story tellers that enthrall us the most.  Even though we are unable to understand one cannot but help being fascinated by the way the story tellers manage to captivate their audiences, they are transported to another time and another place and just for that little while all else is left behind.

There are always the water sellers who make their money by posing for photo's and seldom dispense a cup of water.  They're colourful and friendly and who can resist this photo opportunity.  The acrobats, the musicians , the 'tooth fairy',  How we wish we knew where he gets the teeth and exactly what he does with them.  then it's the ladies who do the henna on willing and not so willing tourists hands and feet.   We could go on and on and still not tell it all.  Suffice to say each night we go back for more, because it's just never enough.

Despite Morocco being a very inexpensive destination, Marrakech is stretching our budget and the bookkeeper is getting a wee bit nervous. To bring our budget into line we decide to catch a local bus into the less touristy areas of the city and see the other side of Marrakech. We are dying to have a bona fide genuine local tajine and Arl manages to locate just the thing, the real McCoy. It is in a sort of semi industrial area and the bus driver is amazed when we ask to get off and where we wanted to eat, the tourists are loco. We take our place on the bench with a rickity table in front of us, the cook, chef, owner and bottle washer minus his front teeth delivers to us the most mouth watering finger licking tajine we have ever had the privilege of eating and at a quarter of the price. We head back into the old city well satisfied, but by now a little weary of all the travelling we have accomplished over these last months and looking forward to surprising our daughter and family by arriving earlier than expected in London, tomorrow is D-Day.  We left home last year at the beginning of July, so by the time we get home for a break before we get going again we will have been away from home fro a whole year.

                                  Chow time                                     Nuts and Dates

                                Play us a song                                  He ain't heavy

                      Tooth Fairy's Larder                          Good Bye Marrakech

Looking at our original itinerary we were either overly ambitious or totally unrealistic or maybe both with wanting to cover so much of West Africa in six months.  The area is vast , the transport and roads a veritble battlefield.  We were sorry not to get to Guinea Bissau and Guinea as well as Ivory Coast, but what will be will be. We think we have paid our dues with the public transport and have come away physically unscathed and mentally tormented for ever.  So now I'm thinking East Africa on a motorbike and a sidescar.  The fact that we don't even know how to ride a motorbike and I have to say Arlene is still not as confident on a bicycle even after a good few rides while travelling, is only a tiny hurdle to overcome. In the meantime we will be returnng back to SA by the end of July.  Just like motor cars need an overhaul our bodies need one too. Teeth, ears and eyes need to be sorted and Arlene will have to have her old war injuries sorted out before we go any further.

Needless to say we're looking forward to seeing famiy, friends and animals who we have missed incredibly. 

I'm looking forward to a break from dodgy internet cafes, the frustration of power failures when you're just on the verge of pushing the save button.  To all those who kept in touch and gave us feedback with our site we did it just for you.  Thanks to  Manolo Blahnik's cousin for drawing to my attention how way off I was with his name, Sorry Boet (as John would say). I have to confess the closest this girl has ever got to a Manolo or a Jimmy Choo is drooling over them on the internet and in the glossy mags that abound now days.  As for having these knobbly toes and chapped heels ever being graced by a pair of either of the two, I have a better chance of rotting in hell. And hopefully back home the old age pensioner will sit down and correct all the spelling and grammatical errors that we did not have time to do on the road.

Cheers until next time

John and Arlene

MAURITANIA

Desert,shifting golden sands, dunes, desert, sand desert, sea, chambray blue skies, blue, blue skies, nomadic tents, sahara, mosques, fireworks, fishingboats, fishermen, fish, big fish, small fish, drought, Islam, camels, Galabiyyas blue and white (long flowing robes) Mercedes taxis, old cars, battered cars, bad drivers.

NOUAKCHOTT

The drive to Nouakchott in Mauritania from St Louis takes about nine hours, including the ferry crossing of the Senegal River.  Even before getting to Mauritania the landscape changes quite a bit and the desert makes it's presence felt.

                                               Ferry Crossing

Not  30 minutes over the border and we come across what appears to be the remains of a large refugee camp.  Samba the Samaritan explains that it's not a refugee camp but a place for the poor.  By the looks of it even most of the poor have moved on.  All that seems left are those that could not afford a ride out.  And then anyway where to?  The houses resemble chicken coops back home.  a concrete slab with a little wall about one and a half feet high and enclosed with wire mesh under a tin roof.  At times, for privacy and to keep out the sand and wind, material gets rolled down like a curtain.  Viola! Home Sweet Home.  It's harsh , it's a hard life and we are grateful it's not ours.

                                            A Hard and Harsh Existence

The desert is ever changing.  Rocky and barren, khaki sands, golden dunes, grubby and shrubby, for ever trying to sneak across the  mac adam and regularly succeeding, causing detours that somebody will come in soon to chase back and the next day the game will start all over again.

