We limb back to Lebe. Here we meet Hassan a Lebanese trader. Some strong coffee, 1000 FG plus a few hundred bucks exchanged on the black market I am the owner of a two new Pirelli tyre plus new tubes. It’s too late to go any further so the girls check into a Hassan recommended hotel. I take Williwaw off in search of a puncture repairman.

(Top Tip: This profession is usually found at crossroads, in the proximity of bus station lorry depots, taxi ranks, or under an electrical pole.)

Thirty minutes of hammering by a young puncture repairman with the universal African trimmings swap the tube and vanishing tools trick if you have not seen it before and my new tyres are on the wheel hubs. A few bottles of beer later my two-punctured tyres are also fixed.

(Top Tip: Bring your own patches and solvent. African patches are made from old tubes and their glue leaves a lot to be desired.)

That night I have no difficulty sleep although a soldier ant bite between my thumb and index finger is giving some grief.

After weeks of unrestricted space Lebe, the capital of the Fouta Djolon gives us the urban shudders. According to the Bible, our next port of call should be the Chutes de Kinkon. King Kong himself being all of forty-six metres tall its name conjures up a gigantic waterfall. We puncture free arrive in Pita just before lunch. A short distance further on we find a bumpy track down to the falls.   Pass an old dam an ancient codger at a gate stops us. A pass is required to visit the falls to be had back in Pita. Some African bargaining saves the trip back.

A short walk brings us out onto a slippery wet rock platform with a vertical plunge not to be taken. Great wads of ivory smooth water tumble over in silent sheets. The eye follows each sheet in its silent fall to the rocks below where the water rearranges its self for its long journey to the sea. The heat of midday makes the rising spray a welcome soothing sensation on the skin.   The temptation to strip although powerful is put pay too by Florence’s insistence that someone might arrive at any moment. She need not have feared as I had once brought Fanny to the top of the Eiffel Tower where she locked herself onto the wire mesh with vertigo. No encouragement would bring her to edge for a shower.

Dates on a nearby commemorative plaque of some previous distinguished visitors and the less known graffiti recorded dates the possibility of anyone turning up seemed as likely as King Kong himself turning up selling ice cream >, In the end, vanity rules the day.

We leave with the feeling of being there done that bought the tee-shirt. On the road again we head for Dalaba. In its French colonial days a tuberculosis recovery centres, and according to our bible, it has a remarkable Fula Chiefs assemble hall.

Our arrival is announced by a few wandering dogs into a wide street lined on both sides by housing which gives the impression that the place is almost deserted. Dalaba looks as interesting as an Ohio municipal parking block, but surprise, surprise it is sporting a new hotel. Run by a French bloke of some wealth and his refined Guinian wife with two little daughters. Within minutes Florence is in heaven playing.

Over dinner, our host and hostess are both charming and interesting. Along after dinner discussion late into the night covers the French occupation till Charles de Gaulle chucked his hat at it when the Marxist Dictator Sekou Tour’s told him “Guinea prefers poverty in freedom to riches in slavery.”

After which the country was closed to the west for thirty odd years while the bastard Sekou purge all those who were not of the Faranah clan.

Our hosts convince us to stay a day and explore the area. A little luxury won’t go astray for the girls, hot water, comfortable beds, and good food and whisky has us agreeing without much resistance.

Shedding kilos of dead skin under a hot shower we assemble for breakfast. Armed with a map from the local OITD tourist office we set off for the day. The Assembly Hall and Le Pont de Dieu are the destinations.

Built in the thirties, the assembly hall is now surrounded by cheap ugly chalets. The hall itself is rapidly re-assembling itself within its own walls. Standing on a wooden floored in the main assembly room the wooden walls still have some carvings of long-lost animals. It is not difficult to visualise the Fula chiefs clapping hands, stomping their feet with their bracelets tinkling to a Fulani tune that echoed off the surrounding rolling hills.

In less than a wink down the road, we are mounting the steps of large hotel to be greeted into its marble flagged foyer by its young French manageress.   After a month of mostly wild camping and grass huts, a hotel of this size is the last thing we had expected to see.   It comes as somewhat of a shock to find such a large building in the middle of nowhere. Guests are non-existent the views are spectacular, lunch is a disaster, and the Skol isn’t Skol although it is in a Guinness can. The whole place is surreal a hotel in waiting or some enormous tax fiddle.

