Once upon a time — say, the 13th century — the land we now call The Gambia was home to Wolof, Fulani, and Malinke tribes. Fast-forward a couple of centuries: Portuguese explorers stumbled upon the Gambia River in 1455 (as explorers tend to do), and by the 1600s, British traders had settled in. Today, Gambia is a cultural patchwork quilt, stitched together with tribes and tongues. Mandinka is the largest (38% — they helped build the Mali Empire), followed by Fula (21%), Wolof (18%), Jola (4.5%) — even the (now ex-) president hailed from this tribe.

The official language may be English, but let’s just say… it has its own flavor. I asked a waiter for salt, and he replied, “I’ll bring it immediately from the chicken.” Confused? So was I. Until I saw him striding toward the kitchen. Yep. Chicken = kitchen. Welcome to Gambia!

Day 1: From Kololi to the Middle of Nowhere (aka Lamin Koto)

We set out before dawn, caffeinated only by excitement and soluble coffee. The journey spanned 600 km and involved every transport known to mankind: car, boat, ferry, and good old-fashioned hope.

As the sun cracked open the sky over Banjul’s ferry terminal, chaos burst to life — cars, people, goats, donkeys, all jostling like extras in a live-action National Geographic scene. We crossed the river mouth into Barra in 30 minutes (dolphin sightings: zero, gorgeous sunrise: one).

Arriving in Barra, the city opposite Banjul, we stopped to buy bread for breakfast (still soluble coffee, standing on the side of the road, still bread with butter and jam offered by our guide). After some buttered carbs, we ventured inland to the village of No Kunda.

There, the Kamdraa family welcomed us with dusty hugs and curious stares. Their compound was a compound of typical African houses, a sun-kissed cluster of reed-roofed huts, guarded by a majestic tree. Not just any tree — this was the tree, the traditional meeting spot, the heart of the community. Under it, elders once decided village fates. Now, it shaded sleepy toddlers and giggling women.

Mr. Kamdraa himself, a 64-year-old patriarch with four wives, 21 children, countless grandkids, two donkeys, a horse, chickens, banana and baobab trees, and absolutely no television, greeted us like royalty. He has never been to school and doesn’t speak English, yet his confidence could power a city.

When I asked, half-jokingly, what happens if one of his wives makes him angry, he replied with a sly smile: “They don’t. I taught them to obey.” Ahem. Moving on.

Mr. Kamdraa, the proud owner of a bustling household with four wives, a small army of children, and grandchildren, cultivates millet and couscous with the same pride he carries in his voice. He shared the details of his life with us generously, smiling as he emphasized that he isn’t poor — his family never goes hungry. What he lacks, he explained, are building materials, too far to fetch from the nearest town.

His world feels like a different planet from mine. He owns a radio but has never laid eyes on a television. His days revolve around the rhythm of family life, five daily prayers (the 5 a.m. call to prayer became my unexpected alarm clock), and whatever wisdom the radio waves carry. And he laughs — a warm, carefree laugh that fills the air like music.

After touring his compound — including a “kitchen house” that quite literally left me speechless — it was time to part ways. But not before we handed out sweets and small gifts to the children. Then, with red dust swirling in our wake, we were back on the road once more.

Stones, Spirits, and a Sky Full of Stars

After waving goodbye, we set off for Wassu, home of the African Stonehenge. Think over 1,000 stone circles — 93 of them protected by UNESCO — made from laterite, some standing 2.5 meters tall and weighing up to 10 tons.

Circle = eternity. Goosebumps = yes.

The road meandered through villages forgotten by time, with their adobe houses, with children running with bike tires through the dust, heated by the sun. Their lives seemed devoid of the hustle and bustle of modern times. We left behind the city of Farafeni, and drove towards Wassu and its megalithic monuments.

Each circle contains about 10-24 standing stones. All stones form a circle that has the same height and size, ranging between 60 cm and 245 cm in height and weighing up to 10 tons. All the stones are from laterite (laterite is a soil rich in aluminum and iron). Nobody knows exactly when they were built, but they were burial sites for royalty and religious leaders.

Wassu stone circles appear on the 50 Dalasi banknotes.

Late afternoon brought us back to the river, where we floated lazily among mangroves, hippos, crocodiles, and tree-jumping chimpanzees. As the sun dipped, I found myself missing the Danube Delta back home — but not for long.

We docked at Sensending Lodge just in time for an unforgettable New Year’s Eve, dancing barefoot to Metallica played on African drums, sipping (read: gagging on) palm wine, lit only by beer-bottle candles. No dress, no heels, no fireworks, just sneakers, mosquito repellent, and stars. Thousands of them. It was the best New Year’s I’ve ever had.

Day 2: Ghosts of Slavery, Monkeys at Dawn, and Bargain-Hunting in Birkama

2017 kicked off with monkeys hanging from my window. Literally. I dashed outside at 7 am, half-asleep, pajama-clad, offering peanuts to the monkeys, like some jungle version of Snow White.

A peanut for me, a peanut for him. Like sister and monkey! 🙂

We continued to McCarthy Island (Janjanbureh), once a slave trading post. Inside a dim building still echoing with history — and bats — we reflected on lives once bought and sold. Read Roots Roots by Alex Haley or watch the movie Roots, if you haven’t. Or better yet, visit and feel the weight yourself.

The way back took us through the southern bank, where we befriended a chameleon and waved at baboons. In Birkama, we stopped at the famous craft market — a kaleidoscope of colors, masks, drums, and statues. Rule #1: Always bargain. Rule #2: Expect to lose anyway, but pretend you won.

The journey wasn’t about ticking boxes or chasing perfect photos. It was about pausing under trees that hold the whispers of elders, watching children chase tires instead of tablets, and realizing that sometimes, the kitchen is actually the chicken.

Stay tuned for my next (and last) Gambia post, featuring the markets of Banjul, a mix-up between Bakau and Bacău, and a mini safari in Senegal’s Fathala Reserve.

Until then, Abaraka and Suto Diya!