Our bus driver on the drive to Sokone and Toubacouta reveals himself to be a connoisseur of African music and my roommate, an expert on the cross pollination of African music and Caribbean/Latin music, expounds on the diversity and character of what is revealed on the sound system of the bus. He(the driver) plays Peter Tosh, Youssou N'Dour, Orchestra Baobab, and a mélange of artists I do not know....punctuated by the Mbalax style as well.It is thrilling to ride through the countryside with this varies, excellent soundtrack. The music you hear is deep and varied---it is the sound of Senegal.
Outside of St. Louis, going south you can see the beginnings of a natural gas pipeline. Huge unburied pipe, 1.5 meters in circumference snake across the desiccated countryside. People here say this is going to change the country profoundly. The deposits are apparently offshore and many of us shudder to think of how this will affect the fortunes of the fishermen----and what we know will be noise that will torture dolphins, whales and other things in the sea. The project stretches for uncounted miles....countered by herds of Zebu, goats, donkey carts, lonely groups of humans in the sparse shade.
At one point we pull off for one of the numerous bathroom breaks. Our group files off. The Talibes descend. People buy a variety of sweets drinks, bags of strange chips, tea, etc. Suddenly two Euros pull up on expensive touring bikes---with panniers. Both have red shirts and light, high tech stuff for what looks like bicycle trek across Senegal. They pause to eat yogurt, pound some juice, and good naturedly converse with a few of our group. They are Norwegian. Man and woman---maybe 45-50 yrs old. Relaxed and calm. They do not seem to have exerted themselves at all. Bad-ass in my view. As the Finnish comedian Ismo would say: "this means bad" and bad means good, courageous, tough. I take a last look at them as we pull away. They seem happy.
Our driver is not one who does things moderately. He accelerates with force---he does not tolerate slow things on the road. Children, carts, taxis, trucks, donkeys, Zebu, goats, pedestrians---all get a jarring, loud, impatient blast of the horn. When we approach a speed bump---they are in every town and village----he pounds the brakes, up and over, and then lurches forward. He is not a patient man. He is friendly enough but speaks very little English. Dresses with great pride. An impervious expression on his face. Interacts with locals often at our stops.
Outside of St. Louis, going south you can see the beginnings of a natural gas pipeline. Huge unburied pipe, 1.5 meters in circumference snake across the desiccated countryside. People here say this is going to change the country profoundly. The deposits are apparently offshore and many of us shudder to think of how this will affect the fortunes of the fishermen----and what we know will be noise that will torture dolphins, whales and other things in the sea. The project stretches for uncounted miles....countered by herds of Zebu, goats, donkey carts, lonely groups of humans in the sparse shade.
At one point we pull off for one of the numerous bathroom breaks. Our group files off. The Talibes descend. People buy a variety of sweets drinks, bags of strange chips, tea, etc. Suddenly two Euros pull up on expensive touring bikes---with panniers. Both have red shirts and light, high tech stuff for what looks like bicycle trek across Senegal. They pause to eat yogurt, pound some juice, and good naturedly converse with a few of our group. They are Norwegian. Man and woman---maybe 45-50 yrs old. Relaxed and calm. They do not seem to have exerted themselves at all. Bad-ass in my view. As the Finnish comedian Ismo would say: "this means bad" and bad means good, courageous, tough. I take a last look at them as we pull away. They seem happy.
Our driver is not one who does things moderately. He accelerates with force---he does not tolerate slow things on the road. Children, carts, taxis, trucks, donkeys, Zebu, goats, pedestrians---all get a jarring, loud, impatient blast of the horn. When we approach a speed bump---they are in every town and village----he pounds the brakes, up and over, and then lurches forward. He is not a patient man. He is friendly enough but speaks very little English. Dresses with great pride. An impervious expression on his face. Interacts with locals often at our stops.
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