Sahara, Sahel, Savannah
I'm a big fan of deserts. Their undulating waves, hidden life, and wobbly mirages—what's there not to like? I mean, except from the intolerable heat and freezing cold, the lack of shade or water, the occasional sand storm, and their constant march to bury nearby civilization, there's really nothing to dislike about them (no, but really, I do love them).
While I do enjoy meditating or lazing around in the dry air and searing sand, it's not just about the climate; the people were also phenomenal, and many of my most pleasantly memorable travel interactions live in the northwesternmost curve of the African continent.
As much as I want to avoid chronological storytelling (yawn), the countries along this region are so vastly different they can hardly be described together. Here goes.
While I do enjoy meditating or lazing around in the dry air and searing sand, it's not just about the climate; the people were also phenomenal, and many of my most pleasantly memorable travel interactions live in the northwesternmost curve of the African continent.
As much as I want to avoid chronological storytelling (yawn), the countries along this region are so vastly different they can hardly be described together. Here goes.
It started with a big rock
Morocco: Ceuta - Chefchaouen - Fes - Rabat - Casablanca - Volubillis - Marrakesh - Essaouira (27 days) & Mauritania: Nouadhibou - Nouakchott (5 days)
Mediterranean, coastal, temperate, mountainous, and arid climates, plus fascinating history, beautiful architecture, a warm and welcoming culture, some of the most delicious food on the planet, and camels make Morocco an awesome place to visit.
After meeting the truck which would be my home for the next six months in Gibraltar, we rode the ferry across the channel to Ceuta, making right for the busy Moroccan border. We pretended, for the first time of many, not to have any passengers who could speak French to help speed up the process. Our first stop was Chefchaouen, a charming town nestled in the mountains known for its blue medina with streets twisting in every direction. It has a high volume of mosques for the size of the city which, coupled with being nestled in a ring of mountains, make for the most beautifully eerie experience of the call to prayer.
Our circuit took us to other landmarks around the country: the tanneries hidden in maze-like Fes, Djema el Fna in Marrakesh, the roman ruins of Volubilis, misty corkwood forests near Rabat, the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca, and a visit to quaint Essaouira.
Mediterranean, coastal, temperate, mountainous, and arid climates, plus fascinating history, beautiful architecture, a warm and welcoming culture, some of the most delicious food on the planet, and camels make Morocco an awesome place to visit.
After meeting the truck which would be my home for the next six months in Gibraltar, we rode the ferry across the channel to Ceuta, making right for the busy Moroccan border. We pretended, for the first time of many, not to have any passengers who could speak French to help speed up the process. Our first stop was Chefchaouen, a charming town nestled in the mountains known for its blue medina with streets twisting in every direction. It has a high volume of mosques for the size of the city which, coupled with being nestled in a ring of mountains, make for the most beautifully eerie experience of the call to prayer.
Our circuit took us to other landmarks around the country: the tanneries hidden in maze-like Fes, Djema el Fna in Marrakesh, the roman ruins of Volubilis, misty corkwood forests near Rabat, the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca, and a visit to quaint Essaouira.
Once we’d obtained elusive Mauritanian visas after a few days of trying—still better than others we’d met who’d been trying for weeks—we continued south into the Sahara. The coastline became jagged limestone cliffs carved into strange shapes and caverns by the Atlantic waves. Stretching out to the horizon, the hard-packed desert seemed to go on forever under the gaze of giant, dispersed dunes. In the misty mornings, we’d sometimes spot silhouettes of wild camels searching for shrubs.
The neutral zone between the Moroccan and Mauritanian border (a border still avidly disputed between the two countries) was the longest and strangest we crossed, littered with stacks of old tires and rusted husks of abandoned vehicles. Plastic bags danced in the wind with friendly little dust devils.
The lonely dunes gradually grew together, filling the space between the horizon and the ocean. We never pulled far off the road in these dunes; old, rusted signs warned of the possibility of land mines. We were crossing our first “no travel” zone.
