Two days before I left Dakar after my five-week stay, my friend Mamadou organised a visit for me to Goree Island, a few miles off the coast. The picturesque setting and the beauty of the island are in contrast to the main purpose to which it was put for more than two centuries of colonial rule, for it was one of many staging posts along the African west coast for slaves being shipped to Europe and the Americas.

The former prison is now a museum, which it is impossible to visit without a tear in the eye at the thought of the basic inhumanity of it all, and the suffering over so many years endured by human beings captured, imprisoned, shackled and then sold into slavery, never to see their homeland or families again.

The island has all the attributes one would expect of one of the most famous tourist sites in an African country, not least the hordes of locals seeking to sell you something. I was genuinely embarrassed as I had little money left, which of course is difficult for the prospective sellers to understand. A podgy, middle-aged white git with a posh camera is supposed to have some money after all. Well, it was difficult; as always in these cases the people rely on this income, but there was nothing I could do about it, and so spent much of the time trying to explain why I was a distinctly unpromising target for their often very determined salespitch. And the people are very inventive. One young man pointed out to me the multiple - though previously unnoticed - severe deficiencies in my sandals, which he promised to fix at a price. Then there were the artists. The lower part of the island has most of the buildings, the old prison, the restaurants and so on. But as you climb gently up to the top of the single hill, the roads and tracks are lined with the work of dozens of artists. And wonderfully vivid and dramatic this art is. I would surely have bought something if only I had had some funds left. Having none, it seemed churlish to take photos of people's original work, so I didn't - which on the other hand is a shame as at least I could have publicised it to anyone viewing this site.

I was staying on the northern coast of the peninsular on which Dakar is situated, and the port is on the south. Getting across there was in itself quite an adventure: a lengthy journey in a bus chock-full of people, then fighting for a taxi. Anyway, it all went well enough and I was accompanied by "Le Vieux", a young friend of Mamadou. I couldn't understand why he was called Le Vieux, but it seems to work for him! I was very grateful for his literal guidance, not least in his help fighting off the pedlers on the island. The trip on the ferry takes about 20 minutes, during which one has magnificent views of the port and of course the island - and indeed of Dakar in the background. The tourists were very chatty and I struck up several conversations with people, swapping reasons for being there and tales of our experiences so far.

All in all, it was a poignant and memorable visit. On the one hand it was a pleasure to see the island today so tranquil and pretty, but on the other the thought of what it was like in former times was very sad, and of course the museum brings it all into sharp relief. I say "museum", but the major part of the the latter is the building itself, with the various cells where prisoners were kept for long months while awaiting deportation. None of that was the fault of anyone alive today, but even so one cannot help feeling an element of guilt that our forefathers could have done such unspeakable things.                                      CONTINUE