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98% Need Not Apply
Entry 13 of 24 | show all | print this entry |
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The Gambia is possibly the most extremely inconveniently designed country in the world. Its architects appear to have used forward planning similar to the thoughtfulness found in the construction of the Millennium Dome.
Long, 30km thin, dissected by the river and a "splinter in the side" of Senegal, its much larger and more powerful neighbour, the Gambia was a last-ditch attempt by the English to have access to this part of the continent, otherwise dominated by the French. According to legend, the British sailed up and down the river firing off cannon balls in a game of 3D join-the-dots to allocate the borders.
Consequently the artificial borders separating the two countries bear no relation to the distribution of tribes living across the region.
There is no rail, boat or air service to transport people long-distance so the only way to travel is in packed minibuses. By the time you've factored in the long delays caused by ferry crossings to reach drivable bits of road, to get to anywhere away from the coast, you have to really want to go there.
Consequently The Gambia has almost divided itself into two countries: Kombo, where luxuries such as hotels, running water and electricity abound for those rich enough to be able to afford them; and UpCountry where such things are merely a whimsical dream, but traditions and culture remain fiercely strong.
It's also a good ten degrees hotter. 98% of tourists never make it out of Kombo**.
Being as evil as I am, during a visit from a friend back home, I decided he wasn't going to get any namby-pamby beach holiday.
He was going to get the full experience and that meant travelling upcountry. Sweltering heat, cramped lengthy journeys along treacherous roads, rice diet, and the most basic of sanitation facilities awaited us.
This was quite a lot to expect from someone whose hobbies include drinking champagne, driving his BMW and keeping his almost-albino complexion out of the sun.
As we took off I laughed inwardly, listening to Matt describe the journey as a potentially "fun adventure". 8 hours into the ride as his already-sunburnt skin crashed into the crammed seating of the Geli everytime we hit a pothole, the optimism and humour had faded somewhat.
Once we arrived at my friend's compound in Bansang he was straight to bed to enable his poor aching body to recover and so missed out on lying out under the stars in a place where it was so quiet, you could hear the clouds whispering across the sky. A freshly plucked chicken for breakfast soon cheered him up.
Highlight of the trip was ending up at a Zimba - a village dance celebration of the Wolof tribe featuring 3 Cancarans - two men decked out in full war paint as lions, and one (for reasons that were never entirely clear) man in a dress.
The lions were terrifying and opened the event by hunting down children who had snuck in without paying, dragging them out to the middle of the arena and terrorizing them until a sympathetic adult took pity on them and freed them by feeding the lions cash. The man in the dress was a different story, clearly relishing his feminine attire, brought the crowd to hysteria with his swaying hips and flashes of thigh.
In a different context, assumptions might have been made about his personal preferences, but homosexuality is illegal in The Gambia and attitudes are strict and he would most likely have been shocked at such a misinterpretation. Spotting toubabs in the crowd, he took it upon himself to drag us out one by one to dance. Possessing no natural rhythm and fearful of the jeers of the crowd I desperately sought escape by attempting to persuade a small child to sit on my lap and therefore shield me from being called up.
Unfortunately inspiration struck my friend at the same time and an unseemly tussle over the poor kid ensued. Unfortunately the unhelpful rascal wriggled away; consequently neither of us escaped being made to shake our stuff in front of the hysterical audience. Matt to his credit, put on such a show, the Cancaran demanded to have a photo taken with him afterwards.
In fact I was pretty impressed with how Matt rose to the whole challenge of The Gambia, particularly upcountry. His one downfall was getting used to the wildlife. Upon encountering a Portuguese Man of War (a particularly vicious looking jellyfish) in the sea, the brave hero screamed like a 5 year old girl and abandoned me with it as he ran shrieking to the shore.
In revenge, I alerted Matt to threat of Tumba-Fly. Tumba-Fly is a tropical insect feared for its habit of laying eggs in wet clothes which when worn, triggers the eggs to hatch into maggots which then bury into your skin. They look like boils with a breathing hole and the unfortunate afflicted recipient must wait a couple of weeks until they have grown large enough to extract. The only way to avoid them is to iron your clothes. For maximum effect I waited until there was a power cut before dropping this into conversation. I've never seen anyone undress so fast. He then flatly refused to come within 50 yards of anything that wasn't guaranteed Tumba-Free. To help take his mind off the perils of the natural world, I then dragged him to first a snake farm, then the crocodile pool.
Between those, being eaten alive by mosquitoes, and constant battles with my ever-more-violent kitten, I believe Matt returned to the UK with an appreciation for his home environment where Man is in more control of the animal kingdom.
**I made up this statistic to suit my own ends, but it's probably about accurate.
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