Two months have passed since I left the Atlantic Ocean at Grand-Bassam. I have since left Sub-Saharan Africa, this time permanently after so long. I returned to the Sahel, advancing through the arid plains of Mali and Guinea cycling along the Niger River until I ascended the Fouta Djallon to breathe some fresh air. From the perspective that the altitude gave me, I was able to see far north lying on the cloudy horizon, the immense Sahara that I would have to cross once again in the coming months. From there, I went back down to battle the harsh Sahelian plains now following the course of the Gambia River to the west. Finally, today after so many daring events, my eyes rejoice in the intense blue of the Atlantic, pedaling across the southern outskirts of Dakar.
Traffic, traffic and more traffic. It is the official ritual of entry to any large African city. Trucks, always kings of the road, subjugate all others with their arrogance. The shattered mini-buses overflowing with people and piles of goods, with two or three assistants holding to dear life out of the sides shouting the destinations while they charge the passengers. Motorcycles, always in their eagerness to move faster, abuse every gap through which they can sneak in to take advantage. In between, a legion of street vendors filter through each slot flirting with death around every vehicle that brushes them as they pass. In the middle of this crossroads, pedestrians everywhere who move as if they were in an open and empty field without any concern about the potential risks that surround them. Finally, there is me with my loaded bicycle and my exhausted body, in the constant battle to find a corridor, a passage, a simple and more or less continuous space through which I can sneak in so I can reach my destination safe and sound.
I arrive at the center of Dakar on a bright day. The Saharan wind and the regulating effect of the ocean generate a microclimate of perfect temperature and humidity. The central square strikes me for its cleanliness, its wide avenues, its architecture and because I can now stop at a “boulangerie” (bakery) and buy a delicious baguette and even some pastry. All this clearly, for better and worse, thanks to the legacy of the ex-colonists. I'm in a great mood for something as simple as having arrived unusually early, something I consistently fail at when it comes to capital cities. That frees me from the horrible stress of wandering around lost at night while trying to find my way in a city I don't know, with all the risks tha tcome with that. Today though, I have all the time in the world to enjoy while I look for the apartment where I am going to stay.
Months ago, while hanging out in Cotonou with my great friend Germano, I met his friend Aman, a Senegalese who, as is common in the business class of many West African countries, is of Lebanese origin. When I told him that I was on my way to his hometown, he didn't hesitate for a second to give me the key to his apartment in the center of Dakar for the day I would get there. Since he lives in Cotonou, I have the apartment all to myself and for as long as I want. Today, sitting on the terrace of Aman's flat, looking down watching life go by endlessly along the streets of the neighborhood, I remember the first time a total stranger offered me the keys to his own house. It was in the Fergana Valley, in Uzbekistan, and at that time, it was an event that revolutionised my life. Today, almost exactly 10 years later, it is something I have experienced many, many times along the way. Something that went from being practically inconceivable to me, to being part of a beautiful reality.
During the 10 days that I spend in Dakar living as a local, I pass the time between sleeping, eating well and doing my favorite exercise of wandering the streets. There is nothing more beautiful than walking a lot when all you do for most of your life is pedal all day. The cities are the perfect place to do it and in that sense, among all the big African cities I’ve known, Dakar has a level of appeal one step above the rest. From Aman’s flat, I like to wander aimlessly through the heart of the city, the so-called plateau, where I enjoy business life in full swing. I go with the flow of people coming and going like sea currents along sidewalks and streets alike, crossing from one side to the other between cars stuck in traffic, while some simply stop to have a chat and others sell things. I also never cease to be amazed over and over again with the exquisite style with which Senegalese women dress. I admire their sense of aesthetics and beauty. Whether they are tall or short, skinny or fat, pretty or ugly, colorful dresses look splendid on them and enhance their beauty and attractiveness without exception.
Among all this display of urban stimuli around me, I go about looking at shops, stopping to snack on some food at a stall here and another there. I buy a baguette at the bakery, shop at the Lebanese supermarket, and maybe end up having jolof, the Senegalese version, for lunch in a traditional canteen. I let the road take me towards the popular neighborhoods, where endless rows of second-hand clothing vendors line the avenues, with mountains of jeans, shirts, and shoes baking under the sun. Since Addis Ababa’s Merkato, I don't see this level of density of shops per square meter. Street after street I pass some that are barely as wide as the shoulders of their owners, who fall asleep within, waiting, sunk in these vertical coffins, surrounded by piles of products for customers who don't always show up.
At the end of the day I end up walking along the Corniche, the road that runs along the entire peninsula bordering the ocean. While I continue to eat all the things I bought during the day, I enjoy the breeze watching the sun set over the ocean. This is land of expats and wealthy locals. Embassies, high-level restaurants, hotels on the beach and private security checkpoints predominate here. It is a world very detached from the streets of the other Dakar.
The most wonderful thing about these long walks is that from one end of the city to the other I experience the transition between all urban and social strata. At my own slow pace I can go from one world to another, each one with its own reality and idiosyncrasy. Within a few days I have a visual and sensory map in my mind that gives me a fairly comprehensive overview of where I am. Cities drive me crazy but they also fascinate me. They are a pot into which thousands of ingredients are poured at once, all mixed together, all swept along by the centrifugal forces of urban life. And I like to throw myself into it to be one more, experiencing everything from the inside, randomly thrown around by those same forces.
