We’d been warned about bribery at the Senegal-Gambia border. Guards search luggage looking for something to declare illegal and demand a bribe.
We prepare ourselves as we take the short journey to the border with a taxi. Our driver, a former player on the national soccer team, is friendly.
First stop is the money changers, a motley crew who ply their trade by all borders. A Google check the previous night has given us a rough idea of the exchange rate, but it’s challenging with so many gathered around and their well-honed ability to count money at lightning speed.
Money changed, we hop out to get an exit stamp on the Senegalese side and then are waved on to customs for The Gambia.
Two border guards eye us carefully as we enter but our bags aren’t searched. No one attempts to extort money from us. We glance at each other, wondering what’s up.
We find out when we return to our taxi.
The guards, unaware of our driver’s status, initially tried to bribe him — a big
mistake. National soccer players are like gods. Suitably chastened, they leave us alone.
A short ride later, we grab our packs from the taxi and walk into The Gambia, the tiniest country on the continent, a long and skinny finger of land surrounded by Senegal on all sides except for the west, where it borders the Atlantic Ocean.
The Gambia has earned the nickname “the Smiling Coast of Africa” for its friendly people.
There are no signs and we’re not sure where the bus station is, but hope it will be close to the border. It’s sweltering with few clouds to mitigate the 40℃ temperature. Some twenty minutes later we spot vans pulling in and out up ahead. We’re almost there.
Everyone watches as we arrive in the small bus station — no blending in here. We’re approached immediately and directed to the ticket desk.
Luck is with us. Although well used, seats worn, springs almost poking through, the van we are in is a far sight better than gelli-gellies — battered, crammed minibuses whose original seats are taken out and replaced with even more seats welded onto the floor.
One gentleman in our van speaks a little English and is happy to practice it with us. Although English is the official language in this former British colony, few Gambians speak it. Most speak indigenous languages similar to those in Senegal with Mandinka being the most popular.
Halfway into our four-hour journey to Banjul, the capital city of The Gambia, our driver pulls into a makeshift garage. He has spotted a problem with the engine. Several men peer under the hood and start working.
Kindly, a bench is put under a tree for us to sit. We munch on nuts and cookies — our go-to snack when we’re on the road.
A mere half-hour later and we’re on our way again, only to have a flat tire a short time later, but that too is fixed lickety-split.
We’re constantly astonished by the knowledge and ingenuity of those with limited resources to fix and maintain almost anything.
We’ve booked a room in a small hotel in Bakau, the first major suburb outside Banjul and home to the beaches of Cape Point. It’s a popular area with British tourists, many of whom spend their winters here at resorts that have popped up along the coast.
Even though Bakau is the most developed city in The Gambia, the bank machines are frequently a source of frustration: either they’re out of money, don’t accept any of our cards, have a small maximum withdrawal amount, accept credit but not debit cards, or charge an unconscionable withdrawal fee.
We decide to take one of the taxis, always waiting outside our hotel, and try our luck in Banjul.
We’re immediately waylaid upon our arrival as crowds fill a nearby stadium. Curious, we walk over. Groups of school children and adults, dressed in traditional garb wait expectantly to perform, as they peer at a stage full of what appears to be, judging from the flags blowing in the breeze, Gambian and American diplomats giving speeches.
It is.
Listening to the speeches, we learn the United States Department of Agriculture is giving The Gambia 28.5 million dollars for child nutrition and literacy.
The Gambia is one of the world’s poorest nations, particularly in rural areas. The poverty rate in rural areas is estimated to be 76% compared to 34% in urban areas. Migration to the cities or other rural areas within the country in the hope of a better life is common. In our later travels through The Gambia, we see entire extended families on the move, complete with their menagerie of animals.
It’s a very challenging life outside the cities, especially for women. They spend hours cooking food over wood they’ve often first collected. Only in the cities do we see propane in use for cooking.
All women of child-bearing age have a baby on their back and several others at their feet — all this in addition to growing whatever food they can and raising sheep, goats and poultry.
One bright spot is The Rural Water Supply and Sanitation Project whose aim is to provide more widespread access to potable water, along with improved sanitation facilities to those living outside cities.
We stay standing on the sidelines at the stadium, unsure, as the only foreigners, if we should take a seat in the stands.
The decision is made for us by a man walking by whose beaming smile could feature on the poster for the Smiling Coast of Africa. He’s dressed in a colourful shirt, formal pants, fancy shoes and a hat.
He guides us to two empty front-row seats and insists we sit down close to the performers. In his limited English he introduces himself as Ansunding and proudly tells us he is a dancer with a kora band that will be playing when the formal ceremony ends.
Waiting for the speeches to end he shows us photos of his wife and six children — the oldest twenty-two, the youngest, five month old twin boys.
Kora, the hallmark of West African music, gets its name from the instrument built from a gourd, cut in half and covered with cow skin to make a resonator with a long hardwood neck. The twenty-one strings are typically plucked with the fingers.
Excited, Ansunding introduces us to members of the band. The highlight is meeting Jaliba Kuyateh, who we had never heard of, but is well known internationally as the King of Kora. Jaliba means “great praise singer” in his native Mandinka language.
And great he is, both on and off the stage, as he’s well known for his philanthropic work. He greets us kindly and introduces us to his wife.
Speeches finished, the band begins. Ansunding leads us to the front of the stage for the best view, then climbs on stage and begins dancing to the beat of Kuyateh’s Kora music. The mesmerizing music sounds somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. Traditional dancers add to the ambiance.
We feel so thankful to have stumbled upon this intimate journey into Gambian culture and are humbled by their hospitality — intangible souvenirs that forever remain in our hearts.
Saying goodbye to Ansunding, we exchange What’s App information, promising to keep in touch.
Aunsunding sends us weekly videos and updates about his daily life with his family. In The Gambia extended families live together in a walled compound, each in a separate house facing an outdoor communal area that is a beehive of activity: cooking, eating, doing laundry, and playing.
Every week we meet various relatives smiling broadly as they try to say a few words in English. His wife proudly holds the twins for us to see, while other children play and laugh in the background,
We delight in watching the videos — a savoured connection and poignant reminder of our time in The Gambia.
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