June 2016

As the fishers sailed closer to the beach, they yelled for my attention. One of them jumped off the pirogue, into the shallow waters of the delta, and ran towards me the best he could despite being knee-deep in water. While Senegal, and in particular, the Saloum Delta, is a welcoming place this greeting was enthusiastic beyond the norm. A short chat later excited that I was Danish, he invited me closer to the boat to show me that one of his crew-mates was wearing a second-hand t-shirt that spelt COPENHAGEN with large letters underneath a Dannebrog – the Danish flag. I’m not nationalistic whatsoever, but the coincident was indeed funny. In the middle of a little-visited delta on the Senegalese coast a Dane, stuck on a small island, runs into a fisherman wearing a shirt spelling out his hometown. (Let’s just forget the fact that the t-shirt was Carlsberg merchandise for the time being).

This encounter got me a ride off the island, on which I would otherwise have been stuck for an extra day as I had – apparently – missed the only public pirogue of the day. A girl from Dakar, who was on the island to sell toiletries, and in the same situation as me, quickly added herself to the party and thus were we two people who manage to get off the island due to a very random Danish connection. The truth is that these fishermen would probably have offered me a ride anyway – but now it suddenly came for free.

The whole reason for me being stuck on an island in a Senegalese delta you ask? Besides that, I’m travelling, and that tend to get me automatically stuck in weird situations in odd places? Well, this time, I’m village jumping through the UNESCO-recognised Sine-Saloum Delta. To the ones not familiar with the term ‘village-jumping’ it’s usually used when travelling through areas without any long-distance transportation, proper infrastructure and large cities or towns. Here in a delta that consists of three major rivers, more than 200 islands and islets, and just 19 villages transportation are naturally limited. The next question usually follows: What am I doing here? If the beauty of drifting down a river, through mangrove forests, to the slow rhythms of ordinary African village life is lost on you, I don’t think I’m going to be able to explain it. Travelling in Africa can’t get much better than this – unless we’re attacked by a wild animal, that is. Now that would be a story to write home about.

Getting to the Delta was simply a matter of finding a car driving to the end of the road. Literally. The Senegalese coast before the delta ends in a kind of spit, a long narrow peninsula. Twenty years ago, the peninsula was about 50 km longer, but the ocean broke through it, thus ending the road very abruptly. From the village where the road ends, there’s a public pirogue to the village on the nearest island. Voilà, the jumping has begun. A pirogue is basically an over-sized canoe. About twenty metres long, a meter and a half wide, and – when fully loaded – only twenty centimetres above the water’s surface. Put a small outboard motor on it, and the locals have a boat that they will brave the open ocean in. I wouldn’t, and I’m happy we’re sticking to the slow moving waters between the green mangrove forests.

Having arrived at the island is was simply a matter of jumping overboard and walk the last few metres onto the beach. Plenty of villages here have community run campartments, usually consisting of a few one-room bungalows in a courtyard. So sleeping arrangements are easily found. Not in a hurry, and with a campartment right on the beach, it would almost be sacrilege not to stay put for the night. Having spent the night, I needed to cross the island to get to the next village. With no cars on the island, it was simply a matter of walking the 12 km. This distance equals the 12 kgs of my backpack and is a pretty proper distance of a day’s walk in the loose sand under Africa’s sun, fully packed.

For the first 10 km, the only encounter was a flock of long-horned cows walking alone through the sand. The disappeared between the trees as suddenly as they have appeared. They cared nothing for the sweating traveller, who was standing in their way. That changed for the better when I was overtaken by a local guy on a motocross bike, who promptly stopped to offer me a ride the last few kilometres. That got me to the end of the island were, to my surprise, there was a small footbridge to the next island. On that island was another campartment and I didn’t have to spend a night in my tent as I had originally planned.

This eventually brings us to the friendly fishermen from the beginning who sailed me back to the mainland. That might sound promising, but I still needed to get out of the mangrove forest. The girl from Dakar (remember her?), was kind enough to show me the sandy lot that made up the garage from where transportation would bring me to the main road, 20-ish km away. Here were plenty of cars. However, all was bombed out wrecks, and it became apparent very quickly that those cars were going nowhere. What there was instead was a bombed out minibus, which apparently had been judged roadworthy enough to take on the row of potholes that is called a road around here. What was also clear was that the minibus wasn’t going anywhere soon. It was almost empty, and while these things have seats for 18 people they easily fit 35-40. At least if one asks the driver. Further, all the luggage was still standing in the sand beside the bus. This is another indicator that the vehicle isn’t leaving soon.

