SAMPHIRE IS a vegetable that tastes nearly as briny as the waters of the coastal regions where it is harvested. It's typically vibrant green, but on the shores of Senegal's most famous lake, it is an intense shade of magenta.
And the lake itself? That would be pink.
Lac Rose, or Lake Retba, was long known as the finishing line for the Dakar Rally, an annual off-road car race from France to Senegal that began in 1978. The reward for more than 15 days of driving was to wade into the lake, whose salinity levels are so high that swimmers bob effortlessly on its surface, much like in Israel's Dead Sea or Utah's Great Salt Lake.
Salt is scooped from the lake bottom in a basket. Evan Sung
The rally was moved to South America in 2009; the lake, of course, remains. In fact, it's becoming one of Senegal's most popular tourist destinations—a relative distinction given that Senegal has not garnered tourist love the way countries such as South Africa and Morocco have in recent years. Still, Unesco is considering designating Lac Rose a World Heritage site, and in-the-know travelers are starting to make the trip.
I'd come to the frenzied streets and outdoor markets of Dakar to research a cookbook, not to see pink water. But after eight days in the Senegalese capital, my ears were ringing from blaring car horns, my eyes were filled with dust and my head hurt from the intense negotiations required to get anything done. I needed an escape, and a local chef assured me the lake was worth the journey.
Lac Rose is situated on the edge of Cap Vert, the lush coastal region popular with tourists and locals for its beachside restaurants, white sand beaches and prime bird-watching opportunities. It's just 20 miles from Dakar, but a 2½-hour bus ride thanks to traffic and chaotic transfers. So the chef, a photographer and I hired a car to make the round-trip in air-conditioned comfort.
Dakar is a sprawling city whose streets are constantly congested; it requires patience to escape the tumult. Once we were finally out of the city, we followed a highway clogged with cars, buses, motorbikes, donkey carts and bicycles. The roads narrowed and we passed through smaller and smaller villages, but the traffic never completely subsided. At least the roadside vendors, who sold everything from mangoes to a local spiced coffee known as Café Touba to bottles of ivory-colored baobab juice, provided us with a movable feast along the way.
We eventually ended up on a dirt road as rosy and smooth as a new penny, then on a spindly pathway along the edge of lake. Lac Rose doesn't just hint at pinkness—it's not rose-hued if you manage to catch it in just the right light and squint a bit. It is vividly tinted, like strawberry sorbet or Pepto-Bismol. The color is the result of a micro-algae called Dunaliella salina that produces a red pigment to absorb sunlight. We stopped and got out of the car, then stood on the edge of the lake in silence, trying to adjust our baffled senses.
The lake is pink like strawberry sorbet or Pepto-Bismol
I was temporarily distracted from the sight of the water by the hundreds of samphire bushes that flourished in its white sandbanks—I never knew the plant came in anything but green. We broke off bits of the plant and nibbled on them, then piled armloads of samphire into the car to use in salads later on.
After another few minutes of driving, with terra-cotta-colored sand dunes on one side and the lake on the right, we found ourselves surrounded by salt cones as tall as people. Lac Rose is separated from the Atlantic Ocean only by a narrow corridor of dunes, resulting in salinity levels exceeding 40% in some parts of the lake.
Men and women come from all over Western Africa to harvest the coarse salt from the floor of Lac Rose. The salt is used by Senegalese fishermen to preserve fish; that, in turn, is a component of many traditional recipes, including the country's national dish, a fish stew calledthieboudienne.
Dozens of harvesters, baskets balanced on their heads, waited to add their loads to the hills of salt that grow bigger throughout each day. They work several hours a day in the punishing heat, rubbing shea butter derived from the nuts of local shea trees into their skin to protect it from the sun. I picked up a large discarded crystal on the shore and in its jagged shape could see a rosy hue—it seemed like a rougher cousin of pink Himalayan salt.
We soon realized that Lac Rose is not a place for shoes; salt dust covers the roads, and the beach is made up of silky black mud. We let our bare toes sink into the softness. It was tempting to turn the beach into a makeshift spa, but before we had time to don mud masks, a guide approached us offering a boat tour of the lake.
We settled on a price of around $10 for an hour-long ride. He helped us into his wooden rowboat, called a pirogue, and set out for the center of the one-square-mile lake. People in surrounding boats hopped into the waist-deep water, using shovels to scoop salt from the lake bottom. After a few spry shakes to remove excess water, they dumped the salt into their boats. When the vessels were nearly sinking under the weight, the harvesters walked them back to shore.
Our guide invited us to try harvesting salt with him, jumping out with a basket and shovel. We followed—but as soon as my feet met the sharp salt crystals, I knew I was not cut out to be a harvester. Instead, we floated for a while in the bathtub-warm water.
Eventually, our guide propelled us back to shore with a pole, like a Venetian gondolier. We thanked him, rinsed our feet in water from a nearby well, and set out for a late lunch, driving past white-and-brown-speckled cows, cone-shaped salt mounds and weary harvesters.
Beachside shacks abound at Lac Rose; we settled into one a few feet from the shore for a meal of yassa poulet, a traditional dish of grilled chicken and vegetables in a caramelized-onion sauce. It was accompanied by the hot red pepper condiment called kani. While we waited, we snacked on our samphire and drank chilled bottles of the local beer, Gazelle.
The simple lunch mirrored the straightforward nature of the harvesters' work. I regretted that we were heading back to Dakar so soon, and wished we could spare a few more days—there was so much left to explore around Lac Rose. But at least I knew that every time the clamor of the city streets started getting to me, I could daydream about floating in a pink lake on the edge of the ocean.
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Source: The Wall Street Journal
I've been there, and I wouldn't recommend anyone to try to swim in it ! Too much salt
ReplyDeleteAMAING IM GOING TO SENEGAL FOR THIS
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