In many ways the arrival in Banjul was a crashing anti-climax and only partly due to the build-up of tension and expectation of that night at the Barra ferry terminal. After 19 days of constant daily activity, stresses, objectives and emotional roller-coasters – suddenly, like dropping off the edge of a cliff - it’s all over. Waking up the next morning there’s no driving to be done, nowhere you need to be, no time to rendevous and no particular location that has to be reached by nightfall.
Checking in at the Senagambia hotel was a weird experience as a group of us clump up to the reception desk, apart from being dirty, smelly, unshaven and dishevelled and with desert sand still on our boots, I felt very uncomfortable. It took me a minute or two to realise just why; the place was chock-full of white people.
After 2 ½ weeks of being a very ethnic minority and the subject of close scrutiny and fascination wherever we went, suddenly we are all just another face in the crowd. Apart from the usual European traits of being rude to the staff and condescending about their host country, I take an immediate dislike to them and later at the bar discovered that others felt the same way; they came here in pampered air-conditioned luxury, we on the other hand have a right to be here dammit, we came here the hard way!
The majority of Gambians we meet know about the Banjul Challenge and their reaction is always one of fascinated respect, that anyone should be mad enough to do what we did and for charity in their country. A case in point; neither we nor the Nutty Boys knew how to get to the Safari Gardens on arrival in Banjul, so we stop a taxi and ask him to show us the way. On the way we pass through a police checkpoint, the taxi gets pulled as he is missing his rear number plate and the cop waves us through, but we stop; “Excuse me, but that guy is showing us the way to the hotel.”
The policeman looks at the stickers on Phoebe, “Banjul Challenge?” he leans through the window, shakes our hands, steps back, snaps a salute and shouts something to his colleague who rips up the ticket he is in the process of issuing to the taxi driver, also salutes us and waves us all on our way.
This vignette is repeated several times over the following days driving around Banjul, coming up to junctions where a traffic policeman is on duty the traffic is stopped in our favour and we are saluted as we pull out. Many times passers by will stop, take a look and say “Hey man, I like your car! When is the auction?” It also has an impressive effect on small talk in bars and restaurants; “Enjoying your holiday?” “Actually we’re not tourists.” “Oh, so you’re working here?” “No.” (puzzled pause) “We’ve done the Banjul Challenge.” Big smiles, handshakes and lots of questions, particularly about what it’s like in the Sahara, follow.
Africa may be a single continent, but the Sahara is almost like an ocean, an impenetrable barrier (mental and physical) dividing North from South, only plum-crazy Toubabs would want to cross it for fun, and then give their cars away at the end of it.
Gradually over the coming days our little band is whittled away with emotional farewells being held at the poolside bar as people depart to take up their previous lives again that now all seem so dim and distant.
Biker George outlasts us all, but for the wrong reasons; After that second fall on the Washboard road his leg got increasingly painful in the last few days and it was Bob who rode his bike across Senegal and into the Gambia. George goes to hospital and discovers that he has a large haematoma on his thigh that is still growing and that seems to have spread into the bone which may be chipped. They would fly him home for treatment, only he is also carrying malaria (this worries all of us because of course we have all been to exactly the same places as George) so they won’t let him fly for 6 weeks! Under different circumstances Banjul would be an excellent place to be marooned, but for George it’s not much fun as he’s in quite a bit of pain. The last news I hear is that both he and his bike were to be repatriated to the UK on 4th of February as he now requires an operation on his leg and so the 6 week no-fly rule was waived.
So, if you ever happen to be doing a solo UK-South Africa motorbike trip and you happen across a group of people with “Banjul Challenge” stickers on their cars in the dusty desert city of Laayoune – steer well clear! They only bring bad luck!!!
Kiera and Cassie best summed up the spirit of the event when having said farewell in Nouakchott as they departed with the Bamako group, they change their minds and turn up again at the Diama dam turn-off and rejoin the Banjul group. When asked why, their response is “It’s not just about the journey, it’s about the people.” Well, although actually it might have been more about one particular person, but only time will tell on that one… ;-)
The chaotic nature of my own departure from Banjul means that I do not get the time to say goodbye properly and take my leave as I would have wished from the people who have shown me such companionship, generosity and hospitality, as I discover two rules about mini-cabs that hold true the world over;
Firstly “I’ll be there in 10 minutes” actually means that 10 minutes past the allotted hour you will be standing on the pavement in the street, with all your bags at your feet and yelling “Where the hell are you?!” into a mobile phone.
Secondly, it will be the out-of-town passenger saying “Er, no, I think you’re heading in the wrong direction, you should have turned right at that last junction.” to the local driver who then has to stop and ask for directions from passers by. (At least they didn’t both point in completely opposite directions at the same time, like we experienced after getting off the Barra ferry.)
Consequently the airport is a whirlwind of formalities with the porter yelling “You have small time! Very small time!” even before my feet are on the ground getting out of the taxi and almost before I know it I am sitting in my seat and watching the icon of the plane and the flight path over the countries and towns on the little screen in front of me.
The sensation is like when having watched a video cassette the final credits have rolled and with the closing music still ringing in your ears and images, sensations and snippets of dialog from the film running through your mind’s eye, the VCR abruptly gives a click and starts to rewind the tape at high speed with a high-pitched whirr;
An hour after takeoff we are over Nouakchott, then Nouadibhou, Dakhla, Laayoune, Tan-Tan, Tiznit, Rabat, Tangiers, Sevilla, Valladolid, the names scroll across the screen. 40,000 feet directly below me are places I’ve been and people I've met as in only a few hours the plane retraces in reverse almost exactly the same route that took us 19 days. For a second I feel like elbowing the snoring businessman beside me in the ribs and saying “Hey! I’ve been there, I know what it looks like!”
Now I am that little pinpoint of light zipping across the night sky against a tapestry of stars, just as I saw back on the beach at Cap Tagarit.
After a few beers on our arrival at the Safari Gardens someone had asked “So, who’s up for doing it again next year?” (Deafening silence) “How about the year after?” (One or two murmurs) “In three years?” There was a large show of hands.
So in closing, and to misquote a well-known Hollywood icon;
We’ll be back, inshallah.
