The rain stopped at around four this morning, and the city's been steaming ever since. You know that feeling when you're about to leave a place, even just for a few weeks, and suddenly everything feels more vivid, more worth paying attention to? That's where I am. My last full day in Dakar before I head north to the Senegal River valley, and the city is gifting me one final, glorious, humid embrace.
I woke up to the sound of water dripping from the balcony of my apartment in Grand Yoff, a steady plink-plink onto the tiles below. The storm that hit us yesterday afternoon was a monster, a proper hivernage downpour that turned the streets into temporary rivers. This morning, the air is washed clean, but you can feel the weight of the water in it. It's like standing inside a greenhouse. The forecast said 27 degrees, but with this humidity, it feels closer to 36. You just accept that your shirt will stick to you by eight in the morning.
I had a few errands to run. First on the list, a return visit to the Division de la Police des Étrangers et des Titres de Voyage to see if there was any movement on my CIE card application. I handed in my paperwork on Monday, with the fiscal stamp and everything, and they gave me a récépissé, that six-month renewable receipt. The card itself takes anywhere from six to twelve months to be produced. I was told it's a waiting game, but you have to check in, you know, show your face, be a bit of a squeaky wheel.
The building was, as always, a study in controlled chaos. I found my contact, a very patient woman whose name I've learned to pronounce correctly, and she just shook her head with a smile. 'Nanga def,' she said, asking how I was, and then she flipped through the pages of a giant ledger. Nothing yet. It was expected, but it's still a little anchor of uncertainty. I paid about 15,000 CFA francs for the fiscal stamp, and there's a repatriation deposit at the Caisse des Dépôts et Consignations on top of that. It's a lot, but it's the price of the key to a longer stay. We're just at the beginning of this particular dance.
After the police station, I needed a coffee and a moment to decompress. I walked through the Plateau, skirting the edge of the business district, and ended up at KOTAO Coffee. It's become my little sanctuary. The air inside is cool, the smell of roasted beans a welcome contrast to the wet earth outside. I ordered a cappuccino, which set me back about 2,000 CFA francs. It's pricier than a street-side coffee, but it's a different experience. I sat by the window and watched the city do its morning thing, the dance of cars, pedestrians, and the occasional horse-drawn cart loaded with produce.
I was trying to get one last look at some things I missed. I thought about going to the IFAN Museum of African Arts, but the queue to get a taxi was long and the thought of standing in the heat was unappealing. Instead, I decided to take a walk through the Médina. It's a dense, unplanned labyrinth of a neighbourhood, the old Wolof quarter. The Grande Mosquée's minaret rises up above the tin roofs, a constant, solid landmark. The streets were still bustling, even after the Magal. Shutters were up, stalls were full. Life had completely re-flooded the city after everyone returned from Touba.
The rhythm of the markets is something else. I didn't buy anything, I just wanted to absorb it one last time. The scent of spices, the vivid colours of wax-print fabrics, the calls of the vendors. I saw a woman frying something that smelled incredible on a small coal brazier, and a man with an impossibly tall stack of baguettes balanced on his head. It's a sensory overload in the best way. It makes the cost of living here feel tangible, not like a number on a spreadsheet. That baguette, for about 600 CFA francs, is someone's breakfast. The rent on my little flat in Grand Yoff, around 250,000 a month, is a different reality, but you're so close to it all here.
My phone buzzed. It was a message from the family who runs the sabar class at the Maison de la Culture Douta Seck. They knew I was leaving and had invited me to stop by for a farewell drum session that afternoon. I knew I couldn't refuse. That was the one thread I was desperate to pull on before I left. The drumming is the closest I've felt to the city's true pulse, a heartbeat that's constant and powerful. I grabbed a quick lunch from a local canteen near the Tilène Market, a plate of thieboudienne. The national dish, the fish and rice. It cost me about 1,500 CFA francs, a few dollars, and it was the best meal I've had all week. The rice was perfect, the fish flaky and seasoned, the carrots and cabbage soft and sweet.
When I got to the Maison de la Culture, the air was thick with the pre-storm heat. You could feel it building again, the pressure dropping. The drum circle was smaller than the first day I joined, but just as welcoming. I picked up my sabar and we started to play. For the first few minutes, we found the rhythm together, the polyrhythms weaving in and out, the bass drum anchoring everything. And then it happened again, that feeling of becoming part of something bigger. Your hands smack the skin, your whole body vibrates, and the rest of the world just falls away. I wasn't great, I'm still a beginner, but I was part of the conversation. That's all that matters.
As if on cue, the sky outdoors turned that same greenish grey as yesterday. The storm was coming back for a second act. We played for another ten minutes as the first fat droplets of rain began to spot the courtyard flags, and then everyone scrambled. It was like a release. Everyone was laughing, grabbing their drums, helping push the mats under the awning just as the heavens opened. The rain came down with ferocious intention, a wall of sound that drowned out everything else. We stood there, a few of us, watching the water bounce a foot high off the concrete and feeling the temperature drop ten degrees in seconds.
It was the perfect final memory. The rumble of thunder and the smell of wet dust and the feeling of community. I had to get back eventually, but I wasn't going to run from this. I let the rain soak me as I walked towards the nearest main road to find a taxi. I stood under a shop awning with a handful of other people, all of us just watching the spectacle. It's a feeling of commonality, of being stuck in the weather together. It doesn't matter if you're from here or just arrived. In a Dakar storm, everyone shares the same shelter.
I finally got a taxi back to Grand Yoff. The driver, an older man named Ibrahima, smiled at my soggy state. 'Mbeugé, mbeugé,' he laughed, using the Wolof word for rain. We drove through streets that were flooded again, the yellow of the car lights reflecting in the standing water. The familiarity of it was comforting. It's not chaos, it's just the city's own system. After the rain, the energy feels different, cleansed. It's no wonder the whole city gets quiet and reflective after a big one.
Back in my apartment, I took a hot shower and changed into dry clothes. I looked at my bags, mostly packed, and at the sabar drum I'd bought, propped up against the wall. It will be coming with me. I've decided that. It felt right to give it a permanent place in the journey. I sat on my small balcony with a bottle of Gazelle, the local beer. I went back to the numbers in my head. The beers cost around 1,500 CFA francs, the flat cost about 250,000 a month, the bus fares were a few hundred francs. The cost of a new life is adding up, but the returns, the experiences, the rhythm, they feel priceless.
So this is Dakar for me, for now. The arrival. The paperwork. The drumming. The storms. The thieboudienne. It is a city of layers, of heat, of extreme generosity in the term teranga. It's taught me that you don't have to see everything to feel a place. You just have to be present. My DDD bus pass is still active, my CIE card will be waiting when I return, and my sabar drum is packed. I'm leaving, but I'm not saying goodbye.
Tomorrow, I head north. The next leg of the journey takes me to the Senegal River, following its flood crest north during the hivernage, through the greening Ferlo and the holy city. But for now, the last sound of this chapter is the soft rain on the tin roof and the distant hum of the city. Nanga def, Dakar. Until the next time.
Jërëjëf, thank you for listening. From my balcony in Grand Yoff, I'm Fatou Diop, and this is the Senegal Travel Podcast. Next week, the river. Ba beneen yoon. Until next time.