From Dakar to the Saloum Delta is just 150 kilometres as the crow flies. Not being crows, it took us most of a day to get there, and the modes of transportation were all over the map: Station-wagon taxis called sept places that delicately pitched and rolled around some of the deepest highway potholes I had ever seen (we drove as much on the sandy soil beside the road as on the road itself), a five-minute scamper on a motor scooter with my backpack fore of the driver and me aft, a 30-minute pirogue ride to an island in the delta and, finally, a two-kilometre walk alongside a donkey hauling our bags on a cart.
The stunning destination, though, more than merited the long journey. Saloum Delta National Park and the Protected Marine Area on Senegal's coast offer a refreshingly green alternative to traditional beach tourism. The vast park (85,000 hectares of islands alone) is a fish and wildlife sanctuary, one that may offer a partial solution to declining fish stocks on the West African coast.
Fishing employs 600,000 people in Senegal, and fish are a mainstay of both the diet and the economy. The national dish – diebou dien as it's called in Wolof, the primary language of Senegal – comprises a rich sauce of hot peppers, tomato paste, onions, cabbage, eggplant, manioc, turnips and carrots, served with fish stuffed with cayenne, garlic and parsley over a bed of rice and eaten from a communal plate.
About 700 species of fish ply the waters off Senegal. But catches have plummeted (by 80 per cent since the 1950s) because of overfishing, climate change and pollution. A study released this year found that the oceans are in crisis and that not one of the countries that signed on in 1995 to a responsible fishing code of conduct has adhered completely to those principles. It's why sanctuaries like this one are such important spawning grounds. The World Bank, UNESCO and the World Wildlife Fund all back the idea, and small wonder: Since its inauguration in 2001, the park in the delta of the Sine and Saloum rivers has seen the average number and size of its fish species rise markedly, two dozen new species have arrived, and dolphins and manatees – which had abandoned the area – have returned.
Our lodgings in the delta were models of simplicity. We stayed at Keur Bamboung, near the village of Sippo, in a solar-powered hut perched high atop sand dunes overlooking the water and mangrove forests. Villagers built the huts in 2003 using traditional methods – with deadwood from the forest, locally made brick and locally grown reeds. When we were there in mid-January, the days offered steady 25-degree temperatures and almost guaranteed sun, more than enough to power the two fluorescent bulbs in our spacious hut. There is no electrical supply on the island, no cars either, but there is running water – of sorts. The rooftop water barrel on each of the nine huts in the campement had to be filled by hand (the solar-powered pump had broken down), and that thought made us mindful of taking short showers. Our bed was splendidly wide and comfortable, and its moustiquière (a huge mosquito net hung from the ceiling) enhanced that tucked-in feeling.
You can walk barefoot through lush mangrove swamps.
Water in the delta is a blend of fresh and saline, and every day the shifting tides exposed a sandbar, then covered it again. The salt made us buoyant, so swimming was both refreshing and effortless. A rustic set of wooden stairs in the sand led down to the water, a stone's throw from our hut.
Those who live or visit here are warned about keeping the place pristine. There is no garbage – not here, where the people of 14 nearby villages are de facto park wardens.
“The novelty,” says Haïdar El Ali, founder and president of Oceanium, a non-profit environmental organization that has played a key teaching role here, “is that [locals] own the site. They manage the park and benefit from the park. This is revolutionary – to transform fishers into guardians of fish.”
We spent our days birdwatching (the park is home to a great variety of birds, including pelicans, flamingoes, herons, egrets, eagles, hawks and parrots). We took early-morning hikes in the savannah where we saw monkeys and wild boars, and we kayaked in lush mangrove swamps or walked them in bare feet. At night, we could hear hyenas and jackals. The only sounds by day were birdsong and wind, and the traffic snarls of Dakar seemed light years away. Our guide on these forays was a young local man named Birame who had received some training in biology – a complement to his keen eyes and ability to read tracks in the mud.