We leave for Gods Bridge. It is obvious that is has been some time since any others ventured down to Gods Bridge as the tourist desk in the hotel manned by the manageress never heard of it.

I can feel the girls tense as Williwaw wheels collect enough pottery clay to make a new dinner service for the Hotel. We are descending a steep track deeply rutted by running water.

Committed, with no place to turn we slide on. The feeling of skidding sends goose pimples down my back.   My foot is a shuddering and quivering to touch the brakes. Give me rocks anytime. We come to a section of the track that has been wasted away, exposing some large rocks. The drop on our left brings back memories of my Portuguese toilet roll disappearing at speed on its merry way to the Duoro.

I walk the track fully aware that I will have to dive up it on the way back > Tilted to one side it looks very uninviting. Grip is what it is all about so I hug the high ground and as much exposed rock as possible. In a jack-knife posture, we slid across the gap.

(Top TIP: Driving mud. Don’t stop. If feasible keep to where those have gone before in the highest gear possible. Where the rut is too deep get the passengers to risk their life and limb by filling them in with sticks or stones. We found our rope car mats quite useful.)  

It is not long after this excitement that our track comes to a stop. Taking to shanks mare faces of protest says it all. “It’s your fault.” Fanny trudges along like an old woman oblivious to the diversity of her natural surroundings. The bridge is still some distance away according to our map. The forest gives way to very large bamboo until we emerge into a labyrinth of small streams. Gods Bridge turns out to be a natural stone single rounded arch spanning one of the streams.

The walk back to Williwaw is all but too much for Florence. Combined with the anxiety of watching her dad drive the tricky section once more, there is a great sigh of relief for her to see her hotel friends again.

Over dinner, we receive an invitation from Dr Almo B.A. Barry to stay with him at his village of birth Kola Hendek. “Here you will see Guinea in its struggle to exist in the present world.”  “My village is on our route to Kourussa. “It’s some three clicks along the railway line. Just past Mamou, hang a right and you’re sure to find me.” I accept. The likely hood of us finding the exact turn off is a thousand to one.

Pushing on the next morning our lush countryside passes quickly with the driving surface improves by the mile. Fruit of all kinds dribbles down our chins. Oranges, tangerines, grapefruit, mangoes, pineapples, serve to quench our thirst. While I am in danger of developing perilous dodgy heat rash on my bum from sticking to synthetic leather the girls have a big sheepskin from Lancashire called Sourbutt to keep their bums cool.

(Top TIP: Take or buy a sheepskin to sit on for coolness, comfort, warmth etc. When travelling with a child, it can be of great comfort and can sub up as a cover for night-time in desert or at altitude.)

Reaching Mamou we hit a tar road.   Immediately Williwaw has a mind of her own. She is pulling to the left and then the right. Something wrong with the steering I think. Stopping, nothing appears visible wrong but the very minute we start again she needs constant corrections.

In my nitwit naivety, we stop again while I check the wheel bolts.

(Top TIP: A good habit when driving off-road is to go around your wheel bolts once in a while with your wheel brace.   We also had security bolts fitted to each wheel to prevent theft.)

Still waltzing it eventually dawns on me that the problem is my new Pirellis. Each tyre has a completely different tyre patterns. How I wish once more that I had invested in a decent set of off-road tyres. There is nothing for it but to stop and change the tyres back to a unified set.

Unlike Europe, a man with a flat tyre in Africa is offered assistance as a matter of course. The AA or RAC of Africa no matter where you happen to be is a willing internet of hands that materialize as if by magic. On this occasion, we happen to be just down the road from the turnoff to Kola Hendek marked by an invisible signpost.   A tree what else.

With the old tyres back on Fanny in true English demeanour is apprehensive about inflicting ourselves on a total stranger. “Sure we just stop for a cuppa.”   Back onto a dirt road, the lie of the land is now much flatter. We pass plantation after plantation of peanuts, cassava, with a few shallow stream crossings thrown in for good measure. One hour later from the main road we pull up outside Dr Barry’s holiday home. His welcome is open and full of delight to see us.

Almo, known as Chief Doc Barry is in his early forties. He introduces us to his German girlfriend a Frankfurt nurse. He is the driving force behind a school and a small medical dispensary built out of his own pocket. A dynamo of energy continually on the move he speaks German, French, English, and Pulaar. He himself has just arrived a day or so in front of us. He introduces us to three village elders who have arrived for supper. . I get a feeling of almost complete dissociation as they exchange news.   “They are nothing without their cattle, just families living off their fields as the grain ripens.”

