29 March 2014, Lake Retba, Senegal

Off to the Pink Lake

Getting Started - with a little help from your friends

Pink Lake salt hills

Everything outside Dakar, if not covered by garbage, is covered by a layer of fine ochre coloured dust. One drives through disconcertingly unfinished housing complexes with their adornments of tin and plastic shacks strewn amongst them, passes dozens of horse carts and hundreds of road side ‘businesses’, many of them involve discarded tires and new furniture, made in Senegal. The odd Baobab tree stands out above all; they are presently leafless, as we are in the dry season, and the trees conserve the water reserve hidden in their massive trunks to survive until the next rainy season.

The Pink Lake, a small inland ‘sea’ a few kilometers long, is named after its occasional rose colouring. It has a high salt content (more than the Dead Sea) and a population of algae, which tends to bloom pink - under certain atmospheric conditions. The Pink Lake showed itself grey today, a Saturday without rain since ages, the algae were resting, so were the usual salt workers.

No activity on the lake today, which was whipped into salty froth wavelets by a chill wind from the Atlantic, just a couple of dune widths away.  Normally men walk out into the shallow lake towing a small float, dig up salt from the lake bed, and take it to shore where women load it into bags. These are taken to a weigh station, and pay-credit is marked down accordingly. No workers today, just a handful of ladies selling beaded necklaces.

We careened along on four wheel drive open sided trucks, crouching down to avoid a) the freezing winds and b) being tossed around too much when crossing dubious looking and smelling creeks or cresting yet another sandy dune.

The Pink Lake area used to be the Finish Line for the famous Dakar Rally, until in 2008 an El Qaeda threat put a stop to it. The local economy was consequently devastated, and tourism is reduced to the odd ship/bus load of cruise visitors, and a few die hard dirt bikers testing their mettle in the dunes and along the hard packed sand beaches. Not enough to keep the locals fed, clothed and housed – the situation looks somewhat dismal out here.

Welcome at a Fulani Village

Village Elder

The Old Huts of Palm Fronds

 

We visited one of the Fulani villages, to be introduced to genuine Senegalese rural life. A village elder, adorned with a Tuareg inspired turban of indigo blue, greeted us and led us into the village. I had visited here a few years ago, when the village consisted of mud and palm frond huts, clean, tidy and enclosed by a mud brick wall. Today, the wall is gone, so are most of the palm frond huts, to be replaced by half finished concrete block boxes intermingled with a few palm frond homes. Trees and bushes are fringed with windblown plastic bags, tarps and corrugated materials give finishing touches to the basic dwellings. The largest ‘building’ is actually a palm frond covered room, with tables lined up and laden with carvings, beaded necklaces, sand paintings etc. etc. Outside, a villager guards a tin bowl put on the ground in front of him to collect donations for the village.

Children rush from their dwellings and beg for money or pose to have their picture taken – or both. For twenty minutes our visiting group walked through the sandy pathways amongst the huts, took photos, bought some trinket, and left again – and the village settled back into its desperately poor daily life.

Sheep shack

Woman washing dishes

Village Children

Drinking Water

 

It is difficult for people to even begin to comprehend the abysmal differences between life in a ‘modern’ country and one of the Third World….one returns to the luxury of the ship, one takes the daily pleasures of ‘civilized’ life for granted, one is overcome by the almost insurmountable problems of an ancient culture gone terribly wrong starting a few hundred years ago with the ‘discovery’ of this rich continent called Africa.

Obviously one of the poorer children of the village

Village Beauty

 

As a reminder of one of the atrocities inflicted upon the land and its people, we pass the island of Goree on our way out of Dakar Port. This Island was a main trading centre during three centuries of slave trade, where many unfortunate Africans left their home forever through the infamous fortress door, where all hope ceased and hell began.

And the Saints are Marching In

Singer

Village ladies, dancing at the entrance of a resort - they are not allowed to enter....

