Well - after a rickshaw, sept place, minibus, walk, ferry, bus, taxi, I made it to Bijilo in The Gambia!
There was a slightly peculiar moment last night when I was lost in the WiFi, checking up on things like crime in Plumstead and the mayhem that that burst water main on White Horse Hill is causing, when the noise levels started to increase quite dramatically. I looked up to see that about thirty Chinese people had appeared and gathered all the chairs and tables from the entire restaurant, apart from the one I was sitting at, to create one giant table. One of them presented me with a large bottle of local beer and apologised for the noise. I didn't mind - it was surreal.
It turns out that there is a huge Chinese contingent building the very bridge I had been looking at for three days, which will link Foundiougne with the mainland. One of the builders was having a birthday, so they had descended on Chez Anne Marie's for a few drinks. I was touched that they included me.
I had my final Senegalese breakfast and was - bizarrely - presented with a leaflet detailing everything there is to do in Foundiougne. I couldn't help thinking that this would have been more useful on my first day, rather than the very hour I was leaving.
The friendly proprietor insisted on accompanying me to the gare routiere which was further away that I had anticipated. We took an auto-rickshaw, the likes of which I hadn't seen since being in India in April, where they buzz around the streets defying the laws of spatial awareness.
It transpired that there was a whole chunk of Foundiougne that I hadn't seen, but I'd been quite happy reading, writing and floating around the mangroves in a pointy boat, so I wasn't too worried. If you find yourself there any time soon, let me know and I'll give you a lovely leaflet.
There was one place remaining in the awaiting sept place - already the prayers were working. However, my giant orange tortoise - on whom I had administered a spot of emergency surgery last night - yes, it's true - I got out a needle and thread and sewed her slidy back bit together as it had come loose. This is unheard-of as I am severely domestically challenged. Good job I did though, as for the first time ever, my trusty orange tortoise had to be lashed to the roof-rack of a bush taxi, then again to the top of a minibus!
The journey to Karang, the border point wasn't too long. We passed through a string of rural African villages - round-houses lovingly created by people to live in. There tend to be six or seven grouped into a little compound, with obligatory goats and children wandering around. Several times I saw huge groups of women and children gathered just outside the village with brightly coloured buckets and other receptacles. I realised that this was the village well. Others hurried away with litres of water atop their heads, taking care not to spill a drop of this precious commodity.
Having a bucket shower really shows how much water one actually uses - each day the campement gave me several 10 litre bottles of water - I found myself using about two of these per day, for washing and flushing. Even that's quite a lot - 20 litres of water just to keep clean and bucket-flush. The constant application of suncream, Deet and antibac, combined with the dusty atmosphere plus the need to cool down in the equatorial heat, means a shower is needed at least twice a day. And I didn't have to go and get that water - it appeared at my door each day. My challenge to you is this - how much water do you use each day, and do you actually need to use that much?
After seeing that group of Chinese builders yesterday, en route to Karang I noticed several signs with a Senegalese and Chinese flag which said something about the Chinese government 'Bringing satellite TV to thousands of Senegalese'. I can't help thinking that running water might be more helpful.
The border crossing was more straightforward than some I have experienced. I didn't quite have to promise to marry the border guard in order to secure my entry into the country, as I have done at many other land crossings in the past. This particularly friendly border guard was particularly keen to have my contact details so that we could become special friends. I was particularly keen for this not to happen, but diligently took his details down in my notebook. He says he's waiting for my call. I fear it may be a long wait.
I got a bit confused as to which questions were personal and which were going to guarantee my passage into the country. You can't mess around with border guards - I should know - I watch 'Border Force'. So my improvised answers to all the normal questions had to be somewhat mooted whilst I judged if they would want further details. I never give contact details to people I have just met (with the exception of #BusFriends who might be interested in volunteering with Girlguiding) - I learnt this the hard way - naive little me gave out my actual contact details in 2002, then wondered why I received letters from the Home Office saying my name had been given as a reference for the visa application of someone I'd never heard of.
I also never tell people where I'm staying, because I have had instances where they have turned up, and I can't have that.
Where a visa is necessary, you always have to say where you are staying, hence previously flicking through Lonely Planet to find the name of a midrange to high-end hotel which would suffice for the application. But I didn't need a visa for The Gambia, but they still might have been asking for immigration purposes - 'do you know someone in Gambia?' Was this out of interest, or because they want to call them to confirm? I always say I've a friend waiting for me in the next place I'm going to as saying 'I'm travelling alone and don't know anyone' makes one sound a tiny bit vulnerable. I've concocted this friend who lives here with her Gambian husband - I told them all about it at the border; I told such a good story about how we went to school together, then she came here on a project and met her now husband, that I've started believing it. She has three daughters - April, May and June.
As we left Barra in a large minibus, my trusty orange tortoise now cruelly lashed onto another roof rack, I bundled in and felt very thirsty. There were multiple people selling those packets of water (the ones sealed from factories, not the unmarked ones which could come from anywhere). I wanted one but had no idea of the cost. My new Border Guard friend had taken me to a trusted money changer (he had a booth and everything, unlike the bulk of them who just have a huge wodge of cash in their hands), so I had some cash - the currency in The Gambia is Dalasis. A woman waved a packet of water at me. I nodded. I reached into my pocket and held out the various tiny coins I had - a mixture of CFA and Dalasis. She took two of the five coins, gently closed my hand, then pressed the packet of water into my other hand and smiled. It was beautiful.
