Banjul, The Gambia - And more!

Arrival

To most British tourists, The Gambia (a former British colony which gained its independence in 1965) is an easy, accessible package holiday destination, a step (but only a small one) above the bucket and spade destinations offered by Spain, Greece and Turkey. Oddly though, it also has a shady reputation as a country where middle-aged white women can meet young Gambian men. Rather like their male counterparts who flock to the fleshpots of Bangkok, these women are the sex tourists of West Africa.

Angela and I eventually landed at Banjul Airport and were soon shepherded aboard the awaiting air-conditioned coach. One fellow passenger was a middle-aged white woman with no husband or partner in tow. She sat by herself, staring out of the window.

The journey to resort was along a well-paved road, intersected with dust tracks leading off into the hinterlands. Palm trees, shacks and children playing football passed us by in a blur of colour. Roadside markets sold fruit and vegetables and every now and again, goats and chickens were spotted, mostly roaming free. In some areas, small mosques reminded us that The Gambia was in fact a Muslim nation, with about 85% of the population following the teachings of Muhammad.

When looking at a map of West Africa, The Gambia is a tiny sliver of a country whose borders follow the River Gambia eastwards. “Do you know why it's so thin?” I asked Angela. I was reading the guidebook which explained why. “It's because of the British. They measured how far a cannon ball could travel from the river and that's where they put the border.”

In contrast to the obvious poverty, roadsigns advertising the latest wi-fi or mobile phone networks (Africell seemed the most popular) were everywhere, a signal that money was getting in from somewhere. We soon hit the outskirts of Serrekunda, The Gambia's largest town and commercial centre. The streets began to get clogged with cars, taxis, bicycles, and of course people. Shops sold everything from aluminium sieves to gaudily designed beds, but seemed to specialize in second-hand car parts.

Once past Serrekunda, we began the awful rigmarole of dropping people at various hotels, surely the worst segment of any package holiday. The coach lurched to a halt outside one hotel and the single woman from earlier alighted. Within seconds she was being led inside by a young black man, his arm around her shoulder. Thirty minutes later we were in our own hotel, the deliciously touristy-sounding Ocean Bay Resort, wondering what The Gambia would have in store.

We soon got chatting to a barman. He told us that The Gambia was the first African nation to abolish the death penalty, and then explained a few things about the hotel. It had opened for business in 1988 after the owner had taken out a loan from the Gambian government. Over time the hotel became popular, making lots of money, but the owner refused to pay back his loans. “The hotel was seized by the government,” explained the barman. “And then was taken over by a millionaire from Mali. He too didn't pay the government and so it was seized again. The hotel is now owned by the department of social security.”

We got chatting about Gambia's neighbouring countries. “Senegal is good country,” explained the barman. “I have been there many times. But Guinea Bissau is not so good. The people there have a problem. They like to cause trouble. Only last month they kill their own president!”

Beach and Bakau

The next morning we decided to do a bit of sight seeing and our first stop was the beach. Compared to the beaches of Sri Lanka and Thailand it came a very poor third but at least it had palm trees and the occasional crocodile. A small one lurked in a tiny estuary adjacent to the beach.

Bumsters are synonymous with Gambia. They are young Gambian men who offer their services to any tourist who happens to wander by. There are hundreds of them and they mainly hang around hotels and beaches. Our first encounter with one was on the way to Bakau, a small town within walking distance of our hotel.

“Hello? What's your name? Where you from? Where you staying, man? How long you been here? Don't you recognise me? I work at your hotel?” We successfully brushed him off but the next one, a young man who seemed to favour white t-shirts, was particularly annoying. Over the next few days I could see him a lot. I called him my Nemesis.

Bakau town was rather unremarkable, but there were plenty of large vultures perched in trees with their unkempt scrawny necks swiveling this way and that. Stopping at a roadside bar I had another JulBrew, the local beer, and then read something horrible in the guidebook. “It says here,” I said to Angela, “that 80% of women in this country have been female circumcised. Their outer genitalia has been cut off! It's still legal, apparently.” The book stated that the operation (if you could call it that) took many forms but was usually performed in the more rural areas without use of anesthetic. Angela couldn't believe that such a practice went on.