Goree Island Fort

 

And still, Senegal is one of the most stable nations of West Africa (Mali conflicts could change that), and Dakar one of its most vibrant, diverse and progressive cities. One wishes, that the Renaissance of Africa, as it is called in the controversial statue in Dakar, is soon becoming a reality for its entire people.

Half Finished dwelling....but the horse is finished for the day and munches a little hay and feed

 

Adieu to Senegal and West Africa....

29 March 2014 Dakar, Senegal, West Africa

Senegal used to be part of La Belle France, and most of the historic buildings in Dakar, Senegal’s Capital City of 2.5 Million people, date back to the Colonial Era. France (De Gaulle) agreed to grant Senegal its independence in 1960.

Abandoned Railway Station of Dakar - built by the French during Colonial times

Seaside Mosque

 

This historic event is commemorated by the largest statue in all of Africa, called the African Renaissance Monument. It rises a couple of hundred meters above a 250 steps sweeping staircase, and is located just outside the city centre on a hill beside a beach. On the beach, almost overshadowed by this gigantic monument, rise the minarets of a large sea side mosque.  The monument is said to be taller than the Statue of Liberty – impressive!

For a cool 24 million dollars, it was designed and built by North Koreans, to represent an African family (father, mother, one child) in a typical communist-art  stance (victoriously pointing skyward) with semi Asiatic features (straight hair i.e.) and fantasy clothing over impossibly ‘athletic’ physique. The mother, who weights several hundred tons, is almost naked, which in a country almost 99% of Islamic Faithful does not go over too well. The father houses offices, elevators and head level viewing platforms in his massive body. The Baby does the finger pointing.

African Renaissance Monument

 

Resting at the Base of the Monument

 

This befuddling monstrosity does not sit well with Senegalese, who consider all but African in nature, neither does the waste of dollars sorely needed for more important problems – like education, health and infrastructure. In the meantime, Senegalese are divided over the controversial landmark, but it makes for an interesting tourist stop. At the base of this family portrait (one of the few families in Africa with only one child) is a large paved ‘park’ with an auditorium, but now seats. The only locals frequenting the site seem to be souvenir vendors and a couple of men resting one of the scarce stone benches. Sheep and goats nibble at garbage strewn shrubs.

To a visitor new to West Africa, Dakar is almost frightening in its vastness, its overwhelming crowds of jostling people streaming through endless sidewalk market stalls, dodging traffic and numerous wheelchair bound people (Dakar had a Polio epidemic a few decades ago), and confronting thousands of semi-finished buildings which seem to be abandoned as soon as the first concrete blocks are put together. These housing developments (if that is what they are) appear uninhabited; however, thousands of tin shacks, supplemented with tarps and corrugated fibreglass sheeting, serve as housing for numberless people. One sleeps, cooks, eats and procreates in these hovels, whose prevalent landscaping consists of mountains of plastic bag garbage.

Butcher Shop

Awaiting another Load

'Chinese Market' in Dakar

 

It is said, that garbage reducing actions are under consideration. These ideas are less driven by environmental or health concerns, not even by purely esthetic reasons, but mostly because cattle, sheep and goats eat anything that smells faintly of food or other organics, and plastic bags qualify on those counts. Predictably, the animals die from indigestion – not good, in a country where small animal husbandry lots supports a much needed food supply. On the other hand – one does not see an overabundance of stray dogs – probably caused by the same garbage bag consumption.

If one looks beyond, there are exclusive enclaves of expansive and landscape adorned mansions for who knows who, many hidden French influenced restaurants, beach front resorts for tourists, residential areas with elaborate shopping malls complete with guards and razor wire fences  etc. etc…

Ingredients for Sand Paintings

Sand Painting

 

Fishing is the largest component of the local economy, and tourism is second in line. Handicraft production is wide spread; working as an artisan guarantees tax free status. African masks are manufactured by woodworkers and welders, armies of tailors between 10 and 100 years old sew caftans of every African Kente cloth imaginable, beadwork, baskets, sand painting all make their way into handicraft markets. Bargaining is de rigueur, and good buys can be had without offending the sellers with too low of a counter offer.