Almo later explained (over a cup of Kinkilibar his favourite drink made from a leaf with lemon and sugar or honey. The leaf is boiled to remove a poison, and then re-boiled. It bets all our thirst quenching purchases of the day. We learn that he is here to perform an operation on a young man who wants to get married. Some years ago he operated on the same fellow, who had the worst top lip deformation he had ever seen, hanging down over his chin.

We also learn that he was one of the last men to escape the reign of terror in Guinea. That he moved to Germany following the end of the Second World War, where he became a very successful surgeon. At that time in Germany, he describes to me that he had to stand with his hands behind his back at many an operation. “Blacks were not allowed to touch anything in those days.”

We chat long into the night covering everything from deep-rooted traditions and superstitions to his ambitions for the future. “Everything is a struggle against the backwardness and fatalism of his people who have given up expecting anything from the government.”

We agree that is almost impossible to marry the legacy of traditionalism with the need to come to terms with the modern world. That aid is not the World Bank or the IMF granting large loans to third world countries. That the very words ‘Third World’ should be abolished and replaced with ‘Developing’ and that private hands-on investment is far the better option.

When you think that one in five people have no access to safe drinking water and that we have been trying to eradicate Malaria for god knows how long its time to move away from voluntary Aid to a source of continual aid funding.

Our master plan developed into the early hours of the morning is that:

All stock exchanges, lotteries, Sovereign Wealth Funds, High-frequency Trading, Currency trading over $20,000 and world sporting bodies and the like should be brought into the United Nations and made sign a charter that would compel them to forsake a small percentage of their profits, 0.005%

A world aid COMMISSION

The funds generated would then be the corner-stone of a new World United Nations Investment Fund. 

The funds would change the United Nations Aid programmes from a helpless G2O begging organisation to an organisation with its own clout.  

The Investment funds to be operated by independently appointed experts from the world business community.

 THE UNITED NATIONS INVESTMENT FUND:

This fund would then to be placed on the world stock exchanges where

It would benefit from the one virus that is consuming the world.

Greed:

By placing The Fund on the world stock exchanges it would ensure the fund transparent. Standing, on its own successes and failures.

Each country to submit a candidate for election to its board:

 All successful candidates being subject to re-election every five years:

All projects requiring funding to be submitted (other than genuine humanitarian aid) for approved by the board to establish their cost and viability.

The successful projects to be funded would then be placed in a yearly drawn on a ‘lotto’ base.   This would cut out any interference from political corruption or pressure outside groups.  

 The yearly Draw to be featured on An independent United Nations TV channel.

 A dedicated United Nations Web site would monitor the projects > reporting on their progress and certify their completion.

The culture of growth for growth’s sake must be brought to a halt.

You know say’s Almo, “that one of the problems with Aid is the Aid culture itself.

Something for nothing gives no sense of pride to anyone. The world has a duty to Africa. The whole of the world was young in Africa once. “

That Kinkilibar tea is addictive. 

Morning:   With Almo long gone to his surgery, dawn breaks.  We visit his school and dispensary, after which I decide to take a hike into the surrounding countryside.   The girls decide to spend the day with girlish things that they have been neglected for some time.

Before I am out of the village I have an escort, a youth of twelve with two others – one a toddler. An increase in pace, the waving of hands in a go home signal, shoo, shoo’s has no effect. On we march in convoy until the first stream crossing. No luck they all manage to wade across. Long grass now encloses the track. Yellow butterflies jig a merry dance; gathering here and there in bunches to form yellow stepping-stones on the reddish-brown earth of the track.

The second stream crossing does the trick, too deep for the little ones.   The arrival of a young man on the opposite side of the stream soon has them scampering home followed by some harsh Pulaar.   My new companion out of politeness now falls in with my stride. To the great annoyance of each household’s dog, we walk through a village. The conversation is limited to a smattering of French.

One more stream crossing and we arrive at his village. Here I am invited to meet his wife. She is a young, so frail in statue that she scarcely casts a shadow. Their home is surrounded by the usual fence of thorny bush with a small flower garden which I find novel – flowers are not a high priority in African eyes. Inside the house is a bed alongside one wall, a radio, a large canari (earthenware water pot), the classic three stone fire, the odd piece of cheap furniture, some posters, and the inescapable suitcase. It’s like an oven indoors so I take my tea outside.

