How not to travel in style

Thursday 5th Feb - by Sozzle
I am writing this blog because there is no way on earth we are going to get any sleep tonight....

So we have left Biombo. We said goodbye to the charity driver Manuel and the construction manager Lelu (who wanted to see us off). As we were saying our heartfelt thank you's I noticed Lelu's eyes welling slightly and mine did the same. I think I was partly sad for leaving our new found friends, and partly that we were again stepping off the Adventure cliff in to the unknown....

We were really looking forward to our private cabin on the Ziguinchor-Dakar ferry, which we had on the way over. Hot shower, bed, privacy to watch a film on our little lappy in our own little world. So you can imagine our utter sense of disappointment when we were told there were none left. This was said with a rather patronising look and exclamation that "you need to book up to a month in advance if you want a cabin". Hmmf, last time we booked the day before......but to be fair it was the rainy season and noone seemed very interested in "finding themselves" on malaria coast! Now being the dry season a lot more Brancos are obviously interested in being ripped off in corrupt Senegal, and the obligatory middle aged European woman with their fit hunky black gigolos. Not that I am making judgements of course. One must always remain open minded. Perhaps they are just friends.......who are very very close!

So for the bargain price of nearly 50quid for the two of us, we get to sit upright in a chair for 16 hours straight

We find our seats and from the beginning it is fun fun fun. The children behind us are...little oiks. It seems(from my very limited experience so far) that rich Guineans are not so strict with the discipline of their children. In Biombo, the most commonly used method of child crowd control involved a large stick. When a crime had been committed the parent/guardian of the crowd would look at the offenders then look calmly and sadistically at the nearest branch. Very precisely break off the branch and proceed to pick the leaves off the branch one by one. By this time the children have generally started to calm down, but the adult continues to stare with malicious intent at the children as they create the weapon of mass destruction. If this hasn't already reduced and them all to obedient angels by this time, which is sometimes the case, then the thrashing that follows quickly afterwards and the rounding up like a herd of cattle, generally does the trick.

So clearly the little darlings behind us had not been exposed to the same tried and tested discipline tactics. Imagine a 2 year old sitting behind you, kicking with all his might in to the back of your chair and his mother not batting an eye lid. Every now and again she might make some passing comment that perhaps, in his own time, he should think about stopping that. You can also tell that even if she did suddenly muster the backbone to be authoritative about it, she has already totally lost the power over this devil child. Good luck to her for the next 13 years. This two year old continues to kick my chair and as he can see the two disapproving Brits in front of him getting more and more infuriated by what he thinks are hilarious antics.........he does it more and more. Next I feel something hard against my head. Oh, the lovely young man is driving his toy truck through my hair. How novel! And yes its also hilarious trying to pick my pockets when I am not looking. Please excuse me my sides are splitting. See pic.  

We take a break from the seats and go outside where we can eat. To make the journey even more uncomfortable for me personally, I have been struck by some random neck rash and swollen face thing. Not only do I look like Quasimodo, but I am having trouble stuffing my face with the french stick and brie that we purchased in Ziguanchor for our picnic dinner, before we left. Now that is painful! No I am not going to satisfy your morbid curiosity with a photo, but you can imagine it to be as you like. It would have to happen 3 days before we meet Edd's mother in Kenya. She's going to think I've contracted some rare form of African Elephantitis.

Wine and cheese session over and we are settled back in to our aeroplane style seats for the night. Not long in to the journey; the lady directly behind Edd starts to throw up. In true african style, very publicly hurling in to a plastic bag and theatrically gathering the remnants of her last meal in her spit towards the end of each heave and thrusting it out in loud gobbing noises.You can actually hear the solidity as it flies. The film "the exorcist" springs to mind for some reason. See picture of puker no:1 behind Edd.

The woman directly in front of us then decided to switch on her snazzy Laptop and play her own music out loud in the cabin for everyone's enjoyment. How thoughtful of her! It managed to compete so well with the television blaring at full blast and the sick noises from behind. Hello? Doesn't anyone else care about this blatant lack of respect for her fellow passengers. The answer I am looking for is: clearly not! Max I'm sure you'll be with me on this one. Here she is, later asleep. Clearly nothing can be a distraction to everyone else in the room who is concentrating on the cheesy french soap opera on the television.

The torture continues.......

The woman behind Edd next to puker no:1 has decided to take up the sleeping location on the floor next to Edd across his leg space. She periodically spasms her feet in to his. His legs are so cramped up in front of him trying to avoid his involuntary game of footsie.  At the same time the old woman on my right, who is actually quite polite, but can't help but fell a little resentment as she has stolen our only opportunity at lying out flat on the seats, lies down thrusting her scarf covered head in to my hip as she occupies the row's spare chair.

During an expedition to the toilet, Edd reports that he stumbled over a body in the corridor. It was lying against a smashed dinner plate and in a puddle of his own vomit. As the other passengers calmly step over him Edd decides to check his pulse. He is still alive and breathing it seems. Thanks Continental for sending Edd on that first aid course. It means he can now walk away from a comatose body with a clear conscience, after informing the ship's crew of course.

Back at base and we both feel a cold wet sensation quickly saturating our warm dry socks from the floor. Yes, thanks must go again to the little poppets sitting behind us for tipping out their bottle of water. 

Old woman on my right hip now snores loudly. Laptop music player woman has just run in to the corridor to be the second to be tagged in the game of puke horror. Things are looking good for some quality beauty sleep. 

I had to give up there. It is the next day now......

To conclude our night on the boat, which I might add was officially the worst nights sleep of my life, the television you will be aghast to hear stayed at full blast until 2am. There was nowhere quiet to go and sleep - it was like a television torture chamber. Earlier at around 3 in the afternoon, for the viewers pleasure they were showing some gratuitous sex scenes. The show then changed to some type of mud hut soap opera which everyone was finding utterly hilarious. 

At around midnight I started feeling a bit queasy, as more and more people joined the pukers club. The boat was rocking up and down a bit to be fair but it wasn't the worst I've known. But of the 50 or so people in the room around 6 or so had joined the club. The television continued to shout at me, sometimes in Senegalise Olaf and sometimes in French. When the detailed visuals of a goat sacrifice was now being displayed in all its glory on the screen; the old woman's head jabbed in to my hip and the horrific scenes on television I had trouble reminding myself that I hadn't just stepped in to the Clockwork Orange. It was around this point that I was also reluctantly forced in to joining the ever increasingly popular pukers club. Perhaps that all that Brie and wine wasn't such a good idea on a journey like this? It certainly wasn't so tasty the second time around.

The boat arrived at 6am in Dakar. My face swelling is getting worse and seems to be some kind of deep infection on both sides of my face. I must have picked up at some point in the final stages of our stay in Biombo. It might have something to do with the fact that we had no water again for 4 days in the last week. But on the bright side, I am using my bandanna to cover up the bottom half of my face so as not to make the children cry when they see me. It also gives me a chance to unleash my secret weapon. This anti-social face covering thing seems to deter people from continuing to hassle me in the street. With my mum's voice from my childhood resounding in my head ("if looks could kill I'd be dead already") I adopt the most sinister death stare I can muster looking over the top of my lower face mask (as sinister as it can be when its red with daisies on!). It must have looked ominous enough though....because they backed away in fear.

Lesson learnt: whatever you do, do no travel on the Ziguinchor/Dakar ferry without a cabin bed.