Editor's note: My apologies for neglecting the blog for so long. We've been busy. I'll try to resume my normal posting schedule. Here is Marty's long-awaited story...
I have finally yielded to pressure from many of you to write our story of Africa. Though Nancy’s Mom relented and allowed me to read the New Hampshire track and field clippings she had sent, even without my writing the Africa posting, I can see the value in an astute objective observer telling about Africa. You may not all know about Nancy’s questionable objectivity when it comes to Africa, in particular West Africa and The Gambia.
Nancy’s passion for Africa started in grade school when she acquired two small wooden figures of aboriginal Africans (which, by the way, still adorn our living room). (Editor’s note: This story about the wooden figures as the beginning of a passionate relationship with Africa is a myth created by Marty. He likes the romanticism.) Later, her two years in The Gambia as a Peace Corps volunteer was a life-altering experience, which molded the Nancy we know today.
During that time she lived in a round hut with a thatched roof in the remote village of Yona, many miles from the next Peace Corps volunteer. She gabbed in Mandinka with the locals, which they enjoyed immensely, and she rode through the countryside with reckless abandon on her Suzuki motorcycle initiating numerous reforestation and orchard-planting projects. (These days motorcycles are deemed too dangerous by Peace Corps and are not allowed.) At the age of 22-23 Nancy was a legend in that corner of Africa. (Editor’s note: This is hearsay. Get on with your own story, Marty.)
Nancy has wanted to introduce me to Africa for a long time. Since the blog demands honesty, I shall admit to you that I was unsure about my enthusiasm for spending (wasting?) a vacation in The Gambia. Of course I would have an excellent guide who knows the local language and customs, recognizes which foods one can eat, and, in theory, would keep me out of trouble. But just think about the flies, mosquitoes and microbial vermin, the rabid dogs that roam the villages, the barrage of required shots and pills, the perpetual dust that blows in from the Sahara and covers everything, and the hustlers at every tourist attraction. I couldn’t help but ask myself what kind of a vacation would this be?
In East Africa the compensation for these inconveniences is the vast Serengeti, the Rift Valley with the Ngorongoro Crater, and the magnificence of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Unfortunately I knew that the highest point in the Gambia above sea level is perhaps 100 meters, at low tide, which doesn’t exactly suggest inspirational scenery. So I stalled, I tried to talk up Germany, the Alps, Switzerland, but to no avail. The only destination which competed in Nancy’s mind with The Gambia was Mongolia, which offered falconry from camelback. I unsuccessfully tried to convince her that bouncing on camelback over the Mongolian steppe would not be good for her back. I suspect that, if Nancy gets her wish, Mongolia will be a source for future blog postings.
When we planned our sabbatical to France, Nancy mentioned that this would be an excellent opportunity to visit The Gambia. After all Dakar, Senegal has an international airport only 100 miles from Gambia, Senegal was a French colony, Paris was the administrative center for the French colonies, we would be living in Toulouse only 300 miles from Paris, and clearly there must be dozens of flights daily from Paris to Dakar. Yes, I know this may seem a bit twisted, the average visitor does not exactly look at France as a mere stepping stone to Africa, but the logic was unassailable. It was quite evident to Nancy that during our sabbatical we should take the month of January to visit Gambia during the dry season when malaria is less frequently contracted, the travel is easier and the temperatures are bearable. I could stall no longer.
Last summer we started our program of inoculations. Since I had lost my immunization card, I got everything including tetanus, yellow fever, hepatitis-A and B, meningitis, rabies (this was not required but Nancy pointed out that Yona was full of mangy dogs), and perhaps a few others I cannot remember. The first day I had seven needles pushed into my arm and by the end of the needle nightmare I began to fade. The trip to The Gambia was becoming a reality.
Interestingly, the principal rationale for attaching the African adventure to our sabbatical vanished as soon as Nancy searched the web for airplane tickets. Flights from Paris to Banjul, the capital of Gambia, via Dakar are terribly expensive, as we have later found are all flights from Paris. However, resourceful as ever, Nancy found a charter flight from London to Banjul direct, which was practically a steal. Adding to our good fortune, we found ourselves in London at the end of November in order to pick up Nancy’s French visa (please don’t ask why we were picking up a French visa in the UK!), so we were able to obtain our Gambian visas as well. (Editor’s note: Marty is obviously not an avid blog reader, otherwise he would know that I already explained the visa excursion to London – see “London - An English Holiday” in the November archive.)
While we were in London, Lamin Touray took the train down to visit us from Luton, where he is a student. Lamin was one of the cohort of young Yona boys Nancy knew in her Peace Corps days and who naturally found an American white woman in his village to be an immense curiosity. Lamin was thrilled that we were traveling to Gambia and said his mother Fatu would meet us at the airport; it was hard not to be encouraged by his huge grin. Lamin’s visit and conversation reminded me of Safo’s (another of the boys) stories of pythons, cobras and baboons, which Safo told when he visited us in Durham two years ago. I began to think that this trip might be interesting.
After a fascinating flight over the Sahara, including views of endless brown-red sand and rock, the Senegal River, miles of beach along the Senegalese Atlantic coast, and of the entire peninsula where Dakar is situated, we landed in Banjul. No jetways here. Immediately our winterized bodies felt the heat and the sun. Emerging from customs we were met by an open-armed entourage including Lamin’s mother Fatu, his brother Hassan, and his friend Keeba. Nancy had known Fatu and Hassan in Yona, and it was a very warm welcome. A pickup truck/taxi whisked us through miles of huts and stalls, filled with every imaginable item to sell, and along dirt roads with potholes the size of bomb craters. Luckily I was in the front. Nancy was less fortunate in the open back as her head was jerked around and barely missed encounters with the truck’s steel superstructure. (Editor’s note: The back is way more fun.)
