The calèche driver clicks his tongue and the horse picks up a steady trot, the wheels rattling over the cobbles of the island. I'm heading north, past the cathedral with its pale stone glowing in the overcast light, past the Grande Mosquée's minaret, and the river is on both sides of me, swelling with the hivernage rains. There's a heaviness to the air today, a wet blanket of cloud that's been holding all morning, and it makes the colors of Saint-Louis seem muted, like an old photograph.
I've been here three days now, and I'm starting to understand the rhythm. The island wakes late, the café terraces fill with the smell of Nescafé and baguettes, and then the heat builds until the storm rolls in. But the part of this city that pulls at me the most is the spit of sand across the bridge, the Langue de Barbarie, where the river meets the Atlantic and the whole landscape is in constant, violent motion.
So today, I'm going to Guet Ndar. Not for the fish market that I saw on my first day, but to walk the shoreline, to see the erosion that everyone talks about with a mix of resignation and anger. I pay the calèche driver about 1,500 francs, roughly two and a half dollars, and he points me down a narrow alley that smells of smoke and dried fish. The lane opens up suddenly onto the beach, and the sight stops me short.
The ocean is not a gentle presence here. The waves are a flat, grey-green fury, chewing at the sand not ten meters from the nearest houses. There's a line of broken concrete and discarded tires, a desperate attempt to hold back the sea, and it's clearly losing. A few kids are kicking a football in a patch of damp sand, and an old man with a face like a map of wrinkles is mending a net, his fingers working with a practiced speed. He looks up, sees me, and gives a slow nod. Nanga def, I say, and he smiles, revealing a gap in his teeth, and offers a long, guttural reply that I catch maybe half of.
This is the frontline. Guet Ndar is home to over four thousand pirogue crews, one of the biggest fishing ports in West Africa, and it's collapsing into the sea. The houses are packed together like brittle bones, and the beach that used to buffer them is just gone. I walk along the waterline, and every few steps there's a fresh scar of eroded dune, a tree root exposed like a nerve, the skeleton of a boat that the sea claimed and spat back out. It's hard not to feel that you're walking through a wound.
I talk to a young fisherman named Ousmane who's mending a tear in his pirogue's hull. He tells me in French, mixed with Wolof, that his father used to launch his boat from a spot that's now under three meters of water. He points to a submerged tangle of timbers, the remains of a neighbor's house. He says the community is fighting, trying to build barriers, but it's a losing battle against the ocean's appetite. He shrugs, a gesture that carries the weight of the whole situation. It's not hopelessness, exactly, but a kind of brutal pragmatism.
From the beach, I hail a pirogue to take me across the channel to the northern end of the spit, near Ndar Toute. The boat ride is a short, bouncing jolt over the chop, the boatman standing at the stern with a long pole, navigating the shallows with an expert eye. The cost, for a local, is pocket change, but for me it's about 500 francs, less than a dollar. It's the kind of price that makes you realize how different the economy is here, and how far your money can stretch if you live like a local.
Ndar Toute is calmer, more residential. The houses are a little bigger, the streets a little quieter, and there's a sense of a community that's been here for generations, watching the sea gradually erase its edges. I stop at a small café, not one of the fancy tourist spots, but a plastic-table place where the coffee is thick, sweet, and absurdly cheap, about 150 francs for a tiny glass. The old men at the next table are arguing about politics, something about the opposition party's headquarters being seized, a story that's been all over the local news. I catch the name Mansour Faye, and the phrase patrimoine, heritage.
It's a reminder that the crises here aren't just environmental. The city is on edge, with the memory of that student who died during the protests in July still fresh, and the political battles playing out in the streets. There's a tension under the surface, a sense that things are shifting, not always for the better. But the coffee is good, and the storm clouds are gathering again, huge purple bruise in the sky.
As the first fat drops of rain start to fall, I make my way back across the bridge to the island, seeking shelter in the cool, stone interior of the Restaurant La Galette. It's a proper place, white tablecloths, the smell of grilled fish. I order the yassa poulet, the lemon-marinated chicken with caramelized onions, and it arrives steaming, the chicken falling off the bone, the rice perfectly fluffy. It costs about 3,000 francs, around five dollars, and it's worth every franc for the simple comfort of being out of the rain.
