Tatene Bambara

During one of my last weeks in Dakar, my dad - after much pressure from me - came to visit. My dad also - at the last minute - agreed to track down and visit Tatene Bambara, the tiny peanut-farming village where he lived as a peace corps volunteer almost 40 years ago. (He had not been back to West Africa since 1973.) Despite its location - maybe 70 miles from Dakar as the crow flies, and only about 15 miles from Thies, which is now a major city with several hundred thousand inhabitants - my dad says Tatene Bambara used to be fairly remote, due to a lack of roads or transport options from Thies other than walking or riding on the back of a horse-cart. My dad was concerned that we might not be able to reach the village by car - he seemed to remember getting stuck in the sand a lot - but it turns out today that there is a tarmac road with a government-installed *sign* for the gravel turn-off.

Both my dad and I were somewhat anxious starting out. Monsieur Saine, the driver I had hired to take us to the village from Dakar, turned out to be a wonderful man from the same central region who was charmed by our quest to locate the area where my dad worked as an "assistant technique" so long ago. But we hit several diesel-smoke-laden hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way out of town (a common problem since there is only one road connecting the entire Dakar peninsula with the rest of the country), so that by the time we reached Thies it was extremely hot, and I think both of us were worried we might not find the village at all. My dad seemed to fear that even if we did, the experience would merely serve as a depressing reminder of the hardships of rural West African life, for those who have no option to leave - that all the people he knew could have died years ago, that those who remained would still be mired in poverty, that all would be exactly the same, or - worse - that all would be unrecognizable.

In fact, the trip was fairly miraculous. We found Tatene with no problem at all. (The beautiful sign helped.) And immediately upon arrival in the shady square that serves as the village's central meeting place, my dad located an older woman who informed us that while 2 of my dad's acquaintances were no longer there (one had died, the other moved to Dakar), the third name he mentioned - Ibrahim Sangare - was "right over there." She pointed.

Following her directions, we entered the courtyard of a large family compound. Under a giant tree was a mat, on which an older man was napping, having just (we were told) returned from working in his fields. My dad walked closer and said, "Ibrahim?" Instantly this white-haired 71-year-old turned towards us, flipped to his feet, and yelled, "Alioune, c'est toi?" Alioune was my dad's "Senegalese" name in the village. (Keep in mind that no one had any idea we were coming, and that 30-some years ago my dad neither wore glasses nor had gray hair.) "Alors, Alioune, tu es revenu!" The two of them immediately caught each other in a bear hug, and everyone - me, our driver, Ibrahim's grown son who was standing there - burst into tears.

Ibrahim (wearing a yellow robe, which he insisted on putting on - instead of the dusty farming clothes he was wearing initially - before we could take any pictures!) was my dad's closest friend in the village when he lived there (1968-1971), and they had not seen each other since 1973, when my dad returned briefly to Senegal to work as a peace corps trainer. He is now the patriarch of a large and lovely family, and he was made village chief several years ago. (The village still has neither running water or electricity; as proof of Ibrahim's success, his tiny but tightly organized home boasts a generator and large television.) Apparently even back in the seventies Ibrahim was known as the village's most gifted farmer.

The third photo from the top shows members of Ibrahim's family and my dad standing where my dad's old grass-and-mud hut used to be (it's now a newer cement house), holding a photograph taken 37 years ago, by my dad, of a bunch of village kids (all now grown) who were standing in the same spot. The photo drew a lot of interest, with everyone competing to identify the people in it.

Apart from examining the photo, a lot of our time in Tatene was spent discussing the many incremental changes in the village since my dad left. The village population had grown, to 700 from a mere 200 in 1973. A general store that my dad helped build was still standing, but closed down last year. One of the village wells dried up, but water mysteriously appeared in another which had long been dead. An Italian NGO built gigantic metal windmills on the tops of the wells which were supposed to drop and lift buckets of water effortlessly - but of course they broke almost immediately and no one has the correct spare part to fix them. (As we stood there talking, a tiny girl of no more than 10 was conducting the back-breaking labor of hoisting a bucket from the seemingly endless depths.) The rainy season so far had been punishingly late - with only one "real" rain, in early August - and the whole village feared a thin harvest. (Literally the same evening, after we returned to Dakar, a record-breaking amount of rain fell on Thies and the surrounding areas, which I hope helped at least somewhat.)

