We arrived in Lompoul and after a few minutes rendez-voused with a four wheel drive pickup truck that would take us to the Ecolodge to see the sand dunes and ride camels.  We climbed in through and over the tailgate aided by the driver and a small stool and then moved close to the cab to sit on facing rows of padded seats surrounded by a welded frame.

The drive was over sometimes deep sand for about three or four miles of bumps and slides--without any real danger.  We then arrived at a camp with probably a total of twenty large white tents at the base of a huge sand dune and across the small valley below it.  We got out and learned about the camel riding which would be done in groups of four since there were four serviceable camels.

Becky and I ordered a flag beer each and the cadets relaxed in hammocks.  Augusto explained that there were tents here set up for overnight stays with a complete restaurant tent, a few wood and thatch huts, and en suite bath facilities in each tent.  We saw a few other guests, but not many.

The cadets did see boards for sand surfing and they immediately headed to the dunes since we were told we’d have to wait to ride the camels.  Georgia stayed behind with us and we watched as they headed about 200 meters away in the sand.

Most of their efforts were not very successful, but on the larger dune with the larger boards, they eventually figured it out and did well enough to have some fairly spectacular spills.  They continued to surf while we were called ot ride the camels and Austin joined us to make four

We walked over to a small stand of eucalyptus trees where our guide had led the camels.

When we arrived, they were all lying down on their knees chewing their cud.  Our guide led us each to a camel and one at a time we mounted the camel and he gave them the signal to stand up.  We sat just behind what looked like the cargo saddle and it was surprisingly soft and comfortable.

We were, nonetheless, quite a bit higher than if we were on a horse and that was a little disconcerting.  Still, Becky managed to conquer her fear of heights and climbed aboard the fourth camel. We walked for about twenty minutes over several hills.  The only time that we felt the least bit unstable was when the camels walked downhill, picking up their speed and catching themselves softly with their padded feet in the deep sand.  Georgia, in particular, liked the camel ride and decided to name her camel “Spirit” because of her (or his) nose ring. Of course, I couldn’t help but constantly hum the theme from Lawrence of Arabia while we swept over the dunes.

When we returned, we called the guys over and they climbed aboard while the others went back to relax.  I took photos of them and they climbed aboard and began their slow, guided walk. Suddenly, though, Charlie leaned over to his right and vomited all over the sand.  He sat up and then turned to his right a second time, spewing over his camel’s right hip. We called the guide and we got Charlie down. He explained that he was dehydrated and nauseous from all of their time running up and down the dunes in the heat and begged off of the ride.  He returned to the eucalyptus copse and layed down in the shade before returning to the main camp. He claimed that he felt okay, though, and would be doing better with some water and shade.

I took more photos of Matt, Evan, and Eddie as they returned and then we all walked back to the camp.  A few minutes later, we remounted the pickup truck and were back on our way to the town of Lompoul, though we did all pay the camel guide 2500CFA apiece for the rides.

On the route to Saint-Louis, we had only one stop to see an enormous, almost hollowed out baobob tree along the side of the road.  It was hundreds of years old and could hold several people in it nearly empty core. It reminded me of the large redwood in Sequoia National Park in the US that you could drive through--until it fell in a storm a couple of years ago.

We arrived in Saint-Louis at about 1600 and immediately checked-in, dropped our bags in our rooms and descended the stairs to jump onto two horse carriages for a tour of the town lead by a French-speaking guide that used Augusto and me to help him translate.

I sat up front with my driver, Daode, and we turned north from the Hotel de la Poste to the north end of the island.  Along the way we passed the Grand Mosque (built by donations, in large part, after the French government refused to pay for it).  The mosque doesn’t have traditional towers for the muezzin to call everyone to prayers because the French colonials didn’t want to have to deal with the noise.  They made it condition of construction that mosque have a bell instead.

We rode by former slave holding areas, the local military base for the “Secteur Nord” of Senegal and arrived at the top of the island in about ten minutes.  Here, we could see the branches of the Senegal River with Mauritania to the other side. There was a large sandbar where the river empties into the ocean that separates Senegal and Mauritania and on that island are nine large trees that mark the border right on the coast.  Our guide pointed out several other key buildings and we took several photos. Strangely, in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road was a Vietnamese Restaurant, La Saigonienne.

We turned south and then went across the next bridge to the beachfront side of the city.  Here, on the main drag of old Saint-Louis, we experienced more “Africa” in one place than I’ve ever seen,  Out guide explained that this part of the island is 30 hectares in area and has 30,000 people. It seems that we saw every one of them and more.  

The street was a smelling, dirty, wet melange of hundreds of children from toddlers to teens, goats, horse-carts, sidewalk markets and shops, dogs, cats, fruit, refuse, boat parts, and just about everything else you can imagine.  It was maybe the most chaotic, smelly, poorest area I’ve ever seen.

Still, the horse carts carried women in their finest dresses who preferred to be seenin the open air of the horse cart than be cooped up in a regular taxi.  

Kids waved to us, some turned away.  The cadets seemed more than a little overwhelmed and, frankly, I know Becky and I were, too.

We got off at one point and walked between collapsing brick buildings to the shore.  There, we saw hundreds and hundreds of ocean-going pirogs in all of their color and peeling paint, dragged onto shore with more coming in late in the afternoon with every wave and dozens more waiting for just the right wave.

