Cap Skirring buying powder

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Cap Skirring buying powder

The fifteenth stop: relief at last as the man sitting half on my lap rose to disembark, taking with him the hen that had been pecking my bicep for the preceding four hours. The bus lurched into motion again and I returned my attention to the fogged-up window. Beyond the glass the scorched earth and mangrove swamps of the Guinea-Bissauan hinterland turned molten in the heat, and monkey-hunters wearing Premiership football shirts marched the roadside in single file, shotguns slung over teenage shoulders. What on earth, I wondered, would Dave and Sandra have made of all this? It had been five days since the Lancastrian retirees had inadvertently set my sights on the destination at the end of this laterite road. Back then, by a Banjul hotel poolside — a world away — I had listened aghast as they divulged their secret: that tomorrow, eight days into their tenth Gambian sojourn, they would venture outside the hotel compound for the very first time. Like them, I had come to The Gambia, with girlfriend Lucy, in search of budget winter sun, attracted by the carousel of charter flights between the UK and Banjul that have made this the cheapest gateway into sub-Saharan West Africa. But something about the place had left me cold. After our conversation with Dave and Sandra something snapped. We never found out if they survived their daring sortie, because that afternoon we took a bush-taxi over the border and into a land where fewer tourists venture. For over a quarter of a century, the region lying south of The Gambia, Basse Casamance, has been in the throes of a low-level rebellion precipitated by separatists seeking independence from Senegal. The bar was as well conceived as a beach bar can be, with furniture made of driftwood and an open-air terrace looking straight down the barrel of sunset. In the near distance, marking the headland, Atlantic rollers exploded over a corroded shipwreck worn down to its hull. Already this was much better. There were no big hotel compounds here; rather, ecologically minded campements, some of them very salubrious, scattered along a network of lanes north of the main road. Beyond lay the fishing beach, at once a dry-dock and a marketplace. In the evenings, a procession of women carrying bowls full of sea creatures on their heads sashayed past young Senegalese wrestlers sparring in the sand. After three days, feeling quite vindicated by our decision to elope from our tourist compound, we headed inland to Diouloulou before turning south again. We weaved through a landscape of baobabs and termite mounds, and over the sluggish waters of the Casamance River that cleave a lightning bolt of creeks and tributaries across the interior before spilling into the Atlantic. On the opposite bank were the wharves and peanut factories of the regional capital, Ziguinchor. For us, however, a less-travelled road beckoned — further south into the former Portuguese enclave of Guinea-Bissau. There can be a spontaneous joy in this brand of impromptu travel — armed only with the name of your destination you cram into a shared taxi, wait for it to fill, then away you go, later to emerge in new climes — or, in this case, a whole new country, culture and language. Sometimes, though, it can be a trial. After a four-hour wait, with the minibus deemed full 50 people wedged into a space designed for 20 , we rolled out of the dust-bowl terminus and onto the slow road west. For six hours and 70km we bucked and yawed from village to village, each stop prompting the passengers to alight en masse, to unfold crumpled limbs and pilfer refreshment from the cashew fruits dangling by the road. Finally, in gathering dusk, a corona of promise appeared on the horizon. Early next morning we took in the surroundings. Chez Helene was a gem, spaciously laid out, with small accommodation blocks orbiting a central bar and kitchen. The rooms were bright and simple, set amidst a village of thatched roundhouses where the introduction of anything ostentatious would have seemed offensive. Guinea-Bissau has been in reverse development since the trauma of a short but disruptive civil war in , and Chez Helene is the only place in Varela with electricity and running water. But the whitewashed wall between guests and villagers is low, the gate, seemingly, always open. After five minutes the sea reared up behind stands of palms. We settled on a shoulder of orange earth overlooking a small lagoon, its rim patrolled by thousands of skittish crabs. We sat there all day without seeing a soul until an hour before dusk when a man in underpants waded into the shallows to cast an old net in search of snapper. With the tide at its lowest, we walked out onto the mudflats and round a peninsula where the waves had receded from low cliffs to reveal huge tracts of corrugated sandbars and clusters of volcanic rock. It felt like a place of consummate escape. This was what we had come to West Africa for. Poor Dave and Sandra. Sign up to our newsletter for free with the Wanderlust Club, full of travel inspiration, quizzes, events and more. Henry Wismayer. Link copied! A taxi, south-wards. The Real West Africa. An off-road retreat. Promoted Journeys. Explore More. Explore Asia and Australasia with Singapore Airlines. Alberta through the seasons. Meet award-winning history guide John Shepherd. Exploring the nomadic traditions and natural beauty of Kazakhstan. The ultimate foodie guide to Boston. The best destinations for Black travellers. Lion City calling: How Singapore has become even easier to visit. Entries for Wanderlust Visions are now open! Load more. Register Login.