It was a pretty amazing experience. We promised to send Ibrahim copies of the photos we took - so his son dictated their "address" to me, which involved the name of the village, the name of the surrounding prefecture, and the family's cell phone number, so that the post office can call in case they get lost. ("They have a cell phone??" my dad exclaimed later. Much of his trip to Senegal was spent marveling at how well-connected and downright hip people were - which of course they are.) My dad plans to stay in touch.

Saint Louis

Some photos from my recent weekend in Saint Louis, the picturesque - though decaying - seaside town a few hours north of Dakar, near the Mauritanian border. Now a UNESCO world heritage site, Saint Louis was the capital of French West Africa for half a century before that distinction was moved to Dakar - hence its Francophile wrought-iron balconies that are inevitably compared by guide books to New Orleans. Highlights: sleepy outdoor cafes, an atmosphere so laid back it feels almost comatose during the day (when the sun is hottest), and a gorgeous white-sand beach that stretches for miles down the "langue de Barbarie," a spit of land squeezed between the Atlantic Ocean and the Senegal River.

Sine Saloum

For two nights during our weekend trip to the Senegal River delta, S. and I stayed on a small island in an ecolodge called Keur Bamboung, which is run collectively by the residents of 14 nearby villages. It was a beautiful place, composed of several grass-and-brick huts nestled in the midst of one tiny village (pictured in third photo from the top; the second photo from the top is of "our" hut), which is a 30-minute walk, 20-minute pirogue ride, and 40-minute horse-cart ride from Toubakouta (which is already fairly remote). We pulled in to the village around midnight, exhausted but elated to have arrived after utilizing all of Senegal's major modes of travel in one long voyage. It was completely dark outside, with only a few solar-powered lights within the lodge coming into view as we came in (there's no electricity on the delta islands). After scarfing down dinner, we collapsed into our mosquito-netted beds in our incredibly charming personal hut - which had a water-tank and its own solar-powered light in addition to furniture made entirely of dried grass - only to wake the next morning at sunrise to the raucous sound of zillions of different types of birds.

Keur Bamboung was, in fact, idyllic. In the morning we took a bare-foot hike through the mangrove swamps, guided by one of the villagers, Mamfana (pictured at bottom), who showed us the three different local species of mangrove and how oysters and muscles cling to their exposed roots. Before lunching on fresh local fish, we swam lazily and dozed on the tiny sandy beach right in front of our hut - and then in the afternoon, at high tide when the water had submerged all the areas where we had previously been able to wade, we took a canoe ride around the mangrove swamps, sighting a large pelican and several dug-out holes inhabited by hyenas. (Luckily no actual hyenas were spotted.) The proceeds from the lodge go towards training and paying former fishermen in the 14 associated villages to act as anti-poaching guards, thereby creating a large-ish sized region where fishing is prohibited. This has, according to the villagers, allowed fish stocks all around to rebound, since the mangroves are where many species go to spawn. There are beautiful hand-crafted signs all over the village and surrounding areas documenting resurgent marine species, including a very reclusive type of manatee that has only been spotted once or twice. Meanwhile the thick mixture of mangroves, baobabs, and palm trees rustle constantly with life, though only a few birds allowed themselves to be seen. Luckily this mix included several giant herons and a flock of slim green parrots as well as birds of bright orange and electric blue.

Can't wait to go back.

On the Road

This weekend I left the Dakar peninsula behind and set off, with my friend S., to the Sine Saloum - the beautiful region of Senegal where the Senegal River delta bleeds into the ocean, forming thousands of islets of sand, mangroves, and varying degrees of salty-fresh water beloved of oysters, breeding fish, and colorful sea-birds.