It's about 8.30pm when we arrive at our destination.  At least 12 roadblocks later and umpteen times of having to produce our passports.  One Gendarme even trying to make us cough up our taxes.  Eventually fed up with our communication skills he waves us on. 

Samba whom by now we have found out is married with a child and lives in Barcelona insists on not only delivering us to our hotel but personally carrying up my backpack.  Thank Heavens he speaks spanish.  At least my vocabulary extends to about 40 words and I am able to thank him most profusely ending off with an invitation to visit and with the enevitable Mea Casa es Sua Casa even if I don't get the spelling right. 

Yeah! Hot water and a bath.  We are both bushed and are enjoying the music from what we presume is a concert at a nearby stadium.    Just after we fall into bed a massive fire works display breaks loose.  It goes on and on and on and eventually we cannot contain ourselves, get dressed and rush outside to get the last few minutes of the spectacle which lasted at least 15 minutes and from all the OOHs! and AAhs the enjoyment of the masses is more than just palapable.

While watching the display a young boy comes over to ask if we are afraid. His question does not make sense until he explains that this is the first time in history that the people of Mauritania have witnessed anything like this. We were well aware, thanks to good old BBC that Mauritania had just had it's first democratic elections. What we did not know is that we had arrived on the president's inaugeration - hence the celebration.  He continued to explain that for a whole week prior to the inaugeration warnings had been given over TV and radio that the explosions  people were going to hear were those of the fireworks display and not another coup attempt.

The fishing port is absolutely a must see in Nouakchott.  From about 4pm onwards the fishing pirougues come into beach with their hauls of the day.  These are master fishermen and boatmen.  Pirogue after pirogue hits the beach and then 'walked' up the beach into it's parking space.  Donkey carts race up and down transporting the catch of the day to where it will be sold.  It's hard to describe or even to count the number of colourful pirougues that come in with it's equally colourful characters.  This is an every day occurence and you can just see the fishing community cannot quite fathom our fascination with this - to them another day's work.

                  Donkey Derby                                        Safe and Sound

Despite all this tooing and froing the beach is absolutely spotless; it shows up St Louis and a good few others.  The fishmarket itself is a hive of activity and just packed with fish.  Huge ones, all shapes and sizes.  I have to drag John away.  He is up to his old tricks hauling and pulling.  I'm starting to think he missed his vocation.  Still not too late I tell him.  As we leave we spot a lady frying fish on the side of the road.  We cannot pass by.  So supper is fish on a roll with a bit of piquant sauce wrapped in a bit of an old cement bag.   Stomachs of steel or should that be cement ? we have these days.  My mouth waters just thinking of it.

            The Camera does not lie                              Something Fishy

               In a shabby little hut                      Rudolph Valintino by any other name

It's time to bid this city, it's markets, it's money changers of which there are many, it's new president and sadly for John the fishermen Goodbye

NOUADHIBOU

The person who every now and again bleats he is not a desert man is practically run out of this town by the wind and the little sandstorms that gathers around us.  Glad to leave behind the memory of one of the most pain in the arse taxi rides for a long time.  Four in the back and three up front with Arlene perched on the handbrake. Just as well they never use the handbrake in this part of the world.  I'm scrunched into the corner, knees around my ears as usual and next to the scrawniest, boniest little man with only three fingers on his one hand and from the look of his foot he is about to loose at last three of his toes. The fact that he falls asleep with his head in the crook of my neck does not endear him to me, encrouching on my little space.  Our bums take at least three days to recover.

We try our damndest to get to see a bit of the town, but with the wind and sand we're not having any luck and we're not to sure if there is anything to see anyway.  In no time we have a lift out ,  across the border to Dakhla in Morocco - for a price,  in a little sort of converted panel van.  It's two up front and John and I at the back with all kinds of paraphanalia, and we're squeezed in just like we're used to being squeezed in.  Can't figure if this guy is a travelling salesman or what. 

                                         Panel Van Cockpit

Again the desert continues to fascinate and hold us captive. The scenery is absolutely stunning.  the sea, the sky, the desert, the light and more.  We're trying our best to take pics from a moving vehicle with dusty windows.  It's now we wish that we had our own cat-cat (4x4) with a mini bar that we could stop to our hearts content and take it all in real slow.   But inbetween we have picked up another passenger.  So now it's three in the back and squashed in let alone squeezed in. These two young boys have made it their mission to make us feel at home and through out the entire trip they hold us hostage with conversation that totally exhausts us. 