Sitting in the shade surrounded by lush fertile land the last thing I was expecting to see is a television image of Africa. Brittle little legs supporting a large swollen stomach shock me into silence. Showing all the signs of malnutrition their first-born waddles towards me. It takes me completely by surprise, and I am sure I am visibly off guard. The young man esquires if Dr Barry has arrived.   I encourage him to bring his child saying that I will tell Dr Barry to expect him in the morning. He promises to call. Our departing handshake stays with me as I return along the same track.

The news back at base is that word has reached the young man who is hoping to be married. Unfortunately, he is some distance away and might not make it to the operating table in time. I tell Almo of my meeting with malnutrition. “Did she have red hair,” I had not noticed. “It’s probably Kwashiorkor a type of malnutrition in children caused by the traditional diet of corn meal,” says Almo > Curable. “

Almo asks if I had seen the school and the dispensary. “Who old do you think the buildings are? Fifteen years. Wrong, they are only three years old. As I said last night the god damned Africans have no respect for anything they get free.

You will see on your journey that all over Africa there is a donor’s disease called ‘get it for free’ “no training, no value, no change, no motive, only greed.”

Tonight say’s Almo, “there is a village meeting of the elders here in the house. You will witness what I mean and what I am up against. The man I left in charge of the dispensary has been screwing the locals. He was under my instructions not to charge for the medicines but I am told he is lining his own pockets. I will have to fire him and if I fire him, I will be out of favour with some of the elders.

I suggest that perhaps if I was to do the firing it could save him the politics.

For my afternoon entertainment, he suggests that I should walk over to a rock face where there is a large colony of baboons. The girls once more decide to stay with the manicuring non-baboon style.

Next morning Williwaw is loaded to the gunnels with chairs, goal posts, a large awning, jerseys, drums and the odd plaster. With the village VIP’s hanging on for dear life, we set off for the salt flats.

Danny the village South African is appointed team medic and his Unimog as the VIP’s grandstand. By the time I arrive back over the dunes to collect the girls the first taxi bus full to breaking point with Wolof supporters is arriving.
The pitch is marked out I am sent off once more with a guide to show me the overland route to fetch our Goalkeeper living near Rufisque. Arriving back the sun is setting; the drums are warmed up. The ladies just in case the love of their lives is present are in their best Boubous. (Cotton dresses worn on social occasions often elaborately embroidered).

In centipede formation, at either end of the pitch, both teams twist and flex with odd erratic movements > Warming up African style.

The kicks off > whistle approaches. The drum tempo mounts. Our referee who runs without bending his knees checks and double-checks that no new players have slipped onto either side.

In a flurry of dust, the game begins. The high trill voices of the ladies positioned on opposite side of the pitch increases in volume > Wolof on the right touch-line Pular on the left. The whistle splits the baked salt in an explosion of pain for a downed player.   The ball has burst. Danny scurries back over the sand to collect the spare ball. Somehow or other it had been left behind. There is much argument as to how much time has to be added on.

The Unimog > blasting exhaust fumes appears at full belt.

A further limbering up period the game recommences.   Places on the grandstand are rescued.

The play like the drumming is now hot and furious. A goal of the Wolof brings a note of urgency into our ladies hollering > Halftime. A circle of plastic bags (the curse of Senegal) marks the assembly point of each team on the dry salt pan. The second half promises fireworks. The sun in a blaze of glory disappears.   Allah is praised.

Stork-legs blow’s his whistle. The red togs of the Wolof against the Pular mixed bag of different jerseys seem all-powerful. A long ball of dubious quality bounces for once in our favour. A courageous knee crunching tackle by our winger earns him a dusting down by the coach for not passing the ball.

New blood is required and frantic signalling from the touch-line eventually brings an acknowledgement from stiff-legs. A quick swap of the saturated stained shirt and our new man is on. A goalmouth scramble leaves a Wolof Rastafarian, grazing with the cows. Our ladies are on trampolines. We have scored.

Timed by the watches under the awning the fat cats indicate that there is only ten minutes to go.

