Resources / Ripples & Wipeouts

The first time I visited Dakar, Senegal was in 1986.  I was on a “fam trip” as we use to say in the travel industry.  Fam is short for familiarization.  The idea was that the better you could familiarize yourself with a destination, the hotels there and the airline that serviced it, the better you could sell that destination to your clients as a travel agent.  I also visited the city of Abidjan in Cote d’Ivoire as part of the itinerary.

I remember that I was the only black person in the group and the youngest.  I also remember how comfortable I felt while touring these cities and saw all those black faces around me.  I was now part of the majority, I was ‘home’– and it felt really, really good. 

I had no idea what a life-changing trip it would be.  Abidjan was a lovely, resort destination very much influenced by the French.  Dakar was a much more dry and arid climate, less glitz and glamour.  A sort of poor step-child in comparison to the more successful Abidjan.  It was in Dakar that I would come in direct contact with a part of history that, even today, is still not well understood by many.  Goree is an island off the coast of Senegal and is home to the House of Slaves.  Although the slave trade was waning, the House of Slaves was built by the French is 1776 (how ironic).  It was at Goree Island that hundreds of thousands of blacks were forced onto ships destined for the Americas and elsewhere.

I admit it.  I was ignorant and did not know about the House of Slaves.  I’m not even sure how this portion of the itinerary had been described.  My group and I headed out that morning, cameras at the ready.  We boarded a small boat bound for Goree.  It was a beautiful, sunny day.  We were met by our tour guide and were led into a building with a maze of rooms – smaller than some of my closets.  Areas of the walls were worn down because of the number of people who were held there.  Shackles built into the walls lay on the dirt floor.  As we continued through, we were shown where, just before boarding the ships, enslaved blacks were sprayed down with water.  We walked out through a doorway and just beyond was the Atlantic Ocean.  The contrast was blinding from the small, dank, darkness into the blinding light.  Words cannot express how sad I felt.  How angry.  I wanted everyone who I was with to stop talking.  I wanted the world to stop revolving for one minute to pay tribute and attention.  I couldn’t speak for hours afterwards.  I became acutely aware of my place in this world.

The New York Times reported that the curator of the House of Slaves, Boubacar Joseph (B.J.) Ndiaye, died recently.  He was 86 years old.  The obituary went on to say that he oversaw the memorial for over 40 years and that he said that he would talk about the history for all his life.  I cannot recall if this was the gentleman who showed our group through that day in 1986.  It doesn’t matter.  Reading about his passing gave me pause and got me to reflect on my visit to the memorial to which B.J. dedicated his life.  May he and all my other brothers and sisters who passed through rest in peace. 

Read Mr. Ndiaye’s obituary.

--Joan Grangenois-Thomas