I sit by the window, watching the downpour turn the streets into swift rivers. The storm is a daily ritual here, a violent exhalation of the sky's pent-up heat. The thunder rolls, not above, but around, a percussive bass that rattles the glass. And I think about the river, the Senegal, swelling in its bed, carrying the promise of the hivernage north towards Djoudj, where the birds are waiting.
After the rain, the air is washed clean. I step out onto the bridge, the Pont Faidherbe, and watch the water churn below. The river is high, high, higher than I've ever seen it, and the flow is irresistible. It's the kind of sight that makes you feel the scale of the land, the slow, epic movement of water from inland mountains to the sea. Further out, at the river mouth, I can see the sand spit shifting, a slow-motion ballet of erosion and deposit. The fight is happening right here, in front of my eyes.
I wander back to the island, past the Musée Jean Mermoz, the house of the Aéropostale pilots. I think about Saint-Exupéry, flying over this same river a hundred years ago, seeing a landscape that was both the same and completely different. The colonial ghosts are everywhere here, in the names of the streets, the architecture, the old Governor's Palace. But the city is not a museum; it's a living, struggling, breathing place.
As evening falls, I find myself at a tiny spot near the Place Faidherbe, a seller grilling fish and onions on a charcoal brazier. I get a plate of thiéboudienne, the national dish, a mound of rice and fish and vegetables, for about 2,000 francs. It's less than the restaurant, but the flavor is just as deep, perhaps deeper, infused with smoke and the heat of the coals. I eat it standing, watching the city turn on its lights, the faidherbe bridge glowing like a string of pearls across the dark water.
A group of musicians starts to play across the square, a sabar drum and a kora, the rhythms mixing in the warm, damp air. It's that Saint-Louis jazz heritage, always present, a thread woven into the fabric of the city's nights. I sit on a low wall, listening, letting the music wash over me. The drumbeat is like a second heart, steady, insistent, a counterpoint to the restless sea.
And I think about the cost of this life, not just in money, but in attention. It's a place that demands everything of you, your energy, your curiosity, your patience. It can be exhausting, and it can be confusing. But it's also, in a way that I'm only beginning to understand, a place that gives everything back. The teranga, that's the spirit of it, the generosity that flows like the river itself.
Tomorrow, I'’m going to try to arrange a trip upriver, towards the Djoudj bird park, to see the millions of pelicans and herons that gather in the wetlands. It's the next leg of this journey, deeper into the river valley. But tonight, I'm content to just be here, on this island of light and water, listening to the drums and the distant thunder, feeling the pulse of a city that is always, ever so slightly, on the edge.
I finish my thiéboudienne, wipe my hands on a damp napkin, and let the music carry me back to my room at the Hôtel Etoile du Sud. The fan will be rattling, the window will be open, and the sound of the river will be my lullaby. For all its troubles, and there are many, Saint-Louis has a way of settling into your bones. Nanga def, Saint-Louis. Nanga def.
So here's the thing, listener. If you come here, to this city at the edge of the world, don't just come for the pretty colonial facades or the jazz festival in May. Come for the honest confrontation with a land that is alive and changing. Come to understand how a river can both sustain and destroy, how a community can hold on with determination even as the ground shifts beneath them. And come ready to spend a little, 2,000 francs here, 3,000 there, for meals that will feed you in ways you didn't know you needed. That's the real gift of Saint-Louis, the gift that isn't on any price list.
Good night from the island. The river is still rising.
This is Fatou Diop, your guide to Senegal. Until tomorrow, wherever you are, keep listening for the rhythm. I know I will.
And that's the thing about this place. It never stops moving. The river, the sea, the people, the music. It all just keeps flowing. And I'm just trying to keep up. So, until next time, this is Fatou, and I'm signing off from Saint-Louis. May your days be filled with teranga, and your nights with good drums.
The end.