FARAFENNI, The Gambia — A narrow strip of land set squarely inside of Senegal, The Gambia—continental Africa’s smallest nation—is viewed by some as a listless, haphazard place. In Dakar, a professor once described a standard afternoon in The Gambia: pouring tea back and forth between the cup and the kettle.
Though I spent this afternoon in The Gambia, I failed to observe any tea-pouring. Our trans-Senegal road trip began in earnest this morning around seven o’clock, with a full-day leg from Dakar to Ziguinchor, the capital of Senegal’s southern Casamance region. Some cursory research revealed that the bus trip would involve traversing The Gambia, an adventure that takes all of half an hour.
Based on some comments on a Reddit post, we hoped to get out of the standard visa fee and process by asking for a transit visa. After about six hours of travel, we hopped off the bus at the border as the rest of the passengers stayed on to have a guard glance at their Senegalese ID cards. Ducking into the passport office, we began to greet the customs agents in our regular smattering of French and Wolof.
“English, they reminded us. “Welcome to The Gambia.” We struck up a friendly conversation, riffing on our limited knowledge of Gambian culture and history. Warmly received, we were soon on our way. After an enthralling twenty-minute drive—one bridge, one mid-sized town, a few villages—the Senegalese flag was once again in view.
The first sign of trouble appeared as we stood in line at the border crossing, which apparently doubles as a municipal jail. A police officer shuffled past us with an inmate, handcuffed, we stared uncomfortably at a wall of “Wanted” posters. Our bus driver, who accompanied us in the interest of time, tried to find someone who could quickly stamp us out. Instead, we were ushered into an office in the back of the building.
A huffy border guard sat down at his desk like a Wall Street banker in a movie and began his line of questioning. Why were we in The Gambia? What was the purpose of our visit? How long would we be staying? Despite our insistence on the fact that we were leaving the country, he was unsatisfied and grew impatient with us. All this despite the rather inconspicuous bus parked outside the border post in a one-horse town—the equivalent of a Greyhound at a roadside diner in the United States.
“The fee is 5,000 CFA per person,” he finally revealed.
“That’s bullshit,” one of us muttered.
“Careful,” the guard replied. “We speak English here.”
We looked around at each other, frustrated and lamenting our failed attempts at a friendly détente (“Hey, America was colonized by the British too!”). Sensing our hesitation at coughing up the cash, the border guard kept at it.
“We don’t let fools in The Gambia,” he said, trying to sound menacing.
We folded and laid the cash on the table. “Sir,” someone said. “You already let us in.”
🇸🇳 Read more from Senegal (and The Gambia).