A 14 hour-long boat journey. We arrive at the port in Dakar trawling all
our belongings for the next year behind us.
A bucket, bought in Yene for washing our clothes, nestles comfortably
among them. Having grown quite attached,
we were reluctant to leave it behind.
There is a man, stood at the gates, checking passports
and tickets. The bucket is inspected
suspiciously. We successfully manage to
escape the bemused stare as we head to the check-in desk. Before we enter the building, our tickets,
passports and bucket are checked by another wave of security staff. This time, the bucket must be emptied as we
show the guards a few garments of clothing and Lauren’s shoes. More puzzled looks as we scurry into the
terminal. Large bags are labelled with
our names and destination, before joining the heap which is to be loaded
separately onto the boat. We are asked
whether we are sure that we want to take the bucket, to which we answer in the
affirmative.
Another desk with yet another check of tickets and
passports. We put our smaller bags onto
a conveyer belt to be scanned by a computer.
As we watch the bucket being swallowed into the dark tunnel, we fear for
its fate. We get through unscathed and
find ourselves standing in a sort of waiting room. Rows of chairs face the French windows which
open onto the quay. Television screens
are attached to the wall above us. No
sort of ferry timetable can be seen on them.
Instead, there are Latin-American soaps, dubbed in French. It is now the two of us who possess the
bemused looks as we stumble into the nearest seats, hoping that we are in the
right place.
We sit for perhaps an hour. As it gets closer to the departure time, the
seats around us begin to fill. There is
little sound of talking among the expectant passengers, as most choose to watch
the drama playing out on the screens. A
boat bound for Gorée Island comes and goes.
Finally, it is time to board. There is no announcement, just a mass
movement towards the door. We join the
other passengers as all make a silent scramble towards it. We look for the end of the queue, but none
seems to exist. After several “after
you”s, we decide that it is time to leave behind our British etiquette and jump
into the sea of people around us, waving our tickets at yet more guards as we
are swept along in the current. Ahead,
the ferry sits comfortably upon the water, unafraid of the towering tankers
which shadow over it. The sound of
reggae music is booming out from an upper deck.
A series of steep steps lead to the lounge area. We climb them slowly, struggling against the
heat. Wiping the sweat from our brows,
we stagger into the room with the same feeling that Sir Edmund Hillary felt on
reaching the top of Everest. A smartly
dressed, smiling woman greets us and kindly points in the direction of our cabin. As we move towards the region indicated, we
find ourselves caught in a maze of corridors, all full of cabins. After passing the same two women twice, we
realise that we have come full circle, no closer to finding our own temporary
bedroom. We stop and look around us,
exasperated. To our left, a fellow
passenger unfurls a prayer mat and begins to pray.
At last we realise that we are on the wrong floor. With a little help from an attendant and one
flight of stairs later, we find our room.
Two bunks on either wall with just enough space to walk between. Each mattress is covered in a patterned
purple sheet, with matching pillow placed at the head. A bright orange curtain runs along the outer edge
of the bed so that, when closed, each person is able to form their own little
den of privacy. The other two passengers
that we are due to be sharing with are yet to arrive. Perhaps they, too, have been absorbed by the
labyrinth on the lower deck. More
probably, they are still waiting to board.
We have no key for our door. The jubilation of our discovery is short
lived. With no safe place to store our
belongings, we exit our room, still lugging our bags behind us. A door to the outer deck emerges on our
right. We take it, falling out into the
glare of the setting sun. A warm breeze
passes across our faces and we take deep breaths of the pleasant sea air.
On the top deck, we sit and take in the view of Dakar
harbour. The sun has now fallen behind
many of the taller buildings, throwing them into silhouette. A rich orange, yellow glow creates the
backdrop of this cityscape. The deck is
alive with people: people hanging over
the railings; people pointing and laughing at sights around them; people taking
photographs of family and friends.
As the darkness approaches, so does the beginning of our
voyage. The boat pulls gracefully away
from its berth and we watch as the twinkling lights of the city get slowly
smaller. At the harbour walls, the red
and green lights of port and starboard shine brightly on either side of us: the
international language of the nautical world.
A long night stretches ahead of us, but we fill it mainly
with a restless sleep, full of vivid dreams.
It is not until an hour before arrival that we wake. With haste, we change and, once again, hurry
out on deck with a complete set of bags in tow.
The scene is very different. The
sea is replaced with a wide river.
Scattered across its width are a number of smaller fishing boats,
bobbing crazily in the wake of the ferry.
The striking green of the foliage is dazzling, and far removed from the
sand-coloured north that we waved goodbye to yesterday. Palm trees weave themselves between pretty
little houses on the river bank as we approach our destination.
The boat stops. We
disembark. Ziguinchor has been reached
and we swing our bucket happily as we enter the town.
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