When I mentioned to a fellow writer in Paris that I was off to Dakar for a long weekend, she assumed I was attending, or participating in, the Paris-Dakar Rally. It raised a smile; the image of me roaring through the desert, risking my life, burning up fuel. I think not, but it was a reasonable observation. Dakar, capital of Senegal, is known for little besides its renowned off-road raid, in spite of the fact that for the past two years, due to security issues in Mauritania, the race has been run in South America!

The actual purpose of my visit was none. My husband was attending a pan-African documentary film festival and I was accompanying him. After a frightful European winter, I was in need of blistering heat, if only for three days. One of the bonuses of this destination is that it is manageable for a short break. Paris to Dakar takes just over five hours. Nothing was to disappoint. Our flight landed at dawn, into 25 degrees. Our hotel, the Pullman, ex Sofitel, where the festival was being held, was nothing special but the staff were friendly and it was situated close to the city centre as well as overlooking the ocean and the Island of Gorée. Its leafy pool area, alongside the beach, was accessed by a bridge, une passerelle, that spanned a busyish street, the Route de la Corniche Est.

First the city, and I was immediately plunged into streets pulsing with vendors chatting in Wolof, the local language, or African French. All were attempting to sell this white woman, this toubab, an assortment of phone cards, electric kettles, shoes, woven baskets of haricot beans…‘cha’. There was no sense of hassle or concern and the hawkers dropped back with a smile when I refused.

Wandering in no particular direction, up and down streets named Boulevard Martin Luther King or Avenue Nelson Mandela, passing dozens of tucked-away boutiques and ateliers selling richly-coloured flowing garments, local artwork including glassware and some astounding tribal masks and figures, I came upon a bookshop, Aux Quatre Vents. Here I found all the African or Senegalese maps, history, travel guides, political tomes I could carry. Armed with a wealth of material, I returned to the pool. With only three days in Dakar, I wanted to make one visit, somewhere special. An informed choice was required.

The city of Dakar is situated on a promontory, a presque-île formed in the shape of a whale’s tail. Known as le Cap-Vert, it is the most western point of Africa and, being a cape, is surrounded by sea and beach on three sides. Its southern shores are more protected, less wind-blasted by the Atlantic Ocean. Four thousand years ago, this promontory was settled by fishermen. Fishing became the region’s economic mainstay until 1444, when the first colonisers, the Portuguese, disembarked and claimed Gorée Island. I lifted my gaze. I could see the island from where I was sunbathing. Over my head, large brown birds were swooping from one baobab tree to another. Vultures. Reggae was playing discreetly over at the pool bar. Children were shrieking and sliding into the water. Brilliant-hued bougainvillea plants were climbing everywhere.

Gorée was controlled by the Portuguese, then the Dutch. The British arrived in 1664 and finally the French who took possession in 1677. Gorée’s Slave House was built in 1776. From then on, the island became the principal point of entry to the continent of Africa for slavers and merchant ships flying the French flag. The Isle de Gorée, now classified as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a twenty-minute journey by chaloupe from Dakar’s port. I set off the following morning. There were few tourists aboard the ferry. The passengers were a handful of the 1,200 islanders returning with hefty shopping bags.

Even before we had dropped anchor the magic, the haunting began. The approach offered the first taste of the architecture and the fort; enticing pastel colours, French influenced, and a pace of life that was slower than a donkey. I stepped off the boat and strolled the dusty lanes and alleys to the infamous Slave House, still in tact, restored in 1990 with UNESCO aid. It was from here – ‘The Door of No Return’ – that black Africans were shipped across the seas to unknown lands to work the plantations. Outside, is a masterful full-size bronze sculpture of a woman clinging to her man…

Looking out to sea, beyond the red-tinted walls, a shade that resembles diluted blood, the traders’ view. Over the water, vultures again speckling the sky like shadows from the past. Underground, the dungeons for the chained-by-the-neck blacks. History and the dank walls tell its lamentable story. Slave trading was eventually abolished here in 1815. After a brief visit to the House of Women, I wandered the island, talking to locals, mostly vendors selling their artwork: wooden chairs, beads or paintings, gazing upon beauty as well as heartrending poverty until I settled for lunch at the Hostellerie du Chevalier de Boufflers, which is also a rather attractive hotel. I sat for hours reading, unwinding, musing upon man’s cruelty, watching the ferries’ transits until it was time to return to my husband.

Together, we sipped our apéritifs while dense flocks of vultures invaded the sky, swooping and calling until suddenly they disappeared into the lustrously fronded palms, out of sight for the night, leaving us with silence, sunset, starlight and the promise of a jazz-filled evening somewhere in town. This visit may have only been three days, but I was entirely transported to another civilization; memorable, disturbing, tropical, laid back. We have booked a return trip for June and this time will stay longer and delve deeper into the bruised heart of Senegal.

Text and photos © Carol Drinkwater 2010
www.caroldrinkwater.com

Carol Drinkwater’s latest book Return to the Olive Farm, is published on 8th July by Weidenfeld & Nicolson at £18.99

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1. cherri gilham says:

   July 2, 2010 at 6:56 am

   Captivating words and images that make me want to read all of your books Carol…

   I have the time now, and shall…thankyou

   x¸♥♫•*¨*•.¸¸♥