23. The Smiling Coast.
06.04.24 – 12.04.24 : The Gambia
Crossing a country at pedal-pace is like playing a drawn out game of cultural Cluedo. Sleuth-like, you soak up the geographic, economic and social clues around you, slowly digesting the information as you ride. Eventually, the pieces fall together and you’re able to paint a far richer picture of a country than you might by simply ticking off its highlights reel. The Gambia was particularly ripe for some good sleuthing. This is partly because it’s the first country that I’ve visited, since leaving British soil, whose official national language is English; sleuthing in a second language is far less effective. It’s also partly because The Gambia is mainland Africa’s smallest country; condensed clues make for efficient deduction. According to folklore, the 10 kilometre buffer-zone that surrounds the Gambia River – what we know as The Gambia – was delineated in 1889 according to the firepower of the British naval artillery at the time. In theory, a gunboat could sail up the river and shell any other colonial powers that dared encroach on their ill-gotten gains. Seeing the winding lines on the map, corresponding to the meanders of the river, and considering the typically arbitrary style of colonial butchery, it’s an easy tale to believe.
Yet the cultural quirk that caught my eye in the Gambia wasn't its history. The subject of my sleuthing was far closer to home. During my time working at TENZING, I developed a keen eye for advertising. A great deal of my work centred around plastering London with our logo: the iconic TENZING arrow surrounded by a blue Himalayan mountainscape. We referred to this endeavour as: painting the town blue. So, as Gui and I took our tour of Gambia – cycling along its north bank, then looping back along its south – I couldn’t help but notice the bold branding emblazoned across the country’s billboards. And the absolute monopoly that one particular industry has over this space. It seems the Gambian telecoms industry took paint the town to the next level. It’s a truly remarkable feat to paint an entire country, even one of Gambia’s size. Every 500 metres, even in the most remote regions, there were enormous colourful billboards declaring one of the Big Three’s claims to fame: Africell (purple) – the country’s largest network; QCell (orange) – the country’s fastest network; and Comium (red) – the country’s newest network. If idioms are to be believed, Comium seems by far the most fun of the three.
To understand why the telecoms giants have such a stronghold on Gambia’s marketing, you have to ask: why is it that no other industry occupies this space? Well, in The Gambia – like many countries on the continent – most day-to-day spending still happens in the informal economy. Village markets remain the hubs of commerce, most of which are serviced by local producers. The trade of household items simply isn’t concentrated enough for national brands to inhabit expensive billboard real-estate. But how about big ticket items? If the remnants of their European plates are to be believed, cars are all imported; and adverts for other luxury items like perfume, watches and smartphones, that typically command swathes of advertising square-footage in Europe, would fall on deaf ears in the predominantly rural, agricultural Gambia. By process of elimination, the only universal, concentrated spending seems to be on telecoms, whose extensive infrastructure requirements concentrate the market into oligopoly.
The truly comic element in all this is that no matter where you are, or which horse you choose to back, you never have any reception. Internet in The Gambia is practically non-existent. The marketing is too effective: as a result of the high usage, the load on the network is more than the infrastructure can bear. And you can see why. Over the years at TENZING, as I became ever more the silver-tongued negotiator, the branding opportunities I managed to secure graduated from subtle designs on the glass fronts of display fridges to entire façades of climbing walls. Still, I never managed to brand something that appears on a banknote. As I arrived at Banjul International Airport to meet Ellie – whose image is proudly portrayed on the 200 Dalasi note (the airport’s, that is, not Ellie’s) – I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover Africell’s iconic purple branding draped across the entrance. You can’t help but think that taking a rain check on the Airport, Marathon and African Cup of Nations sponsorship, and instead investing in their infrastructure so your network actually works, might just give the companies the edge these companies are looking for. Luckily for us, though, Ellie and I were already planning to go off-grid.
