The Morning: From Saint‑Louis to the Heart of Touba
We woke early in Saint‑Louis, rubbing sleep out of our eyes over a rather uninspiring hotel breakfast—again. The scrambled eggs were half‑gone, the croissants picked over, and despite going early, it felt like we’d shown up to a buffet someone else had already looted. Brendan gave me that knowing look: “Welcome to Senegal’s breakfast scene,” he whispered. I smiled, accepted a dry roll, and we loaded into our vehicle for the long drive ahead.
Our destination: Touba, Senegal’s deeply spiritual city that pulses to the rhythm of the Mouride Brotherhood, one of the most influential Sufi orders in the country. Founded by Amadou Bamba in 1887, Touba was explicitly built as a center of devotion. The town’s beating heart is the monumental Great Mosque of Touba (locally “Grande Mosquée de Touba”), completed in 1963 and housing Bamba’s tomb.
The drive felt endless—dusty roads, the heat radiating off the plain, and a sense of urgency (bring water, bring shade) creeping into our consciousness. On arrival in Touba we realized immediately that this was no casual stop‑in. This was sacred ground. There were also a number of odd rituals and rules coming our way that we did not expect.
The Touba Grand Mosque and a Surprise
Walking into the mosque complex was humbling and… humbling in a good way. But first: protocol. We were told we’d need to remove our shoes and cross a street barefoot or in socks. This was annoying because usually mosques provide a shoe storage area ahead of going in, such that your feet would actually be clean upon entry. Not here, I guess they prefer dirty socks in the mosque. Fine. I know visiting religious sites often comes with odd rules. But another one presented itself, ahead of crossing the street, our local guide informed us that my standard scarf + pants outfit wasn’t enough. Apparently any woman entering required a dress, and conveniently the local guide had a bag o ‘dresses and handed me one to unceremoniously shove on. We swapped shoes for socks, I pulled on the dress, and we proceeded. Got to love the religious theater of pointless rules. I wished TransAfrica had warned about the dress code – they had only mentioned to dress conservatively which I took as don’t show skin and cover your hair; I would have worn a dress (over pants) had I known. Anyways my face says it all.
Inside the Great Mosque: soaring arches, sweeping domes, marble floors, the mausoleum of Amadou Bamba tucked in a quiet corner. The scale is impressive: one of Africa’s largest mosques, with a capacity of about 7,000 worshippers. The atmosphere was particularly intense because the grandson of the mosque’s founder had died and a funeral/viewing was underway that day—so more people than usual were milling about, reverent and but not necessarily still.
We learned from Birame on the way in that there were no hotels in Touba, and that all these worshippers stayed with locals, for free. It was part of the Touba hospitality and Sanegalese Taranga. We were glad we decided on only a day trip, though – there was not much to here other than worship.
The intricacy of the ceilings and mosaic patterns, a high note in Islamic design, didn’t disappoint.
The architecture alone—those white walls rising under the African sun—was worth the trip. We also apparently weren’t allowed to take selfies with a person of a different gender (challenge accepted).
Yet the vibe was austere. Touba is conservative, religious, and hot. And there wasn’t much else around for tourists: no lively café scene, no bustling market, just devotion, heat, and the occasional roadside vendor selling snacks and religious items.
After our visit, we scurried back into the car. I exhaled. Brendan smiled. On we went.
Afternoon: Touba to Dakar to Gorée Island
By midday we’d reached Dakar, and after being stuck in traffic for about an hour just to get into town, we were dropped off with our luggage in the ferry docks area for lunch at Club de Pêche, a seafood restaurant—sea breeze at last, a skiff of relief from the earlier heat. Though the restaurant menu was still “fish and rice, yes, you want sauce ?” we were grateful just for the water and breeze. Brendan ordered a fish which came whole, and was huge. My coke zero was refreshing.
From there we queued for the ferry to Gorée Island. Note: you first drop your luggage in the ferry’s storage area ahead of the line for boarding and out of your sight (a minor annoyance, but you adapt). We never like parting with our luggage, but Birame thought it was pretty normal and calmed us down. The short ride across the shimmering blue Atlantic was pleasant, building anticipation as we spotted Gorée’s pastel houses rising from the coastline. You could see the slave castle looking large in the distance.
Stepping off onto the island, we retrieved our luggage, crossed a small dock, and wandered through the quiet town. Small crowds, mostly day‑visitors, but fewer than you might expect for a UNESCO site. Our lodging that evening: Hotel Keur Louise, which ended up being one of the best hotels on the trip.
In part because of the owners, and in part because of the solitude and the grounds in such a mystical place. Owner Gilles, a welcoming polyglot of a host, greeted us in English and showed us to a vibrant, beautifully colored room and set us up with best WiFi signal he could.
The island’s vibe changed everything: breezy air, cooler evening temperature, bougainvillea‑clad walls, little cafés, a sense of weight to the place because of its history. Today we were in a place with a dark past—but also a bright future. And there are cats.
While Touba had its architectural gravitas and spiritual weight, it felt rigid. The long drive, the conservative atmosphere, the heat, the silly religious rules and excessive fervor of devotees—they drained me, a lot. But Gorée—Gorée breathed. We were looking forward to exploring the island—walking its quiet lanes, soaking in the colors, the sea, the history. I’ll save those stories for the next post.
- On Touba: A place of devotion, of pilgrimage, of a Sufi order that built a city around faith. Interesting, necessary, powerful—but hot and still for a cultural traveller seeking more than religious context.
- On Gorée: A place of memory, of shifting tides, of histories both brutal and transformative. And yes, a breeze.
From Saint‑Louis’s dusty outskirts, to Touba’s spiritual hush, to Gorée’s salt‑air evening calm—Senegal surprises me yet again.