Recipe for an Amazing Trip to Senegal

Ingredients:

- ¾ cup beautiful seaside vistas and scenery
- ¼ cup horse cart rides in the Senegal brousse
- ½ cup expats shocking me out of my RIM isolation
(substitution: foreign PCVs)
- 1 cup random realizations of global interconnectedness
(You went to UVa? You have a brother in VA and want to pay for my hotel room?)
- 2 gallons cheap Senegalese wine
- 5 doggie bags cheese and chocolate in varied forms…pizza, ice cream, pastries
- 2 tbsp Akon blaring from taxis
- 1 tsp clothing liberty – short skirts, bathing suits…FREE AT LAST!
- 1 pinch bemused annoyance while haggling at the market
(Really? You’re going to call me a racist for not buying your Hello Kitty backpack?)

Preparation:

- 3-hour ride by horse cart and pirogue, preferably with “Roll Out” and/or collection of Disney songs blaring from portable iPod speakers
- Add in shock and awe when confronted with Dakar’s beauty, BMWs, diversity, and good food. Stir ingredients until you become sufficiently awkward as a result of previous isolation
- Simmer Senegalese wine until 4am or till it a dreadful hangover residue appears. This will curdle the aforementioned shock and awe so that you can mix in new friends and the shared amazement that, “Yes, we do live in Africa.”


I’ve come to love Mauritania, to embrace its “quirks” and even call it home. And yet Senegal is a definite welcome respite from the desert, camels, and conservative Moor culture. In my several months of blogging delinquency, I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to the Promised Land two times – once during New Years and then again last weekend - and each time I cross over to the other shore, I am immediately stunned by the difference.

The land is verdant; dazzling birds and wax print flash and snap before the eye; men actually speak to women, shaking their hands congenially; some people even parlent le français. Oh, the novelty! At no time was this disparity more apparent than when I sat at a small resort on the Senegalese River, next to a sparkling pool, sipping wine, and watching trash burn on the opposite shore. Here I was, surrounded by blossoming beauty, wearing a bathing suit, trying to discern the natural elements in my rosé, and across the waters, Mauritania was literally burning to the ground. I had to chuckle at that moment and raise my glass in a silent toast to my dry host country. Salut mes amis!

I must note though that before we arrived poolside at our “plush” resort in Richard Toll, we experienced 3 intense hours of bumping and bouncing over an island in the Senegal River in our less than trusty horse cart. Gripping the edges for dear life and sorely feeling every miniscule anthill, we simultaneously battled passing Ballonites trees and jammed to tunes on our boombox. A cloud of copper dust announced our approach, and herders and small children often stopped to stare at the misplaced toubabs belting out “A Whole New World” from Aladdin. Their faces in those moments were nearly priceless. Of course, save for stopping our Disney sing-a-long, we were always thankful to descend from our horse drawn chariots, that is, until we saw the next mode of transport. Enter: the pirogue - a rickety wooden canoe unsafe for crossing by any reasonable person’s approximations. Yet, time and again, we loaded not only 10-14 toubabs with copious amounts of baggage on to this contraption, but also the aforementioned horse cart. We were accompanied on each watery voyage by a struggling horse that seemed to snort in panic and fury at its lot in life. As sorry as I was for those poor beasts, I was grateful for their company; watching them traverse the schistosomiasis-infested waters distracted me from my own precarious situation. Alas, even after our last pirogue kissed the shore, we had to pack in for another 2 hours of travel by taxi brousse. Suffice to say, we certainly earned our drinks poolside by the end of the voyage.

If Richard Toll (named for a former French Governor) was my first taste of the land of milk and honey, then Dakar was the Elysium Fields and Eden rolled into one. Site of the annual 4-day West African Invitation Softball Tournament (W.A.I.S.T), Dakar has the fortunate responsibility of playing host to a vast influx of Peace Corps volunteers and expats from neighboring countries including Mali, the Gambia, Guinea, Senegal, and, of course, Mauritania. Over the course of the 4-day frenzy of Americana, teams of oddly-outfitted and sometimes sober PCVs battle each other and expat teams to prove that malnutrition has not completely denuded our muscles of tone and ability. Yes, we can take a shot and then hit a ground rule double; yes, we can field hoppers and line drives in underwear; yes, we can coach and slosh white wine from the sidelines; in short, YES, WE CAN!

