TRAPPED IN THE GAMBIA!

Before I left the US, I obtained all the entry visas I knew I would need – Ghana, Mali and Burkina Faso.    Senegal does not require visas for US citizens and The Gambia was not on my radar.   It was added to the itinerary at the very last minute to compensate for the strong possibility that a large portion of Mali – the most important part of the trip – would be eliminated due to terrorism and kidnapping concerns.   I had no time to apply for the Gambia visa but knew that visas are routinely issued at border entries.   Everyone on the trip, I told myself, would need to get the visa in country.   We would all sink or swim together.  

I should have known better.   This is Africa.

The Gambia – and it is officially known as The Gambia, not the Gambia, or even Gambia, (and not to be confused with the Gambia River, which flows through it)- is the most bizarrely shaped country in Africa – perhaps in the world,   It  has peculiar road management policies and while its entry standards are quite relaxed, it is a stickler for the technically perfect exit, a conundrum for the traveler without a clue and a giant problem for someone in the undesirable position of having been unknowingly granted unauthorized entry who wants to get out.

Imagine a country as thin as a finger, beginning at Africa’s Atlantic coast and extending eastward, 2/3 through the center of another country – Senegal.   To get from northern to southern Senegal one must drive around the eastern edge of The Gambia, which slices Senegal almost in half.   The Gambia itself, only 25 miles wide, north to south, is composed mostly of the Gambia River, which dissects the narrow country in two, flowing eastward from the Atlantic.

I learned quickly enough that although Americans are required to have a visa to enter The Gambia, all of my travel companions, who hail from the UK, Australia, New Zealand and Holland, are exempt.   Only I would have to pray to the gods that the sentry on duty at the Gambia-Senegal border would grant me entry.  If he did not, I would have to leave the group and find a way to meet them at our final destination in Senegal. But where would I get a taxi?   The border is in the middle of nowhere with not even a donkey cart in sight. 

We arrived at the border just before closing – close to 5pm – a good time, we thought, to get waved through as the border guards surely were ready to close up shop and head home.  I nervously waited to know my fate.  After only a few minutes I got my entry stamp – good for 28 days.  We were in!   Because of its last minute addition to the itinerary, The Gambia was a new destination for the two group leaders.  They were as ignorant as we regarding its peculiarities.

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We made our way west across the entire length of the country to Banjul, The Gambia’s capital, which sits on the Atlantic Ocean, and enjoyed two days of beach, reliable internet, plentiful (but cold) showers and good food.

Getting out was not as easy.

We needed to go north, up to Senegal, to reach our final destination, Dakar, also on the Atlantic coast and only about 75 miles north Banjul. 

But we were south of the Gambia River and the Senegalese border was on it’s other side.  There are only two places in all of The Gambia where the river can be crossed – by ferry as there are no bridges.  One of those crossing was in Banjul, not far from where we were staying.   The Lonely Planet cautions that trucks are often held up at the Banjul ferry crossing for 3 weeks.   We got there  early – about 6:30 am, a full 1 ½ hours before the ferry opened for business but we were not the first one’s there.   We were promised that we would cross on the second ferry going out.   We waited patiently in our place on line for the 9 am ferry.   As soon as it pulled into port, there was mass chaos as trucks and other vehicles jockeyed for position and in the frenzy blocked all movement.  The ferry workers wanted us to pay for our passage, but we were reluctant to give them any money without a guarantee that we would actually board.   We pulled out of line and headed east, the direction from which we had arrived,  halfway across the country inland to the only other river crossing.   The nightmare was only beginning.

There is only 1 road in The Gambia.  The Trans-Gambia Highway  which runs the east-west length of the narrow country.   Although it is 4-lanes wide, the road is completely, 100% unpaved and is a broad, red dirt boulevard of potholes the size of small craters, donkey and cow crossings, and the most inept, inefficient system of immigration, traffic and military controls I have ever witnessed.    An immigration post is stationed approximately every 20 miles, the purpose of which was never made clear to us.  Some immigration officials waved us on, but most forced us to stop in order to inspect documents.  It didn’t matter really which documents we produced – the  vehicle’s registration papers, personal drivers’ licenses, trip brochures, engine operation manuals –  the officials seemed to simply be seeking something to do; some entertainment to pass their very long days.   Most of the officers boarded the bus to chat – “where are you from?, “where are you going?, how do you like The Gambia?”   They were thrilled to report the latest UK soccer scores or inspect the interior of the strange- looking truck that we are traveling in.   Some officials though, apparently needed more distraction from their boredom.  Quite a few asked to review each and every one of the 18 passports on board.  Passengers were matched up with their pictures and visas were inspected.  When we explained at each stop that just 20 miles back we had already been through immigration control, we were told that we were now in a different jurisdiction and that these officials had responsibility for the new area we had entered.   When we asked for a document from the inspecting officials to carry to the next stop that would attest to our legal entry, we were told that that would be impossible – the inspecting official has no authority to issue such paper.

As if this wasn’t torture enough, there was a military or police stop within feet of every second immigration control post.  They too, were curious and bent on fulfilling their job descriptions with gusto.   Somewhere near the 25^th traffic control, when our driver was asked for the 24th time where he was from, he responded, as he had before that he was from the UK.  The inspecting officer did not understand his response and he asked again.   Frustrated, tired, hot and pissed-off, the driver responded, that he was from “England, you know, your former colonial master.”  Lucky for us, the official laughed.  We were put through he same inspection and Q & A routine, stop after stop, time and again, every hour, and it quickly began to wear on our nerves.  Would we reach nirvana – the other side of the narrow river, so easily swimmable; so near, yet so far, - before twilight when driving is no longer an option for safety reasons?

We reached the second ferry crossing but were turned back so that the truck could get weighed.   We got through the weighing station, and along with other trucks, buses, pick-ups, and cars, we were squeezed, shoved  and rammed onto the overcrowded raft.   It took only 5 minutes to cross to the other side, but it took 11 hours to cover the 185 mile trip to the ferry, an average of 17 miles per hour.

Once we finally hit terra firma on the north side of the river, we pulled to the side of the road and pitched our campsite, exhausted and infuriated at the waste of time and human resources.  We were only 10 miles from the border with Senegal where we could finally leave The Gambia behind.

In the morning, we were the first to show up at the border.   Yet again, Immigration (with a capital “I” this time) inspected our passports, the last stop before we would finally pass through  border control.  My entry “visa” as it turns out, which Gambian border officials had stamped into my passport 5 days previous, was not really a visa, but a "tourist stamp" and, I was told,  had been in the country illegally.  There was nothing the Immigration Chief could do.    I would have to proceed to the border and pray.   As I was walking out the door, dejected and almost in tears, he called me back.    “Wait,” he said.   I can issue a backdated entry visa which would indicate a legal entry.  The cost?   A mere $40, which he put directly into his pocket. 

“Almost there”, I thought! 

 But, no, this is Africa.

No ink in the stamp pad.

No working pen with which to sign.

I thought I would explode.   Maybe I should have waited to hand over the $40.

Within moments,  ink and a pen appeared from somewhere, and I was on my way, heading over the border into Senegal.    I was never so happy to leave a country before!