14 October 2009 - Timesonline - Alex Spence
The children eyed us hesitantly, unsure whether to approach us or stay back. It had obviously been a while since they'd seen a car, let alone a couple of pale tourists from London.
My girlfriend, Michelle, and I were in a village somewhere in the north of Senegal. We'd been tossed around for hours in the back of a four-wheel-drive as our guide navigated the bumpy sand tracks that pass for roads.
The landscape was stark and unrelentingly dry. This is the beginning of the Sahel, the semi-arid belt that runs across Africa separating the Sahara from the savanna. It is one of the world's poorest regions, sparsely populated and prone to devastating droughts. Away from the coast, where we'd spend most of the previous week, it was almost 40 degrees.
The village consisted of a dozen or so thatched huts clustered around a dusty yard. Several goats scratched around in search of food. The chief, a wiry old man with kind, twinkling eyes, greeted us warmly and beckoned us to sit in the shade. A couple of plastic chairs were produced. Would we stay for lunch? Where were we from? Why had we come to Senegal?
That was a fair question. Senegal has long been on the radar of French holidaymakers but has largely escaped the attention of tourists from the UK. It's a decent bet that few readers will have it on their list of potential winter sun destinations this year.
And that's a shame, as it's one of the most interesting places we've been.
A former French colony, Senegal has a rich history and a vibrant modern culture. It is one of the most stable states in West Africa, politically pluralistic and ethnically diverse; the population (13 million) is overwhelmingly Muslim yet it does not seem religiously oppressive. Everywhere we went, the people were hospitable and open, not yet jaded by mass tourism.
There is a surprising variety of things for tourists to see and do, whether you're in the mood for relaxing in a hammock on a beach or something more adventurous. In a week-and-a-half, we cruised through crocodile-infested wetlands, drank tea with shepherds and slept in tents in the desert. We visited lively urban markets and isolated nomad camps — and, yes, there was some beach time, too. It was just the sort of raw, authentic experience that we'd hoped we would get in Africa.
We began in Dakar, the sprawling capital. A modern, cosmopolitan city of 3 million, its wide streets are jammed with traffic and lined with banks and government buildings. At night, the restaurants fill with Japanese aid workers and European diplomats, while the bars heave to music by local heroes such as Youssou N'Dour and Orchestra Baobab. There are vast markets, stadia and mosques. It feels like a city on the rise. The westernmost city in Africa, Dakar was one of the main jumping off points for thousands of slaves who were sent to the New World. Today many tourists stay in the city just long enough to visit Goree Island, a 15th-century Portuguese port that was used to process many of the slaves.
A 20-minute ferry ride from the centre of the city, it's a pretty, sleepy place: brightly-coloured colonial-style houses, narrow streets full of stalls selling tourist kitsch, a few decent waterfront restaurants.
We visited a former slave house and looked around the dingy holding rooms in the basement, where numerous slaves once awaited transport to the Americas. It was difficult to reconcile what they must have endured here with the pleasantness of the rest of the island.
For us, the highlight of Dakar was a wrestling tournament at one of the city's main stadiums. It was a big deal, our guide told us, with every country in West Africa taking part and Senegal favoured to win.
The wrestlers were phenominal physical specimens: tall, lean, incredibly strong. Their bouts took place one-by-one in a sand-filled ring, and lasted a few minutes at most. Outside the ring, the entertainment was even more compelling. Wrestlers strutted around theatrically, stirring the crowd. There was loud, relentless drumming and dancers in exotic costumes.
The Senegalese team reached the final but lost to Nigeria, their bitter rivals. Yamar, our guide, was crestfallen. One of the Senegalese wrestlers began wailing inconsolably, and a man in the crowd behind us screamed as if possessed. The Nigerian wrestlers pranced around triumphantly. It was tremendous theatre.
After Dakar, most tourists head for the beach resorts south of the capital. Instead, we went north, along the Grand Coast. It is mostly deserted, with only a couple of settlements of any size, which means it is possible to drive much of the way along the beach itself. For years, it served as the final stretch of the Paris-Dakar rally.
We arranged a car and a guide through The Senegal Experience, a UK operator that has recently begun offering private tours. Starting at £1,179 per person for three nights, including flights, the tours may be beyond some travellers, yet without a sturdy vehicle and an experienced driver it would’ve been almost impossible to have seen everything we did. That’s the biggest downside of travelling in Senegal.
As evening fell, we arrived in Kayar, Senegal's biggest fishing town. The scene was spectacular. Hundreds of colourfully-painted pirogues lined the shore; many more were returning from sea, hauled through the surf by men with long ropes. Other boats waited beyond the breakers. Women and children moved about, paying little attention to us, carting the fish from the boats in plastic buckets perched on their heads. The smell of fish was overpowering.
A fisherman who spoke good English walked us through the hubbub. The incursion of foreign trawlers has depleted their traditional fishing grounds, he told us, which has meant that the locals have found it increasinly difficult to sustain their livelihoods. For this dangerous work, they can expect to make £5 a day if they're lucky.
That night, we stopped at a camp in the Lompoul Desert. It is not so much a desert, really, as a collection of tall sand dunes not far from the ocean. Weary from the long drive, we dropped our bags in our surprisingly luxurious tent before joining the other guests — a group of French travellers on a weekend break from Dakar — for dinner. We sat on cushions by the dim light of a few kerosene lamps, and ate a hearty Moroccan-style lamb stew.
Outside the tents, the sky was clear and full of stars. I sat around the fire as two of the cooks played djembe drums and sang Wolof folk songs. A while later, I stumbled off to bed. It was deathly quiet. I haven't slept so soundly in years.
The next day we reached St Louis, Senegal's colonial jewel and the last settlement before the Mauritanian border.
Located at the mouth of the Senegal river, the former French trading port was once the richest city in West Africa. It was established by French traders in the mid-17th century and fell into British hands for a short time about a hundred years later; it was eventually returned to French control and it remained the centre of colonial power in Senegal the beginning of last century.
It is now faded and crumbling but nevertheless charming — the West African equivalent of Trinidad or Luang Prabang. We stayed at Maison Jamm, a guesthouse owned by Yves Lamour, a French businessman who retired to St Louis five years ago after making a fortune in the technology business in Paris....To enjoy the remainder of Alex Spence's feature, please click to read the online version.
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