Médina

The Médina was born of a colonial decision: in 1914 the plague epidemic served as the pretext for moving the African population out of the Plateau, and a grid of numbered streets was laid out north of the European town. That grid is still there, and it is what makes the district so easy to walk: even-numbered streets run one way, odd the other, and you find your bearings in three minutes.

What changed is the density. The Médina is now one of the most populated parts of Dakar, with courtyard houses holding three generations, a shop every twenty metres, sewing workshops, mechanics, and the Tilène market spilling into the roadway from morning to night. The Grand Mosque, inaugurated in 1964, closes the perspective of allée Papa Guèye Fall; on Friday at two the faithful pray out onto the pavement and traffic stops of its own accord.

It is also the music district. Thiossane, Youssou Ndour's club, is here, and mbalax was invented as much in these courtyards as on those stages: on the night of a naming ceremony or a wedding, the drummers set up their sabars in the street, the lane closes, and the neighbourhood dances until two in the morning with nobody calling the police.

For a visitor, the Médina is where Dakar's rhythm becomes legible: the muezzin, the workshop, the market, children coming home from school in their smocks, tea at five. It is neither quiet nor air-conditioned. It is the centre, and the Plateau is fifteen minutes away on foot.

In the Médina everything is bought in the street: morning café Touba on the corner, bread at the shop, fish at Tilène, phone credit from a boy holding a stack of cards, and bagged ice from the neighbour. Nothing closes before eleven at night. The trade-off fits in one sentence: it is loud. Two markets, an avenue, carpentry workshops starting at seven, and children in the streets until dark. Take a room over the courtyard if you are a light sleeper.