Goree Island is a 20 minute ferry ride from Dakar, and famous because it was one of the points of transit during the trans-Atlantic slave trade. The ferries run frequently and quite reliably. As we pulled into the harbor, there were children swimming by the dock, yelling at the passengers in Wolof as they disembarked. Apparently they are asking people to toss coins into the water. Sure enough, one man tossed a 100 franc piece into the sea, and with a mad splash three children dove to retrieve it. It's probably not so difficult to see the glint of metal, since the sunlight passes straight through the clear water.
The island was founded centuries ago by the Portuguese, then it was controlled by the Dutch, and finally the French. It's a wild and colorful place. The flowers have completely taken over, and no one seems to mind. Along the old, stone walls, twisting vines crawl from top to bottom, braiding with each other, forming a tapestry of multicolored blossoms. I cannot tell where one plant ends and another begins. They hang heavy on the buildings like thick locks of hair, bursting with yellows, whites, pinks, reds, oranges, purples and even blues. As we walk through the quiet alleys, made of cobblestone and sand, the petals on the ground look so thoughtfully strewn, as though someone took the time to lay them there to decorate the path for our arrival.
Goats and cats, both rather scraggly looking, roam freely. Goree is famous for artists, and the winding path on top of the castle is lined with stalls. Many of the artists use cloth with African prints in their work, something that I plan to try when I go home. Others paint with sand. I liked a lot of the paintings, but when I saw one work shop I decided I did not want to buy. The sand paintings are produced in an assembly line manner. One person does the sketch, another glues on the dark brown lines, and then they put on the light brown lines. I think the acrylic paintings probably have more character, but even so, a lot of them seem to be catering to a specific expectation. I did see a few that I probably would have bought, depending on the price, but I didn't think they would fit in my suitcase.
We visited one of the oldest stone mosques as well. The entire island is tiny, and you can walk it in its entirety in less than an hour.
The highlight of Goree is the House of Slaves. It's characteristic winding staircase is often photographed, even though signs deliberately say, "no photography." I took a picture too. The top floor was where the slave traders lived, in comfort and luxury. Meanwhile, the bottom floor has a series of horrid, tiny rooms with little slits for windows. There's a special room for "recalcitrant slaves" underneath the staircases, which have no windows. When slaves were sick, they would throw them out to the sharks. That disturbed me, not only because it's disgustingly inhumane, but also because I had no idea Senegalese waters were shark infested. I wonder what would have happened, had the tables been turned. If Africa had developed faster than Europe, would the Africans have sailed North and put all the white people in chains? It's hard to believe anyone can live without remorse in a house while just below them, men, women and children are cramped together in stifling heat, many of whom are sick and dying.
When we went back to Dakar, we visited the children's hospital, this time with a small gift for two of the patients that we interviewed. Most of the people in Senegal do not have a photo of themselves, let alone a camera. I had brought mine to the hospital so that I could photograph their facilities. Our interpreter asked one of the patients if they would like their photo taken, and they said yes very enthusiastically. I began to think about how much photographs mean to me. When I miss someone, I find a photograph of them so that I can look at their face. For me, pictures of people I love or care for are everywhere--on my phone, online, available with the click of a button. It's always hard to lose people who are important to you, but I think it's even harder when you can never see their face again. We took pictures of two of the children with their mothers, who were staying at the hospital with them, and printed out the photos at a Kodak store. I knew the kids would be happy, but I underestimated how happy. The seven year old child kept looking at the photo and looking up and smiling with his mouth wide open. I like him a lot because he loves art, and his mom has a thick pile of pictures from coloring books that he has completed. Pictures are such a small, cheap thing that it's easy to forget how powerful they are. Photos are the tangible preservation of a memory, and in them people are immortal.
I got my first, good night of sleep yesterday. Hoping to have another tonight!
The island was founded centuries ago by the Portuguese, then it was controlled by the Dutch, and finally the French. It's a wild and colorful place. The flowers have completely taken over, and no one seems to mind. Along the old, stone walls, twisting vines crawl from top to bottom, braiding with each other, forming a tapestry of multicolored blossoms. I cannot tell where one plant ends and another begins. They hang heavy on the buildings like thick locks of hair, bursting with yellows, whites, pinks, reds, oranges, purples and even blues. As we walk through the quiet alleys, made of cobblestone and sand, the petals on the ground look so thoughtfully strewn, as though someone took the time to lay them there to decorate the path for our arrival.
Goats and cats, both rather scraggly looking, roam freely. Goree is famous for artists, and the winding path on top of the castle is lined with stalls. Many of the artists use cloth with African prints in their work, something that I plan to try when I go home. Others paint with sand. I liked a lot of the paintings, but when I saw one work shop I decided I did not want to buy. The sand paintings are produced in an assembly line manner. One person does the sketch, another glues on the dark brown lines, and then they put on the light brown lines. I think the acrylic paintings probably have more character, but even so, a lot of them seem to be catering to a specific expectation. I did see a few that I probably would have bought, depending on the price, but I didn't think they would fit in my suitcase.
We visited one of the oldest stone mosques as well. The entire island is tiny, and you can walk it in its entirety in less than an hour.
The highlight of Goree is the House of Slaves. It's characteristic winding staircase is often photographed, even though signs deliberately say, "no photography." I took a picture too. The top floor was where the slave traders lived, in comfort and luxury. Meanwhile, the bottom floor has a series of horrid, tiny rooms with little slits for windows. There's a special room for "recalcitrant slaves" underneath the staircases, which have no windows. When slaves were sick, they would throw them out to the sharks. That disturbed me, not only because it's disgustingly inhumane, but also because I had no idea Senegalese waters were shark infested. I wonder what would have happened, had the tables been turned. If Africa had developed faster than Europe, would the Africans have sailed North and put all the white people in chains? It's hard to believe anyone can live without remorse in a house while just below them, men, women and children are cramped together in stifling heat, many of whom are sick and dying.
When we went back to Dakar, we visited the children's hospital, this time with a small gift for two of the patients that we interviewed. Most of the people in Senegal do not have a photo of themselves, let alone a camera. I had brought mine to the hospital so that I could photograph their facilities. Our interpreter asked one of the patients if they would like their photo taken, and they said yes very enthusiastically. I began to think about how much photographs mean to me. When I miss someone, I find a photograph of them so that I can look at their face. For me, pictures of people I love or care for are everywhere--on my phone, online, available with the click of a button. It's always hard to lose people who are important to you, but I think it's even harder when you can never see their face again. We took pictures of two of the children with their mothers, who were staying at the hospital with them, and printed out the photos at a Kodak store. I knew the kids would be happy, but I underestimated how happy. The seven year old child kept looking at the photo and looking up and smiling with his mouth wide open. I like him a lot because he loves art, and his mom has a thick pile of pictures from coloring books that he has completed. Pictures are such a small, cheap thing that it's easy to forget how powerful they are. Photos are the tangible preservation of a memory, and in them people are immortal.
I got my first, good night of sleep yesterday. Hoping to have another tonight!
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