Epic Spring Break: Part 1

A long time ago, someone named the week they skipped school, flew to the Bahamas, and stayed drunk 24/7 “Spring Break.” The name caught on as more and more students followed suit. Soon, schools could see no alternative other than to institutionalize this “Spring Break.” Now every student was given a free pass to tour Europe or skinny dip in Miami beaches or party until the sun comes up. Study abroad groups adopted this ridiculously awesome idea and encouraged their students to explore their surroundings (translation: take shots on top of the mountain you just climbed). But students in Africa study abroad groups have it a little different. Sure you can do the drinking, the dancing, the stripping, but it all comes with a pretty big price. And before you can do any of that, you have to get through the long travel, nonsensical directions, and hard bargaining before the night time comes.

This is the story of the pains and the pleasures of my Senegalese Spring Break. Part I.

My friend Joanna and I decided to go to Saint-Louis in northern Senegal for a few days. Saint-Louis is a town known for being a hub of the Atlantic Slave Trade. The town has maintained the old French architecture and small town friendliness that Dakar lost long ago. It’s a three part town, the mainland where the people live, the tourist island with the old buildings, and the fisherman island with the fish market and fishermen boats.

Early Monday morning, Joanna and I bargained for a taxi to take us to the gare routiere which we (wrongly) assumed was down-town. We bargained badly and paid too much. But our taxi driver was nice. In fact, he was so nice, he just loved talking to us, so much so that he turned his head back to us to converse. What happens when your eyes aren’t on the roads, kids? That’s right, a car crash. So we rear-ended the car in front of us. We didn’t hit it hard, barely hard enough to scratch the car. But the best part was, the driver of the car in front of us, the one that was hit, gets out of his car and angrily approaches our taxi driver. But when they get a good look at each other, the man calms down, and the taxi driver greets him by name. Yep, our taxi driver hit his friend’s car and his friend decided it wasn’t a big deal. Hands are shook, pleasant greetings exchanged, and off we go to the gare routiere!

We arrive at the gare routiere surrounded by half a dozen modes of transportation and men surrounding the taxi asking us where we want to go. We say our destination and half the men say that’s where they are going. We say we want a sept-place, which is the fastest mode of cross country transport in Senegal. It is a large car that has seven seats for seven people. It is more comfortable and faster than the large njang njaays (think white hijack van) or the mini-cars (think white hijack van), which are the slowest and most painful forms of transportation. However, let’s remember that, at this time, neither Joanna nor I had any concept what any of these forms of transport looked like or where they would be in the gare routeiere. So of course we followed the nice man who offered to take us to the area with cars departing for Saint-Louis. When we rounded the corner and saw the large white van, I had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t a sept-place but I thought, “What the heck, why not take it, since we’re here. How bad can it be?” Yes, I thought this. Yes, I know I’m stupid. Yes, these words bit me in the ass later. So Joanna and I paid the driver for the seat and for our luggage. I loved watching them toss my luggage to the top of the car; I loved following the bag as it missed the top and rolled down the van to thunk on the hard ground; and I loved knowing that I had made the right decision to leave my laptop at home.

As we took our seats in the row behind the driver, the man who showed us to the mini-car followed us into the van and asked us for money. What we had took to be kindness was actually an entrepreneurial move to hoax money from white people. We refused and he was NOT happy, but after a little while, he left us alone. Only to be replaced in the front seat next to the driver by two other young toubabs (white people). They introduced themselves as Raf from London and Jean-Baptiste from Bordeaux, France. Raf had recently quit his job as a sports journalist and was travelling West Africa for a few months. Thanks to his Belgium mother, he was fluent in French. Jean-Baptiste was visiting a friend in Senegal for a week. Both guys had met three hours before when they had arrived at the gare routiere to get a bus to Saint-Louis. They had been waiting for the mini-car to fill up ever since. Oh, Senegal.

Thankfully Joanna and I only had to wait about 30 minutes for the mini-car to take off. And thus began the longest, most uncomfortable ride of my life. What should have taken three hours took five and a half. What should have been comfortable seats were hard stones. What should have been a refreshing breeze blowing in my face was merely wafts of dust. The driver seemed to stop once every 30 minutes to buy juice, or talk to a friend he knew on the route, or give tiny notes to random people. Once, we stopped for ten minutes and just sat there. Nothing happened. No one approached the car, the driver didn’t get out. We just sat. And then we started up again.

Finally, we reached Saint-Louis. Raf, Jean-Baptiste, Joanna, and I split a taxi to the cheapest, cleanest student hostel mentioned in our guidebooks. Fortunately they had room for us and put the four of us in two connected rooms for $12 a night/person. The four of us decided that, first things first, we needed to get lunch. It was already 4:30 pm and none of us had eaten since 8:30 am. We found a small restaurant with Senegalese food and cheap prices. I got a plate of white rice, a plate of chicken, and a bowl of onion sauce called yassa for $4. It was delish. After finishing up, we all walked around Saint-Louis and crossed to the mainland (we were on the tourist island) for a couple of hours. We got lost a dozen times, shook hands with tons of cute kids, and watched the hundreds of goats roaming the streets. Eventually, we made it back to our hostel.

We hung out at the hostel getting to know each other and the other guests. Everyone spoke French so I got to practice my French with actual French-accented people! Then the four of us went to this nice, slightly expensive restaurant. I got chicken – the best chicken I have had in a long time. It was spiced with garlic and something else. We all got beers and split some good wine. After the restaurant the four of us went to a local club where we just hung out for a while drinking beers. We started dancing to mbalax, a hip Senegalese music and dance style. When some American dance music came on, all the Senegalese people cleared the floor and Joanna and I had a stereotypical toubab dilemma: clear the floor with the locals, shaming our country’s music and abandoning our patriotism or be the only two people on the dance floor. We chose the latter and looked like fools. But we had fun. Then some light salsa came on and I got to practice some skills with a couple of men there. Eventually, happy and exhausted, we made our way back to our hostel, ready for sleep and excited for the next day.

So endeth my 1st day of Epic Spring Break. Check later for updates on the rest of the exciting week.