Cheesy trees, Irish fury & our final days in Senegal

Our stay in the beautiful green Casamance region had been a fairly last minute decision. I had learned that it was a must-see destination, but the civil unrest in parts of the region meant that the UK Government was advising against all but essential travel to the area. After speaking to a couple of other people who had just travelled through the region, or were planning to, we decided that the risk was almost non-existant in the areas we intended to go to, so that sealed it. And it was the best decision. Undoubtedly there are areas inland that are not safe, and as the local people explained, even exploring the remote countryside without a guide is not wise.

We grabbed at the chance to tour the local region with Ousman, the nephew of our hotel owner. Ousman was a very chilled guy who spoke a few words of English and was always around to check we were happy and enjoying our stay. He arranged for us to visit several remote villages to learn more about the history of the local area and get more familiar with the culture. With Ousman as our guide, it was just us and an Irish girl called Emma we'd gotten quite friendly with who was staying at the same place.

The village of Mlomp was much like the other small villages we encountered, with houses often made of the clay from the soil, with corrugated tin rooves and no glazing at the windows. Villagers sat in the shade or in some cases the women were sat near the road in an attempt to sell fruit to those passing by. Goats and pigs skitted about seemingly not owned by any house in particular. Laundry was drying on lines strung between trees that circled or sheltered the house. And some of those trees were incredibly tall, with trunks that must be several metres across and root systems that extended out above ground like walls of a labyrinth, and in some cases, nearer the trunk the roots were as tall as a person. These root systems were used as animal pens, and in one case, the largest of the trees (c.500 years old), half of the root system had been turned into a partially thatched room which was used as a cultural museum and community centre, housing villager tools for hunting, cooking and making cookware, baskets etc...

These giant, unique, ancient trees are known as Fromage trees, so we naturally assumed that the trees would smell of cheese or produce a fruit that tastes of cheese, but no, nothing of the sort (I was a bit disappointed and Gaz was just confused that they didn't look like proper cheese). The name was originally Form Age tree, and over time the name was changed to become known as Fromage. It's as simple and silly as that.

In Mlomp we were welcomed into the oldest house in the village and the only 2 story house constructed only from the clay soil. It is not bound with straw or stones, it is just the clay applied in layers and allowed to fully dry and bake in the sun before the next layer was applied. As we walked out, I spotted a light switch and wiring fixed to the outside of the wall and noted (out loud) that they had electricity installed. Gaz was quick to point out the massive fridge in the kitchen that sort of gave that away. Ho hum.

We walked through the narrow sand streets of Elinkine, a village bordering a river delta and watched the local people boarding the traditional Pirogue ferry boat that would take them to a small island in the middle of the river called Carabane. The island of Carabane was once one of the primary exit routes for slaves being forced to board ships to the Americas, but is today simply home to some of the local people of the region.

Our guide Ousmane took us to another location to meet the King. Which King we might meet was never fully explained, though we were told it was a big deal. When we arrived, pulling on to the verge at the side of the road, Ousmane explained in disappointed tones that the King had gone home for the day and we wouldn't be able to meet him!! I was baffled. He did point out the King's house and we had the pleasure of being entertained briefly by the grand-daughter or great grand-daughter, I'm not sure which, dancing and waving in the doorway.

After a quick visit to a Cashew Nut farm and buying such unusual but yummy morsels as ginger casher nuts and cashew nuts in black pepper, we were delivered back to our hotel, where our companion Emma unleashed Irish fire and brimstone on Ousmane over a retrospective change in the tour price aggravated by a misunderstanding caused by language differences. Gaz put the popcorn on and I reclined the seats as all out war ensued for 5 minutes in the shared lounge. In all seriousness, she was right to be annoyed, but I was suddenly very British about the public argument that was all volume and hand gestures, looking around me awkwardly and hoping that no-one else could hear or see the drama. lol

Soon enough it was resolved and everyone was calm and we paid the original price. Lesson? Hide from any Irish woman scorned.

We loved our stay in Cap Skirring, but before you knew it, our time had come to an end and we were on our way again. A short cab ride later and we were dropped outside a sentry gate that served as the entrance to the tiny local airport. The sentry called us over to say hello and attempt a chat in English - just to say hello :-) and then we walked through the gate to find the least airport like airport we've ever been to; we were faced with a street, a small building on the left, an open-air bar on the right with some airport style seating and a single story building beyond with a guy stood in the sun opening and closing the door. He was wearing an ID badge so we headed for him. He directed us into the room beyond and into the queue for Air Senegal. To set the scene, the room was small. There were 2 queues of maybe 20 people. At the check in desk, a man took our bags, weighed them and then put them on a short conveyor belt beyond which led to a bag scanner 2 metres away. We received our boarding passes and went back outside to the bar to wait.

There was no departure board, so we kept an eye on the time and headed to security a few minutes before the gate was due to close. Security was back in the same small room. I efficiently took everything out of my small bag and laid it out in the tray, but when I looked up, the security guy was laughing because I was so efficient. We got chatting and yes, he asked my name and if I had a boyfriend (this place is crazy!) and then just waved me through. Gaz didn't even have to take all the tech out of his bag. They were so relaxed. Another of the security guys was so busy chatting to me and practising his English, he left the line unattended and had stopped doing his job. It just wouldn't happen in the UK.

We flew to Dakar on a tiny plane that bounced, skitted and wobbled its way to a landing that didn't feel entirely controlled. We didn't stay in the city, but instead we transferred to the nearest affordable hotel for one night (20km away?!!) and then transferred back to the airport to catch our flight to Tenerife the next day. Unfortunately the mosquitos had a going away present for me and despite the mozzy net over the bed, 1 little sucker spent the night in there with me and I woke the next day with over 20 bites that proceeded to cause immense discomfort for the next 3 days. grrrr.

We were both very sad to say goodbye to Senegal and its people. But now it's on to the next part of our adventure.