So why not go local. Instead, of waiting most of the day for the bus to leave, I decided to hire once of the donkey carts to take me to the road. It’s slow, more expensive than the bus, and slightly less comfortable. But the expressions and the smiles on people we passed’s faces was worth it all. The cart also took all day, but we only got overtaken by the bus half an hour before we reached the road – which is enough for me to call it a win.

From the main road I began making my way inland, to some very traditional villages (think straw huts, etc.), but I’ll get back to that in a few days.

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Wandering lazy down through the sand-covered streets, in the shade of colourful 19th-century balconies, to the sound of nothing but young children playing football. This scene has repeated itself multiple times a day for the past week. Only to be broken by the smell of Senegalese food that have lured me to hole-in-the-wall cafés; by the sounds and curious creations of workshops and galleries offering aesthetic change; or when my sore legs – as having a life of their own – have taken me to a watering hole for a drink and a chat with the locals.
Interestingly, this description works for both the places I’ve spent the past week in Gorée and, 300 km to the north, Saint-Louis. Both are islands. Maybe that’s what make these places feels alike. Gorée is a short, twenty-minute ferry ride from downtown Dakar.

The island of Saint-Louis is the centre of the much larger city of Saint-Louis, connected to the rest by no less than three bridges. They are both also some of the first locations for European settlements on the West African coast. As such, both islands are dominated by colonial buildings, creating two relatively unique spots in Senegal that still share both look and atmosphere. What they have in common is something best described as a laid-back and artsy atmosphere. Life moves slowly here, and that have attracted plenty of craftsmen and artists to both places. Regardless, my arrivals to the two locations couldn’t have been more apart.

Even before arriving on Gorée two sensations quickly hit. The chaos of Dakar vanished soon after the small, car-free ferry has left the terminal. A fresh and salty air trump the smell of car fumes and pollution. The sounds of the waves and the seagulls replace those of honking taxis and the yelling hustlers, who are constantly trying to relieve me from my West African Francs.

The island itself is visible from Dakar. It looks small. As we sail closer, it doesn’t seem to grow significantly. As was it magic, its small size seems to be fixed. Not too surprising for an island that is 900m long and less than 400m wide. As the ferry rounds the southern tip of the islands, a small natural harbour is revealed. An old fort’s cannons are pointing at us. The palms on the quay are swaying gently in the front of restored red and yellow colonial buildings to both our right and left. Straight ahead is a small beach, next to the pier where the ferry docks. Above it is more cannons point at us. And the bathing children’s screams and splashes now drown the sound of the waves. Stepping off the ferry feels like stepping out of a time machine. Gone are the common hassle of Dakar. Replaced by a scene from when pirates and slave ships cruised these waters. The change is welcoming. As much as the smell and smoke from the grilled fish that hits me just a few steps from the pier – so thick I can taste it. Here is nothing else to do, than to take it all in.

Arriving in Saint-Louis was less idyllic. Covered in sweat and dust, I arrived after the daylight had vanished. Is was so tired that I barely realised the taxi drove across the Pont Faidherbe Bridge to the island. Had it not been for its lights, lighting up my face’s tired features, I would have missed the 500m long bridge in its entirety. The journey up here had been one of a traveller’s worst nightmare. Delay upon delay. Until, with the lights of Saint-Louis in sight, the final shared taxi of the day broke down. Obviously. During the daylight hours, sept-places (literally, seven-seater) resemble sitting in a crowded sauna fully clothed. Having spent no less than eight hours like this, I was soaked. The sweat had made its way into both my eyes and my mouth. Unable to drink anything for the duration of the day, as it is Ramadan, the taste of the salty sweat had almost become pleasant. Solely unpleasant, however, was my clothes, sticking to my body like greasy tape.

My nails had gone from freshly washed to pitch-black and, on my head, the inside of my hat was as wet as a teenage girl’s inner thigh during a Justin Bieber concert. I was tired, dirty and done for the day, and the last thing I needed was the old, moist, rusty, fish-smelling, piece-of-shit taxi to break down. As it did a sandstorm blew up, and as we had to flag down passing cars down from the side of the road, it covered my fellow passengers and me in another layer of dust. As the foul-smelling dust on the bus stations hadn’t been enough. That night, I fell asleep as soon as a saw my hotel bed.

Having taken a shower and asked for a fresh set of sheets – yes, I had soiled them so badly by my share presents during the night – the next morning I made my way out into the streets. As miserable as my arrival had been, as splendid did the Island of Saint-Louis treat me. I had not walked a hundred metres before the smell of freshly baked French pastries hit my nostrils. They had real coffee too. With that, the quarrels of yesterday vanished with the steam of the freshly brewed coffee, and I had no desire to leave the peaceful island. Certainly, because that would mean another day in the sept-places’ sauna-like prison cells.