We cruised through the Gambian countryside. I was discombobulated by a sign just outside the border town which read 'You are now leaving The Gambia' which I sincerely hoped wasn't the case.
Forty minutes into the journey, the Police funnelled all of the vehicles off the road! I figured that if they were checking every vehicle for roadworthiness, noone may ever arrive anywhere. We panic if we get a tiny chip in the windscreen, calling Autoglass within seconds - every shared vehicle I have been in over the last ten days has had multiple cracks in the windscreen. Except the aeroplane, one would hope.
We waited and waited, till I accosted a policeman to ask what was happening. He was very happy to tell me that they were stopping every vehicle to check that the drivers had paid their taxes. It transpired that this would not be a quick process. I wasn't really in a hurry but I try not to arrive in new places after dark, so was a bit worried. My policeman friend pointed to a gantry type thing which he said was the port! We were practically at the port, so I requested my trusty orange tortoise be unleashed from the roof and walked with a number of other passengers, to the port. It was here that I was taken under the wing of a kindly lady with a pronounced stutter, who ensured I got all the way to my final destination.
She showed me where to buy a ticket for the ferry and we sat chatting as we waited. She has six children, ranging in age from 6 to 27. She was travelling with her younger sister and bouncing baby, plus their elderly mother.
The boat journey was intense on arrival and departure and tranquil in between. A team of hawkers patrolled the boat which had a capacity of 2,000, though I'm not sure if this included the lorry load of goats. They sold goods including- men's vests in packs of 5, cellphone air time, nuts, water, a local iced snack, phone chargers and washing powder. The hawkers sold these, not the goats. They didn't sell anything.
Departing the boat was terrifying. An absolute crush descended on the departing passengers, leaving no space to breathe. Vehicles tussled with pedestrians, more sellers, beggars, taxi drivers. I was very alert and stuck closely to my new friend who I followed several blocks away to a bus where my orange tortoise was allowed to sit with me, rather than be banished to the roof. After about half an hour, she said I should change to another bus to get to my destination. I warmly thanked her for looking out for me. Arriving in a huge crush of people with no idea where to go is disconcerting, but she aided my passage. She was an answer to prayer.
My final guesthouse is quirky, but there isn't a resident goat, as far as I can tell. I just watched the sun go down over the Atlantic. Staggering beauty. Sleep tight team.
There was a slightly peculiar moment last night when I was lost in the WiFi, checking up on things like crime in Plumstead and the mayhem that that burst water main on White Horse Hill is causing, when the noise levels started to increase quite dramatically. I looked up to see that about thirty Chinese people had appeared and gathered all the chairs and tables from the entire restaurant, apart from the one I was sitting at, to create one giant table. One of them presented me with a large bottle of local beer and apologised for the noise. I didn't mind - it was surreal.
It turns out that there is a huge Chinese contingent building the very bridge I had been looking at for three days, which will link Foundiougne with the mainland. One of the builders was having a birthday, so they had descended on Chez Anne Marie's for a few drinks. I was touched that they included me.
I had my final Senegalese breakfast and was - bizarrely - presented with a leaflet detailing everything there is to do in Foundiougne. I couldn't help thinking that this would have been more useful on my first day, rather than the very hour I was leaving.
The friendly proprietor insisted on accompanying me to the gare routiere which was further away that I had anticipated. We took an auto-rickshaw, the likes of which I hadn't seen since being in India in April, where they buzz around the streets defying the laws of spatial awareness.
It transpired that there was a whole chunk of Foundiougne that I hadn't seen, but I'd been quite happy reading, writing and floating around the mangroves in a pointy boat, so I wasn't too worried. If you find yourself there any time soon, let me know and I'll give you a lovely leaflet.
There was one place remaining in the awaiting sept place - already the prayers were working. However, my giant orange tortoise - on whom I had administered a spot of emergency surgery last night - yes, it's true - I got out a needle and thread and sewed her slidy back bit together as it had come loose. This is unheard-of as I am severely domestically challenged. Good job I did though, as for the first time ever, my trusty orange tortoise had to be lashed to the roof-rack of a bush taxi, then again to the top of a minibus!
The journey to Karang, the border point wasn't too long. We passed through a string of rural African villages - round-houses lovingly created by people to live in. There tend to be six or seven grouped into a little compound, with obligatory goats and children wandering around. Several times I saw huge groups of women and children gathered just outside the village with brightly coloured buckets and other receptacles. I realised that this was the village well. Others hurried away with litres of water atop their heads, taking care not to spill a drop of this precious commodity.
Having a bucket shower really shows how much water one actually uses - each day the campement gave me several 10 litre bottles of water - I found myself using about two of these per day, for washing and flushing. Even that's quite a lot - 20 litres of water just to keep clean and bucket-flush. The constant application of suncream, Deet and antibac, combined with the dusty atmosphere plus the need to cool down in the equatorial heat, means a shower is needed at least twice a day. And I didn't have to go and get that water - it appeared at my door each day. My challenge to you is this - how much water do you use each day, and do you actually need to use that much?
