IN 1884, ON A BEACH LOCATED NEAR MY sister-in-law’s home in Dakar, Senegal, an itinerate fisherman named Seydina Limamou Laye discovered what he called the light of Mohammed buried in the sand, and declared himself reincarnated as the prophet. He later informed his followers that his son Issa was Jesus returned to earth. Slightly spooky black-and-white paintings of Issa dot the long whitewashed wall behind my sister-in-law’s home. The Atlantic Ocean crashes into the rocks a hundred yards below.

The brotherhood that Sheikh Laye founded is one of four Sufi sects that dominate the spiritual life of Senegal, and much of its economy. Unlike Islamic traditions that emphasize a personal relationship with God, the mystic Sufis in Senegal follow their own prophets, called marabouts. The largest sect, the Mourides, owns most of the "cars rapides" that are ubiquitous on Senegal’s highways and streets. These rusted, hand-me-down buses are painted in brilliant colors, stuffed with passengers, and piled high with goods. Each has the word Alhamdulillah— all praise to Allah—painted on the front, and quite often a two-foot- high decal of Madonna (the near-naked singer, not the virgin) affixed to the back window.

This admixture of sacred and secular, of an Islam suffused with tribal animism and French colonial Christianity, of the medieval and the postmodern, is characteristic of Senegal. There are, for example, the women. The Senegalese are easily one of the most fashion conscious people on earth. In this conservative Moslem culture, you will not see women and men touching or kissing in public, but the majority of the women, even in the villages, are coiffed and madeup and beautifully dressed. They wear both Western clothing and boubous, a shoulder-to-ankle gown with matching head wrap made from cotton, sometimes embroidered, or a damask, hand-dyed in Mali, called tchoup. It is common to see roadside groups of wonderfully- turned-out women stepping past the piles of trash and burning garbage that litter every block.

Or consider the justly famed West African music and dance, which combine bluesy rhythms with inspired vocal riffs and athletic, possessed, almost jointless spasms of movement. In this land of Moslem mystics, an unpredictable spirit lurks inside life’s steady drumbeat, making way for the truly surprising, even the miraculous.

Environmental science professor Vince Resh came by my office shortly after I’d returned from Senegal last January to help me interpret my experiences there. Resh had lived in West Africa for a dozen years, working with the World Health Organization to eradicate the waterborne parasite that causes river blindness. He was soon to return as leader of a Bear Trek to explore its rivers and river societies. While I’d gone to Senegal curious but culturally ignorant, Resh was a fount of knowledge about Senegalese Sufism and polygamy and a dozen other topics. But for all his knowledge, it’s something ineffable that draws him back. He said he feels himself more fully there than in Berkeley.

One afternoon in Dakar, which was improbably lit up with Christmas decorations, my wife, her sister, and I ran the gauntlet of merchants and hawkers downtown. On streets lined with shops and pedestrians as dense as a Manhattan block, at least half of the people were selling something. Their sidewalk tables or their arms were overloaded with cell phones and telephone cards; cashews, dates, small oranges, and carved coconuts; towels, belts, socks, and tee shirts with Cubs logos; plastic and cloth dolls with pink or brown skin and handmade wooden dollhouses; watches, necklaces, ankle chains, earrings, and bracelets; indigo and tie-dyed cloth stacked on heads; gilded frame photos of marabouts; and refrigerator magnets in the shape of Christmas trees decorated with the stars and stripes.

The sidewalk sometimes disappeared, forcing us into the street, or it turned into a sand path, only to reappear again. Instead of stopping, drivers honked. After rushing across one street and nearly stumbling, I looked down to check my feet and saw a man planted on the pavement. Incredibly, he appeared to be chopped off just below the rib cage, like a museum bust. He wore a white skullcap, and sat on a board with wheels that he moved with his arms. He smiled up at me, beatifically, before I was propelled forward by pedestrians behind me.

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