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Dakar, where I’ve spent the past week, is a city full of hustlers, con artists, bumsters, pickpocketers, and... eh, professional ladies. Let me just say, right off the bat that I didn’t have any serious issues with this rather doubtful crowd. Like the majority of visitors to Africa’s big cities, my stay in Dakar was rather uneventful. Actually, my biggest issue was that the city’s best-known music venues had closed down for the month of Ramadan. If it wasn’t a contradiction a “damn you religious people” would be in order here – for the music here is one of Senegal’s highlights.

Of course, I got hassled. Everybody new to the big city does – foreigners and locals alike. However, I’ve seen most of their plays before. The “do you remember me from the hotel; please lent me some money” was tried a few time on me. Simply telling them that you know the scam and that they can bugger off usually works. The “my friend, can I ask you one question (after which I will drag you through my shop or attach myself to you for which I will eventually demand money)” people are best ignored. Though that might get you a few “are you racist?” shouts. If ignoring them doesn’t initially work, I’ve picked up a neat trick. Just wave your forefinger at them in that ‘no-no-no’ motion. It’s the same way locals tell passing taxis that they aren’t interested, and it works on the hustlers too. The ladies are a little more challenging, but their advances are innocent enough – as innocent as such things can be – and it's usually sufficient to explain to them that I’m not interested in their services – though a simple “not interested” is definitely not enough to scare them off.

It is just about here travellers’ lies enter the picture. It’s a lot nicer and easier to make something up like than to explain to them how I feel about prostitution. “I’m married” or more useful (as married men are often big business), “I love my girlfriend, and she’ll be here soon” are excellent explanations. Skip the last part if you’re staying the same place all night, the girls will be keeping their eyes on you.

But to be honest, lying tend to be an integrated part of travelling. Most of it is harmless and makes things such as border crossings easier. It is nonetheless lying. Leaving a country, we’ll insist that we don’t have any cash we need to declare to customs. I travel with the worth of approximately a thousand dollars in different hard currencies, just in case stuff goes sour. So I’m lying. Further, on entry forms, it’s necessary to state one’s occupation. I still write ‘student’. That’s a lie. Although that is mostly a matter of me not knowing what else to write. I’m not a student anymore. I wouldn’t consider myself ‘an unemployed,’ and ‘traveller’ still seems a bit absurd. While ‘photographer’ or ‘write’ (based on this blog) might land me some unpleasant questions in countries with more oppressive regimes.

Leaving Mauritania, I had semi-consciously overstayed my visa by nineteen days. I had not made any effort to extend my visa so I travelled 120 km out of my way to use a smaller border crossing, where I was less likely to get into trouble. Once there, I guilt-plagued declared that I had no idea that I had overstayed the visa, that I’ve acted in good faith and that I was very, very sorry. In fact, the opposite was the case. Smaller border-crossings don’t see many foreigners, and it is a lot easier to get away with acting like a stupid, unknowing tourist. Thus, my plan worked, and I got out scot free. Unlike some fellow travellers, I’d met, who took the bigger crossing a got fined a hundred euros for overstaying their visas by three days. Luckily, I don’t believe in Karma.

Not all the lies are completely harmless. At least not on the moral spectrum. Beggars are abundant in West Africa. From the elderly, who have neither family nor social security systems to support them; over members of religious sects, whose leaders make a ton of money by preaching an immaterial lifestyle and humility just to have their followers beg for them; to finally the orphans and other kids running around asking for money, candy or pens. Ignoring these people can be difficult.

Both on the soul and because they will make sure to get in your way. The “sorry, I have no change” is not only an excuse travellers use, but in any case it’s probably a lie. It’s one of the lies I’ve managed to overcome. I’ve simply resorted to the heartless, flat-out denying them anything. (I do tend to give children the initial handshake, to at least recognise they existence, which most people don’t). It’s a rather brutal way of dealing with beggars, but no less brutal – from the beggars perspective – than completely ignoring them. One can always tell oneself that we travellers shouldn’t encourage begging (which we shouldn’t) by giving away money. This is true enough as societies are rarely improved by widespread acceptance of begging, but there’s still a long way from this excuse to actually helping. To help my struggling consciousness, I keep a karma budget. One involving real money and not just self-justification. There are plenty of NGO’s around helping the homeless and the orphans, and they can do a lot more good than the few coins you might actually end up throwing at beggars. They also ensure that the money is directed to the right people.