A sharp whistle followed by a bout of wailing that any Banshee would be proud of see the ball disappearing at speed up over the dunes. A penalty has been awarded to the reds jersey Wolof. It is never to be taken as the owner of the spare ball has had enough and is legging it home. Watering fresh slices of coconut are distributed. The game has come to a sudden halt. That night in the dunes the committee awards the game to Gorom the Wolof village.

We decide rain or no rain that its time to move on in the next few days.

We make a visit back up the beach to Kayar. Arriving early morning the catch is being landed. Hammerhead shark, small blue shark, horse mackerel, sole, conger eel, and sprats – all sold fish by fish.

Walking down the beach long spears of coloured pirogues bowsprits pointed seawards. A group of ‘to be’ circumcised children are playing in the surf. All of a sudden pandemonium breaks out. Amongst the flies and hoards of children, a real shark in the form of a public servant is tossing wads of CFA into the air. The fish ladies are in a free for all, frantically stuffing their cleavages each as deep as the Grand Canyon with what they can grab.

Is this the mask of depravity, which has become the cosmos view of Africa by the West?

The powerful exploiting the less Herculean, which in turn then, exploit the weak. It reminds me that our mask of Democracy is also riddled with such scenes but cloaked in a more purified form of power corruption.

Florence like us is riveted to the sand watching. All of a sudden to save his suite from being smothered in fish scales he draws a small revolver and discharges a few rounds over his head. The new tribe of Africa BMW owner retreats up the beach to the safety of his chauffeur-driven car leave-taking in a blurred cloud of dust greatness.

Simplicity returns everywhere. I arrange a day’s swordfishing.

Ablaze with conviction not to give in to corruption I set off the next morning to collect our visas from the Mali Embassy.   After beach sand up to the axel attempt, I settle for the long haul to Dakar by road by way of Rufisque the home of the green open sewers.   Once in Rufisque during a downpour rather than risk my feet in the flowing mosquito breeding green water I had commandeered a scrawny horse trap taxi just to cross a street.

Arriving in Dakar I am stopped by the first cop that spots me, an indefatigable symbol of corruption. What follows is the usual show me you’re Insurance, your Carnet, your Licence, your Passport, which can be for a dollar or two all to be rubber-stamped in a glitter of his sunglasses. This morning even if it is only after a few pittance he’s barking up the wrong tree.

With a wary eye, I make it over to the Embassy to collect the visas without any further harassment. I decided to celebrate this achievement with a beer, a mistake. The same Robocop spots me again. This time according to him I am parked in a no-parking zone in the courtyard of a petrol station that has a pleasant open-air bar. Once again I argue the toss rather than capitulate.   It spoils my beer. What goes around comes back, what goes up must come down and all that stuff.

You won’t believe it. On the way out-of-town there he is again the very same cop standing on the roundabout out to Rufisque. This time rather than press my luck I raise my hand and beckon him to come to the window of Williwaw. Before he can utter a word I tell him “This time you are lucky because it’s the third time, venue, venue”.

In a flash of rash Irish brashness, I stick my head out the window and plant a Blarney kiss on his lips. He is so startled that he does a little Irish jig, breaks into a full flashing ivory smile. We have met.

( Our trip to Isle de Goree later in the week has no police interference. We are waved through all barriers on our way to Dakar. The word has spread there is an Irish puff in town.)

Two hours later dirty and grimy, I cross the finishing line of the Paris Dakar 4×4 race.   The finishing line as I have said is at the southern end of Lake Rose a small tourist trap with a Robinson Crusoe type bar with a fridge of cool beer. After the hard day of dust, fumes and hassle the beer hardly touches my taste buds. A swim proves to be less than refreshing in the salt lake; even the ironwood has a problem sinking. I am revived by the compulsory dowsing down in a small spring-fed freshwater pool that is just outside the bar. Rain or no rain it’s definitely time to move on.

Arriving back with the normal load of lakeside rooftop hitchhiker’s, I have a feeling that the cinematic sense of Africa and the posed geology of the place are about to be revealed. Over the next few days, we start to break camp in African time.

Aziz an artist of sixty odd years the owner of one of the many tourist’s stalls that pave the entrance to Robinson Crusoe’s bar arrives in the village the next afternoon. He has walked around the lake because he has heard that I read tarot cards.   He wants to know why his paintings are not selling. With the help of the accompanying tarot card interruption pamphlet and some artistic licence, I trace his life from his birth to his paint pot.

