Slave traders in Dakar

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From the serenity of St Louis, the old capital, to the noise and madness of Dakar, the new capital. A day's drive that takes us from the dust of horse drawn carts to the diesel fumes of 18 wheel lorries.

Our guest house is in Dakar's northern outskirts, on the Atlantic coast. From the roof terrace we can see the waves crashing onto yet another long beach. It is a busy beach used by youngsters, playing football; horses pulling carts, who use the beach as a road; and us and a few locals, walking. And there are herds of goats, some untethered horses and numerous scavenging kites and vultures.

Dakar is a noisy, polluted African city with some interesting markets and an impressive art deco cathedral. On the edge of the city is the most westerly point in Africa. This turned out to be just a rocky headland, I am not sure what we had expected! Dakar is, also, a major port, full of container ships and oil tankers and, to our surprise, two French naval ships bringing in vehicles and helicopters, we assume for use in Mali.

For more than 200 years, slaves were this port's main cargo. We visited the Isle d'Goree, just off shore and the main shipment place for slaves. The “maison des esclaves” is a large and impressive colonial building but it is a chilling place. Upstairs there are airy rooms and a cool verandah overlooking the bay. This is where the French lived and worked.

But downstairs it so different – a maze of dark rooms with barred windows. Above the doorways are the legends “hommes”, “femmes”, “enfants” and “recalcitrants”. There is just one doorway through which the slaves could leave – and it opens straight onto the ocean. Through this door, many many slaves boarded the ships that took them to America or the Caribbean.

The island is beautiful, as can be seen in the above panorama. It is like an unspoilt Mediterranean island. All colourful buildings, cobbled alleys and bougainvillea. Artists live, work and display their works in many of the buildings. The contrast between the island's beauty today and its history is stark.

Our final long journey took us back south, back past the little local villages of mud huts to Gambia and back across the river to Banjul. Here we stayed for our last day in the only decent hotel, which turned out to be full of European tourists on all-inclusive winter sun holidays. After a month on and off African roads, it felt as foreign to us as anywhere we had been.

Tomorrow we fly home with memories of beautiful, white beaches and smiling, black Africans and with a little more knowledge of the history and geography of this corner of the continent. Can we get some of this sunshine into our suitcase?

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