Now after passing three French speaking countries, Morocco, Mauritania and Senegal, we are going to one of the smallest countries in Africa, The Gambia. Colonised by the British and getting their independance in 1965, The Gambia still has an English feel to it and apart from the three local languages, Maudinka (Maudingo) Wolof (the Senegalese language too along with Malwké & susu), and Fula, English is spoken by everyone and taught as the main language in all the schools. The children all have uniforms, something which continued once the Brits left and odd to see amongst such poverty and humidity.
Getting to the border was straight forward. The Senegal side was hassle free but 100 metres later at the Gambian side we were asked to park up. Two officials in good English ask us to open all the doors of “Jambo Mbili” and one stays with me and the other with Alan as they search the car in detail. They find a knife which Alan has travelled with for fifteen years and want to confiscate it. They smell my cigarettes, checking for other substances and by the time Alan explains all the cases in the car and especially my shoe bag, “typical woman” he says to the guard, they have become our best friends. “You need a friend in The Gambia” they say, “what have you got for me?”
We’ll after saying we will bring a truck next time with “Cadeaux” and presents for everyone, and that this is our first time in Africa and didn’t know what was is store (literally) for us and taking everyone’s addresses, giving our address, we are allowed to go to the customs office and the police office. Simply done till we walk out and Anne-Marie the police woman & Abdul the policeman want to be our best friends too, so promising a cap and a pair of sunglasses, if we come back through again we are welcomed to The Gambia. Much more suttle than the other border crossings.
So now we have to buy, 5kms down the road, our ferry tickets to cross from Barra to Banjul over the River Gambia. Taking the ticket mans address too and the security mans address at the main gate of the ferry we chug 40 minutes to the capital, Banjul and move on as quickly as possible, to Sukuta as the ferry port of Banjul is renowned for it’s crime and drugs.
Sekuta camping is one of the only campsite along the coast and very comfortable. Cold showers in clean bathrooms are welcome in this heat though two minutes later you need another one.
Here we meet Frank, a Dutch cyclist who has written many books, in Dutch, on his cycling safaris all round the world, who on this journey has done our same route, but starting in Holland. We’re at 8000kms and Frank is at 11,000kms. (by bike).
Its Friday November 3rd and we spend the day visiting the main towns and getting used to the feel of the country. The Gambia is a strange country, surrounded entirely by Senegal. The West Coast is where everything happens; hotels, restaurants, bars, built-up towns and long sandy beaches. Tourists are many! In the rest of the country you come across traditional villages, local markets and very friendly people.
We decide to cook a meal rather than eat at the campsite restaurant, just as we finish our meal Mike who we first met in Casablanca and two German motorcyclists whom we met in the Zeberbar in Senegal, turn up. We spend a pleasant evening enjoying a drink or three and telling many & funny safari stories, under the light of a full moon. Mike suggested a nice place down on the beach called the Bamboo Bar so we spent the following day relaxing, topping up the tan and enjoying a swim in the warm water of sea. A Gambian hustler came by & pointing his finger and with thumb held up in pistol fashion, says “hey man ya mus come an see ma jewes” I really don’t need more jewels, I have plenty at home I told him. “No man, it’s all fresh, my jewes” “So your an artist” says Alan. “Ye man I’m an artist, I make mango jewes, baobab jewes, banana jewes, pinapple jewes”, so we made him happy , once we knew what he was saying and had the Mango Juice! On our way back to the campsite we bought a catfish from a stall on the beach and fried it up with chips for dinner.
When we woke on the Sunday morning Frank came over to ask us if we’d like to go the local village with him, he needed to buy food and some batteries for his torch. So instead of packing up the tent again, we walked to the main road and hailed a local bus. For 5 Dalasi (34 Dalasi = €1), each we crammed in amongst the locals and rattled and bumped along the dusty and pot-holed road to the town, the sweat poring off us along with theirs! Then bartering for bananas, ladies fingers, a delicious green vegetable that is slimy when boiled and reminding me of Kenya, peanut butter, shoved into a plastic bag by the sellers grubby fingers, and onions, we headed back by the local bus, walking through the busy market. As we got off the bus a young boy was making omelettes by the side of the road, we bought some French bread next door and sat whilst he prepared our lunch which we washed down with Coca Cola. Both Alan & I never normally drink coke, but since we’ve been in Africa a day doesn’t go by without at least one. It’s far too hot, as I have mentioned before, so we eat a lot less and perhaps the sugary Coka Cola makes up for what we loose in perspiration, along with gallons of water which we drink all day long.
