Lamin and Teranga

After many years of visiting The Gambia, arriving in Dakar felt both strangely familiar… and, at the same time, entirely different.

It was as if someone had taken elements of West Africa, mixed them with a European city, added a touch of New York for good measure, and then decided to see what would happen if they all coexisted slightly uncomfortably in the same place.

The first thing I noticed was the roads.

Or, more specifically, the lack of the roads I had become accustomed to.

Gone were the dusty, orange, sand-coated tracks of Banjul. In their place were long, sweeping stretches of smooth black tarmac — proper dual carriageways — the kind you might expect to find neatly planned out in a major UK city.

There were even road markings.

Actual road markings.

Which, in itself, felt faintly suspicious.

In fact, the road markings proved to be a source of genuine confusion for Lamin Barrow.

The whole concept of remaining in a single lane — as opposed to treating the road as a kind of open-plan driving experience — was, to him, both unfamiliar and, I suspect, slightly unnecessary. Likewise, the idea that one might not need to sound the horn every few seconds as a form of ongoing communication with other road users seemed to go against deeply held principles.

Our guide for the day, Gaoussou Ouattara, took a rather firmer view.

On several occasions, he issued clear and authoritative instructions — “Stay in your lane.” “Stop at the island.” — delivered in the tone of a man who had seen this sort of thing before and had no intention of becoming part of it.

I, meanwhile, sat in the rear, finding the whole exchange quietly entertaining.

That said, with the Gambian President Adama Barrow overseeing the development of new roads across The Gambia, there is a noticeable shift taking place. Lanes are appearing. Expectations are changing. And Lamin — along with the rest of the country’s drivers — is, slowly but surely, being introduced to the concept that the painted lines on the road are not merely decorative.

A Google Earth view of Dakar in Senegal including Gorée Island

The city centre only added to the confusion.

Straight roads. Grid-like layouts. Blocks of buildings arranged with what appeared to be intent and forethought — as if someone had briefly decided that urban planning might be a good idea after all.

At times, you could almost convince yourself you were somewhere entirely different.

And then Dakar would remind you where you were.

Because the contrast was immediate and unapologetic.

You could walk past a towering glass-fronted office block — the kind that wouldn’t look out of place in London or Birmingham — and then, quite literally next door, find a compound that reflected a level of poverty more familiar from the poorest parts of The Gambia.

No transition.

No gentle shift.

Just one world… and then another.

Side by side.

Dakar, it seemed to me, was a city quietly having an identity crisis.

A photo showing the contrast between buildings in Senegal; expensive, glass front buildings sit next to compounds demonstrating poverty.

And then there were the bars.

And the fast food places.

And the pubs.

Actual pubs.

Dark. Slightly sticky. Filled with televisions showing either the latest Premier League match or music videos featuring impossibly glamorous people dancing to the latest Afrobeats with a level of energy I could only admire from a seated position.

There were fruit machines.

Quiz machines.

The occasional arcade game.

If you are the sort of traveller who journeys thousands of miles to experience a new culture… and then immediately looks for an Irish bar serving Guinness and a full English breakfast…

You would be absolutely fine in Dakar.

But somewhere along the way, something had been lost.

Or, at the very least, misplaced.

Because what struck me most wasn’t what Dakar had…

…it was what it didn’t.

The Gambia is known as “The Smiling Coast.”

And after spending any amount of time there, you begin to understand why.

There is a warmth — a genuine, unforced friendliness — that runs through daily life. Part of it, no doubt, comes from the country’s reliance on tourism. Happy visitors tend to be generous visitors. Generous visitors tend to return.

But it goes deeper than that.

Much deeper.

There is a word you will hear across The Gambia and Senegal: teranga.

A Wolof word.

Often translated, somewhat inadequately, as “hospitality.”

But that translation doesn’t really do it justice.

Teranga is not just about being welcoming.

It’s about openness.

Connection.

Community.

It’s about people making time for you — whether they had planned to or not.

In The Gambia, it is almost impossible to walk anywhere quickly.

A five-minute trip to buy fruit can easily become an hour.

You will be stopped.

Greeted.

Asked how you are.

Where you are going.

Where you have come from.

Where you are staying.

How your family is doing.

Whether you are enjoying yourself.

And what the weather is like in England.

People want to connect.

People want to talk.

People make time.

Relationships come first.

Schedules… are more of a suggestion.

You quickly learn not to inform a Gambian friend that you’ll be paying a quick visit to them later at their family compound.

Because there is no such thing as a quick visit.

You will be introduced — properly — to everyone.

And I do mean everyone.

Family members.

Extended family members.

Neighbours.

Passing acquaintances who happen to be in the vicinity at the time.

And then you will be fed.

Not a biscuit.

Not a slice of peanut cake.

A full meal.

Prepared with care.

Prepared with pride.

