June 29, 2025

The Gambia

June 29, 2025/ Sarah Lock

Our entry into Gambia was, surprisingly, our smoothest African border experience to date. Still getting to grips with the vagaries of African bureaucracy we approached the chaotic Karang/Amdallai border crossing with low expectations and much debate as to whether a strategic bribe might grease Bob’s wheels. Our encounters with Senegalese officials had taught us that the smallest of misdemeanours could be monetized and we wondered what the state of play would be when dealing with the Gambians. Having been stamped out of Senegal without incident we drove onto Gambian soil where we were directed to park slightly away from the action, underneath a spreading Baobab tree. This segregation from the general melee didn’t seem like a good start but, once inside the concrete block building housing the customs official, we were met with a cordial greeting welcoming us to the country which was promptly followed by the announcement “we are all now friends”. On the face of it, all good, but the lengthy pause that followed indicated that there was an expectation that something would be forthcoming from us. Bearing in mind that we had paid €250 for the TIP to get Bob into Senegal and Gambia didn’t seem to be officially asking us for anything, we happily donated €20 to the Ministry of Friendship which was received with big smiles and resulted in a speedy exit from the border post.

Our rapid progress didn’t last long however, as less than half an hour later we arrived at Barra, gateway to the infamous Gambia River ferry – a short 5km boat ride to the capital of Banjul that we realised in hindsight has been negatively documented by many. Our preoccupation with the border crossing meant that we had done zero research on the ferry and were totally unprepared for what was to follow.

The town of Barra is basically one long, narrow dust-choked street overrun with trucks, cars, donkeys, street vendors and an entire economy based around waiting for the ferry. We were instantly surrounded by several local men, all shouting in stereo and gesticulating with a similar urgency to air traffic controllers. They pointed us to the side of the road, right behind what appeared to be a long-ago abandoned bus and informed us we had reached the back of the ferry queue. The line ahead of us was grim; without exception every vehicle was devoid of occupants and covered with a thick layer of dust suggesting they had been waiting for some time. Worse still, we had no ferry ticket, a major oversight on our part having driven straight passed the ticket office and weighbridge some 5km back down the road.

Still surrounded by locals we were escorted to an unmarked ticket office where a woman sat behind iron bars issuing tickets to foot passengers only. More shouting then ensued, and we were repeatedly told “This is not the right place… but we can fix it”. And, sure enough, after a mysterious negotiation involving most of the town and what we suspect was another “friendship fee” a ferry ticket was handed over.

While we were getting to grips with “The Smiling Coast of Africa”, a small Dutch truck pulled up – another hopeful arrival in a mass of vehicular limbo. Like us, they were immediately surrounded by a shouting gang of local fixers. Sensing that sanity lay in numbers, we struck up a conversation and, as the day progressed, got to know them rather well. She was an actress, he a movie lighting technician, taking time out to enjoy a few months overlanding. They had crossed the same border as us earlier in the day but had declined to offer a sweetener, a decision that had resulted in a four-hour hold under the same sprawling baobab tree while the entire contents of their truck were unloaded and searched.

Six hours we spent hanging around waiting for a ferry to arrive. Actually, that’s not quite accurate; two ferries did arrive during that time but only a handful of vehicles from our queue were allowed on. We watched in dismay as a series of dust free, shiny vehicles appeared out of narrow side streets from where they were waved forward towards the waiting ferry. Over the course of the afternoon, we learned that while the Barra-Banjul ferry service normally operated three ferries, only one was currently operating. The other two were making sure that this service didn’t lose its reputation as one of West Africa’s most unreliable. And it appeared that the remaining ferry was hanging on by a thread, just days earlier, its engines had failed mid-crossing and it had drifted out toward the Atlantic before a rescue boat was found and dispatched to tow it back. It had since been dubbed “The ghost ship of the Gambia River” which admittedly did sound rather poetic but cast even more gloom over the whole ordeal.

With the final ferry due to arrive at 9pm, we faced a dilemma. Boarding the ferry, bearing in mind the slim chance of actually getting on, had definitely lost some of its appeal but the prospect of spending the night camped on the dusty street or finding a more suitable campsite somewhere close by only to return the following morning to repeat the whole process again was equally unappealing.