Lastly, at least on this list, is there the lying to new friends. Africans are an unbelievable friendly bunch and as such it’s easy to make new friends here. But life is hard, and it shows by the living standards these people have. I don’t always feel confident about my travelling lifestyle in these situations as it – to be honest – is only possible because I’m part of the world’s upper class by the sheer luck of being born in Scandinavia. At other times, it is simply incomprehensible to my new friends. Simply because long time travelling for travelling’s sake is such a foreign concept. Again the easy, and selfish, way out is a small lie. As I happen to have a friend who’ve just started working in Togo and the idea of migrant workers is easily understood it’s become go-to an explanation I’ve used a few times. “I’m on my way to Togo to work.” It might be more of a hope than a direct lie. I wouldn’t mind picking up a job somewhere here in West Africa, but as for now, I have no job waiting for me, and I’m just a happy traveller skipping through the poorer parts of this planet – telling plenty of small lies on the way to make everything a bit easier.

After having lost all moral integrity writing this, I might as flush out all the self-loathing with a beer, or six. So I will talk to you all later. Cheers.

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I think that I’ve mentioned it a few times already: I consider flying as cheating. So, since I’ve just returned to the African mainland – by plane – after a few weeks on Cape Verde, I should probably explain myself. It’s not that I don’t like the act of flying or is afraid of it; I rather like it. But when it comes to travelling I find it... aesthetically and essentially (for lack of better words) wrong.

Travelling is, to me, essentially a matter of experiences. Whether these are cultural, historical, natural or something entirely else. Flights are not. Flying is the complete opposite. It’s humanity’s most efficient mean of transportation. Planes are inherently time machines, moving people in time and space. The time travel is most evident when we’re flying across time zones.

That is, however, not why I dislike flying. (I really want a real time machine!). It’s the travel in space that I mind. Step into that metal cylinder we call a plane in one part of the world, a few hours later we step out somewhere completely different. The problem is that the world doesn’t work like that. The stark difference we feel when flying from, say, Europe or North America to Africa or Asia isn’t real. Sure, it’s real for those people taking the flight, and many of them will probably experience what we call ‘cultural shock’ once they arrive. Simply because the transformation in space is so sudden that it takes some time to get adapt to.

This experience of cultural shock is easily avoided by not flying. Things on the ground change gradually. Consider my trip. Had I just flow from Copenhagen to Dakar (where I am now) it would have been a significant change. Instead, I’ve passed through a number of ‘cultural belts’. The first being Andalusia in Southern Spain. It’s Spanish and European, but having historically also been part of Islamic empires it probably has more in common with Morocco than with (secular, Scandinavian) Denmark. Another transition happened as I moved from to the very conservative and Middle Eastern-ish Mauritania or more open-minded and Sub-Saharan Senegal. Both Islamic countries, the area around the Senegal River, which marks the border, is less conservative than most of the rest of Mauritania on the northern side, but more conservative than the rest of Senegal on the southern. Travelling over land has eased transformation from Scandinavia to Africa in a way that would be impossible by flying.

Cultural Shock is basically a lack of understanding about how a given culture works and how it is different from the one you're used to. People and cultures are different too. But travelling over land gives a distinct feeling for where people and cultures are different and where they aren’t. It provides a better understand of who you’re visiting. By experiencing the transformations from Northern to Southern Europe, from southern Europe to North Africa and from North Africa to Sub-Saharan West Africa I have gotten a much better understanding of how people across these regions are similar and different.

However you go about your non-flying (driving, biking, taking the train, hitch, sail or purchasing a donkey cart) it will give you many more experiences, make you infinitely richer on adventures and be a lot more fun than just flying. As flying is essentially a somewhat tedious affair (unless you’re afraid of it, and they you should avoid it anyway).

Fine, if you’re crossing oceans, are in a hurry (say, on an extended weekend) or if your purpose is not to experience anything, but just to lazy about on a beach, go ahead. Jump on that plane. But the next time you’re taking a two-week vacation somewhere, snub the aeroplane, extend your vacation to three weeks and use that extra week on getting to and from your destinations properly, visiting the fascinating towns, sights and people between your home and wherever you’re going! Especially, if you’re travelling within Europe where distances are incredibly short.

The biggest problem these days are that aeroplane tickets are so damn cheap. Ignore that. Travelling shouldn’t be about saving money. Go the adventures route instead! If you have any sense of adventurous or travelling spirit, it’ll thank you for it (and so will the environment).

