After a local and bush taxi, I got to the port. The line
for the ferry was long, hawkers and sellers were plying
their goods to one and all. I was amongst the locals, with
no other Europeans in sight. I was in Banjul the capital of
the Gambia and today was a journey across the wide river
mouth to the trading town of Barra and then on to the
Senegal border. My guide Karamba fended off the hassles as
I paid my fare and joined the massing throngs in the
tin-roofed breeze block waiting room. It was a unique
gathering. Young mothers dressed in immaculate bright
coloured dresses with smiling babies strapped to their
backs, luggage on their heads, bags at arms and some
dragging wicker cages containing clucking chickens. Then
there was old women, old men and of course lithe young boys
in shorts, balancing on any solid surface in an attempt to
get a glimpse of the soccer on the TV. A myriad of dialects
reflected around the over full room as the temperature
already approached 30’C -it was only 10 am.
When the order to board the ferry was given, there was a
mad surge, everyone for themselves, no order. The rusting
blue vessel, engines running, polluted the hot humid air
with acrid black smoke. Conversation from the boarding
passengers grew louder and concerned as the ferry suddenly
pulled away. The gap between dock and moving ferry
increased and mothers and all jumped as if there was no
tomorrow. Karamba waved me back and we waited for the next
ferry which was rumbling close-by and ready to dock.
After 20 minutes of more hawkers and inquisitive looks, I
had crossed the deep channel, arriving in a vibrant Barra.
Met by more insistent street sellers, Karamba skilfully
deflected my path to a waiting bush taxi. It was a beat up
mini-bus, loaded to extremes and provided an exceedingly
uncomfortable bounce on the pot holed road to the border. A
cute little girl slept on my lap as I lived the endurance
test. Groceries everywhere, her mother looked on and
gossiped to friends. After I extricated myself out of the
well used bus, Border formalities were minimal, apart from
the hordes of money changers, waving thick colourful wads
of a strange currency in my face. They all made for me, I
changed minimal and became locally rich in an instant! All
that remained was a short taxi journey and I was in
Senegal. I needed recovery, my insides had experienced mass
shake-up and my muscles felt tenderised, perhaps removed
from the bone. Who needs the gym next week!
Karamba was amused when I asked, ‘do we have to repeat that
journey?’ An affirmative was inevitable of course and all
this was for a quick West African border hop. Next time I
would fly to Dakar! I walked the dusty market streets and
with refreshment in mind, an iced tea would hit the spot. A
smiling English speaking shopkeeper, resplendent in yellow
gown, provided the nectar that took away the dust of the
journey. A white man in his stall was unique and very soon
I had a crowd of inquisitive locals pressing into my space.
The shopkeeper’s wife tried to hold them at bay, but there
was no threat and we had a common denominator-we talked
football!
Karamba signalled his urge to return south as he had the
hotel garden to attend to at the end of the day. Leaving
the quickly formed group, a horse and cart took us back to
an awaiting bush taxi. It was a slightly better version,
although still beat up and I am sure would feel the same
filled with in excess of 30 passengers! Oh the joy of local
travelling! My assessment was correct and arriving back in
Barra, flooded with perspiration, squashed and undoubtedly
bruised, I felt like I had just spent a training session
with the All Blacks rugby team. After I had put my limbs
back in their correct places, it was the ferry to Banjul
and then retreat for cold refreshment and medals. Karamba
had other ideas and he charged off through the market,
pushing off approaching bumsters with aplomb and made for
the beach. Quickly we were intercepted by gesticulating
young kids, ‘quickly my friends you will make it’. Make
what, I was not swimming back to Banjul! All was revealed
and around the corner were a squadron of the alternative
river crossing vehicle-the wooden pirogue. Basically, they
are large, locally constructed canoes with wooden slats as
your perch. A very young Captain controlled a large
outboard and rickety rudder, as we roared across the 5 km
to Banjul. He was good at this and even left his standing
station to collect our fares! After manoeuvring through
other port traffic including container ships and marooned
vessels from a past era, we had beaten the ferry and glided
onto the golden beach.
After that, mastering Banjul and finding my gaff was a
breeze. Karamba made off back to work and I found air
conditioned solace with cold refreshment.
So that was 7 types of transportation, covering a very
short distance and all for a cup of tea in Senegal! An
experience of a lifetime-priceless!