We had originally decided to travel through The Gambia keeping south of the river, but everyone, including the locals, told us that it would not be a good idea as the road was almost impassable in many places. So leaving Sekuta Camping we made our way back to Banjul and the ferry terminal where we arrived at 11:30, we finally boarded a ferry at 17:30! six hours of waiting in line under the boiling sun with a million hasslers trying to sell us useless rubbish or begging.
By the time we reached Barra it was 18:15 and here in Africa the sun goes down at 19:00. We never like driving in the dark because the roads are terrible and you can’t see the people or the animals by the side of the road, so generally if we travel from one place to another we stop around 16:30 - 17:00 giving ourselves enough time to set up camp.
But today, inspite of our early start, we are heading to a small village called Juffreh and the sun is setting. The tarmac finishes immediately as we turn off the main road onto the track to Juffreh and the pot-holes start again. The headlights make them seem worse from a distance so very carefully we make progress, getting lost at a certain point. The Alhemdellulah public bus pulls up behind us in a small village to let out some passengers, We have become the highlight of the evening by this time with children trying to catch a ride on our rear ladder and the locals expecting goodies. The driver of the bus doesn’t speak much English but tells us to follow him when he understood we wanted to get to Juffreh. We were pleased that help was at hand but now we could not see the pot-holes through the dust cloud being thrown up by the bus and decide to just follow the rear lights wherever they go! the bus driver is a local after all and we hope he avoids the hazards. Finally at 21:00 we arrive in Juffreh and thank our good sanmaritan. We have been given the name of a policeman at the Juffreh police post and after introductions are invited to stay and set up camp inside the police compound - no security problems and a friendly policeman called Lamin Jata. Within minutes we have a crowd of police recruits and locals watching in amazement as Alan unfolds a big box! and hey presto our roof-tent-house is born! EEEYHHH! The expression of bewilderment is expressed by everyone. A cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits is our dinner and we climb into bed exhausted by the long day and hectic drive, to the sound of dogs fighting and through the night yet more barking dogs, donkeys calling, cocks waking early and the birds announcing another new day. The ear-plugs didn’t help to much and we probably managed only an houy or two of sleep.
Nevermind. We are in this tiny village with a huge name. It is to here that Alex Haley retraced his steps along his family tree back to where Kunta Kintje, seven generations earlier were captured by white men and sold as slaves to be sent to America. The bestselling book “Roots” tells his story. Dudou, a local guide has offered to show us around the slave museum. It shows many original chains used during the slave trade and charts explaining the different conquests by Portuguese, French and the English over the last centuries until the abolition of slavery in 1807. Photographs of Alex Haley talking to his great, great, great grandmother take a proud position in one of the rooms. Later we walk to the homestead and into the forest where ruins show where once stood the walls where slaves were kept till ships arrived. We end our guided tour on the banks of the The Gambia river, where in the distance two boats are arriving. One full of Swedes and the other English. No dout this visit is sold as an excursion on the other side of the river in Banjul, tourists come in hordes. The peaceful, forgotten little village along The Gambia river, just like all the others we pass, now has a name on the Michelin map. Retuning to the police post we thank Lamin Jata for his hospitality. He gave us his house! to use in the morning to get washed and go to the loo! I walked to the back of the bedroom, out into a small walled courtyard and saw a small bucket in a large bucket. Dying to go to the loo I thought you did it and poured water over it, but the hole in the wall went into the recruits walled courtyard so I couldn’t flush it through the hole, so I picked it up in a tissue, put it in a plastic bag then into the car to dispose of later. The buckets were the shower.
By the time we thanked Dudou and the whole village it was midday. Our destination, Georgetown. With a name like Georgetown I thought finally we’d get more provisions and catch up with emails and the internet. Nothing like it. A ferry takes you onto the 7km island with a few run down campsites, slave museums again, a few shops and a lot of Gambians lazing around with nothing to do.
By 17:00 we choose a camp, after looking at a few, each one smelling worse than the other. Then I remember! it’s not the campsite at all. I hand the plastic bag to the man at the Baobolo camp. He takes it to the bin. With this heat all day!
At the Baobolo camp we are parked up outside, near the river, on a patch of grass since the camp only offers bungalows at a price, but for 180 Dalasi can use the public walkway. A steel door lets us into the camp and we are given a key to a bungalow so that we can use the toilet and shower. Here we meet a Belgian girl who married a Gambian from Georgetown and she shows us her wedding album of the festa a year ago!
We can’t wait to leave the next morning for Sabi, the border town leading us back into Senegal. Both border crossings are effortless and we find ourselves buying fresh eggs outside the Senegal Customs post before continuing our journey.