The island of Gorée is located less than 4 km off the coast of Dakar. It is a solemn emblem of the trans‑Atlantic slave trade: for centuries, enslaved Africans were held, chained, shipped from here. One of its most visited sites is the House of Slaves with its “Door of No Return”, which we would later visit. While scholars debate how many slaves actually passed through this specific building (and how central Gorée was in the overall slave trade) the symbolic importance is enormous. The island is inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1978 and was well-maintained.
After we dropped our bags and let the room settle around us—windows open to the Atlantic, pastel walls glowing softly in the late afternoon—we regrouped with Birame, our guide, and stepped back outside. The air on Gorée Island carries a particular stillness, the kind that feels earned. Salt, sun-warmed stone, bougainvillea, and history all seem to coexist without urgency here.
Walking the narrow alleys of Gorée, I felt acutely aware: this wasn’t just another seaside stop. It was memory. It was reflection. It was time spent in motion, connected to centuries, to lives, to movement and migration.
Gorée is small—less than a mile long—but it carries the psychic weight of continents. As a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the entire island feels preserved not as a museum piece, but as a living place that remembers. The colonial buildings are impeccably maintained, washed in soft pinks, ochres, and sea-foam blues. Windows are shuttered but open, flowers spill over balconies, and the narrow lanes wind like they’ve been here longer than maps.
And then there were the cats. Everywhere. Lounging in doorways, threading through courtyards, blinking slowly in the sun as if they’d seen it all before—which, honestly, they probably have. One particularly confident tabby decided Brendan was worth investigating and followed him for half a block, brushing his leg like they were old friends. In a place this heavy, the cats felt like small reminders of lightness, continuity, and life continuing on its own terms.
Before wandering too far, Birame gently steered us toward the reason most people come here, and the reason no visit to Gorée can ever be casual.
The House of Slaves: Where the Air Changes
The moment you step into the House of Slaves, the temperature feels different. Cooler, yes—but also heavier. The building, constructed in the late 18th century, functioned as a holding center for enslaved Africans before they were forced onto ships bound for the Americas. Gorée was not the largest slave-trading port in West Africa, but it was often the last stop—the final threshold between Africa and everything that followed.
Birame walked us through quietly, methodically. The rooms are small, stone-walled, almost deceptively plain. Men were held in one section, women in another. Children elsewhere. Iron rings still line the walls where people were chained. Punishment cells—tiny, dark, airless—were used to discipline those who resisted. People were fed once a day. Many didn’t survive long enough to see the ships. Disease was rampant.
Birame explained how women deemed “desirable” were separated out—how rape was institutionalized, how some women were kept on the island as concubines to European governors. In a grim distortion of “privilege,” those who bore mixed-race children sometimes lived slightly better lives, spared the transatlantic crossing but never spared the trauma. It was horrifying in a quiet, bureaucratic way—the kind of horror that comes from systems functioning exactly as designed.
And then there is the Door.
The Door of No Return opens directly onto the sea. It’s narrow, almost unremarkable, framed by stone worn smooth by centuries of salt air. Standing there, looking out at the Atlantic, it’s impossible not to imagine the finality of that moment: last sight of home, family, language, identity. Birame let the silence linger. No speeches. No platitudes. Just wind and water and the weight of what passed through that doorway.
There’s ongoing scholarly debate about the exact number of enslaved people processed through Gorée versus other ports along the coast, but that argument feels beside the point when you’re standing there. Symbolically—and emotionally—this place carries the collective memory of the transatlantic slave trade in a way few others do. Gorée doesn’t need to win a numbers game to justify its importance.
We stepped back out into the light, grateful for the breeze, unsettled in a way that felt necessary.
Walking It Off, Slowly
After the House of Slaves, the island unfolds differently. The same pastel buildings now feel more fragile. The laughter of schoolchildren echoes differently. Gorée doesn’t let you forget—but it also doesn’t trap you in grief. Life continues, insistently.
We wandered with Birame along the coastal path, waves breaking gently below us, the sea an impossible blue. Going up the hill towards the top of the island, artisans had set up small displays—paintings, jewelry, intricate sand art painstakingly created. We stopped to watch one artist demonstrate his technique, layering colored sands into impossibly precise patterns. It was mesmerizing, meditative, and strangely hopeful: something beautiful made grain by grain, patiently.
A few pieces caught our eye, but we decided to think on it. Gorée has a way of encouraging slowness and deliberation. We proceeded to the top of the hill to take in the views.
From there, we went to the other side of the island to see more of the museum and residential area closer to the docks. That late in the day the IFAN historical museum was closed, but we’d try it again in the morning.
After thanking Birame and parting ways, we looped back on our own and ended up buying the pieces that had stayed with us—the ones we couldn’t stop thinking about. Travel souvenirs rarely feel meaningful anymore, but these felt like small anchors to a place that asks you to remember.
Now on our own, with the island all to ourselves, with the last ferry of tourists headed back to the mainland for the day, we saw the magic of this place. We were glad we spent the night.
Dinner, Ti’ Punch, and Unexpected Conversation
That evening, we stayed in for dinner at our small boutique hotel after enjoying the lush and quiet grounds.
The chef prepared chicken for Brendan and a vegetarian dish for me, followed by crepes that were, without question, the highlight. Soft, warm, just sweet enough—exactly what we needed.
Midway through the meal, the owners joined us: Giles and Nadia. They split their lives between London and Gorée, running a consulting business and this quiet hotel. Both had been educated in the United States; their sons now lived and studied in New York. The world suddenly felt very small.
The conversation started… awkwardly, not to mention because I accidentally said in Nadia’s normal seat near the head of the table (there was no way to know). A brief detour into anti-vaccine territory made us shift uncomfortably in our seats, and for a moment it felt like this dinner might go off the rails entirely. But slowly—almost mercifully—the conversation course-corrected. We talked education, West Africa, the rhythms of living between continents, how COVID reshaped not just travel but conversation itself.
At some point, Giles disappeared and returned with glasses and a bottle. Ti’ Punch. Lime, sugar, rum. Simple, strong, and perfect. We lingered long after dessert, talking like people who don’t get to do this often anymore.
While at times it felt a bit like a job interview—not because of pressure, but because sustained, thoughtful adult conversation has become a muscle we don’t flex as much as we used to—we had a wonderful evening. It was oddly grounding, and unexpectedly restorative.
Gorée in the Context of Senegal
Gorée can’t be separated from Senegal itself—a country that carries its history openly while remaining deeply future-facing. Senegal was one of the first West African nations to gain independence from France in 1960, and Dakar has long been a cultural and intellectual hub of the region. The legacy of colonialism and the slave trade is not buried here; it’s taught, debated, and remembered.
What struck me most about Gorée was not just its sorrow, but its care. The preservation. The insistence on beauty alongside pain. The fact that children grow up here, cats nap in the sun, artists create, and visitors are asked—not forced, but asked—to bear witness.
That night, as we finally turned in, windows open to the sound of the ocean, Gorée felt quiet in the way only places with nothing left to prove can feel. The island doesn’t shout its history. It lets you come to it, sit with it, and carry it forward when you leave.
And you do carry it. There’s no other option.
Gorée stays with you.