Anyway it's charades again.  Boyo No 2 lets out a helluva roar, terrible teeth exposed and equally hideous gums. John of course rises to the occasion and too roars fiercely using his hands to intimate a huge head and feet, and  bares his teeth 'big teeth' with another fierce growl.  They undertand each other equally well and are rather please with themselves until I realise that Boyo No 2 has also demonstrated a wavy kind of look.  It is then I realise that he is talking about a Camel and John is talking about a Lion , but I don't have the heart to burst their bubble.  That is until much later when I give John the real interpretation.  He laughs saying Yeah he knows he only does these things to keep me entertained - and he does.

                      Pit Stop                                            Big Daddy 

                                             Blue Lagoon

SENEGAL REVISITED

We arrive back in Kaolack but by this time it's 5.30pm and John's not staying another night.  It's a mission to get transport at this time of the day.  The route goes through the Trans Gambian Highway which has a border post that will give us a transit visa we hope.  Lots of haggling and eventually we get to share a Sept Place  (taxi for seven) with two other desperate locals.  Guess who gets to pay the Lions share?  What a road, highway my aunty with the flat chest as Steve would say.  The driver was the coolest cat in town;  Had his beanie pulled way down over his eyes, I thought it was a balaclava masquerading as a beanie without the cut outs for the nose and eyes.  Anyway he had this beanie pulled so low down that he had to tilt his head back to see where he was going.  The taxi was as battered as they come but it went like a battered bat out of hell.   The ferry crosing was a short little one but the sun was setting and the other travellers had to pay our ferry dues. The Gambian Border officials got ten out of ten and managed to redeem their Gambian heritage  somewhat after their counterparts had all but thrown it away.

ZIGUINCHOR

We arrive after 11 at night the budget place we want to book into is closed so we opt for a little luxury at a price of course.  TV , Aircon, hot water  after 143 days of cold water and a pool.  The only thing is it's so late we don't even get to have a swim before we need to be out the next day.

Zig turns out to be a brilliant place, also laid back, not too much hard sell and it's the capital of the Casamance area.  Right on the Casamance river.  The Casamance is steeped in history young and old.  With rebel uprisings in the latter years and warnings to be careful in the area.  The Joola ferry went down in 2002 with a loss of 2000 lives .  We have so many gaps to fill about all the places we have been.  The history, the coups, the uprisings, the art, the music, the people etc.  You'll have to wait.

Well I reckon it's close to being the prawn and fish capital of the world.  At the port we find people selling prawns, fish, crayfish and tiger prawns that must surely be of a giant variety.  The best is that we buy 1kg of prawns for about R36.00 and another R8 gets them shelled and cooked and served with lovely bread.  Can't say the setting rivalled the Ritz but the meal was superb and the heat kept off us by a tin roof while we ate to our heart's content in surroundings that in another time and a place would have raised our eyebrows more than just a bit. We do the market thing and spend an evening on the river with lovely live acoustic music , protests song of the area over a couple of cold Gazelles and a meal that could not beat our prawn meal on the street.  We still have not learnt that street food is the best.  As usual we walk the hell out of the place - and put itall down to experience.

Our plans are to return to Zig to take a ferry to Dakar after we have visted other areas in the Casamance.  So we head down to the port and get to see the ferry come in.  It looks first class, obviously they would hate another tragedy.  So we book and overnight trip back to Dakar before we head off.

               Johnny's Killer Prawns                    Sundowner Sunset

                                           Out-Suite 

OUSSOUYE AND M'LOMP

It's time to get up and go again and this time we're heading for thr Basse Casamance. To be exact a place called Oussouye.  That's another thing getting your tongue around the pronunciations and then trying to get the locals to understand what we are trying to say.  Let's not even talk about the spelling.  The area is mostly populated by Diola people with their very own animist king who unfortunately we do not get to meet.   

We stay at one of the village campements  which has been beautifully restored, simple, classic  and cool in the typical (as lonely planet puts it) 'heat busting- mud brick architecture once typical of the region.'  These campements are intergrated into the village and we are told that the whole community benefits, which is great. 

Oussouye is a small village with goats, pigs, chickens and cows wondering about like they own the place.  The people as usual are lovely, the market place tiny and relaxed.  We find a little restaurant that keeps us well fed and watered.  It is here that we meet Andrea and Jordie.   Andrea is from Prague and Jordie from Barcelona.  The competition is on about which is the fairest city in all the world.  Does not help when John mentions that Barcelona was voted the most beautiful by Uk travel writers.

Senegal has just celebrated independence day and it's the easter weekend. Transport seems a bit thin on the ground so we decide to  walk to M'Lomp, the next village about nine kms down the road.  Again hardly a road, soft sand churned up by the occasional passing vehicle.  We definetly deserve the fruit cake award.  Who in their right mind in this heat even ventures out from under the shade of a tree?  We arrive in M'lomp, John slops are killing him.  He reminds me, of the guy who did the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal in slops.  And I remind him how the same guy, too cold to get out of his sleeping bag, resorts to weeing in a bottle while still inside the said bag and in the process spills the contents in the sleeping bag.  Imagine!  We're doing pretty well, dehydrated and not smelling of roses but still a helluva lot better than the Annapurna guy.

