I'm a bit late to still be writing about my trip to Dakar, but I haven't finished the story. After the conference, the two other Canadians left one by one. But before this, we had the guitars out at Hotel Nina. There was an environmentallist from Kinshasha at Nina, participating in another conference I think. He played a sweet classical guitar, fingerstlye, and we played together in the Lobby, the Swahili tune Malaika and a song that he wrote about the environment. One of the Canadians joined us to play Hand Jive.

A friend I met, who works in training profs at UCAD, then arrived to bring me to his place for dinner. It turns out the Canadians needed to meet Mous at his brothers house before going to the airport. The Canadian played a Johny Cash tune with the Congolese guitarist, while I arranged the transport to Mous' brother, which was on the way to Oukham, the suburb I had been to already and near the airport. I had another amazing home-cooked meal in Dakar, Tiep bou dien, rice with fish. My friend teaches a Karate class, which had started late that evening due to his efforts to collect me and then help get the Canadians on their way. My friend's family was Mouriddiyya, and his brother explained to me the history of the Order in Senegal. There are stories of Cheikh Bamba's miracles which also came about in a resistance to French colonial assimilationist policies. These miracles were similar in their mytho-poetic narrative to Pirs that had converted my Hindu ancestors to Ismaili Islam. We ended up exchanging lineages. I played a little guitar with my friend's son, who rapped and sang in Wolof and French.

At night I headed back to town, but the whole younger side of the family joined me to see me off in the taxi. This was one of those special families, of the kindest, noblest, wisest and smartest I've met. The Cosby's of Senegal. Warm, kind, and brilliant. I felt like a superstar when I asked them to let me off on Ponty with my guitar. The night before, I had been to the Viking late at night, to catch the last of the Reggae band\s show. I had struck a lively conversation with the band, especially the trumpet player Miles, the elder of the group. Miles had helped me find a terrible flea-bag motel, since it was super-late at night and I had had an argument with my host already. Miles invited me to come play guitar with a slightly different band playing that night. So my friends' let me off at Viking, and I had an amazing night. I played a couple of songs with them, and everyone including me was disappointed I didn't have a pickup for my acoustic. The lead guitarist lent me his, and I played the tune that I wrote for Senegal and an original blues song. Then I danced like crazy the rest of the night. The funny thing was, there was the Stanley Cup finals on the television. No one I had met thus far had heard of hockey, and hear I was in Dakar, playing with a local band and watching hockey!

The Viking Bar, Ponty Street, Dakar.

The next day, I headed to Isle Goree. I was low on funds, and Western Union was closed that day. I met a very nice French lady, we connected over her dog. Well-taken care of dogs as pets are rare in Senegal. There are plenty of wild dogs in the street. A few people have told me that the Muslims here don't like dogs, and its rooted in interpretation of the faith. I had told Mamadou, that I thought that Muslims hate suffering more than they dislike dogs, when I told him about the dying, blind dog I had seen in the street. I made a strong cennection with the French lady, when I visited her the next day to pay back the money she lent me to go to Isle Goree, the doorman at her building explained to me how well-respected she was for her kindness. So, with her loan I was able to complete my journey.

I took the ferry to Isle Goree. In line, I met a Senegalese cultural writer, which was very good fortune since he was so well-connected at Goree. No one had explained to me that though the tourist attraction at Goree has to do with the fact that the Island was a way-station for slaves from West Africa to be transported to the United States, Goree today is a kind of bohemian paradise. The island is home to many artists and artisans and to a small Rastafarian community. My new friend introduced me to several artists, and took me for a meal at a kind of revered Rasta, who lived at the top of the island. It's a very small island, but at the lower end it is more like a quaint Italian Mediterranean village, and on the rock, the small mountain, people have basically adapted dwellings into the rock and the old military battalions that had been built into it. At the top, there is a stage, and today a band was just kind of practising. All around, there are beautiful cliffs and you can watch the fisherman in the sea below. It's a magical place. A blessed place that stands in contradiction to its dark history. While we were with the Rasta, a group of American teenagers came to visit and their guide made it a point of them visiting this elder of the Island. The Rasta taught them, really about their history and about living with nature.

Before the ferry arrived in the evening, I finally got to dip in the Atlantic Ocean. That night, I went to Le Pen Art Jazz club to hear some music at the highest level in Senegal. It was a new band, formed with some of the top traditional musicians. There was Cora, jembe, traditional singers, and bass, keyboards and guitar as well. It blew me away. I could hear some parallels to Indian classical tals, and Ghazal. My enthusiasm caught the attention of the singer, and he dedicated a song to me. I was flattered, but I also discovered that the tradition is to go up to the singer and give some money whenever they do something like that!! I made friends with the club manager, and talked a little with the band leader after. They are interested in a website, and maybe I can help! Very few of the best places in Dakar have websites. This is despite almost the whole downtown being coverd in unsecured wireless networks
! One of the problems Africa faces, is that people can access the internet but there is not yet enough content representing the continent, there is a problem of relevance of the content, and of representation. It is something that the African ISP providers association has documented, and they recommended providing easy publishing tools to subscribers, for instance. I would love to help build websites in Dakar, and team up with UCAD students so they can do this locally - the biggest problem for me is that though my French has improved, written, it is pretty terrible and limited. But we'll see.

That night, I returned home too late and though the disagreement had been resolved, my host had gone to bed and didn't answer the door when I knocked. So, I ended up wandering the streets of Dakar and got lost! I found a Police Station, and in fact it is the only time I really saw any police in the City (there are lots of security, and some army guards around the House of the President near where I was living). The police were kind enough to give me a lift to Hotel Nina. I hung around the lobby until morning, and then went back to where I was staying and slept during the day. That I flew Dakar to Paris and slept all the way. I woke up briefly to observe this really ignorant tourist who had been very annoying in line at the airport, getting into a fight with a Senegalese man on the plane. This incident, and some slight friction at the airport parking lot when I arrived, were the only instances of real animosity I saw in Dakar. Senegal, a country never having seen war, is a a peaceful and pacifist country. This incident on the plane, I can gaurantee, was the foreigners' utter rudeness and ignorance (I was appalled but what I had observed in the airport earlier!). In Dakar, I always felt a bit afraid for my money, but never afraid for my life or injury.

On the Paris lay-over, I couldn't resist again to go into Paris. I met some Texan girls who were backpacking Europe for the first time, and had coffee near l'Arc de Triomphe. I left to return to the airport with about the same leeway as I had on the way in, but lost quite a bit of time trying to find the train station. Then, the train had broken down, and I was at the worst station for this, Gare Nord. It's the central station for transfers, so you can't tell who is coming and who is going to the airport. No one is ever at the Info station, and people who work in and around the station don't seem to have the sense of being of service, or even to know what's going on!! Finally, I figured it out, but too late for my plane! I missed it by about ten minutes, and had to catch the next one.

It was a beautiful, 19 degrees, sunny and calm in Montreal when I arrived. Lots of rain when I was gone meant early summer green everywhere. There were only three people on the bus. It felt so calm. I slept beautifully, with my window open, watching the wind on my maple in front of the house in the twilight. The time you spend at home, just after returning from a journey, is the sweetest.

Thanks for following the journey.

Arif