Gambia, Senegal and Guinea-Bissau

Cap Skirring buying powder

We scrambled out of our overcrowded and decrepit sept-place at the overcrowded and decrepit station of sorts just outside Ziguinchor. We wanted to go to Cap Skirring, a town on the beach, and every tout in the vicinity knew it too. They swarmed us instantly with persistent offers of transport, accommodation, food, currency exchange and so on. We shook them off, but despite our best efforts it seems nearly impossible to do anything at all without inadvertently engaging the services of at least one. We tried to change some money without his assistance — but he was there with his calculator briskly tapping the buttons. We looked for the mini busses heading to Cap Skirring but he was there, waving tickets and tugging our packs off our backs, shepherding us towards the bus. Even as we settled into our seats he was there, leaning through the window asking for a payment for his services. There seems to be some kind of complicit understanding that travellers like us are fair game, and the bus drivers and others working there in an official capacity turn a blind eye and leave us to negotiate the totally arbitrary cost of bringing our backpacks along with us on the trip. Like an incision on the map, The Gambia cuts the Cassamance off from the rest of the country and there has long been a separatist movement here, bringing fighting and unrest. Bouncing down the roads in our rusty sept-place we passed through one military checkpoint after another, getting out to show our passports to the soldiers hunkering down behind sandbags. This eventually led to a cycle of civil wars and shaky ceasefires until a successful peace agreement was reached in The conflict and then the sporadic road banditry that followed of course took its due toll on tourism, and for a time foreign governments warned their citizens against visiting the Cassamance. For many local people the collapse of the tourist industry they depended on was as bad as the fighting itself. But the tourists and travellers are returning, not to mention the guesthouses, restaurants and services to support them. We were happy. We spent time wandering up and down the beach and Oyv managed to get himself into — and win — a pushup contest. We met several Gambians here, instantly recognisable to us since they could speak English well and seem to like befriending travellers — sorry, toubabs — for no other reason than to speak it. One day we hired a motorbike and set off to do some exploring. The bike came with two helmets but these were just a token to make the police happy. They were not in any way meant to protect us — there were no chin straps so we just perched them ineffectually on our heads, and took off. For such a small vehicle the bike turned out to be real gas guzzler and we sputtered into a little town on fumes. Soon enough two local teenagers understood our problem and led us through the village to a house where we bought this litre of fuel in a gin bottle:. Then we punctured the tire and ended up taking it to this garage where the mechanic once we tracked him down after his prayers and a lengthy lunch patched the tire for CFAs 3 Euros. And that was not the end of our vehicular problems either. The next day we decided to leave Cap Skirring. A sept-place driver tried hard to convince us to come with him but his car was still empty. We knew that meant waiting for it to fill up with passengers — there is no set schedule for departures. The mini bus made it out of town and over the bridge and then with an ominous thump and a shudder it coasted to a permanent stop and we all abandoned ship the roadsides are littered with the rusted out carcasses of vehicles which have met a similar fate. We sat on the embankment, waiting. The sept-place sailed by — rather triumphantly I felt — leaving us in the dust. Eventually we were shunted onto another bus, stopped to pick not a person but a single, live chicken, and we were on our way again. Back in Ziguinchor, our old friend the helpful tout and his youthful sidekick greeted us exuberantly. Another tout took it upon himself to point us to the front seat and demanded money. I was ready for another breakdown, this time of the nervous variety. I asked the tout if his job was to harass passengers at the bus station. Leaving the country seemed like the only way to escape this tout for once and for all. For more of our adventures and misadventures in Senegal, check out the rest of my stories from the road. For me the journey itself is not just a means to an end. Skip to content. Toubabs on the Road: Hiring a Motorbike in the Casamance. By Sarah December 21, Senegal. We wanted to go to Cap Skirring, a town on the beach, and every tout in the vicinity knew it too, making our journey more difficult. But once we got there, we hired our own bike and went exploring. If you don't puncture the tire and run out of gas, it's a great way to get around. And even if you do - it's a lot of fun anyway. Sarah December 21, Senegal. Cap Skirring And we were all by ourselves in the Cassamance. We walked back to the bike and filled the tank, then returned the bottle to the kids. Cassamance — exploring Then we punctured the tire and ended up taking it to this garage where the mechanic once we tracked him down after his prayers and a lengthy lunch patched the tire for CFAs 3 Euros. Cassamance — exploring And that was not the end of our vehicular problems either. Read More For more of our adventures and misadventures in Senegal, check out the rest of my stories from the road. Senegal West Africa: Dakar to Freetown. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Comment. Enter your name or username to comment. Enter your email address to comment. Hi, I'm Sarah. Keep Reading Follow Me. Sign up and get all my new stories and travel guides sent straight to your email. Instagram Twitter Facebook-f. Recent Posts.

Cap Skirring buying powder