Nancy had a strategy that made sense: ease Marty into Africa as the chicken-hearted among us would ease ourselves into ice-cold water with no jolts that might cause panic attacks. Visit “Kombos,” the developed urban area along the beautiful Atlantic coast, stay for a few days in a cozy guest house on a quiet street with palm trees and bougainvillea only four blocks from the American embassy and Peace Corps office, entice him up-country with an exotic boat trip along the Gambia River and then plunge him into the overwhelming frenzy of the village.
Kombos is where 99% of the tourists hang out. It is booming with new homes, 5-star hotels, and a few jobs that attract the young men from all over Gambia. Nancy was astounded at how the area around the Peace Corps office has grown. It is replete with banks, offices, stores, restaurants and perhaps most shockingly, a traffic light. There was even an ATM machine that functioned occasionally, never mind that your daily limit of 2000 Dalasis, about $80, produced a wad of greasy crinkled 50 Dalasi bills that wouldn’t fit in your pocket, let alone your wallet.
Many of the new workers in Kombos, and perhaps even more of the many, many unemployed, seem to end up in the teeming boomtown of Serrakunda, which is packed with stalls, taxis, exotic vendors and the occasional hustler. One incredible stall was selling “ju-jus,” amulets that are believed to keep evil spirits away. This remarkable display included juju ingredients such as python skins and the dried, shriveled hand of a monkey. Nancy’s strategy seemed to be working for the most part. Admittedly, the shower at our guesthouse was cold and the power and water mysteriously stopped intermittently, but this was supposed to be an adventure.
We stopped by the Peace Corps office where we found an old-timer from Nancy’s era who was pleased to see her. We visited the computer room to chat with some of the current volunteers who seemed more interested in email than engaging in conversation with us, although one of them politely filled us in on current-day Peace Corps activities in Gambia. We were a bit disappointed by our initial reception by the current volunteers, but fortunately, Peace Corps volunteers are relatively easy to spot and we had two other, more satisfying encounters.
I later identified a volunteer approaching us on the street (similar to how bird watchers easily recognize common species). Kelly turned out to be a gem, full of enthusiasm and passion about Gambia, but concerned about life after Peace Corps. Kelly was tenacious as she had just been moved to her third village, the first one not working out because of a pathological family member in her host family and the second one being too dangerous because of its proximity to a part of the Senegalese border near where there had been violent outbreaks as a result of a separatist movement. Later in the trip, we spent an afternoon with another volunteer, who would have made any American proud with his friendliness, warmth and dedication to providing community health services. We shared experiences with both for a long time, and our faith was renewed.
But even in the relatively developed area of Kombos, Africa is teeming just below the surface. On a blazing hot afternoon we wandered inland from a beautiful beach in Bakau to find the Katchikally Sacred Crocodile Pool. Crocodiles are sacred in The Gambia, and women who are infertile go to this pool to bathe with its waters in the belief that they will bring fertility. The women are spared from having to go into the pool, which is packed with crocs of all sizes; rather, they can simply bathe with its waters in a nearby enclosure that is provided to protect their modesty.
We weren’t sure how to find the croc pool, so we were accompanied by an official guide who was stationed outside the 5-star Ocean Bay Hotel. He was part of a government program to get the “bumsters” off the streets, where they have traditionally hassled tourists unmercifully, and into official roles as guides. He wasn’t terribly informative or talkative, but he was a big improvement over some of the unfortunate encounters we had had with unreconditioned bumsters. We were very pleased to have a guide as we walked through trash-strewn streets with open gutters filled with odiferous sewage. We later discovered that the sewage flowed directly to the vegetable gardens tended by the women at the edge of the neighborhood! Suddenly fresh vegetables seemed far less appetizing to us.
Open Sewer
We finally came to the Crocodile Pool and quickly found ourselves amongst more than a dozen huge crocodiles lounging around an algae-covered green pool. A special croc-pool guide (whose family owned the pool) encouraged us to touch these monsters, which lay so still you might have thought they were plaster cast models. Nancy lurched at the opportunity, and fortunately the reptile did not lurch back. Actually there was at first so little action on the part of the crocs that we became complacent. In fact, Nancy almost inadvertently backed into one of the beasts.
Our complacency ended when our croc pool guide (who was much more informative than the reconditioned bumster who brought us to the pool) took us on a little walk, and a really big brute was blocking the way. The guide, who said that this particular croc was a bit grumpy that day, simply beat it with a stick to shoo it from our path. It rose up on its stumpy legs and started to charge in our direction. We bolted with a speed that rivaled the best drug-enhanced Olympic performance, and quiet was only restored when the croc found a different patch of shade.
Katchically Sacred Crocodile Pool
Sacred Croc
After three days of urban Africa, the call of Yona and “upcountry” was too strong for Nancy to resist. She was burned out on the bustling good life of Kombos. It was time to begin our journey to the village. I was feeling confident enough to test my mettle in the village.