As the four-by-four carrying me, Ellie, the wounded Madonna and her sizeable suitcase of spares took a sharp turn off the main road and into the trees, our driver Ousman hurriedly assured us we were on the right track. Clearly, other western guests had been less relaxed about the sudden diversion into the murky depths of the jungle. You can sympathise; having been ferried directly from the bright lights of the Africell Airport, they wouldn’t have had a chance to soak in the true heart of The Gambia. I suspect that more than a few were swayed by the preconceptions we all carry of this part of the world. But the reality couldn’t be more different. Gambia is perhaps the friendliest country I’ve ever set foot in. It’s widely recognised as Africa’s Smiling Coast; not only for the geographical similitude (smile-itude, if you will), but also for the perpetual grins of the country’s inhabitants. These grins may have something to do with the country’s proximity to The Casamance: the southern coastal region of Senegal known for its incredible natural beauty, and its industrial production of Marijuana. It’s a stone’s throw. Quite literally, in fact, with the amount of weed that’s tossed across the border.
Given the level of friendliness it boasts, greetings in The Gambia are near constant. I learnt from Gallas, on the South Bank, that if someone in the community doesn’t greet you as you pass one another on the street, they’re quickly shut out. It’s a sign of disengagement, of rudeness. It was a stark contrast to the glass-walled individualism that I’d grown used to in London. Fearing ostracism, Ellie and I prepared ourselves for the ritual meet and greet that awaited us as we pulled into Footsteps Eco Lodge. Coming straight from Barcelona, she’d had no time to acclimatise to this level of social engagement. Luckily, I’d had a week of preparation: as I’d ridden through the country, I’d been hailed with hellos from all directions. Choruses of Toubab! Toubab! (White man! White Man!) were favoured by the children whose frantic waves and impromptu dances encouraged, in my more energetic moments, equally enthusiastic responses. I’d spent very little time with two-hands on the handlebars in The Gambia, and my wrist was stiff from the incessant waving. I was also a little hoarse from the scat-jazz ripostes that I bounced back as the Toubab’s rained down. Tou-ba-baa -dibbee-dabba-da-doo.
I leapt out of the jeep to meet Buba – the lodge’s evening manager – brimming with enough greetings to charm the socks off any Gambian. As it turned out, this wouldn’t be necessary. Another of our company stole the show. Buba greeted us warmly, but soon caught a glimpse of Madonna behind me. Immediately, he was smitten. This was not a novel phenomenon. Several times now, across the continent, people have become obsessed with my bike; in particular with owning it. After far too brief an exchange to establish friendship, let alone such fealty to relinquish my one truly indispensable worldly possession, they make their demand. Give me your bike. Contrary to what you might expect, these requests never come from children, or from those in desperate need; instead, they invariably come from men of high position: police officers, border officials, or, in this case, hotel managers. Perhaps they feel they’re worthy recipients on account of their status, that I should be honoured to have someone of such esteem become Madonna’s next owner. Throughout our stay, Buba became obsessed and would regularly sit me down with various proposals for how he might take Madonna off my hands. My insistence that my bike was not on offer was of no concern.
After being introduced to the entire Footsteps staff – a small Army – we were eventually led to our room. There, we were slightly surprised to be greeted by two single beds, rather than the double we’d booked. Buba explained that we were sharing the lodge that week with a yoga retreat, who’d arrived the day earlier. Having the head-start, one of the group had managed to snatch an upgrade, leaving us the pre-marital suite. Sneaky yogis. Then we discovered that only one of the beds was equipped with a mosquito net. After suffering at the hands of my evil adversaries in Senegal, I politely requested another. To tell you the honest truth, Buba whispered – stepping in as if to confide a well-kept secret – there aren’t any mosquitos here… the nets are just for decoration. In the morning, inspecting the damage done by the mythical mosquitos, I began to wonder if Buba was quite with it. Luckily, his counterpart on the morning shift, Doudou, was far more obliging. Keen to rectify the bed situation, we were offered a palatial abode – Sun Bird House – a little further from the main compound, complete with kitchen, non-decorative mosquito net and, crucially, an enormous double bed.
