The Gambia is a narrow strip in land set squarely inside of Senegal. Naturally, the two are rather similar — so much so that Great Britain, ceding its colonial claim to The Gambia, called for a Senegambian merger. No dice. These days, many Senegalese view The Gambia as a peculiar, arbitrary place. In fact, our professor regularly used the term fermer la bouche, which translates to “close the mouth,” an idiomatic expression whose meaning crystallizes in looking at a map of Senegal and The Gambia. Closing the mouth, in essence, would see the Pacman-shaped Senegal swallow its neighbor whole. Our trans-Senegal road trip began this morning with a full-day leg from Dakar to Ziguinchor, the capital of Senegal’s southern Casamance region. In researching the journey, it became clear that the bus trip would involve traversing The Gambia, an adventure that takes all of half an hour. Based on vague Reddit comments, we hoped to avoid paying the visa fee for American nationals 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 get their Senegalese ID cards glanced at. As we ducked into the passport control office, we began to greet the guards in our regular combination 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. Because most foreigners, many of them British, have essentially zero knowledge of anything about the country, we were well received, stamped in, and soon on our way. After an enthralling twenty minute drive that featured one bridge crossing, one mid-sized town, and a few villages, we had arrived once again at the border, this time to enter back into Senegal. We climbed out and walked inside to get our passports quickly stamped, which would take much less time than entering The Gambia. Or so we thought. The first sign of trouble appeared as a police officer brought a handcuffed man into the station as we awaited the receptionist. We stared uncomfortably at a wall of “Wanted” posters, supposedly featuring The Gambia’s most dangerous criminals, and waited some more. Our bus driver, who accompanied us in the interest of time, impatiently searched for someone who could stamp us out. Instead, we were ushered into an office in the back of the building and told to wait. A huffy border guard sat down at his desk like a king on his throne and began to question us. Why were we in The Gambia? What was the purpose of our visit? How long would we be staying? It felt like we had been detained for snooping around a military base rather than simply trying to leave the country after all of thirty minutes. Despite our best efforts to make it clear that our sole objective was to reach southern Senegal, he remained unconvinced. Or at least acted like it. I have no doubt he believed our story, especially given the rather large DemDikk bus parked outside the small border post, the equivalent of a Greyhound at a truck stop in the United States. I tried to make a joke that Gambians speak cleaner English than Americans, and he stared back in silence. “The fee is 5,000 CFA per person,” he finally revealed. “That’s bullshit,” an unnamed member of our group muttered under their breath. “Careful,” replied the guard. “We speak English here.” As we looked around at one another, unsure of whether to cough up the cash (roughly seven dollars each), the border guard kept at it. “We don’t let fools in The Gambia,” he said, trying to be intimidating Eventually we folded and laid the cash on the table. As we walked out, another unnamed group member quipped back, “Sir, you already let us in.” And with that, our brief adventure in The Gambia came to an end. Fool me once…

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