The ferry did eventually turn up, but lacking the discipline of the ferry officials who had now clocked off for the day, the orderly queue collapsed into a vehicular mosh pit. Horns honked, expletives were yelled, and it was every car for themselves. Fortunately, our retinue of unofficial “assistants”, still hoping to make some money out of us before the end of the day, sprang into action. They leapt in front of rival cars, shouting aggressively whilst fists came down onto bonnets, giving us just enough room to slip through the barriers and onto the ferry. The Dutch couple weren’t so lucky. Sensibly deciding not to have another attempt the following day they rerouted inland, catching up with us at Sukuta Camp three days later. We later learned that the new Senegambia Bridge near Farafenni offered up a much more reliable route, albeit an extra 5-6 hours of driving. If only we’d known.

We had envisioned The Gambia as a much-needed pause, the first English-speaking country after months of grappling with our high-school French. With its reputation for laid-back charm, sun-soaked beaches and budget-friendly travel we had visions of a tropical pitstop with good food, friendly people and a blissfully slow pace of life. The reality was quite different. Home to at least nine ethnic groups, each with their own language, English, when spoken, was patchy at best and we frequently wondered whether we were in fact speaking the same language. The warm weather came with a side of Saharan dust blown in on stiff Harmattan winds which meant that everything was once again covered in a fine, throat-coating powder. The Sukuta campground, run extremely well by a couple of Germans was centrally placed which meant that we found ourselves in the orbit of “The Senegambia Strip”, a lively but undeniably tourist-centric stretch filled with British pubs, karaoke bars and signs advertising “Full English Breakfast Served All Day!”. Heinz baked beans and tomato ketchup accompanied most meals and French pastries had been traded in for sliced white bread and Marmite.

Then came the “bumsters” – a uniquely Gambian phenomenon. Young, charismatic Gambian men who patrol the beaches or stroll the streets, striking up conversations with tourists. Some offer guided tours or cultural experiences, others companionship – with “benefits”. While a few genuinely want to share an insight into their country, many are opportunists in search of what has become known as “girlfriend tourism”. The stereotype that most of us are probably more used to has been completely flipped on its head. Middle-aged European women – mostly British and French – are hooked up with strikingly handsome, much younger Gambian men. Despite its unofficial status, this kind of relationship is interwoven into the tourist economy of one of the smallest and poorest countries in mainland Africa.

As for the climate? Along the coast it was warm but manageable. Inland? Temperatures soared past 35°C (95°F), the air was thick and clingy and there was the added irritation of mosquitos. Although malaria isn’t a big issue outside the rainy season - which, thankfully, was still a little way off - we weren’t taking any preventative meds, so why take the risk and head inland?

Because The Chimp Rehabilitation Project (CRP) is there – and it was worth every sweaty, checkpoint-heavy hour of the 10-hour round trip. Deep within the Gambia National Park, our visit to the sanctuary was like stepping straight into the pages of National Geographic. A lush, unspoiled enclave of biodiversity tucked into a remote bend of the River Gambia. This protected area, encompassing nearly 580 hectares, is dense with Mahogany, silk cotton and oil palm trees lining the riverbanks, pods of hippos announce their presence as nostrils and then eyes slowly break the surface of the water and nature reigns supreme. And, at the heart of it all are the Baboon Islands, five river islands that serve as a rare, semi-wild refuge for one of humanity’s closest relatives: the chimpanzee.

The CRP is one of the oldest and most successful primate sanctuaries in Africa, one where the chimpanzees live without cages or fences, therefore free to roam, forage and form complex social groups much as they would in the wild. Each chimp carries a story of rescue from captivity, research labs, pet ownership and orphanage and towering behind them all is the remarkable story of Janis Carter who turned a bold experiment into a lifelong mission of rehabilitation and protection.

It all started with Lucy the Human Chimp who, in the 1960’s, was adopted at 2-days old by a pair of psychologists for the purposes of researching nature over nurture. Lucy was brought up in the same manner as a child; she was taught to eat with utensils, use sign language and even make tea for guests. But by age 12, nature proved to be far stronger than nurture and a new home needed to be found for her. Janis Carter, a psychology graduate student, had bonded with Lucy in Florida and with the objective of teaching Lucy how to live in the wild, travelled with her to the Gambia. What was intended to be a trip of just a few weeks for Janis turned into nearly seven years, during which time she lived on one of the islands with Lucy and a small troupe of orphaned and previously captive chimps. Janis’s dedication was remarkable and although we didn’t get to meet her during our visit, we did speak with her and were amazed that at 73 years old she is still at the helm of the Project.