“You must paint what is in your mind and not what you think the bucks can buy,” I tell him.   Two days later he is back with a large smile. Some Yank has bought his latest canvas, which he had created from a dream he had on the way home on the night he left us.

A word of this success reaches Chief Josef.   There was no escape without reading his cards > A mistake. Now I’m knobbled. Luckily I have the cop-on to send him away under the pretence that he must clear his mind of all thoughts before he is in a position to put his question to the cards. I learn in the meantime that his question is ‘Will he be wealthy?’ My performance is a classic. He is spellbound, wealthy one minute poor the next. I struggled to bring the reading down to earth to a man who has anxieties and disillusion about the future and who has to count on his efforts and financial resources to improve the standard of living.   Eventually, he is satisfied and promises a return reading of my stars before we go.

At the request of Amadou who has befriended me I pay a visit to Benaba another small village over the dunes from us. Benaba is six kilometres away set in a grove of Eucalyptus trees the village overlooks Lac Rose. Amodou and his friend float effortlessly over the soft sand at the usual African pace. We arrive – I losing a few kilos in sweat.

The village is under attack from roundworm, explained by the local teacher who draws the problem in the sand. Three village elders greet us and invite us to sit ourselves down under the village tree for tea.   All I can think of is please god we are not in for the full treatment, which entails drinking the premier, tea, the deuxieme, the troisieme tea, each one increasing in sweetness all served in a small glass. Wrong we are.

Over the first glass which is poured from on high over and over again and again until a froth forms we received a thousand Cead Mile Failte all invoking the blessings of Allah to descend upon the head of all who are gathered under the tree.

Before the second glass, I am acknowledged. The gathering has now swollen with some thirty-odd children varying in ages from one and a half to still on the nipple to five years.

I the Toubabh (the white man) am watched with wonderment that would do justice to an Alien having landed from some distant planet. Each little round hard stomach is pushed forward for inspection. “No stool for a few days,” is the general diagnosis.

I consult, WHERE THERE IS NO DOCTOR.

(Top Tip: Don’t go without a copy > Written by David Werner ISEN 0-333-51652-4. it’s worth weight in Gold.)

The old Paupau milk with three spoons of honey and hot water and for the older arse holes > add the crushed seeds, three times a day.

Tea glass number three arrives.

In the sand, I draw the design for a long drop latrine. This leads to a heated debate about the size of the hole not in the ground but the seat. The height of the drop and who would have the right to sit on it in the first place are discussed in length.   Thank God glass three arrives and the discussion moves from crapping, to if you don’t put a roof on the W.C. the President of the U.S A. will be able to watch you while he is having a cup of coffee in the White House.

On the way back I can only admire the villagers in their efforts to improve their living conditions. I wonder if all the foreign aid given to countries only saps the initiative, creativity and enterprise of the very people it is trying to help by surrogating irrelevant gilts of imported advice.

Arriving back we have visitors in the form of Albert Mohammed Ly a Vietnam Saigon war baby how is practising acupuncture and a French frog named Cher who has converted to Islam.   The evening soon turns into for lack of a better word, ‘A Gnu’ evening. A WHIFF OF THE CRATOR (i.e. Whisky) with some helping wacky herb and they have turned into “WILL-de-beast or VILL–de–bayst.   Naturally funny animals to start with they look weird > Heavy shaggy heads and necks, a goat’s beard and horse’s tail.

When you have seen one Gnu you have seen them all. At 3 am, we shoo the donkeys, the squabbling children the chief and our many village friends, plus the two Gnu’s for a few hours sleep.

It’s, Hit the road Jack’ for us in the morning.

Six am I am outside battening down the tent on the roof of Williwaw. The platform design is my brainchild a roofing area big enough for a six-man tent to be pitched on top. The supporting platform poles are carried in a plastic section of drain pipe strapped to the roof rack. With the flooring in position, the poles can be lowered or heightened according to what is required for a stable foundation. The results are two verandas on either side of the jeep. One side a cooking area, and the other side a shade and sitting area.   The design allows great flexibility, safety, and privacy when needed. The only downside we found after some teething problems were ironed out, was that we often got the feeling that we were on a TV show.

When you have seen one Gnu you have seen them all. At 3 am, we shoo the donkeys, the squabbling children the chief and our many village friends, plus the two Gnu’s for a few hours sleep.

