A “nearly” lonely beach walk in Senegal

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Beach walk

There I was, standing on a beach in Senegal, close to the village of Ponto, a bit south of M’bour, feeling like I’d stumbled into a private paradise.

The first thing that hit me was how empty it was—gloriously empty. Not the kind of empty that makes you feel lonely, but the kind that makes you feel like the universe saved this place just for you. The sand stretched out for what seemed like miles in both directions, with only the rhythmic swoosh of the waves and the occasional caw of a bird breaking the silence. Just perfect to a long walk after late late breakfast to explore the countryside.

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Walking

I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the warm sand. It felt almost too perfect, like I was walking into a postcard. The water? That perfect shade of blue that draws you in without a second thought. So, of course, I waded in.

The cool water rushed over my ankles, and that was it—I was hooked. Standing there, with the waves gently lapping at my legs and the sky wide open above me, I felt a kind of peace that’s hard to come by. It was just me, the ocean, and the horizon stretching into forever. Only a few rocks at the beach marked some kind of distance.

When Reality Sneaks In

But, of course, not everything can be perfect. As I walked further down the beach, I started noticing little patches of litter scattered here and there. It wasn’t a full-blown disaster—just some plastic bottles, a couple of wrappers. Little reminders that even paradise gets a bit rough around the edges sometimes. I grumbled about it for a moment, but then the ocean caught my eye again. I maybe should spend some time to do a #cleanplanet walk to post into this cool #hive community. There are some days left in paradise.

The sunlight bouncing off the water, the waves crashing in their hypnotic rhythm—it was enough to make me forget the litter entirely. Sure, the beach wasn’t pristine, but it was real, and somehow that made it better.

Finding that unique Hut

After a good long walk, I saw something that made me stop. It was a small hut, barely held together with driftwood and palm fronds, sitting just above the high tide line. In front of it, there was a man, relaxed as could be, with an boom box playing music beside him. The music—mbalax, they call it—was this vibrant, fast rhythm that made you want to move even if you had no idea how. I forgot his name or I didn’t understood it correctly, so I named him Moussa, as this was the closest we could agree on.

He waved me over with a broad grin and offered me a spot next to him like we were old friends. I sat down, and we exchanged a few awkward words, a mix of broken French, English, and Wolof. But really, we didn’t need to talk much. His music was doing all the communicating. The music was this perfect blend of drums and melody that seemed to sync with the crash of the waves, and Moussa hummed along, tapping his bare feet in the sand. It was one of those moments where you don’t need conversation. The sun was starting to dip, and there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy it.

He offered me a cup of tea but I had my water and no money at all with me - to pay anything he might ask for, even as this might be the typical way to make even more friendship. Sure, this place deserve it and I grabbed into my bag and got another one from my few #Worldmappin stickers to stick this to his hut. No we have another cool #ProofOfPin to this unique place.

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So, I started my way back, while watching the colors of the sky shift from golden to pink. The music, the personality of this young guy, the sound of the ocean—it all blended together into this perfect, peaceful rhythm. I’ve sat in fancy cafes and high-end bars, but nothing compared to that rickety little hut with Moussa and his old boom box. We will meet again and I will be prepared.

My way back

After all that walking and the lovely voice from, I realized something: I was thirsty. Not just “oh, I could use a drink” thirsty—I was parched. My water bottle, which I’d so confidently packed that morning, was now bone dry, and suddenly, the idea of trudging back to my hotel through the sand seemed like a mini-marathon.

I gave my new friend again a wave, thanked him with this for the time staying at his place, and headed back. As I navigated my way along the beach, the sun continuing its slow descent, all I could think about was the cold drink that would be waiting for me back at the hotel. With each step, I imagined that first sip of something icy, something refreshing, something that wasn’t hot tea or tepid water from the bottle I’d drained two hours ago.

By the time I reached the hotel, I was practically daydreaming about that cold drink. I stepped into the breezy lobby, feet still sandy, and made a beeline for the bar. And there it was—a tall, frosty big glass of Flag beer or better two.

The First Sip of Flag Beer

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been truly thirsty, but let me tell you, that first sip was like a revelation. Flag beer isn’t fancy, but when it’s cold, fresh from the tap, it’s the stuff of legends.

The glass was sweating in the humid air, beads of condensation rolling down the glass as I tipped it back and let the beer wash over my dry throat. It was crisp, with just the right amount of fizz, and that subtle, slightly bitter edge that makes you close your eyes and sigh in satisfaction. Luckily, I’m such a smart guy, as I ordered two refreshments as the first was already empty but my thirst still there.

The Flag taste

The taste? Pure refreshment. Light, not too heavy or overpowering, with a mellow maltiness that somehow fits perfectly with the warm Senegalese air. There’s a hint of sweetness in there too, balanced out by a clean, dry finish that makes you want to take another sip immediately. It was exactly what I needed after that long walk under the sun. Nothing to compare with the great Belgium beers but nothing to complain at all.

I sat there for a while, slowly working through the beers, letting the cool liquid bring me back to life. The bar was quiet, a few other travelers scattered about, and the breeze from the ocean drifted in, mixing with the sounds of distant waves. In that moment, that cold beer felt like a well-deserved reward, the perfect end to a day spent exploring the beauty—and reality—of Senegal’s beaches.

With each sip, I could feel my #beerlover energy coming back, and by the time I finished that two, I was ready to do it all over again tomorrow. There’s something about Flag beer that just fits here. Maybe it’s the simplicity of it, or maybe it’s the way it seems to go down even better when you’ve earned it after a long, hot day. Either way, that first bottle won’t be my last.

The Beach in Golden Light

It was one of those afternoons that sticks with you. Not because of anything grand or spectacular, but because it was simple and real. Just a quiet beach, a stranger’s hospitality, and the feeling that, for a little while at least, I’d found a place where the world slowed down enough for me to really take it all in. Sure, the two beers did a great job at the end.