We have especially gone to M'Lomp to see a giant Fromager tree of over four hundred years old and sacred at that.  We are led to the tree by a local lad (for a fee).  After seeing hundred upon hundreds of baobab trees this 'sacred' one definetly is a baobab and not a fromager.  He insists it's the one. Can we argue?  Later while driving through the same area we spot the real Mc Coy and are not even able to get a picture of it.

Later while catching our breath, resting under a tree, rehydrating ourselves and making small talk with a local lady and her daughter a most peculiar sight unfolds in the village square. 

A motorbike comes speeding to a halt right in front of us and on the back is a young man butt naked.  Well we don't think too much of it, after all we have seen a good few naked men on our travels.  They are either nutters or preparing for their initiation.  All of a sudden all hell breaks loose as a taxi driver jumps out of his car and grabs hold of the motorbike rider admonishing him for not using his jacket to cover the naked man.  Even in the incredible heat he is not prepared to take off his jacket after all he has already played the good samaritan by bringing the guy to the village.  Anyway somebody takes off his shirt and covers the young man in question who really seems quite traumatised and does not even seem to care at this stage.  Crowds are gathering, women start crying and still looking pretty shattered he is led away.  Somebody tells us he has been beaten but not for robbery.  And another implies that he could have been punished by his elders and sent back to the village in shame.  We will never know.  If that's excitement we have had and start our trip back to Oussouye. Half way there a mini bus taxi stops.  You've guessed it, it's choka block and our John here is quite ready to get on the roof when the driver says he will squeeze us in and that's just what he does.

             Heat Busting Mud Brick                                Sacred Tree ?

ILE DE CARABANE

Andrea, Jordie and the two of us set off for Ile de Carabane in a taxi bus which is like a sort of mini bus that has had the seats removed and instead has a bench running down either side and another back to back with the driver seat.  John and I hit a luck and have a place on one of these benches but Andrea and Jordie have to make do with a wooden bench placed down the centre  which rocks to and fro and to add insult to injury there is nothing even to cling to.  The ice on the roof is melting and drips through the rusty roof, leaving a good few passengers mopping up all the way. Added to this are at least four guys hanging onto the back for dear life and another three on the roof.  I often wonder if their fares are reduced or if they are charged extra for the adrenalin rush.

At Elenkine, Andrea organises a free transfer for us by pirogue to the island. My kingdom for a fishing rod and boat because this is a fisherman's Nirvana.  I'm dying to try out my handline but the bloody place we're staying at has no bait.  But who needs bait.  We set out to discover the island and the Good Lord ( I'm getting to sound a little like Arlene now days) takes pity on me .  While we're walking in the shallows Lo and Behold, before my very eyes I spot a massive fish just waiting for me.  It's obvious this big one has got away from some poor bastard but it's not about to slip through my hands. I wade in and haul it out.  Between Arlene and I we drag and carry this over 20kg monster Qtolithe, a sort of Salmon to the hotel.  All the way people are taking pics and I'm the talk of the town.  I tell them I caugtht it with a handline.  I'm getting congratulatory slaps on my back and now know what it feels like to be a celeb  The only problem he knows just how to tell this little white lie but he does not know how to untell it.  So to all and sundry he is now a legend on Ile de Carabane.

Back at the hotel we give it over to the owners and look forward to a fish feast that night.  Can you believe that supper is served and it's meat on the menu.  Luckily Andrea lets them know in not to uncertain terms we're expecting fish, and not just a measly piece either.  They take note and deliver and it's glorious and the free beer as payment finishes it off rather well.

              Bon Voyage                                               Handline Johnny

BOUCOTTE AND DJIEMBERING

Lady Luck smiles on us again as we manage to snag the local pirogue with Andrea and Jordie in tow.  We are all handed life jackets and mine looks like the previous person who donned it had been savaged by a ragged tooth shark.  No sooner are we out of sight of the River Police when the locals all remove their life jackets and promptly put them on to their heads as hats, nicely tied under their chins if you please.   It's a near perfect day and the only thing missing is a fishing rod over the side.   We spend the next two and a half hours gliding peacefully through the most tranquil waters of the Casamance River.  The mangrove swamps and estuaries are alive with bird life, the river teaming with fish, the skies are blue and we are in  heaven.   The time passes too quickly and even though Arlene is feeling a bit queasy she too is sorry that the pirogue trip has come to an end. We wade ashore and start  and once again it's the hotest time of the day.

At Boucotte village we say our goodbyes. A taxi ride of about  fifteen minutes that will take up 25% of our  daily budget leaves us not much choice but to slog it out. There again is no road to speak of but as I've said before, I surf on the Bluff and live in Seaview and have done twelve comrades marathons so we set off.  We arrive bedraggled and spent but it's all worthwhile.   We're right on the beach and we just manage to afford a demi pension which is breakfast and supper.  Supper takes forever to come around.