(Top TIP: A roof platform provided a creepy crawly free zone, a wonderful wildlife viewing spot, or an open-air sleeping deck under the stars. Its design is available on request from 21^st Century Limited. Moulin de Labarde L’Abbaye Nouvelle 46300, Gourdon, Lot, France)

Wild pitch 38 is outside Kaffrine about two hundred kilometres east as the crow flies from Lake Rose. All that can be said about the day’s drive is that it won’t be long before the Sahara will be pay this treeless flat over grazed countryside a visit.

It is difficult to believe that the Sahara is growing at a rate of 250, 000 acres a year presently covering an area of 9.1 million sq km. It is actually a visible marvel on the move right in front of your eyes. The Place of the Winds (Nouakchott) was once many days walk from the Sahara now it’s in it. It won’t be long before Senegal is swallowed.

We start the next day with a fuel stop. In no time you are surrounded by the usual human beehive swarm of blameless do-gooders, windscreen washers, tyre explosive merchants, fuel mixers, wiper benders, and ariel snappers, fruit vendors and the to be expected angel faces kids. Although we all have experienced being the centre of interest for some time whenever we stop, Florence still finds it all too much and pulls her sunshade closed.
(Tip: Sunshade > the pull-down type, worth fitting on your windows.)

In the middle of the bedlam, my spare on the bonnet is discovered to be flat. “These roads are not for travelling without fixing it” – good advice.   As Samuel Johnson once said, “When travelling: a man must carry knowledge with him if he would bring home knowledge.”   So we opt for a bit to eat on the recommendation of our puncture repairman. “Chep–bu–Jen” (rice with fish the national dish) A disaster.

After the accustomed battle to ensure that my tyre tube is indeed my tyre tube, we set off once more in a downpour that may, in the long run, prove me wrong that Senegal will turn Berber.

Pitch 39 is off the beaten track hidden up a dirt trail of red rusty coloured soil. No matter how out well concealed you think you are, you will always be found by some humanoid. Four youths on horseback arrive from the nearest village just in time for dinner. One carries a large club in good old emerald isle shillelagh style. “ Na stad anseo.” (vernacular Gaelic)   Don’t stop here it seems to be saying. (Photo no – cd) We do for the night.

The sound of approaching horse hooves breaks the morning silence. Our horseback riders of the night are back to observe in minute detail our every move. In their anxiety to please their helping hands have to be curtailed from helping themselves.

Rejoining the main drag to Tambacounda, which is eighty kilometres from our first game park Niokolo-Koba we cross the road to refill our water Jerry cans. The well is all of three hundred metres deep. By the time I have hauled a rubber tyre bucket full to the top there is a large crowd – once more, friendly and willing hands complete the job.

Tambacounda is described in the African Bible Lonely Plant as our last chance to stock up, on the other hand, it also recommends that one should just pass through. A one-horse town it sure is, but we discover a swimming pool in the back of Hotel Asta Kebe.   Most of the day is spent in the water and an air-conditioned room has us staying the night.

The hotel like the Post in Saint Louis shows all the signs of having had better days. Hotel Asta Kebe is clean and serves a mean couscous in a high ceiling oval dining room. Like the Post-it is adorned with some of the noblest sights of the African bush. The taxidermist display has put the kibosh on Niokola Koba National Park. The moth-ridden heads bear evidence that the chances of seeing large animals in the park are remote.

A quick visit to the bank is interrupted by a set of long legs silhouetted against the bank glass door.   The only teller’s fingers instantly take on a motion that has nothing to do with counting the notes in front of him but could have every chance of giving him a dose of Aids. A quick shop and a chance meeting with a French family on their way to Benin with whom we exchange some routing and weather updates has us saying goodbye to the last outpost of civilisation. Williwaw knows better, we have not gone more than thirty klms when we hit a brand new two lane super highway – compliments of the French government.

It takes us three and a half hours to cross Niokola Koba National Park, which according to the bible should have taken up to four days. Other than a few baboons there is zilch to see what used to be in the park is hanging on the walls of Hotel Asta Kebe. Surrounded on either side by lush green foliage the highway is four hundred odd kilometres of worthless foreign aid which has created a going nowhere large dark scar in the red soil.

Had I not put the foot on the brake for a refuelling stop we would have whistled into the Gambia River never mind Guinea (Conakry)

The four pump attendants pointing all together at a plump Madame sitting in a car. She is the owner of the hotel. It’s too late to go searching for a suitable camping site. On the promise of returning to complete the frontier formalities in the morning, we are waved through to follow her down the remains of a rutted dirt road.

