The Gambia was out first contact on this cruise with the
African Continent. Almost the westernmost land of Africa, it hugs the lower
half of the Gambia River, and is surrounded by Senegal. Senegal looks like a
giant head on a map, where The Gambia forms the mouth and throat.
Banjul, the capital of the
tiniest nation of Africa, is the Capital and Seat of government. 30,000 people live here, loyal subject of an
elected president, who is fulfilling his office ‘for life’. The city was
founded by the British, who built a fort here to stop slave trade out of
Africa. Senegalese merchants arrived from Goree Island (slave trade centre),
the Portuguese developed a community, and members of various ethnic groups of
West Africa (Wolof, Aku, Fula, Diola, Mandinka, Sara-khole and Serer) relocated
here. With such a mix of languages, English is now the lingua franca, closely
followed by Mandinka and Wolof.
A ferry connects Banjul with
towns, such as Barra, on the south side of Gambia River. It is strategically
docked near the busy Albert Market, where produce, fish and meat are traded as
well as the tourist staples of baskets, masks, dolls and textiles. Gambians,
loaded with purchases head for the ferry to travel home, however said ferry
experiences frequent technical difficulties, and ‘alternative public transport’
emerges a few hundred yards down the garbage strewn beach: dozens of fishing
boats carry passengers, almost submerging the vessels up to their gunwales.
Allegedly very stable, these make shift ferries only capsize at rare occasions…
When not transferring passengers,
the fishing boats head out to the mouth of the Gambia River to spread out their
nets, which are supported by long float lines between partnering fishing boats.
Unfortunately there is no rhyme or reason to the whereabouts of these nets, and
Prinsendam steamed across quite a number of them on her journey out to sea.
I did neither take a tour, nor
one of the ‘guides’. The latter lay in wait at Banjul’s Port exit. Our dock was
swept clean upon arrival of the ship, with a dozen or so workers bent over and
brushing the accumulated debris into the harbour waters. I strolled out into
town solo, surprisingly successful in maintaining my unencumbered status, by
assuring wannabe guides of my love of the country and its people, and knowing
my way around their beautiful town – and yes, we are all brothers, colour is
unimportant.
A ‘walking tour’ of the town is
equivalent to an athletic obstacle course: seas of liquid mud (even in the dry
season), rubble, uncovered manholes, heaps of garbage, sleeping dogs, abrupt
drop off in almost non-existent sidewalks, and vendor stands and pavement
blankets, cars, bicycles and streams of people crowding all around.
I tracked down a ‘recording
studio’ in the maze like Albert Market. Purchasing a CD of the favourite Gambian
musician (Jebali Kuateh) meant waiting for same CD to be illegally copied at
the back of a tiny shack, whilst conversing with two eager security policemen (armed
to the teeth) who wanted to chat with this strange coloured stranger, shake hands
and swear eternal friendship.
To round things off, I picked my
way through shore side corrugated iron shacks, a soccer game in progress, heaps
of manmade flotsam, and complaining sheep which were taken by their keepers for their bath –
like it or not – in the somewhat murky looking brackish water. I found a few
rickety wooden benches under a couple of low trees, which were connected with
shade giving tarps and bought a Coca-Cola (first in decades) as no alcohol is served in
Banjul (Muslim). Resort towns (there are some, who are visited by beach loving
Europeans) serve alcohol, but Banjul is dry.
Back aboard, a local theatre
group presented music (Kura strings), dances and storytelling, which made a curious
mix of traditional sound and dance with Broadway inspired high lights. And then
– another slow and unexpectedly cool sunset leaving The Gambia on our way to
Dakar.
