From Kololi to Basse Santa Su: a trip into another world. Part 2

After an eight hour drive along the Southern Bank Highway, we finally arrived in Basse at 8pm. It was already dark and we had to find a guesthouse to spend the night. A soldier at a checkpoint was kind enough to point us in the right direction. We checked in to a clean and expensive guesthouse normally used by military personnel and government officials. After a quick shower we were picked up by one of Dominic's friends on a motorbike, who took me to what I would describe as a speakeasy. It was a restaurant/bar, not visible from the street, with no signs posted. In other words, you had to know it was there; I would have walked right by it. 

Dominic taking a break along the South Bank highway

As the Gambia is predominantly Muslim country, drinking alcohol is not allowed for most people. There is a Christian tribe, the Manjagos, who are well known for their fondness for alcohol, making moonshine from cashew apples, as well as palm wine. Usually alcohol is only served in places frequented by tourists or in restaurants owned by Manjagos. The owner of this speakeasy was a Manjago, and worked as a laboratory technician at a nearby medical center. I entered the place, and found his family cooking a meal in a big pot outside on the ground. I was introduced to his family and his little daughter and was made to feel welcome. Then I entered a large dark room with a tiny tv showing a Bollywood movie, while African music was pounding from two large speakers. All around me were locals in various states of inebriation. The bar was behind a steel fence, where bottles of beer and local spirits sold by the flask could be bought. 

I asked Dominic if everyone in the bar was Manjago, and was told that the majority were Fula, a Muslim tribe. Next to me sat a man from Guinea, already pretty hammered. He kept on talking to me, saying how nice it was to meet me, that we should meet up the next day and other gibberish. He wanted to shake my hand frequently which I somehow managed to avoid. With the Ebola outbreak in Guinea one can never be too careful. It was an eerie sight, seeing twenty something people quietly sipping on their flasks, with someone occasionally standing up to dance by himself for a few minutes. 

As we had been travelling all day we were ravished, and the only thing on the menu was fried pork, which was prepared in the pot outside. I figured the chances of getting food poisoning were pretty high, and really did not want to get diarrhoea in this place but I was hungry and I liked the place. And we had no idea where else we could get some food. So fried pork it was. It was surprisingly good, and after washing it down with a few beers I felt reborn. 

The next morning we checked out of the guesthouse and went on a hunt for breakfast. My stomach was OK, no Banjul belly contracted thank god. We drove towards the center of Basse, and looked for a restaurant. There were none. We asked a few people where we could get a western style breakfast but got blank stares in return. So we had no choice but to eat in a local food stall alongside the road. Again thoughts of Banjul belly began to haunt my mind. But hey, TIA right, This is Africa! We ordered an omelette and watched the guy make it in front of us and just to be sure. We sat down on a wooden bench and were soon joined by other locals coming for breakfast. Behind us donkey carts were passing, goats were roaming freely, and chickens scurrying about at our feet. 

Waiting at the ferry crossing with Mamedou

Basse is the largest town in Eastern Gambia and very underdeveloped. Lacking paved roads, the streets were mud pools with little shops lining the roads. Impossible to drive in town, we set out on foot to the Gambia river. The sights and smells were overpowering, although I have visited many towns in the Gambia. We took the ferry across to the North Bank, as Dominic wanted to meet the wise man in the village of Kerewan Badala to ask for advice on running his business. 

Roundhouses in the village of Kerewan Badala

This old man was reputed to be a soothsayer and was well known throughout the region. He lived in a traditional roundhouse. While Dominic was inside with the man, the children of the compound came to check out the Toubab (white man), with one boy in particular scared to death of me. A guy selling palm oil rode in on his motorbike and asked if I could take his picture, as he was very proud of his bike and wanted to show it off. 

Boyeba, the palm oil salesman

Then we headed back to the ferry, and saw black storm clouds approaching. The car was parked on a street ten minutes away from the ferry crossing. As we crossed and disembarked, gusting winds hit us. As we were running towards the street where the car was, objects were flying all around us. Pieces of corrugated metal, garbage, sand, and plastics posed a serious threat. I held my arms alongside my face for protection and continued running to the car. Then the rain started. Not just a shower, but a tropical downpour. The rain was literally vertical due to the gusting winds. We reached the car, soaking wet, and took shelter in one of the market shops. 

The owner of the shop was an Arab who spoke no English or French, only Wolof, a language that I have not yet mastered. Also seeking shelter were some Gambians and Mauritanians. We drank tea together and spoke in French and English about everything from Ebola to the price of rice. After one hour, the rains had subsided and Dominic and I decided we had enough of Basse for the time being. We got in the car and started to make our way back to the highway. I have never been so pleased to leave somewhere.