After seeing that group of Chinese builders yesterday, en route to Karang I noticed several signs with a Senegalese and Chinese flag which said something about the Chinese government 'Bringing satellite TV to thousands of Senegalese'. I can't help thinking that running water might be more helpful.
The border crossing was more straightforward than some I have experienced. I didn't quite have to promise to marry the border guard in order to secure my entry into the country, as I have done at many other land crossings in the past. This particularly friendly border guard was particularly keen to have my contact details so that we could become special friends. I was particularly keen for this not to happen, but diligently took his details down in my notebook. He says he's waiting for my call. I fear it may be a long wait.
I got a bit confused as to which questions were personal and which were going to guarantee my passage into the country. You can't mess around with border guards - I should know - I watch 'Border Force'. So my improvised answers to all the normal questions had to be somewhat mooted whilst I judged if they would want further details. I never give contact details to people I have just met (with the exception of #BusFriends who might be interested in volunteering with Girlguiding) - I learnt this the hard way - naive little me gave out my actual contact details in 2002, then wondered why I received letters from the Home Office saying my name had been given as a reference for the visa application of someone I'd never heard of.
I also never tell people where I'm staying, because I have had instances where they have turned up, and I can't have that.
Where a visa is necessary, you always have to say where you are staying, hence previously flicking through Lonely Planet to find the name of a midrange to high-end hotel which would suffice for the application. But I didn't need a visa for The Gambia, but they still might have been asking for immigration purposes - 'do you know someone in Gambia?' Was this out of interest, or because they want to call them to confirm? I always say I've a friend waiting for me in the next place I'm going to as saying 'I'm travelling alone and don't know anyone' makes one sound a tiny bit vulnerable. I've concocted this friend who lives here with her Gambian husband - I told them all about it at the border; I told such a good story about how we went to school together, then she came here on a project and met her now husband, that I've started believing it. She has three daughters - April, May and June.
As we left Barra in a large minibus, my trusty orange tortoise now cruelly lashed onto another roof rack, I bundled in and felt very thirsty. There were multiple people selling those packets of water (the ones sealed from factories, not the unmarked ones which could come from anywhere). I wanted one but had no idea of the cost. My new Border Guard friend had taken me to a trusted money changer (he had a booth and everything, unlike the bulk of them who just have a huge wodge of cash in their hands), so I had some cash - the currency in The Gambia is Dalasis. A woman waved a packet of water at me. I nodded. I reached into my pocket and held out the various tiny coins I had - a mixture of CFA and Dalasis. She took two of the five coins, gently closed my hand, then pressed the packet of water into my other hand and smiled. It was beautiful.
We cruised through the Gambian countryside. I was discombobulated by a sign just outside the border town which read 'You are now leaving The Gambia' which I sincerely hoped wasn't the case.
Forty minutes into the journey, the Police funnelled all of the vehicles off the road! I figured that if they were checking every vehicle for roadworthiness, noone may ever arrive anywhere. We panic if we get a tiny chip in the windscreen, calling Autoglass within seconds - every shared vehicle I have been in over the last ten days has had multiple cracks in the windscreen. Except the aeroplane, one would hope.
We waited and waited, till I accosted a policeman to ask what was happening. He was very happy to tell me that they were stopping every vehicle to check that the drivers had paid their taxes. It transpired that this would not be a quick process. I wasn't really in a hurry but I try not to arrive in new places after dark, so was a bit worried. My policeman friend pointed to a gantry type thing which he said was the port! We were practically at the port, so I requested my trusty orange tortoise be unleashed from the roof and walked with a number of other passengers, to the port. It was here that I was taken under the wing of a kindly lady with a pronounced stutter, who ensured I got all the way to my final destination.
She showed me where to buy a ticket for the ferry and we sat chatting as we waited. She has six children, ranging in age from 6 to 27. She was travelling with her younger sister and bouncing baby, plus their elderly mother.
The boat journey was intense on arrival and departure and tranquil in between. A team of hawkers patrolled the boat which had a capacity of 2,000, though I'm not sure if this included the lorry load of goats. They sold goods including- men's vests in packs of 5, cellphone air time, nuts, water, a local iced snack, phone chargers and washing powder. The hawkers sold these, not the goats. They didn't sell anything.
Departing the boat was terrifying. An absolute crush descended on the departing passengers, leaving no space to breathe. Vehicles tussled with pedestrians, more sellers, beggars, taxi drivers. I was very alert and stuck closely to my new friend who I followed several blocks away to a bus where my orange tortoise was allowed to sit with me, rather than be banished to the roof. After about half an hour, she said I should change to another bus to get to my destination. I warmly thanked her for looking out for me. Arriving in a huge crush of people with no idea where to go is disconcerting, but she aided my passage. She was an answer to prayer.
My final guesthouse is quirky, but there isn't a resident goat, as far as I can tell. I just watched the sun go down over the Atlantic. Staggering beauty. Sleep tight team.
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