The Rhode Island of Africa

Although Dakar is located on a peninsula, the beaches aren't great for swimming, so Julienne and I headed to The Gambia's Atlantic Coast for a long awaited soak in the ocean.  

Some fast facts about The Gambia: it’s the smallest country in Africa, cuts through the center of Senegal along the Gambia River, is home to the Diola (Jola) people, and the current president has a title about as long as the country’s width (His Excellency Sheikh Professor Al Haji Dr Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh).  Notably, The Gambia is a former British colony, which means that over the course of three English-speaking days, we forgot all of our French.  

Compared to the honking, goat-filled streets of Dakar, the deserted beach towns outside of the Gambia’s capital city, Banjul, felt luxurious – even our hostel with no electricity or hot water deserved 5-stars when fresh bread and mango jam were presented each morning.  For three days we swam, fed a crocodile named Junior who swam across a lagoon when called by name, and Julienne even found a place for chicken fajitas (not fajitas poulet).    


In addition to being known for its tropical bird watching and fresh pressed fruit juices, The Gambian beaches are also known for “bumsters.”  To the chagrin of the Gambian Bureau of Tourism, bumsters are mostly harmless beach boys who hustle travelers.  In a short two-block walk from our hostel to the shore, we came across no fewer than seven men who offered a hello, a taxi ride, their charming company on our walk, or suggestions for restaurants or even a pedicure.  In a county where more than a third of the people live on less than $1.25 a day, this hustle means survival, and while we don’t enjoy it, we realize the need to generate a buck (or Dalasi).   

A baobab tree, with monkeybread fruit to make bissap drink

But here’s the twist:  bumsters in The Gambia are often male sex-workers, hired by European women as escorts (and more) for the duration of their vacation.  The growth of the bumster industry is fueled by the vacation dollars of female travelers, and so the bumsters spend the majority of the day working out on the beach, flexing for on-lookers and subsequently vying for female attention.  For those of us who aren’t buying (we have husbands, you know), the barrage of advances on the beach for a bumster looking for a job is overwhelming.  No, I don’t want a taxi, nor your hand on my arm, and please stop following my girlfriend.

On the whole, most young Gambian men we’ve seen have been regular guys – friendly, playing soccer, talking with their friends.  They, like any 20-something, are just trying to figure out how to become an adult.   Perhaps the situation for bumsters is no different.  

Junior, the domestic croc

So then what is different here that makes us so uncomfortable?  The notion of “sex tourism” conjures images of middle-aged white men visiting Thailand or India, exploiting young women in the triple bind of race, gender and age.  That depiction neatly juxtaposes privilege against exploitation. In The Gambia, the dynamic is less about gender, and rather about pure economics.  While we are caught off-guard as women, usually on the receiving end of sex trade exploitation, the dynamic should probably not come as such a surprise. The reality is that poverty here – as every other place in the world – compels people to sell what they’ve got, regardless of gender.  Nonetheless, it feels like a betrayal that the purchasing power of other mostly white women has created a market to exploit men of color and further target women like us who chose not to participate.  Perhaps my real frustration with bumsters in The Gambia isn’t about who is selling, but rather who is buying. 

In current events, the President (er Excellency, er Dr., er etc.) instituted a Zero Tolerance for bumsters policy eight hours after we left The Gambia.  

[Author's note: There’s a least a dissertation or two in this dynamic, but I had to stop short lest we lose our blog fan base.]