Driving 'The Beast' through Africa
Southern Senegal
by Isabelle Demaeght, February 12th, 2025
We choose our first destination by the sea, at the mouth of the Casamance, surrounded (again) by mangroves. But we don't get that far. Due to the poor condition of the road, we suddenly hear a noise - a sharp creak and a rattling sound of a tire hitting the wheel well....
An old Peugeot soon stops and asks what is wrong. At the wheel is Mousse, who happened to have picked up his Brussels girlfriend Chantal from the airport in Banjul. Adriaan quickly mounts a bushing between the wishbone and the end-stop of the chassis, so we can once again drive (and steer) very carefully. Mousse and Chantal not only help us find a place to sleep, but also a mechanic the next morning. However, he refuses to do the work, but fortunately we find a professional welder.
Once the right torsion bar was removed from the car (with Adriaan's help (and supervision!)), the welding work on the torsion arm was quickly completed. The Beast is sprung again! There are several mechanics running around and we all end up eating from the same dish together as is the custom here.
"Well," says my brother, "that car had been checked before leaving, right?" True, but with more than 300,000 kilometers on the odometer and roads that are sometimes barely recognizable as such, hairline cracks in the suspension are no surprise. At the coastal campsite, we hear that the roads in Guinea are even worse. Something to look forward to... The torsion arms are a weak point (or The Beast is really much too heavy): in the United States, the left side has already broken once without warning. The professional American welder did not want to do it, but here replacement is not an option... - Adrian.
What is striking is how different religions coexist effortlessly here. Christian or Muslim - we eat from the same bowl, during the celebration of the sixty-year-olds, alcohol was consumed by those who are allowed by “his” Supreme Being, while others were on their knees praying. Both religions preach tolerance and it is nice to see that it can be done - in (some) cemeteries they even lie peacefully together.
Inland, daytime temperatures climb to about 38 degrees. But the nights, especially in remote places in nature, are wonderful. Then you remember why a 4WD with a well-ventilated rooftop tent is the ultimate travel vehicle in this part of Africa.
On the way to the national park, we drive through villages with mud huts and thatched roofs. No running water, no electricity grid (but sometimes a solar panel). We mix concrete here with a shovel, the butcher does not butcher more than he can sell in a short time, the sewing machine has a pedal mechanism. It seems like time stands still (I was here 30 years ago and things didn't look much different then) - “Don't fix it if it ain't broken!”.
We reach the park. At the entrance there are some pictures of animals. Perhaps we have become somewhat spoiled by previous trips, because our enthusiasm is ... moderate. We decide to leave the park for what it is and visit a waterfall to the south, returning a day later.
We stay on the Gambia River for several days. Across the river is the park there we get to see a monkey spectacle several times. For the first time I wash myself completely (that is, with hair washing procedure) in a river. A fisherman offers to share his meager catch (we decline, but buy twe fish from a better catch the next day). Tourist boats pass by, watching The Beast (and us) in this habitat as if we were a rare species.
And yes, once again we are postponing the discovery of a new country (Guinea). Time for a review of the country we are about to leave:
The people of Senegal are friendly and hospitable, they share without hesitation and help each other when needed. (When we hand out cookies to the three first-arriving children, they are distributed to the later-arriving children even before we can grab extra cookies.) Solidarity seems obvious.
Senegal and the Gambia offer an impressive diversity of landscapes. North of the Gambia River from desert to savannah, then increasingly tropical (but no rainforests yet). We saw the deltas of three major rivers with their many bird species, crustaceans, fish and plants and trees (Baobab is beautiful, even without leaves in the dry season).
The land is fertile thanks to the water - where a fresh tomato was an (expensive) sight in Mauritania, here they are for sale in neat piles along the road. Onions are the basis of every meal, and even in the smallest village there are tons of them stored. (For some reason, though, these are often Dutch onions, which people buy in 25-kilogram bags.)
Less attractive is the air pollution: garbage and dry vegetation are burned everywhere, people cook on charcoal, old engines vomit diesel smoke, two-stroke mopeds spread smoke that smells like oil. Sometimes the whole air is yellowish because of it (which does produce the most beautifully colored sunsets).
