Sept-Place Seven Deadly Sins

Feeling quite proud of completing our French classes, we decided to take on the next major challenge of our West African trek: ground transit to The Gambia.

The van coming on was needed to lower the bridge

Last week, we packed our bags, said au revoir to Maison Rose, and began the six hour trip to the beach.  The journey, which began when our taxi driver rang our doorbell at 4:50am (an hour and 10 mins earlier than scheduled!), had us going nearly 300km south of Dakar: through the dry countryside scrub, next to a baobab forest, across our first border, over a river by ferry, and ending in the Atlantic coast resort town of Bakau in The Gambia. And all of this (except for the ferry), was by sept-place.

Gentlemen, start your engines.  If you can.

The "sept-place" is a 1970s Peugeot station wagon. The name refers to the 7 places (excluding the driver) in the car: the front passenger, three in the middle bench seat, and three in the rear bench seat (in America, we would call this the trunk).

The sept-place is difficult to avoid if you're traveling in West Africa on a budget. They go almost anywhere, charge a fixed price, take off after 7 tickets are sold, and are universally despised. Seats are assigned on a first come, first served basis. The beauty of arriving early is that you might be given #1 (shotgun), but this only means you'll wait an indefinite amount of time before leaving, as departure completely depends on when/if six other people show up. If you're handed ticket #7, you'll be on the road in no time, but you'll sit in what our French teacher called "le inferno" (it has the same meaning in English).

One of the more tame lots we encountered.

Inside the belly of the sept-place lot of dented and rusted wagons, something happens to each traveler. Your spirit immediately leaves your body, gives you the finger on the way out, and flies the hell away from that urine-soaked godless place, leaving you to fend for yourself by all means necessary. When in doubt, elbows out. 

Once we had our bearings enough to shout our destination over the din, three men pulled the luggage off our backs and dragged us to our fated vehicle for tickets. After a rapid exchange of an undetermined, yet nominal, amount of money, my hand clutched ticket #7, Sara's #6. 

We piled in and were on our way.  To reach The Gambia, we first needed to go through Purgatory.

The Seven Seats of the Sept-Place

 

Gluttony: Seat 1- The Front Passenger Seat

Since the first Ford rolled off the assembly line, siblings have waged family civil wars over the coveted front seat, and the sept-place experience is no different. Unless the passenger is Shaq, there's no reason for this seat to have so much legroom that the rider can fit his suitcase and the three bags of charcoal the he made the driver stop for at the side of the road.

Greed: Seat 2- The Left Middle Seat

At first glance this passenger looks friendly. He gives the general "we're all in this together" nod of understanding to the people in the back row. But an hour into the ride, this passenger leans his head back on the knees of the person behind him and uses them as a headrest. Not only does he take up more than his fair share of car space, but when the driver stops for his prayer break, this guy opens his door to stretch his legs, but doesn't let anyone else out. This guy and his skinny jeans were seriously in need of a wedgie.

They all seemed to sweet before the doors closed.

Lust: Seat 3- The Center Middle Seat

You desperately want to be in the front seat. You can see it, you can even stick your head in between the driver and first passenger. You want to be in the front seat so bad, you can smell it. In fact, we can all smell it, because the inside of the car hasn't been washed in 30 years.  In Dante's "Inferno", those unforgiven of the sin of lust are blown about in restless hurricane-like winds, symbolic of their own lack of self-control. With hot air blowing against your face from all four sept-place windows in this middle seat, there is no mistaking that you are in hell's hurricane.

Sloth: Seat 4- The Right Middle Seat

This seat is the gatekeeper to the only way in, and, more importantly, out of the back row. Once wedged in the back of the sept-place, you quickly realize this person is your worst enemy, and that there is no way humanly possible for this person to move any f'ing slower. It takes this passenger the entire time the driver is curbside for praying to crack the window, let alone get out and lift up the seat allowing the back passengers the chance to straighten their pretzel-like legs. It wouldn't be so bad if we weren't on hour four (and prayer stop two).

Pride: Seat 5- The Left Back Seat

Dante was onto something with this seat: "love of self, perverted to hatred and contempt for one's neighbor." Slighted that he missed the middle row by just one person, this passenger is the first into the back row. With long legs and bony elbows, our fellow trunk-mate takes his extra space with pride. "It's pretty crowded back here, isn't it?" No kidding, Stretch, I wish you and your overflowing boubou 6 hours of pins and needles in your heels.

Envy: Seat 6- The Middle Back Seat

Anyone who has ever sat in the middle seat of anything knows how envious you are of every other seat in the car.  Multiply that feeling by 1,000 and you have the envy of the person (Sara) in this spot over the axle. With knees up to her chin, HOW COULD ANYTHING BE WORSE THAN THE MIDDLE SEAT IN THE TRUNK OF A SEPT-PLACE?!?!

Still have rust in my back pockets

Wrath: Seat 7- The Right Back Seat

This is by far the worst seat in the entire wagon, and perhaps in the entire planet. I am the last person in the back row and am forced to squeeze ma derriere into whatever space is left. Since the entire width of a sept-place is no bigger than two average-sized butts, my only option was to perch one cheek gingerly on the rusty wheelhouse. Now sitting about six inches higher than normal, my neck is at a 90 degree angle as my head crunched against the ceiling. Inordinate and uncontrolled seething is apt for Seat 7. 

Rewarded with seats 1 & 2 for the next.

For our fortunate souls, purgatory was just a short five hours until we arrived at the Gambian border and unfurled our legs/neck/torso from their origami design.

We breezed through immigration and customs, got our Gambian visa stamp, and walked 50m to the next sept-place stand.

[Author's note: this blog text was written prior to the 16 hour, overnight boat ride through the Atlantic.]