Ile De Goree

They say the map is not the territory, today we headed for the famous (or is it infamous) Ile de Goree. Luckily for us it was the start of a three day art and craft exhibition on the island. Ile de Goree is a UNESCO world heritage site, and perhaps
the most famous of the ancient slave trading ports in the world. Many heads of states, royals and even the last Pope have visited the its shores.

Ile de Goree is a must see for any visitor to Dakar. Sila took us to the embarcadere de Goree which was coincidentally next to Dakar's railway station, (which I learnt could take you all the way to Bamako Mali).

The port was laden with passengers waiting for the next boat. I bought tickets for three and ended up sitting in between my
mother and a white woman who attended to a young native boy, she wore a white shirt and red skirt, and her calfes were criss-crossed with bold green veins. "Bon jour Madam", "Bon jour", Vous allez ou Ile de Goree" "Oui" "Vous etes Franciase" "Non
je suis Belguise" "Et vous, vous etes Senegalise," "Non madam, je suis Nigeria" "Vous parlez francaise au Nigeria" "No Nigeria ces pays Anglophone". According to Rosa many of the Belgiuese don’t even know Jean Claude Van Damme. So much for “popular” culture
The boy was her adopted son a four year native boy, Gabrielle. "Where does the sea come from," he asked his mother as we made our way from the port."From the sky" was her motherly she replied. Among the boats passengers, were some caucasian American, I was surprised that no noticably African American "pilgrims" were with us. Our anticipation heightened as the boat approached the port, several unofficial guides had made their way to the island to woo some fast cash, Mother needed help getting off the
boat, she still some of the youth left from pervious travels, Sila our strong but gentle guide led the way. Everywhere music played and posters and banners showed us the way around the various exhibits. The buildings of Goree island had a multicoloured hues, yellow, white some green, but a deep pink that matched the islands sand seemed predominant. Our first stop was the "Masion de Esclaves". The house of slaves. I try hard to imagine the suffering that had taken place here centuries ago. A breaded and from his narration more genuine tour guide was narrating some of the history of the "House of Slaves" to the American party. His voice baritone and bass laden and his eyes blood shot accenuated his authority. "Over six million people died during the slave trade..........African Americans have now have not just excelled in sports and entertainment but with the election of Barack Obama politics as well."




The "House" had two seperate chambers for women and even one for infants above the lower chamber of the maison was a small museum with some chains and sackles. Rosa was with Gabrielle could he make any sense of the place? Frankly speaking there really wasn't very much to see I believe either UNESCO or the Sengalise government had moved most of the items to a separate place for better safekeeping.

Wandering futher on through the Island took us to different shops and displays, a lady who made dolls of the different Senegalise tribes and cultures one was of a Fula maid complete with timude (the Fulfulde for calabash).



Cash was
short so I couldn’t purchase anything I did get cards from many artist and traders. It was an ironic mix colourful arts on a
island with a dark past. We passed a large Catholique church a building that dedicated to the Knights of Malta. It was
time for Asr and with Sila help we found the mosque.

FRIDAY

This is the day God created the Universe. My feet are up on the bed, it's past eight 8, its summer and Senegal is at GMT - 1. After reading some more of Cypirian Ekwensi's Burning Grass I head to meet mother in her room. “So where are we going to today Alhaji,” she asks looking refreshened and more relaxed. My phone rings "Assalamu Alaikum, slept well sheik, I'll be sending the driver to pick you up." We were hungry, just as I was about to leave my mom's room to buy something edible, (the guest house had no restaurant) a middle height, middle aged man appeared in front of me. C'est combien de jour ce rester a Dakar? From his tone and posture I concluded he was the hotel gestionnaire (manager) or his assistant, hmm….this wasn't going to be easy, but la francise was the other reason I was here. After a broken dialogue the following itinery emerges:

28/05 Jeudi Thursday Arrive Dakar

29/05 Vendredi Friday Nous reston a Dakar pour une jour.

30/05 Samedi Saturday ile de Gorree

31/05 Dimanche Sunday Partir la Sally le matin

1/06 Lundi Monday Back to Dakar

2/06 Mardi Tuesday partir to Touba

3/06 Mercredi Wensday Back to Dakar

4/06 Venderdi Thurdays Flight back to Lagos a 2h après minuit.

I make an initial payment for the next two days, and in my broken French tell him we'll be going to Sally with our luggage. A little while after breakfast, while I am out admiring the view from the balcony, Zubairu's car pulls up outside the compound. A tall tar coloured man wearing a dirt coloured Senegalese Khaftan stepped out of the driver’s seat and headed towards the front door of the house. As he stepped onto the ground I noticed it had an orange hue. "The driver has arrived…let’s hurry up.” I said to my mother. Assalamu Alaikum, Alaikum Salam, his name is Sila; he was my cousins driver Zubairu. Most Senegalese belong to either one of three Sufi brotherhoods, Mouride, Qaddiriyyah and Tijjaniyah. It was Friday and the T.V stations were broadcasting sermons by the sheiks mostly in Wolof the most popular language of the Senegal.