After 10 days of urban comfort, I decide to end my stay in Dakar. It is rather a self-imposition, because the truth is that I could stay several months living here. I like the balance that this city has, sometimes chaotic, sometimes serene, with good weather and good food, sunsets by the sea and baguettes on the plateau. I don't know if I would come back here specifically, but I wouldn't mind passing through one more time. I would happily take the opportunity. Now it's time to pack my stuff to finally start my way to the Sahara.Two months have passed since I left the Atlantic Ocean at Grand-Bassam. I have since left Sub-Saharan Africa, this time permanently after so long. I returned to the Sahel, advancing through the arid plains of Mali and Guinea cycling along the Niger River until I ascended the Fouta Djallon to breathe some fresh air. From the perspective that the altitude gave me, I was able to see far north lying on the cloudy horizon, the immense Sahara that I would have to cross once again in the coming months. From there, I went back down to battle the harsh Sahelian plains now following the course of the Gambia River to the west. Finally, today after so many daring events, my eyes rejoice in the intense blue of the Atlantic, pedaling across the southern outskirts of Dakar.
Traffic, traffic and more traffic. It is the official ritual of entry to any large African city. Trucks, always kings of the road, subjugate all others with their arrogance. The shattered mini-buses overflowing with people and piles of goods, with two or three assistants holding to dear life out of the sides shouting the destinations while they charge the passengers. Motorcycles, always in their eagerness to move faster, abuse every gap through which they can sneak in to take advantage. In between, a legion of street vendors filter through each slot flirting with death around every vehicle that brushes them as they pass. In the middle of this crossroads, pedestrians everywhere who move as if they were in an open and empty field without any concern about the potential risks that surround them. Finally, there is me with my loaded bicycle and my exhausted body, in the constant battle to find a corridor, a passage, a simple and more or less continuous space through which I can sneak in so I can reach my destination safe and sound.
I arrive at the center of Dakar on a bright day. The Saharan wind and the regulating effect of the ocean generate a microclimate of perfect temperature and humidity. The central square strikes me for its cleanliness, its wide avenues, its architecture and because I can now stop at a “boulangerie” (bakery) and buy a delicious baguette and even some pastry. All this clearly, for better and worse, thanks to the legacy of the ex-colonists. I'm in a great mood for something as simple as having arrived unusually early, something I consistently fail at when it comes to capital cities. That frees me from the horrible stress of wandering around lost at night while trying to find my way in a city I don't know, with all the risks tha tcome with that. Today though, I have all the time in the world to enjoy while I look for the apartment where I am going to stay.
Months ago, while hanging out in Cotonou with my great friend Germano, I met his friend Aman, a Senegalese who, as is common in the business class of many West African countries, is of Lebanese origin. When I told him that I was on my way to his hometown, he didn't hesitate for a second to give me the key to his apartment in the center of Dakar for the day I would get there. Since he lives in Cotonou, I have the apartment all to myself and for as long as I want. Today, sitting on the terrace of Aman's flat, looking down watching life go by endlessly along the streets of the neighborhood, I remember the first time a total stranger offered me the keys to his own house. It was in the Fergana Valley, in Uzbekistan, and at that time, it was an event that revolutionised my life. Today, almost exactly 10 years later, it is something I have experienced many, many times along the way. Something that went from being practically inconceivable to me, to being part of a beautiful reality.
During the 10 days that I spend in Dakar living as a local, I pass the time between sleeping, eating well and doing my favorite exercise of wandering the streets. There is nothing more beautiful than walking a lot when all you do for most of your life is pedal all day. The cities are the perfect place to do it and in that sense, among all the big African cities I’ve known, Dakar has a level of appeal one step above the rest. From Aman’s flat, I like to wander aimlessly through the heart of the city, the so-called plateau, where I enjoy business life in full swing. I go with the flow of people coming and going like sea currents along sidewalks and streets alike, crossing from one side to the other between cars stuck in traffic, while some simply stop to have a chat and others sell things. I also never cease to be amazed over and over again with the exquisite style with which Senegalese women dress. I admire their sense of aesthetics and beauty. Whether they are tall or short, skinny or fat, pretty or ugly, colorful dresses look splendid on them and enhance their beauty and attractiveness without exception.
Among all this display of urban stimuli around me, I go about looking at shops, stopping to snack on some food at a stall here and another there. I buy a baguette at the bakery, shop at the Lebanese supermarket, and maybe end up having jolof, the Senegalese version, for lunch in a traditional canteen. I let the road take me towards the popular neighborhoods, where endless rows of second-hand clothing vendors line the avenues, with mountains of jeans, shirts, and shoes baking under the sun. Since Addis Ababa’s Merkato, I don't see this level of density of shops per square meter. Street after street I pass some that are barely as wide as the shoulders of their owners, who fall asleep within, waiting, sunk in these vertical coffins, surrounded by piles of products for customers who don't always show up.
At the end of the day I end up walking along the Corniche, the road that runs along the entire peninsula bordering the ocean. While I continue to eat all the things I bought during the day, I enjoy the breeze watching the sun set over the ocean. This is land of expats and wealthy locals. Embassies, high-level restaurants, hotels on the beach and private security checkpoints predominate here. It is a world very detached from the streets of the other Dakar.
The most wonderful thing about these long walks is that from one end of the city to the other I experience the transition between all urban and social strata. At my own slow pace I can go from one world to another, each one with its own reality and idiosyncrasy. Within a few days I have a visual and sensory map in my mind that gives me a fairly comprehensive overview of where I am. Cities drive me crazy but they also fascinate me. They are a pot into which thousands of ingredients are poured at once, all mixed together, all swept along by the centrifugal forces of urban life. And I like to throw myself into it to be one more, experiencing everything from the inside, randomly thrown around by those same forces.
After 10 days of urban comfort, I decide to end my stay in Dakar. It is rather a self-imposition, because the truth is that I could stay several months living here. I like the balance that this city has, sometimes chaotic, sometimes serene, with good weather and good food, sunsets by the sea and baguettes on the plateau. I don't know if I would come back here specifically, but I wouldn't mind passing through one more time. I would happily take the opportunity. Now it's time to pack my stuff to finally start my way to the Sahara.