We found an outfit called Gambia River Excursions on a dusty back road. We met the owner, Peter, a mellow (like half-asleep) guy originally from Germany, who worked for a while mining in the Yukon before coming to Gambia. Over a period of 20 years he had built up Gambia River Excursions, which now has two lodges on the river and several boats connecting the two. As luck would have it, one boat was about to travel up the Gambia River to the upcountry lodge, Jangjang Bureh Camp, which is across the river from Georgetown, whose colonial name has been Africanized to Jangjanbureh. Georgetown was a provincial capitol in British colonial days and is not far from Nancy’s home village of Yona. We signed up expecting other passengers, but in Africa things never seem to work out as you expect.
The next day we were driven out to the boat in a rattling, exhaust-filled truck. Gratefully the many holes in the truck and the non-functioning open windows let in enough fresh air to prevent asphyxiation. Our crudely built, but colorful boat was docked at Lamin Lodge, a rickety, charming structure built amongst the mangroves on the mud flats of an estuary. It was, needless to say, very rustic. A bucket of water is provided in the “bathroom” to help flush the toilet, presumably into the mangrove swamp.
Lamin Lodge
Peter invited us up to the bar on the second floor for a drink while we waited two hours for the crew to prepare the boat, which was supposed to have been prepared in time for our arrival. He told us our fellow travelers could not be located, so we would be the only passengers on the 18-person boat. To my surprise, in the midst of this conversation a monkey jumped on the table, swiped my soda bottle and drained it, skillfully extracting the straw first! I had finally arrived in Africa.
Soda Bottle Thief
Our boat crew included the strapping Sadibu, our captain. Sadibu was from the minority Jola tribe and proud of it. He was thinking about finding a nice wife, an easy task for a handsome Jola with a good job. Hassan, a scrawny, “light” skinned member of the Fula tribe, took care of us, served meals, and enjoyed gabbing about his hometown of Georgetown, life in Gambia and, surprisingly, “maths.” Idi was the silent cook, whose meals rivaled those of any French chef. Sidi, a French-speaking Senegalese Serahuli, looked after the boat, and chatted with Nancy, who found it bewildering to juggle between French, English and Mandinka. We spent lots of time just chatting with the crew, watching the shores glide by, eating delicious meals down in the galley, and identifying the huge number of spectacularly exotic birds that plied the Gambia River.
Sadibu - Our Captain
The Gambia River is huge near its mouth with a width of 2-5 miles. The evening of our first day on the river we were mesmerized by a pod of about 10-15 river dolphins leaping out of the water 100 feet from the boat as the sun set on the river. It was one of those moments you remember for a lifetime.
Our Boat on The Gambia River
As the sun went down and darkness overcame the river, the vastness, peacefulness and freshness of the river were beautiful. Despite the darkness, we kept traveling until about 10 PM, set anchor, and bravely slept without mosquito netting on top of the boat. There is a memorable quality to nighttime without lights; it is one of the seductions of Africa. Despite my weakness for mountains and grand vistas, I found myself beguiled by the River Gambia. Nancy was delighted to see me slowly slipping under Africa’s spell.
On the second day we arrived at the first ferry crossing along the river. For the entire length of The Gambia, which straddles the river for perhaps 200 miles, there is no bridge. There are several ferry crossings and each one is a site of bustle and excitement with huge trucks scraping their way up onto the ferries, aggressive vendors in their stalls, women walking with piles of colorful cloth balanced on their heads, and people waiting and eating. Dirt, trash and noise are in abundance.
Most of the ferries are basically motorized barges with a tall tower for the captain on one end, but the upcountry ferry in Bansang near Yona is an interesting exception. It is hooked to a cable that runs from shore to shore through two pulleys on the ferry. Passage on this particular ferry is free because passengers provide the power by grabbing the cable with wooden grips, pulling the ferry across the cable, and then walking back to the other end to repeat the process.
While doing my part to pull the ferry across, I kept a keen lookout on the river. Decades ago, on this same ferry, Nancy saw a cobra swimming across the river. I was green with envy (or maybe the green was a result of a few new intestinal flora?) at this herpetological good fortune. Not surprisingly, Gambians don’t swim. The crocs and hippos we later saw in our travels on the river also serve as a significant deterrent for water sports.
The third day of river travel finally brought us to Jangjang Bureh Camp, just beyond the Georgetown ferry. We arrived early at about 3 pm because our safari to the Baboon Islands National Park had not worked out. Nancy, impatient to finally be back in the village and off the tourist track, decided we should immediately set off for Yona by foot through the African bush, even though it was a three-hour trek. My namsy-pamsy introduction to Gambia was about to be over.
One of the Camp staff pointed us in the direction of Yona, after which all we had was Nancy’s 18-year old memories, which were generally of riding a motorcycle rather than walking. We followed a dusty reddish colored path with scrubby but interesting bushes and trees along the sides. I anxiously looked for hyenas, the subject of many Gambian stories, although Nancy assured me that they were only a danger after dark.
After an hour of walking without seeing anyone, which led to increasing anxiety on my part, we finally saw a couple of young kids who indicated that we were, in fact, on the right road to Yona. (Nancy thinks I should have had more faith.) The two little villages that we encountered along the way lined the dusty path with walled or fenced family compounds. The houses were made from dried mud blocks. Some had tin roofs; some had thatched roofs. In each village and in each family compound there was at least one “bantaba,” traditionally bamboo platforms (which are increasingly made of concrete, much to Nancy’s disappointment) where the elders hang out, watch the goings-on, and chat with passers-by.
