Our first experience of outer city transport took us to Le Gare de Pompidou in Dakar. A heaving gaggle of sept-places and persistent vendors. As our taxi pulled in it was swamped by men hoping to assist us into any vehicle, regardless of the destination, for a small fee. Our bags had to be wrestled out of their hands as we struggled to break away from the entourage. We were like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie only grubbier and poorer.
There are two choices to get you out of town; the first is the public bus, which is slightly cheaper but notorious for multiple breakdowns and only leaves when completely full. The second is the sept-place, family Peugeot estates from the 80’s which squash eight people inside and come in either considerable ruin or total disrepair. Like all vehicles here the windscreens are obscured by pictures of various Marabouts (Islamic leaders) and baring cracks repaired with electrical tape in quite fantastic designs. After buying our seats and haggling the extra luggage costs we waited for the car to fill. This can take any amount of time but can be sped along if someone decides to buy up the extra seats. The first passengers have the advantage of proper seats (the ones the car left the factory with) but must wait the longest, whilst the three last passengers are crammed into what once was the boot but do not have to hang around.
The waiting is an excellent opportunity for the magnitude of hawkers and begging boys to descend. Saying No (deedeet in Wolof) to one cutlery rack doesn’t mean somebody else won’t try and sell you another two seconds later! You could buy almost anything here however it is easy to feel overwhelmed under the staggering persistence of the many vendors and steady flow of desperate children. Once the car sets off you are glad of any useful purchases you have made (i.e cake and water) as it is a long, hot and cosy ride out of the city. Considerate passengers are appreciated! Our journey to The Gambian boarder took three sept-places and a couple of taxis. All took the off road route, and the three of us (our friend Mark had joined us on-route in Joal) got a bumpy back seat view of the ever increasing greenery, a stark contrast from the arid north and the dust of the city.
The boarder was without normal protocol and a very laid back affair. Our names were hand written into a book before we were sent to get our immigration stamps. Customs turned out to be two smiling officials drinking tea outside amongst the chickens and sheep. They invited us to join them for ataya (tea) before bluntly asking Mark which one of us they could have. Luckily they took no offence to rejection and wished us well on our journey from their en plein air office. We were in The Gambia! Next we had to cross the river from Barra to the capital Banjul, by a very cheap and very slow, large open-air ferry. Cows, humans and trucks are all piled on together, and as with most transport in Senegal the capacity is what is possible rather than what is advisable. Those who couldn’t fit on the ferry were carried to pirogues that bravely set out ahead.
We arrived in Banjul as the sun was setting, casting a beautiful light on what would otherwise be a utilitarian port. The mayhem of touts as we disembarked indicated we had arrived into another African capital. Even though The Gambia is an Anglophone country our cab driver didn’t speak English or seemingly any other language as he shouted unintelligibly at every passer by for directions. Each time we stopped he would turn on his light by twisting two wires which would only work for so long before beginning to smoke! As we drove to our hostel we were struck by the enormous presence of President Jammeh. The long ruling ‘elected’ leader of The Gambia who recently went to the UN claiming to have discovered the cure for Aids using bananas and local herbs! Numerous bill-boards promote his face and ‘inspirational’ mottos. If the many posters are anything to go by his birthday was quite a bash!
After finally reaching a place to lay our sept-place weary heads local rum beckoned instead. We found ourselves at Rellax bar (so relaxed it has two L’s). It was here we got our first taste of The Gambia’s tourist industry as every person forcibly befriended us insisting we belonged to them and arguing if we talked to anybody else. Nicknames rule supreme and our new friends had names like Lion King, Big Mo and Black Diamond. Unfortunately somebody also unknowingly introduced themselves as Jim’ll fix it! The music selection could not have been better but the dance floor was terrifying, drunken men swaying all over the place crowded the dancing space. It was not until the owners of the bar started buying Mark drinks (in the hopes he was going to share one of us) that we had any room to dance without the attack of over friendly limbs. The only other women were Foxy Brown an amiable prostitute, and a mad Danish woman who insisted we should not trust anybody but was later found singing and stamping like a banshee in a white tuxedo as the police shut the party down around her.
We ended the night walking home with a Gambian ‘scouser’ shouting ‘Who let the dawgs out’ in a northern accent while the local dogs joined in with the chorus. From sept-place to reggae party, via tea with the officials we couldn’t have been welcomed more vehemently into the arms of the Smiling Coast!
