Douglas Easton Travel Blog - Douglas Easton Travel

April 10, 2007

Serrekunda, The Gambia

Dean and I today had an African adventure.

This morning we left Dakar in a rattletrap taxi which was knocking on the scrap heap door. My window had to be raised or lowered by grasping the glass, as the handle was useless. Most of the seat stuffing was missing or on its way out.

Our driver, a huge Senegalese who grunted monosyllabically when he wasn't pushing Oreos into his mouth, drove us south across Senegal on a five-hour endurance test. Some of the roads were so pitted that Cookieman frequently opted to take us off road, which was certainly no worse.

At the Gambian border, we had to switch taxis. Several Gambian passengers clambered in as well, and Dean and I practiced contortionism.

A half hour later we'd arrived at the swift-flowing Gambia River, so broad in places that one can't see the other side. This treacherous waterway is notorious for both its unpredictable current and for its crocodiles.

However, the boat was not yet ready to sail, and so we whiled away an hour swatting flies in the scorching, humid afternoon and amusing a score of Africans who grilled us on Life In America.

We finally boarded what was charitably referred to as a ferry, which more accurately might be described as a buoyant heap of tires and timber to which a motor with emphysema had been attached. We noticed that there were no life preservers anywhere. (The ferry owners must have figured that in the event of their property capsizing, the crocs would make the life vests superfluous, so why bother?)

After packing absolutely every last centimeter with passengers, cargo and livestock (this would be a good point to note that goats can and do become seasick, with merry abandon), our trusty craft emarked on its hour-long journey across the Gambia.

Mid-river, the swells became larger and the current faster. The ferry began to rock. All I could do was recall occasional news items about similar vessels overturning in rough waters in various third world countries, with loss of life routinely in the hundreds.

Delighted to finally make it (dry) to the other bank, Dean and I were immediately plucked by a customs official from the horde of disembarking passengers. This was slightly confusing, as we'd cleared customs hours ago upon leaving Senegal. He wore a cheap suit and sunglasses and comported himself with the grim oiliness of a Stasi operative. After ushering us wordlessly into his office, he proceeded to glare at us for a full minute. (He must have learned this trick from the classic how-to primer Secret Police Interrogation Techniques for Dummies.)

Abruptly, he launched into a lengthy lecture, received by Dean and myself in the most repectful silence, about how The Gambia had received much unjustified and unfavorable publicity abroad. He then asked us, ominously, what we had heard ourselves.

Dean and I looked at each other a moment, and then informed our interlocutor that we had only heard the most glowing praise for his country and hoped that it was all true.

This prompted another long silence while he tried to decide whether we were being sarcastic or were simply idiots. Happily, he decided the latter, and we were allowed to depart.

Dean by this time was becoming more vocal about returning to San Francisco earlier than previously planned.

A final thirty-minute drive brought us to our delightful hotel in Serrekunda, where we celebrated our arrival with double gin-and-tonics.

We've also decided to fly back to Dakar rather than go overland.

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