Pulling into the “bus station” in this city of a million on the westernmost tip of Africa can be disconcerting at first. The local taxi is immediately surrounded by touts, shouting in French that their transportation service from this glorified, dusty parking lot to points in the interior is indeed the best. Whom to believe?
“Karang! Karang! Karang!” yells one, naming the town for which we’re headed at the border of The Gambia, a tiny river nation that is our final destination. Surrounded by a pressing crowd of his competitors, we follow the tout to his vehicle, a white, 24-seat Nissan minibus.
We take a pair of seats, not uncomfortable, near a window, and wait. This, like all public transportation out of African cities and into the countryside, is a “bush taxi,” part of a venerable tradition from the time of colonialism earlier this century. Though the bush taxi is a giant step forward from the back-breaking rickshaws and painfully slow steamboats of Humphrey Bogart’s day, we’d soon be longing for good old Greyhound.
Our tout, who suddenly becomes the most surly of the bunch, grabs our bags, lifts them to the roof and demands money-500 francs more than the usual price. My companion, an old Africa hand, argues vigorously and ends up paying only 2,700 francs, about $11, but still 200 francs more than the price for locals. Then we hunker down to wait some more.
Women in colorful, hand-sewn African garb mount the vehicle, children swaddled to their backs. A German and his Gambian wife and brother-in-law step aboard, engaging us in conversation. Young boys and girls press against the window near me, offering everything from clean water for a nickel to stereo Walkmans and digital watches. Before I know it, I have passed about $10 through the window for cookies, barbecued goat meat and a pair of fake Ray-Bans (as familiar a sight on the streets of Dakar as in New York).
Three hours since we got on, the boys who work for the elegantly robed driver close the taxi doors, and the vehicle starts rolling through the entrance of the lot into the city’s hectic embrace, and finally onto the two-lane blacktop highway that leads us west off the peninsula and into the African bush.
The colors along the way are not so different from home, but the shapes are. Though not grindingly poor like its neighbors, the Senegalese coast is humble, with tin shacks housing most of the people, who work long hours, often in the fields, to make ends meet. The indigenous population mostly speaks the African languages Wolof and Serer. However, multilingual communities of African-born Lebanese, Europeans and Chinese also people Dakar, making it worldly and warm for visitors.
As we leave the city and the roads get progressively worse, we chat with Marie, the German’s Gambian wife. By the time we arrive at Karang, she has planned two days of activities for us in The Gambia, which included, of course, staying at her aunt’s home. We happily accept.
Karang, as we would later learn, is only half the journey. From there, travelers must alight from the bush taxi at the dusty border crossing and show their papers. Then we must find a taxi to the ferry.
Marie negotiates with one of the many men offering rides in battered old Peugeots and Renaults for about $2 a head. We get in. But when the driver demands another dollar, she is outraged, screaming at him in Wolof. Finally, we get out, find another taxi and drive off. She later explains that the principle of overcharging foreigners enrages her, which is why we went through the hassle of switching taxis, over a dollar.
The taxi drops us near the ferry. We buy a few sodas from the kids there and, before long, a three-level boat with several cars on it is pulling into the little terminal.
The ride across the Banjul river is a soothing balm for the day’s tiring travels. The sun is setting over the green-lipped river, and the temperature has turned from unbearably hot to deliciously warm. I sit on a life preserver on the top level, looking out on the vast river mouth. Too soon, the sun disappears, and we are ready, pushing all the way, to disembark at Banjul. The main trick remaining is to get back.
MARKETS, WRESTLING JUST A FEW ACTIVITIES DAKAR HAS TO OFFER
Located on the continent’s westernmost peninsula, Dakar, Senegal, is easily the most accessible African city for U.S. travelers. With non-stop flights out of New York’s JFK International Airport, it’s about six hours away. It has first-class hotels, good beaches, a busy city center and, for the homesick, a block full of Chinese restaurants.
Perhaps the most interesting and pleasant site for tourists is the Ile de Goree, an island two miles off the coast, a 30-minute ferry ride from the port near downtown. With graceful 18th-Century architecture, Goree feels like a European village. But for all its charm, the island is really a monument to horror: The Dutch built it as an early trading post for slaves. There’s a Dutch fort that can be visited, as well as the dungeonlike “Maison des Esclaves”-the Slave House. The fort is now a museum, with artifacts and descriptions, in French, of the island’s history.
Dakar also offers two large markets, colorful and exciting to see, and a great place to buy batiks, fabrics, jewelry, artwork and handmade musical instruments.
The center of the city is the Place de l’Independance, where most important offices are located. A stadium on the outskirts offers soccer games and weekly African wrestling matches.
Getting there: Air Afrique, 800-456-9192, has three non-stop flights-Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays-a week to Dakar from New York’s JFK International Airport. Taxis from the airport will take you wherever you need to go for about $12.
Money: The currency, “CFA francs,” is common to most French West African countries. CFA 1000 is about $4. Cash can be changed almost anywhere, but traveler’s checks should be in French francs.
Language: People speak good French and often a little English in Senegal. The main indigenous language is Wolof, but Serer and Arabic also can be heard. Knowing a few words of Wolof (“JUR-i-jeff” for “thank you,” “WAW” for “yes,” plus the pan-African Arabic “As-saLAHmu aLEIkum” for “hello”) helps “TU-babs” (foreigners) break the ice among Africans who are not taxi touts or street sellers.
Where to stay: Hotel Independance is right on the Place de L’Independance, but is overpriced and not great (though the restaurant at the top offers a marvelous view). Far better, but farther out of town is Hotel Meridien, which charges more than $100 for beachfront rooms. We stayed at the scruffy Hotel Oceanic, in an old French-style building with balconies and a little bar downstairs for about $40 a night.
Visas: For information on obtaining a visa, contact: Permanent Mission of The Gambia to The United Nations, 820 2nd Ave., Suite 900-C, New York, N.Y. 10017; 212-949-6640. Visas also can be obtained in Dakar or at the border. No visa is needed for Senegal.
Information: Senegal Tourist Office, 2112 Wyoming Ave. NW, Washington, D.C. 20008; 202-234-0540. For The Gambia, write or call their UN mission and talk to Babougarr Saho or Alieu Samba (details above).