In the third village along our trek, still a half hour’s journey by foot to neighboring Yona, we bought kola nuts, the traditional gift of travelers returning to the village. To say that people were very friendly is a bit of an understatement. It seemed like the entire village population wanted to shake our hands. Kids swarmed out of the family compounds to meet these curious people. (White people aren’t bad substitutes for entertainment when you don’t have TV.) Nancy’s Mandinka was clearly a big hit.
The adults, of course, remembered Nancy, but the children knew her only through her namesake, the now twenty-year-old woman who was born in Yona when Nancy lived there. Despite this lack of familiarity, the scrappy band of kids decided to accompany us to Yona. They wanted to show us things, touch us, shower us with questions, and it was clear we were not going to shake them. We were saved from further harassment by a passerby who shooed the children back to the village, save for one little, criminal-type who also was heading to Yona and accompanied us the entire way.
It started to get dark, and I was completely distracted by thoughts of hyenas and their unusually monstrous jaws. Finally, Yona began to appear through the trees and bushes. On the edge of the village was a “soccer field” with a bunch of kids kicking a soccer ball in a cloud of dust. As soon as they saw us, they all ran over and our party gained in strength. Soon we were passing compounds and adults were shouting greetings to Nancy, smiling, laughing, taking her hand, and generally just whooping it up. The intensity of the celebrity welcome continued to grow as we passed the center of the village, an open dusty place with an ample share of scattered animal poop. Only about 300 yards after entering Yona, we arrived at the far edge of the village and Touray Kunda, the compound of Nancy’s extended Gambian family. (Yona, needless to say, is not a grand metropolis.) Touray Kunda erupted with more greetings and laughter.
In Touray Kunda I met Amadou, the tall and noble-looking old man who had looked after Nancy and laughingly called her the “Red Monkey.” I had presumed this nickname referred to her spunkiness, but she later informed me that it was because of her white skin. Shockingly, I also learned that Nancy, in an egregiously politically incorrect manner, calls Amadou, this highly respected village elder, the “Black Monkey.” She defends this outrageous practice with the feeble excuse that “He started it.” Amadou roars with laughter at this impertinence.
Among the now swarming crowd, were Mawdo, the new village chief and Safo’s Dad, the wives of Amadou and Mawdo, and the three wives of Keeba, Mawdo’s brother, the recently deceased village chief. There were some young men, who had been in the cohort of boys, who with Lamin, Safo, and Hassan, had accompanied Nancy into the bush in the old days. And of course there were the new little packs of wild-eyed girls and boys, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves as they stared, the more courageous among them reaching out to touch us with hands that had apparently touched many other things that day.
The compound spread around the bantaba, where you could sit, chat, warm yourself by the fire, eat peanuts and people-watch. Beyond the bantaba were a few chairs, a clothes line (a new home improvement according to Nancy), a pigeon house and little groups of chickens (who miraculously managed to find scraps to eat in the dust of the compound) and three reasonably healthy looking dogs, two of whom were named Bob and Rasta in a tribute to Bob Marley. I was surprised, and perhaps disappointed, by the relatively healthy look of the dogs, given that mangy dogs had been the big reason I had to suffer through rabies shots.
Around the edge of the compound were houses and huts belonging to different family groups. Nancy’s old circular hut with the thatched roof had deteriorated and collapsed, but had been rebuilt in the original style. The largest and most modern house with tile floors and a few impressive furnishings belonged to Mawdo. It was built with money Safo had sent home from his minimum-wage job in the Bronx. As guests, we were put up in this relatively fancy house which we shared with his father, mother, brother and sister. We were given a room at the front of the house where we were served one-bowl meals, just for the two of us. Actually we usually got three meals at meal times, one from each of the three family sub-units of Touray Kunda. To be polite, we made sure we ate some from each bowl. Needless to say, we were not at risk for malnourishment. It turned out that the ventilation in our room was nonexistent so we moved out onto the porch at night to sleep – giving us front row seats to the hustle and bustle of the compound in the early morning.
Re-built Version of Nancy's House
It seems idyllic. Right? Wrong! After all these meals and all this dust you eventually have to face the outdoor stall at the end of the house opposite the kitchen. It is cluttered with cinder blocks, wood, cans, drying underwear, and it’s open to the stars, flies, critters, and hyenas?!
(Editor’s note: The hyena part is definitely a symptom of Marty’s imagination getting inflamed by the African sun. I assure you that hyenas don’t enter the village, and they certainly wouldn’t scale the walls around the latrine!) The latrine door doesn’t close properly and there is only one nail to hang clothes on. Washing consists of dispensing water from the bucket with a little can. It’s getting dark. Where do you put soap and eyeglasses? Will I run out of water from the bucket before all the soap is rinsed off my body?
This “shower” is adjacent to “the toilet,” a hole in the ground about 5 inches across, covered with an inverted bowl. The remarkably out-of-place “decorative” tiles around the hole are cracked and uneven and there is a brown discoloration. You delicately push the bowl aside with your flip-flop and a few flies emerge. You realize that it is far too dangerous to squat with your pants around your ankles. Think what could happen to your wallet! So you try to take your pants off, balancing on one leg trying not to let the legs of your pants touch the brown discoloration.
