The airplane door opens and the humidity hits you like a warm, wet towel. It is the first thing you notice about Dakar in August. Not the heat exactly, though that is there too, hovering around 30 degrees. It is the weight of the air, thick with the promise of rain, the kind that makes you feel like you are already inside the weather. I stepped onto the tarmac at Blaise Diagne International Airport, and the drizzle started almost on cue, a soft patter on the roof as I walked toward the terminal.
That was three days ago, and I am still getting used to the rhythm here. Nanga def, I say to the taxi driver who picks me up, and he responds with a smile and a string of Wolof I am only beginning to catch. The ride into the city is about 47 kilometres of what you might call organised chaos. The airport road is new and smooth, but the traffic, well, that is a different story. My driver quoted me a fare of about 15,000 francs, roughly twenty-five dollars, which apparently is the standard fixed price. I nodded, not yet confident enough to negotiate, though I have since learned that a yellow taxi ride within the city should set you back somewhere between one and two thousand francs.
I am staying in a guesthouse in the Plateau for now, a place called Casa Mara. It is a small, friendly spot, and the owners have been patient with my slow French and my even slower Wolof. The room costs around 40,000 francs a night, and it has a balcony that overlooks a street that never really sleeps. The first night, I lay in bed and listened to the city hum below my window, the distant sound of a car horn, the murmur of conversations, the occasional burst of music from a passing car. It felt like being inside a heartbeat. The next morning, I woke to the call to prayer from the Grande Mosquée, a sound that carried over the rooftops and settled into my chest. I decided to start the practical business of settling in. First, a SIM card. I walked to an Orange store, passport in hand, and came out twenty minutes later with a number and a data plan—about 5,000 francs for seven gigabytes, which is more than enough for maps, messaging, and the occasional video call back home.
Getting a bank account turned out to be more of a bureaucratic dance. I went to an Ecobank branch in the Plateau, armed with my passport and a proof of address from my guesthouse. The process took about an hour, and I had to make an initial deposit of around 500 dollars, which is on the lower end of what they ask. The manager, a cheerful woman named Aissatou, explained the ins and outs of the CFA franc, how it is pegged to the euro, and how the mobile wallet, Orange Money, is the real currency of daily life here. She said, with a laugh, that I would learn to live on my phone and a few thousand francs in cash.
The visa situation, I had already taken care of before arriving. American citizens get 90 days visa-free, which is what I am on. But since I am planning to stay longer, I will need to apply for the Carte d'Identité d'Étranger within that window. That means a trip to the DPETV office, a 15,000 franc fiscal stamp, and a repatriation deposit at the Caisse des Dépôts et Consignations, which for Americans is around 130,000 francs. It is a lot of paperwork, but everyone I talk to assures me it is just a matter of patience. I decided to tackle that next week, after I find a more permanent place to stay.
Speaking of which, I have been looking at flats in the neighbourhoods around the city. The rents vary wildly. In Grand Yoff or Parcelles Assainies, you might find a modest one-bedroom for around 250,000 francs a month, which is about 370 dollars. In the fancier Almadies area, you would be paying two or three times that. I am leaning towards Ouakam or Yoff, coastal and authentic, and apparently more affordable. The idea of waking up to the sound of the ocean is appealing, though I know I will have to find a place with a genset or inverter, because the power cuts are, well, a thing.
After the bank, I needed a break. I took a car rapide, one of those painted minibuses that seem to have their own rules of physics, from the Plateau towards the Médina. The fare is about 200 francs, a bargain. These things are a relic of the 1970s, still going strong, though I hear they are being phased out. They are loud, they are packed, and they are a perfect introduction to the city's energy. I got off near the Tilène Market, where the streets are a riot of colour and sound. Wax print fabrics in every hue, pyramids of tomatoes, bags of millet, and the smell of spices so intense it makes your eyes water.
I stopped for lunch at a small canteen near the market, the kind of place with plastic chairs and a woman stirring a massive pot at the back. I ordered thieboudienne, the national dish of fish and rice, and it cost me about 1,500 francs. It was the best thing I have eaten in a long time, a deep, savoury flavour that makes you understand why it is the comfort food of an entire nation. The woman who served me, Lamine's mother, she told me, watched with amusement as I struggled with the bones, and then took pity and showed me how to eat it properly with my hands, using the rice to guide the fish. I left with a full stomach and a new respect for the phrase teranga, the Senegalese art of hospitality.