In stark contrast to its northern neighbour, Mauritanian construction tended towards cement-coloured squares jutting out from the sand, some half-finished, many roofless; some roads were paved, others packed sand and dirt, many littered with trash along their edges—tasty treats for a few wandering goats. What it lacked in colourful tiles it made up for with stunning fishing boats and beautiful shades of garb with intricate gold lace. An in-depth conversation—over tea with the camp-owner's son as a fellow passengers' "wife"—opened my eyes to what it might be like to grow up in a society so vastly different from my own. Polygamy is the norm and Shariah law is enforced; the coasts are riddled with shipwrecks, the towns often make due with sandy roads, and while the food also can’t stand up to its northern neighbours’, they had the best baguette I've ever tasted (sorry, France, the student surpassed the teacher here). The people—though more conservative—were just as friendly; many went out of their way to welcome us to their seldom-visited country.
It feels odd noticing someone quickening their step to catch up with you on the street at night...wondering what they could possibly want, planning possible scenarios and escape routes, only to find out that all they wanted was to welcome you to their country.
There is something so awesomely magical about watching a colony of thousands of fruit bats drift out across the sunset-red sky, with a meteor shower slowly shifting into focus in the darkening sky. That night, we camped on a rooftop; in my mosquito net tent, I drifted off to sleep watching shooting stars. I started missing Mauritania as soon as we left.
In stark contrast to its northern neighbour, Mauritanian construction tended towards cement-coloured squares jutting out from the sand, some half-finished, many roofless; some roads were paved, others packed sand and dirt, many littered with trash along their edges—tasty treats for a few wandering goats. What it lacked in colourful tiles it made up for with stunning fishing boats and beautiful shades of garb with intricate gold lace. An in-depth conversation—over tea with the camp-owner's son as a fellow passengers' "wife"—opened my eyes to what it might be like to grow up in a society so vastly different from my own. Polygamy is the norm and Shariah law is enforced; the coasts are riddled with shipwrecks, the towns often make due with sandy roads, and while the food also can’t stand up to its northern neighbours’, they had the best baguette I've ever tasted (sorry, France, the student surpassed the teacher here). The people—though more conservative—were just as friendly; many went out of their way to welcome us to their seldom-visited country.
It feels odd noticing someone quickening their step to catch up with you on the street at night...wondering what they could possibly want, planning possible scenarios and escape routes, only to find out that all they wanted was to welcome you to their country.
There is something so awesomely magical about watching a colony of thousands of fruit bats drift out across the sunset-red sky, with a meteor shower slowly shifting into focus in the darkening sky. That night, we camped on a rooftop; in my mosquito net tent, I drifted off to sleep watching shooting stars. I started missing Mauritania as soon as we left.
Savanna region
Senegal: St. Louis - Dakar (6 days); Guinea: Koundara - Boumekou - Labé (4 days); Sierra Leone: Tokeh - Makine - Bantantiya - Freetown (5.5 days); Guinea: Faranah - Goueckedou - Bossou (4 days); Ivory Coast: Gbapleau - Daloa - Abidjan (4.5 days); Ghana: Takoradi - Kumasi - Kakum National Park - Abandze - Korkobite (18.5 days); Togo: Lomé (6.5 days); Benin: Cotonou - Ouidah (3 days); Nigeria: Abuja - Calabar (9 days)
Suddenly, plants and birds and rocks and things reemerged. Away from the cities, sand ceded the way to brittle yellow grasses stained red from the dusty roads.
As we drove into Dakar, we didn’t know we were seeing the trend for the rest of major central west African population centers: depressing amounts of garbage patrolled by hawks, lining rivers, gutters, and waterways; vultures feeding on decaying carcasses tangled in the mess; whiffs of burning garbage and tire fires; people almost buried under piles of imported plastic junk; and slums spilling out across the horizon from broken cities.
Still, away from cities it was easy to find quiet nature and charming smiles.
With the war in Mali, we had to bypass the company's usual route and head into uncharted territory. Not knowing whether roads were passable, where we could camp, or how often we would be able to refuel (gas, water, and food) made this stretch the most adventurous and daring of the entire trip.
