Our journey began well over a week ago. Each toting a large backpack or small duffel, we all convened at The Living and Learning Center at 7 am with every intention of leaving around 8 am. We parted at 9 am, arriving at Dakar’s frenetic transportation center, Paumpier, by 9:30 am.

Victoria and Boubacar navigated the vendors, taxis, buses, and mini-buses with ease and quickly found a southbound big bus or car mourride, eponymously named for the Mourride Brotherhood of Touba (destination of annual Muslim pilgrimage that is actually taking place as I type) whose leaders own all the large buses. We made ourselves comfortable in the well-worn seats and I, unable to read due to the imminent heat, entertained myself by watching the steady stream of vendors hawk their items along the bus’ narrow aisle. The things people sell and buy—I guess some demand has to be present on the other end—run the gamut from the practical (hardboiled eggs and plastic bags of tap water) to the absolutely ridiculous (telletubbie shaped phones that, when prompted, will repeatedly blast a Japanese ditty from its small speakers). As a vendor displaying cheap electronics such as the aforementioned pressed a plastic piano in my face and struck some keys, I turned to Loren and wondered aloud, “Who buys this stuff?”

But I need not have looked far for an answer. Noting my wince of displeasure, the vendor turned his attention to my neighbors across the aisle where he found (to his good fortune and my misfortune) two enthusiastic customers. For the next hour or so, my aisle neighbors, two men in their mid to late twenties, found endless pleasure in striking the buttons on their new faux cell phones which they both wore proudly around their necks.

Luckily, we changed buses. I carefully followed my backpack from the top of one large bus to another, then situated myself in a less-comfortable seat and waited for another hour or so until the bus started to hum, then vibrate, then violently rattle…and we were off! At 12:30 pm. By now all fifty or so seats had been filled and pleather-covered slats bridged the aisle, providing another fifteen or so seats which were quickly filled.

Twelve hours. From Dakar to Tambacounda, or “Tamba,” with one half hour stop in Kaolack (see map) and a few momentary stops at roadside boutiques (convenience stores). One would think a single pit stop would be enough. Indeed, as I nursed a water bottle at the start of the trip, I wondered if the driver would be receptive to requests for bathroom breaks. But around 2 pm, I realized that water was never going to make it to my bladder as it was seeping out of my every pore. But my condition was not just that of a toubab hailing from a cold climate, a quick glance around the bus revealed all passengers’ heads had fallen to their chests, their eyes heavy, mouths open, and foreheads glistening. In such extreme heat, the body, regardless of descent, just seems to shut down, conserving what energy it can as to kick our cooling systems into full gear.

We reached Tamba by midnight. We had planned to spend our first night in an ecovillage some two hours south of Tamba, but that just wasn’t going to happen. Our Ecotourism professor works in the Tourism Ministry and made some phone calls for us and found us a contact in Tamba. Our host, a pleasant older man whose name escapes me, greeted us with a smile and a pickup truck. A midnight dinner of chicken yassa and salad at a small restaurant, Chez Asta, quieted all of our stomachs. We were put up in a really nice auberge (hostel)—clean mattresses, fans, flush toilet, shower…truly luxurious.

The next morning we feasted on mangos and bread while Victoria and Boubacar went to the garage to find us transportation for the next leg of our trip. They returned with a battered Alham (short for Alhamdoulilahi or ‘Praise God’ which is painted across the front and back of most all mini buses) and the bus’ chauffer, the goateed Pap. After some negotiations both with the program and Pap, the Alham had been hired for the duration of our trip and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief that we would no longer be dependant on the infrequent and slow public transportation vehicles.

The purpose of our trip was twofold: 1) see some sites and have some fun and 2) accredit three rural villages (Medina Coutas, Segou, and Dindefelo) for Senegal’s Global Ecovillage Network (GEN) through which our program is, in part, run. Though Tamba is far from a rural village, Victoria and Boubacar had a brief meeting with our host to explain GEN-Senegal’s mission. Curious and looking to test my French, I sat in.

Our host, a semi-government employee looking to capitalize on Tamba’s role as a crossroads and filter some tourism money into impoverished eastern Senegal, brought to the meeting a woman interested in helping tourists in the region. As Victoria and Boubacar talked about preserving local villages, promoting ecotourism, encouraging sustainable development, our host sipped his coffee quietly. He gave the pamphlets they displayed a fleeting glance, but responded with little more than nods. When Victoria and Boubacar had finished, he stirred for the first time and leaned forward, readying himself for what would be a lengthy monologue. He started out slowly, becoming most animated when talking about money, especially the paltry sum we had given him for our stay (visitors traveling within GEN-Senegal pay 2800 CFA per day which includes a clean place to sleep and three local meals). Granted, Tamba was no ecovillage—we were put up in a nice auberge and fed at a restaurant. He then went on to extol the virtues of the woman he had brought along but hardly let her speak. Though the conversation’s nuances may have escaped my limited French, I grew a bit disheartened. Our host was interested in ecotourism in the abstract, but was more concerned, understandably, with what would generate the most income for Tamba. The meeting ended on a friendly note, however, as we were all pretty much in agreement about the ends (the distribution of tourism revenues to the local people) if not the means.

We settled into the Alham and just when we looked ready to depart, Kendall’s voice rang out over the expectant silence, “So are we going to take this little boy with us?” She gestured to a small boy hanging on the rear door of the bus.

Victoria explained that most mini-buses have both chauffeurs and apprentis. And the little boy was in fact the bus’ apprenti. His name was Alyoune and as we later found out, though Alyoune may have looked to be about twelve, he was, according to both him and Pap, nineteen.

We bid Tamba farewell and were off to the village of Medina Coutas. Kind of. The engine roared, sputtered, and cut out. Alyoune ended up pushing us alongside the tar road until the engine caught and the wheels turned on their own volition.

One week later, nestled between dusty backpacks at the edge of a remote stretch of the tar road, we recalled the Alham’s initial hesitance—all of us had noted it as a bad omen, though none of us had cared enough to comment.