“University of The Gambia,” proclaims the side of our powder blue bus barreling down July 22nd Highway. The constant heat from the open windows blows into my face. On either side of the potholed road is what the British used to call “MMBA”—Miles and Miles of Bloody Africa. I don’t know what The Gambia looks like during the rainy season, but for now the country is an expanse of red dirt, dry grasses, and trees set far apart from each other.
The Gambia is one of the more densely populated countries in Africa, and we pass a village every few minutes. Circular, thatched roofs peek at us over compound walls. Children near the road jump and wave, shouting “Tubab! Tubab!” while the adults gaze at us silently.
There are many police checkpoints along our route, but we are given no trouble. We are riding in a UTG bus and we are white. The police wave us through with smiles. (The signs at the checkpoints were great. “Stop police” and “Stop customs” were my favorites. Punctuation can be so important.)
We stopped in Janjangbureh for lunch. While the rest of the group headed to a shop to purchase prepackaged goods, I bought a mango from a woman on the street. In my rough Mandinka, I managed to express what I wanted and settle on a price with her. I carved up the fruit with my travel knife and the local kids thought I was a spectacle. They ran off when I offered them a piece, but the local goats ventured closer to devour the peel.
We are now in Basse, living in the lap of luxury with single rooms, electricity, running water, and fans. I couldn’t find a ring small enough for Elizabeth in the market, but Liza assures me that I will have opportunities in the future. Now, I am covered in sweat and can feel the Lariam in my stomach. I’m going to take a shower and go to sleep.
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