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So, it’s a sunny Sunday morning and I’m sitting on the balcony of my first/top floor room in the Palm Grove Hotel, two miles down the beach from the country’s capital city Banjul (population 40.000). There’s palm trees festooned with noisy, exotic birds and peaceful gardens in front of me, the sea’s less than twenty yards to my left – there’s a massive prison on my right, but you’re not to know that. It’s fine. When I booked this last minute cheapo’ to The Gambia (you must call it the Gambia – though I don’t know why, I’d always thought of it as Gambia) I’d a vague idea of where it was: half way down the western coast of Africa, but knew nothing more of the place. And now that I’ve been here for a few days?
Geographically, it’s a long (350k) narrow (35k) strip of land, but for its coast entirely surrounded by Senegal, with the River Gambia dividing it neatly into North and South. It’s the smallest of the African countries with a total population of around 1.5 million. Known as ‘the smiling coast’, other than its peanut crop and tourism, it doesn’t seem to have much going for it. We’re told that its crime free but there’s a menacing police/army presence, roadblocks and far too much concrete and barbed wire for paradise.
The Palm Grove is a compound a la Butlins and they don’t want you to leave. Local beer (Joyful Julbrew) is unexpectedly expensive at around £2 a pint, but everything is expensive – captive consumers? Locals survive on pennies and everybody is out to make a quick Buck, Pound, Euro or, if you insist, Dalasi. The beach is long, sandy and deserted – just like the brochures and, although it’s winter here, the sun shines most the time and it’s warm but not oppressive. So far so good.
It was only when boarding the plane that I realised that I was coming on a Saga holiday (Yes, I know that I’ve just hit fifty but…) with chatty pensioners looking forward to extended stays in the winter sun (understandable as far cheaper than keeping a British home warm this winter). The plane was basic package tour stuff and we were to be allocated our hotel ‘on arrival’.
On arrival we were greeted by 1001 local ‘boys’ (bumsters as they’re known) all insisting on carrying bags at a pound a go - £1 for the fifty yards to customs; £1 for the hundred yards to the bus; £1 for the yard into the baggage hold. Fortunately we travel light. Fellow tourists complained ‘Ten quid to get on the bus, we’ll be broke by Monday.’ On the plane we’d been told of the amount of bumster hassle to be expected and, for the next few days, were to experience it both whole and steadily.
It’s pretty annoying within the hotel but it’s impossible to step outside without being pounced on by a number of ‘boys’ all wanting to be our special friends, our fixers. They’re not particularly aggressive just so bloody persistent and will not take No. In Nepal, Anouk had given me a tip on avoiding hassle: to the ubiquitous opener ‘Where you from?’ just reply ‘Iceland’ – locals will have no reference point and hence no response, in theory they’ll leave you alone and head for easier prey. Answering anything round here from ‘Iceland’ to ‘F.You’ is seen as a friendly invitation to a lifelong relationship. The only solution is total blanking and then rudeness. It’s not nice – only Michael strops will get rid of them and then they appear affronted. It’s irritating and makes for an unpleasant time all round.
Most tourists stay within the safety of the compound: others give up and take ‘their boy’ with them wherever they go; it’s the only form of protection – it works, but what chance privacy? And at what price? The bumsters expect to be wined and dined alongside their new found friends and paid for the privilege. Incidentally, sex tourism seems to be big round here: there’s a lot of fat old ugly white men walking round with pretty young black girls on their arms and a few, not so young and pretty, white women proudly parading their black beaux.
There’s not much to do here but I’d promised Joy a chilling holiday and we seem to have developed a chilling routine: 9.02 get up for breakfast (service stops at 10.00); 9.30 eat, basic grub but they haven’t got much round here; 10.15 wash, then write a bit on our balcony; 11.00 to poolside and lounge in sun with a bottle of iced water; 12.30 quick dip in pool (bloody cold); 1.00 to next door bar (few pints of Julbrew, chips, read and watch the cows walking home along the beach) 4ish paddle in sea and back for luke warm shower and siesta; 7ish up for grub and drinks; 12ish bed under the protection of mosquito nets, we’ve both been nibbled a bit and are still taking the tablets, and good sleeps.
And later, back in England
We managed to escape the compound to Banjul and Serracunda, real towns with neither tourists nor bumsters, for a look at local life and search for a razor (in vain, I’d forgotten to bring one and ended up with a beard) and some more anti-mossie stuff. Here we spoke with a local blacklisted journalist anxious to tell us the sad truths of his nation and its dictator: Mr Jammeh with his miraculous cure for AIDS (a mixture of green herbal paste, a bitter yellow liquid and lotsa’ bananas; he reckons this kills the virus immediately) and the celebrations he holds in his own honour. We heard how his government has been criticised by international rights groups for its attitude to civil liberties, especially freedom of the press with death threats, surveillance and arbitrary night-time arrests commonplace. Uhm... One evening we nipped into the prison bar over the road, had a beer (Guinness Export at 7.5%) with a guard, and watched one of the above celebrations being broadcast live from Banjul – neither he nor we were impressed.
In retrospect? I enjoyed it but was pleased to get away – my back was burned and there’s only so much Julbrew that can be drunk. I can’t see how the pensioners stay here for months. But, I’ve seen a bit more of the world, chilled alot and managed to read most of Shantaram – intriguing book informative and nasty in equal measure, Roberts is not a nice guy. The journey home was total farce: twelve hours late, to a different airport and bussed back, but (hanging around the pool with more Julbrew) no great stress. Earlier, we’d given much of our stuff away to much needy locals – roomboys, barstaff etc. which is why I ended up getting off the plane at 6 am in torrential Manchester rain in me flipflops. What larks.
And now? I think that I’ll sit down and try to get me a bit sorted before I head off back on the road to Compostella in a few weeks time. Be seeing you.
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Posted by maddlestone on 2008-01-25 05:44:57 | Rating: | Views: 85
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Hi Mike,
So you've found The Gambia at last. Sounds like more beaurocracy than when Dave & I first went over 30 years ago - but I guess there's more Big Brother everywhere these days. We too were told not to leave the village but that was 24 hours after we'd been to a local bar, seen a football match (I sat next to the President) and walked back alone through the 'dangerous' streets. Lots more fun & games in the month we spent there - the journey home sounds identical though! Not sure I want to join Facebook. You'll just have to send me 'Thoughts'.
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Posted by CatsWhiskers
on 2008-01-26 10:39:10
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