Today the sanctuary is home to over 140 chimpanzees, thriving across three of the park’s five islands in four family-like groups. Visitors are not permitted on the islands themselves, but the chimps can be glimpsed from the guided boat trips that circle the perimeter of the islands. Another alternative is to stay at the CRP Lodge, only open to visitors on weekends and with limited accommodation in a few safari-style tents. It was a place that felt a million miles away from civilisation and an amazing legacy created by both Lucy and Janis. A documentary of this extraordinary story can be seen here. https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x8k2nzv

May 26, 2025

Senegal

May 26, 2025/ Sarah Lock

Bouncing along the pot-holed, dusty track towards Diama, the Mauritania-Senegal border post, we hoped we had chosen the right crossing. There are two main crossing points, Rosso with a long-standing reputation for corruption and aggression and Diama, still corrupt but with a smile. Our first “fee” was to the man manning the barrier into the compound. The time it took him to write out a receipt was just enough for the fixers and hawkers to arrive. We always knew that entering Senegal was going to be expensive given that we didn’t have a Carnet and Bob was going to be penalised for being a senior. Senegalese officials had seized upon an import regulation targeting vehicles over eight years old and were applying it to those entering the country on a temporary basis. The “fee” in Bob’s case was €250, followed by a further €60 for “mandatory” insurance (despite already having our own) and other incidentals, including a persistent fixer who had clearly mastered the art of not taking no for an answer. To add insult to injury, we then had to wait 3 hours for all the paperwork to be produced and stamped before we were permitted to enter Senegal.

Once free of the border we drove into a whole new world. Senegal, Africa’s westernmost country is often referred to as the “Gateway to Africa”, and stepping into it felt like a long exhale after holding one’s breath through the stripped-back intensity of Mauritania. A rich fusion of African, Islamic and French influences made Senegal feel less constrained and more expressive; colour and vibrancy everywhere we looked.

Despite economic hardship - more than a third of its 18 million citizens live below the poverty line - Senegal remains a beacon of peace in West Africa, having never experienced a coup or civil war. Its main industries are as diverse as its landscapes; mining, tourism, agriculture, fishing and the humble peanut, which is one of Senegal’s largest food exports.

The cultural tapestry is woven primarily with the Wolof people (40%), but also includes Fulani, Serer, Mandinka, Jola and Soninke groups. And, although around 95% of the population are Muslim, this wasn’t the more rigid Islam that we had witnessed in Northern Africa. Sufi mysticism, with its emphasis on art, music and inner peace has created a version of Islam where men and women interact freely and any veils worn seem more Vogue that virtue.

Once across the border we knew exactly where we were going – the Zebrabar, a Swiss owned and run, campground and restaurant situated directly on the beach just south of the city of Saint-Louis. Named by blending zebra (symbolising Africa) and Njagabar (Wolof for pelican), it offered peace, alcohol, showers and good company. It was also the perfect opportunity to relieve Bob of the half ton of Sahara that he had smuggled out - a job that took both of us two days!!.

We had now crossed into the Sahel, a transitional semi-arid zone where the desert shrugs off its dryness and starts flirting with the savannah. Inland wetlands dot the scrubby plains, attracting migrating birds by the million. Literally. The Djoudj National Bird Sanctuary, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is the third-largest bird reserve in the world. Here, up to three million birds rest and breed between November to April.

We explored it by boat with Vivienne, a French traveller researching the Senegalese dance scene, and were soon in the middle of thousands of pelicans. Giant, ungainly birds, gathered around a bare mud bank fondly known as the nursery. The creche was chaotic, flapping wings, oversized beaks and gutteral squawks used for vocal recognition. Given that these guys eat up to 1.8 kg of fish each per day we could only guess at how many fish there were beneath the brown waters of the river.

Other species included Flamingos, Whistling Ducks, Eurasian Spoonbills, Egrets, African Fish Eagles, Yellow-billed Storks. Herons and Kingfishers who were only just recovering from a vicious bout of bird flu that swept the area a few years ago. Huge construction works involving a network of embankments, sluice gates and canals have been necessary to maintain the seasonal rhythms of the delta’s waterways following the building of the Diama Dam just north of Senegal’s historic city of Saint-Louis. In the last couple of years drones have been introduced to obtain detailed ecological monitoring and mapping and from what we could gather bird numbers have increased and the Sanctuary is no longer on the World Heritage “In Danger” list.

Just a short taxi ride from the Zebrabar and we were in Saint-Louis, a faded colonial beauty, undeniably worn at the edges but still with an air of elegance. Split across two long islands and joined to the mainland by the 507m Faidherbe Bridge designed and constructed by Gustave Eiffel’s company. A much loved story which is probably not true, is that the bridge was destined for the Danube River in Romania or Austria, but due to a shipping error ended up in Saint-Louis instead. The bridge is the only real landmark of this former colonial capital which offers shabby chic at its finest. Crumbling French villas with wrought iron balconies still line the urban grid of streets where, deteriorating with dignity, they now house cafes, wine bars and art studios.

