Senegal is a favorite destination among tourists to Western Africa. With its eventful history, serene plains and farmland, luxurious seaside resorts, and bustling capital Dakar, Senegal stands out among its neighbors and peers as very much a “go to” spot.

Dakar is a modern spacious city with an intimate feel, hopping cafes, and friendly atmosphere. It’s a city of more than a million residents and yet feels very open and easy to maneuver (and to escape, if you so choose). Check out the the beautiful gardens of the Palais Présidentiel, or the bustling markets Marché Kermel and Marché Sandaga, both full of fruits and vegetables, crafts and a variety of local fabrics.

Cap Skiring is home to some of Africa’s finest beaches and best resorts. It’s also home to much of Senegal’s large and growing ex-pat population and Western tourists. It may be more like Monaco than traditional West Africa, but if you’re craving a break and want a little taste of luxury, this may be the place for you.

Ile de Gorée is notable for a number of reasons; including its good beaches; friendly atmosphere; and small, laid-back community. But the most important aspect of this island isn’t what happens in the present, it’s what happened in the past. Ile de Gorée was one of the last stops for African slaves before being shipped to a life sentence in the United States. It’s worth a visit.

Traveler’s warning: The Casamance region, Senegal’s southern farmland, has a large number of rebel groups and bandits, making it a potentially unsafe place to travel if you’re not prepared. Do your research, find out what specific areas are most affected when you’re there, and use common sense.

Traveling in Senegal
Traveling to and within Senegal can be done readily by air. There are a number of airlines to choose from, including Bamako, Banjul, Abidjan, and Bissau. For the cheapest flights and most efficient planning, use a travel agent, and be sure your exit fee is included in your ticket.

Road links to Senegal include Trans-Gambia Highway, though, in some cases, you may find the ferry service between Dakar, and Banjul and Ziguinchor to be faster, more comfortable, and safer–if more expensive–than the bush taxis. Within the country, buses are available, as are minibuses (though, it’s worth mentioning the cars rapides are actually slow and dilapidated minibuses that are best avoided). Hire a taxi to take you where you need to go; renting a car is expensive and trying–that is, not advised.

Due to poor road conditions, the best overland route to Mali is by the Mistral International train, which departs Dakar once weekly and has good first-class seating and a dining car. One important tip: you’ll need to show your passport at each border crossing; it may be taken on the train by an inspector, but you must retrieve it yourself at the office. When your passport is taken, find out where you can pick it up… They will not remind you, so it’s on your shoulders to keep track of this essential item.

Weather in Senegal
Travel to Senegal between November and February, when when the air is cool and dry. But be wary of the harmattan winds coming off the Sahara, which can add some discomfort. For water-based activities, such as diving, February to April are the best months. The best bird watching can be done from November to April.

Republic of Senegal
Population: 10.3 million
Government: Republic under multiparty democratic rule
Square Miles: 75,750 sq mi (196,190 sq km)
Capitol: Dakar (pop 2 million)
Official Language: French (official), Wolof, Pulaar, Diola, Mandingo
People: Wolof (36%), Fula (17%), Sérèr (17%), Toucouleur (9%), Diola (9%), Mandinka (9%), European and Lebanese (1%)
Religion: 96% Islam, 6% indigenous beliefs, 2% Christian
Major products/industries: agricultural and fish processing, phosphate mining, petroleum refining, construction materials

Posted: January 27th, 2004 under Africa.
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by Matt Scott
The Tran-Siberian Railway is the ultimate rail journey, the longest in the world, possibly the coldest if you go at the wrong time of year, and the only rail journey that travels across two continents on a single trip, all while staying in the same country. Without leaving your seat you can clatter along almost a third of the globe; the Trans-Siberian is an excursion of almost mythical proportions.

There are three routes that travellers can take to explore the expanse that is Siberia: The 6,000-mile-long Moscow-to-Vladivostok route, and two others that leave Moscow heading toward Beijing: one going through Mongolia, taking six days and travelling almost 5,000 miles, and one that runs via Manchuria, which takes almost a week to complete.

