Africa beckons me and my husband Noel again. But where to go? The countries highest on our list are plagued by the rise and persistence of extremist organizations.
A quick initial search online turns up sites that dub Senegal, a former French colony, as the most enduring democracy in West Africa.
Intrigued, we order Lonely Planet’s book, West Africa. A good guidebook makes it easier and quicker to first get an overview of a country to see what interests us, before sifting through the plethora of information online.
A month later we’re waiting at JFK Airport for our direct flight to Dakar, capital of Senegal and the westernmost point of continental Africa, chatting with an American man. As it turns out, he makes this flight often as his wife is a diplomat in Dakar.
Best of all, by the time we board, our new American friend, Pablo, has arranged transportation for us from the airport in Dakar to our hotel, a 50 kilometre journey, with his personal driver — saving us the arrival hassle of figuring out logistics in a jet-lagged state.
Our layover at JFK passes quickly and it's soon boarding time for our upcoming eight hour flight.
It's morning when we arrive in Senegal, but dark gloomy skies greet us as we exit the Dakar airport. “Looks like a storm,” I say. “No, not at all,” replies Pablo, “It’s the sand of Harmattan season — a dry dusty wind that blows from the Sahara over West Africa.”
We soon find that it covers everything, including us, with a fine layer of dust, creating adverse health effects for many residents. During our entire stay in Dakar, the heavy dust in the air limited visibility like a fog, the haze blocking the sun.
We say goodbye and thank Pablo as the driver drops him off in an upmarket zone, home to embassies and high-end residences. Heading further into the city to our hotel, the poverty noticeably increases, with informal dwellings squeezed together haphazardly.
We purposely elect to stay in small locally owned hotels, avoiding the large chains frequented by international tourists.
Directly across the street from our hotel an outdoor laundry is set up — but there are no washing machines here. About a dozen women sitting on small stools bend over large wash tubs filled with water for washing and rinsing. There they remain, scrubbing clothes from early morning into the evening, leaving only briefly, presumably to cook and clean at home.
The entire neighbourhood looks as if the residents have brought the countryside with them — evidence of the rural exodus and migration in hopes of finding better lives. Goats and sheep tied to whatever is around — rocks, sign posts, and trees — fill every available empty space.
A plethora of small businesses — metalworking, carpentry, small engine repair, car repair, shoe making, and tailoring all spill out onto the sidewalk: a pedestrian obstacle course.
But the first challenge for us is accessing cash. Our hotel, like most businesses here, doesn’t accept credit cards.
Second challenge — no ATMs in the vicinity. We need to go to an upscale trendy area where banks are concentrated. It is here that most tourists, Europeans, primarily French visit on day trips from the resorts that line the coastline.
I download the local ride sharing app, Yango, and it takes only a few minutes for our driver to arrive. We breathe a sigh of relief as we reach our destination and spot several signs for ATMs.
But we’re not out of the woods yet.
The first one we try doesn’t work. Neither do the second or third. Are they out of money or just broken? The fourth ATM works — sort of. It dispenses money but with a maximum withdrawal amount of CAD$120 per transaction, with a charge of $7, plus the charge from our bank. A neighbouring machine allows larger withdrawals, but only with a credit card.
It’s an experience that will be repeated many times during our month in Senegal.
Getting back to our hotel is not quite so direct. Google Maps directions are faulty and the driver can’t find our hotel, instead dropping us off where we hope is nearby.
But where exactly are we? We don’t speak French or Wolof, the most widely used Senegalese language, so we can't ask for directions.
Luckily, Noel’s sense of direction honed over many years prior to the advent of the internet is still intact and he finds our hotel only a few blocks away.
Money in hand, we pay for our room. By now we’re ravenous. A Google search leads us to a nearby restaurant, but it’s boarded up and looks like it’s been closed for quite some time.
We resort to the old-fashioned method — wandering the streets. It works. We find a small shawarma restaurant that’s both authentic and delicious. Although not originally a Senegalese food, Darkar’s shawarma scene was popularized by Lebanese migrants to Senegal in the late 19th century.
Exhausted, we now want nothing more than sleep. When we checked into our hotel, we noticed a nearby mosque with its accompanying minaret, a tall slender tower where outdoor loudspeakers are always mounted, calling the faithful to prayer five times a day.
Islam is the primary religion in Senegal, with 97% of the population estimated to be Muslim, and mosques blanket the city.
We know we will inevitably hear the brief call to prayer, an enchanting, lilting, melodic sound. But we aren’t familiar with night prayers — that is, until loud chanting wakes us at midnight and continues until the wee hours of the morning.
We consider changing hotels. But, in the morning, through much hand signaling and Google Translate, we ask the staff if this is a nightly occurrence. They assure us that it is only once a week.
We don’t let fatigue stand in our way and we’re soon off to the port in Dakar to catch the ferry to Goree Island, which lies off the coast opposite Dakar. Ruled in succession from the 15th to the 19th centuries by the Portuguese, Dutch, English, and French, it was the largest slave-trading centre on the African coast.
Throngs of schoolchildren wait in line to board the ferry and the excitement is high. Grabbing seats on the upper deck, we settle in for the half-hour cruise.
Without roads or cars, this small, picturesque island feels like a charming visit to the past. Small colourful wooden fishing boats bob by the curved seashore of the sparkling Atlantic. Cobblestone streets wind past colonial buildings, some newly restored, others cracked and crumbling with distinguished old age.
But beneath its charm lurk the horrors of the slave trade. Africans — men, women, and children were held here before being loaded onto ships headed for the United States, Caribbean, and Brazil.
It’s estimated that millions of Africans died in transit.
The House of Slaves, built by the Dutch in 1776 on a high rocky outcrop above the Atlantic, is the only slave house remaining. Fifteen to twenty enslaved persons were held in dark, airless stone cells measuring 2.6 by 2.6 metres, chained by their arms and necks, unable to move.
Disease was rampant in these appalling unsanitary conditions and epidemics spread from the House of Slaves, not only to other areas of Senegal but also the Americas.
Tiny, damp, squalid rooms housed young girls and children separately. They were often kept for the enjoyment of the slave traders. If a girl became pregnant she remained until she gave birth.
Against this backdrop, the opulent lifestyle of the slave traders in elegant housing above the enslaved prisoners is jarring.
Situated at the back of The House of Slaves, facing the Atlantic Ocean, is the Door of No Return. Ships waited here to take the Africans across the ocean, never to see home again.
Any enslaved people who had become ill, or who had died, were heaved unceremoniously through this door into the depths of the Atlantic.
Converted to a museum in 1962, The House of Slaves is a memorial to the victims of the slave trade and a stark reminder of human exploitation.
We return to Dakar, our moods sombre. We wonder how the school children are feeling after seeing first-hand the brutal conditions enslaved persons were subjected to — the complete disregard of their humanity.
We finish the day visiting the Museum of Black Civilizations, a more enjoyable digging up of the past, celebrating Africa’s cultural and scientific contributions to the world.
Yorumlar