Toubab Dialaw Senegal

Everyone is an artist, they tell me, as they boil thick sweet Guinean coffee over the fire. Adding more water and sugar throughout the day and cooking repeatedly to extract every drop of flavour from the pot. So that treacly sweet coffee fragranced with cardamom can be offered to every visitor throughout the day.

They explain that life is hard now the tourists don’t come. The virus has cut off their trade, and they struggle to pay the small rent on the few rooms and courtyard they share. But there is no sense of sadness here. With a smile and a warm heart, they welcome strangers into their home. A gesture at the view from the small courtyard takes in the beach and the expanse of the Atlantic. ‘This is our television,’ says Bamba, the most talkative of the group, ‘I can see the fishing boats coming home with a good catch, and the ships from everywhere going to Dakar. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the world.’

Villageois picks up a guitar and starts to play. Vampire sings ’Africa, Africa…’  Bamba starts drumming a rhythm on the bucket he sits on. Laughing while they sing, ‘I love you Mama Africa’. The waves on the beach, and a chicken, join in the harmonies. The lady next door comes out on her balcony, gives a wave, and starts to dance. The smell of woodsmoke and cardamom interrupt the moment. Ah, I think it is time for another coffee.