Our days are spent walking between the villages, swimming and lazing about.  Seldom do we see people on the beach.  Mostly it's the long horned cattle sunning themselves and basically lazing about, pretty much like us.  Then there are the vultures.  They're not shy either and there is no rush to get away as we approach while they finish off the remains of a fish or two swept onto the beach.  As evening falls John is out there with his hand line.  At the same time every evening a fisherman appears on his bicycle, parks it on the sand and sets off into the shallows with his net.  It's a lovely sight as he casts it, it swirls like a ballroom dancer's dress and when he brings it out it glitters with the sun catching 'sight' of the little silver fish he has caught for supper.  I keep an eye on his bike just in case the tide comes in and threatens to 'pinch' his bike.  Every now and again I see him casting an eye over John's way to see if he has had any luck. 

The village children of Djiembering follow us around talking and laughing.A few of them are keen to have their picture taken but as usual it's a circus with kids jumping in and out of the frame and trying to outdo each other.  More often than not most people are pretty camera shy so taking pictures is not easy.  Anyway I do the best I can and they all do so love to see themselves on camera.

The village is built amongst the sand dunes.   The houses take refuge under these most amazing, huge kapock trees with the weirdest root system pretty much exposed.   The women of the village have formed a co op with the assistance of international aid.  They have a vegetable garden virtually on the beach. How they manage to grow anything is a miracle.  But the vegetables look great and they are ever so proud and are delighted when we praise them for their efforts.   We just love a success story out here in Africa. The smallest ones give rise to much hope.

              Andrea and Jordie                                   Two old River Dogs

                 Mirror  Mirror                                         Fishing Bike

              Fish and no chips                                     She sells sea shells

                                                Haunted Forest

                                          CAP SKIRRING

Backpacking means a whole lot of packing and getting up and going and soon we're on our way again. This time it's a lovely walk along the beach at low tide.  It takes about 2 hours to get to Cap Skirring from Hotel Oudja.   We take our time.  Collect shells, talk to the locals, check out all the new beach developments and know that not many years from now we will not recognise the place.   Tourism is taking off by the looks of all the building going on.  On our way we bump nto a lady from Seirra Leone, her english is impecabble.  I ask her how things are in Seirra Leone.  Her reply is lengthy and as far as she is concerned there never was a war.  It was all about world religions and dominance, about the Romans and about easter bonnets and the Chinese etc.   All the intellectual gatherings of her life gone by, muddled and jumbled in her head.  A victim of the war that never was?  who knows? .  As an after thought she looks at me and asks if I am an Indian.  A tan that the 30 sun factor has not done very well at inhibiting.

We actually walk past our Campement and have to back track a bit.  Campement Chez M'Ballo is a family run affair and they soon have us settled in.  Again we opt for the Demi Pension , much cheaper here and I even manage a few beers at night.  Cap Skirring has an old St Lucia feel to it before tar roads and supermarkets etc moved in.  The village is bustling.  It is virtually just a main road with a landing strip somewhere parallel to it and the beach.  Not sure if there is an actual airport because we never get to see it.  We do see the planes coming in though.  A weird sensation to be walking on this dirt road while the plane comes into land a couple of hundred meters to your left.  What do we do for fun?  We walk and walk and walk. And it's beautiful.  In fact we walk all the way to Guinea Bissau. (About 7km).  Once again there is fisherman and fish and more fish.  My efforts with a handline yield no results again, but it's fun trying. 

Cap Skirring is calling me to stay .  It is one of those places that you fit easily into. Feels like home or wants to be home.  The sea, the surf, the people, the fish, the sun, the sand and so much more.  In fact it's The Casamance that's calling us and were it not the fact that we would soon be seeing our family again  we would stay and stay and stay.

                Koffie Kapital                                      Full Steam Ahead

          Beach, Beads and Baubles                                 Over Budget

DAKAR

We arrive back in Ziuinchor to discover our reserved room has been unreserved which leaves us out on the pavement and having to find another place.  We do, but it's hellish but will do for one night.  From Ziguinchor it's a ferry trip back to Dakar.  

John's not happy with the sleeping arrangements on board.  There are these rows of beds lined up shoulder to shoulder. I'm sleeping next to a scrawny, tatooed, bleary eyed, sticky up hair, oldish looking individual.  I bet he is back home telling his folks that he was camped next to a dark, scruffy, varicosed veined , tatty individual of dubious origin.  John is just around the corner opposite the stinkiest loos ever.  In fact we, who without flinching are now able to perform our toileting anywhere and anytime failed hopelessly this time around.  John is convinced that his sleeping partner is a man of the road and a very long road at that.  In fact he puts off going to bed as long as he can.  I've taken some sea sick tabs because I can feel the ride is a little to rough for my liking.   Morning comes and so does Dakar.

