Goodbye Louga & Farewell Senegal

I will never forget the warm welcome and deep sense of appreciation I experienced in Louga.

We were out in the middle of nowhere—surrounded by unfamiliar landscapes, desert stretches, and challenging living conditions—and yet, the people there had so much to give. They were welcoming, hardworking, and full of heart.

My host teacher, who we affectionately called “Mayor,” seemed to know everyone, and everyone knew him. He was like a friendly father figure to half the town—both a teacher and a friend—and he treated us like family from the moment we arrived.

Throughout the entire trip, I never felt more at home than when I was sitting in his house, sharing meals with his family and friends. Walking back to our hotel at night after different excursions, I found myself able to talk openly with him and others about life, experiences, and just how amazing it was to have this opportunity—an opportunity I never imagined I would have.

There’s a special kind of comfort and quiet that comes from being in the desert.
It’s not the level of accommodations or material things I’m used to back home—but honestly, it’s all you really need.

When we returned to Dakar as a group, we visited Gorée Island—a place that left a deep impact on me.

As soon as we got off the boat, we were surrounded by vibrant colors, bustling market stalls, and people calling out: "Hello, sister!" "Come and see my shop, sister!" It was lively and familiar to me by now, after spending time in Senegalese markets.

But just a few steps away, our tour guide began to tell a very different story.
He pointed out that the colorful houses belonged to different cultures that had come here to trade—and to trade in slaves. The Dutch, Spanish, English—all had left their marks here.

Our guide described Gorée as a paradise today—no cars, no pollution—but it is also a place of deep sorrow. From this very island, countless people were forcibly taken from Africa, loaded onto boats, and never allowed to return.

Standing in front of the Door of No Return—the passage where enslaved people were sent onto ships—was one of the most somber experiences of my life.

I found myself wanting to document it for my students back home, to share the history and gravity of this place. But at the same time, it didn’t feel right to smile, to pose for a happy photo, or to make light of the moment.

When I have better internet, I’ll share a 360° video of Gorée Island so that students in Maine—and anyone else who watches—can experience the look and feel of this place for themselves. It’s something I’ll never forget.

Soon, I’ll be leaving Dakar.

On one of my last outings, I joined a group of teachers who wanted to find a record store and visit a grocery store attached to a mall. I was really curious—what would a mall in Dakar look like? Would it feel familiar, like malls back in the U.S.?

First, we found the record store—or more accurately, a small room attached to someone’s house, down a dirt street, with no signage at all. It was tucked away, barely noticeable, and yet somehow, I wasn’t even surprised anymore. I’ve grown used to seeing shops set up in rooms off people’s homes, with inventory carefully displayed for whoever might come by.

Afterward, we made our way to the mall—and I was shocked by the contrast.

Just one street away was the bustling, vibrant market I’ve come to know so well—full of goats, tents, people selling goods laid out on the ground, a world alive with color and movement. But inside the mall? It could have been anywhere: a bookstore, a perfume shop, a coffee shop, Levi’s jeans for sale.

At this point in my travels, I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. There’s a part of me that’s a little scared. I wonder—if I return to Dakar in 10 or 20 years, will the markets still be here?

There’s a quiet sadness in seeing so many hardworking, grounded, open-hearted people look toward America—and the way we live—as the ultimate goal. I can’t help but hope that the spirit and authenticity of the markets, the neighborhoods, and the everyday life I’ve come to love here will still survive.

I’m excited to return home—to the comfortable familiarity of knowing the people, knowing the language, and knowing what to expect.

The hardest cultural barrier for me was time. In Senegal, everything takes a little longer. We were asked to create agendas, but sticking to them was nearly impossible. Meals weren’t quick in-and-out affairs like I’m used to—they were social experiences, often stretching two or three hours.

At first, it was hard to adjust. But now, I realize how beautiful that slower pace can be.

One of the biggest things I hope to bring back with me is the concept of teranga—Senegal’s spirit of hospitality, welcome, and community. Greeting every student at the door? That’s teranga. Making sure every student’s voice is heard? That’s teranga.

What an amazing experience this has been. I’m so grateful for everything I’ve learned.