I was intrigued by the country that was once the home of Genghis Kahn. I knew almost nothing else of Mongolia, and that only added to my interest.

My journey started on a Tuesday night at Yaroslav Station in Moscow. Platform 3 was packed with traders loading the train with rugs, stereos, clothes, underwear, and a host of other goods that I assumed were going to be sold on the way. I expected to see many world-wise travellers in the station, waiting to take this epic journey, but there were none. And it seemed I was the only person who had not brought at least half a carriage worth of goods to peddle.

I pushed my way past bags, of what smelled like horse blankets, to find my carriage. The compartment was about as big as the bathroom at the Moscow hotel. There were roughly eight compartments to a carriage. Each compartment consisted of a small table next to the window and two beds on either side, with another two beds suspended from the sides of the carriage, but stowed in an upright position to give the illusion of space.

There was no one else in my carriage as I went through the ritual of removing my hat, gloves, coat, and the several other layers I was wearing to keep out the Russian winter. It was early January, and the outside temperature was below -20º.

I went into the corridor and looked out the window at the remaining passengers loading their wares. Until I reached Ulan Bator in five days time, this was going to be the way I would see the world. Travelling by train can be unique that way: the cultural experiences often come from inside the cars, and train travellers often have the most interesting stories to tell.

Suddenly, I was torn from my thoughts as several people walked into the compartment behind me. Confusion started as seven of us tried to lay claim to the four beds in the compartment. There had been an obvious case of overbooking and we chatted politely as we waited for the ticket collector to see who would be thrown off the train.

Luckily no one was turned away, and three of us were moved to other carriages. I went to first class: still with a toilet at the end of the carriage and no shower, but the compartment had only two beds, and for the moment I had it to myself. Not bad for a $200 ticket.

I spent the evening alone in my compartment, sipping strong Russian tea from the samovar at the end of the carriage. The high-rise flats of Moscow turned into countryside dotted with small towns. Russian Orthodox churches appeared in almost every town we passed through, lit up against the surrounding hills that were covered in snow. Yet there was barely enough time to appreciate this beauty before it passed by and another view filled the window frame. This was how much of the journey was taken up: looking out the window admiring the scenery. Every morning I would open my curtains wondering what new view would greet me as the train moved through the Urals into snow-covered forest to the Russian steppe and the large expanses of nothingness. It was hard to get bored of the scene and the anticipation of another beautiful sunset, knowing that you’d travelled almost a thousand miles and another time zone since the previous night.

The Trans-Siberian makes frequent stops to pick up new passengers and let others alight. Yekaterinburg, Omsk, Novosibirsk, Irkutsk, and Ulan Ude, near Lake Baikal, are just some of the great cities the train passes through. However, stopping for only an hour so at a time, there is little opportunity to sightsee except at the stations. If you miss the train leaving, it can be a week before another will take you to Mongolia to catch up with your luggage. I chose to stay close to the train, observing (and often avoiding) the hustle that met us at stations where traders sold their goods. Old women often came up to the doors of the train offering hot meals of chicken and vegetables or meat and potatoes, as well as soup and biscuits. A three-course meal could be enjoyed from your window if you didn’t want to visit the dining cart that day. Other people would approach with crafts such as decorated glass and crystal, paintings, fur hats, or other specialties of the region. Many workers in the local factories were paid part of their wages in the products they produced; selling these items to the train passengers was a good source of income in the struggling economy.

I often swapped some of my own possessions for snacks: a pair of warm socks got me a huge bag of berries that I enjoyed for the rest of the journey; my book, 2001: A Space Odyssey, got me a new pair of gloves.

At the end of the first day someone joined me in the compartment. Elenor was a young woman from Perm who was on her way to visit her sick mother in Ulan Ude. Her English was as broken as my Russian, but we got along well. We spent the day talking about her children and what I was doing in Russia. She would often tell me how I reminded her of her ten-year-old son and when I fell asleep on my bed she draped her shawl on me and gently sang Russian songs.

