A Word on Transportation

    Anyone who has traveled knows that part of the joys (and pains) of the experience lies in the logistics of getting from one place to another.  This sort of thing can be complicated enough in one’s own country—I still get frustrated when taking the subway and don’t even get me started on those outdoor airport trolleys that take 25 minutes to load and then drive the 12 feet to a new gate.  So, add to this a different currency,  a new language, small changes in social graces, and a whole lot of B.O., and you've got yourself one hell of an adventure.  To this end, I've come to expect a certain degree of the purely bizarre when travelling, and I’m happy to report that The Gambia has proved itself no exception and has, in fact, exceeded my expectations with unique flair. 

It was a lovely 900 degree Saturday afternoon.  My mothers needed to visit the large lumo, or market, in a nearby town called Brikamaba.  They sell everything from dishes and vegetables to fabric and fruit.  Did I want to join?  Absolutely!  With this, the journey began: A 3 kilometer walk up the dirt path to the main road where we’d catch a gelle-gelle, (van-ish hoopty mobile) to the city.  We walked, we sat, we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Forty minutes, a few false alarms, and a couple of “sorry, all full”s later, and we were on our way.  We fought ourselves into this clown car containing about 16 others--my friend Tim and his host mother included as they joined us in our waiting.  Squeezed together like sardines, sharing sweat, stench, and shopping strategy alike, we all rode into Brikamaba without much trouble.  We even figured out how to pay the “apparente”, who literally hangs off the back of the vehicle, swinging freely in and out of the moving car collecting money.  I am still unclear on whether this is done in order to free up more space or purely for sport.

Sufficed to say, the market proved itself enjoyable, albeit fairly uneventful.  Tim was able to bargain for a few home wares, and I managed to find some of the last mangoes of the season, over which I later shed tears as I ate every square inch of juicy flesh and realized how sorely they will be missed.  Ready to head home, we waited with our bags--sun-kissed, soaked, exhausted-- until we found a gele heading back towards our villages.  Successful, we boarded and began claiming our space, both continuously trying to take more than our share, but getting called out on our bluffs every time.

The driver loaded up the bus and looked for more people to fill it.  Why drive only 17 passengers in a 10-seater when you could clearly fit 23?  Women and young children came to the windows, selling icy-cold bags of “juice” from the metal bowls balanced on their heads.  I promptly purchased one and stuffed it down my shirt.  Fellow travelers questioned Tim and I about our day’s purchases and we struggled to give comprehensible answers in Pulaar.  My first mother then asked the driver what was taking so long and, as if right on cue, a very massive, very alive ram was hoisted up atop the van and secured down with the rest of the baggage. Already hanging out of the window for fresh air, I came face to face with this beast and was the lucky recipient of his wet, hot breath as his mouth wailed open in angry protest and mine in amused disbelief.  I was unsure what to think.  Part of me was appalled at the rough treatment of this animal, but mostly I was relieved that this meant we could finally get on the road. 

I looked across the isle, catching Tim’s eye, and immediately burst into uncontrollable laughter.  The other passengers laughed with us, not finding the situation particularly humorous, but finding pleasure in the fact that we, the foreigners, the “toubabs” appreciated this moment.  This purely bizarre, purely Gambian, moment.