The Door Of No Return

Once we arrived at the South African Airways check-in counter at Johannesburg Airport, we unceremoniously discovered that, in the process of re-issuing our tickets, we had been bumped to a later flight, one that put us into Dakar, Senegal at 2:00 a.m. Realizing that we would be in for a long night, we tried to make the best of the eight hour flight, indulging in a hot dinner, a seat that reclined fully to a horizontal position and a bevy of passable movies. When the plane finally touched down and its doors opened, we were rudely returned to reality. 80-degree temperatures in the still of night and the overwhelming smell of sweat assaulted our drowsy senses. After retrieving our luggage from a disheveled carousel, we dodged errant mosquitos and gnats to locate the courtesy shuttle to our hotel. Stepping outside, we once again found ourselves in the third world.

We awoke the next morning at 10:30 a.m., and quickly scrambled to call a guide recommended by Cassandra. An hour later, Djibril, a lanky young man with a demure smile, met us in the hotel lobby. After the requisite introductions, Djibril ushered us into a rundown car waiting outside. Making our way to the port of Dakar, we passed a small, unimposing downtown area marked by crumbling stucco buildings and throngs of colorfully-dressed pedestrians on dusty, windblown streets. At the deep green water’s edge, we boarded a rusty government ship bound for Goree Island, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Goree Island houses a former slave house that represented the final departure point on the African continent for millions of slaves. As a former American history teacher, Kaberi had insisted that the island and its tragic Door Of No Return be included on our itinerary.

We learned that approximately twenty million slaves from all over Africa left from Goree Island. The surviving Slave House was one of thirty on the island, with each holding up to 200 men, women and children for up to ninety days at a time (until buyers in Louisiana, Brazil, Cuba or the West Indies materialized). The weighing area, holding cells, isolation chamber (used to punish those who resisted) were all cramped and claustrophobia-inducing. Hearing the experiences of the slaves – families being divided and auctioned off to buyers, slaves being tethered to 5-pound weights to prevent aquatic escapes, sick slaves being thrown to the sharks, young African girls being forced to have sex with their captors etc. – proved to be infinitely more gutwrenching than we expected. The resident guide at the site was particularly poignant, vowing to share the story of Goree Island every day of his life so that the horrible history would never be forgotten. In the onsite memorabilia room, we saw shackles used to bind a slave’s arms as well as displayed photos of visiting dignitaries such as Pope John Paul II (who offered an apology for the Vatican’s role in the slave trade), Nelson Mandela, Presidents Clinton (both of them) and Bush the Lesser.

The following day, Djibril took us on a whirlwind tour through the city of Dakar. Our first stop was lunch at Chez Loutcha, an authentic spot well off the tourist treadmill where we enjoyed a typical Senegalese lunch in the company of only African patrons. Next, we hopped in a wellworn cab to the Sendaga Market to stop at a fabric store owned by Djibril’s friend. In short order, and over much protest, Djibril and his friend had Kaberi fully outfitted in a somewhat unflattering canary yellow and brown traditional Sengalese three-piece dress (Vik stopped laughing briefly enough to try to document the moment but, to Kaberi’s great relief, our temperamental camera decided not to cooperate).

Managing to finagle her way out of the dress, literally and figuratively, Kaberi purchased a few yards of brightly-colored blue and green printed fabric as a way to commemorate our visit to Senegal and to give Djibril’s friend some business. We then headed to the Sumbudan arts and crafts market located near the seafront, where we braved the overpowering stench of raw sewage from a nearby canal. Our lack of interest in the wooden bric-a-brac coupled with the unending calls from the relentless vendors compelled us to make a hasty exit. On the way back to the hotel, Djibril took us to the Door of Return monument, a modest counterpoint to Goree Island welcoming the African diaspora back to Senegal.

In the evening, we met up with Djibril to have dinner at Just 4 U, a local night club well-known as a prominent Senegalese live music venue. We arrived to learn that we had missed hearing Youssou N’Dour (Senegal’s most famous singer whose music we had first heard in Cambodia back in March) by a day as he was the headline act for the following night. Waiting for the night’s music to commence, we enjoyed a delicious traditional meal of fish and rice. Unfortunately, the music still hadn’t started a few hours later when time rolled around for us to return to the hotel to for our airport shuttle.

Our departure from Senegal unfortunately proved to be our worst airport experience outside of Switzerland and all too consistent with the worst stereotypes of a third world country. Stymied by crippling traffic, our 10:30 p.m. shuttle took nearly 60 minutes to make the 10-kilometer (6-mile) journey to the airport. When we arrived at Dakar airport itself, we found a massive human traffic jam spilling out of the front door of the terminal. As Senegalese security officials stood by idly, hordes of people with carts of luggage in tow attempted to push their way through a single door from both sides. Thirty minutes later, we battled our way inside only to find similarly chaotic, endless lines in a sweltering check-in area lacking any semblance of signage.

After finally locating the proper TAP Portugal queue, we learned that the gate agents had not yet started the check-in process. With hundreds of people in line, we had difficulty understanding why. After querying one of several undermotivated airport employees, we finally determined that there was no demarcated priority check-in. Being told to wait near the agent desk, we nearly caused a riot when an unpleasant Spanish woman started yelling to anyone within earshot that we had cut the entire line. At that point, we uttered silent prayers that handguns were few and far between in Senegal.

Fortunately, Kaberi approached a sympathetic gate agent who agreed to call us first when the boarding process began. With his assistance, we checked-in at 12:30 a.m. after spending 60 minutes in line with the Spanish woman from hell. We then proceeded to spend another 45 minutes in the immigration queue, delayed in no small part by our particular immigration official’s decision to take a restroom break midway through his shift. The humidity and close quarters did little to buoy our spirits or diminish our desire to leave the country with all due haste.

Rushing to make our way to the departure gate, we scarcely had time to catch our breath. Thinking we would arrive to find the boarding process underway for our 2:00 a.m. flight, we were soon very dismayed to learn that our plane had not yet even landed in Dakar. It would end up taking another three and a half hours before the plane finally arrived, putting us on track to reach Lisbon no less than four hours late. As much as we had enjoyed seeing Goree Island, we were hardly saddened to leave Senegal behind. Boarding the plane, Kaberi remarked that Dakar made Bombay look like Tokyo.