31 August 2011 - Real Travel Magazine - Jane Labous
The first thing I notice as we take a taxi from Dakar airport into the city is the lack of car horns. There's an eerie silence; just the metallic hum of the driver's radio and the limpid stillness of the African dusk as we pull onto a roundabout (a roundabout!) and drive along the new highway that runs along the once dust road lining the corniche. It's a surprise, for the African roads I'm used to are a cacaphonous, often terrifying riot of noise and unruliness. Ten years ago I lived in Dakar for a year, and what was once a hair-raising ride through an array of decrepid cars, motorbikes, scooters, carts and pedestrians, with a background of indiscriminate hooting, is now, um, not unlike driving along a country road in Surrey...
“Hooting is as important as the brakes in Africa!” agrees the taxi driver cheerfully when I comment on this unusual phenomenon. “But Dakar drivers are learning...”
There are other things afoot in Dakar, West Africa's most developed, most forward-thinking city. It may still have its street hawkers and its chaos, but it's now a thoroughly modern metropolis with a vibrant cultural scene and, in a city always well-known for its beautiful, exceptionally chic women, fashionistas galore.
Indeed, the Senegalese are a truly beautiful race. Wandering, we find ourselves gasping at the mere sight of these long-legged, gleaming-skinned, finely-boned creatures crossing the road. Meanwhile, the city's distinctive yellow and blue minibuses which have formed Dakar’s intercity bus service for years still trundle along streets crowded with boys selling oranges from wheelbarrows; women roasting sweetcorn on oil stoves and outdoor hairdressers. It's just that all around, modern apartments are springing up and adverts celebrate mobile networks, sports centres (from wrestling to running, weight lifting and football, Senegalese men love to work out) – and cigarettes.
That said, don't under-estimate the African heat and the African, well, chaos – for it is still at large. One sight a day is generally enough, with plentiful stops for water, lunch, a cold Coke and snacks. For some reason the combination of 30-plus degree heat, a dusty city and lots of people will always have you craving the stillness of your hotel and a dip in the pool by mid-afternoon.
Most tourists visit Ile Gorée, an island just off the coast and reached by a ferry from the city port. Its colonial prettiness – all palms and pastel-painted houses - sits unsettlingly with its history. Gorée was West Africa’s main slave trading post during the 18th and 19th centuries and the Maison Des Esclaves is a preserved Dutch colonial house dating from 1776, where slaves were kept in chains on the ground floor while the owners lived in luxury upstairs. The door leading directly out to sea, where les esclaves were loaded onto boats and sent across the Atlantic to South America, is particularly disturbing.
But Dakar is a city that must be delved into to be appreciated. Some of the best musicians in Africa – guys like Cheikh Lo, Pape Diouf, Pape et Cheikh or Toure Kunde, who pack out places like the Royal Albert Hall in London - play impromptu gigs at hidden bars. You'll find the music swings until six in the morning as ebullient audiences dance Mbalax to the beat of the drum. Dakarites know how to party and if you want to see a good time in this city, it's best to join them.
So we do. Sunset is long gone when we head out to Just 4 U, easily missed if you're not looking for it, hidden behind a shabby wall in the Point E district. Inside, trendy Dakarites sip Coke and chat around plastic tables laid out beneath the palms. The band saunters on stage unhurriedly at about quarter past 11, the bass guitarist drawing on a cigarette. It's an inauspicious start but when they get going this place reverberates with colourful counter-rhythms and incredible improvisations, all a background to soulful Wolof lyrics.
When the drummer hoists his tama, the talking drum, onto his shoulder and taps out a rolling beat – question answer, question answer – the crowd claps and cheers and rocks. A man in a long purple boubou gets up and dances the Mbalax as the talking drum rolls on. It's a strange, beautiful dance, chaotic and graceful all at the same time, derived from a mixture of traditional Sabar Senegalese dancing and more modern styles. In the days to come we see it many times – the suggestive, comical swirl of the dancer's buttocks (known mystifyingly as the “electric fan”); the almost robotic movements of knees and legs to match the beat of the drum and the jelkati - a move in which the dancer moves his upper arms, bent at the elbows, in parallel motion from left to right to the beat of the drum.
