The Venice of Africa

“It stinks,” says my nose. “Like fish. Not of fresh, of dried”. The intense smell rises from dark brown wooden boards. On them lie small and very small fish, right next to the road. The light sea breeze blows the smell into the open caleche where I sit. A city tour in a blue-painted, somewhat rusty horse-drawn carriage through St.Louis, often praised as the “Venice of Africa”.

We have already left the historic city centre on Ile Saint-Louis behind us. The crumbling plaster, the peeling facades of the old factories exude “charm”, I read in the guidebook. Tourist guide Babacar tells about the unclear ownership of the decaying houses, some of which are in danger of collapsing, but still inhabited by locals. And of French people who buy the houses, have them renovated and then reside in them. A touch of colonialism, then. Still. Including the award of the UNESCO World Heritage status in 2004.

We have moved from the “island” to the narrow headland of “Langue de Barberie”. We drive through the village of Guet Nadar, along the sea. Colourfully painted pirogues, fishing boats, wood stored next to them for building new boats. The sandy beach is littered with plastic waste. Even under the wooden boards on which the fish are drying. Clotheslines near the roadside, on which T-shirts, jeans and shirts flutter in the wind. Veiled women in long robes printed with traditional West African patterns. They wash clothes in plastic vats, hang them on painted fences in front of warped huts made of grey boards. An old man in purple and black boubou sits on a fallen concrete wall. A boy points excitedly at the horse-drawn carriage, at me. Calls out “Toubab!”, “White woman!” “The people here,” says Babacar, “have many children because they need them as labour. For agriculture and for fishing.” He sharply criticises them for not sending their children to school. The driver of “our” caleche is about ten years old.

We pass a row of large trucks, colourfully painted with the names of the owners and blessings. So that the iced cargo, fresh fish, may arrive safely. Most of them, Babacar explains, are going to Mauritania. “If you have a ‘camion’, you are a made man,” he says. “How much longer?” I think to myself. The deep-sea ships from China, the EU fish far more than they are officially allowed to. Senegal’s fishermen are becoming breadless.

Later, I sit in the courtyard of a house and wait for acquaintances. I imagine that I was not born in Austria, but in Senegal. Little chance of higher education, especially if I had many brothers. Expecting and hoping for a life as a wife who gives her husband many children, in competition with up to three other wives. Polygamy is allowed, commonplace. Divorce too.