As we drove into Dakar, we didn’t know we were seeing the trend for the rest of major central west African population centers: depressing amounts of garbage patrolled by hawks, lining rivers, gutters, and waterways; vultures feeding on decaying carcasses tangled in the mess; whiffs of burning garbage and tire fires; people almost buried under piles of imported plastic junk; and slums spilling out across the horizon from broken cities.
Still, away from cities it was easy to find quiet nature and charming smiles.
With the war in Mali, we had to bypass the company's usual route and head into uncharted territory. Not knowing whether roads were passable, where we could camp, or how often we would be able to refuel (gas, water, and food) made this stretch the most adventurous and daring of the entire trip.
The first Guineans we met were the embassy staff in Rabat, and they greeted us with so much enthusiasm and excitement (dancing and shouting, quite literally) that it was impossible not to leave the embassy without big smiles and a warm feeling filling our chests.
There is very little tourism in Guinea, a country ravaged by civil unrest for years. Nevertheless, the warmth, generosity, and, often, bewilderment of the people we encountered was demonstrated time and again along the way.
There is very little tourism in Guinea, a country ravaged by civil unrest for years. Nevertheless, the warmth, generosity, and, often, bewilderment of the people we encountered was demonstrated time and again along the way.
We didn’t have quite the same experience in Freetown. Celebrations around the new year were forbidden to outsiders, and anytime we accidentally ventured too close (or when the festivities ventured our way), our presence was met with aggression; so much so that we had to sneak out of town, curled up in little balls in the back of a taxi to get home to our campsite after dodging assailants blatantly ignored by the two cowering cops in riot gear. Back in Guinea a few days later—after traveling a painstaking 82km in 12hrs and just barely catching the border guard before he left, unreplaced, for two weeks—we stopped at a well to refill our water jugs. A whole village appeared over the rise, coming down towards us, led by a masked man in traditional cloth and grass skirts; concerned, we started packing up quickly, but this time we were invited to participate and learn about the culture. What a difference an artificial border can make!
I always try to respect customs; if something is not for me, it's not for me. It's just nicer to be told with words rather than fists.
There was a similar shift when we again crossed the border, this time into Ivory Coast. Much more populated, people we made eye contact with frequently implied through easily interpreted body language that they didn’t want us there. Discreet campgrounds became almost impossible to find; forests were replaced by farmland and slums overflowed in all directions.
People standing on blankets of trash in tiny shacks of rusted metal and rotted wood; military checkpoints all along the streets; flooded alleyways with treacherous debris; tangles of electric cables thrown together on eye-level poles; and a huge red sun hanging in the dull gray sky...we were now on the Gold Coast. Yet more wealth only means a bigger wealth gap, made bigger still in many places by corruption. What a world we’ve built.
It wasn’t all dark and grim. Music, a universal language, helped us share a special moment when, during a small reggae concert, the travelers and locals came together to complete a song as the band was hit by one of the usual rolling blackouts. The connection made everyone smile, and I like to think that the moment was special for all who were present.
I always try to respect customs; if something is not for me, it's not for me. It's just nicer to be told with words rather than fists.
There was a similar shift when we again crossed the border, this time into Ivory Coast. Much more populated, people we made eye contact with frequently implied through easily interpreted body language that they didn’t want us there. Discreet campgrounds became almost impossible to find; forests were replaced by farmland and slums overflowed in all directions.
People standing on blankets of trash in tiny shacks of rusted metal and rotted wood; military checkpoints all along the streets; flooded alleyways with treacherous debris; tangles of electric cables thrown together on eye-level poles; and a huge red sun hanging in the dull gray sky...we were now on the Gold Coast. Yet more wealth only means a bigger wealth gap, made bigger still in many places by corruption. What a world we’ve built.
It wasn’t all dark and grim. Music, a universal language, helped us share a special moment when, during a small reggae concert, the travelers and locals came together to complete a song as the band was hit by one of the usual rolling blackouts. The connection made everyone smile, and I like to think that the moment was special for all who were present.