It's not the only music we see in Dakar. When he's in town, Youssou N'Dour, he of the Neneh Cherry duet Seven Seconds and a big big star in West Africa, plays live on Saturday nights at his club Thiossane. His gigs draw heaving crowds of excited fans who dance until the early hours. We go, we dance, we cheer, we sweat to the fast-driving, interweaving sound of Youssou's traditional sabar drummers. It is one of the best concerts I've ever seen in my life.
The road north out of Dakar takes us through the former colonial trading town of Rufisque, where goats are traded on the dusty square amidst a hubbub of traffic and fruit stalls; hawkers sell everything from peanuts to papayas; lorries rumble past and carts pull passengers and goods. You can still gather the colonial elegance of the crumbling buildings lining the road; their roofs are caved in and their colours faded by the sun and the dirt, but they still tell the tale of what was once one of the most important French settlements in Senegal.
A few kilometres away is the Lac Rose, or pink lake, widely vaunted as one of the country's main tourist attractions. I have to admit that on both occasions I've visited, I've found it rather underwhelming – its water is ten times saltier than the sea but in the bright midday light it's more light beige than rose pink and the touts round the edge make the experience a little wearing.
Much more worthwhile is the village of Kayar, further up the coast, a working fishing village with thousands of colourful pirogues parked on the beach. You can see the entire process here, from the boats being launched to the catch being landed. Seabirds swirl overhead and children rush along the shore as we walk along the sand, being lightly chatted up by a couple of locals. We ignore them and watch a group of fishermen enlist the help of the whole family to haul in one of the boats. In the shade of a boat bow, two women and some toddlers pick tiny shrimps from the nets as a lady in colourful robes sways past with a bowl of fish on her head.
There's every reason to hire a four-by-four in Senegal; not only will it have all-important air-conditioning, but it will cope with the rough roads which often veer off from the main drag. Yamar, our extremely knowledgeable guide and driver, is not only a mine of information but a skilled off-road driver. He takes us into one of the country's hidden and largely unvisited regions, the Lompoul desert.
When I lived in Senegal I didn't even know this area existed. We spend almost four hours driving along the area's off-road “piste des charettes”, or horse cart tracks, past fields of bissap (hibiscus – known as “Senegal's Red Bull”, it makes a bright red, sweet soft drink that can be found everywhere from street corners to bars), cassava, beans and mounds of harvested peanuts. I am astonished to arrive at a vast, dune landscape that resembles a mini Sahara. One hour before sunset the dunes glow gold. We take our shoes off and sprint up and over them as the wind ruffles the sand into patterns. Gradually the sun becomes more intense, the place lights up, and I realise why there's really no better place to watch a sunset than in the desert, surrounded by golden light.
We stay at a the Camp du Desert nestled behind the dunes, where we're given a beautiful bedouin tents simply but perfectly equipped with a double bed, rush matting, pretty Moroccan lamps and a private outdoor shower and loo. The evening is a blur of stars and spirits. Over dinner the friendly bedouin chef offers us “fruit punch”. I have no idea what happened next, apart from a vague memory of lying on a mat outside pointing out the constellations. Yamar later assures me (with a wry grin) that he doesn't get tourists drunk on purpose. The next morning we both concluded (with slightly heavy heads) that it was the best possible night in the desert one could have.
St Louis is Senegal's second largest town; the first city in West Africa to be colonised by the French in 1659. By the 1790s it was a thriving trading town for goods and slaves and its colonial past is still very much evident in its architecture.
On St Louis island, the former European quarter, we find grand old four-storey buildings, pastel coloured, with wrought iron balconies and regal windows; quiet, dusty streets where goats stray and dogs lounge; gaggles of children in pink overalls chattering back from school. Most impressive perhaps is the rusting Pont Faidherbe bridge, designed by Gustav Eiffel in 1897. It links the mainland and island and is being refurbished in an extremely slow project (think years not months).
Further on, the Pont Mustapha bridge links the island to the coastal African quarter and affords a picturesque view of the pirogues along the river and the higgledy-piggledy roofs of the market stretching along the banks. Once across, you find the usual chaos of an African town, but it's down on the beach where it all happens. Kids play in the breaking waves as the women gut fish and boys play football. Further along, all the town's menfolk seem to be involved in a wrestling competition. A lithe, gleaming boy in orange pants beckons me over and motions for me to photograph him, mid-wrestle, proving that a poser is a poser, wherever you are in the world.
