TDI: 1-2 What's this?
What is wrong with this white man?
The language they speak is Wolof, but the official language is French. Some of the people I have encountered in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, were quite surprised I didn’t speak French. Over the years of traveling, I’ve learned the basics, but when I visited Senegal, I didn’t speak the language at all. Some people wouldn’t even believe me when I said I didn’t speak it. I was assuming that westerners who visit this country are from France, the French-speaking part of Belgium, or Switzerland. Hence, most of the people in Senegal think that French is the language of white people.
I remember asking a lady on the street for directions. When she realized I couldn’t speak any French, she frowned. I could see in her eyes what she was thinking: ‘We had to study French so we can communicate with white people. Now this guy comes here claiming he can’t speak French?! What’s his problem!?’
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There is a new dining trend on the streets of Dakar – Fast Food. I am not talking about McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, etc… At least not yet. I am talking about regular street vendors selling a local take on fast food… A sandwich with ground beef, eggs, and potatoes. A more traditional version would be a sandwich with lentils and pasta. A topping of local, watery ketchup would be a standard addition. Those sandwich places were labeled “Fast Food”. It is a brand that sells! It is so popular that I couldn’t find any traditional West African meals, like fish stew.
Goree is a small, cute, clean island off the coast of Dakar. It appeared touristy, except that there were no tourists. I went there with a Czech volunteer I met in the hostel. That was the only hostel along the Atlantic coast all the way to Namibia. While walking through the narrow streets, a young local guy greeted us and wished us a warm welcome to the island where he was born and raised. We continued walking around with our new acquaintance. And yes, he spoke English. We also passed by his home, so he showed us where he slept. The room was nothing but a cave with basic carpentry and some furniture. Not only did he enjoy a prime ocean view from his bed, but he was also blessed with the cool breeze through the cave (his room, I meant to say).
At that moment, I heard a female voice shouting. Then, our new friend told us, “Food is ready, let’s go!” We tried to be polite and said, “Thank you, we are not hungry.” He ignored our response and dragged us into the front yard of his family’s house. This one actually looked like a house. Not all family members had the privilege of enjoying “the cave architecture”.
In the front yard, there was a huge pot on the ground. I have recognized rice, some sort of protein, and the dark red sauce, everything mixed up. A man, a woman, and a young girl were sitting around the pot and eating from it. As soon as they noticed us, the three of them moved closer together to make more room for us.
So six of us were enjoying this delicious fish stew. I wasn’t sure what impressed me the most: the deliciousness of this meal, the surprising hospitality of these locals, or the dining style we used: 6 of us sitting on the ground, eating from the same pot in the middle… Yet the dining experience wasn’t too tribal, since we were given spoons. The young girl dining with us was eating with her hands. I needed this meal after 3 days of “fast food” in Dakar.
On our ride back, we concluded we should offer some tips for such a meal. That and the tour to the cave. Maybe it was a setup to get some $$ from foreigners. Well, they definitely deserved it… A great deal, we thought.
If you’d like to see more similar photos, I recommend checking out my Sierra Leone photo gallery.
What the hell am I doing here?
Nianing is a small beach town where I met a nice, friendly local, whom I ended up hanging out with for the next few days. Yes, he was able to communicate in English as well. We went to his house several times, met his wife and 4 kids… It is always cool to see where locals live.
One day, my new friend suggested I join him on a trip to Foundiougne, where his cousin lived. He described it as a beautiful town by the river. I was excited. His idea was to get there by taxi, which cost $50. Since I was in charge of the trip expenses, I refused, of course, and insisted on taking the local bus instead. He looked at me, very disappointed, and said, “It takes a long time to get there by bus.”
Back then, I didn’t have much travel experience, but I did have common sense. So I asked him, “Would you take a taxi to Foundiougne if I am not here?” …no response. “Would the Senegalese people travel an 85 km journey with a taxi?˝ …no response. I took his silence as a “No.”
Later, when we arrived in Foundiougne, we had about a 20-minute walk to our host’s home. That walk was long enough for me to realize this town was neither beautiful nor interesting. The streets and houses were spread out, and the landscape was pale brown, flat, and dry. Normally, walking on the streets of random towns is something I find very interesting. Here, I got bored after only 5 minutes, cause for the remaining 15 min of walking, everything looked absolutely the same.
I concluded that my Nianing friend was lying to me when he said Foundiougne is beautiful, because he wanted to visit his cousin and saw an opportunity for free transport. Since the bus fare for both of us was $6, I was cool with everything so far…
I was walking silently next to my “friend” towards his cousin’s home, looking around, hoping to see something interesting… something that would make this trip worth the hassle… something that would make me feel less stupid for deciding to come here. I felt I was probably the 1st white man to ever visit this town. I still couldn’t believe I ended up here, from all the places in Senegal.
Our host proudly welcomed us to his home and introduced me to his wife, 7 children, Mom, sister, and the animals visible at the time. Surprisingly, he also spoke English. Apparently, I was wrong about locals not being able to speak English. Apparently, some of them could.
All of us were hanging out in the front yard. Inside the house, I was assuming there was just enough room to sleep. The wife came out with the big pot. My Nianing friend, the Foundiougne host, and I sat on the ground just in front of the house, and she put the pot between us. It was fish stew and rice … a familiar concept from Goree Island.
It was a tasty meal in an interesting local environment. I started to feel comfortable in this super boring town and felt like it was worth coming here. People connect easily when sharing and eating from the same pot, I concluded. When they finished eating, I decided to finish as well, even though I wasn’t quite full and there was still plenty of food in the pot.