Curiosity led us - perhaps foolishly - into Dakar, Africa’s westernmost capital famous for the Paris-Dakar rally. An annual off-road endurance race that began in 1978 with 170 adventurers driving 10,000 km over challenging desert terrain. The race garnered world-wide interest when in 1982 the Iron Lady’s son went MIA after the axel on his Peugeot broke and his whereabouts were unknown for 6 days before being found by Algerian border guards. Regardless, the race continued until security concerns in Mauritania saw the event moved to South America in 2008 and subsequently to Saudi Arabia where it is still going strong.

The city was thick with chaotic traffic. Honking horns, no recogniseable traffic system, speeding scooters and livestock all over the place. As far as we could make out Bob was the only vehicle without major body damage. Apart from getting the bikes nudged at one particularly chaotic junction, we made it into Les Alemaides, the Embassy district, unscathed which was a miracle.

Determined to explore, we took to the dirty streets. Dodging traffic whilst trying to escape the persistent street hawkers was made more difficult by Google Maps being as confused as we were. Eventually, we made it to The Marche HLM; it was an explosion of colour, bolts of wax print fabric stacked metres high, seamstresses and their sewing machines at the ready, wigs, hair pieces and entire aisles dedicated to padded underwear. Trading directions for a shirt, we entered through a hole in the wall to a smoky basement eatery. Squeezing onto a bench seat around one of the many communal tables we were served with charred meat skewers, caramelised onions out of small paper bags and bagettes. The fact that Ramadam was still ongoing didn’t seem to be affecting the flow of food consumption, perhaps another example of the elasticity of Senegalese Islam.

The reality of Dakar is a city that is hot, filthy, polluted, crumbling and crowded but there is an undeniable resilience amongst its 4 million residents as they take to the streets trying to eke a living. When it was time for us to leave, which involved hours of sitting in one traffic jam after another, we could literally have furnished a house as one hawker after another filed past us offering everything from children’s furniture, kitchenware, bedding and electrical goods to board games and a range of footwear for every occasion.

Ile d’Ngor is a tiny island just 10 minutes by Pirogue off Dakar’s north shore and a world away from the bustling city. It was an incongruous little place full of cool, shade wearing, dreadlocked rasta guys who invited us to “chill” on the battered sun loungers while they dished up cocktails and Reggae. Happy to go with the flow, we sipped and swayed before retiring at the end of the day to our Bob Marley themed accommodation complete with full-size cardboard piano, swan-shaped towels and an astroturf patio.

Ile de Goree, in contrast, was deeply sobering. From the 15th to 19th century, it was the largest slave-trading post on Africa’s west coast, ruled in succession by the Portuguese, Dutch, English and French. The island is just 900m long and 300m wide and owes its dark history to its geographical position and safe harbour for anchoring ships. Today the pink-washed Maison des Esclaves (House of Slaves) is a powerful memorial to the transatlantic slave trade. The tiny, dark holding cells with their chains and shackles and the infamous “Door of No Return” stand as a stark monument to human cruelty. Yet today, Goree has reclaimed its soul. Artists sell their work beheath bougainvillea and the cobbled lanes hum with creativity, not sorrow.

One thing we hadn’t expected in Senegal was wildlife and although some iconic species such as the giraffe are now extinct they have been successfully re-introduced into reserves, one of which is the wildlife park of Bandia. Best described as a mini safari, it was way better than we were expecting and our 90-minute drive with English-speaking guide got us extremely close to some of the park’s residents namely the afore-mentioned giraffe, zebra, buffalo, hyena, warthogs, ostrich and a variety of antelope, monkeys and even crocodiles. The highlight though was a couple of enormous white rhino who were so close to the open-sided safari vehicle that we could have reached out and touched them. With their horns removed for protection both from poachers and each other we were disheartened to learn that despite continued attempts from the grumpy looking male, the female had no desire whatsoever to mate – perhaps AGSOH was more important than size!

Continuing down the coast we arrived at the tourist-oriented town of Saly, where endless white sand beaches dotted with thatched beach huts showed yet another side to Senegal. Tourists aside, the beach was a great place to observe local life and the strong community spirit that is such a large part of the country’s culture. Whether launching one of the many colourful boats, pulling in fishing nets, executing training drills, playing football or just catching up on the local gossip, it all takes place on the beach.

