Sadly, Dragoman allocates only one full day in Parc National du Niokolo-Koba and it’s time to move on via Tambacounda to the coast. When Timbuktu was removed from the official Dragoman itinerary, something had to be substituted to fill in the time. The choice was made to visit the coastal village of Palmarin, which is the gateway to the Sine-Saloum Delta in southern Senegal. Dragoman alloted three driving days and two nights of bush camping (billed as a highlight remember!) to reach this coastal community. Quite why we couldn’t spend extra time on safari, I don’t know. There’s got to be wildlife in this park somewhere. Adonis is a good tour leader, though, realizing that the group had already got about as much enjoyment as it was likely to get from bush camping (or perhaps Aphrodite was finding it hard to maintain that English Rose glow in the absence of a daily shower). Either way, Adonis came up with a plan B last night, adding the northern Senegalese colonial town of Saint Louis to our agenda. In order to accommodate both Palmarin and Saint Louis, though, we have to reach Palmarin today. It will be one very, very long driving day (instead of 3 shorter days of driving and 2 nights of bush camping). In order to change the itinerary Adonis needs all the group to agree. Margaret Thatcher is about to open her mouth when a rare but well-aimed elbow in the ribs by Dennis stymies any possible protest.
Consequently the day begins in the middle of the night. Poor Christi and Hu-man start preparing breakfast well before sparrow fart, while I’m left to pack up our room. This isn’t easy because there is currently no power and no water. Christi and Hu-man once again have to go shopping in Tambacounda for lunch provisions. There was little of interest to explore last time we were here, so most people remain on the truck or volunteer to help Christi, Hu-man, and I to go shopping. I do spot one miracle or mirage in Tambacounda this morning, which I have never seen before or since: a trash collector. It’s a one-man operation with a donkey and cart. Needless to say, this man will never be out of a job, although quite why he does this is beyond me. It’s his poor donkey I feel sorry for as it strains under the deluge of garbage.
With lunch secured, it’s back on the truck. Christi injects me with some butt-numbing concoction from her portable pharmacy and I settle back to the longest Dragoman drive of my life. We stop briefly for lunch and for the last time on this trip Christi and Hu-man feed 20 ravenous faces. Apparently doing nothing is hungry work. The disappointing from my perspective is that I have yet to even begin this onerous chore. The closer we get to the coast, the better the roads become, but then there is more traffic, more police check points, more wandering cows, and more people who all think they have the right of way – even though we are in a 5-ton truck. The best part of reaching Palmarin and the Auberge Djidjack is the sudden drop in temperatures, although ironically, when the sun sets, I’m frantically searching for a sweater despite the fact it’s 75oF.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart, a gut-wrenching tale of broken hearts and broken test tubes.
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