(Editor’s note: As far I know, Marty is the only person who feels compelled to take his pants off in this situation. This is not standard practice, and you should not try it at home.)Finally, you get your pants off and you steer yourself over the hole, a treacherous balancing act. You realize that you cannot risk touching the floor with your hands. Lateral placement is easy to judge. Now you ease backwards and forwards, uncertain where your orifice actually is, wondering how quickly you will be able to make last second adjustments, just thankful you do not have diarrhea. With surprising speed the deed is done, and none too soon as your legs burn from the isometric effort. And fortunately I remembered the TP! After this, the bucket-bath “shower” was a piece of cake. (To avoid having you get the wrong impression that I was in control, Nancy insists that I tell you that she had to calm me down and tell me not to panic after I came racing back from my first adventure in the “bathroom” in a veritable tizzy approaching apoplexy.)
During our several days in Yona we had countless adventures with great people. Amadou, Nancy and I hiked through the heat one morning to Jala Koto, a neighboring Fula village which looks like it jumped off the pages of National Geographic. The huts were all round with thatched roofs, and the women, covered with beads and jewelry, were thrilled to chat with us. The heat was brutal as we walked along the new (dirt) road to Bansang, turning off at Kunting and returning to Yona. I was afraid Amadou with his 70-80+ years might have trouble in the heat. He just kept going while Nancy and I withered!
Jala Koto - Fula Village
Another day, Mawdo invited me to come for prayers at the Yona mosque. In other parts of the world you might think twice about this invitation, but in Yona we were part of the family. Being a bit inexperienced with this sort of thing, I carefully watched my fellow Mosque-goers and joined them bowing low to the ground while facing Mecca. They prayed out loud in a chanting-type fashion, while I silently kneeled and pressed my forehead to the ground, following their lead. I haven’t changed my name to Mohammed yet, but the experience was interesting and certainly more welcoming and warm than the impression one gets in the news of machine gun-toting Muslims. Nancy (not being allowed into the mosque because of her unfortunate female status) and others were waiting to greet me at the exit. It was a village sensation.
One day we ventured out on a hike Nancy had been dreaming of for a long time. We walked for miles through the bush past the village of Jala Koto on to a place called Monkey Courts and then along a beautiful part of the Gambia River to the village of Karantaba, keenly looking for the bush pigs and monkeys that Nancy used to regularly see along this stretch of bush. When we arrived in Karantaba we were famished, but there were no stores or restaurants for food; the lumo, the weekly traveling market, wouldn’t be coming until the next day. A casual inquiry about where we could find lunch generated a great deal of interest and discussion among several women, and finally a beautiful Jola schoolgirl named Isatou invited us to her home for lunch. Her English was as good as the food.
The Road to Karantaba
We passed up the walk further along the river to the Mungo Park monument, which Nancy remembered as being a small obelisk and perhaps not worth a long trek under the hot mid-day sun. Mungo Park was a Scottish explorer, who came up the river to this point in about 1795 and then headed northeast to “discover” the Niger River and Timbuktu. Timbuktu (in modern day Mali) had been an important trading city on the route between the North African Mediterranean coast and the interior of Africa. It was thought to be extremely wealthy and had not been visited by a European since 1500. Park’s expedition was the first of many such expeditions supported by the British government to explore the Dark Continent with the goal of trade and eventual colonization. Park was the first European to see the Niger, but he did not survive to tell the story. (If you are interested in the early years of African exploration, an exciting book is “The Race for Timbuktu” by Frank Kryza, which recounts the story of many incredible explorers from Mungo Park to Gordon Laing, the Brit who finally reached Timbuktu in about 1830. Almost all of these early explorers died, often from malaria, but a few died of even more grisly deaths.)
Isatou
Anyway, back to Karantaba. After lunch Isatu accompanied us to her middle school a mile or so away from the village, next to the primary school where Nancy had organized a fruit tree nursery 18 years before. After chatting with the welcoming headmaster and a French teacher, Isatu found us a donkey cart ,and we headed north to Tabanani.
Donkey carts, the African equivalent of a yellow cab, are an experience that should not be missed. There are no springs, and if there are rubber tires, they feel like steel. Every ridge and pothole is immediately recorded in your lower backbone. There is no back to lean against. Your feet dangle inches from the wheel and spokes. If you shift forward for relief, the driver tells you to move back so that your bulk is right over the wheels. And of course you have to haggle over the fare. But you would love watching the African bush go by from a donkey cart, the swollen baobob trees and the thorny but beautiful kapok trees with their big orange flowers.
In Tabanani we asked for Momodou, with whom Nancy had started a little tree nursery 18 years before. Suddenly he was there (news travels with surprising speed in African villages) and within minutes we were sitting in his home packed with beaming family, kids and assorted neighbors. After an extended photo-op, they insisted on our taking a huge bag of peanuts as a gift. We hoisted it onto a horse cart (like a donkey cart but with a different engine), and we were off to Yona, trying to beat the setting sun and presumably emerging hyenas.
Horse Cart Ride Back from Tabanani
A highlight of our stay in Yona was a walk to the rice fields down by the river. I had heard this is the best place to spot a cobra, but the probability is small in the dry season when the cobras disappear as the country dries up. By the way, Gambia is a superb destination for you herpetologist readers: Gambia is home to the green mamba, vipers, the hooded cobra and the spitting cobra as well as pythons, huge monitor lizards, chameleons, gheckos and the ubiquitous lizards found throughout the village that Nancy called “push-up” lizards because of their calisthenic tendencies. (I comforted myself with the knowledge that those of us who wear glasses have a better chance of surviving an encounter with a spitter!)