The border crossing is not exactly smooth. Senegalese customs and police are not difficult, but on the Guinean side the hassle begins. We have to go meet someone in a small office. Adriaan lets me go in first, after which the official asks which of us is in charge. He begins an elaborate speech about how the man always has control over the woman. Whether Adriaan doesn't know that women are created from a man's rib!!!? I listen silently, but the atheist among us feels like protesting very loudly.
The next agent stops us because we can't show a hotel reservation (right: we have been invited to a Guinean friend's house). The electronic application form lists her address under the heading “Hotel/host.” And meticulous Adrian promptly produces a screenshot. The man stands by his position, despite the fact that we were visiting the consul and despite the fact that the address has been approved. We wait patiently, time is creeping by.
After an hour and a half, some British people appear, providing a distraction. To our relief, we are finally allowed to pass (for this one time and so on). At the last little office, things get even more absurd. The official asks Adriaan if I am his wife. After Adriaan's confirmation, he grins broadly and says that otherwise he would “keep” me and give Adriaan a gift as thanks. Apparently I had no say in that myself?
In Senegal, Gambia and also here in Guinea, we see signs along the road about development aid granted. À propos: 'our' electricity connection in the school has already been realized (without a sign). What is striking: many projects focus on cooperatives of women. Women who grow oysters, women who smoke fish, women who press oil, platforms for women who want to (learn to) trade. It seems as if these countries are kept afloat by those allegedly created out of ribs, while the “rib donors” drink tea (and inappropriately quote the Quran)....
We stop early, near a river where a group of girls are doing laundry while playing. Children who have probably never seen a white person (from so close) are fascinated by our skin. Adriaan lets them explain how one does laundry in a river. Curiosity is disarming and heartwarming. Their laundry is “rounded up” just before sunset and they leave in the dark. It was a fun first afternoon in Guinea.
We begin the notoriously bad inland road from Labé to Mamou. The views are breathtaking, but Adriaan and The Beast are struggling. Other vehicles are also heavy (see photos), with passengers on top of the roof load. However, they are “ordinary” Peugeots, which according to the designers are allowed to carry about 60 kilos on the roof - Adriaan. The repair holds and The Beast plows through a huge amount of potholes.
We stop in time at a lake built with help from Saudi Arabia (yes, with sign). Again, our presence attracts curious visitors. Young boys wash their motorcycles with a dedication that leaves you speechless. Adriaan in particular quickly makes friends with them here. Washing ourselves and our clothes in rivers (or a reservoir) is gradually becoming a habit. We haven't seen a campsite or hotel for several days.
In the evening, village children come to wash dishes in the lake, while young men feast on a strange, yellow drink from plastic bottles. They pull out a blaster, but fortunately the battery gives out just after we crawl into bed.
After a quiet night, we drive to Conakry. The chaos and crowds here surpass even those of Dakar. The 80 kilometers we cover take us about four hours, with the last 30 kilometers a real ordeal. I do my best to stay calm, although I feel the urge to scream now and then. My right foot makes continuous braking motions, though it makes little sense. Driver Adriaan (and The Beast) seem unfazed.
At the airport, we finally arrange the Guinean visa: Which is a numbered sticker in your passport that you apply for on-line. (We are now admitted here provisionally, for 5 days.) There are only a few printers in the entire country, all in the capital. To our relief, we also manage (even deeper into the city) to get a visa for Ivory Coast.
While we wait for the last visa, a couple steps in with the same goal. “Hey Cami,” I say spontaneously. She looks surprised. “We've sent each other messages before, we're from the same city,” I explain. Cami and Jolan. Respect to them both!
The place I had in mind, a garden near the archbishop's house, seemed promising. But when the person in charge charged us 30 euros just to take a shower, we decided to move on.
Eventually we found a great place with Mory, a Dutchman from Utrecht (born in Conakry) who has created a fine oasis here, in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the city. Mory is brimming with ideas. His enthusiasm and good laughter are contagious.
Later we go to a nearby mall with a supermarket in mind. That (expensive) supermarket has since disappeared but, as a bonus, we do find a restaurant there. After 100 days, we eat steak fries again and drink real Illy coffee. (Like everyone here, we eat mostly rice; we refuse the instant coffee).
During lunch, friend Sophie calls, eager to meet up. I met her almost 20 years ago during an experience trip in Guinea with a Limburg group. In 2012 I returned with Andries for another round trip. It's nice to meet her again after all these years.
