Into the Mangroves

Another long weekend - this time in celebration of the end of Ramadan - gave me another chance to explore a little further into Senegal. Having spent my last day off at the Mauritanian border in the very north of Senegal, I decided to go for the other extreme and head for the Gambian border (I realize that’s a little ambiguous, given the geography, so let me clarify that I was on the northern Gambian border – I didn’t actually cross through). The region of Senegal that stretches south along the coast from Dakar to the border is a stretch of supposedly beautiful beach, known as the Petite Côte, which gives way to marshes, swamps, and mangroves in the Sine Saloum Delta, much of which is a wildlife preserve and national park. Though the Petite Côte is on my list, it’s a lot more accessible from Dakar than Sine Saloum, and a lot more feasible in a weekend, so I decided to use my extremely limited free day to make it to the delta.

With limited research (my housemates have a Lonely Planet book from the ‘90s and Trip Advisor has a miniscule section on Sine Saloum) and several bookings, unbookings, and rebookings as I found more and more exciting places to stay (lots of internal debates between poolside and riverside lodgings) I finally found, via a side-note of a review I was reading, Keur Bamboung - an eco-lodge on one of the islands in the delta. A little more digging brought up a few more reviews and comments. Even though there weren’t many of those, the ones I did find were all glowing – people love this place. So it seemed like a good bet. Over the next few days, I mentioned to several people that I was staying there, and the reactions I got were all: “Oh you’re staying there? I’ve always wanted to go there! My friend/cousin/sister stayed there once and loved it! You have to tell me how it is! How are you going to get there?”

That last part was a challenge. Most people I know who’d visited the Saloum paid for a private car, but as a solo traveler, this just wasn’t financially an option. By asking around, and by comparing a map with the list of sept-place destinations I found online somewhere, I’d become fairly confident that I had to take a car to either Kaolack or Karang. It ended up not being quite so straightforward:

1.     Taxi to Dakar bus station

2.     Minibus to Fatik

3.     Sept-place to Kaolack

4.     Motorbike taxi to Kaolack’s southern bus station

5.     Sept-place to Toubakouta

6.     Motorbike taxi to Dassilame Serere dock

7.     Pirogue to Sipo Island

8.     Donkey cart to campsite

So after eight forms of transportation and more than nine hours, I finally arrived at Keur Bamboung. It was longer than I’d been counting on, but the second half of the journey, at least, turned out to be as much a part of the experience as anything else. After leaving Kaolack, I got my first sightings of the delta, and the waterways that extend much further into the interior of Senegal than I’d expected. From Toubakouta, I road on the back of a motorbike through small, sandy villages and compounds where families and neighbors gathered in plastic chairs outside drinking coffee or tea in 100 degree weather. From the dock at Dassilame Serere, I followed the pirogue pilot through the mud to a pirogue that looked like it’d seen better days, and then we motored through the beautiful delta, watching pelicans that looked far to big to perch in trees defying gravity, and gaping at the mangrove-lined river. Arriving at a village on Sipo island, I sat on the beach with the family who lived there while I waited for the donkey cart to arrive, watching monkeys terrorizing a couple of chickens who were resting in the shade of an eight-foot pile of discarded oyster shells. When the donkey cart arrived, driven by a couple of drivers-in-training, it pulled us first through what looked like the desert, and then forest, and finally, up to the gorgeous Keur Bamboung, where the dusty plateau breaks off over the swamp.

Pirogue ride to Sipo Island 

Donkey cart ride to Keur Bamboung

I was shown to my cabin, which, judging from my tour of site over the next couple of days, I determined had the best view – while the mangroves have grown so tall elsewhere that they completely block the view of the water, I looked out at this:

Home for the Weekend

There were a couple of people visiting Bamboung for the day, and one couple camping on the grounds who left the following day, but otherwise, it was just me at the staff. It was a quiet and peaceful weekend, but far from boring. I spent the evenings watching the sun set from my lovely porch, and walked down a steep slope of the finest sand I’ve ever seen (it’s been a week and I think I’m still covered in a thin layer of it) to where a little break in the mangroves creates a perfect little spot for swimming, and, when the tide was out, place on the muddy shore to sit and dry off. Meals were all served on-site, and though they were simple, they were tasty (fish, rice, veggies, and, once, oysters).

Down at the little beach 

Included in the price of the room were a number of “excursions” so on Sunday morning, the guide asked me what I wanted to do. I didn’t really know, and told him so, and he suggested we spend the morning kayaking in the mangroves. I didn’t technically do any kayaking – he told me not to paddle, so I suppose to be more accurate, I was kayaked through the mangroves. Either way, it was gorgeous. Half the time we were in the huge, open bay, where there are supposed to be dolphins and manatees (though we didn’t spot any of those, we did see several pelicans and egrets), and the other half we were navigating through waterways so narrow I was skeptical we’d be able to fit (once it took both of us to push the boat through a space between mangrove trunks that was just a little too small). The whole time, he explained to me (in French) the ecology of the mangroves, the birds and other wildlife in the area, and the restrictions on fishing in the national park.