We saw one pirog ride a wave in with incredible speed and power, almost being flipped as its keep caught the sand and fisherman alternatively ran from shore to stabilize it and were tossed (or jumped) from it in the melee.

Hundreds of women with buckets, baskets, and bins lined the shore making bids on the incoming fish or transporting the fish for their husbands to markets (wholesale and retail) where they would make their daily profits.

We kept a close eye on everyone and moved quickly off the beach when an obviously drunk and/or crazy “gentlemen” started shouting and moving towards us with a giant, shit-eating grin, huge teeth, and his pants half-way down his thighs, sans sous-vetements.

At one point I turned around to chat with Matt and he just looked overwhelmed by it all.  I reminded him that “more of the world lives like this than lives like you do in the US,” and he came back with his typical hockey retort of “100 percent, sir.  100 percent!”

We made our way to the south end of town past more shops and mayhem, then turned north and crossed a bridge back to “our island.”

Our guide led us past city hall to a statue of the French “founding father” of Saint-Louis and he explained how controversial that statue had become with the locals.  Many have called for it to be torn down for reasons similar to the removal of US Civil War statues because of this guys rather genocidal (or at least inhumane) treatment of the locals in establishing order, but the local government also didn’t want to upset the French and insult them by disrespecting someone the French considered a great administrator.  Our guide did admit that this guy had done a lot in terms of establishing government and infrastructure, but that it had some at at enormous cost.

I asked him about the “Lycee des Hotages” that Boubacar’s father had mentioned the evening before and he explained that the subject of the statue and others had, in fact, set up a system of schooling that was in line with what General Kane had explained.  In fact the school’s original dormitory was just to our south and he pointed it out.

French officials had set up a school for the sons of Senegalese tribal kings and the royal sons from other parts of French West Africa, promising to teach them French, engineering, science, and history to prepare them to lead in the region.  The unspoken truth, though, was that these “hostages” were held in quasi-ransom by the colonial French and their status at the school meant that their father-kings would not rebel against French domination.

The story does have some positives, though, as our guide and Augusto listed the names of part presidents of free, West African republics that had graduated from “Hostage High School.”  Becky and I immediately thought of the same situation in the US represented by the Indian Schools (one of the largest being in Phoenix, where I grew up) that served the same purpose even though, by the time they were established, most Native American tribes were relegated to the poverty of their reservations.

We next went to an orphanage, now abandoned, down a side street.  Behind the iron gate that we could not enter was a pair of circular concrete stairs that looked suspiciously like the steps going to the second level of the last slave house on Goree Island.  Our guide explained that the orphanage was run by an order of Catholic nuns that took in abandoned children drop at the gate. Apparently, a rather famous French movie was made about the orphanage starring many top French names.  There was a plaque outside the gate detailing its history. Once again, they pointed out that there were some very positive outcomes from the orphanage as the wife of the second president of Senegal had been one of the abandoned girls there.

After a few more short stops to see the riverside and large fish market on the inland side, we returned to the Hotel de la Poste at about 1800 and went up to our rooms.  Charlie was feeling better, he said, but also told us that he had puked one more time.

We agreed to meet shortly before 1930 to walk to La Flamingo restaurant across the street from our hotel and overlooking the river and bridge.

The Flamingo is a very nice restaurant with a nice maitre d’ but terrible service.  We tried to talk through a prix fixe menu but that didn’t work. We ordered drinks and waited for the chef to arrive so that we could have some sort of proposal.  That took about an hour. Meanwhile, we “grignotee’d” some peanuts and waited to order.

Finally, our waiter came back and gave us menus to order a la carte.  We skipped appetizers and went straight to the main course, hungry by now as it was approaching 2045.  Becky, Augusto and I helped with menu translations and we all ordered after learning (the hard way) what was NOT available, including a few of the supposed “Specialites de Chef.”  

I had the fish-of-the-day, grilled morue, and it was very good once it finally arrived.  Others seemed pleased with their orders. Charlie had Sprite to drink and managed to hold down his dinner, so that was a good thing.  In all the bill was about 8700CFA apiece. Augusto had his meal comped by the restaurant (nice move!) for bringing us all in. He and the maitre d’ were clearly friends.  We would’ve ordered a second round or more of beers, but we were never asked.

We made it back to the hotel at about 2145 and everyone agreed to be ready to go the next day at 0900.  Several decided to join me for a morning walk-around at 0700 followed by breakfast at 0800 and we all repaired to our rooms.  

Becky and I stayed in the center open area of the hotel to do some computer and communication work since the connection was so bad in our room.  We got some work done and then ALL of the lights and power went out shortly after 2200.

We turned the flashlights in our cell phones on and made our way up to our rooms to get ready for bed.  I showered in the semi-darkness and we prepped for bed. A little while later, we heard a generator kick-on (loudly) across the street and our power returned.  It was obviously a hotel-owned backup as the rest of the city seemed to remain in the dark.

In the middle of the night, I woke to find the power off again--I think the silence of no air conditioning and no generator running is what startled me.  Becky was awake, too, and soon we heard yelling at the generator. It seemed to us that someone had let the generator die or run out of gas. After a few minutes of yelling, it started again and a few seconds later La Hotel de la Poste had power again.  We slept until about 0615.