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).
A baobab tree, with monkeybread fruit to make bissap drink |
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 |
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.]
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