The Gay Way Down

Soundtrack: Roger Waters – Three Wishes

Give a smile or a handshake to the African people and you will get a thousands back. After you have travelled for some while in Africa you really understand why it is not as developed as one could wish. If we had the same kind of enviroment back home, and the same diseases to fight, like Malaria. The Western world would look completely different. During daytime you experience 40-50 degrees celsius on your swetting body and that is just in the shade. Try getting out under the sun and you will feel its amazing and killing heat. Working 8 hours a day in this heat is simply living hell. Often you see people staying in their huts or underneath the  trucks during the hot time of day. Riding in motorcycle clothes is killing me, several times I have faced dehydration and sucking hot water into your mouth is not satisfying at all. You sure appreciate the conditions back home in northern Europe after a day under the rocking sun of Africa.
For every 75-100 k’s we stop to beaten up some Mauritanian shop owners for some Cokes and water.
I do not know what it is with Ian, but he loves wearing only his grundies or even without when walking around the compound, or doing bike maintenance. It has led to quite a few funny and embarrassing episodes when people show up as he least expects it. It has to be some kind of fetish. One thing is  certain, Ian and I quickly agreed on changing the name of the trip to “The Gay Way Down” or “The Gay Men Goes Again”. You rally can’t avoid getting close to your travel partner when travelling like this. It sometimes include funny noises, most of them heard before, some in a new version.
Before leaving Kololi, Gambia, Ian and I had decided to head inwards the continent and do as much roads towards Senegal on Gambian soil. If it hadn’t been for the slow ferry and the time it took for it to leave harbour we would have made a far greater progress. All in all it felt good for both of us getting on the African tarmac again and see the kilometers slowly decrease when getting closer to the so far away Cape Town. On our first day together we found the Janbura campsite close to Georgetown just where Gambia is putting an end of the road. We both put up our tent under the trees on the campsite, what we thought was a nice and neat place. As always, when possible I love to end the day with a bath and a cold local beer, so we also did that day. Next morning I woke up to monkeys shitting on my tent, which I can assure you is pretty close to dog or human shit, if you think of the consistency and smell.
The evening before we were informed of the nice breakfast for the simple price of 100 Dalshi, which we were told would include coffee, pancakes, juice etc. Once again, what you are told in Africa isn’t always the pure  truth, one have to take everything with a gran of salt, which you get used to after a while.
Getting out of Gambia wasn’t like I had in mind, but we sure got out, but not in the official way. At the last Gambian check point we arrived at, we asked for direction to Senegal. We were told to head a couple of k’s back in the same direction as we came from and turn right. We manage to a find road leading down to a piste, still not found on my North & West African Michelin map. To start with the tarmac disappeared as soon as we turned of the main road. Hard soil appeared and a small village would show up with children coming from every corner of the area looking at two stupid Toubab’s coming through their compounds, probably not seen before. I stopped and asked for direction to Senegal and a young man pointed in a direction between a couple of trees with only a little trail leading out of the village towards north-east. It was sure going to be exciting,  later even more exciting than we could ever wish of. Soon hard soil would change to soft sand turning a 400 kg heavy packed VFR into something like an Airbus 340 trying to get the best speed/ decent ratio from 3.000 feet after take-off in a non operating engine config. It sure felt like that. And if that wasn’t the whole truth, we were in lack of water already when we entered the piste, both Ian and I had a litre of 40 degrees hot water with us, best situated for English tea with a drop of milk (hate that), while the ambient temperature had increased above 50 degrees causing my temperature indicator to shut down. As we slowly moved on towards Senegal on small trails we saw less and less of  villages and civilization. At a point Ian had to stop his bike due to coolant temperature warning (red lamp). The radiator fan didn’t come on as it was supposed to. Ian told me he never had seen it working, which I found strange. The feeling of thirst quickly arrived after 20-30 kilometers and we were both fighting against the heat and sand. After a while we discovered that the GPS said Senegal, we had crossed the border without noticing! Should we turn around and head back to get everything done after the book or should we continue and make it to Senegal, then head for the nearest police  check point and have them to do the papers? Another option was to just try and make it through Senegal hoping not to get stopped and have to show our documents. We went for the last solution, act like nothing had happened. I recon the piste was about 40-50 k’s and took us more than 4 hours to complete before we could kiss the tarmac welcome.
Next day we managed to reach Mali without showing or documents a single time at the many check points we would go through. Ian did the Mali border and was very pleased of how easy it went. There was just a single hurdle he forgot to do the Douanes (customs) and once again we where in a new country without permission for the bikes. Luckily they took it easy on us upon exit of Mali and we went straight through to the Burkina Faso border. Mali must be the country of the tits, they came in all sorts of shape and lenghts. Girls and woman walking along the road witout any clothes on the top of their body. Quit a sight when riding through, and some of them make turn your head. Others I do not have to write about here.
At the Burkina Faso border we both played the game as it is supposed to be played, the officer demanded 10.000 CFA each for the entry visa and tried to unburden us for another 2.000 each. We tried giving him some Dunston’s that Ian had bought in Western Sahara when a Moroccan guy had taken him for a ride. The naïve British bloke was told that with two boxes of Dunston’s he would be through the borders in no time, or the value of them was equal with 90  liters of high quality Mauritanian fuel. Without a doubt the worse cigarettes you can get your hands on. But with so many things, one gets used to the bad flavour and quality even though they are causing your throat to feel sore and having your coughing each morning. We have tried to get a lot of people to smoke these cigarettes wherever we go. I should say that the cigarettes sure came to their purpose when we got stopped by an insanely speeding police officer in Mali on an old wobling BMW with Gambian number plates. He had for sure intended to give us a ticket for speeding when we 3 minutes before had gone through his village with too much speed and hadn’t spotted him. With a Dunston’s you get things straightened out. He fell right down on earth again after hovering in 30.000 feet when Ian inroduced him for a Dunston. Of course I had to join the game as well though I had my Monte Carlo cigarettes in my pocket, while Ian stood next to with a poker smile. Ian and I were not the best friends after that episode.
Most people we offer the Duston’s smokes them without saying anything, some people are honest and tell us the truth about these horrible rich American blend cigarettes. Before I noticed it I was addicted to the Dunston’s and felt quite sad the day that the last pack was gone. We say, “With a Dunston all your worries fade away,” or…”Have a Dunston’s, it’s the quality of life.” Unfortunately the border officer in Burkina Faso didn’t smoke cigarettes, or maybe he was aware of what we tried to poison him with. He was more eager to see some cool cash. I went out to the bikes to get my Lonely Planet guidebook while Ian kept the dude entertained. In the book it only stated the 10.000 CFA to be paid at the border, nothing about paying for formalities. We simply waited things out and acted as if we didn’t quite get the point of paying another 4.000 CFA. I  must admit that Ian act better than expected and this saved us for 12.000 CFA (20 Euro) that day at the police and Douanes upon entering Burkina Faso. The Douanes was an even more hard nuts to crack. He simply took and kept our papers when we said that it was the last money we had for gasoline. But we managed to get the price down from 20.000 CFA for two bikes to 12.000 CFA. We drove off with a big smile. New country and it felt like we had concurred the world when crossing the border.
Just before reaching Bobo-Dioulasso I was out of money. I had simply used too much during my stay in Banjul, mostly on beers. Luckily Ian immediately suggested that I could lend some money from him.
Written in Ouagaudougou, Burkina Faso with the company of imported German Cody’s 5,4% beers.
PS: A trip down the West Coast of Africa is not for sissies, I now feel it on my own body. For sure I will be 10 years older when arriving in Cape Town, if I arrive?