My first trip off the North American continent was to Senegal, West Africa and for me it was a pilgrimage. For me, it was a chance to put together a huge piece of the puzzle that makes me an African American. I can't say I was going to my true homeland because I don't know if my ancestors were Senegalese. But I was going to the Motherland.

My sense of wonder began as I boarded Air Afrique and saw an African pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit. The hosts and hostesses were African, in fact, the entire staff was African. I had never seen so many faces like mine, in control, on one airplane. Everything seemed extremely laid back. I asked my Senegalese neighbor to show me the currency and I fell in love with the money that did not honor dead leaders, but everyday people working the land and in the markets. All in living color. I had never seen black people on money before. Six hours after we flew out of JFK we arrived in Dakar and like so many of the other African American pilgrims before me, I kissed the ground when I reached African soil at the end of the ramp.

It was hot and sunny, but not too hot or sunny. In fact, it was no hotter than my summers in Washington, DC. But I was a world away from Washington, DC as I passed colorfully painted old buses with human and chicken passengers in the seats and standing on the outside rails, hanging on. Someone would bang on the back of the bus when everyone had gotten on and off.  I saw several Mercedes Benz cars occupied with men in business suits. I passed women in beautiful dresses with their heads wrapped to match, with baskets balanced on top, and sometimes a baby tied to their backs. I saw boys on bicycles with huge white smiles and well worn t shirts with American pop culture slogans. All the while people were saying "sister, sister", "welcome home", as if they knew I had come searching for my lost home. But when I left my hotel complex south of Dakar on the Atlantic Ocean, I wandered into a small village and witnessed a naming ceremony. Drawn to the celebration by the loud music, I happened upon a blessed event. A 2 week old baby was being named, and the town had come out to welcome the newborn. Everyone danced, and I was embarrassed to join in when I saw their moves. The 12 year old boys literally danced circles around me. I was given the honor of holding the child in my arms, wrapped in the most exquisite cloth. He never opened his eyes, but mine were as wide as saucers. It wouldn't be the first time a complete stranger would trust me with their child.

The next day I went by ferry to Isle de Gorée (Gorée Island). It was a prolific slave port for centuries and countless numbers of African men, women and children were held captive on Gorée until they either died or were shipped as chattel to the New World. My heart broke and tears flowed as I stood in the small cells where "children wept for their mothers". I saw were the women were held in cells directly beneath the slave traders. I was afraid to go too close to the "Door of No Return". The slaves who entered through were either sickly and fed to the sharks, or healthy and sent away. But the museum keeper said, "you did return", and I cried even harder. But in the irrepressible spirit of Africans and African Americans, children were waiting outside of the museum with big smiles to hold my hands and guide me around their island, wiping my tears away with their happiness, laughter and questions.  Readers can take a virtual visit of Gorée Island now by clicking on http://webworld.unesco.org/Gorée/en/index.shtml.

The next days were filled with trips to a fishing village near sunset where the women waited for the men to return from a day on the water. Fish were all over the beach. Their smells mingled with the smell of smoke as people busied themselves to clean, cook and sell fish. The senses are also hit by the sunset, the color of the ocean, contrasted with the sand and darkness of the people's skins reflected off of their bright clothing. I saw Lac Rose (Pink Lake) which is so salty you can float in ankle deep water. Towers of sand were piled up on parts of the beach. With all the fish the Senegalese eat, the salt it used as a preservative. The waters are thought to be therapeutic, and a handsome Senegalese man in dreadlocks with a refreshment stand is all the company one really needs at Pink Lake. You can see pictures of Pink Lake on http://www.au-senegal.com/decouvrir/geo_retba.htm.  The markets were like a day at the circus with so much excitement and action and laughter, that you could spend all the money you have in one day on art, crafts, fabrics, musical instruments, jewelry, and more. The idea is to bargain and be social. You never accept the first price and you never offer a ridiculously low price. Somewhere in the middle everyone is happy and you may have made a new friend. Against my instincts, I even trusted a vendor on Gorée Island to bring me change to my hotel in Dakar. He said he knew where to find me and he did. That single act renewed a level of trust I had lost in mankind in the often "look out for yourself" America. But when you give trust, you often get it in return.

Before I left I had to have my hair braided in Africa by an African. Well I got my hair braided by four Africans at the same time. Two women and two girls braided my hair as I sat on the porch of one of their homes. Sometime during the visit I met two Uncles, more cousins, and a woman put her little baby in my arms and walked off. She came back in about 20 minutes, and again I was overwhelmed by the trust I was given. The little baby, I don't know if it was a boy or girl, slept soundly and never knew she wasn't with her mother. I was fed a traditional meal of chicken, rice and vegetables, and encouraged to eat with my hands. And even though I wasn't always with someone who could speak English or understand my French, we never stopped talking and smiling.

I left Senegal vowing to return with my African American friends and share the warmth I experienced and sense of belonging. People were anxious to talk to me just because I was African American. And I never got tired of hearing, "welcome home".