We rolled over the Diama dam and got all of about three feet into Senegal before having to make our first payment: the bridge toll. Although to give him credit, we did get a proper ticket and receipt - unlike the next person in line, the frontier policeman, who simply refused to stamp our passports until we gave him 10 euro each. Receipt? Of course not - everyone just pays up. Here, I'll show you: look at my big drawer full of cash.
But as it turned out, he was the only person we came across in Senegal who wanted to do things that way. Contrary to popular traveller misconception, every other traffic policeman, customs official and gendarme was friendly and correct (if sometimes a little busy on their mobile phone to do much more than wave our paperwork in the air for a bit). And as in Morocco and Mauritania, pretty much everyone else we met was chatty and helpful too.
Other things really did seem to change, though, as soon as we'd crossed the Senegal river. The landscape was much greener, lusher; there were trees everywhere; and there were monkeys running across the road. The kettles were made of stripy plastic now.
The people were all properly black and looked seriously West African - women in incredibly bright patterned fabrics carrying everything on their heads, boys in football kit practising madly for their lucrative futures in the Premiership. And the food was definitely different. Here, it was all about the fruit juices. The savoury condiments, the grains, the baguettes and the viennoiserie. And above all, the joys of fermentation ...



Continue reading To the land where things ferment.