The road trip was half the adventure. We traveled by bush-taxi, one of the ubiquitous gray station wagons known here as "taxis sept-place" because they cram in seven passengers in addition to the driver. (See top photo.) After finding a sept-place headed to our destination of Toubakouta in Dakar's gigantic "gare routiere" (taxi depot) at 3:30pm, we waited for an hour before the driver had signed on all seven passengers, then sat for another 2 hours in the slow crawl of traffic out of the bottlenecked single road out of town.

Then, however, we were on open road for four hours, whizzing through the regional hubs of Thies and Kaolack, past road-side tea-stalls, mango stands, rice-and-sauce purveyors, and multi-function boutiques. We were dropped off on the pitch-dark roadside next to Toubakouta at 10:30pm, the brightly-lit milky way twinkling overhead in the moonless night.

L'Ile de Ngor

My new favorite place.

Dakar traffic got you down? Sick of the hustle-bustle of city life? Want to soak your feet in the sea and sip fanta by a peaceful beach, but don't want to brave the traffic involved in getting out of Dakar altogether? Pick your way through the crowded village of Ngor, stroll along the beach to the far end, buy yourself a 500 CFA ($1) round-trip ticket on a fishing boat from the very efficient (a word I don't use lightly) embarcadaire, and zip out to l'Ile de Ngor, an incredibly charming get-away that's only about 200 meters off the northern Dakar coast.

The trip itself prepares you for adventure - you crowd into a long, hand-painted pirogue, slightly jostled by high school kids and families looking to escape the city for the softest sand and most swimmable water in town (the narrow strait between the isle and the coast is free of the treacherous currents that are otherwise common around here). At this point you're wearing a bright-orange lifejacket, which feels like an unimaginable formality in chaotic Senegal. One smooth motored ride (about 10 minutes not counting loading and offloading) later, and you're on a tiny island (25 minutes to circumambulate at a slow stroll), criss-crossed by narrow pathways between white villas and edged by beaches and grilled fish. My two fellow Ngor travelers and I settled into a beachside cafe, under a canvas awning, and feasted on grilled carp and gazelle beer (which reminds me of Indian Kingfisher - that is, light and somewhat flavorless, but delicious when cold), followed by the strong sugary tea that is the Senegalese equivalent of an after-lunch espresso. Perhaps as close to paradise as one could hope for.

La Plage de Ngor

Some pictures of the beach at Ngor, about a 20-minute walk from my apartment in Almadies. The village of Ngor - like Yoff, a fishing village along the northern coast of the peninsula that now bleeds into Dakar proper - is charming and gritty, with tightly-packed sand-filled streets and a calm oasis of a mosque, with open sides and a smooch concrete floor. You trudge through the village, past electronics stores and rapidly loading cars rapides (this is their main terminus), and then suddenly emerge onto the wide open beach, where all of the pirogues look newly painted, and boys wade their sheep into the sea to give them a good scrubbing. (Wish I had pictures of this. The rams, with their big curved horns, looked quite affronted.)

Almadies

Some pictures of my new neighborhood, Almadies... Dignified and spacious, dotted with large tree-surrounded houses, Almadies still has miles of rocky coastline and a very popular mini-beach (middle picture, with the giant Mamelles lighthouse in the distance). While I may complain that everything is more expensive and less convenient in Almadies (because of its association with expats and the fact that many residents have cars and therefore don't need to do all of their shopping within a 200-meter radius), it's a beautiful spot, dotted with outdoor grilled-fish stands and popular with Dakar's budding surfer scene.

Also, in the lowest photo, you'll notice the newest development in Dakar weather: clouds. Yes, the past week or so has featured several overcast mornings, delightfully cool and breezy, though no real rain yet. Everyone is waiting with baited breath - though this desire to see an end of sun and blue sky must come with time in Dakar; I for one don't feel ready.