So why did I fly to Cape Verde then? It simply was the only mean of transportation. There aren’t any ships from the African mainland. Container ships travel directly there directly from Europe and the private yachts set sail almost exclusively from the Canaries. If I wanted to visit the Verdes, flying was – unfortunately – my only option.

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It came as a complete shock. No-one had told me. Sure, they had explained that the price of the minibus had more than doubled because a recent eruption had taken out the road, but that as the only mention of an eruption that I've heard of. Maybe they feared I wouldn’t go up there if I knew that most of the village that used to house more than a thousand people had also been levelled by the lava flow.

I’d taken the ferry from the main island of Santiago to the smaller Fogo – fittingly meaning ‘fire’ – to climb Pico de Fogo. A perfectly cone-shaped volcano, peaking out at 2829 metres above sea-level, making its summit Cape Verde’s highest point. It had last erupted in 1995. Or so I thought. An eruption in late 2014 meant that the villagers were evacuated for three months while the lava cooled. Vulcanologists are constantly keeping an eye on the volcano’s activities, and everybody was evacuated in due time, leaving only material damage behind as the result of the volcano’s rage. Thank science.

The Pico is hidden from the coast by an enormous collapsed crater (or caldera). 75.000 years ago the eastern half the caldera rim collapsed into the sea, leaving a semi-circle mountain range, more than eight kilometres long.

This half-bowl effectively makes the Pico a volcano inside a volcano. Inside the bowl, between the rim and the Pico lies Chã das Caldeiras (or the “Field of Boilers”). This 'field' is home to the village, plenty of wineries and a black lava landscape that looks like it’s been transferred here straight from the moon. Of this ‘moonscape’ one guidebook has written: “nothing can quite prepare you for the strange thrill of witnessing it for the first time.”

That can definitely be said of witnessing a village swallowed by a volcano for the first time too. The minibus driver did a good job explaining where the road had been taken out, probably to ensure me that the doubling of the price wasn’t a ‘tourist price’. Driving along the edge of the solidified lava, we came to a hut where the lava had, almost comically, reached the walls of the small house and then decided to stop – thus sparing the house.

Although it was nearly two years ago, many of the people living here have yet to return. The reason was rather apparent when I arrived where the village used to be… or rather, where the village still is.

Most of the raw concrete walls that the houses are made with were able to withstand the lava. Instead, the houses have simply been buried, with only the flat roofs visible. Houses on the edge of the flow are being dug out. But it is hard manual labour cutting through the volcanic rocks. The main street was completely swallowed, and it seems impossible that these houses will ever see their former inhabitants return. To me, it seems, these people will have to start over and build new lives elsewhere on the island.

Others were luckier. Like the house I passed when I entered, the community centre was only partly covered. Likewise, a few private homes.

One of which was the homestay that sheltered me during my nights here. It used to be a bar-restaurant, but the lava had made its way into the bar and dining areas. Volcanic rock still occupies one of the rooms and functions as an equally tragic and rather bad-ass deco in the spared dining room. Had this only been a more popular tourist destination, would they have made a fortune as ‘The Lava Restaurant’ or something similar. Unfortunately, this is one of the lesser visited Cape Verdean islands.

I made sure to use the bar, though. However, sitting on my host’s flat roof, reading and drinking rosé, while locals were still digging out the neighbouring house, inevitably recalled images of tourists sunning themselves between the rubble after the 2004 Asian tsunami.

There wasn’t much I could do to help. Nothing else than spending my money, helping the community with some hard needed cash. So that’s what I did. I took a guide for the climb, which I probably wouldn’t have done otherwise. I stayed in the homestay and didn’t haggle about the price, which I probably would have done otherwise. And I bought an extra bottle of the locally produced wine from the community store, which I might have done anyway. This time, I made sure to enjoy it inside the house.

The climb itself started early morning in the volcano’s shadow, with the sun rising behind it. It was a rather steep two-and-a-half hour scramble to the top. Not technical, but clumsiness was better left at the foot. Something I found out not more than twenty metres from the summit when I gripped and pulled on a loose boulder, the size of a large fridge.

I had to jump out of the way not to be crushed as it tumbled down the mountainside. The view from the top was stunning, though still rather depressing with the roofs of the village still clearly visible. That, however, was forgotten quickly as we made our way down. My guide, Safé, taking the lead, the decent was mainly a matter of letting gravity doing what it does best. In the best one-leg-in-front-of-the-other-or-you-will-start-rolling, we were able to spring down the mountainside in a cloud of dust and volcanic ash. So fine was the gravel that we could probably have skied down.

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