Goree Island (Race Matters, Volume 3)

Preparing myself for Goree, I kenw that my sentiments would be far from "happily ever after," though I hoped some sort of internal reconciliation would be possible.

We arrived at the port and I immediately I took notice of the usual suspects. In one group I saw the crunchy white people, dreadlocked and rugged, drawn to the attraction of Goree in an effort to connect with and understand the island, a symbol of historical oppression and human suffering. In another, white European tourists, in Dakar no doubt to see the major tourist sites and it just so happened that one of them is a famous slave port. Africans, (mostly Senegalese) for many of whom the trip is kind of like my elementary and highschool trips to Ellis Island. OK, not quite. More like Gettysburg or Jamestown, perhaps. Anyway, you get my drift. The token Asian tourists made an appearance as well, of course. And then there was me.

Looking around, I gathered that I was the only Black American around (an unfair assessment for all of the reasons that I am sometimes discounted from the consideration of others) and without realizing it (and somewhat involuntarily), my curiosity of the others turned into an almost despising scrutiny. Boarding the vessel that would be commandeered the short distance to Goree, all around me were smiles, laughing and picture taking. My mind began to rage.

What are you all smiling and laughing about? I wanted to walk around and ask people if they thought that this was going to be a fun trip. I wanted to ask them if they understood that to thousands and perhaps millions, the short trip that we were about to make meant for them either death or that they would never see home again. I held back (those of you who know me know that I am not that confrontational), though my mind was spinning. Looking around, I saw Senegalese, entertaining different groups of tourists with maraca-sounding instruments (two baseball sized orbs with beads inside of them). The tourists loved it, asking for more. I turned to Sam, who I hoped could be my outlet. But he was in a world of his own, fully enjoying his new iPod (he had done this trip many times before).

With no one to talk to you I fumed, silently, peering over the rails and into the green-blue water. Had I had my way, the boat would be silent. Well, maybe not silent, but not so damn festive. Shit, they even could have had a guide on the boat giving all of the tourists some history and perspective so that we could better understand the global significance of the slave trade in West Africa, and Goree's place in the grander scheme. I would have appreciated that. Instead, it felt like we were on our way to a theme park.

My difficulty (which I recognized better when we arrived and had spent some time in Goree) was not understanding that Goree had moved on. Though in actuality, I knew only outlines of the history of Goree Island (particularly it's significance in the trans-atlantic slave trade), I was not prepared for it to have moved on, for it to be a place of its own (not completely defined by the slave trade) in 2008. Like the open wound that it was as a keystone in the transatlantic slave trade for several centuries, I wanted it to remain as such, so that people (particularly Europeans) would not able to forget and would look upon it and feel shame. This is the closest that I can come to really articulating my thoughts and feelings at the time.

Understandably, to a handful of Senegalese (particularly those who live on the island) the business of tourism to Goree reigns supreme. That said, I found myself becoming gradually more annoyed and frustrated as Senegalese approached me, talking first of the signficance of Goree and then trying to sell some item, or asking a favor, usually prefaced with "my brother" or "can you help your brother/sister by..."

Symbolically, the visit to the slave quarters and dungeon was the most significant part of the experience (if anyone who reads this will be going to Dakar/Goree in the forseeable future, do let me know as I can put you in touch with a really good English-speaking guide). This was my first encounter with a slave port on the African continent, and as such it was a powerful moment. "The door of no return" was particularly haunting, as the ocean comes almost directly up to the door, where (according to our guide) smaller rowboats boats would briefly dock to pick up slaves to be transported to the larger ships to begin the Middle Passage. Those slaves who had died in the Goree dungeon or were perceived too weak or sick to make the trip to the Americas (and be productive) were frequently thrown out of this door to drown. The light emanating through the door and illuminating the otherwise dark slave chambers will be one of the most haunting images of this entire fellowship experience.

Exiting through the front entrance of the slave quarters, we left behind the only recognition of Goree's significance in the transatlantic slave trade, aside from a statue that stands right outside of the structure. The rest of the island is sparsely populated and business goes on as usual. Goree had moved on. I had to move on as well.

Sam and I explored the rest of the small island, snapping a few pictures (coming soon-ish) where appropriate and taking-in the experience. With the opportunity to stay on the island for several hours (we were meeting some friends who were coming on a later ferry) we split up and chilled a bit. Sandals in hand, I headed down to the water to collect a bit of the sea glass (quite plentiful on Goree) which littered the small beach. After a while I sat down. Burrowing my bare feet in the wet sand, I gazed at the island's coast, trying to sort my thoughts and wondering how many bodies had been thrown into the hungry and tireless ocean.