Ganvie village, Ghana
We got to know Ghana fairly well, spending two weeks lazing around the beach (no swimming, nope nope nope—Sierra Leone had the only truly swimmable beach we found along the Gold Coast), eating the most delicious fried chicken and jolof rice in the world (thanks RiceMaster Joe), learning to play ngoni, djembe, and oware, and making frequent trips to embassies for the next batch of visas we’d need. We made side trips to Kumasi, with the biggest market in West Africa, to Ganvie, a stilt village built over water to shield itself from the worst of the wars, and to a canopy walkway with questionable structural integrity. The mood noticeably dropped around this portion of the trip; we’d talk about it, but no one ever really managed to determine what, if anything, caused the particular shift or if it was just the beginning of a slow decline in interpersonal relationships on the truck.
Ghana had tons of fascinating names for shops. Here are some samples:
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Onwards, through Togo and Benin—both claiming to be the true home of vodoun (aka voodoo)—where we joined in colourful celebrations of the soccer team’s victories, complete with machete-scraping motorcycle balancing acts and some very impressive acrobatics. Other than tanker ships and raw sewage (a staple along most of the Gold Coast in any case), my least favorite memory of Togo was the fetish market. Don’t go! Expecting a maze of vendor stalls, we found instead a parking lot lined with stands piled high with a myriad of skulls, animal parts, and souvenir dolls. The mandatory guide knew little and made up the rest, taking us around in a lazy circle, charging us extra for pictures, then dropping us off in a small room at the back to speak to “a real voodoo priest”. The whole experience was a mistake, not a cultural discovery; I left feeling sick for the amount of wildlife—including protected and endangered species—that was killed to fill this tourist trap with impressive decor. Don't go.
Fetish market, Togo
After turning down numerous offers for “real” vodoun ceremonies (deciding that any ceremony offered at our beck and call could not be true to the spirits of vodoun), we encountered, in Benin, a reluctant villager and his friend, the translator, who said they might be able to introduce us to their spirits. We had to decide soon, as the sun would be setting, and they couldn’t guarantee anything nor tell us where we were going. A quick chat to weigh the pros and cons of the sketchy offer resolved in a handful of us agreeing to jump onto motorcycles with the strangers.
Did you know that vodoun has a particular smell? As we drove along, I would catch whiffs of something mysterious but not unpleasant; something like sweetgrass, palm wine, and dried blood... Spectacular, strange, and fascinating it was; the chief of the village was fair and friendly, and it was an experience I won’t describe here in detail but that I won’t soon forget. That introduction, the visit to a neighbouring village, and the python temple and sacred forest in Ouidah allowed for an interesting glimpse into the animist belief. |
The sky had been clear through to Guinea, but started getting hazy in Ivory Coast; in Nigeria, it almost never looked blue and I would watch the deep red disc, no longer scorching, rise and set into a dark gray smudge.
Nigeria has a population of close to 174 million (the 7th most populous country in the world), a density of close to 190 people per square kilometer, and the largest GDP of all African nations, largely due to its oil reserves. There are a lot of refineries, legitimate and illegal, which means a lot of fires, a lot of chemicals, and a lot of dirty oil, too. It's roads are littered with military checkpoints, real and fake; knowing how to tell them apart is a crucial survival skill in the land of 419. Nigeria’s cities, sprawling rather than tall, seemed to seep into one another. Burnt up tanker trucks littered the roadside and there were more cargo trucks than cars on most of the roads, some hauling massive sections of quickly disappearing giant trees.
I missed out on most of our stay in Nigeria, opting instead to spend time fighting off Typhoid and Malaria, then taking a break from the truck to cross, with some of the other passengers, into Cameroon by (sketchy) ferry.
Tickets were purchased the day before; we were told to arrive at 4am and that the boat would depart in the morning. It was still pitch black when we were ushered off the ferry with the other passengers and made to stand in line on the docks for our passport stamps. After a short time, a very big, very muscular man pointed at the handful of us: "You! Come with me". He said the chief of police wanted to see us. He had no uniform, no ID to present. "You will move to the front of the line". We don't want to; we want to be left alone to be processed with the other passengers. Then his friend showed up and we gave in. Our passports were stamped and placed in a neat stack on the official's desk; we were placed in a small room with sweating green walls. The fading neon light made it look sickly. We waited. Through the shutters, we could see the first hint of dawn.
