A few more notes from The Gambia

I can’t believe I forgot to put this in my earlier post… While in The Gambia, Laura and I had a little wildlife adventure moment. We went to the Kachikally Crocodile Pool, a tourist attraction but also a sacred spot for Gambians, so it is visited by both tourists and locals. The pool was originally a natural well, and has been built out so now it is probably around 200 feet in diameter. You enter the area by first going through a small museum, then walking down a path surrounded by giant banyon trees, tropical plants, and the occasional monitor lizard scurrying across your path. Then, as we rounded the path, there were a few guides sitting around on a bench. To their right, two big crocodiles, just laying about. Another on the other side of the path, hanging out under a tree. The more you looked, the more crocs you saw. All within 10-20 feet of us, all loose, no ties or restraints or fences.

The guide brought us over to one of the crocs - a big one, at least 8 feet long - and encouraged us to pet it. Pet a crocodile! That is insane! So insane, Laura went first. Then I did it. This has to rank up there as one of the weirder things I have done. As we looked within the algae covered pond, we could make out at least another dozen crocs. They say between 80 and 100 are in there. Just slightly disconcerting. I was constantly eyeing the surroundings for escape routes, but I’m pretty sure none would have worked. Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel and beach, I was glad to have worn a simple silver ring that passes for a wedding band. My fictional husband came in handy many times when touts started asking questions a bit too personal, or inviting us back to their restaurant or shop or out for drinks or dancing later that night. A weird thing we’ve encountered is these guys asking us, almost immediately, for our email addresses. We’re not really sure why, but figure nothing good would come of it. Laura sometimes hands out a fake address. I just say, “My husband would not approve of me giving my email address to another man”. That usually works. Fake husbands are so handy to have around.

And, now, a comment on crossing the border into The Gambia…

Our share taxi from Dakar arrived at the border crossing mid-afternoon. It looked like a centuries old flea market, with rickety stalls selling various wares, food and drink. Even before the taxi came to a complete stop, a swarm of money changers and touts descended on the taxi, barely giving us room to get out of the car. Laura and I were happy to have made friends with Morro, a young Gambian man in the same taxi. He helped us change money and waited as we navigated through customs and immigration, even though he could have walked through in under a minute.

The lack of formality at the border was astounding. In Customs, I was told to put my bag on the counter. (I had packed a duffle, leaving my main suitcase with the hotel in Dakar.) I did, unzipped it, and without even peeking inside, the customs officer waved me off. Laura put her backpack on the counter, started to do the same, and was told to “take a hike” by the same officer. With that, we left Customs.

In the Immigration office, we were called into a back office to get our visas. Officially, you are supposed to have your visa before arriving at the border. Laura and I knew from other travelers that they could be issued on the spot (and for considerably cheaper than obtaining in advance). We each filled out a visa form, and were told the fee was 350 Dalasi (about $14 US). The immigration officer filled out a receipt, using a carbon copy form. I watched as he filled out all sections except for the amount. Then he switched to a pen with no ink, and “wrote” something on the amount line. Then he took the hard board, and put it between the original and carbon form, and wrote in 600 dalasi as the amount, handed us the receipt and said it was for both of us (even though only Laura’s name was on it). I knew the game. Writing with the pen with no ink, he made a different amount show on the carbon form in the official receipt book. When I looked closely at the top copy that we got, I could tell what it was. Official record = 300 dalasi. Actual amount received = 700 dalasi. A nice bonus for the immigration officer, especially in a country where the average wage is $2 a day. My lips were zipped. Now that we're back across the border into Senegal again, I'm ok with publicly posting the fact I've probably entered a country illegally. Was that on my bucket list???