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| Off to the Pink Lake |
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| Getting Started - with a little help from your friends |
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| 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.
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| Welcome at a Fulani Village |
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| Village Elder |
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| 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.
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| Sheep shack |
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| Woman washing dishes |
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| Village Children |
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| 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.
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| Obviously one of the poorer children of the village |
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| 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.
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| And the Saints are Marching In |
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| Singer |
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| Village ladies, dancing at the entrance of a resort - they are not allowed to enter.... |
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| 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.
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| Half Finished dwelling....but the horse is finished for the day and munches a little hay and feed |
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| Adieu to Senegal and West Africa.... |