As soon as I placed my spoon away, both of them insisted that I should eat more. Since the food was delicious and I wasn’t quite full, I thanked them and continued eating a bit more. The next time I put the spoon away, my host told me again to keep eating. I thanked him and said how I was full. He kept insisting I should eat more, and he also told me the rest of the pot is for me anyway. Since I did have some more room for this delicious meal, I decided to eat a bit more before I announced, “I am full, I have no room for another bite.”
Then, the wife came in from the house to pick up the pot. The three of us continued to sit and chat. A few minutes later, I went back to the house to use the toilet. Then, I noticed 5 children eating from the same pot that the 3 of us were eating from. The kids were silently fighting for our leftovers. Earlier, their father forced me to overindulge, and as a result, his children had a very miserable dinner. I felt ashamed. I was also disappointed with my host.
In the front yard, the TV was on. A very tiny one. My host has set me right in front of it. By the way, all of us were sitting on the floor… Muslim style.
The screen was the size of an iPad, and the picture quality was terrible, with everything flashing and blinking as if someone were kicking the TV with a baseball bat during the broadcast. A terrible-acting, poorly produced French-speaking soap opera was on. My prime TV-watching spot was supposed to be a privilege, but it felt like a punishment. After all, I felt I deserved it after eating the kids’ dinner.
Where’s the beach?
I told my Nianing friend I was about to move on to a different part of the country. Perhaps, somewhere by the shore. Can’t go wrong with the ocean. He has suggested the city of Ziguinchor. He thought it fit my criteria.
Before I proceed with my story, I need to disclose that during my visit to Senegal, my travel style was extremely laid-back: no plans, no research, no Wi-Fi, no offline maps… old-school.
So I decided to visit Ziginchour on his suggestion, without checking about it online. There was a small issue, though. The fastest way from Nianing to Ziguinchor is along the coast through The Gambia. However, my host also told me that the border was currently closed due to political tensions between those 2 countries. So I would have to go around it.
Wanna see some more photos from the neighboring countries? I would recommend checking out Burkina Faso
I took the Bus to Tambacounda, where I arrived at 2 am. The man approached me and asked a question I did not understand. I just answered: ¨Ziguinchor¨. He was talking to me while tying my backpack to the roof of the very old van. I couldn’t understand a single word he said. He was not friendly either. Upset cause I couldn’t speak French. I sat in the van and waited for it to be filled, so I could continue my journey to southern Senegal.
After the unpleasant conversation (or attempt at a conversation) with the driver, or conductor, a kidnapper, maybe (you never know), I concluded that there is a significant chance this van is not going to Ziguinchor. I decided not to worry. Rather sit, relax, try to fall asleep, and see what happens.
Later on, during the journey, the sun started to rise. I was semi-awake, wearing headphones, listening to some music. Trying to figure out if I’m still in Senegal. Meanwhile, I have been noticing a new sound in the song on my playlist. I wondered how come I never noticed that sound before… Then the next familiar song started, but with the same unknown sound. Here it is again. Well, maybe it is not the music. I took the headphones off.
Surprisingly, I am hearing the same sound again! I looked around to find out where the sound was coming from. Nothing. Then I looked down… Bingo! On the ground, there were little yellow chickens spread all over the van. I was glad everything was ok with my headphones and my playlist:)
We have finally arrived. Outside the van, I was stretching to restore blood flow to the parts of my body that had been too compressed during this aqueezed journey. On the roof of the van, where all the passengers’ luggage was, a goat was tied to my 20 kg backpack. It was hugging my backpack with its arms, legs, and neck. Basically, that scene looked like the goat was banging my backpack!
Later, after throwing it in the room where I’d found the accommodation, I rushed out, on the streets of Ziguinchor, to look for some food. Eventually, I walked into a small local joint.
The lady who worked there was pretty attractive. I asked her where the beach was… She spoke no English. Since I did know how to say ‘the beach’ in French, I thought that was a good start to make a move. She understood my question, but, of course, I did not understand her answer. The lady was patient and tried to explain it to me in many different ways. She has tried pointing with her hands and drawing. After a while, I managed to understand the answer: “There is no beach in this town and the closest one is in Cap Skirring, 70 km away.”
Online, it is easy to see that Ziguinchor is not on the ocean but on a river, 50 km from the ocean. But on this trip, opening Google Maps was not my style. So there I was, after a 15-hour journey, in this thorn-down, polluted river city, instead of an ocean town with nice beaches.
The girl told me she was going to Cap Skirring that afternoon and she would like me to join her. Since there was a significant language barrier between us, she kept explaining her invitation to me in many different ways. It took me about 10 minutes to understand. Once I finally did, I accepted. Did I mention she was attractive?
Later in the afternoon, we arrived at Cap Skirring by some sort of public transport. Then she brought me into a big, nice house. “Nice” by Western standards… When I got to the terrace upstairs, I saw a beautiful beach 50m away. I could hear the waves… mission accomplished… I am by the ocean! Accommodated in the vacation house of some old French couple, I was assuming, and hosted by their attractive housekeeper.
I have spent a day and a half with someone who didn’t speak any of the languages I spoke. As a result, I did get better at French… And in the body language as well:)
If you’re interested in more stories from exotic African countries, I recommend checking out my post on Togo.
Wanna read more about Senegal? I would recommend checking out the blog of my dear traveling friend, Guilherme Canever. Since he is Brazilian and writing for a local audience, make sure you use a translation tool in your browser (unless you’re fluent in Portuguese).