Further on, nets have been hung out to dry and the afternoon heat lessens as the sea mist from the incoming tide envelopes the beach. We stroll back, keen to avoid the fish heads and other miscellaeous items being washed in around our feet.
The best part about St Louis is arguably the Langue de Barbarie, a long stretch of sand straddled by the city which runs south separating the river from the sea. A pirogue shuttles us out to an island - immediately dubbed Crab Island because of the crowd of almost transparent crabs who come scuttling out to welcome us the minute our boat draws up at the jetty.
There's no-one here but us (you won't find many British tourists in Senegal – those who come are normally French, and even then, they tend to stay in the big resorts), the crabs and a barman. Oh, and a golden labrador who seems to like nothing better than to chase the crabs about. It's stunning.
Our hut, decorated in dark wood, colonial style, overlooks the river. On the other side of the narrow island is the sea, a strange wild beach where crabs pop up to check for intruders before waltzing sideways across the beach. That night dinner is served is a big Mauritanian tent – chicken, rice and to finish, Senegal's famous three tea ceremony. The ritual, in which three small glasses of tea which gradually get sweeter and sweeter are served to the visitor, is a traditional form of welcome in Senegal and other parts of West Africa.
“The first,” says the waiter huskily, handing us a small glass, “is “amere comme la mort.” Bitter as death. “La deuxieme est doux comme la vie” Soft as life. “Et la troisieme,” he pauses and winks, “est miel comme l'amour.” Sweet as love.
We head out the following morning and I close my eyes and trail my hand in the water as we zoom back across the river in the tranquil morning sunshine. It takes us three hours to drive back down the coast to our next stop – Toubab Dialao – a place where I used to come on the weekends as a student ten years ago. I'm interested to see how it has changed.
It has changed... Where once lay a small village with two tiny “campements” and a wild, uninhabited beach, there's now a burgeoning tourist centre. The banks of the beach, once inhabited only by prickly pear bushes and stray dogs, is now dotted with impressive holiday homes built by “toubabs” - tourists. The stray dogs still abound but nowadays there are a few more toubabs to hassle. We stay at Sobo Bade (www.espacesobobade.com), the clifftop artists' colony that has been there for years. It is entirely decorated with seashell mosaics and overlooks the ocean, deep blue at midday against the shimmering white of the shell walls and roofs. Today the sea is calm and warm. I notice the way the coast has eroded in the years since I visited. A rocky outcrop that used to jut far into the sea is now nearly entirely worn down, testament to the big waves and rips which often hit this untamed coast.
But it is hot in Toubab, too hot in the un-airconditioned rooms after a while (perhaps my student self was more tolerant...), and we leave the next day for the relative cool of the La Madrague hotel (www.hotel-madrague.com) on N'Gor beach in Dakar. It's my favourite place to stay; the suburb of N'Gor is a retreat from the city centre and at not much more than £40 for a clean, airy double, it's a real bargain.
The small island of N'Gor is reached via a five minute pirogue ride, costing CFA500 return. Tourists and locals bundle on – it's a favourite on the weekend amongst city folk. Over on the island the water is clear and perfect for snorkelling and there are numerous chilled-out beach restaurants serving all sorts of fresh, grilled fish and vegetables, the very best kind of Senegalese food.
Also worth a visit are the Iles de la Madeleine, a small crop of islands about four kilometres off the coast west of central Dakar. It's problematic getting here. After an incident last year in which a fisherman was shot out by the island's warden, local fishermen have largely stopped taking tourists. But thanks to a few negotiations from Yamar, a fisherman agrees to take us across. From the sea, the island looks like a great lump of rock. But chugging into a tiny peninsula we find deserted lagoons of sparkling turquoise water, one palm tree and a spread of grainy sand covered in bleached white sea urchin skeletons.
The ultimate desert island experience, it is only enhanced (well, in retrospect) by the fact that our esteemed captain manages to maroon our boat on the rocks as the tide goes out and the evening draws in. Much debate ensues as to how to solve the problem. Captain hugs us both. I, vaguely sun-stroked, burst into tears. Two urchin hunters appear on the horizon and we all pull it out. Two hours later we set sail.
But of course this is Senegal and never, in Senegal, do you quite know what's going to happen next. Sweet as love, I think they say...
