Travel tale #4: Senegal

On the people I experienced in Senegal

There are people from my trip to Senegal who remain with me when I picture that time in December. Who, for different reasons, I cannot forget. Who came together across distinct memories, across locations (Dakar, Ile de Ngor, Gorée, Lac Rose, Saint Louis) to settle in a corner of my mind. To create the feeling I now have when I think of this place.

There was the waiter at the waterfront hotel lined with palm trees that danced in the breeze, who told me that he would have to serve me my first chicken yassa of the trip without alloco, who understood my disappointment and tried to speak to me in Wolof, who was surprised when I said I wasn’t Senegalese, who smiled at me playfully as he told me I would learn the language soon.

There was the young driver of a yellow and black taxi, who I flagged down on the street to take me to one of Dakar’s galleries, who negotiated his price as I stayed stubbornly by the window. There was also a white woman in an SUV who honked and shouted at him in French to move out of her way, who left me with a feeling I couldn’t quite place. And then he moved, less firm with her than he was with me.

There were four men in beach shorts who played football at Plage Terrou-Bi, who backed the setting sun and guided the ball with bare, nimble feet. Who I watched as I tore through freshly grilled fish while sitting under an umbrella anchored in the sand.

There was the artist in the village who played jazz as he worked outside his studio. Who wore a gold-patterned cap and a gold and black amulet necklace. Who was tall, lean and graceful. Who let us go through his studio space and take in the paintings of vertical lines streaked with colour interrupted by knots, the posters of Miles Davis and John Coltrane, the abstract yet revelatory portraits of himself. Who smiled at me and asked if I was an artist for the questions I posed. Who considered my answer and told me that he did his own writing on blank canvas. Who had Mali and Senegal in his heritage but claimed Africa instead. Whose space I wanted to linger in, watching how music and colour circled each other.

There was the Nigerian woman dining at the boat-themed restaurant which was established in 1956, older than the country itself, a fact that made me wonder how wealth, how land, how prosperity, had been decided before independence. Who caused us second-hand embarrassment by getting up to zip, button, and belt her jeans in public, like her husband had done, both sated and full. Who made us cry-laugh at this and other things. And then there was the waiter, kind and well-meaning, who rushed over to implore us to stop crying, who was worried that the food had caused it, who only made us laugh harder.

There was the toned fisherman with shiny black skin who perched his bare feet on the rocks at Ile de Ngor. Who was casting and pulling back in a ceaseless loop while the waves rushed in. Who stood there, peaceful and unhurried.

There were surfers too, who waited and waited as the sun started to cast its shadow, who caught waves and held them close for long stretches. Who let their bodies fall trustingly into the water, only to do it again.

There were fruit sellers in Saint Louis with carts framed by the hanging bananas and grapes, by the colourful walls that reminded me of New Orleans, that reminded me of the French. Kids who played football with basketballs and weighted bottles. Old men who sat in front of buildings with legs crossed, watching everything.

There was the artist that bends bicycles, breaks them apart, gives them new life, turns them into art. Whose father has done so too. Who told us where to go for the best thiéboudienne. Who certainly wasn’t wrong.

There was the woman who welcomes strangers into her home in Saint Louis, whose style fit so neatly in the space she created herself — a space with calming mustard and white tones, with elegant art and sculpture, with tall trees that push through the open courtyard. This woman who offered us organic produce at breakfast, pointing generously to ditakh, bouye, and bissap jams and juices, pointing to the freshness of the island. This woman who was both French and Senegalese, balancing two influences, like the country itself.  

There was the taxi driver who drove us back to Dakar in a drunken state. Who we didn’t know how to walk away from in the middle of nowhere. Who asked me to write his story and told me about his family line. Who I played the same songs on repeat for, in order to keep him awake. Youssou N’Dour with Sidiki Diabaté, then Youssou N’Dour with someone else. Who taught me what it was to fear again, on another journey, in another country. Who taught me what it was to be grateful for the most basic of things — feet placed flat on still, solid ground.

There was the man who took us around Lac Rose, the lake that has lost its colour, but still has a community that depends on it, that prays for tourists, for the water to be pink again. Who told us he was 50, to our chorus of surprised gasps. Who joked about making me his second wife.

There was the graceful tour guide who took us through Gorée, the colourful island that once had 28 slave prisons. Who took us through the one that remained and showed us how these spaces consumed life. Who showed us the last some people saw of home. Who seemed like he had been telling this story for many years.

There was the man I met at an art gallery back in Dakar, who explained the works to me, and then explained himself. Who I sat with as he told me about his dreams over a coffee, long after the exhibition had finished.

And there was me too. Or this version of myself in this new but familiar place. Who felt claimed as theirs, who was overcome with beauty, and who felt beautiful in return.

My trip to Senegal had such an impact on me that I will be sharing something else on it, in a different medium, in my next post. I’m excited about it — hope you are too :)

Prompt:

Have you come across a stranger who has settled in a corner of your mind? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.