To our great surprise, we disembark at the most wonderful position for a hotel.    Perched on a high cliff it is overlooking the Gambia River in full dark brown flood.   The views through the surrounding trees, bush, jungle the birthrights of Africa conjure up our first out of Africa setting. That evening without a Tarzan cry or some roaring distance lion, or beating drums one could hear, taste, and smell a sense of Hollywood Africa.

Sitting on a balcony in the sunset for dinner of warthog the silent sound of the river and sight of our first dugout canoe ferrying leaning and crouched passengers across the river had us truly enraptured. We could almost hear one of those beautiful invocative echoing African Chants full of resonance in the distance.

As gems of feather colour visit our breakfast table down below us wet dresses with 32a pointy breasts, bicycles, dogs, baskets carrying older woman are delivered to our side of the river on the half hour.

The first ferry of the morning divulges the power of the swirling water below us. Using the full advantage of the back eddies a canoe claws its way upriver hugging the bank. Sitting proudly on the stern or the bow depending on which way the hacked out log is facing the steersman thrusts his pole into the water. Once out into the current he swaps the pole for a spear-headed shaped paddle.

The current gripes the narrow frail craft, and then with the odd correction steerage stroke arrives below us in less than a minute. The skill is reading the sweep of the river for any miss calculation from the set off point is punished by five to ten minutes of hard labour against the flow to make the landing.

One little red bird with a black cap is particularly adventurous hopping from one plate to another with gay abandonment. Our knowledge of birds or to be more precise or avifauna of the region is non-existence. I once more resolve to get a decent book on our feathered friends.

Breakfast over Florence and I descend to the riverbank and cross the river in time-honoured style, for twenty CFA no money in the world could have bought such an experience.

Some hours later at the recommendation of Madame, our second ferry crossing is with Williwaw. She informs us that down river a short distance away there is a car ferry. “One can get to a small village just on the Guinea border, where there is a wonderful market.”   “An hour and a half trip that’s all.” The crossing point is at Sareboldo, down a small track – easier said than done.

With no signposts, tall grass to the left and right, and ruts that would ground the Queen Mary we struggle to find the river never mind the ferry.

(Top TIP: Fit bottle screws with a thin wire cable between the front wings or bull bar to the base of the roof rack. They deflect branches and high grass from the windscreen.)

Without warning out of the long grass the ferry crossing appears. It is my first steep muddy descent other than the one in Portugal, which I had managed to avoid.

Creeping to the riverbank the riverside bank looks much more frightening to the girls who are standing below. Highly conscious of keeping my foot off the brakes I edge forward engaging differential lock. At the point of no return, I slip into second arriving aboard like a great Hippo emerging from a mud bath. Hand over hand we are pulled across the river on a wire cable. There are no words to describe the feeling that Africa gives to a river crossing.   I am sure it is one of the reasons that Africa becomes a bosom friend that draws one back to it over and over again.

Three hours later on an ever-increasingly difficult track, which we slid more than once, we are at the point of deciding to head back when the village comes into sight. A forced march uphill on methane rather than oxygen nearly sees Fanny’s demise. Last night’s warthog producing more than its fair share of thrust. The ever-present dogs announce our arrival.

A collection of round mud-walled huts with a thatched overhanging roof that almost touches the ground. Each house chimney is capped with an upside down earthenware pot, and a shaft of maize strapped to the door entrances from the last few years’ harvests.

“No market today,” a youth tells us in French. A drink of water and some roasted sweet corn are our lot.   Through a rain of grass seeds deposited on the bonnet by our wire deflectors, we float our way back to a hot shower, dinner of wildfowl, a whiskey and the fishing rod.

(Top TIP: Don’t go without one. A fishing rod.)

Standing on the bank I am joined by some small boys. Nothing will satisfy me but Moby Dick. With a piece of string and the old trusty worm, my admiring fishermen land one fish after the other. I with the latest lures, rod and spinner, manage to land a specimen that wouldn’t have any difficulty squeezing into a can of Mr West sardine. A dozen or more bits not on the hook but on the neck and I am back to the laughter of the girls (Photo no -cd)

Eighty thousand CFA lighter we set off to the police station for clearance to leave Senegal.

( to be continued)