Wednesday, I stole away for a day trip to Ile de Goree, the former slave-trade outpost island just off the coast. I arrived too late for the 9 am ferry (foolishly having assumed the trip to the port, which is about 8 km from my hotel, would take less than an hour. Not so much. After a full hour and a half in the gridlock of fumes and horse carts that defines driving in Dakar, the cab limped into sight of the dock, and I waved to my driver, Sidi, who, after an initially chilly greeting, had warmed up to me enough to tell me his entire life story).
The dock was teeming with men offering their services as “guides,” and women who eagerly urged waiting Toubabs (of which there were surprisingly few) to visit their “stores”(the iron-walled shacks, stuffed with mass-produced crafts that clog every tourist destination) during their day on the island. I gently rebuffed the guides by explaining, with as much self-important flourish as possible and adopting a far-away look in my eyes, that as an American, it was critical that I experience the island on my own, so that I might hope to grasp the enormity of the atrocities perpetrated there. This seemed to work, although my success was probably due less to my deliberately pompous delivery than to the fact that I seemed kind of weird, and therefore perhaps not worth the trouble. The women were tougher to shake; I tried being non-committal, I tried pretending I didn’t understand, and then I made the fatal mistake of agreeing to search them out later in the day. (As a result of this moment of weakness, I now own several lengths of cotton fabric, gorgeously dyed, and hilariously overpriced).
The wind, which has kicked up this week, sent waves crashing over the bow of the ship, and after 10 minutes of being tossed around on the ferry deck, I retreated to the glass enclosure, where the (mostly Senegalese) passengers sat, entranced by the two televisions mounted on the front wall, showing some horrifyingly cheesy Euro-pop video.
The island itself, especially after the dust-covered neutral tones of Dakar, is a shocking riot of color. Pink and purple bougainvilleas drape across Mediterranean-style buildings, painted in salmon and orange and accented in aqua. The island is home to many of the area’s Baye Fall disciples, who distinguish themselves largely by smoking huge amounts of pot and following people around playing various local instruments and shaking their dreadlocks. (This offshoot group of Muslims is also, to be fair, fantastically artistic, and occasionally, when they’re not too stoned, they produce some of the region’s most exciting painting and sculpture.)
After wandering the island for a while, I shared a lunch of yassa poulet (a local chicken dish, served with onions and the ubiquitous Thai sticky rice) with a few kittens stalking the grounds of a café near the harbor, watching a group of school kids play in the surf, and pirogues (fishing boats) paddling onto shore, often being bailed out energetically by their passengers.
I still had a bit of time before the Maison des Esclaves (Slave House) re-opened; the loosely defined midday break had begun at noon and I knew it could easily stretch to 2:30. So I walked a bit more, climbing the Castel at the far end of the island, where WWII-era weaponry remains on the hill, perched at the ready, and made my way back down the narrow cobbled streets to the Musee de la Femme (Museum of Women), where a lovely man walked me through the rooms (not clear if he was supervising or just being helpful). It’s not the big ticket item on Goree (most people come for the Maison des Esclaves), but the museum makes for an interesting visit nonetheless; rooms and rooms of aging photographs, memorabilia, fabrics and books, all celebrating the varied roles of Senegal’s women, housed in an airy villa surrounding a courtyard. I met the female artisans whose wares are on sale at the museum boutique, and examined the delicate work on their weaving looms.
Built in 1786 by the Dutch, the Maison des Esclaves is a beautifully renovated reminder of the slave trade that haunts West Africa. The upper floors, where the traders lived, have been made into a museum, and the lower rooms maintained in their original state: grim, stone prisons where men, women and children were held separately before being shackled into waiting ships. The door that opens from the jailhouse looks out onto the ocean, and that glimpse of light through the darkness is incredibly poignant.
I took my time exploring the dark corners of the structure, eavesdropped on a few local guides as they described the history of the place. As I was leaving, a huge throng of students from Dakar were waiting to get in, some clutching paper and pens, rough-housing, laughing, clearly enjoying their field trip from the city.
After a café au lait at another harbor-side eatery, it was nearing 6, and time to re-board the ferry. It was far more crowded this time, mostly with students, many of them screaming with laughter and cold as the boat cut through the waves, sending huge, soaking sprays of water over the deck.
I'm enjoying your experiences and stories. But remember, cheesy Euro-Pop is not horrifying, it's just different.
Posted by: Nate | March 25, 2007 at 03:30 PM