The flight from London to Tripoli was fine, however upon arrival in Tripoli, I realized that I had really left western civilization. The security team at the airport did not know English very well (Arabic is the main language in Libya) and I was scared that I would not be able to find my gate in time. After being shown the wrong direction several times, I eventually found my way to a dodgy looking gate. I soon found myself to be one of three white people on a packed plane. The man sitting next to me was a friendly Senegalese man who attempted to tell me a bit about Senegal, not that I could understand him much.
After landing in Dakar, we disembarked into a dark, extremely humid environment. At the bag terminal I was relieved to find that both of my bags had come through intact (putting rest to fears that they were still in Tripoli because they had not been checked all the way through). I was pestered by a man who insisted he help me carry my bags outside. Not having any senegalese money nor any idea as to where I could find the projects abroad rep being sent to pick me up, I was growing increasingly anxious. After going through security however, a young black man came up to me and asked if I was Duncan. My face lit up and I replied with a relieved "oui!". The young man quickly took care of the man who had been trying to "help" me and then introduced himself as Banda. I spoke with him in my limited French, and asked him where we were going from here. He replied that we were going to a hotel where we would stay for the night. He hailed a taxi in the typical Senegalese fashion of hissing and clicking at a passing automobile. Now I use the word automobile not to sound sophisticated, but to illustrate a difference between your typical London or New York taxi and this beat up contraption. The "cab" had black tape covering the left side of the back of the car, a broken mirror on the right, and a missing trunk top. Banda laughed in his boyish yet reassuring way, and shoved my bags and I into the back seat. From there we went to the hotel, a place even more precarious (EXTREMELY DODGY) than the cab.
The hotel's lobby looked like a (DODGY) bar. The room Banda took me up to looked like it would cave in any minute. Complete with a dirty mosquito net, peeling walls, and an even more destitute (REALLY DODGY) bathroom. Banda told me we would be getting up at 5 tommorow morning, and left me to my cosy (DODGY) room.
I was awoken the next morning by a knock on the door. I promptly replied with a "Je suis levee" (I am up in French), gathered my bags and left the room. Still groggy from last night’s sleep I stumbled down the stairs in the dark and approached Banda. He was sitting at the bar drinking some tea and conversing with the hotel attendant. He greeted me enthusiastically with a handshake, and then told me something that really made me wonder what I had signed up for. “Duncan , ah-ha” chuckled Banda as if merely bemused, “there is a slight problem. There is no bread in this town…” He laughed again and told me not to worry. I was beginning to sense that Banda was either extremely laid back, or just plain crazy…
After leaving the hotel without any breakfast, Banda and I proceeded to take another cab. This one was a little nicer than the last, but still not spectacular. He drove us to a place about 20 mins away where we would hire a “sept-place” taxi to take us to St.- Louis. A sept-place is a type of Senegalese automobile (yes, automobile) that is named after the sept-places or seven seats available in the car. In our case however, the car was to be filled with nine… Fortunately, we were the first ones to hire this particular sept-place, so we got to choose our seats and were not stuck in the (dreaded) middle. While we waited for other passengers to arrive, Banda went to the nearby fruit stand and bought me some bananas and a large bottle of water. It seems that I would be having breakfast after all.
When the car was filled, we set off on our 4 and a half hour journey to St. Louis. For the first three hours I stared vacantly out the window pondering the many mysteries of life… including why on earth I had decided to volunteer here of all places. We passed many small villages along the way, most of which were places I could not see myself living in for 3 months. I had been assuming/hoping that St. Louis was a beautiful seaside metropolis for the past few days. I would soon find out however, that this was not the case. My dream would not be spoiled yet though, for 3 hours into the journey the automobile broke down. It started very unassumingly as the driver began to slow down and pull over (after 3 hours I thought it must be for a bathroom break). When I saw smoke steam to seep through the vents however, I realized that this was not the case.
The driver turned off the engine, went in front of the car and pulled up the hood. Needless to say, a certain catchphrase of one John Mcenroe came to mind… “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!?” Banda looked at me with that grin that a child has when he knows something is wrong but knows that it will not affect him in a grievous way. I too managed to contort my face into a smile as I looked at the sheer irony of the situation. A beat up car breaking down in the middle of the road, nowhere near a mechanic? I mean come on. Eventually the driver told us (after realizing he had no idea how to operate under the hood of a car) to get out and push. So we complied and believe it or not, the car started working again. We all quickly hopped back in to our “cosy” seats and set off once again.
We reached St. Louis about an hour and a half after the incident. While not an absolute shithole, it was no seaside utopia either. Banda hailed another taxi which would take me to my host family’s house. This the house I would be staying in for the next three months. The place I would sleep, drink, eat, go to the bathroom, shower, and live in. It was… quaint.
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