Dakar So Far

September 6, 2024

by Zoe CARVER

Halfway through the summer semester in Dakar and I can’t believe only three weeks remain. My time so far has been a blurry collection of beach, bissap juice, and bus rides. Taxis jetting across the city, words flying in French and Wolof, sitting down for dinner with my host family and diving in with my right hand. A world so unlike that of Oregon, or Washington DC, or any of the other places I’ve had the privilege to call home. 

When I first decided to spend my summer studying in West Africa, I had no idea what to expect. My understanding of Dakar had come solely from watching Ousmane Sembene’s Borom Sarat and reading Mariama Ba’s So Long a Letter. While both these works painted clear pictures of Dakar, they did so from a position of around fifty years prior, leaving me with an outdated perspective.

Dakar is a bustling city, and I was initially alarmed by how huge it is. The neighborhoods stretch out in every direction, all crashing into the sea that meets the city at every one of its angles. It took me a while to get a sense of direction, as the ever-present nature of the ocean disoriented me greatly. In taxis I’d look earnestly out into the packed streets, trying to find a familiar building. With time, fruit stands and coffee stands took shape, familiar and inviting. Dakar opened itself to me, its plethora of plages, the cafes, the beach-side restaurants. Living in Dakar is like learning a new language, another thing I’ve been experiencing as I try to pick up Wolof. Simply walking across the street is a new type of conversation, a different relationship between car and pedestrian. Learning the right words, the right pleasantries, the right streets has taken time. 

The city has unfolded slowly, brightly, loudly. Dakar, once a spot on the map teetering into the Atlantic, is now a vibrant, pulsating shell that holds three million lives that I get to see every day. I feel a mix of gratitude and elation, knowing there is still so much more for me to uncover.