Our little expedition consisted of three boys, two dogs (Rasta and Bob), Nancy and me. We soon reached the rice fields or bolongs, the areas near the river that flood in the rainy season. Since this was the dry season, the bolongs had been reduced to little shallow ponds and lots of mud.
Just as we were getting within eyesight of the river, we heard loud barking noises. Along the ridge of a long hill, just to our right and adjacent to the river, we saw the source of the noise: a veritable army of baboons systematically marching along the ridge and down onto the bolong in front of us. Nancy and I disagree on our estimates of the number of baboons, but we both agree that it was closer to 100 than to 50 – a truly spectacular sight.
The boys and dogs immediately took off running, presumably to chase down some “bush meat” or, like Safo had many years before, to catch a baby baboon to raise as a pet. I was not looking forward to a confrontation among the boys, dogs and the baboons, especially since, given the size, strength and impressive teeth of a male baboon, I was not sure who would survive the confrontation. Pandemonium ensued. Fortunately, the baboons managed to dodge the rocks hurled at them, and they gradually disappeared into the woods. I was disturbed watching the boys trying to wreak havoc on this formidable and majestic baboon troop, but Nancy assured me that this was a natural part of life in Africa. The boys gleefully took it all in stride and then accompanied us up the hill to enjoy a grand view of the river.
The Boys and "Bob" Recovering from the Great Baboon Chase
On the way back, after a treacherous descent of the steep and fire-charred hillside, the boys flopped into one of the muddy little water holes to clean off. You could not have paid me to join them. Nancy wondered out loud if any of the bolong snakes had taken refuge in these few remaining water holes. We spotted three bush pigs (warthogs) digging for roots on the bolong. Unlike the baboons, the bush pigs were safe from the boys as Muslims don’t eat pig, even the warthog variety. The bush pigs ran off as we approached, and we came home without bush meat.
Near the end of our stay in Yona we visited Bansang, which is the next large town along the river east of Georgetown. It was hot, we were famished, and the “restaurants” (known in Peace Corps circles as “chop shops”) looked uninviting. Despite my reluctance, we opted for sandwiches on the street. The vendor picked up a roll of bread with a calloused hand, sliced it with a well-used knife, and spooned out a greasy bean spread onto the bread from a metal bowl, which was covered to keep the flies out. He wrapped the sandwiches with old newspapers and handed them over. If I had not been so famished I might have lost my appetite. But the grease-laden and dripping sandwiches that we ate while sitting among the browsing donkeys did taste great. Perhaps not so coincidentally, the diarrhea started the next day.
Domestic life in the village proved interesting to me. Jenoba, one of the wives, gave me a cooking class. Actually, I just sat there as she demonstrated how they cooked rice over a fire in a huge cast iron pot on a three stone “stove.” From what I could see, and as Jenoba confirmed, it is a back-breaking task. Picture doing all your cooking at ground level as kitchen counters are non-existent.
Cooking Lesson from Jenoba
A highlight of my domestic experiences was helping Nancy wash our laundry by hand at the village well. We were quite the scene, surrounded by the wild pre-schoolers who avidly watched our every move, pumped our water, questioned the quality of our laundering and frequently howled with laughter for no apparent reason. It was hard not to be won over by the little buggers. It was quite scandalous to have me, a male, helping with the laundry. When questioned by Gambian women, Nancy quickly pointed out that American husbands were better than Gambian husbands. The women agreed and then insisted that men shouldn’t be doing laundry.
Hanging Out with the Pre-School Crowd
A couple of days and a few more adventures later we bade farewell to Yona. Half the village turned out to wish us well on our trip to Senegal to visit Niokola Koba National Park, a destination Nancy had wanted to visit for two decades. Our progress walking along the bush road was initially slow as a funeral in neighboring Kunting attracted many mourners, who cheerfully stopped to greet us and chat on their way to the funeral.
We lucked out as a bush taxi picked us up and brought us to Basse, the largest town upcountry and the last major town on the Gambia River within Gambia’s borders. Our arrival in Basse was delayed as the driver stopped to load an enormous pile of firewood onto the roof of the bush taxi. It raised serious questions in my mind about the structural stability of the bush taxi and the wisdom of having such a high center of gravity as we wound our way through Gambia’s dubious tarmac. Despite all odds, we made it to Basse without tipping over.
The trip to Tambacunda, a major crossroads in Senegal, was an adventure or a nightmare, depending on your point of view. The trip included four bush taxis in varying states of disrepair. The roads were covered with potholes, or in some cases consisted only of potholes, and we were packed in like sardines. The fare negotiation included the option of buying a couple of extra seats so that you didn’t have to wait for the taxi to “fill up,” although, in reality, it would have required supernatural powers to squeeze in additional passengers. In our case, the negotiation was complicated by the possibility of all the passengers pooling resources to cover the cost of the two virtual passengers that were required. You can imagine that Nancy’s Mandinka got a workout, especially as one of the taxi fare collectors decided that yelling at her would provide incentive to hand over more cash. She skillfully recruited allies among the other passengers to buffer herself from this obnoxious bully, and eventually the complex international treaty was ratified by all parties, enabling the taxi to depart.
