le grand tour

I can still smell the sea. I’ve washed off the salt spray that was on my skin but I can still smell the Atlantic Ocean. I missed breakfast this morning; I napped from 9pm until midnight and then was wide awake until dawn. I slept for a couple of hours and then got myself ready for today’s tour. My guide, Mass, picked me up at 9:30 and we drove over to the nearby port to catch the ferry to Gorée Island. We sat up top and I worried that the ride might be as choppy as the ferry I take from St. Kitts to Nevis; Mass chose a seat at the very front of the boat, which meant we were facing everyone else. I felt rather conspicuous and noticed some folks were staring or sizing me up. Puking up my granola bar would not have impressed the locals, though a couple of women came and sat near me so they could remind me to stop by their shop once my tour was finished. Mass made a point of calling me “sister” and let me know that he would look out for me since I was Black (“I can tell by your nose,” he said before reminding me that the Fulani are fair, too). He became quite indignant when the vendors tried to take advantage—or when I refused to haggle. I know it’s tradition but I hate it and I’d much rather pay an artist a reasonable price for their work. Whether or not they see me as Black or a “sister,” I’m still in a privileged position so why bicker over money? That’s how the negotiation process feels to me and, as you know, I’m conflict averse…

Gorée is a small island with a long history—and it’s very beautiful, which I didn’t expect. Once the ferry pulled away from the dock Mass led me into the captain’s cabin—how nice to see a female first officer steering the ship! We sailed smoothly past brightly colored dugout canoes manned by lone fishermen and massive cargo ships from all over the world. Dakar is the largest port in (French?) West Africa, I believe Mass said, and I tried to imagine what the coast looked like 500 years ago when the main cargo was human beings. Just last night I received a finished illustration from the artist who’s working on my book The Magic Mirror. He has perfectly captured the terror of an enslaved girl being brought aboard a slave ship, shackled, separated from her family. I wrote that story in 2000, I think, when I was finished with coursework at graduate school and so ready to share my newfound knowledge of Black women’s history with the kids I tutored after school. How I wish more kids from the U.S. could visit Africa! Dakar is “glorious chaos”—so many contrasts, so much industry and energy and history. Modern buildings everywhere, stark white like in Miami. Impressive, newly paved highways with painted vans whizzing by—the back door open so that men can stand on the rear bumper! One of my purchases today was a tin can replica of these cars rapides (I still can’t post photos but the ones on the web are just as good). We drove all over the city and I could always look out the window and see the sea since Dakar is a peninsula. One moment I would be thinking about Nevis—whenever I saw the gorgeous bougainvillea or a flaming flamboyant tree—and the next minute I would think about Brooklyn and how the market in Dakar is like Fulton Mall or 125th St. on steroids. Diaspora, baby. So much continuity, no matter where we are…

Gorée came into view and I saw a row of stately palm trees, some decrepit buildings, and a sheer cliff that made escape from the island seem impossible. A round, stone fort was on one end of the island but once we passed it, the brightly colored French colonial buildings came into view. Boys swam alongside the pier in clear, blue water and Mass told me he used to do the same as a boy, calling out for tourists to throw coins he could retrieve. Mass is from Gorée and so he’s an expert on the island but also incredibly proud. And he should be—Mariama Bâ was also from Gorée and the island is home to a school named in her honor that only accepts the most academically gifted girls from throughout Senegal. The region’s first medical school and university were on the island, and though Christians are in the minority, a Christian was just elected to represent the 1800 residents. There are 16 different ethnic groups in Senegal but people intermarry and there’s no religious conflict, it seems. It’s Ramadan and I tried to be discreet whenever I took a sip of water from my bottle since Mass was abstaining from food and drink. A chapel on Gorée has been converted into a mosque and as we drove around the city I noticed men praying by the roadside under the shade of a tree.We also stopped at a modern, new cathedral that had four African angels over the front doors.

The Maison des Esclaves is much smaller than the castle at Elmina but built for the same purpose. Men, women, and children were separated and packed into windowless cells. Jeunes filles had their own holding area with a toilet—rapist slave traders wanted their prey to be clean(er). If the young women became pregnant, they were often moved to Saint-Louis, the colonial capital. You can see the Door of No Return at the end of the tunnel in this photo. Mass insisted on taking a photo of me in the doorway but it felt odd…I thought of Kara Walker’s sugar sphinx and the moments when photography seems inappropriate. They’ve had to build a retaining wall to prevent erosion so you no longer drop from the doorway into the sea. But it’s still powerful, standing on that threshold. I had imagined a scene with Nyla on Gorée but I’m not sure that works any longer. We stopped at the abandoned train station in Dakar as well, but it’s much smaller than I imagined. I haven’t started to write yet. It’s a bit much, taking in all this data…processing the experience as a person and as a writer. I could say more about Gorée but I think I’m done for today. It’s after midnight so I will turn in and see if I can sleep through the night…