First Impressions of Northern Senegal: Saly and then Lac Rose
As a stopover on our way to Lac Rose, we landed in Dakar, Senegal late—our flight delayed by a few hours from Cap Skirring, as often happens with travel—but not something we could control. You’d think in 2025, a guide might know how to check the status of an incoming flight, especially one assigned to pick us up at the airport. But when we finally met Birame, our new guide, he looked like someone who’d been waiting too long and didn’t know who to be mad at. Spoiler alert: he was a tad annoyed at us! He informed us that “You’re very late”. We also would have preferred to be on time so we had that in common.
After a quick introduction, we were ushered into our vehicle with our driver Djibe and began our journey to Saly, a beachy suburb of Dakar known for being a bit of a luxury outpost—resorts, vacation homes, and more French tourists than locals.
The car ride started pleasantly enough and we were impressed by Birame’s welcome speech and explanation of how Senegal is the land of the “3 S’s – Sun, Smiles, Solidarity” and the importance of hospitality, or Teranga, in the Senagalese culture and Wolof language. But then Birame launched into a monologue about tipping local guides, even showing us a picture on his phone of a mound of Euros left behind by previous travelers who were apparently moved to tears by Senegalese poverty. It was a lot. Pushy, unfiltered, and a pretty poor first impression. We’d only just stepped off the plane, barely acclimated, and here we were getting a crash course in performative generosity and guilt-laced travel. It didn’t help that TransAfrica—the company we booked through—had explicitly told us tipping beyond on our driver and guide wasn’t necessary, and that our guide would handle all of that. Strike one.
Luckily, the resort in Saly was a balm for the senses. Even though check-in took what felt like forever, as we arrived alongside a number of airline crew members, the resort was very nice. Our room? Fancy. Like, soft-linens-and-Scandinavian fancy, but with a mosquito net.
And the grounds? Breezy palms, manicured gardens, and a buffet dinner with just enough Valentine’s Day kitsch to make us smile. There were heart-shaped cakes and red tablecloths, and in typical Francophone fashion, the desserts looked better than they tasted. But no complaints. And we saw a few feline friends doing their mousing thing around the property.
We would have happily stayed an extra day there just to decompress. Honestly, it felt like we earned it. The complication around staying at these fancy resorts for just 1 night though is the inefficiency – the hassle and length of crowded check-ins and then the long march to our room, which seemed to always be located at the farthest stretch of the resort.
Saly sits not far from Dakar and is home to a wealthier set of locals and expats. Birame mentioned that his wife and young son lived nearby, which briefly cracked open a warmer, more personal version of him—but just for a moment.
The next morning started soft. Breakfast buffet, light and easy. And some gentle African xylophone music drifting through the dining area. The type of morning that coaxes you into the day without a rush.
We met Birame as scheduled, but our driver Djibe was MIA. Birame couldn’t get a hold of him, and we waited in the resort’s lobby for 30 minutes—which, truthfully, we didn’t mind because it gave us a moment to drink in some Wi-Fi. Eventually Djibe showed up, apologetic and slightly flustered. Turns out his phone had died, and the charging port was fried. He’d waited for Birame at their hotel until he figured something must be wrong and came to find us. No real harm done.
Next destination: Lac Rose, the Pink Lake.
Second Impression of Northern Senegal – Faded Pink: Lac Rose, or rather, what used to be Lac Rose / Lake Retba.
Why is the Pink Lake no longer pink? Once famed for its otherworldly pink hue caused by high salinity and a particular algae (Dunaliella salina), the lake was now a ghost of its former self. Years of heavy rain of Lac Rose and poor water management had diluted the salt content. Birame also informed us that construction nearby that didn’t have proper channels away from the lake, coupled with heavy rain, led to an influx of freshwater and debris. The pink was now more of a blush, visible only in certain lights and angles. The government had begun efforts to reverse the damage, draining excess rainwater and trying to bring back the algae bloom. But it felt like a long shot to restore Lac Rose to its former self.
We checked into a modest lakeside hotel, Hotel Le Trarza, with a view of the water, had a quiet lunch (Italian!), and listened to Birame tell the story of how he met his wife at a family gathering where neighbors are ovten invited (Teranga). He only had one wife, he told us. So far. (This, apparently, was meant as a joke.)
That last picture above is my rendition of Lac Rose as an actual pink lake! It looks like a regular lake, nothing pink about other than maybe a hue at present.
The conversation turned—again—to money. He low key complained about TransAfrica, about poor pay, and about his dream to start his own tour company. We offered a few ideas, like building a website or starting a TripAdvisor page. But as the conversation wore on, it became clear he lacked a plan, technical know-how, or even basic business infrastructure. He asked for help. We politely declined. We travel to learn, not to consult or take on more projects.
Later that afternoon, we hopped into a 4×4 truck that appeared to be driven by two teenagers. We tried to guess their ages and our answers made them laugh. Turns out they were 17 and 28—but neither looked a day over 14. Maybe it was genetics, maybe it was nutrition. Either way, they could sure handle a truck! This expedition ended up being a highlight of the entire trip, and it snuck up on us. Transafrica was great at arranging surprising experiences that sounded lackluster on paper but ended up being phenomenal. The guides also did not really prepare us so far for what was coming, so often we just arrived at things and then adventures unfolded. For this one in particular, I would have liked to have been warned to bring a hair tie. My Istanbul hoodie once more saved the day. The second picture below is of the whole group, including our Birame, the tall man in the back.
Our first stop was the east side of the Lac Rose, where local women were harvesting salt from the shallow waters. The lake is only about 3 meters deep, and harvesting is back-breaking work—done largely by hand. We met a few women who let us take photos, and we exchanged some currency. In return, they gave us small token gifts. This was the Senegal we came to see.
Then we zipped across Lac Rose to the other side, driving over the dunes once part of the Paris-Dakar rally route, and then straight up the Atlantic coast.
We blasted northward, sea spray misting our faces, until we reached a massive fishing village. Hundreds of painted pirogues (traditional fishing boats) stretched across the shore. Thousands of people—men and women—gutting, hauling, selling. It was intense. Visually stunning. Olfactorily pungent. A vibrant village and people at work.
By the time we got back to Hotel Le Trarza on Lac Rose, we were salt-washed and sunburned. Oh, and we found a spider the size of a teacup saucer in our bathroom, which really kept us on our toes.
Dinner was at the same place as lunch at Hotel Lac Rose with Birame, who by this point was growing on us in a complicated, slightly frustrating way. We were beginning to understand him, even if we didn’t exactly trust his intentions.
Senegal—like travel itself—is layered. You get the salt and the sweet. The faded pink and the raw truth. You meet people who mean well but falter. And you find your footing anyway.
Onward to Saint Louis, the historic capital, in the morning.
