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We breakfast at the hotel and then pack our bags for the trip back north. While we wait for the pirogue I stop. Hammock time. As we glide over the still waters a small plane circles around us before flying away. I wonder who it is and about their flight plan. Saliou meets us back at the launch. He spent the night at home in Saly, a few hours away. Our first stop is the biggest baobab tree in Senegal. That is in another part of the country. We alight and a local guide greets us. He helps us through and then points up towards the branches. Inside a colony of bats hangs above us. It triggers a memory of Vietnam or Laos. It was my first extended backpacking trip and a guide had led us into a cave. We drive on to Fadiouth, a man-made island built on seashells. We park by the long footbridge that links the mainland to the island. A number of people are spending the night. I watch porters load their luggage onto hand-drawn carts and pull them across. A man sings on the shore a meandering tune he engages enthusiastically. Our guide Edwin says hello to Amadou and greets us warmly. He likes the low-key, stress-free existence. He has no desire to return to the city. He leads us over the bridge and points to the shells that make up the island once we are on the other side. He points out the fact that even the bricks used for building are made with shells. We stand by the doors and peer into the nave and listen to the voices raised in song accompanied by drums. Edwin leads us on through the town. The streets are made of shells. He points out fish drying in the sun, available for sale, as we head towards another one of the main squares. Arriving, Edwin points out another boabab tree that anchors one side of square. A Christian monument fills up another side. Women gather around it with plastic jugs, waiting for their turn at the tap. The water is piped in from the mainland, along with the electricty that powers the island. Further on we pass a covered area for gatherings. Raised tiled platforms and benches center and surround the space. Wooden benches augment the seating. There are areas for men and areas for women. A man sits alone just outside of it lost in his own thoughts. In a northern corner of the island we cross a short bridge to the mainland. Here is where they bury their dead. Edwin points out that the cemetery is populated with both Christian and Muslim headstones and speaks proudly of the religious harmony that the island achieves. We walk down the hill towards the water. A pirogue is waiting for us to take us across the bay. To protect the grains from fire and other pests, the huts were built on the water. Each family owned and filled their own. We beach the boat and walk among the remaining units. A man scrapes barnacles off the hull of a boat. He leads us into the mangroves to the edge of the forest where we can see new mangrove shoots growing out of the sand and then back. A number of sheds have been set up by enterprising locals selling various African crafts and trinkets. We climb back into the pirogue and the boatsman poles us back to where we have parked the car. Passing the bridge to the cemetery we see a man bathing his horse. I ask Edwin how much a horse costs. Donkeys are cheaper, USD. Back on shore we watch a group of fishermen as they draw a net out into the bay and then slowly pull it back ashore. They come up empty. Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose. We eat lunch by the water. I order grilled fish and eat while we watch a group of girls try to catch fish. Now and again another group of tourists arrives on the shore and I help the boatmen by holding onto their boats as they help tourists ashore. After lunch we board the van and continue our journey north. Facing west, it welcomes the winds from the sea and the belltower uses natural convection to create natural ventilation from the same winds. Ismeal tells me they had first come twenty years ago there was nothing but trees and four or five boutique hotels. We arrive at a boutique hotel a few hundred meters inland with a pool and the Italians check in. I am lead across the street to another home that functions as a salon. I am shown to the guesthouse, which boasts a large, clean room. I ask if I can use their pool. He confers for a moment and tells me yes. He gives me the thumbs up and I quickly don my swim trunks and go for a quick swim. The water is cool and calm and I am thrilled to be spending my last day of at the beach. I sit on the sand to dry off and then decide to walk the beach. I walk down to where some fishermen are repairing their nets and then turn back to take another dip in the ocean, passing new years messages left on the sand. I take a third and final dip in the ocean. The water feels colder now and I want to dry off in the sun. As the sunset approaches I join a number of people on the jetty. Tourists are racing jetskis in front of the rocks and parents take photos of them as they race by. As the sun sets a man stands up and waves a flag to bring the jet skiiers back. I am happy to be able to sit and witness the last sun set of over the Altantic Ocean. I walk back to the guesthouse to take a shower and prepare for dinner. He said he tried to get us rooms at the hotel but they were all booked up. Serves me right for last-minute planning. The hotel is large, with many buildings and annexes. We walk through the compound towards the beach. Around the pool a number of stations have been set up. Tables are overloaded with desserts, charcuterie, raw bars. My eyes grow wide in anticipation. Dinner starts with an announcement and every swarms the table coconuts filled with alcoholic and non-alcoholic coconut drinks. I grab two and find Roberta to hand her one. We load our plates with food and then load them again. I had spotted sea urchins split in half, the uni served in one half of the shell and grab one. After dinner I head to the beach. I take off my shoes and run my toes through the sand. At midnight the beach fills. A large display is set on fire and fireworks fill the skies, launched by hotels all up and down the coast. A display is lit and people crowd around it to take photos of themselves, their friends, their families. I wish Roberta and her son a happy new year. And just as the fireworks seem to die down someone else appears with more, or another hotel launches another display. I start up at the skies, eyes wide in anticipation. Senegal chapter five. I wake up to watch the sun rise from the dock. Nearby, locals exercise on the beach, bathe their horses in the water. Touba and the Saloum delta. Mar Lodj and the Saloum delta. A visit to the Bandia Reserve and the road back to Dakar. Coda 2. The western-most edge of Afro Eurasia.

The Saloum delta, Shell Island, and New Year’s Eve in Saly.

Saly buy blow

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Saly buy blow