After we'd finished our beverages, we decided to visit the nearby Katchikali Crocodile Pool, only a few minutes away, according to the guidebook. We were soon on our way, negotiating the gauntlet of yet more bumsters. Following the map, we found the start of a track but immediately Angela voiced her concerns. “We can't go down there; we don't know where it leads.” Undaunted, I smiled and said it was impossible to get lost, we only had to follow the map and stay on track.

The path ahead was a dusty orange colour, with small children and occasionally goats ambling along. As we set off past concrete dwellings with metal corrugated roofs, we came to a junction. This wasn't on the map. Along one side of the track was a thin strip of stagnant water, most probably a drainage ditch. Flies buzzed in dark corners and in every alleyway a bumster seemed to lurk.

I could tell Angela wasn't happy, and if truth be told, neither was I. The only consolation I could find was that the people around were paying us no heed. None pointed or stared, even though we seemed to be the only white faces in the heart of their residential area. Children skipped past without a second glance and women collected water from wells using hand pumps. We carried on, traversing a narrow alley with chickens pecking in the dust. A few moments later we came to another crossroad and turned right. We hurried along, and luckily found ourselves back on the main road, safe and sound. “Let's leave the crocodile pool for later,” I suggested.

Back at the hotel I read that the place we'd been lost in was called the Bakau residential quarter. The guidebook referred to it as a tight jumble of sandy lanes and went on to actually recommended it as a tourist sight. Apparently, the homes within the quarter belonged to hotel workers, guides and taxi drivers.

That evening we went to a local restaurant offering Italian food as a specialty. Perhaps because it was early evening and there were no other customers dining in his restaurant, the owner came and sat with us for a while. He was an Italian man who'd lived in Gambia for the last four years. I nicknamed him Mr Happy.

The man was clinically depressed, of that there was no doubt. His face was glum and his mannerisms seemed to suggest he was looking for suitable places to hang the noose. In fact the only thing that seemed to cheer him slightly was talk of football, especially his home team, Inter Milan. He rolled his eyes when we asked about living in Gambia, as if to say, don't ask. When I told him we'd encountered bumsters on the short walk to his restaurant, he suddenly appeared interested. “What did they say to you? Did they mention my restaurant? Did they tell you to stay away?”

We told him that they hadn't mentioned his restaurant and the man seemed relieved but no less dispirited. When our food arrived he left us alone.

Banjul - Arch 22 and Albert Market

The next day we hired a taxi to take us to the capital, Banjul. Along the way we passed the local prison, presided over by guard towers with vultures perched atop. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up alongside Arch 22, and our driver said he'd pick us up in two hours.

Arch 22, a huge concrete edifice, stands at the western edge of Banjul. It was built in 1996 at a cost of $1.2 million to celebrate a victorious coup that occurred on the 22nd July 1994 when the former president was ousted by a military coup. The same arch also features on the reverse side of the 100 Dalasi note. After paying the small entrance fee Angela and I climbed the spiral staircase to reach the top.

As an aside, I'm going to dwell for a moment on the Gambian currency. The highest denomination note is the 100 Dalasi, and the smallest is the 5 Dalasi (about 15p). According to our guidebook, damaging a banknote was a criminal offense which no doubt accounted for the poor state of most banknotes in circulation. The 100 Dalasi notes are just about acceptable, but anything lower than a fifty was an abomination, worse than any banknotes we'd received even in India or Cambodia. The fives and tens were the worst offenders, limp and pathetic, often held together with tape and human sweat. It was an ordeal merely touching them, often resulting in a swift washing of the hands.

The view from the top of Arch 22 was quite impressive, spanning much of the small capital. The docks could easily be seen in the distance, and the King Fahad Mosque, the largest in Banjul, stood proud with its twin minarets. Gambia's capital was a small one (a population of less that 50,000) and was more of a small town than a city, but it did contain one other must-see sight - Albert Market, named after Queen Victoria's husband. With the arch behind us, we headed along Independence Drive.

Independence Drive is one of the main roads running through Banjul, and Angela and I passed the Old Mosque, the Royal Victoria Hospital and St Mary's Cathedral. The people along the way were going about their daily business, some of the men dressed in suits and all of the women wearing dresses of vibrant colours. Amazingly there was not a bumster in sight, and for a good fifteen minutes we were able to wander along a Gambian street without the threat of being hustled or forced upon. It was like a breath of fresh air.