When we pulled back into the shore, he told me to meet him at 5:00 for a hike in the swamp, so I spent the early afternoon swimming and walking around the camp.

The hike that evening was more of a trudge through the swamp, but it was very cool. We walked across the shallow mud, to see the different kinds of mangroves, which he explained to me in French, so I’m not sure I got all of it. My most basic understanding is that some species take in salt water, and secret the salt through their leaves – and he showed me how some of the leaves are really covered in salt that brushes off easily – while others have a kind of fungus that grows on their roots and filters the water they take in. He showed me one little area where a couple lone baobab trees grow out of the mud among piles of empty oyster shells, and told me that, before this was a nature preserve, nomadic tribes passed through for months at a time. The men are in charge of fishing, the women collect oysters, and everyone gathers baobab leaves. On our way back across the mud, we spotted a couple warthogs, nosing around in the mud for tiny crabs, apparently a warthog delicacy.

World's Muddiest Hike

Bamboung Sunrise

The next morning, I had an early breakfast – bread with mango jam and mangrove honey – and then took the donkey cart back across the island. Although the rest of the world, as far as I can tell, celebrated the end of Ramadan on Sunday, in Senegal the festivities were held (unexpectedly) on Monday, so one of the staff members was headed back to the mainland to celebrate with his family. When we got back, he called his brother, who has a motorbike and had agreed to take me to Karang, to get a car back to Dakar. Although technically Karang is in the wrong direction – it’s the site of the border crossing to Gambia and is several kilometers south of Toubakouta – it was a necessary detour. Since Toubakouta is a small town and doesn’t have a bus station, it’s almost impossible to find a ride there, since sept-places don’t originate there. As they only leave once they’re full, it’s unlikely that a car driving through Toubakouta will happen to have an open seat. So Karang it was. From Karang, it was actually a much easier trip – I found a sept-place directly to Dakar, and was able to just relax, and even nap a bit, as we made the four-hour trip back up the delta and into the city.

A Ramadan Weekend in Saint Louis

With two long weekends in June, I knew I wanted to use them to get a little further outside of Dakar than I could with just two days. Top of my list was Saint Louis, the French colonial city that was the first French settlement in West Africa. Strategically placed between the Senegal River and the Atlantic, the city has been the capital of the colony of Senegal, of French West Africa, of independent Senegal, and of Mauritania. Though small and completely walkable, Saint Louis is divided into three regions: the old city of N’Dar, which sits on a small island in the Senegal River; Langue de Barbarie, a stretch of peninsula that reaches down west of N’Dar from Mauritania; and the new city of Sor, which sits on the mainland. Seemed like a fascinating place to check out.

A bit of research exists on travelling between Dakar and Saint Louis, primarily because people travelling Northwestern Africa overland use Saint Louis as a stop-off on their way to Mauritania (though the border crossing is actually around 100 kilometers from Saint Louis, Saint Louis seems like a nicer place to spend an evening or two before making that trip). Armed with at least a vague understanding of how to get there, I got up early on Saturday morning, packed up, and headed down to the taxi stand outside my apartment in N’Gor. Usually, I can’t take five steps before ten drivers call out “Taxi, Madame? Taxi?” but the parking lot was almost completely empty, except for one driver, who was praying at the little make-shift tent that functions as prayer space/shade/hangout, depending on the needs of the moment. I tried not to disturb him as I walked past, assuming I’d just walk up to the main road and grab a taxi easily from there (side note: there is no shortage of taxis in Dakar. They are – no exaggeration – every other car on the road, and when they pass me, walking to work, they honk and honk like crazy to offer me a ride, as if I’m only walking because I haven’t been able to find a cab), but as I passed him, he looked up, asked if I wanted a taxi, then stopped his prayer immediately, rolled up his prayer rug, and ran over to me. I’d heard that the bus station was pretty far outside of the main city, and I’d read that 5000 CFA was a good price to get there, but my roommate had told me 1500. That seemed low, since we generally pay that to get around the city. The driver originally quoted me 8000, and we eventually settled on 4000. It was a long drive – it took about 45 minutes in barely any traffic (by Dakar standards) – so 4000 seemed like a fair price.

The open-air bus station was pretty crowded, though probably not anywhere near as busy as it might be later in the day, not during Ramadan. Women along the sidewalks were selling mangoes and vegetables and bags of crushed ginger and clothes and CDs and peanuts and everything else, while huge buses and smaller cars rapides (vans that function as bush taxis and primarily charter people around Dakar’s suburbs, usually painted bright yellow and blue, often with “Alhamdulillah” adorning their sides). I made my way through the crowds, asking everyone who looked even slight official (and many people who did not) for “Saint Louis.” A bus driver tried to sell me a ticket on his bus, but I knew I wanted to take a sept-place, a seven-seat car that shuttles people between cities, pricier than the buses, but much faster. The driver showed me where to go, and I joined the crowded headed to Saint Louis. The sept-place drivers fill up their cars in a particular fashion – seating  is determined in order of passenger arrival, so the first person to show up gets to sit in the passenger seat, then the next three are seated in the middle row, and the last three are in the back. I was the seventh person to arrive, so I was stuck in the back, crammed between the window and the luggage behind my head. It was not particularly comfortable, but the roads were much better than I’d expected – though I was worried about carsickness, that really wasn’t an issue. And sitting by the window, I got lots of great views of the desert we were driving through! Baobab trees, fruit and vegetable stands, and small herding villages galore!

