Rosso as a border crossing we'd been told by all was a terrible place full corruption and impossible to pass though without excessive lightening of ones wallet. Diama on the other hand, 40km west and at the end of a piste that ran through a national park, was recommended as being less well travelled and generally more professional. The piste itself lived up to expectations with monkeys, wild pigs, birds of all sizes and yet more roving bovine roadblocks livening up the journey, but unfortunately the crossing was more like Rosso than expected. From the first meeting with officialdom on the Mauritainian side Robin had to face down the head of customs aka the Last King Of Scotland, a big imposing chap clearly well practiced in the use of amateur dramatics to intimidate those intending to depart the country. Outside I minded the bikes and gear while midday prayers were ramping up in a small walled area facing east, on the opposite side of the road the river that formed the border was visible. The 'King' slowly rolled off his mattress in front of the telly on the floor and went in to the office, muttering an instruction to follow. Robin did and an interesting game began.
-Olly
Scowling import guy demands passports, v5s and import documents for Mauritania from me. Once he has these on his side of the table he tells me the charge is 10 Euros each. I'm not convinced, we'd never heard of this charge and had researched well, something in his expression says he is trying it on. I tell him theres no charge for export but he insists, I tell him that's a problem as we have no cash, believable as Mauritania does not allow the export of currency, so essentially hes a victim of their own regulations. It's beginning a battle of wits. His eyes roll, his head drops, anyone would believe he's just heard the worlds ending. It's a game of chess but a tricky one, at any time he thinks he's loosing I know he might just throw the board out the window. I provoke the top his head by asking how can we resolve this and again he demands his bribe, the cycle repeats a few times until he says maybe you have a present for me instead? It confirms the charge is crap! I remember the expensive cigarettes from Morocco and pretend to turn ideas over in my mind; just our luck this is the one man in Mauritania who gave up smoking nine years ago! Maybe he can sell them on but he's not convinced. The assistant comes thinking his English can help but leaves five minutes later when no progress is being made. Eventually the King rolls his eyes one last time and says next time you need to bring me a camera or new trainers! I shook his hand and left.
The police office has a different atmosphere. Smarter uniforms, computers and scanners and efficient but friendly attitude. After ten minutes of writing details in the ledger, computering and stamping papers, he put the passports on the desk and demanded 10 Euros each. This was actually the same game again as with customs, with no police entry charge why would there be an exit one? I repeat the story, no cash until St Louis. Things here are quicker and again I have another no smoker but this time I'm shooed out the office with a scowl and importantly the passports! We hop on the bikes and are away on to the bridge before anyone can change their mind!
It's a temporary break as we cross the bridge before another self important official takes a turn at ruining our day. He wants 4000 Ougia each for crossing the bridge, twice the price of an auberge room for two! No price list but if we don't believe him we can ask at the police office, which I'm sure are going to back him up anyway, at least I'm past him even if the bikes aren't. I go to the police office but the bridge bandit follows me in and talks right over me, I tell him I want to talk in private and eventually he leaves so I can scope out the police. The officer says he can get half price bridge crossing but we still have to pay his 10Euro charge for each passport! Negotiations on this one are long, my story of lacking cash doesn't go far as he offers us a cab to take us to the bank, seems hard to wait this one out. Even though he's a smoker the cigarettes are only buying so much leverage. After more negotiations I persuade him to take both cartons of cigarettes to settle his charges and he agrees to order the bridge man to half his fee. The barrier goes up, the passports come back and he shakes my hand and praises my courage for standing firm throughout the proceedings! Mean while Olly has been talking to the engineer responsible for the bridge, an older guy he trained in Carlisle and says we don't have to pay the return journey if we mention his name, hopefully!
Only one obstacle stands between us and Senegal, the customs, the Doune! Things are moving slowly here, the arrival of two van loads of Belgians have backed up behind a Spanish couple and their dog who had been arrested two days earlier for giving up with the bribes and trying to run the border. Two days of prison beatings and a very large 'fine' later they are almost free but still taking the majority of the officials attention. A non uniformed fixer is floating around the office being officious enough to believably be a real officer, 50/50 chance. I already knew customs could be tricky for my bike as it was older than the limit for entry without a carnet but the 60Euro the fixer demands seems pretty steep. We eventually get to the front of the virtual queue and I speak to the head of customs. The youngish but senior officer dealing with the Spanish couple seemed to enjoy demonstrating his power over them but in our case he seems to be relatively approachable. He writes out permits for each of our bikes giving us 48hrs to get to customs in Dakar and complete the process and the sixty Euro charge has luckily disappeared as the fixer Is distracted elsewhere, leaving a legitimate 2500Cifa, 3.80Euro per bike.
With all the documents complete we clear the border as quick as possible and only stop 5kms down the road to breath a sigh of relief!
If we paid out every charge demanded of us during the day we'd have paid out 140Euro but playing the game got us the 300 yards for the bargain price of 18Euros and offloading the two cartons of cigarettes that been a burden for the last 2000kms! We were in Senegal!
