February 21 :: Banjul, Gambia
February 21 :: Banjul, Gambia :: 113km / 3185km total
The poor roads continued today, but I'm not complaining... I wish I had more roads to ride on this trip, but Guinea's civil strife says otherwise. My good friend the Harmattan ushered me South to the border today... Senegal, you've been great, but its time to move on. Leaving Senegal and entering Gambia was just too easy with my magical passport, you know, the one with 3 A's, one C, one N, and one D. I know other passport holders can have big problems at this border, not to mention many other borders I've crossed on this and previous bike trips. In so many ways we are so, so lucky to live where we do.
The pothole games continued through Gambia, and the kids at the side of the road are the same as their Senegalese bretheren... except instead of the incessant 'donnez-moi un cadeau!' its now 'give me money!'. I'm still known as a toubab, apparently my toubabness doesn't change when you leave French West Africa. Gambia, or 'The Gambia' as it is officially known is a former British colony, so they speak English here and I can't say I'm unhappy with that. It'll be a few days until I stop greeting the occasional person in French, though, you just get used to it.
After about an hour of riding I reached the River Gambia, and bought my ferry ticket to cross. Normally I enjoy ferry crossings but this one was madness, with little organization, brutally long lineups for cars, and no one directing anything. I snuck through it all behind a group of travellers and their baggage man and got on the boat, no one checking tickets or telling me where to put the bike. This ferry is known for pickpockets and I could see them, brushing past people, trailing an arm, searching. Lots of eyes on me, of course, and my eyes were locked on my bike and bags, my arm cradling my wallet. Under searing midday heat, it was not a fun couple of hours.
Banjul [Gambia's capital] itself is almost just as mad, the main street outside of my hotel clogged with the long vehicle lineup for the ferry. Apparently it sometimes takes days to get a vehicle across, either way. Fixers roam the street, yelling at drivers, taking bribes, but keeping some sense of order, presumably. I raced over to the Sierra Leone embassy to get my visa, ah, too late, in the morning. $100US! Ouch.
The poor roads continued today, but I'm not complaining... I wish I had more roads to ride on this trip, but Guinea's civil strife says otherwise. My good friend the Harmattan ushered me South to the border today... Senegal, you've been great, but its time to move on. Leaving Senegal and entering Gambia was just too easy with my magical passport, you know, the one with 3 A's, one C, one N, and one D. I know other passport holders can have big problems at this border, not to mention many other borders I've crossed on this and previous bike trips. In so many ways we are so, so lucky to live where we do.
The pothole games continued through Gambia, and the kids at the side of the road are the same as their Senegalese bretheren... except instead of the incessant 'donnez-moi un cadeau!' its now 'give me money!'. I'm still known as a toubab, apparently my toubabness doesn't change when you leave French West Africa. Gambia, or 'The Gambia' as it is officially known is a former British colony, so they speak English here and I can't say I'm unhappy with that. It'll be a few days until I stop greeting the occasional person in French, though, you just get used to it.
After about an hour of riding I reached the River Gambia, and bought my ferry ticket to cross. Normally I enjoy ferry crossings but this one was madness, with little organization, brutally long lineups for cars, and no one directing anything. I snuck through it all behind a group of travellers and their baggage man and got on the boat, no one checking tickets or telling me where to put the bike. This ferry is known for pickpockets and I could see them, brushing past people, trailing an arm, searching. Lots of eyes on me, of course, and my eyes were locked on my bike and bags, my arm cradling my wallet. Under searing midday heat, it was not a fun couple of hours.
Banjul [Gambia's capital] itself is almost just as mad, the main street outside of my hotel clogged with the long vehicle lineup for the ferry. Apparently it sometimes takes days to get a vehicle across, either way. Fixers roam the street, yelling at drivers, taking bribes, but keeping some sense of order, presumably. I raced over to the Sierra Leone embassy to get my visa, ah, too late, in the morning. $100US! Ouch.
posted by Graham Durrant at 10:22 AM
3 Comments:
Ha! Amazing how motivating it can be to HAVE to communicate with a member of the opposite sex in their language. 2 things I never knew about you: French?? and disco??
And yes, it's sooo good to be un canadien.
i can't read the blogs anymore. just the number of people, and non english speaking people, the chaos, the heat and the general dishonesty of a person trying to pick your pocket, is starting to make me antsey.
yeah, you're damn right! thank god for being canadian. wouldn't trade it for anything in this world.
no wonder a canadian passport is the most illegally copied in the world.
next year, for the love of god, all things mighty, my sanity and yours, please go to australia and new zealand.
thanks.
Thought your French was great, I even knew what you meant! Good for you! Didn't know about your hidden talents!
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