We’d had such high hopes for Saint-Louis, Senegal, not to be confused with the one in Missouri. A romantic, artful island steeped in colonial history and protected by UNESCO—it seemed like the perfect place to pause, soak in Senegalese culture, and catch our breath. But by the time we arrived, the air felt less like a sigh of relief and more like the heavy breath of disappointment.
We had deliberately chosen to spend two nights in Saint-Louis, bypassing a split stay with Touba so we could really immerse ourselves somewhere, for once. Touba, the holy city and spiritual heart of the Mouride Brotherhood, was planned as a day trip after Saint-Louis on our way back to Dakar.
Most nights were 1 night stays and we moved more than we stayed. This was a mistake looking back, but we did pack a lot in. But, we were looking forward to a little indulgence of a double night stay in Saint-Louis. The idea was to give Saint-Louis its due—but expectations, we would soon find out, don’t always match reality. And expectations usually are trouble whilst traveling.
We set off on February 16 from our hotel after a quick breakfast, heading north. Along the way we stopped in Mékhé, one of Senegal’s many artisan hubs, where entire towns often specialize in a single craft. In Mékhé’s craft is leather—particularly shoes and belts. Brendan, whose pants had been threatening to rebel thanks to some travel weight loss, bought a smaller belt, a practical (and locally made) souvenir. It was a quick but fascinating detour, and a reminder of Senegal’s rich tradition of artisanal production that dates back centuries.
We enjoyed a number of these types of stops along the way, which was a benefit of being on the road. Commerce in action and people living. Like in Senegambia, each town specialized in something. Here’s another stop where we got to see the sticks everyone chews in Senegal. Birame explained that they are somewhat medicinal and helps people keep their teeth clean.
We also saw another appearance of the mobile payment service we were introduced to in The Gambia, this time with a French language bent.
By the time we reached Saint-Louis, the promise of colonial charm felt a bit battered. This former capital of French West Africa, founded in 1659 by French traders on the island of Ndar, was the first permanent French settlement in Senegal. For much of the 19th century, it served as the capital of French Senegal—and for a time, even all of French West Africa—before that title was shifted to Dakar. The city’s layout is uniquely French: a narrow island about 2.5 kilometers long and just 300 meters wide, crisscrossed by straight, orderly streets and lined with colonial buildings that speak to a grander, imperial past.
Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2000, Saint-Louis stands as an outstanding example of colonial architecture and urban planning in Africa. We expected a sort of West African New Orleans. Instead, we were dropped at Hotel de la Poste and shown to a room the size of a shoebox, reeking of bleach and lacking even basic toiletries. Shampoo? Forget it. Our attempts to rectify the situation at the front desk were met with that distinctively Parisian cold shoulder—polite, but distant, and completely unhelpful.
Thankfully, our guide Birame stepped in like a quiet hero. He called TransAfrica, arranged a room change, and voila—space, light, and (praise be!) shampoo. That moment redeemed him in our eyes, even if he still talked money to much, he did know how to take care of business and was always attentive to our needs. And there was shampoo and soap.
With a bit of newfound comfort, we set off on a horse-drawn carriage ride around the island—one of the preserved colonial quarters that earned Saint-Louis its UNESCO World Heritage designation. The streets here whispered of another time. Buildings with peeling pastel paint leaned into each other like old friends, and the sea breeze off the Senegal River gave everything a salty kiss of freshness. This part of town was clean and calm, like a curated memory. The iconic Faidherbe Bridge, often (perhaps mistakenly) attributed to Gustave Eiffel, connects the island to the mainland and adds to the architectural time capsule feeling.
There were cats!
We enjoyed seeing kids playing and riding bikes. That’s a sign of leisure time.
We began crossing the bridge to the spit on the edge of the island.
But across the bridge on the ocean-facing Langue de Barbarie, things changed quickly. Langue de Barbarie translates literally from French as “Barbarian Tongue” or more smoothly as “Barbarian Spit”. We entered a bustling fishing village that was chaotic, colorful, and crushingly poor. The streets were alive with people, animals, fish, and trash, all mingling in a sensory assault. The carriage offered a thin layer of separation, which we were grateful for as we navigated the crowds. It was a sharp reminder of the socioeconomic gaps that persist in this country, even in a city that once stood as a colonial crown jewel.