In the afternoon, I wandered down to the coast to Soumbédioune, the fish market. The morning catch was long gone, but the harbour was still busy, with wooden pirogues bobbing on the water and men mending nets on the shore. The air smelled of salt and fish and engine oil. I sat on a low wall and watched the world go by. A group of kids were playing football with a deflated ball, their shouts carrying over the sound of the waves. I thought about how this city, so frenetic in the centre, also has these pockets of calm where you can just breathe.
In the evening, I met up with a friend of a friend, a Senegalese journalist named Moussa, who took me to a bar in the Plateau for a drink. We sat outside, and he ordered us each a Gazelle, the local beer, which costs about 1,500 francs. He told me about the political mood in the country, the cautious optimism around the new oil revenues, and the sense that things are on the move. He also taught me a bit more Wolof, insisting that I learn to say 'I am tired' properly, because, he said, 'you will need it for the traffic.' We talked for hours, and I got the feeling that this is what teranga really means, not just hospitality, but a genuine openness to connection.
On my second day, I took the ferry to Gorée. The island is a short 20-minute ride from the port, and it is a place that stays with you. The House of Slaves is there, a museum that is both beautiful and heartbreaking. Walking through those rooms, seeing the Door of No Return, it gives you a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature. Gorée is a UNESCO World Heritage site, and it is worth the trip for the history alone, but also for the quiet, art-filled streets that feel a world away from the mainland's hustle. I bought a small painting from a local artist, a scene of the pink salt lake at Lac Rose, which I plan to hang in my flat once I find one.
Back on the mainland, I wandered into the IFAN Museum of African Arts, which is a few hundred francs to enter, maybe 500. It is a small collection, but it holds some stunning masks and sculptures from across the region. I spent a good hour there, partly for the art, and partly for the quiet air conditioning. I am told the Museum of Black Civilisations is more comprehensive, but I will save that for a day when the heat gets to be too much. It is still the rainy season, so the city is in a constant state of low-level humidity, and the sporadic downpours can come out of nowhere.
Now, let me talk about money, because it is the thing people always want to know. A day in Dakar can cost you as little as a few thousand francs if you stick to street food and public transport, or it can cost you a hundred thousand if you are not careful. A coffee at a café like KOTAO Coffee, which has a good iced latte, will run you about 1,500 francs. A meal at a mid-range restaurant, like Le Cabanon Dakar, will be around 12,000 francs per person. The key is to mix it up. Eat where the locals eat, take the car rapide, and save your splurges for places that are worth it.
I have also learned that Dakar is, on the whole, a safe city. You have to watch your pockets in the markets, that is true, but the bigger hazards are the traffic and the energy outages. The driving is aggressive, and the pollution is real. But the people, the people make up for it. Everyone is quick to help a stranger, and the constant refrain of 'ça va?' feels like a genuine question, not just a greeting.
I found my flat, finally. A bright place in Ouakam, with a view of the sea and a generator at the back. The rent is 200,000 francs a month, which is a bit over my budget, but the agent, a young man named Omar, threw in a month free if I signed for a year. I took it. The paperwork is done, the bank card is in my wallet, and the SIM card is in my phone. I have a routine now. I wake up, make a coffee, and sit on the balcony to watch the city wake up. Then I go out and learn something new.
Next week, I will start the Carte d'Identité process, and then I am thinking of heading north, towards the Senegal River, to catch the flood crest during hivernage. But for now, I am here. I am in Dakar, and it feels like the beginning of something good. Jërëjëf, thank you, for listening. Until next time, keep your head up and your eyes open. The rain is coming, and it is welcome.
Actually, one more thing. The sabar. I have been hearing it every evening from the Maison de la Culture Douta Seck, the drumming that pulls people out of their houses and into the street. I am planning to join in soon, but I wanted to leave you with that sound. It is the heartbeat of this city, and if you listen closely, you can hear it too.