As we crossed a bridge, an older person, whose white beard complemented his jaunty straw trilby, nodded at some bigger pirogues. “If there is no fish, they’ll remain out and return tomorrow.” Right away in an open up boat, miles from the Atlantic coast of West Africa, was an alarming prospect. Around the put up office environment, I banged on the roof, paid the fare and stumbled out, accompanied by a lingering fishy odour.
Afterwards, among the dimly lit streets, I filtered as a result of queues of perfectly-cherished Peugeots in research of evening meal. Two guitarists played for their personal satisfaction outdoors an as-however empty bar. Close by, the pastel walls and open up-fronted restaurant of Hôtel du Palais drew me in. Ceiling lovers languidly stirred the night time air, creating the light-weight to flicker. At the sound of a cork becoming pulled, I was offered.
“Come in. Sit down. Are you alone?” requested monsieur le patron, through a fecund moustache. “The rosé is pretty good. When you’ve had a few glasses, it is greater to acquire the bottle. Why not?” His logic was flawless. I questioned about the cafe. “The foods is impressive. I have been below in this hotel for 20 a long time, and in Africa for 30. I was a pilot.” There was a lot more to appear, but his story was interrupted by the arrival of a nicely-tanned French couple, obviously regulars.
He returned to request where by I was heading next. I informed him Touba. “Why ..? There is a huge mosque, see it and …” He created a slicing motion with his hand. “And just after?” I explained to him Kaolack. “Pfff … There is also almost nothing.” He had a position. My guidebook described the town as “the armpit of Senegal”. I discussed it was an overnight stop en route to Gambia, which pleased him. “Ah … Ok. But the most important point is you’re in this article and you’re on trip.”