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A series of photos taken in Saly, Senegal. I finished a manuscript by the pool on our last day in Saint Louis. The space was useful, it has been the entire trip so far. We arrived in Saly, the final location of our trip, on Sunday. My white hands are in no way clean, but for two weeks Senegalese people have been identifying my American-ness as a cause for celebration. They wave at our bus when we drive by, and give fist bumps when we walk near them on the street. All the levity of our warm welcome has been opposed by the local and historical attitude that the area takes towards the French. We seem to be here for the sake of our own relaxation. Our excursions have slowed to a halt, and Saly provides a comfortable setting to decompress and focus on our impending final exams. Now, in Saly, we walk by Senegalese people and they recognize us as part of the problem. We act, in a way, like our recognition of and presence in Senegal is enough, like we are somehow separate—for our youth, our American accents, or for our political leanings—but how can we be separate from the problem when we have nothing to offer in return? I feel like a leech, I feel blind when I take for the sake of a selfish education. I went on a walk last night and reminisced, I imagined all the faces and settings that I might never see again. Those sights that will vanish upon my departure. I grasped to uncover more of the country, even just another side street. I started missing Senegal in real time, our way of warm weather communal living has turned into something on which I rely, and my heart hurts for the solitude of my life back in Bellingham. I thought of our excursions, of days packed with literature and religion if not bus rides and diarrhea. It saddened me, though I thought ahead to Paris and suddenly three Senegalese weeks seemed like the perfect amount. The world is bigger, and brighter, than I ever thought it could be. Senegal expanded my world. From the language barrier to the permeation of French culture, from the devout and widespread Islam to the way people give me fist bumps on the street. Good and bad, everything is nothing like I expected. The pace of life is what got me the most. Call it dedication, or call it an anxious fear of being forgotten, I control all I can with hard work and white knuckles that are usually writing. My arms got tired, and I had to let go. In that sense, this trip has been beyond a healthy experience for me. I worked through them without having to hold onto a thing. I can breathe deep now, above anything, Senegal is a place to wash over you. That being said, this is not a perfect country. All of this comes down to a difference in culture. Senegal is widely an Islamic nation, and with that denomination comes a complicated history with the way women are treated inside of the religion. This, of course, permeates into everyday life, and then to the very fabric of the culture it is tied to. This trip has left me with more questions than answers. Your email address will not be published. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. Skip to content. Tile flooring at the guest house in Saly. Sun setting over the trees in the background. Night on the street in Saly. Street lights shining down on the palm trees that line the road. Walking along the rocky beaches in Saly. Looking out to the Atlantic Ocean. Interior of a French restaurant in Saly. White walls looking out to warm lighting in the dining room. Looking out to the moon and the evening sky through the trees. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published.

Saly buy coke