Up to this point our only interaction with authority had been at the border but as we were leaving town we were pulled over by the local police and asked for our documentation. There was no excuse – yes, it was hot and yes, I didn’t particularly like the attitude of the officious uniformed guard banging on Bob’s window – but what followed was a prime example of how not to travel through Africa. Firstly, I was fined for not wearing a seatbelt (fair enough) but then I was fined for insubordination (really!!!). This was followed by a bit of a stand-off which wasn’t going to achieve anything other than us remaining at the side of the road, possibly for days. Grudgingly, we handed over the requested equivalent of €15 and drove off. Less than 20 minutes later we were pulled over again. Not wanting a repeat performance, seatbelts were now firmly in place and we wound down the windows with rigid smiles fixed to our faces. It was obviously fund-raising day for the local gendarmerie and in accordance with the checklist attached to his clipboard, the officer progressed down his list asking for this and that, all of which we produced in an ingratiatingly pleasant manner. Starting to look a bit crestfallen at a missed opportunity to raise revenue, his eyes alighted on what looked to be the last item on his sheet – did we have a fire extinguisher? Reaching under Bob’s seat this was also produced and with a sulky and abrupt “you can go”, we were dismissed. To a large extent, you make your own luck when travelling through Africa, rules change depending on the mood of the official and any situation can quickly deteriorate depending on the exchange of communication. A few days later we came across a Dutch couple in a massive MAC truck. Following their refusal to pay €20 for some minor discrepancy they had been detained for three days, an experience that had shaken them up so much they had been in the same camping spot for the last 12 months. They had abandoned all plans to travel further south and were soon to be heading home.

Our final destination iwas Eden Encampement, another overlanding stop well placed to explore the Sine Saloum Delta - a waterlogged UNESCO treasure of over 180,000 hectares formed by the confluence of the Sine and Saloum rivers. Leaving Bob parked at the camp, we took a taxi to the village of Ndangane from where we boarded a pirogue to one of the ecolodges lining the banks of the delta. A boat from the lodge took us further into the delta where we cut through mangrove forests, salt flats and sand banks, all home to an incredible array of birds, marine life and honeybees.

Senegal lost 25% of its mangroves between 1970 and 2008 due to droughts and deforestation but restoration efforts, led by Oceanium and locals, have created the largest mangrove reforestation project in the world. With new agricultural practices being introduced, it is hoped that the harvesting of mangrove honey and swamp oysters – both important to local communities – can continue in a sustainable manner.

Another important source of income in the area is salt, the pools used for traditional harvesting creating a most unusual landscape. The colours of the pools are caused by varying salinity levels, microorganisms and sunlight reflection on the mineral-rich water. Seasonal floods and tidal flows fill hundreds of hand dug-out pools before the process of evaporation produces salt. Harvesting the salt is primarily women’s work, the salt crystals collected out of the ponds are dried and then stored inside little thatched huts before being transported to the refinery where they are prepared for sale. Senegal is the largest salt producer in west Africa mining over 450,000 tonnes every year, with small-scale enterprises responsible for around one third of the country’s production. It’s a tough way to make a living; the salt is abrasive and heavy to move around, particularly under a hot sun where annual average temperatures are around 35°C and the women working the ponds often have babies slung across their backs. And yet, the Sine Saloum area is a uniquely peaceful place, its people relying on centuries-old practices to derive an existence from the sensitive environment and the slow pace of life is finely attuned to the nature surrounding it.

Senegal has been the most diverse country of our journey so far - wildlife, history, culture and colour in abundance - and not without its challenges. It isn’t easy to travel through extreme poverty and a concerning issue for us has been how to respond to the constant requests from barefoot, street children asking for cadeaux (gifts). Having broached this topic with other overlanders, the over-riding consensus is that giving reinforces dependency and fuels bigger problems, especially when it comes to talibes, the issue of which is a significant social challenge in Senegal. Talibes are children sent by their families to daaras (Islamic religious schools) to live and study the Qur’an. Traditionally meant to be a positive religious and educational experience, many of these children are now sent to beg on the streets for daily quotas of money or food. Many live in poor conditions without adequate food, shelter or medical care and often receive physical punishment. There is no easy answer to this and as we witness first-hand the challenges that exist we are reminded that our curiosity is a privilege that comes with responsibility.

aroundtheworldin-definitely

aroundtheworldin-definitely

Western Africa Blogs

aroundtheworldin-definitely

The Gambia

Senegal

aroundtheworldin-definitely