Dakar to Bamako

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.               
— Percy Shelley’s “Ozymandias”

The beautiful Victorian station in Dakar was built in 1885, though recently, it has been beautifully restored for the new high speed line to the airport. But the old rails of the Dakar-Niger railway, completed in 1924, still exist for their 1200 km journey to Bamako in Mali and the navigable River Niger. You can follow them out through the ramshackle suburbs of Dakar and across the wide plains of northern Senegal. The rails are warped and the sleepers loose. In some places the sand has been driven in mounds that completely obscure the tracks, and in other places the rain has washed away the track ballast, and they float in the air. The railway has become a market in some towns, covered with rubbish, and in others used as a main road. The bridges across the great West African rivers still stand. Some are rusting and abandoned while others are used by vehicles and herds of livestock. In many places they are the only river crossings available. The engineering, the embankments, the stations, stand like crumbling monuments to a long dead king.

A shunting yard, with weeds grown through the tracks and a solitary carriage, has become a scooter repair workshop. A crumbling station houses a tailor and a charcoal vendor. A platform is a convenient height for loading a lorry and makeshift shacks spring up in the now abandoned space in the city centres. 

The railway leaves Senegal over the Falèmè river and heads towards Kayes. A town built around a railway that no longer runs. The goods yard is overgrown and the engine sheds roofless. A railroad crane looks to be in good condition, but is now stranded by lack of tracks. Goats graze. They have no idea this was once a bustling communication hub. 

The final destination is the terminus at Bamako. Another colonial masterpiece, but faded and tattered. Green iron gates are chained and padlocked, blocking the great arches that access the concourse. The sign engraved on the grand stone facade looks bright and pristine. ‘Chemin de Fer de Dakar au Niger’ it declares to the world. Another monument to a disappeared empire, like the pedestal of Ozymandias.

The very last train that arrived, stands at the platform with smart green livery and shutters drawn over the windows. Inside, the seats are empty and thick with dust. Above each seat an electric fan waits motionless for an overheated passenger.

On the platform a crooked sign hangs, directing new arrivals to the Buffet Hotel de la Gare. But the rooms are closed, and snacks aren’t available. The station master sits on a bench in his faded and patched uniform. He hopes, unrealistically, that they will buy a new locomotive and fix the rails. In the meantime he keeps the platform swept. He has nowhere else to be. The ticket inspectors booth is padlocked shut. There are no tickets to inspect. The waiting room waits. The clock has stopped at ten past two and the station’s last announcement is still written on the blackboard.

Notice 18th May 2018

We inform our clientele, that for technical reasons, train movements have been cancelled until further notice.

In front of the station in the shaded forecourt the old men gather. They set up rough homemade draughts boards and play repeatedly, all day. They talk philosophically about how the world has changed since they were young. Some of it for the better, but mostly things just get worse.