It turns out that Zubairu's house wasn't to far away from our residence. The houses in the VDN area were all semi detached duplexes. The door to Zubairu's house opened and right in front of me is Ruqqayatu, my cousin and Zubairu’s wife. Her eyes meet my mother's and both light up in sisterly incandesces, they embrace, and then she ushers us into the living room with the friendliest gravitation. It had two dark brown leather couches and one settee; all were torn from the unmistakable non Chalance of childhood. The living room window was directly opposite to were I sat and to my right a cupboard with plates and utensils and a TV hanged on the wall. The remaining moments were conversion and lunch.

It was almost time for the Friday prayer, sewing a Khaftan was part of the budget so we quickly headed to the market before the start of Friday prayer. We head the market place in a quartier (neighbourhood) Medina some distance south of the VDN area.

Khaftans are often sewed in monochrome coloured material, and the Medina market offered a rainbow of colours. I settled for 5 yards a green material and 10 yards of white costing 25,000 CAF and 50000 CAF respectively. C’est combien? 250000 CAF, “Last price” 24500CAF, the vendor drove a hard bargain. A long walk takes us to see a tailor called Dam, he has sewn for Ruqquayatu before. I ordered for a Khaftan and a Mauritaina gare. The total cost of sewing lest me 75000CAF short. People all around us don’t seem to know we are Nigerian, colour of skin and facial features not being sign of distinction. Everyone is hurry to get ready for Jummua. I was hoping we could go the central mosque of Senegal, but that time was short. Allah had willed otherwise.

Arrival

Time flew, all I can remember is waking up at about 11 in the morning, after bathing it was time for Zuhr the Muslim afternoon prayer. Mother called and suggested I go the ticketing office and demand for an explanation a confirmation and an affirmation that I would be on tonight's flight. Transport around Lagos in probably the worst on the planet, Lagos is super dense, super hot and super stressed, the antipathy to tranquility. We left for the airport at 4:00 pm hoping the timing would be right.

This time no problem with check in, thou a slight embarrassment at customs, I couldn't find the keys to open our luggage. So the custom officer let us pass, without being checked! I can't imagine that happening to me at an American airport! The 9:25 flight time turned out to be bogus the plane was still somewhere over Accra! Me and mom spent the time at the departure lounge watching the crew of the outgoing flights, KLM, Lufthansa, Iberia dragging their luggage behind them soon to be air bound while we waited in anxiety. Our nerves were slowly sedated with the arrival of each Dakar bound passenger. Surely the weren't going to disappoint all of us?

The flight did finally take off at about 11:40 pm, storms over Sierra Lone made the pilot detour from the original route. We landed at the Lepold Senghor airport past 2:00 in the morning. From the air you could see that the city was small probably no bigger than Kaduna, but it was much more well lit than Lagos. Sodium lamps divided the the city into neat blocks and rues (streets). At immigration there was a bit of a problem, we needed to know the address of our hotel to fill in the part of the immigration form where it said residence a Dakar, so I tried calling Zubairu my cousin (my phone an MTN line had connected to the local Tigo network) to no avail, I explained in the little french I had learnt that my cousin worked with ECOWAS and scribbled his number on the arrival form for non nationals. After passing the scanning machine at customs, I saw the same entrepreneurs you had a the Murtala Muhammed airport in Lagos, the peripatetic argent d'change, the phone card sellers, taxi drivers, it was like they had boarded the flight with us!

"Usman"! I heard a voice in the night it was Zubairu I hadn't seen him for a long time, but I instantly recognize all my family members. He took us to his car a blue Peugeot 406, at that hour there was little traffic on the high way (only taxis). Traveling makes you a stranger, the climate was a desert Savannah with little trees and wide sandy spaces between the houses and apartments. Dakar had a placid soul.

On the way in the metropolis we talked about the situation back home, (Nigerians are always taking about Nigeria). Zubairu had booked two rooms for us at the Keur Mame Adja, in the neighborhood of Sacre Coeur 3 of the VDN quarter right in the vicinity of the airport. The compound had a neatly trimmed lawn in the front a large and beautiful banana tree, it leaves fan out like a long time exposure of a golfers swing, next to the stair case it stood sentinel to the rooms on the upper floor. The rooms were comfortable, not five star but the kitchenette between the living room and the bedroom made it more practical. Cost? 25000 CAF a night, (N9500, 38.5 Euros) The bedroom had a balcony straight above another compound, not much of a view. It was late we were both tired so we slept, but not without looking at the skies first. Scorpio was lying down sideways, we were higher up the equator, Mami was first to spot Saturn next to Leo.

Yesterday's disappointed was complete forgotten.

The Lost Day

Why do I call it the lost day? well you see it turns out we didn't travel on the night of the 27th as we had originally scheduled. My ticket which was a discount offer that was expiring next month so with some extra cash in the account I decide to bring mother along.

At check in the pretty check in lady made a prettier mess of our plans, it turns out that the ticket had a precondition; available seats and the plane was pretty much full that night.

So a day, Thursdays the 27th was lost bringing the original Seven day down to Six. That also brought the total number of my canceled Virgin Nigeria flights to three. I expressed my anger at the deception (no preconditions were attached on my offer letter)and made absolutely certain that I had a seat for tomorrow's flight, at least it had an earlier take off time of 9:25pm.

Seven Days in Senegal

This is my first blog, I'll be journeying to Senegal tonight from Lagos.