There's always a way if you're not in a hurry. - Paul Theroux

12 February 2020, Saint Louis to Ndiongo, 38.4km
Lampsar Lodge 24,000XOF (R585)

I am writing this at a table on a thatched deck built over the Lampsar River. It is tranquil here, gentle ripples on the water brightly lit by the lowering sun, and birdsong in the trees and reeds on the banks, and in the distance cows lowing and donkeys braying. The wind blows cool across the water, and the sun is partially softened by a dust haze, making the 37 degrees manageable. We are spoiling ourselves (again, I know) with a cottage at the lodge, and lunch and dinner, and trying simply to “enjoy” by not counting the cost.
It was a pleasant day, despite the wind, and despite a slow start. Both our back tyres were soft when we woke, and our pump, having pumped mine, gave its final, final gush of air and called it quits. We had to push the bikes into town, hoping to buy a new pump we had seen previously at Ali Baba. The shop was closed, “forcing” us to take a coffee break nearby while we waited for it to open. With Charl’s tyre also pumped, we cycled across the 500m long Faidherbe bridge onto the mainland, and turned north to follow the Senegal River for a short distance, before turning back toward the centre and taking the N2 toward the Mauritanian border where we will cross the Senegal for the last time. The road was in good nick, the traffic relatively light, the terrain almost flat, so only the wind slowed us some…
While wheeling our bikes, and particularly while drinking our coffee, we were approached by the ubiquitous boy beggars of Saint Louis. You see them everywhere, scrawny legs dusty below their shorts, hands clutching a large tomato can, desperation written in their eyes. Senegal, by a long shot, has had more beggars than any other country through which we have cycled this trip. Oddly, we believe this to be a sign of wealth. There is no point in begging from the poor, but in a wealthier country one can, at least in theory, earn a living from begging. The boys do not beg from tourists or whites only, but from locals too. We met a South African in town a day or two ago and stood chatting on the pavement for awhile. He has fishing interests in Senegal and hibiscus interests in Nigeria; his family is from Cape Town, but he has a brother living in Ireland; he is “African” and cannot live, he said, in Europe. Anyway… while chatting, we were approached by begging boys. Having sent them on their way with a word or two of French, he told us that the many prayer schools associated with mosques, gather in destitute boys whom they send out to beg. He used the word “abused” and clearly found the situation disturbing. One decision we made before leaving home was that we would not give money to beggars. Our limited budget being one reason, our desire not to encourage the black-white “begging” culture, an inability to really help… But these clearly desperate boys were hard to say no to. Interestingly, locals, seeing us on occasion being harangued, would send the boys about their business, including today the street sweeper. (We did on one day break our own “rule”, not for a boy, but for an adult man lying on the sidewalk by the river. For a moment, when we saw him first, I thought he was dead. He was not, and we gave him the last of our apple juice.)
Of all the names we have been called since beginning our journey, those relating to our colour, I think I like the Wolof term, “toubab”, best. Just the sound of it makes me smile. Others have been: le blanc, branco, yovu, afoto, bronii powder.

For today's route see below photos
For overview route, click on ROUTE tab above…