Visit The Gambia: Crocodiles, Tranquility, Scams And Marijuana

A holiday was needed, so we decided to visit The Gambia

After a pretty tough year working in London, we wanted to end 2011 on holiday. After much research, the cheapest option I could find was an unbelievably cheap week‑long package holiday to The Gambia for £400 per person.

I hadn’t done a package holiday in 12 years, and the thought of staying in one place sent shivers down my spine. So I immediately started plotting how we could escape the resort bubble and explore further afield.

Arrival: Apples, X Rays and Couchsurfers

Upon arrival at Banjul airport after our six‑hour flight, our bags went through X‑ray. We’d stupidly forgotten to eat the apples we packed, and the machine picked up the foreign objects. In some countries they’d cut your balls off for that. Here, we just got told: “Don’t worry, have a nice day.”

We skipped the transfer bus and met a Couchsurfer I’d arranged to meet, named Musa, whose mate Abdulie gave us a lift to the hotel.

The hotel was decent enough. Basic room, musty wardrobes, springy beds, but it was right on the beach and had a pool and restaurant. The beach itself was huge but nothing special, and the sea was surprisingly chilly and not very clear.

Local Football: Noise, Chaos and Pure Joy

Musa and Abdulie invited us to watch their local village football team, Sukuta, play in The Gambia’s equivalent of the FA Cup semi‑final. Entry was £1.

We sat on concrete steps under a flimsy corrugated roof, just feet from a wire mesh fence surrounding a sandy, dusty pitch.

There must have been around 3,000 people there. The noise was deafening: drums, whistles, singing, dancing. Many weren’t even watching the game, more focused on keeping the party atmosphere alive. We were introduced to dozens of people, all curious why a white couple had turned up to watch Gambian football.

The game itself was dull and ended 0–0. Apparently, normally there’d be extra time, but someone had forgotten it would soon be dark.

With no floodlights, they went straight to penalties.

Sukuta won 4–3, and all hell broke loose.

People were jumping around, hugging strangers, going ballistic. If an African team ever wins the World Cup, you need to be there.

Even football‑hater Anya enjoyed it. Despite the lack of infrastructure, the meaning of sport was exactly the same as anywhere else: competition, community, and the elation of winning.

Bumsters: Friendly, Persistent and Everywhere

The Gambia is known for its bumsters: hawkers who try to sell you anything and everything. The beaches are enormous, sometimes 300 metres from shore to sea, and bumsters roam all of it.

After being hassled every five seconds on day one, we tried walking in the sea on day two. They still spotted us, wading all the way down to cut us off. Friendly, chatty, curious… but relentless. We didn’t want to buy anything.

The Crocodile Farm: Zero Fences, Zero Warnings

One day we took a taxi to a crocodile farm. After getting completely lost, the driver eventually found it tucked down a dodgy side street in a residential area.

We paid the entrance fee and followed a path into a clearing with a large pond and only partially fenced sections. Suddenly, we stopped dead. A two‑metre crocodile sat right beside the path, mouth wide open. No fence, no barrier, no warning. And this was just metres from the entrance, which also had no gate.

We tiptoed past the beast and found a group of kids with sticks surrounding several sleeping crocs. They rushed over offering their guide services. We took one boy up on it. He explained there were 50 crocodiles, the biggest over three metres long. We even got to stroke one. And by stroke, I mean lightly touch its foot. Not pat it like a dog. That would be asking for trouble.

The Scam Attempt: Boris and Georgette Are Born

At the local market, a friendly guy chatted to us but didn’t try to sell anything. Odd. As we turned a corner, a shabby man with missing teeth and smelly clothes called out our names, claiming he’d met us earlier at the hotel.

He said he had a day off because he’d just got married and his wife wanted to meet us. She was apparently across the road.

Right. If he’d just got married, why did he look like he’d woken up in a rubbish tip?

We congratulated him dubiously and tried to leave. He got aggressive, accusing us of being rude. We sped up and ducked into a café.

Then it clicked. Anya recognised him from walking alongside the first guy. He’d listened to get our names and hotel, ran ahead, and tried to dupe us into thinking we already knew him. Where he planned to take us, I don’t know, but I didn’t fancy spending an afternoon locked in a dodgy apartment with a Gambian tramp and his mates.

From then on, we agreed to say we were Boris and Georgette from Russia and spoke little English. It worked beautifully.

Down the Coast: Real Gambia

Another day, Musa and Abdulie drove us down the coast, stopping at villages along the way. It was brilliant to escape the resort bubble and see real life: fishing villages, locals smoking fish, tiny cafés with plastic tables in dingy shacks, cheap chicken, quiet beaches.

We slipped them a few quid for their kindness.

Christmas on Jinack Island: Tranquility and Marijuana

After four days at the package hotel, it was time to put my research into action. The hotel assistant looked confused when we checked out three days early. It was Christmas Day, after all.

We took a taxi to the capital Banjul and waited at the port for our boat to Jinack Island.

Jinack could be described as a desert island, but not the postcard kind. No turquoise water or perfect white sand. What it did have was pure tranquility. Three tiny villages, no government presence, and an abundance of marijuana being farmed everywhere.

The island is a long slither, with a seven‑mile beach on one side and a creek on the other. One third of it is technically in Senegal, though there’s no border or sign of it.

We stayed at an eco‑lodge run by Dev, an Afro‑English guy. Rustic huts, infested with creepy crawlies, but the beach was the prize. Seven miles of empty sand, except for wandering cows.

Sunset was incredible.

We walked for miles, crossing the invisible border into Senegal. The sea was warm, gentle, and peaceful. Christmas dinner was simple, and we were in bed soon after dark. Entertainment was non‑existent.

Village Life: Marijuana, Wells and Minty Minty

The next day, a local took us on a village tour. The first thing we saw was heaps of marijuana drying in the sun, with kids playing with it like it was Lego.

We saw the stagnant well that supplied drinking water, met the village elder, visited a home where seven people lived in two rooms, and saw the primitive school and hospital.

By now we had a following of kids shouting “minty minty” (sweets).

I was dubious whether we should be destroying the teeth of a youth already vulnerable, but our guide said it was fine. We gave him money and he bought a huge bag. The noise was deafening, the pushing and shoving borderline violent.

We visited another lodge run by an Englishman also called Dave. Their bloodshot eyes explained why they’d chosen Jinack. Super friendly, very horizontal – we felt disappointed they didn’t yet have a website because we’d have stayed there instead of our rustic place.

Back at our lodge, we chilled in hammocks and watched sunset with a local cow strolling past, although enjoying the view.

Heading Back

The next day we headed back to the mainland and flew out.

It had been a diverse trip: the restrictions of the package hotel, the coast road adventure, the near‑scam, the crocodiles, the football madness, and the tranquillity of Jinack.

For the record, Sukuta won the final. Musa said the party went on for days.

Visit The Gambia: Crocodiles, Tranquility, Scams and Marijuana