A Guide to the Dark Side
On our second day in Saly I woke with a feeling of unease. It had been a few days since I'd heard from Roma and I was feeling the distance. The depressing, derelict surrounds of a post-apocalyptic holiday park and the adrenal fatigue of an eventful trip were no doubt contributing. Although I was by no means alone my shadow felt a little darker than one would expect on that clear, sunny morning by the sea with smooth, little waves rolling playfully onto the beach.
After breakfast we met the hotel caretaker, Philippe. He was a French expat and was running the joint as a favour for a friend. Philippe offered to take us on a little tour of the local sights, leading us around on his ancient DR with a blown shock. He'd been unable to get the shock rebuilt locally and was waiting for an opportunity to return to France so he could bring a replacement back in his suitcase.
Philippe's tour was fascinating but he clearly wanted to drive home the fact that Saly had a dark side. Little hints and references to sex tourism and the poor state of the local economy were dropped at every opportunity with the intention that we might have our eyes opened to the fact that this tourist paradise wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. The subtlety was rather unnecessary considering that this fact was obvious to anyone possessing the gift of sight.
We visited a church built by French missionariesâa newly constructed ode to God and Gaudi. We tiptoed through a shell market where women sat on the ground carefully sorting tonnes of shells by hand into piles of different size and colour, occasionally interrupted by a dump truck or bombed-out ute coming by to procure a load of this unusual and prestigious building material.
While Philippe had disappeared to run a mysterious errand we were left to our own devices and lunch in a little restaurant nearby. There, we were educated on the value and associated social status of shells by a reasonably drunk "cool guy" who sat at the adjacent table drinking beers while waiting for his truck to be loaded. He bragged about the fancy apartment he was building where he would live alone and welcome many a fine female visitor.
Earlier, the women selling sea shells (by the sea shore) had tried to demand money in exchange for being photographed and there was nothing friendly about their request. We met similar hostility at the fish dryersâ"no photo!" being shouted with the accompaniment of a furrowed brow and a wagged finger. Perhaps this was Philippe's regular beat and there was an assumption that he was profiting selfishly from taking guests on a tour. The African way is to distribute your takings, not accumulate them (unless you're in politics).
When Philippe's creepy tour came to an end we thanked him genuinely and decided to continue our sightseeing independently (we did wonder whether the "dark side of Saly" might perhaps be concentrated in the area closely surrounding or slick-haired and leathery tour guide.)
Our next stop was the "shell island" of Fadiouthâa long-standing Christian enclave built upon centuries' worth of discarded oyster and clam shells where pigs roam the streets freely with their litters in tow on their way down to romp in the mud flats surrounding the island, blissfully unaware of the Christian appetite for pork.
Across an old wooden bridge we found a beautiful cemetery, shared by Muslim and Christian graves, formed by piles of shells. The Christian ones were prettily decorated but the Muslim ones simple and to the point.
Returning over the bridge to the main island we were caught up in a funeral procession. Hundreds of smartly dressed men flooded the bridge and strode towards us, following the religious leaders while the women remained obediently singing and wailing ceremonially at the far end of the bridge.
A stern look and subtle finger to the lips offered by one of the men was all it took for us to understand that we should remain as inconspicuous as possible and show no disrespect. It was a tough brief for a trio of brightly-clad sore thumbs sticking out in the middle of that skinny wooden bridge but with backs to the railing and heads bowed we waited awkwardly and motionless for the procession to march past us.
We returned to Saly and with a full day drawing to a close we felt it was time for a cleansing ale (or rather a lager) so we wandered down the beach from our lodgings to a fun-looking bar called Don Jon which sported a grinning barman, a beautiful waitress called Veronique, a spectacular sunset view and ice-cold beer.
My feelings of unease were momentarily forgotten as I stared over the calm water and we communally laughed our way through recollections of the day.