Elenor had a supply of shopping bags that she was selling at stations to pay for her journey. As the train pulled into another stop we would both lean out of the windows waving the colorful plastic bags and yelling “Sumki, Sumki!”–Bags, bags! I never sold many, but then, neither did Elenor.

Visitors would often pop into our compartment to chat, bringing gifts of vodka or chocolate. While I only understood part of the conversation, the talks were always animated and very enjoyable. Moving between carriages to meet other travellers, I would take along my bag of berries as a guest offering. I was keen to experience Russian cuisine and eat the food I found in the stations or the restaurant car; I’d often trade packs of dehydrated meals that I had brought along just in case. It was a continual source of amusement as we poured hot water into the foil packs, and a full meal was ready in minutes. Before leaving the U.K., I was worried that my Russian would not be strong enough to help me mix with local travellers. My language was bad, but I was warmly welcomed anywhere I went on the train. I never met another Westerner, and I can’t say that I minded.

The days passed too quickly, and the boredom I once feared never set in. I was hoping to finish my second book and swap it for something at the last station, but I could hardly read a page before my eyes would drift toward the window and I’d became lost in what lay outside. I had been waiting eagerly to see Lake Baikal, the deepest lake in the world, and Elenor woke me as we passed it. This huge body of water was covered in ice and stretched to the mountains on the horizon, but it disappeared within minutes as the train turned a corner and we headed back into the forest.

We soon arrived at the station in Ulan Ude; this was Elenor’s stop. We said our goodbyes and she left me one of her shopping bags to remember her by. I promised to write but after she’d gone I realized I never took her address.

Sara, “the only female doctor in Mongolia” (or so she told me) now occupied the other bed in my compartment. A gentleman from near Lake Baikal, Valery, also joined us for the brief remainder of the trip. He talked passionately about the lake and how “you can catch fish with just your arms.” He also brought food from the region: caviar, black bread, cured fish, biscuits, and other delights that we tucked into eagerly. The three of us shared stories and exchanged English and Russian lessons until we reached the Mongolian border late that evening. The border crossing took almost six hours; we ate and drank numerous bottles of vodka.

The border guards were cheery and shared the vodka as they checked our passports. They chatted to us in three languages: English, if they were talking to me; Russian, when they talked to Valery; and Mongolian at all other times. I thought I understood perfectly, but maybe that was just the vodka.

The last night on the train passed quickly, and I slept until we reached Ulan Bator–the capital of Mongolia–the next morning. I was hoping to enjoy a last breakfast in the restaurant car and get the chance to say goodbye to many of the people I had met during the journey, but as we got into the station there was just enough time to gather my belongings before being ushered off the train.

While the trans-Mongolian route of the railway continued for 1,000 miles to Beijing I would not join it for another four days. In that time I would have the chance to look around the capital city, then hop on another train for just one more day, completing one of the longest rail journeys on the planet when I arrived in Beijing.

Posted: January 8th, 2004 under Asia.
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Sunlight finally filtered through the leaves, allowing my first glimpses of Lombok Island: lush tropical vegetation shaded the road and sparkling water flooded the rice fields. Our bemo–an Indonesian minibus–barreled down the mountainous road toward the port village Bangsal, from where my travel partner Toby and I would board the ferry to our ultimate destination: the Indonesian island of Gili Trawangan. We were now quickly approaching the ocean, the scent of the fresh salty air giving it away. Our paradise island, and the promise of a relaxing vacation, lay just around the bend.Off the Northwest coast of Lombok, Indonesia, reside three small islands: Gili Meno, Gili Air, and Gili Trawangan. Since the 1980s international tourism in Gili Trawangan has increasingly replaced agriculture and fishing as the dominant economic activity. Now a popular tourist destination, this island is known for its clear water, coral reefs, and abundant sea life, excellent for snorkeling and diving enthusiasts. Though only 2 km long, Gili Trawangan is the largest of the three tiny bodies of land. It provides the most tourist facilities and has the reputation of being the “party island” of the group. Budget travelers and tourists alike flock to the island to enjoy the affordable tropical paradise Indonesia is famous for.