Despite only being a hundred metres or so from the main compound, the journey was often protracted as we stopped to chat with each of the various gardeners, tradesmen and taxi drivers on our way through. I soon had an extensive list of names and job descriptions on my phone to navigate the social web. With so much time spent in company, time alone became a precious commodity. One day, after a particularly lengthy conversation with Seiko – the viceroy of the vegetable patch – about his dreams to make Footsteps the next Kew Gardens, we set a course for the beach in search of five minutes’ peace. We managed about four before two young men jumped off the back of a passing jeep and joined us. Blacka and Babucar were quite the pair. Blacka was a real talker. Before long, we knew all about the coconut trees he was growing at the beach, his campaign against nocturnal sand theft by construction companies, the radio station that he ran in the town – Gunjur – and his role as Government Liason for the local sports team. On the other hand, we discovered almost nothing about Baba, other than that he paints. What he paints would have to wait for another conversation. Much to Blacka’s delight, while at the beach, we agreed to help water a few of his coconut saplings. The next morning, we were the source of much amusement for the Footsteps staff who’d seen our efforts plastered all over social media. Clearly, we token tourists were just what Blacka needed to take his campaign to reclaim the beach from the sand thieves to the next level. This was now a matter of international concern.
Perhaps due to our starring role in his campaign, as we’d left, Blacka had extended an invitation to us to join him and his family for the celebration of Eid: the end of the festival of Ramadan. We were invited to observe the community’s prayers, then take a tour of Gunjur’s many compounds with him to share food and conversation with the town’s families. The morning arrived, and I dressed ceremoniously in my Eid Shirt – read: my only shirt – before running the conversational gauntlet towards an early breakfast, hoping to stock up before the yogis arrived from their morning practice. We found, however, the entire group dressed to the nines in fine regalia, preparing to head into town for their own Eid experience. As they set off, they waved us goodbye, wishing us a happy day of relaxation at Footsteps. Clearly they hadn’t clocked the Eid outfit. Perhaps I was wrong, but I may have detected a hint of pity that we’d be spending such a culturally significant day sat at the lodge, rather than dining out on the full local experience.
We took a taxi into town and watched as thousands of people knelt, stood, bowed and gestured in unison. The prayers were a far shorter affair than I’d anticipated and were over in little more than five minutes. I appreciated the brevity, especially sitting in the firing line of the midday sun’s piercing rays. I can only hope the Shifnal Vicar will take note when it comes to planning the next Easter service. After the prayers, it was, admittedly, a little satisfying to be able to wave the yogis goodbye as we were led by Blacka into the heart of Gunjur. We took a gastronomic tour of the town’s family compounds, playing conversational bingo as we were introduced to ever more members of the indefinitely extending family. Blotter at the ready, we fired appropriate answers and affirmations to the invariable questions and assertions. Cased, we waited for the final call: did you know this is Africa’s Smiling Coast?
There was always such pride in this final piece of information, this piece of the puzzle of The Gambia. And rightly so. The country had a profound effect on me. It showed me what community living is all about. It’s about greeting strangers like friends – as Gallas, and the families of Gunjur so generously did; engaging with and tackling the issues that threaten your home – like Blacka’s war against the sand thieves; and, most importantly, taking the time to talk to those around you – as the Footsteps team did unfailingly throughout our stay. So, if conversation really is the backbone of community, it’s really no wonder the country’s telecoms companies shout so loud. After all, they’re spreading the Gambian gospel.
Great piece Jake, loving the sound of The Gambia (and the marketing!) Interesting how Gambia has appropriated the definite article too… like we did with in the potato crisps market with The Real McCoys! Great advice here for ShifVic too!
Wonderful writing as ever Jake! Glad the trip is going ok. Safe and fun travels! Steve P