ABSTRACT
On a bright, warm fall morning I step off the chaloupe (ferry) from theAfrican mainland and onto the dock at Gorée Island. I’m not sad to leavethe bustling metropolis of Dakar behind for a few hours. After two months,the pleasures of the Senegalese capital have worn off somewhat. The splendid French, Lebanese, and West African restaurants and the bustling nightclubs with their Afrobeat sound now just exhaust me, and even the relative calm of the national archives-one of the finest and best staffed anywhere-seems a bit stale and fetid. The busy, polluted streets are choking, and the daily cries of the Muslim muezzins, ringing of church bells, and construction jackhammers all jar me with their vibrations.