-Robin
It was only a short drive in to St Louis which we would have to pass through to get to the Zebra Bar where we were planning a few days off the road. It was an amazing city full of people shouting hellos to each other, music playing, bright colours everywhere, a real contrast to Mauritania. And the other half of the chromosome reappeared; as we travelled south it was as if women had pretty much disappeared all together but not only did they reappear they were smart and elegant, no wonder the mauritanians we spoke to all said the Senegalese women gave them heart attacks :)
Big orange trucks with wobbly wheels and bent in the middle jostled with yellow taxis, wings and bonnets all replaced with other colours, bright blue and white Renault mini buses with gaping window apertures ferried smiling people through the streets painted with patterns, eyes, messages and 'transport de commune', tied up with tassels and ribbons. The contrast was dramatic; the happiness level was so much higher.
It was slow progress though, nothing got near the 40kph speed limit but the constant in and out of minibuses and starts and stops gave us time to take it all in. It was even more ironic then what happened next!
Leaving town it was necessary to cross a bridge to reach the unsurfaced road to Zebra Bar, just on to it a man in a yellow bib with a whistle and filthy bomber jacket jumped out, he was quite irate but there was no way past. 'who are you?' I demanded. 'your bike here!' he shouted back and pointed at the verge, 'you, who?!', this was going to wear thin quickly. I looked in the mirror and Robin had a similar guy in front of him. Was that a gun on his hip? 'policeman!' my guy started to shout, I was looking for any sign of it but with a gun in sight it was time to play along.
No way my grubby chap was a copper but the other guy seemed genuine enough, he was pointing at his cap and gun, they seemed to calm down a little when it was pointed out the lack of identification his friend had.
Then the bullsh*t started, another one with a badge in place of morals. Apparently we hadn't stopped for a policeman 3kms earlier, then it was we were reving engines through town, then we were speeding; none of the reality mattered one bit. The alternative of paying 20 Euros each at the police station got further away too, first it was 3kms up the road where his chief had spotted us then 12kms and three roundabouts inland where we'd been radared apparently, we even got to speak on the phone with his jabbering pal down the pub who had the disillusion he was chief of police. There was no point arguing anything, none of it mattered, we would wait it out.
He got more unsure he was going to get anything and hassled us more and more but we waited and the price dropped bit by bit, his inability to convert currencies worked in our favour. We found an Arabic looking man beside us in the same predicament with his pickup going the other way, 'this is africa' he said with a sympathetic look.
Eventually we were back on the road for 10Euros, the sun was going down and we still had 20kms of dirt road to cover so we had to make a move, but not before the policeman tried to get the same cash from both of us. We wished the pickup driver luck and headed out of town, vowing to jam up the bridge by driving so slowly!
Zebra bar was a pretty cool set up but all we saw was dinner and bed until the next day, arriving in the dark at the end of what had been a very long day.
-Olly
Scowling import guy demands passports, v5s and import documents for Mauritania from me. Once he has these on his side of the table he tells me the charge is 10 Euros each. I'm not convinced, we'd never heard of this charge and had researched well, something in his expression says he is trying it on. I tell him theres no charge for export but he insists, I tell him that's a problem as we have no cash, believable as Mauritania does not allow the export of currency, so essentially hes a victim of their own regulations. It's beginning a battle of wits. His eyes roll, his head drops, anyone would believe he's just heard the worlds ending. It's a game of chess but a tricky one, at any time he thinks he's loosing I know he might just throw the board out the window. I provoke the top his head by asking how can we resolve this and again he demands his bribe, the cycle repeats a few times until he says maybe you have a present for me instead? It confirms the charge is crap! I remember the expensive cigarettes from Morocco and pretend to turn ideas over in my mind; just our luck this is the one man in Mauritania who gave up smoking nine years ago! Maybe he can sell them on but he's not convinced. The assistant comes thinking his English can help but leaves five minutes later when no progress is being made. Eventually the King rolls his eyes one last time and says next time you need to bring me a camera or new trainers! I shook his hand and left.
The police office has a different atmosphere. Smarter uniforms, computers and scanners and efficient but friendly attitude. After ten minutes of writing details in the ledger, computering and stamping papers, he put the passports on the desk and demanded 10 Euros each. This was actually the same game again as with customs, with no police entry charge why would there be an exit one? I repeat the story, no cash until St Louis. Things here are quicker and again I have another no smoker but this time I'm shooed out the office with a scowl and importantly the passports! We hop on the bikes and are away on to the bridge before anyone can change their mind!
