The figures stand atop one of a pair of hills called Les Mamelles (from the French for “breasts” - though it is unclear if this was the sculptor’s inspiration or pure coincidence). The Monument de la Renaissance in Dakar, built at a cost of $27mn by a North Korean construction group © Shutterstock / Nowaczyk I raise my eyebrows at their skimpy clothing, including the woman’s exposed breast, and wonder at the clash of culture. The statue, intended to celebrate Africa and its future, features a man who holds aloft a small child on his shoulder and grasps the hand of a young woman. Its $27mn cost was thought by many to be excessive, it was built by a North Korean construction company rather than Senegalese sculptors, and its figures’ clothing was deemed immodest by local imams. The Monument de la Renaissance, which is higher than the Statue of Liberty (not counting its pedestal), was built 12 years ago and has provoked controversy. I look straight up to the sky and squint at the 52-metre-high bronze statue that looms over the city. Cliffs surround us when we descend the steps to the beach in front of the mosque, where dozens of men and boys are being put through their paces in a rigorous fitness training programme. The highway brings us at eye level to the two 45-metre-high minarets of the spectacular white-and-red Mosquée de la Divinité, set below the Corniche in the ancient village of Ouakam. The Mosquée de la Divinité, Dakar © Sophy Roberts An outdoor gym squeezed between the road and the sea is at its most popular in the late afternoon as the sun goes down. On one occasion, our cab is overtaken by a wheelchair-bound local hanging on to the back of a motorbike.įish markets, especially the Marché Soumbédioune at the southern end of the highway, come alive when the colourful painted boats haul in their daily catch. We become familiar with the route, navigating it either in one of the clapped-out black-and-yellow taxis or by strolling along one of Dakar’s few pavements. To the south of Les Almadies, home to the imposing US embassy, the Corniche Ouest hugs the coastline and offers three tenets of Dakarois life in a few kilometres - fitness, fish and Islam. I buy a couple of bananas from a girl balancing a basket on her head. Afterwards we dive into a restaurant to feast on clams, oysters, whelks and sea urchins, washed down with the local Gazelle beer and BaEauBab water. Instead we cool off in a natural pool in a neighbouring cove, protected from the open ocean by smooth jet-black rocks. A uniformed guard allows us to nip in for a photo but no more. A sandy beach in the neighbourhood of Les Almadies marks the tip of Africa, though sadly it is private, overlooked by a crumbling hotel that looks as if some time has passed since any visitor has stayed. Senegal’s capital fits into the scythe-shaped Cap Vert peninsula, the outer part of its hook reaching far enough into the Atlantic to lay claim to being the most western point of mainland Africa. Salt mining boats on Senegal’s Lake Retba (or Lac Rose) © Science Photo Library It is nigh- impossible to stretch our toes towards the lake bed barely three metres below. We jump in for a dip and our feet swing straight to the surface. Our cheerful guide Samba steers his red wooden boat with a long pole, or rame, and takes us out towards the middle of the lake. The lake, also known as Lake Retba, acquires its colour and salinity - in some places 10 times saltier than the sea - from a specific algae growth. Its salt harvest, one of the country’s exports and used in many a local dish, is gathered by thousands of men, while women called “gazelles” pack it. Lac Rose turns a deep pink in the dry season and can get saltier than the Dead Sea. The podium these days is difficult to discern among the crushed shells and mounds of salt.īut the lake, 15 miles north-east of the Senegalese capital, is still very much worth a visit.
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More than 15 years have passed since drivers in cars, bikes and quads traversed thousands of miles of desert and dune to complete the Paris-Dakar rally on the shores of Lac Rose in Senegal. A dog sniffs at our feet while a local vendor sidles up to befriend us and try to sell us her beaded bracelets. But other than a far-off crashing of waves, my husband, daughter and I are met only by silence. We jump to the top of the podium, our arms aloft, imagining the cheers, trophies and champagne that greet the victors of a multi-day endurance rally.
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