West Africa and it's cities has come a long way to sanitising Dakar and we have obviously come a long way since setting off.  Dakar now is a piece of cake and no longer seems the intimidating ogre it first seemed.   Dakar I hereby formally apologise for my initial rudeness and angry comments.  Don't let this apology go to your head.  I still don't think you're beautiful but your people are friendly, sometimes pushy but friendly.

Our mission is to get our visas for Mauritania and Morocco.  So good are we in this big city that we manage to get both on the same day.  Much to the sisters disapointment we're off again. We had a good laugh at  Sr Maria Madeline's 'welcome home' speech.  John has come back a little bigger, Arlene has come back a little smaller, but she has also come home a black woman.  What can I say - Black is beautiful.

ST LOUIS

Keba insists on seeing us off.  We settle for a Sept Place.  A french couple are huddled in the back looking as anxious as hell and are keen for us to commadeer the taxi by splitting the cost of seven passengers.  We're reluctant as our budget will not stretch that far and we pacify them telling them the taxi will fill up quickly which it does, with them opting to pay for one extra passenger so they can have the back seat to themselves. 

In St Louis we drop them off at a smart hotel while we end up in a room that is still under construction in somebody's home.  John's standards are slipping badly.  The hostess shows us the room with a bathroom.  We peer into the bathroom which is just a shell, rubble strewn about with not a single accesory to convince us that it's the bathroom.  Eventually John says he understands this is the bathroom but where is the toilet etc.  We're shown to an outside toilet and shower, it's clean and John bargains the price down a bit and we settle in best as we can.

Our road like most of the others ais a sand road.  Goats wonder around and sheep are tethered, obviously more valuable than goats.  Our neighbour keeps his goats tethered on the roof ( which is a flat roof) of his house at night.  Our neighbour from over the road points us in the direction of the cheap eateries and always goes out of his way to be friendly.

St Louis is an artists delight.  Old colonial buildings, some inhabited and some not.  Some in the process of restoration and others not.  It's home to a Jazz Festival in May every year and one can just imagine the the vibe.  It is also a fishing village.  As usual we're drawn to the sea and the fishermen. The beach is laden with colourful pirogues, nets, families and fish.  But all this is spoilt by the filth, pollution, household refuse, fishing debris, dead goats and the inevitable junk as well as the remains of human excretement.  A major problem throughout West Africa - sewerage disposal.All in all St Louis attracts a fair share of tourists and with the restoration etc going on it can only improve. 

We spend a good few days in St Louis but the road north beckons.  Itseems it's going to be a bit of a mission making our way to Mauretania.  But as Luck will have it we spot a car outside our palce of abode with Mauritanian number plates.  Almost totally devoid of inhibitions of late we approach the owner and cage a lift all the way to Nouakchott in Mauritania.  We are happy to pay but the man is a samaritan and turns payment down.  The morning we're sitting out on the steps waiting to leave both Arlene and I voice a little concern.  Me with, hopefully we have not landed ourselves with a drug courier and Arlene's thinking along the line of Jack the Ripper.

Five minutes on the road and I bannish all silly thoughts from my head as he stops to give a blind old lady a kg of sugar.  Obviously something he does each time he is in town.  The trip to the border at Rosso takes about 1.5 hours then it's a two hour wait for the ferry.  At the border a shyster manages to weedle some money out of our samaritan with the promise of bringing him change.  He never does. Then we're off across the border bound for Mauritania.  Another story another time.

             On the street where we live.                         Tough Choice

                     Idle Gossip                                         Johnny Clean Sweep

                 Anybody home?                                  St Loius Blues

THE GAMBIA

Before setting off for The Gambia we overnight  in Kaolack in Senegal just long enough to visit the market.  It's claim to fame being that it boasts the second biggest undercover market in Africa after Marrekesh.  It's a laid back kind of town with all the things African, the open sewers, the pollution , the black plastic packets that flap in the wind like chickens with their heads chopped off and of course the friendly people.  The market place is pretty much like a shanty town.  We don't get to see it in all it's glory 'cause we're early birds.  But we get a feel and manage to buy two day bags.  Ours are shot and our Cooler bag has died on us.  There goes the kitchen.  Sure we will manage though.

It's off to the border.  We're looking forward to Gambia, they also speak English and apparently it's beautiful.  We hanker after the sea in this heat.  The journey to the border is something else.  Salt pans with piles of salt that resemble mine dumps.  The road is so bad that the taxi driver spends more time off road than on road.  One of the passengers is a Senagalese who has lived in the Transkei for years and years and he gets us up on all the South African news. Lum turns out to be  a real nice guy who even advises us to go to the bank in Gambia to change money than do a deal on the street.  Will definetly look him up in the Transkei one day.

