Early start to catch the air conditioned car to Lac rose and lompouil a desert encampment.
The driver Gibril has been waiting in smart clothes for half an hour before the suggested 8.00am. The car is small white and has excellent air conditioning at the end of a 5 minute walk.. We travel light. I feel that this trip I've slowly divested myself of nearly everything. Having started with a bike full we now have passports a fresh shirt and a bottle of water.
The outskirts of Dakar are a real contrast. Poverty, dust moutons, broken down everything, people running beside cars trying to sell things through the windows....4 lane highways turning into dust bowls at a moments notice. No traffic lights. dodons aptly named speed bumps. rond points with hundreds of cars and trucks waiting patiently as three lanes are squeezed from two.
The roads gradually become countryside as we turn off to the pink lake, past concrete brick walls, past small thatched huts and old men sitting outside dark empty shop fronts. Three hours of pot hole missing, goats and old mecedes benz truck busses and we arrive. An enormous woven roof, and coffees for three. Chez Salim's is a big place. We discuss the availably of legumes and are introduced to the chef who assures our guide in Wollof that he will provide for us after our tour of the lac.
An enormous three metre deep salt mine which occasionally turns rose in the right wind, sunlight and season. Brown clear to red was what we got.with millions of white shells underfoot.. We swim as far off poor people raise salt manually from 3 metres down on modified spades with tree long handles. Into rusting pink boats and thence to house size piles on the shore to dry and be loaded by women into bags. Very profitable, very ancient still very laborious.
As we finish swimming an old man pours fresh water over us and then tells me to pull open the front of my shorts to receive and extra splosh.
We resume our journey to witness a very australian beach with ribbon gums and endless clean sands. Then suddenly we are back at the monstrously huge grass hut hotel and omelette's and haricots vertes with frittes. Our guide ploughed through a small chook with onion sauce. Sheila was troubadored with much mirth by a local armadillo playing gentlemen who was then happily paid.
Four hours later we arrive at a small village when we are removed into a 4 wheel drive to accomplish the last section before the micro desert which proves to be a tumble in the open back with some Perpignon french couples who laugh and make jokes with our guide. Sheila's finger is bursting with pain and I worry it will get caught up in it all unawares. Then we arrive at dunes with groups of Mauritainienne tents which are by all accounts the ants pants.
We are shown ours and told camel rides are only on today. Into the couching sun we approach some tired looking camels who eye us all distastefully. Sheila agrees despite misgivings and is lifted into position on the back of a grey ship of the desert. I cling onto a sugar bag tied on behind. Two by two we are led off into the sunset on our ballade chamel. Despite rather terrifying sudden lurching and grievous snorting we return safely and are again tumbled back to mother earth.
The night descends we drink a beer a coke for our guide, treated to some wild djembe sounds and then are escorted into another aunt where we are seated at tables 10 or so in each. We eat couscous and legumes and small sections of water melon. The conversation turns brittle as the french have a go at the local musician for idleness.
We sleep on foamies listening to Danes chortling into the night, howling wild dogs and far off the djembe rings out at another city of aunts.