Prepared with the unspoken understanding that you are now, temporarily at least, part of the family.

More often than not, the preparations will start as you arrive.

And so, a ten-minute visit becomes an afternoon.

Sometimes an evening.

Occasionally… your entire day.

And here’s the remarkable part.

It doesn’t matter how little people have.

How desperately poor they may appear to be.

You will be welcomed.

You will be fed.

And you will be made to feel like you belong.

This is teranga.

Not just hospitality.

But a way of life.

A culture where people make time for you, whether they planned to or not.

And, as far as I could tell — and this is based on my very limited two-day experience — in Dakar…

teranga had gone walkabout.

And, at that particular moment in time, it hadn’t quite found its way back.

Now, in the interests of fairness, I should say this.

My opinion of Dakar is based on a very short stay.

Since then, I’ve spent time in the Casamance region of southern Senegal — in particular Abéné Village — where teranga is not only present, but thriving.

So perhaps Dakar isn’t lacking it altogether.

Perhaps it’s simply… distracted.

Because Dakar, like many cities I’ve visited, feels like a place where people are always thinking about the next thing.

Where they need to be.

What they need to do.

What comes next.

Rather than simply being where they are.

In the now.

And enjoying it.

My own personal experiences with teranga have, in the main, been filtered through Lamin Barrow.

And, as a result, they have occasionally become… slightly more stressful.

I have, over the years, been invited to weddings, naming ceremonies, the occasional funeral and, on every occasion, have been made to feel very much part of the family.

Which is lovely.

Until Lamin decides to test my memory.

Because Lamin, like most Gambians, has a very large family.

And by “very large,” I mean impressively extensive.

So, for example, at a naming ceremony, Lamin might introduce me to a brother of his dad’s brother’s son.

Let us call him — purely hypothetically — Bakary Sonko.

We exchange greetings.

We chat.

We smile.

We part ways.

All very pleasant.

Several years later…

Lamin will suddenly pull me aside in a market and point towards a man standing nearby.

“Who is this man?” Lamin will demand of me.

The man smiles.

Expectantly.

“You know this man. You have talked to him before!”

“Errrrr…”

I have no idea who the man is.

None whatsoever.

It has been years.

And Lamin has introduced me to what feels like several hundred relatives in that time.

It is, of course, the aforementioned Bakary Sonko.

The smile fades.

Bakary drifts away, looking slightly crestfallen.

Lamin looks at me with clear disapproval.

“You have forgotten. You are getting old!”

This has happened many times.

Occasionally, I will recognise a face.

Never a name.

I have explained this to Lamin.

Repeatedly.

He ignores me.

“You are getting old!”

Dakar, of course, is also a place for tourism.

And there are many wondrous places to visit.

Most obviously — because subtlety is not really its strength — there is the African Renaissance Monument.

Standing at an impressive 52 metres (171 feet), perched dramatically on the twin hills known as Collines des Mamelles, it looks out over the city with a kind of determined optimism. Built to symbolise the rebirth of Africa and inaugurated on Senegal’s National Day in 2010, it is, in every sense, hard to ignore.

Lamin Barrow standing in front of the African Renaissance Monument in Dakar, Senegal

There are also places of quiet reflection, such as the striking Cathedral of African Remembrance.

Built in the 1920s and standing proudly in the city centre, it’s an unexpected blend of European cathedral design and African identity. Step inside and the noise of Dakar fades almost instantly, replaced by a cool, calm stillness that feels a world away from the traffic and bustle outside.

The front view looking up at The Cathedral of African Remembrance in Dakar, Senegal

It’s not just a place of worship.

It’s a place to pause.

To sit.

To think.

And, for a moment at least, to catch your breath in a city that rarely seems to stop moving.

A stained glass window inside The Cathedral of African Remembrance in Dakar, Senegal

And then, there is the beautiful, but sobering, Gorée Island.

A small island just off the coast of Dakar, Gorée Island played a significant role in the transatlantic slave trade. Its pastel-coloured buildings and peaceful streets stand in stark contrast to its history, most notably the House of Slaves, where enslaved Africans were held before being forced onto ships bound for the Americas.

Today, it serves as a powerful reminder of human suffering and resilience, and a place of reflection for visitors from around the world.

Beautiful pastel-coloured buildings and peaceful streets on Gorée Island, Dakar in Senegal.

Whilst visiting the House of Slaves on Gorée Island, Lamin Barrow stood in the Door of No Return.

The significance of that moment was not lost on us.

This was not a holiday photograph.

It was a moment of remembrance.

A quiet acknowledgement of man’s inhumanity to man.

At one time, this doorway marked the last moment that many would stand upon their own continent before being forced across the ocean…across the Middle Passage into a future of unimaginable suffering.

Slavery.

The beauty of the view through that doorway stands in stark contrast to the darkness of what lay beyond it.