It takes about two hours to get to the border and all goes well through the Senegalese side.  It's a walk across to the Gambian side.  As we cross the border we're given a bit of a shake down by some border officials who ask the obligatory questions and search John's bag.  Then it's off into the main building.  It's a real Gambian welcome;  Right at the entrance is a holding pen.  A rectangular type of cage from ceiling to floor.  Three guys being held for all and sundry to see and maybe to put the fear of God into those who have any thoughts of getting on the wrong side of these officials.

After going through the official bit of asking where we are going, where we will be staying, how long and how much money we plan to spend we're ushered into another room.  I see John's starting to get anxious and his body language tells it all plus that look on his face.  Well to cut a long story short it appears that Common Wealth Members do not need visas, but not all of them.  The female or the one that's impersonating a female and her counterpart are in no mood to listen to reason and John's starting to wind them up just a little more, that is until they chase us out, with 'Go, Go Get out'.  Which of course we have no option to do but get out.  We're escorted to the Senegalese side of the border by a security guard who looks really embarassed and shakes hands with us as he bids as goodbye.  John's chomping at the bit and I make him promise that he will let me deal with all border disputes in the future and all this as we get onto a cart hauled by a horse and are ferried to the taxi station.  Here we will pay again to go all the way from whence we have come.

CROSS COUNTRY

Well we bite the bullet and set off trying to put on an air of optimism.   We leave from Kumasi in Ghana at 8pm.  The bus is on time  and we board in anticipation of getting through the first section. All does not start off too smoothly.  I worry a little about John.  He is so well assimilated into the culture here now, that he even gets into an argument with a lady about seating arrangements. Anyway we sort that one out, the lady wins hands down.  Two running repairs later, a sleepless night and we arrive in Ougadougou.  It's like coming home.  We're welcomed back into the fold. The hustlers give us the Bafana Bafana home call and are still trying to sell us the best necklace for the best price in town.  The little guy down the road who prepares food for the locals and who is just a little more than effiminate and such a darling  is just as glad to see us and insists that we eat with him that night. The Internet Cafe staff all but hugs us to their bosoms and the caretaker at the Cathedral hostel gives us the best room in the Diocescan Centre of all places.  We're moving up in the world.  We're doing well that is until the heat all but suffocates us;  Even the beds ar boiling hot and I have John singing not to loudly for he cannot summon the energy  'how can we sleep while our beds are burning'.  That says it all. Two nights later we're on our way to Bamako.

From Ouaga it's one changeover in Bobo, still in Burkina;  Our bus is a little frayed around the edges, packed to the hilt and ladies rule.  Business ladies;  Can't quite figure what all this trading is about.  Surely all these plastic things and materials are available in Mali?.    We know from experience now that all these business ladies mean delays at the borders, while goods are checked , things are declared and some, maybe more are left undeclared;  The back seats are piled high with boxes etc.   The loading and unloading at the border posts and loading and unloading when we stop to help a bus that has broken down just delays us a little longer.    We arrive in Bamako at two o'clock in the morning and again experience has taught us to stay put. No issues here.  We plonk our sleeping bags down on the floor in the waitng room and fleetingly think to ourselves a year ago we would have surely slit our wrists than doss down here.  But that was then and this is now and within 5 minutes we're out for the count alongside another 30 or so bodies and a good few snoring worse than my dear mother.  Seven o'clock the next morning rise and shine and we get a taxi that delivers us to another 'home';  The sister at the catholique mission gives me a hug and we're soon settled into our room which has had a face lift since we were last there;  Again the heat is oppresive but we get by and get into the serious business of  getting ready for the last leg.

The last leg has in the meantime undergone a bit of a change.  We have decided to head for a place called Kaolack in Senegal and from here we will make our way to The Gambia for which we don't need a visa because we are part of the common wealth.  From here we will make our way back into Senegal - Tha Casamance and then take a ferry to Dakar then onto St Louis, Mauretania and then onto Morocco and then London and onto Turkey and then back to London and home.  13 months away from home and besides missing family and friends we're in need of some running repairs.  Some of us need our ears, teeth, skin and hernias sorted out.  And others need their knee, their thigh and eyes sorted out and a bit more.  Anyway I digress.

We're up bright and early to take the bus from Bamako to Kaolack a trip we envisage to take about 36 hours.   We board a bus that is just to shoozy for words.  Loads of leg room.  We get the seat behind the driver and are assured that no luggage will be packed there.  We set off thinking that we will surely be picking up more people along the way, this bus is just too empty.   Surprise, surprise;  We do stop about 30 min later but we don't collect any more passensgers.  We are 'booted ' off this bus and get into the back of  another queue for the 'real bus'; 

We discover it's a discarded  European bus - a city bus with aircon and heating and windows that don't open.  As usual every available space is packed tight, little wooden stools are place in a row like cripple soldiers down the aisle to maxamise the passenger load;  By the time they call our names to get on the bus we're left no option but to take the seats in the back corner.  As the bus gets going not only are 'our beds burning' but it feels as though we have entered the doorway to hell.  What do you know the aircon does not work, out of the tiny three roof vents one is blocked by the baggage on the roof the front one is working well but the one in the middle is kept partially closed by one of the women.  No amount of pleading and reasoning on my part and that of other passengers will get her to do the right thing.

