Coast of Shells: Feeling Senegal With My Feet
SENEGAL
I will want to rewind to these days of my life several times over. We met for an ‘early’ dinner at 10:30 pm atop a view of the city, waves gently pounding the shore just below our gaze. An architect, rapper, famous actor and dancer remained strangers for mere minutes before I felt like I was part of the cool clique in high school. The convos flowed as freely as the laughter and soon enough, club hopping was happening as effortlessly and spontaneously as if we were following ‘The Plan’.
How quickly I felt at ease… like I was home, part of the party – equally being the life of it, and the guest of honour.
From the dinners, to sights and late nights, the language of our convos were in French and Friendship. Every minute in Senegal has been magical.
As we were touring, out of nowhere, my eye caught a spiraling church along the Petite Côte (aka the coast of shells) route we were speeding along.
Inspired by termite mounds and spiral-shaped shells indigenous to the area, with its successive arches, the coral colour Holy Epiphany Church looked like a cross between an old-school slinky and those jam filled tootsie rolls ready to be devoured . Definitively, a unique pit stop to a window-gazing traveler and an appetizer before Akon City.
I love these moments along the journey. Something flickers on your radar and you take the time to hit pause, thereby heightening your readiness to explore and enjoy an experience, whatever it might be.
I wondered what would happen if more of us lived more moments like this more often … In that moment, it was seeing the patterns of stain glass sparkle while feeling the natural cooling from the minimalist concrete internal framework, an acoustical combo that behooved me to spout a serenade before we continued further down the coastline of broken shells.
We meandered through the villages known as Joal-Fadioth, the latter being a human made island where your feet find only seashells #HowCool.
The sun was shining and the people were playfully warm. The island is said to have been created by clam eating, with the purged shells post meal forming the phenomena we see today.
Here, there are quaint little shops where soda cans are fashioned into hats, remote controls and old cameras are reincarnated into souvenirs and local trinkets are made alongside the usual African artisan affairs.
Our guide who takes us first by boat then on foot is as rasta as they come, slightly flirty and full of one-liners that are whipped with great wit. He explains how even the cemetery which houses the graves of the locals share practices where Christians and Muslims live and lay with a respectful inclusion of their respective cultures. Also exemplifying their values are the local huts where elders gather to gripe then agree on ways forward, communally.
Crossing the footbridge (courtesy of the fact that the President had his roots here), I kick off my flip flops. The warm wood beneath me, uneven yet unwavering in its support, further grounds me into the moment.
I smile seriously with a serenity that is as real as it gets, the breeze comes by to say hi while my hair waves back.
I hear him drop his voice into a husky whisper ‘ah, you women, you like to feel everting’. I throw him a look initially to retort, then realize, he’s so right.
Following a quick watermelon chow down standing semicircle by the car, hands feeling as sticky in delight as my tongue was by the sweetness, we then made our way up to Saly.
Beachfront here, we walked the curves of the coastline as the sun curtsied against the setting sky. Knowing then that time with my peeps in Senegal was limited, I slurped up synchronicity in the small and big sentiments we shared.
Interesting how, much like shells that remain long after the organism has passed, so too do moments like these linger in our lives imprinting our mood, memory and sometimes if we’re lucky, our modus operandi.
May the coastline of our lives be magical, mystical and most of all, meaningful,