The Gambia

from senegal into the gambia

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.

wiaitng for the ferry at barra

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.   

chaotic ferry boarding

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.

barra/banjul ferry

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.    

sukuta camp

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. 

gambia’s finest!

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.   

en-route to see the chimps

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.  

hippos of the gambia

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