In past years, our rough and tumble crew of Mauritanian PCVs has earned a reputation for working and playing hard during the tournament. And, rightfully so. The intoxicated antics and pantsless playing of our “C” Team, the Scallywags, tend to draw both scowls and howls of laughter from dedicated parents and competitors while our “A” and “B” teams, the Pirates and Buccanneers, stun competitors with our ability to swig beer while rounding bases. We are further buffeted by our amazing fan base, the Seamen, who rake the ground with plastic hooks, run caped in pirate flags, and scream “YAARRR!” and “We’ll capture your booty” from the sidelines. This year, yours truly, was El Capitan of Team B, the Buccaneers. Sadly our team faired poorly, matched against the champions of the previous year and several other powerhouse teams, including a group of missionary children (ages 10-15). That was a low point, needless to say, and we definitely felt a bit judged. Fortunately, the Pirates, our “A” Team, avenged our honor, rallying to win the W.A.I.S.T Social League Championship by 11-5 against a local team of Senegalese sluggers. I wish you all could have seen some of the amazing plays turned by the Pirates over that weekend; their intensity and skill combined for an amazing chemistry on and off the field.

When not partaking in the gush of Americana which consumed the W.A.I.S.T tournament and its outliers, my friends and I tried to explore and savor the city of Dakar. We stuffed ourselves silly at countless patisseries, ice cream parlors, and pizza meccas while traversing the city’s exploding boundaries by foot. One such expedition led us to Sandafa Market, located in the heart of the downtown area. In retrospect, I can’t really recall what objective brought us to this notorious haven of fiercely persistent hawkers and pickpocket bandits - cheap wax print? knock-off designer sunglasses? lingerie which would make Fredericks blush? I forget, but I do remember the very real need for a massage and ice cream which followed our mad progression through the crowded streets. At one stand where, my friend, Julie, was bargaining assiduously for soccer jerseys, Yates and I had to simultaneously swat away the searching hands of peddlers and decry charges that we were racist because we did not want them to touch us and/or did not want to buy a Sanrio hatbox. Needless to say, we were happy to escape that area, relatively unscathed, no wallets lost.

Among the city’s other gems, one of my favorites was the Isle de Gorée. This deceptive island is located just off the southern tip of the peninsula and, despite its beauty, is the site of one of the world’s notorious breaches of humanity. Riots of flowers explode from the walls of tiny passages creating a chaotic harmony with the island’s buttery yellow, rose, and red colonial houses. Meanwhile, Senegalese continue to live and flourish on the island that had previously bred such vice. School children play soccer, their blue UNICEF backpacks jouncing as they juggle the ball; artists and boutique owners hawk wares on uneven cobbled streets; and brisk businessmen walk off the ferry to meet their families for dinner. Honestly, at first glance, it all just seems so quaint that it’s hard to believe the island was one of the most notorious slave debarkation points in West Africa.

Here, individuals were de-individualized - herded, discarded, raped, dehumanized. Like its sister spots in Guinea-Bissau, the Gambia, and Ghana, the Isle de Gorée’s Maison des Esclaves (House of Slaves) has an eerie emptiness to it. One touches the black stonewalls, looks out the narrow windows at the roiling sea, and feels, more than hears, echoes of past horrors…. Women, men, and children packed like sardines into small, humid cells; looking out upon the ocean which will either be your death bed or your carriage to another kind of death; wondering whether your weight will earn you passage to new horrors or a place upon the jagged rocks. I had the opportunity to visit Elmira – another slave debarkation point - in Cape Coast, Ghana a few years back, and I remember walking away with the same feeling of sad, quiet wonder at our capacity for evil. And, also, our ability to survive. It’s hard to describe, but, in my experience, the best comparison stateside is the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.

Ferrying back, the sun’s orange globe began to set over Dakar’s well-developed skyline, and I knew that while justice had begun its revolution, turning the fortunes of many in this city, it was not nearly complete. And so I began my voyage home to Mauritania, where the simple needs of many go unfulfilled daily …