Dakar Diaries: Drumming Through the Streets of Senegal
dakar hits you like a drum solo-fast, loud, and impossible to ignore. i landed here after a string of gigs in west africa, my sticks still sticky with sweat from the last show. the air? thick. like breathing through a wet towel. just checked and it's 19.59°c there right now, hope you like that kind of thing. i unpacked my djembe in a tiny airbnb in yoff, plugged in my headphones, and immediately realized the city had its own rhythm i'd have to learn.
first night, i wandered into a little joint called Chez Loutcha. someone told me that the thieboudienne there is the stuff of legends, and honestly? they weren't lying. the fish was fresh, the rice soaked in tomato magic, and the owner kept calling me "toubab" like it was a term of endearment. i sat next to a group of local drummers who invited me to jam the next day.
next morning, i met them at marché sandaga. chaos. pure, beautiful chaos. vendors shouting, colors screaming, the smell of grilled corn and exhaust mixing in the air. i heard that pickpockets love this place, so i kept my passport in my sock and my cash in my shoe. classic drummer move. we set up near a wall covered in murals-some local street artist's masterpiece, all blues and golds and fierce eyes. i started tapping out a beat, and suddenly, a crowd gathered. kids dancing, old men nodding, even a stray dog wagging its tail.
"this city doesn't wait for you," one drummer whispered. "you have to catch its rhythm."
later, i took a shared taxi (aka a sept-place) to lac rose. the pink water was surreal, like something out of a fever dream. someone said the color comes from algae, but i swear it looked like the lake was blushing. the ride back was an adventure-our driver stopped three times to chat with friends, once to buy cigarettes, and once because his cousin needed a lift. no rush, no stress. just dakar time.
if you get bored, banjul and bissau are just a short drive away, though honestly, dakar's got enough energy to keep you busy for weeks. i spent my last night at a tiny club called Just 4 U, where the mbalax was so loud it felt like the walls were dancing. the bartender, a woman named aissatou, told me that the best shows happen after midnight, when the city finally exhales.
i left dakar with blistered hands, a head full of rhythms, and a suitcase that smelled like grilled fish and incense. it's not a city that holds your hand-it grabs you by the shoulders and makes you move. and honestly? i wouldn't have it any other way.
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