Street side mask manufacturer

Fishing Boats dedicated Allaah

Decorations on bow of fishing boats

Woodworker

Iconic gigantic Baobab Tree

Presidential Guard

 

28 March 2014, Banjul, The Gambia, West Africa

 

The Gambia was out first contact on this cruise with the African Continent. Almost the westernmost land of Africa, it hugs the lower half of the Gambia River, and is surrounded by Senegal. Senegal looks like a giant head on a map, where The Gambia forms the mouth and throat.

Banjul, the capital of the tiniest nation of Africa, is the Capital and Seat of government.  30,000 people live here, loyal subject of an elected president, who is fulfilling his office ‘for life’. The city was founded by the British, who built a fort here to stop slave trade out of Africa. Senegalese merchants arrived from Goree Island (slave trade centre), the Portuguese developed a community, and members of various ethnic groups of West Africa (Wolof, Aku, Fula, Diola, Mandinka, Sara-khole and Serer) relocated here. With such a mix of languages, English is now the lingua franca, closely followed by Mandinka and Wolof.

 

A ferry connects Banjul with towns, such as Barra, on the south side of Gambia River. It is strategically docked near the busy Albert Market, where produce, fish and meat are traded as well as the tourist staples of baskets, masks, dolls and textiles. Gambians, loaded with purchases head for the ferry to travel home, however said ferry experiences frequent technical difficulties, and ‘alternative public transport’ emerges a few hundred yards down the garbage strewn beach: dozens of fishing boats carry passengers, almost submerging the vessels up to their gunwales. Allegedly very stable, these make shift ferries only capsize at rare occasions…

When not transferring passengers, the fishing boats head out to the mouth of the Gambia River to spread out their nets, which are supported by long float lines between partnering fishing boats. Unfortunately there is no rhyme or reason to the whereabouts of these nets, and Prinsendam steamed across quite a number of them on her journey out to sea.

 

I did neither take a tour, nor one of the ‘guides’. The latter lay in wait at Banjul’s Port exit. Our dock was swept clean upon arrival of the ship, with a dozen or so workers bent over and brushing the accumulated debris into the harbour waters. I strolled out into town solo, surprisingly successful in maintaining my unencumbered status, by assuring wannabe guides of my love of the country and its people, and knowing my way around their beautiful town – and yes, we are all brothers, colour is unimportant.

A ‘walking tour’ of the town is equivalent to an athletic obstacle course: seas of liquid mud (even in the dry season), rubble, uncovered manholes, heaps of garbage, sleeping dogs, abrupt drop off in almost non-existent sidewalks, and vendor stands and pavement blankets, cars, bicycles and streams of people crowding all around.

I tracked down a ‘recording studio’ in the maze like Albert Market. Purchasing a CD of the favourite Gambian musician (Jebali Kuateh) meant waiting for same CD to be illegally copied at the back of a tiny shack, whilst conversing with two eager security policemen (armed to the teeth) who wanted to chat with this strange coloured stranger, shake hands and swear eternal friendship.

 

To round things off, I picked my way through shore side corrugated iron shacks, a soccer game in progress, heaps of manmade flotsam, and complaining sheep which  were taken by their keepers for their bath – like it or not – in the somewhat murky looking brackish water. I found a few rickety wooden benches under a couple of low trees, which were connected with shade giving tarps and bought a Coca-Cola  (first in decades) as no alcohol is served in Banjul (Muslim). Resort towns (there are some, who are visited by beach loving Europeans) serve alcohol, but Banjul is dry.

 

Back aboard, a local theatre group presented music (Kura strings), dances and storytelling, which made a curious mix of traditional sound and dance with Broadway inspired high lights. And then – another slow and unexpectedly cool sunset leaving The Gambia on our way to Dakar.