Toby and I had barely even set foot on ground in Bangsal when an enthusiastic group of locals flocked to our bemo with offers of private charter boats to the islands. We declined, opting instead to wait for more travelers with whom we could share the costs of the voyage. Having given up on us as easy prey, the crowd reluctantly returned to lazing away under the morning sun.

By early afternoon, we had accrued an eclectic group of twelve adventurers from all corners of the globe, and together we set sail for Gili Trawangan. Forty-five minutes later our captain anchored the boat in the waist-deep waters near the beach, forcing us to wade into shore, backpacks balanced precariously over our heads. Apparently this was the usual method of disembarkation. On land, however, we received quite a reception, as what appeared to be half the island’s population greeted us with warm words and smiles. Moments later, without a word of encouragement on our part, a guide grabbed our baggage and whisked us away to find a losmen–a basic Indonesian accommodation.

Various lodging options exist on Gili Trawangan, ranging from rustic huts on the beach to fancy hotels. Toby and I toured the whole island in search of the perfect hideaway, and we finally settled on a charming bamboo bungalow. The chairs on the small verandah facing the ocean were ideal for observing the pink and orange colors painting the dusk sky. A large mosquito net hung over our clean double bed and the connecting concrete bathroom had a shower. Later we found out it only spouted out seawater, and the result was a week of itchy salt-coated skin. Our host repeatedly assured us no other cottage on the island, save the expensive resort down the street, had fresh-water showers, a “fact” we should have investigated, since some of our companions lodging elsewhere managed to continually look as fresh as the tropical flowers outside their bungalow.

But our losmen was secluded and we very much appreciated the serene atmosphere of the northern end of the island, in part due to our distance from the mosque. In a predominantly Muslim country, proximity to a wailing temple is always a consideration when scouting for quiet accommodation. While the morning calls to prayer are often haunting and beautiful, on this trip, I was eager to avoid bolting upright at dawn to these songs of the faithful.

Accepted as a state religion in Indonesia since the 15th and 16th centuries, Islam–the Arabic word for “submission”–is now the professed religion of 90% of the people who inhabit the archipelago. The religion was superimposed on Hinduism and indigenous beliefs, producing the unique hybrid that now predominates in Indonesia. Though a less orthodox form than that of many other Muslim countries, the same “Five Pillars of Islam” still exist: to submit themselves to Allah, to fast during the month of Ramadan, to give alms to the poor, to make the pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in a lifetime, and to pray five times a day. These calls to prayer influence everyday life and can be heard throughout the day (usually from a cassette recording) summoning faithful Muslims to submit to their one true God. The calls are loud and clear, permeating every nook and cranny of the little village on Gili Trawangan.

The Indonesians are a generally tolerant breed of Muslim, differing mainly from many other sects by how much freedom they allow their women: they are not segregated from the men nor are they forced to wear jilbab–the traditional Muslim head covering for women. However, tradition is still strong, and if a man and woman are spotted together after dark and are unmarried, they are immediately escorted by the village people to the temple and are forced to exchange wedding vows. The Muslim women’s lives consist of an endless stream of household duties and they are seldom seen outside their homes unless engaged in domestic chores.

I awoke early on our first morning and decided to explore the island before breakfast. I quickly noticed that Gili Trawangan consists of little more than the village and the main tourist strip along the beach. This main drag has all a traveler could want: Internet cafes, secondhand bookshops, candlelit restaurants, cozy bars overlooking the water, and movie lounges. Ironically, squeezed in between these modern facilities are traditional family-owned warungs–little food stands–and diners that serve local dishes such as nasi goreng and gado gado.