By the time the "chief of police" finally showed up, we knew it was a scam. In shorts and t-shirt, he sat down behind the desk, comically holding down papers being blown about by the fans. He questioned us; what were our motives for being in Nigeria? What was our business here? What is our occupation? I used my standard answer: student. Though I graduated years ago, I had brought my old university card with me, without an expiry date, as my only proof. My answer was satisfactory and I was not asked any further questions, but the others had a rougher time explaining their jobs and why they were traveling. Why we were sitting in a stuffy room at the port customs building trying to board a ferry to Cameroon.
Time was pressing; we urged the man to let us board. The ferry, he said, would not leave without his final say. But when the boat sounded its horn, I'd had enough; we stood up and walked out, running onto the docks. They were about to cast off! Fuming, we yelled at them to bring our passports: "They're on the boat! You can get them there". We didn't budge; we knew they had kept them in the office. After much arguing, a customs official came out waving the passports high. We boarded last, with only minutes to spare; the other stragglers each passed the guard with the metal detector, each person setting off the device, each person let through without any pat down or question.
Relieved, we found some bunks and prepared to catch up on some sleep - until the preacher with the loudspeaker started his routine, which went on for hours. Never mind; we were too concerned about pirates to sleep. I spent the whole time searching the ocean for boats on collision course.
Nigeria has a population of close to 174 million (the 7th most populous country in the world), a density of close to 190 people per square kilometer, and the largest GDP of all African nations, largely due to its oil reserves. There are a lot of refineries, legitimate and illegal, which means a lot of fires, a lot of chemicals, and a lot of dirty oil, too. It's roads are littered with military checkpoints, real and fake; knowing how to tell them apart is a crucial survival skill in the land of 419. Nigeria’s cities, sprawling rather than tall, seemed to seep into one another. Burnt up tanker trucks littered the roadside and there were more cargo trucks than cars on most of the roads, some hauling massive sections of quickly disappearing giant trees.
I missed out on most of our stay in Nigeria, opting instead to spend time fighting off Typhoid and Malaria, then taking a break from the truck to cross, with some of the other passengers, into Cameroon by (sketchy) ferry.
Tickets were purchased the day before; we were told to arrive at 4am and that the boat would depart in the morning. It was still pitch black when we were ushered off the ferry with the other passengers and made to stand in line on the docks for our passport stamps. After a short time, a very big, very muscular man pointed at the handful of us: "You! Come with me". He said the chief of police wanted to see us. He had no uniform, no ID to present. "You will move to the front of the line". We don't want to; we want to be left alone to be processed with the other passengers. Then his friend showed up and we gave in. Our passports were stamped and placed in a neat stack on the official's desk; we were placed in a small room with sweating green walls. The fading neon light made it look sickly. We waited. Through the shutters, we could see the first hint of dawn.
By the time the "chief of police" finally showed up, we knew it was a scam. In shorts and t-shirt, he sat down behind the desk, comically holding down papers being blown about by the fans. He questioned us; what were our motives for being in Nigeria? What was our business here? What is our occupation? I used my standard answer: student. Though I graduated years ago, I had brought my old university card with me, without an expiry date, as my only proof. My answer was satisfactory and I was not asked any further questions, but the others had a rougher time explaining their jobs and why they were traveling. Why we were sitting in a stuffy room at the port customs building trying to board a ferry to Cameroon.
Time was pressing; we urged the man to let us board. The ferry, he said, would not leave without his final say. But when the boat sounded its horn, I'd had enough; we stood up and walked out, running onto the docks. They were about to cast off! Fuming, we yelled at them to bring our passports: "They're on the boat! You can get them there". We didn't budge; we knew they had kept them in the office. After much arguing, a customs official came out waving the passports high. We boarded last, with only minutes to spare; the other stragglers each passed the guard with the metal detector, each person setting off the device, each person let through without any pat down or question.
Relieved, we found some bunks and prepared to catch up on some sleep - until the preacher with the loudspeaker started his routine, which went on for hours. Never mind; we were too concerned about pirates to sleep. I spent the whole time searching the ocean for boats on collision course.