Woke early to fill the bike bags with the last riding stuff as we will return for another brief icy blast. Then the kitchens posted home.......... brilliant coffee maker. and untransportable things like the blade as we are travelling light and want to carry only cabin baggage to save time. The wonderful beaded woman in the Post office said with a broad smile.... Dakar est tres tres different ....my mind is flooded with imaginings...I know ma francais mal can only improve.....
We present our left over figs, tournesols olive oil from Swisse and tin mugs all cycled gladly around the world to the trio of Soutines down in the parc. A respectful thank you in english is again in our ears as we dart off escaping their garrulous invitation to chat. The pigeon man is edging around his pile of cardboard that fills a niche in the wall nearby. The rubbish removal team is looking at his carefully constructed chateau which hides all his belongings.... we will know when we return if he succeeds in warding them off..
We say our goodbyes to the very friendly man at the Hotel Parc slipping him and extra E50 to safeguard our velos whose helmett covered saddles pop out of their bags in the dark cave below waiting our return in three weeks. We stash the 1/4 pounder of parmesan that we hope to smuggle into Dakar along with the St Emillion....
Off to check the local lingerie magazin for the spretty maillot de bain.......without success we are too early or we conjecture the owner is having an autre tous saints....no doubt behind the windows above us as we turn away...
We catch the RER train out CDG in the pouring wintry rain and I'm overawed by the efficiency and architectural spleandor of it all. I seem to get a splendor to observe every day en Paris. The way huge volumes are enclosed with beautiful curved ceiling seemingly without supports lined with wooden strips and faced with glass glass glass...then gradually as one reaches the departure lounges the sky is let in incrementally.....to prepare one for travel...
We board and wait as luggage is removed because of no show passengers. We are surrounded by many languages, men now dress in supremely coloured robes which drag on the carpet behind them,and have stylish briefcases into which I watched one passenger load the air france blanket....my feet start to expand and then just in time we are descending and will land in 28 degrees.
The white card is handed out and we endeavour to answer truthfully. No declarations are sought other than our country of origin. During the flight a group of well robed men accompanied by a sharp lookin dude in a cream suit converse and divvy up some duty free loot, perfume and expensive tins of what must be coffee...
When we alight they all wait for each other holding up the line. As they emerge a female soldier in fatigues emerges to greet the cream suit. We are loaded onto buses to get to the aerodrome. There is a mix up and some of the important party are on our bus as it roars off. We stop two bus lengths later at tha airport entry and take to queues under the battered International Visitor lamp. The important party rejoin us for 5 minutes until I guess the remainder are sorted out and then vanish into the night escorted away behind our backs.
I'm told at the customs post not to lie about my country of origin which is Australia despite my European passport. Australia is crossed out and Irlandais replaced. Who am I to argue ? I nod and thank in broken French as is my want for being made Irish for the books.
Kate and Bechir , Sheila's wonderful family make us feel so welcome as we emerge into the dark hot night that is Africa and everyone is tugging at our luggage sleeves and waving orange cards all sticky taped up. Great deals one and all I'm sure. The car is wonderfully cool over the dirt roads as we weave our way through the newly constructed highway that links the airport to the rest of the world....
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