It's a temporary break as we cross the bridge before another self important official takes a turn at ruining our day. He wants 4000 Ougia each for crossing the bridge, twice the price of an auberge room for two! No price list but if we don't believe him we can ask at the police office, which I'm sure are going to back him up anyway, at least I'm past him even if the bikes aren't. I go to the police office but the bridge bandit follows me in and talks right over me, I tell him I want to talk in private and eventually he leaves so I can scope out the police. The officer says he can get half price bridge crossing but we still have to pay his 10Euro charge for each passport! Negotiations on this one are long, my story of lacking cash doesn't go far as he offers us a cab to take us to the bank, seems hard to wait this one out. Even though he's a smoker the cigarettes are only buying so much leverage. After more negotiations I persuade him to take both cartons of cigarettes to settle his charges and he agrees to order the bridge man to half his fee. The barrier goes up, the passports come back and he shakes my hand and praises my courage for standing firm throughout the proceedings! Mean while Olly has been talking to the engineer responsible for the bridge, an older guy he trained in Carlisle and says we don't have to pay the return journey if we mention his name, hopefully!
Only one obstacle stands between us and Senegal, the customs, the Doune! Things are moving slowly here, the arrival of two van loads of Belgians have backed up behind a Spanish couple and their dog who had been arrested two days earlier for giving up with the bribes and trying to run the border. Two days of prison beatings and a very large 'fine' later they are almost free but still taking the majority of the officials attention. A non uniformed fixer is floating around the office being officious enough to believably be a real officer, 50/50 chance. I already knew customs could be tricky for my bike as it was older than the limit for entry without a carnet but the 60Euro the fixer demands seems pretty steep. We eventually get to the front of the virtual queue and I speak to the head of customs. The youngish but senior officer dealing with the Spanish couple seemed to enjoy demonstrating his power over them but in our case he seems to be relatively approachable. He writes out permits for each of our bikes giving us 48hrs to get to customs in Dakar and complete the process and the sixty Euro charge has luckily disappeared as the fixer Is distracted elsewhere, leaving a legitimate 2500Cifa, 3.80Euro per bike.
With all the documents complete we clear the border as quick as possible and only stop 5kms down the road to breath a sigh of relief!
If we paid out every charge demanded of us during the day we'd have paid out 140Euro but playing the game got us the 300 yards for the bargain price of 18Euros and offloading the two cartons of cigarettes that been a burden for the last 2000kms! We were in Senegal!
-Robin
It was only a short drive in to St Louis which we would have to pass through to get to the Zebra Bar where we were planning a few days off the road. It was an amazing city full of people shouting hellos to each other, music playing, bright colours everywhere, a real contrast to Mauritania. And the other half of the chromosome reappeared; as we travelled south it was as if women had pretty much disappeared all together but not only did they reappear they were smart and elegant, no wonder the mauritanians we spoke to all said the Senegalese women gave them heart attacks :)
Big orange trucks with wobbly wheels and bent in the middle jostled with yellow taxis, wings and bonnets all replaced with other colours, bright blue and white Renault mini buses with gaping window apertures ferried smiling people through the streets painted with patterns, eyes, messages and 'transport de commune', tied up with tassels and ribbons. The contrast was dramatic; the happiness level was so much higher.
It was slow progress though, nothing got near the 40kph speed limit but the constant in and out of minibuses and starts and stops gave us time to take it all in. It was even more ironic then what happened next!
Leaving town it was necessary to cross a bridge to reach the unsurfaced road to Zebra Bar, just on to it a man in a yellow bib with a whistle and filthy bomber jacket jumped out, he was quite irate but there was no way past. 'who are you?' I demanded. 'your bike here!' he shouted back and pointed at the verge, 'you, who?!', this was going to wear thin quickly. I looked in the mirror and Robin had a similar guy in front of him. Was that a gun on his hip? 'policeman!' my guy started to shout, I was looking for any sign of it but with a gun in sight it was time to play along.
No way my grubby chap was a copper but the other guy seemed genuine enough, he was pointing at his cap and gun, they seemed to calm down a little when it was pointed out the lack of identification his friend had.
Then the bullsh*t started, another one with a badge in place of morals. Apparently we hadn't stopped for a policeman 3kms earlier, then it was we were reving engines through town, then we were speeding; none of the reality mattered one bit. The alternative of paying 20 Euros each at the police station got further away too, first it was 3kms up the road where his chief had spotted us then 12kms and three roundabouts inland where we'd been radared apparently, we even got to speak on the phone with his jabbering pal down the pub who had the disillusion he was chief of police. There was no point arguing anything, none of it mattered, we would wait it out.
He got more unsure he was going to get anything and hassled us more and more but we waited and the price dropped bit by bit, his inability to convert currencies worked in our favour. We found an Arabic looking man beside us in the same predicament with his pickup going the other way, 'this is africa' he said with a sympathetic look.
Eventually we were back on the road for 10Euros, the sun was going down and we still had 20kms of dirt road to cover so we had to make a move, but not before the policeman tried to get the same cash from both of us. We wished the pickup driver luck and headed out of town, vowing to jam up the bridge by driving so slowly!
Zebra bar was a pretty cool set up but all we saw was dinner and bed until the next day, arriving in the dark at the end of what had been a very long day.
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