To crown it all we are  sitting above  the confounded engine and the exhaust pipe runs up the very side of the bus we're sitting on, to be exact right next to my near to moulten head.  The locals are taking big strain and between the two of us we're ready to go up in flames.  Now we know why the locals had such a buying frenzy of fans before we left.  Too late for us though.  Anyway energy levels plummet to such an extent that pretty soon the fans are discarded along with the melting ice.  We're so sorry for the children.  There are three sharing the back set with us and their parents and they are perspiring profusely but as good as gold.

The temperature is rising in more ways than one.  It's over 40° in the back of the bus;  And how do I know this?  I have this smart watch that tells it all. I get this familiar whiff of something burning and within seconds we're are clouded in smoke.  Arlene lets the old lungs get some exercise and starts shouting to alert the bus driver to our impending doom.  Other passengers join in and the inevitable chaos ensures,. As usual it's every man for himself.  The guy sitting next to Arlene is the first to launch himself through the back door which thankfully opens easily.  For the duration of the journey we call him 'Flink Dink' 'Quick Thinking' for those unfamiliar with the Afrikaans language.  Once we are all off the bus the mechanics go about their business with me supervising.  The battery and electrics compartment has been loaded with bags of onions, somehow the heat and possibly a short sets fire to the wiring which they promptly douse with water.  Well even this handyman knows not to do that.  I have a little experience of electrics and cars.  Remember our Passat that went up in flames after my little engineering foray.  I've learnt a little of these things.

Besides stopping for supper and the running repairs we spend a little time sleeping on the roadside.  We're getting good at it.  Off into the bush for the ritual toileting and then it's down with our bit of material , off with our shoes that we use for pillows and in 5 minutes flat we're out for the count.  So relieved to be off the bus.  In the process we make friends with a family.  A young mother, very young early twenties with four children ranging from about 7 years old to about 15 months old.  The whole journey they sit up front on the floor next to the driver.  At our supper stop we're enjoying a lovely meal of beans and potatoes when this family scoots in next to us.  The mother orders two tiny portions of beans for them all to share.  The look on the eldest girl's face was bordering on tears;  Arlene invited her to share her meal and we ordered chips and gravy to be put on their beans.  You cannot believe the joy  and the look on those kids faces and then we bought them each a coke of their very own.  They thought they had died and gone to heaven.  I would travel that trip 20 times over just for the gift of joy that this family gave us.  I know we were meant to be on that bus.  One of the stops further along the road two of the kids came and sat next to me and snuggled up close while we waited for yet another repair to be done.  We never saw them again , they must have got off the bus during the night.

Twenty Four  hours later, drenched in sweat and frustration, shirtless, smelling like a construction worker, I revolt.  At the next border post I spot a bus with windows, windows that open and close;  A recce reveals the driver lying in the shade of a tree and he assures us he is going our way and he has two places that you can sit, no need to stand.  We cough up the extra money , retrieve our luggage and say Au Revoir to the travelling sauna and it's people.  we don't look back.  The bus is packed and I just happen to be sitting inbetween the fatest people on the bus.  But you know it's a dream with a breeze on your face. Albeit a hot one at that.  It's 38° outside and another 12 hours sees us in Kaolack for the night.  We've made it.  We don't moan about the hell hole hotel, we crash, no supper and that's that.  One of the best sleeps we have had after Arlene gets them to change the dirty sheets.

We have survived the last leg and lived to tell the tale.  Now or a bit of a holiday as we head to The Gambia.

                               Bus-ted  Again

The hours of waiting are whiled away with John keeping 'J' and Ruth as well as a good few other young people entertained with his stories, the one of the baboon trying to sneak into his room in the Magaliesberg, the Moroccan taxi driver who would not take dollars, the deportation, the bus rides and the dodge hotels. Believe me we also hear a good few stories. Like the Tro tro that was meant to leave at 4.30 am and only got away at 4.30 pm and only because some of the passengers put in the fare for the empty seats.

It's time to say goodbye to 'J' and ruth and with promises to see each other again one day we see them off in a tro tro as they make their way to Burkina Faso. As John and I walk back to our hostel, we're quiet and already we're missing them and of course our own family as well.

          Monkey Business                                        Classic African Sunset

                      Bushmen                                     Au revoir J and Ruth