One of the taxis was actually a mini-truck with the passengers packed into the back. You felt like you were in a vintage submarine in enemy waters. This one also couldn’t start on its own, so two or three boys (always useful to have along) sat on the roof and jumped down to push start the vehicle when necessary. Their legs were draped over the hole in the front of the can containing us sardines, contributing to the sense of claustrophobia. The jostling rocked more than just the taxi, but fortunately, there was a “facility” with a toilet hole at the border.
View from Inside the Bush Taxi
The last long bush taxi ride into the Senegalese town of Tambakunda included crossing the first bridge over the Gambia River, a one-lane “temporary” bridge built after WWII. In the outskirts of Tambakunda, the taxi driver first tried to unload us at the wrong hotel. Then, driving in the dark, he managed get us to the correct hotel, which unfortunately was full. Wisely, we had refused to pay the fare until we had secured a room. Meanwhile, enjoying above-average intestinal activity, I was becoming desperate to find a toilet of any sort. The driver reluctantly took us to a recommended alternative hotel, by which time I was no longer able to move with confidence. I waddled to the desk. Noting my distress, the good natured clerk kindly dispensed with the registration paperwork and took us straight to the room for my private paperwork. It was a very close call!
The next day, before leaving for Niokola Koba National Park, we toured Tambakunda, home to one of the few railroads in West Africa. I had been keen to see the railroad station, which was built in colonial times, so we walked over with excitement. (Editor’s note: The use of the word “we” in reference to “our” excitement appears to be an egregious case of poetic license. It is not clear what other party, besides Marty, was excited.) It was hard to believe this wasteland was home to a functioning railway. There was one rickety rail line that allegedly reaches from the metropolis of Dakar to Bamako, the capitol of Mali. From what we could see, there was nothing but bits and pieces of what seemed to be former railway cars strewn about.
Reportedly, there are one or two trains per week that journey between Dakar and Bamako. A Senegalese man we met explained that you can’t be sure what day the train would arrive; sometimes it showed up on Wednesday, sometimes it didn’t. My romantic dream of taking the African version of the Orient Express was shattered. Nancy, the wizened African veteran, had a look on her face that said “I told you so.”
The SUV ride to the Niokola Koba National Park was refreshingly uneventful except for the assorted wildlife along the 30 kilometers of road that were within the park. We arrived in the dark at the Simenti Lodge, one of the few places in the park where you are allowed to stay. The food, served in a cavernous, open sided dining room with occasional baboon visitors, was excellent, stomach and intestines permitting. (Nancy, at least, enjoyed her fill.) Colbin, the British manager, had given up a management job in England to move to Senegal after having visited and been enchanted by the Park.
The Gambia River begins in the mountains of Guinea and flows through southern Senegal and down the center of Gambia. Our trip afforded us many opportunities to see the river in different places along its length. Our lodge at Niokolo Koba National Park overlooked the Gambia River at a point that had a particularly exciting assortment of animals. We were not allowed to wander on our own beyond the borders of the Lodge (to avoid becoming prey), but on boat and truck trips we saw hippos, numerous crocodiles, various antelopes, and a bewildering array of beautiful birds.
Simenti Lodge on the Gambia River
Fortunately we had calm conditions at Niokolo Koba, and we were able to enjoy the spectacular site of about 15 hippos floating happily together with their cute little ears above the water in the windless conditions. You may not know this, but hippos don’t like wind. Originally we heard this fascinating tidbit from one of our river guides, but, when we later questioned Amadou about it, he confidently affirmed that, “Oh no, hippos don’t like wind.” One is given the impression that Africans have profound insight into hippo psychology.
Within an easy walk of our Lodge was a huge grassy area that becomes a shallow lake during the wet season. From a hide on the edge we could marvel at this mini-version of the Serengeti plain. There were monkeys, baboons, warthogs, antelopes, a flock of huge 5-6 foot tall marabout storks torturing a huge fish, and a large group of frantic mongooses. Lions and elephants are rumored to live in the park as well. Niokolo Koba rivals the famous East African parks but with far fewer tourists and National Geographic specials.
Wildlife was not limited to the wild areas. Nancy exited our room one morning to unexpectedly come face-to-face with a large, scary-looking baboon. The baboon was not much smaller than Nancy, so, powered by adrenaline, she made a hasty retreat. Another time, she met a family of monkeys lounging in the tree just outside of our room.
While Nancy was having close encounters of the primate kind, I was battling my own inner demons. One night was terrible with both stomach and intestines in extreme distress. This presented a potential dilemma, but fortunately each politely waited their turn. Nancy later found out that I woke up our guide, who was sleeping next door, with my thunderous retching.
The return trip was a long haul from one bush taxi to the next, with an overnight at Jangjang Bureh Camp. The worst section was the new north-bank road from Georgetown to Barra at the mouth of the Gambia River. It was about six hours (felt like 10), the taxi was completely packed, as usual, with about 15 people, the back door didn’t close properly and the taxi engine had a couple of near-death experiences but seemed to miraculously revive itself. Clouds of dust swirled through the van during the miles of incompleted road that were without blacktop. Despite its questionable qualities today, this road was even less developed in Nancy’s era when the main transportation route was the south-bank road, which is now so full of potholes that cars are likely to be fatally crippled along the route.
Finally we reached the ferry at Barra. The scene was a nightmare. As soon as we arrived, aggressive young men surrounded the taxi and tried to grab the passengers’ bags as they were unloaded from the roof of the van (presumably in order to extract fees for carrying the bags). Apparently a large fraction of the crime in Gambia occurs at this ferry crossing, so we grabbed our bags as quickly as possible and fought our way through the crowds to the ferry. We were lucky and all went smoothly. The ferry, built in the Ukraine, was, like all Gambian transportation, packed to the gills. We couldn’t help but think of the Senegalese ferry that sank in Gambian waters five years ago, killing almost 1,000 people.
