The Gambia is the smallest country in continental Africa and is completely surrounded by Senegal, except for where the Gambia River empties into the Atlantic ocean. The Gambia is literally a narrow strip of land either side of the Gambia River, stretching from the ocean 100 miles inland. This country owes its existence to the slave trade and the colonial powers. Britain and France divided this part of West Africa such that the French gained control of the Senegal River and Britain got the Gambia River. Indeed, The Gambia only attained independence from Britain in 1965. One consequence of the colonial period is that The Gambia (in common with Ghana) are English-speaking nations, whereas Mali and Senegal are French-speaking.
If there are comfortable air-conditioned buses between Dakar (in Senegal) and the border town of Karang to the south, then the owner-drivers of the cars and minivans at Gare Pompiers do not share that gem of information with Christi and I and the chef de gare (station master) is nowhere to be found. Not for the first time Christi and I are the only white folks present at a bus station and not for the last time I’m sure we are completely clueless. We attract a lot of attention; the locals are eager to know our destination. When we finally reveal all, half-a-dozen arms try to pull us in 6 different directions simultaneously.
We eventually land in front of a decrepit Peugeot 504 estate wagon that has been modified to accommodate two rows of three seats in the rear. Which is fine if you are a midget, but I’m closer to six-feet tall. This type of ride is called a ‘sept-place’, which is French for 7 seats (8 including the driver). There are of course no such thing as safe driving practices only the practical concern of how many people can you fit into the car. The ticket is CFA5,500 (US$11) per person, but then the driver wants to charge another CFA5,500 for each bag. I shake my head vigorously and we attempt to leave the scene. Several hands restrain us and the negotiations begin. We finally compromise on a total price of CFA15,000 (US$30) for the luggage and Christi and I. For an additional two bucks I could have enjoyed all the comforts of the front seat to myself. I’m either too cheap or too principled, but I decline. On reflection that was a very bad idea. The front seat is snapped up by the seventh passenger and we’re off on a 5-hour jaunt to the border.
Only our ‘sept place’ doesn’t have 7 passengers; it has 9. I get the middle seat in the back row sandwiched between a woman and her two children on one side of me and another lady who insists on traveling with several large bags by her side rather than tying them onto the roof rack and Christi and I had done. Amazingly the children were very well-behaved; partly because the mother constantly breast-fed her daughter (about 3) while the older boy (about 6) stood between her legs for the whole journey and used my thigh as a pillow. Myself and the two women sat hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder. Most of the time one adult sat forward to provide a little extra breathing space for the other two of us. Initially my legs were tucked up under my chin, but after a painful hour I forced my legs down either side of the central divide, much to the annoyance of the two women. Perhaps the journey would have been marginally less painful without the children and the bags, but as it is I’m squashed into a space only large enough for someone half my size. Christi fares a little better in the row of seats ahead of me, although she is squashed between two men, who are no doubt enjoying the close contact. We leave Gare Pompiers at 8:30 am and barely stop over the next 6 hours. Exiting Dakar is a nightmare; the congestion remains unbelievable. Eventually, though, the urban sprawl gives way to more rural scenery where only larger, slower vehicles and village traffic delay our progress. The further south we go, the worse the roads become, while the temperature and conditions within the Peugeot become increasingly intolerable. I have little interest in communicating with my fellow travelers under such conditions; it’s all about enduring and surviving the chronic discomfort.
At about 2:15 pm we finally reach a barricaded busy road in Karang that marks the end of Senegal and the beginning of The Gambia. Standing and stretching is a pleasure beyond my wildest dreams although my cramped arms and legs do rebel initially. Before we enter The Gambia I change US$100 into Delasi, the local currency. The exchange rate is very fair at US$1:D27, while the money-changer is drop-dead gorgeous (not that that was the reason I chose to change money with her, you understand). My US$100 should give me D2700. I watch the lady count out 27 D100 bills. I mean I’m inches away from the action and yet later I realize she palmed D600 (or about US$25). I’m actually so impressed by her scam that for once the money issue does not bother me. Clearly that woman is wasting her talents on such petty crime.
Next we have to negotiate the chaotic scenes in the immigration offices to exit Senegal (which are actually fairly easy) and those to enter The Gambia. The Gambian officials are much more thorough and hand check all our bags before grudgingly stamping our passports and permitting us to enter their country. We continue our tedious journey by taxi. It’s D300 (US$11) from Karang to the ferry at the town of Barra at the mouth of the Gambia River. The Gambia is literally bisected in two for its whole length by the eponymous river and the ferry at Barra is one of the key crossing points – when it works. Today, thank goodness, the ferry is running more or less to schedule. It’s D10 per person for the 45-minute ferry ride. Cars and trucks load first followed by passengers. For some reason (perhaps because we appear so destitute now) Christi and I are allowed to board with the vehicles and we watch the almighty scramble of passengers as they dash onto the boat. Getting off the ferry in Banjul, capital of The Gambia, is equally perilous and we are relieved to collapse into another taxi for the 30-minute D250 ride to the Leybato hotel and restaurant in the coastal suburb of Fajara.
The Leybato hotel is at the end of the road with a bar and restaurant overlooking the Atlantic ocean. It’s an average sort of place; nothing fancy, but the fact that we can stretch out on a bed that isn’t moving or take a dip in the ocean is wonderful. A room with air-con is D900 (US$33) per night, which we pay in advance. It’s only after we have paid that we are told there is no power at the moment (hence no A/C or light). We even have to ask the hotel staff for candles. We do have a profusion of mosquitoes, however, and the little blood-sucking bastards keep us awake most of the night. We kill a lot, but they bite us plenty. It is an appropriate end to a miserable day.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of broken hearts and broken test tubes.
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