Artikel van Viviane Traynor, geschreven voor een Ierse krant (in het engels uiteraard)

I had planned to go horseriding in Sligo for a weekend, but ended up in Africa. That's the internet for you. Temptation on line. You want to cross the country and you end up on another continent.

Belgian company Hippo Trek, (www.hippotrek.com) made it all sound so simple. With a click of your mouse they could take you all around the world on horseback. I chose Senegal. This is black Africa, the brochure warns. "Leave behind your European expectations and prepare for 100% adventure."

Black Africa it certainly was and adventure - well almost 100%. Its a halfway house between truly independent travel and the package holiday. As the plane began its descent into Dakar, I wondered what posssessed me to be arriving alone in a third world city late at night with secondary school french and little else in the way of survival skills. But, as arranged, in the chaos of the arrival hall a man held up my name on a card. He took my rucksack and I tried to keep up as he weaved his way through the crowds at breakneck speed, held up only once when I was stopped at a police checkpoint. A stern looking officer wanted to check my hand luggage. Here we go, I thought as I pushed my bag towards him. One of the zips on my bag was slightly open. He just wanted to close it for me. He did so, then wrinkled his nose and smiled at me, no doubt amused by my frightened rabbit expression.

After meeting our Belgian host Emiel Simons and one of the other riders from Holland, we began our two hour drive to the base camp at Sousanne Sarene. Dakar's city streets and shanty towns gave way to pitch black desert and straw huts.

The oil lanterns scattered around the base camp gave off a welcoming glow as we arrived in the early hours of the morning. My home for the next week would be a small two man tent to bring with me around the Sine Saloum Delta. After meeting the other riders the next day we set off in the late afternoon for a short ride to Soussane. THe locally bred Mbyar and Foutanke horses are very small but amazingly sturdy. Throughout the week on rides of up to five hours long they eagerly covered mile after mile, much of the time in fast canter. At Soussanne, Emiel and his team had already set up camp for the night, having brought our bags by jeep. We ate that evening in the open air , the traditional Senegalese meal of rice, fish and vegetables prepared to perfection by our resident cook Adelaide Diouf.

It was then time to sample the shower - a four sided canvas screen for privacy and a large basin of water. As darkness fell the water had cooled enough to make you gasp for breath as you washed away the dry sand of Senegal under the stars - bliss .

Just as I thought about retiring to my tent for the evening (it gets dark about 7p.m.) the entertainment which was to be repeated throughout the week began. The villagers of Sousanne arrived at our camp with their make shift drums to sing and dance late into the evening. This is not spectator sport - you have no choice but to join in. And when I wasn't dancing, local children tried, with some success, to teach me songs in their local language of Wolof.

Despite the strange night sounds, sleep eventually came, to be gently broken at dawn by our alarm call - Vivaldi playing from jeep's stereo! With a five hour ride ahead we needed to cover as much ground as possible to get ahead of the scorching afternoon sun. We rode across the seemingly never ending Savannahs of the region, encountering little vegetation in the dry season. Our only company for much of the trip were loose donkeys and horses, the odd herd of cattle being driven to the nearest well. There was an abundance of brightly coloured birds to admire, along with vultures who eyed us from the tops of the huge baboab trees. I had visions of becoming their next meal if I fell off my horse in this wilderness.

Stopping in villages along the way to water our horses, we were greeted warmly by young and old. Little children ran alongside with outstretched hands asking all the time for a "cadeau" or gift. Luckily I had been tipped off before departure and had brought a supply of sweets and ballpoint pens.

An overnight stop in Boyar again allowed us to really experience local culture. This was far from the tourist trail. Locals paid a visit to our camp and held and impromptu afternoon tea dance. The sweet black tea made espeicially for us by the ever smiling Pape, the youngest member of staff.

Mid week we arrived at Simal in the Sine Saloum Delta. The place lived up to its description as a kind of paradise. We left our tents for a night of luxury - to sleep in straw huts. With real showers and toilets and the beachside open air restaurant it was like a five star hotel to us. The highlight however was not the relative luxury, but the chance to swim with the horses in the deep salt water river.

At Yayem, after setting up camp in a quiet clearing surrounded by palm trees, my fellow riders were looking for more adventure and persuaded me to join them as they took the horses out in the dark. It was only after an hour it became clear there was method in their madness - we were going to the pub! In the nearest village we were led into a back yard, our horses tied to a tree and beers were produced. A sheebeen in the middle of Senegal! When we returned to our camp the party was already underway but this time we subjected the locals to our music, as the four Dutch, one Irish and a Belgian banged out every ballad we knew.

On the penultimate day of the trek we reached the Atlantic Ocean. I stood alone on a long stretch of white sandy beach at Mbodienne. In the distance construction work was just beginning on tourist accommodation. This solitude would not last long.

That evening in Mbodienne - which was also the home of our cook Adelaide Diouf - we had the biggest party of the week. Well over a hundred people gathered in the village to dance and sing for us - by now we were better dancers but still no match for the locals.

Arriving back at the base camp at Soussanne Sarene, the mangos were just beginning to ripen. On my last day local children took my baseball cap from outside my tent, returning it full of fruit. They and the staff at the camp, Ibou, Mamadou, Pape, Boubacar and Adelaide would not say goodbye when I left later that day - they would only say "until the next time".

Viviane Traynor