Good luck charm in the rearview mirror of the sept-place -
on the way there -
the car on the way back didn't have a rearview mirror.

Desert views

Fishing pirogues along the docks of Langue de Barbarie

After five hours in the car, though, sitting at an awkward angle to keep my head from hitting the roof and give my legs a little space, I was ready to get out. I was relieved when the driver turned and asked where I was going, then dropped me off close to the bridge. From there I hailed a taxi to my AirBnB – an arts studio and school that rents out empty rooms when they are available, and is on the Langue de Barbarie, in the Santhiaba neighborhood. I chose not to stay on the main island, because it was more expensive, but Santhiaba turned out to be perfect – just far enough from the main drag that the evenings were quiet and it felt more like residential Saint Louis, but an easy walk to everything worth seeing. Once I checked in, got settled, and sunscreened up, I made my way to N’Dar to find some lunch and water – I didn’t feel quite right eating or drinking in the crowded sept-place while everyone else was fasting. As I made my way through the narrow streets of the old city, I found myself thinking that it looked like New Orleans. The brightly painted houses all had terraces and shutters on their first floor windows, apparently to protect the privacy of the inhabitants and keep dust out. As in Dakar, cars and motorbikes share the roads with horse carts, but in Saint Louis, many of the horse carts are toting passengers in pretty carriages – in Dakar, they’re used for carrying heavy loads of construction materials and other supplies.

Riverside palm trees

I wandered back and forth across the island. Unfortunately, many of the restaurants were closed and there weren’t many people about – hazard of traveling during Ramandan – but it was very tranquil and relaxing. I noticed the people who were out and about were friendlier than in Dakar. Everyone I passed wanted to know where I was from, why I was there, how I liked Saint Louis, etc. I ate lunch by the river, then walked along it until I came to the Faidherbe Bridge to the mainland. Built in 1897, it’s the most famous landmark in Saint Louis. Mostly for lack of anything better to do, I crossed it, then took followed the river for a while, getting a good look at the tiny island. 

Pont Faidherbe

Unfortunately, the smell of the river made it a less than pleasant afternoon stroll, so I turned inland and found a small and sandy village, full of kids playing soccer and running through the sand. I came out onto the main road at a huge market place, where I carefully made my way through the rows and rows of people selling shrimp and fish of all sizes, as well as fruits and vegetables. Back on the island, as it got closer to sunset, I found an incredibly peaceful scene: the river bank filled up with men and older boys, squatting in the road, bent over copies of the Quran, and praying quietly, waiting for the end of the day’s fast. I spent a quiet evening at one of the bars by the river, watching the bridge light up as the sun set, and listening for the call to prayer.

One of the many, many mosques

Pont Faidherbe at night

Out of commission pirogue

The second day, I decided I wanted to see the Langue de Barbarie, so I started walking south from my apartment, toward the fishing village. The road made its way through a busy neighborhood, where children, sheep, goats, and one (possibly confused) pelican played in the street, dodging all forms of transportation as they flew by. Eventually, the road turned out to the river, where it opened up into a wide, sandy lane. To my left, along the river, crowds fish sellers waited under shady tents for the fishermen to return in their pirogues, ready to bargain for the morning’s catch. Other people worked on their boats – touching up paint or rebuilding altogether. The Langue stretched much further than I’d expected – it was about an hour before I turned around – but it was a nice walk (aside from the flies, which were vicious) and I loved seeing the rows and rows of colorful pirogues, and the pelicans that followed the fishermen around, waiting to take advantage of any scraps.

After a very Senegalese lunch of fish, rice, and shrimp beignets in a dingy little restaurant, I spent the afternoon in one of the empty resorts on the island, sitting between the resort pool and the river and reading. I spent the evening on the rooftop terrace of the apartment, which had a great view: to the west, the sun setting over the ocean, and to the east, the city getting ready to break fast. As soon as the sun hit the horizon, a long alarm sounded throughout the city, signaling sunset, followed by the call to prayer from every corner of Saint Louis. At the same time, the city seemed to come to life – people laughing and shouting from the streets as they sipped water and broke into fresh baguettes.

View of N'Dar from the apartment

Monday morning, I woke up much earlier than most of the city – certainly too early to find breakfast before heading back to Dakar – so I decided to walk north, up the Langue de Barbarie to see what I could see of Mauritania. Another small village, with several beautiful mosques, and some breathtaking views of the river, especially once I passed the island and could look straight up the river that divides the mainlands of Senegal and Mauritania. Overall, I had a terrific time in Saint Louis. I loved the peaceful and relaxed vibe of the city, especially compared with the hectic and chaotic feel of Dakar, even during Ramadan.