We decided to treat ourselves for the last couple of days in Kombos by staying at the Safari Gardens Guesthouse in Fajara, which is well known for ecotourism, excellent local cuisine, and treating their Gambian staff well. Our extended Gambian family wanted us to stay with them in their compound in Kombos, but at this point, Nancy was also finally starting to see a little more intestinal activity, so we decided it would be better for all involved if we stayed at a hotel.
Up to this point, our one disappointment of the trip was that we had not been able to find Mama Manneh, a friend and colleague of Nancy who helped her immensely when she was trying to get started as a forestry volunteer in Yona. Our last hope was to search for him in Brufut, his hometown in Kombos, although Nancy was pretty sure that, like her, he still preferred to spend most of his time upcountry. On our journey to Mama’s village we managed to pick up Rusty, a friendly Canadian who was wandering around the world.
Thinking Rusty might enjoy getting out of the tourist circles, we invited him to accompany us to Brufut. When we arrived in Brufut, a large town, we asked some old timers about Mama’s whereabouts. After a brief discussion, one of the elders took us straight to a school where Mama was helping with the national elections taking place that day. Mama was thrilled to see Nancy and “Doctor.” He took us through the village to visit his wife and his mother, whom Nancy had never met. He told us about his mother’s family, a family of African nobility that helped found the village. Rusty, who was quite friendly with us, turned out to be weirdly stand-offish when we finally found Mama. Rather than participating in our conversations with Mama and his family, Rusty sat on the sidelines reading his book and eventually just fell asleep, much to our relief. Given that socializing is probably one of the most closely held values of African society, Rusty’s behavior was, to put it simply, rude. With a graciousness that characterizes many Africans, Mama just smiled at Rusty’s inappropriate behavior, knowing that white people sometimes just don’t get it.
Mama Manneh and his Wife
Mama, in the tradition of generous African hospitality, insisted on coming to our hotel the next day to take us to the airport. After having said goodbye to Mama, we were in the departure lounge ready to fly home when there was an announcement that there were technical problems with the airplane and our departure was delayed. An organizational nightmare ensued as panicking tourists, realizing that they were now stuck in Africa for an indeterminate amount of time, sought directions, the right bus, and their assigned hotel.
Luckily, we had befriended one of the Gambian airline agents while checking in, and she looked after our interests. After our bus drove around Kombos depositing other passengers at less desirable places (one had a power outage), it finally arrived at the entrance to our accommodations, the Ocean Bay Hotel, a new, luxurious 5-star beachfront resort dazzling in the evening light. This was a strange new dimension of Gambia for us. The resort is a gated world of its own with restaurants, swimming pool, manicured lawns and flowers, and hundreds of bronzed European bodies interspersed with Gambian staff bringing drinks to the world’s elite (that includes you too). The reception had clocks showing the time in large cities around the world, and an announcement board for Gambian dancing and music. Our room was actually a suite with a huge bathroom, living room and bedroom, but no roosters to rouse us in the morning.
This was a different Gambia, but the only one which many Western tourists see. It has remarkably little resemblance to the Gambia that Gambians know. It succeeds in creating a mini-western world, so tourists don’t have to experience the discomforts of Africa. In fact, they don’t have to experience Africa at all. These resorts and Gambia’s tourist industry are at the center of the economic boom of the coastal region of Gambia, but we wondered who benefits financially from them.
Among our fellow stranded passengers was Peter, a tennis and golf pro, who made Nancy uncomfortable. A divorced grandfather, he had had a relationship with a local girl of under 20 on a previous trip to Gambia. She became pregnant, they got married (to the shock of his adult children), and they returned to England. According to Peter, she was crazy and badly influenced by her Gambian friends in England, and left him, before her immigration papers were in order.
Nancy and I have different responses to Peter’s story. I liked Peter and saw him as a victim. Nancy was more ambivalent, recognizing that there are strange and exploitative relationships that develop between westerners and Gambians as a result of the vast differences in wealth. Another of our fellow-passengers was a middle aged white woman who appeared to be taking home her new, young Gambian rasta boyfriend. While westerners look for sex or perhaps relationships to ease loneliness, Gambians want to escape the poverty and lack of opportunities available to them in Gambia. The combination leaves one uncomfortable.
After our stay in the pseudo-white world of the Ocean Bay Hotel, we felt privileged to have been “upcountry” and in the villages where one can find the heart of Africa. We returned to the airport and sadly left Africa behind.
West Africa was an incredible experience for me. Every day brought excitement, adventures and interesting people, who wanted to engage us. Of course I was privileged to experience Africa with Nancy, whose exuberant Mandinka (and French) charmed everyone we met, including some of the potential bumsters. It is a very different world with values and expectations different than ours, with strong extended family ties and a devotion to Islam that welcomed my participation. Even though poachers are a major problem in Africa, at least some large animals are surviving in the wild. Africa’s problems are huge as they try to overcome the legacy of colonization and exploitation that continues today, and adapt to the modern world. But you can’t help but feel optimistic when you feel the spirit of Africa. Think about a visit.
The Gambian Flag
Happy Cheese Eaters