Sadly, there were also cats there. And everything else.
Later that day, on a whim that felt very on-brand for us, we asked if we could walk into Mauritania. Yes, on foot. Why not? After some back-and-forth with local guides, Birame, Djibe our driver, and another man from the carriage tour, we drove to a spot about a kilometer from the border. We got out and began walking. The GPS became our official witness as we stepped into Mauritania—no guard post, no flags, just a dusty path, a graveyard, and a couple of passing cars.
As border crossings go, this was one for the books. There we were, five of us, walking together into a new country without fanfare but with a quiet sense of achievement. On the beach on the Mauritanian side, we collected shells as souvenirs and stared out at the Atlantic, marveling at how arbitrary lines can become meaningful moments. Locals were playing soccer, fishing, and living their lives, ignoring us completely as they should.
That night, we ate at the Flamingo Restaurant, which was technically part of our hotel but across the street from the main building. We both opted for pizza, and there were green beans as a topping on my vegetarian pizza, which was….different. Service was slow, and we were starting to feel the drag of unclear dinner allowances—do drinks count? Can we order off-menu? Is this a set meal or à la carte? The ambiguity added to our fatigue.
We did actually try to find a jazz place that evening, but other than one club playing recorded music, the city was silent, as were we. Even the hotel lobby and bar didn’t have much going on.
The next morning, February 17, we woke up to no running water in the hotel. Delightful. Breakfast was a bland affair, and we were more than ready to get out of dodge. Fortunately, nature was calling—in a good way. We headed to the Djoudj National Bird Sanctuary, about an hour north, and spent the morning immersed in wetlands and wildlife. The best part of Saint-Louis was the natural environment with far fewer people.
Djoudj is one of the most important bird sanctuaries in the world, and one of West Africa’s greatest ecological treasures. Nestled in the Senegal River delta, it spans over 16,000 hectares of lakes, streams, and marshes, providing a critical stopover point for millions of migratory birds flying south from Europe. Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1981, it is home to over 1.5 million birds annually, including pelicans, flamingos, herons, cormorants, and more than 365 recorded species.
We boarded a small boat and started out fast and lively – it woke us up!
This is the pelican gallery. The one at the end is especially sad. One pelican in particular stayed with me long after we left Djoudj. While the rest gathered in tight, noisy clusters, diving and flapping and squabbling for space, one older bird had stationed itself apart on a distant sandbank. Its feathers were ragged and dull, its body hunched, and it occasionally dipped its long beak into the water without much conviction. At first, I thought it was sick. Later I learned that older pelicans, especially Great White Pelicans like these, often isolate themselves when they molt or weaken with age. It made sense—the instinct to step aside from the noise, to find a quiet edge when you’re tired or worn down. I couldn’t help but relate. After weeks on the road, full of motion and unfamiliarity, that solitary bird felt like a reflection of my own restless fatigue—a creature pausing, regrouping, quietly acknowledging its own limits.
Throughout the rest of the morning, we drifted through mangroves, watching pelicans by the hundreds, elegant herons, squawking cormorants, huge drifts and islands of birds.
And even a few crocodiles sunning themselves on the banks! Monitor lizards peeked out from rocks, and warthogs trotted nearby. The air buzzed with life, the kind of scene where you’re reminded how little you are, and how big the world still can feel.
We returned to the hotel to rest, wandered around town a bit, and then returned to the Flamingo for another dinner—this time, steak. Again, fine, but nothing to write home about. At that point, the biggest highlight was that the water in the hotel had been restored.
Saint-Louis left us feeling conflicted. There was undeniable charm, preserved history, and moments of unexpected adventure. But it was also a place where the cracks showed—poverty, mismanagement, and a fading artistic spirit that felt more like memory than momentum. With more investment, including addressing the poverty, it could be a great city one more. Still, we’ll remember the border crossing, the breeze off the sea, and the pelicans of Djoudj. With the unexpectedness of Mauritania, I racked up country number 111—and the beautiful yet haunted sunset behind a windy beach cemetery will be a feeling I never forget.
Even in disappointment, there’s always something to discover, and always a surprise. Surprise is the spice of life.