Albert Market was much the same as many other markets, full of fruit and vegetables, touristy knickknacks and masses of people. With the majority of Gambians not possessing a fridge, or even the electricity to power one, the women of the family have to take the daily trip to the market to buy all provisions they would need for that day. This makes the market a place of haggling, of noise, of jostling and unfortunately, of bumsters. They were relentless. Within one minute of entering the market a young man claiming to be our friend accosted us. In an attempt to shake him off we entered a small clothes shop but he simply waited outside. He even ignored our blatant disinterest in him and doggedly followed our every move for a few moments until another bumster approached. He too started asking about where we'd come from and what we were doing, and then in the midst of this Battle of the Bumsters, a third one arrived.

The new arrival muttered something to the other two and they quickly scarpered. He flashed a plastic ID card and smiled. “I am security. Those men were trying to bother you but now they are gone. You have got to be very careful in this market; a lot of people will try to rip you off or steal from your bag. I will look after you.”

We thanked the man, but fearing he was just another bumster, albeit a much cleverer one than usual, we moved on, telling him we didn't need any help. Predictably he followed us, even entering shops behind us, chatting about this and that, trying to put us as ease. As it turned out, having him around was probably a good idea. He kept other potential con-artists at bay and he did take us to the best parts of the market. With our taxi waiting for us by Arch 22, we told the man that we had to get going. He nodded and led us outside. As we were about to leave, he politely stopped us and asked if we could perhaps spare a little money so he could get himself a drink. Wanting to be rid of him we gave him a 100 Dalasi note and he thanked us. He was soon gone, mingling in with the crowds.

Back at the hotel, while Angela sunbathed on the beach, I ventured out of the hotel to a nearby shop. On the way I was hassled by yet more bumsters. The first one gave up after I told him I didn't need a guide. The second one was a bit more persistent but was eventually dispatched when I told him I was only going to the shop and he would get no money from me. The third bumster was my Nemesis.

“Hey man! Where you off to? The shop, huh? Let me walk with you! You lucky that I talk to you! Most people ignore the tourist, but not me! I love to talk to English people and show them around. What you say, eh?”

I told him to I didn't need a guide but he followed me to the shop and waited in the doorway. “Why don't you want to speak, man? It's rude not chat!” He then trailed me back towards the hotel, constantly hassling me, and I began to seethe. Why couldn't he just leave me alone? I didn't need a guide or someone to show me the way around.

Abuko Nature Reserve and My Nemesis

The next morning Angela and I hired a green tourist taxi to take us to Abuko Nature Reserve. On the way, our driver joined the four-laned highway, bisected by a central reservation, and hit the throttle. Once we came to Serrekunda, our side of the highway became gridlocked, a snarl of traffic going nowhere fast. Our driver explained why. “When the president want to go somewhere, like maybe the airport, then they close one side of the highway so he doesn't have to wait. This is the way of the African president!”

The driver needed some petrol and so pulled into a Total garage at the side of the road. As we waited, a cavalcade of vehicles sped past on the empty side of highway. “The president!” announced our driver as a whirl of black limousines, jeeps and other security vehicles rolled past. And though we didn't actually see His Excellency himself, he'd been there somewhere. Our first flirtation with an African Leader!

Abuko Nature Reserve proved to be a bit of a let down. Dating back to the 1960's, the guidebook claimed the forest was full of birds, reptiles and monkeys. At the entrance, we were hassled by the guides but we said we didn't need one, which in hindsight was an error because once in, we didn't see any animals except for vultures, ants on leaves, small lizards, and a small crocodile in a body of water known as the Bamboo Pool. We heard plenty of rustling though, often coming from the thick undergrowth, and sometimes we'd hear eerie screeches and hoots, which made us glad we weren't wandering through the reserve in the dark. Rarely would we see an actual monkey though, just fleeting glimpses here and there.

Eventually we came to the Animal Orphanage located at the far end of the reserve. Baboons were in cages, as were hyenas and vultures, but little monkeys were in abundance here, free to roam wherever they pleased. They were quite tame and inquisitive, and of course, very cute. Located adjacent to the orphanage was the customary craft stall selling tourist junk, which we managed to successfully avoid.