I finally strolled onto the main square of the island, expecting it to be deserted at six in the morning, but I was surprised to find it busy with the hustle and bustle of a morning market. Boats were docked nearby, having delivered fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs, and fish from the main island of Lombok. Traditionally clad Muslim women, draped in brightly colored sarongs, bartered with conviction. Once their sales were completed, they carried away their purchases by delicately balancing the baskets on their heads, graceful despite their heavy burden.

Some women loaded their products onto cidomos, horse-drawn vehicles adorned with ribbons and bells that swayed and jingled to the animal’s gait. The horse was linked to the cart by wooden poles fastened to a harness made of a used tire, and the eye blinders were fabricated from a recycled Sprite bottle. Impressed with their innovative spirit, I was even more enchanted with their general attitude toward life: they are a relaxed, tolerant people, and are warm and gracious hosts of their land.

The days that followed passed blissfully as Toby and I settled on the beaches of Gili Trawangan. Ivory sand lined the coast, and palm trees swayed in the breeze, providing ample shade from the heat of the blazing tropical sun. Coral reef exploration took up whole afternoons as we followed multicolored fish on their search for food. We swam and played like dolphins, diving into schools of parrotfish to watch them scatter and regroup. Toby dove with a hawksbill turtle, and we both observed the wanderings of a large black eel.

We even snorkeled during a thunderstorm. While most visitors and locals dove for cover with the threat of approaching showers, Toby and I rushed to our bungalow to collect our gear. The warm rain poured over us as we explored the life below, calm and peaceful compared with the tempest above. We swam up to a boat anchored offshore and hung from the sides like monkeys, climbing on board and jumping off again. We reveled in the warmth of the sun and in the cleansing power of the Indonesian waters. We had adopted jam karat, a sort of “rubber time” illustrated in the relaxed Indonesian pace of life.

We rented our snorkeling equipment from the “Blue Marlin Dive Shop” in the center of the tourist strip. During the course of our stay on the island, the store proprietor often extended an invitation to their party on Friday night. Giving into their relentlessness, and to our curiosity, we finally accepted.

We arrived just after midnight and by then the party was in full swing, music heard blasting from afar. We walked through the doors and bumped into Sean, our perpetually intoxicated Irish friend who managed to articulate the following sentence: “It’s a sausage party in there. Enter at your own risk!” Having warned us, he staggered down the stairs, no doubt in search of fresh air.

Our curiosity piqued, Toby and I entered. With widening eyes we observed the scene before us: a sea of half clothed sweaty men on the dance floor, grinding to the beat of the techno music. It seemed to be the whole male population of the island, and the men easily outnumbered the women 20 to 1. The only ladies in the room were tourists, each surrounded by a group of admiring Indonesian men. Their women, bound by faith and domestic duty, stayed home. Within twenty minutes I’d seen enough and left Toby to fend for himself. The lack of tourism in Asia in recent years was apparent. What had no doubt been a vibrant party scene in the past was now reduced to a mere remnant of it.

I bought a flask of rum from the warung across the street and joined a lively group of people chatting under a bungalow. Some of them were fresh off the shuttle boat, while the island had claimed others for weeks, even months. I played bartender that night, fixing rum and cokes until the early morning hours. Some of the best conversations of my trip emerged from that night, as travelers from around the world shared their adventures and dreams.

The day came when Toby and I finally broke free of the island’s grasp. It had held us captive for far longer than anticipated, but we were happy to oblige. Prized as an unspoiled paradise island, Gili Trawangan delivered what it promised: striking white beaches, brilliant blue waters and coral reefs, friendly people still very much in tune with their beliefs and environment, and a wide range of accommodations and restaurants.

A perfect alternative to the expensive beach resorts many tourists opt for, this island offered affordable luxury, peace, and serenity, without sacrificing the Indonesian culture and spirit.

Posted: January 7th, 2004 under Pacific.
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