Fear not loyal fans, no obituaries need writing yet, this was not written posthumously. I am quite alive, albeit stagnantly so in Dakar.

Oh Senegal how my feelings towards you are so mixed. Let’s start at the beginning; as west African borders go, entry into the country was perfectly pleasant and fortunately, this is one of the few countries I do not require a visa for. All seemed well. The first night in St Louis was hardly arduous, there was no water to shower with, only a bucket, but a bucket with water in is better than none. There was aircon though, and frankly anywhere with that is good with me. I know this all sounds very soft because in Europe I would normally camp, but it is relentlessly hot here and having a shower feels more necessary than eating.

Things took a turn as I set my sights on Dakar.

Initially I was stopped by a very friendly police man who simply wanted to compare bikes and tell me about his police issue FJR1300. I must say, officer, yours is certainly bigger than mine… I left this interaction feeling good; the police so far had been great everywhere, but TIA, nothing is consistent. Later, en route to the capital I was stopped by a considerably less amicable chap who, owing to my lack of insurance (which wasn’t available at the small border I crossed) kindly lightened my wallet by way of a 200 euro ‘fine’ (bribe) but naturally was unable to provide a receipt for such as so should any other police stop me along the way, they would be equally equipped to rob me. Well done, you are the pride of your country Mr Police man.

By carefully deploying the oblivious tourist look, I was able to ignore further attempts at police stops, figuring that since most don’t even have cars, what are they going to do about it?

Dakar, or its outskirts came into view, traffic until here had been horrible, by far the worst driving so far and as I moved into the city things only got worse. I was quite convinced by this point that everybody was / is hellbent on murdering you on these roads. If I ever here anyone complain about driver or roads in the UK again I will be forced to remove their eye balls with a spoon and post them here so as they can witness the horrors of bustling, chaotic Dakar. The ridiculous bribe had dampened my mood considerably and the prospect of spending several days here to get my carnet stamped, arrange onwards visas, find bike insurance, get cash, service the bike and find a rear tyre did not leave me with any gleeful optimism. More so, in fact, the thought of just booking a flight home and arranging visas in London instead crossed my mind (and continues to do so). Dakar is not my place, and frankly I cannot wait to leave.

But wait, this is not going to be 1500 words of moaning, silver linings are present in even the darkest clouds (not that there are any clouds here, the sun is frustratingly reliable) (*edit- it has just started raining). The people of Dakar are fastidiously devoted to helping you (except for the staff at the hostel I was in (Dakar international – should you wish to spend a few days without toilet paper or a functioning shower)). Case in point, I ordered money from home (thank you Jade) via Western Union to collect the next day. When I went to the place specified by WU themselves it was of course not this, despite the smattering of their stickers in the windows. It was also about 11:30 by the point they opened. Everything here happens completely randomly, with no order or structure. I digress. The women did very kindly direct to where WU actually was and it was just a short walk away. Great, I thought, not so bad. When I get to said location it is of course closed. Back to friendly shop women. C’est ouvrert aujourd’hui? Yes, it’s closed until Monday. Fucking wonderful, couldn’t you have told me that before? In this moment however, along comes a man. They have a brief discussion and he gestures for me to get into his car. This is usually where things go badly in films and I do not have the luxury of  Liam Neeson on standby to rescue me. Fuck it, why not? In I get, his car has AC, at this point the concept of abduction is no longer troubling, at least I am cold. Abduct me car man, do thy worst. Car man, by virtue of his incredible kindness spends the following hour or so driving me around the city until finally we find a WU that is open. I draw out my money and all is well. Where to next he asks.

I was still yet to sort insurance, I really want a brown card so I’m covered everywhere but at this point I’ll take what I can get. More driving with friendly man and we’re back at the original shop. Oh goody, it says ‘assurance auto’ in the window, maybe I can get it here I thought. Of course not, TIA and nothing is what it says it is. Car man needs to depart us at this point, I insist on giving him a small sum, but I don’t think he was bothered really, he just wanted to help. Shop lady then directs me in the way of an insurance place that does apparently sell it.

A short walk in the Senegalese sun later and I find the building. ‘Assurance pour mon moto’ I ask. Nope, cars only. She directs me elsewhere. Like an obedient puppy I follow. Same story here but again helpfulness shines through (maybe I just look extra pitiful because I am so profusely sweaty) and one of the guys gets up, leaves his desk and tells me to get on his scooter. Hmmm, I’ve seen how this lot drive, do I really want to get on the back of a scooter with a man I’ve known for about 8 seconds and wearing no gear at all, not even a helmet? If it gets me insurance, you’re damn right I do. Off we go, mostly on the wrong side of the road and with considerable amounts of beeping and gesturing (on our part and towards us). We arrive and joy of joys this place will give me insurance. No brown card but I am legal at least and all for about £8 for the month.

Next mission is finding the Guinean embassy which, of course, is not there, despite being listed on google maps and iOverlander. I seriously consider just riding into the sea and swimming home. Fuck it I’ll sort visas later. Let’s go to the bike shop which, amazingly, is actually where it says it is. I buy a tyre (a totally inappropriate, oversized enduro type affair, but whatever it’ll do) and some oil. Real motorcycle oil, oh what great luxury I am afforded here. I then retire to the shit hostel, cook food on the balcony with my camping stove because for some reason I’m not allowed in the kitchen and generally doss around for a bit.

After two nights in the hostel, I want to lay down in front of one of the maniacal taxi drivers; with the speed they go it would at least be a quick end anyway. Recognising this is perhaps not the best option however, I book a nice looking Airbnb nearer the coast. I am there now as I write and it has both toilet paper and a shower that water comes out of. I’ve spent most of the day faffing about with my application for a Cote d’Ivoire visa, making the prepayment then gathering up and printing the documents I need at a nearby shop (which the owner of this place kindly took me too on his scooter).

These past few days have not involved the glamours of traveling, no opportunities for Instagram worthy photos amidst moody, remote or striking landscapes have been given and the most exotic animals I have seen have been cockroaches. Sections like this are unfortunately necessary when travelling in areas that do not offer the wonderful ease of European travel. Complicated visas and logistical difficulties are the reality of soloing west Africa so I will just have to get on with it. Through various networks I have found a potential new location that the Guinean embassy may be hiding and if not I have a back up plan anyway. I can’t help but feeling a sense of stagnation, of being trapped in the cage of endless noise and restlessness that is Dakar. I hope all will be resolved with visas and I can move forward because days without geographical advancement feel like failure. I’m certain things will not go entirely smoothly tomorrow, but there is always a way in Africa.

P.S the customs office is not where it says it is. Just go to the docks if you’re here in similar circumstances and ask around. You’ll find it eventually. Don't expect a quick operation but they will give you tea if you patient and nice to them. Oh, and when someone demands money for ‘looking after your bike’ and tries to stop you from leaving, just tell them fuck off, it’s pretty universal.