That afternoon, I ventured out to buy some JulBrew for the fridge and was pounced upon by my Nemesis. He was still wearing the same white T-shirt. I tried a new tactic which involved totally ignoring him. “Hey where you going today? To the shop? I walk with you, man! Tell you about things in the Gambia. And then, if you like, you can give me something so I can get something to eat? What you say?” After five minutes of constant bombardment, I felt like I was going mad. It was like there was a grasshopper in my ear. “Look, will you just stop talking and leave me alone!” He was quiet for only a second before resuming his torment, this time talking about Manchester United. I entered the shop and he followed me in. “Ah, you buying JulBrew! Nice beer! Maybe I can have one!” I ignored him and and exited the shop with him still in tow. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I stopped in my tracks to face my tormentor. “Look, will you just piss off and leave me alone. Go bother someone else because I am not giving you any money, not even one Dalasi. Okay!”

To be fair, my Nemesis took the outburst well. He smiled and then asked for some money anyway. I walked away and was immediately accosted by another man. He tried to shake my hand but I brushed him off and entered the hotel, sanctuary against the hordes.

Crocodile Pool

The next day we felt brave enough to tackle a walk to the crocodile pool once more. This time, after studying the map in depth, we felt sure we knew where we were going. .

“Hello! Where you going? How you doing, Boss Lady?” said the approaching man. Angela told him that we didn't need a guide but he persisted. “I walk with you, okay?” We ignored him and thankfully he left us alone, no doubt spying some fresh arrivals elsewhere. Oddly, my Nemesis was nowhere to be seen.

We found the dirt track leading to the crocodile pool and very quickly found ourselves in the heart of Bakau residential quarter again. The smell from the drainage ditch was putrid, and upon closer inspection, the dirty liquid that resided within was thick and gloopy and hardly moving. Certain sections of the ditch were covered with corrugated metal, no doubt an attempt at quelling the worst of the stench.

As we moved further along the track, some bumsters tried their luck, but they were mostly half-hearted attempts and then we came to our destination, Katchikali Crocodile Pool.

Once through the entrance, we found ourselves in a sort of museum, showing various headdresses, musical instruments, and photos of a time gone by. There were not many people about either; the tour groups would arrive later. We entered a small forest and then came to the pool itself. It was larger than I expected and was bright green, coated with a dense layer of lily.

There were plenty of crocodiles about, either in the pool or lounging by the side, but all of them were covered in the green stuff, giving them an almost fluorescent look. A big crocodile sat at the edge of a forest, just near a circular path that ran around the perimeter of the pool. It had its mouth agape and its teeth on display. A fellow tourist got really close to take a photograph but the crocodile didn't move a millimeter. When the man moved away, we edged towards the beast.

It was over two metres in length and looked like it could kill a man in an instant. “Imagine if it ran for us?” I suggested. “We'd be goners.” Thankfully I'd already read that no human had ever been harmed by a crocodile at the pool, a pool considered sacred to Gambians. It was believed to be a magical place where good fortune and even infertility can be cured by swimming in the water. Either that or a big bite up the arse, I wagered.

On the return journey through Bakau residential quarter, we were again accosted by bumsters. They really were becoming a major annoyance, a constant scourge on the open streets. You couldn't go anywhere without being hassled, but this particular individual was more aggressive than most. “Why you ignore me, man? I only try to be nice! You should take the time to speak to local people.”

Angela retorted that we had spoken to local people and that we hadn't ignored him, we only just wanted to be left alone. The man shook his head. “You people don't know a thing. You ignore the black man!” His veiled accusation of racism towards us left a bitter taste in our mouths after the fun we'd had at the crocodile pool.

Back at the beach I saw two young Gambian men make a beeline for a family of five sunbathing next to us. They were from England and clearly knew the local men already. The father got up to greet them. His wife and teenage daughters seemed equally pleased too. After some small talk, a couple of plastic bags were handed over to the men, containing things such as shampoo, combs, notepads and shoes. The men gratefully accepted them and there were more handshakes and hugs.

“Tell me,” said the father, “What can I send you from England? I'm already sending you some footballs and a Manchester Untied kit - but what else would you like?”

One of the men thought for a moment. “Well I am thinking of going to college to become an electrician, so mayb--”

“I'll send you some tools,” interjected Mr Generous, “screwdrivers, power tools, a whole set.” He turned his attention on the other man. “What about you?”

The man paused before answering, but when he did, it shocked me. “I would like an iPod.”

Mr Generous was not shocked though. “Okay, an iPod. I'll send everything to your address. And once again, thank you for making our holiday so special.” After some more hearty goodbyes, Mr Generous and his family strode off to catch their flights. The two men wandered off too, pouring over their new bounty.

My Nemesis and the Security Guard

The day after our side trip to Senegal, we spent a lazy day down on the beach. “I'm going to get some Julbrew,” I told Angela. “So expect me to come back in a bad mood.”

My Nemesis spotted me the moment I stepped foot out of the hotel. He came bounding up, smiling from ear to ear. “Hello, man!” he said as we began our regular walk to the shop. “Back for JulBrew?” As we walked, he produced a flimsy beaded necklace from his pocket, the same sort that hung in there thousands at every local market. “Your boss-lady will like this for sure! It good necklace and you can have it as a gift. No strings, man. But if you want to give me a gift in return, then that would be nice!”

“No thanks,” I said as I speeded up a little. “My boss-lady would hate it so just leave me alone.” But of course he wouldn't leave me alone and followed me all the way back to the hotel. If anything, I had to admire his persistence.

Later, as I approached our room, a seated security guard said hello. The hotel employed lots of security staff, mainly at the front, but also on the beach, but this particular security guard sat and watched over the rooms, She was a young Gambian woman.

“What is your name? Where are you from? Where is your wife?” she asked. I answered all of her questions and asked how she was. We had a bit of chat and then I entered the room to collect a book I wanted to read on the beach. On the way out, I stopped to talk to the woman once more. I asked her if I could climb over the wall adjoining the beach which would save me a lengthy walk around the hotel complex.

The woman smiled. “No, I am sorry. Climb over wall not allowed.”

I gave her my most innocent look. “What about if you looked over there? I'll jump before you'll even notice. No one will ever know.”

The security lady laughed. “You are naughty boy but the answer is still no. I am sorry.”

I accepted defeat and was about to wander away when the woman spoke again. “I have a problem. My little girl, she needs to go school. She is four years old.”

I commiserated with the woman. After all, the salary for a hotel security guard was bound to be low, especially bearing in mind the seasonal basis of hotels in The Gambia. It was already mid-April and the wet season was due to begin in just over a month, meaning most hotels shut up shop until October. I told the woman I'd speak to Angela and she thanked me, returning to her seat at the end of our room block.

“She told me that she earns 1000 Dalasi a month from working here,” Angela informed me. “That's about 30 pounds. She lives with her mum and little girl. She didn't mention a husband or father. She says most of her salary goes on food and looking after her little girl. I've given her my e-mail address and I'm going to send over some pens, pencils, books - things like that.”

Peace

The next day our stay in The Gambia was almost over but I still had one thing left to do. Leaving Angela in the hotel lobby, I ventured outside in search of my Nemesis. Unlike all other occasions, I spotted him before he spotted me and waved him over. He came swiftly, grinning a large grin. “How you doing, mister!” he said, pumping my hand in the process.

I told him I was fine and asked how he was. He smiled and said he was okay and happy to be speaking to me. I told him it was our last day in The Gambia. “We fly home in a couple of hours but I've finally got something for you; a reward for you perseverance.” We stopped walking and I turned to face my tormentor of the last few days. I handed him a few Dalasi and he shook my hand again.

“You have good trip back, man! And if you ever come back to The Gambia, make sure you come to me. Mr Fix-it! You remember that. And do not listen to your hotel saying we all bad people. We like to help the tourist, that's all. See you next time.”

I'd finally made peace with my Nemesis and it had felt good.

Strengths:
-Tropical weather
-Miles of sandy beaches
-JulBrew
-Close proximity to Senegal
-The wildlife

Weaknesses:
-Expensive (not far removed from UK prices)
-Bumsters!
-Lack of tourist infrastructure (but maybe this is a strength)

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