Epilogue

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 4^th 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.

Day 19 km 5,329 - 5,338 Barra ferry - Banjul

So near and yet so far...

The Road Book warns that the Barra ferry terminal area is not a good place to spend the night - it is right. Night has fallen and as soon as we park in the lengthy queue that has tailed back so far that we are actually in the village next to the port, the vultures descend. Bumsters, as they are known. They prey particularly on tourists and are dodgier than a dodgy thing bought at Mrs Miggins' dodgy shop. Within minutes we are swamped with offers to sell us booze, cigarettes, drugs, change money, or telling us tales of woe in order to get us to give them stuff and some are just plain menacing. Sitting in the car and winding the windows up does not help as they just stand right next to the car and stare at you through the window.

One guy, Lorenzo, is more insistent than others, he claims to know our friends from yesterday. Yeah right! He does, however, produce a scrap of paper with the Dukes names and telephone numbers on it - hmmm. Accepting the fact that he's probably as bent as a 9 bob note, we decide to trust him just a bit and Andrew goes with him to see if there's a way to prioritise ourselves in the queue, leaving me alone with the vultures. So it is a feeling of considerable relief when the other teams turn up about 30 minutes later. They also make lots and lots of new friends - you can understand it from their point of view, a large group of Europeans? The circus is in town!

There's safety in numbers, but even so we have to be on our guard; Steve is cooking up a few tins on the camping gas cooker on the back seat. He places a tin of frankfurters on the roof, bends down, looks up again - they're gone and there's a considerable crowd of eyewitnesses (and one guilty party) standing around who saw and heard nothing. The next ferry is at 07:00 (although there's no way we will be on it) so we settle down for an uncomfortable and mosquito-ridden night in the car. Neither Andrew nor I are happy campers (particularly not as he gets ripped off over a sandwich from one of the 'bumsters'). It's still going strong outside on the street around us which keeps us awake, but not very entertained (particularly as a misunderstanding between the 'bumsters' and one of the teams nearly turns into a riot), until the wee small hours. Even after everything else that we've already been through over the two and a half weeks, quite a few of us feel that this is the lowest ebb of the trip.

Lorenzo does his best to fight them off, but it's all just so full-on and constant so it really wears you out. By 01:00 it's started to calm down a bit and even though he may well have ulterior motives, Lorenzo does stay there all night keeping an eye on us and helping out with things like getting a crate of beer for thirsty travellers and finding a decent toilet for the ladies. So, if you're ever stuck at the Barra ferry terminal and a guy called Lorenzo with a Dell laptop bag (our payment for his services) approaches you, you can probably just about trust him just a little bit.

Once the ferry service starts in the morning we gradually inch our way forwards until at about 10:00 ourselves and the Nutty Boys are the first to make it on to the ferry, but are now separated from the others. Lorenzo had proudly told us that this was a very good service as "The boat has 4 engines and they all work!" after 12 hours of waiting for a 30 minutes crossing, there is a definite sense of anti-climax as we pull over to the side of the road once out of the port. Banjul! After all those days and kilometeres, we're here! But now what?

Sitting at the Safari Garden we catch up with the others as they arrive in dribs and drabs over the next couple of hours, some are going on elsewhere, others have flights booked to leave that afternoon, some are staying on and others are just playing it by ear. There s much reminiscence, a sense of achievement and a job well done, but as a group, for us the Banjul Challenge is over...

Day 18 km 4,874 - 5,329 Zebrabar - Barra ferry

Daylight shows that a few other teams have arrived during the night, some of them taking the Washboard road during the hours of darkness with Cinema Team finally arriving at 01:30. This should be the last day of the challenge, a run through Senegal to the Gambian border and then a ferry into the city of Banjul. We should be sitting in the Safari Gardens Hotel, sipping cold beers by sundown!!

It's a pity that we don't have time for another day at the Zebrabar as we stayed in a very comfortable little chalet in a palm grove by the beach and the surroundings are beautiful, but after 18 days on the road and with the finish line in sight, everybody is keen to get to Banjul as quickly as possible. It's going to be quite a challenge, we have to traverse nearly the whole length of Senegal to the Gambian border, which is then followed by a ferry crossing at Barra to the city of Banjul itself. The Road Book says the last ferry is around 19:00, so we really do need to get a move on.

At first all goes well, we have quite a long convoy and as there is quite a lot of slow-moving traffic on the roads and overtaking can be problematical. Therefore, after an hour or so the convoy is spread out over a considerable distance and a few are trapped behind slow-moving lorries.

At the town of Thies we need to turn left to head east towards the town of Diourbel - and this is where it all goes considerably 'Pete Tong'. We have been trying to keep up with the Dukes who are at the head with the sat-nav and setting a blistering pace, so after turning left at the only roundabout we've encountered so far, we notice there is no-one behind us and pull over and wait, and wait, and wait. Andrew calls Brim; Steve's had a puncture and has had to stop to replace the wheel, and so will still be a while yet. So we wait. We are both looking behind us to see if we can spot anyone, so it is a shock to suddenly look up and see that the Dukes are gone. But never mind, the others will all be along soon. So we continue to wait.

45 minutes since we stopped, Andrew calls again and speaks to Steve, there's been some confusion on the outskirts of Thies and the rest of the convoy are now about 30 km past the roundabout we are still waiting at and heading towards Dakar - totally the wrong direction. Aaaargh! We are now totally on our own in the middle of Senegal. A very, very vulnerable feeling.

Luckily I had the foresight to bring a paper map of Senegal with me so we should be able to find the Barra ferry on our own; east to Diourbel, south to Kaolack and then south-west to Barra. Easy peasy. Only the Senegalese don't believe in road-signs and if there are any, they tend to be plastered over with fading political posters from the last elections. At one particularly complex junction all that can be seen is an arrow pointing off at 11 o'clock and two letters "Di" - the rest being totally obscured. I take this to be Diourbel, so off we head.

  

The traffic is horrendous. That festival that was mentioned at the embassy? Well, it's today, and half of Senegal seem to be going to it. Luckily wherever it is being held is behind us, so our side of the road is mostly clear, but the other side of the road is rammed with overladen buses, trucks, cars, vans, mopeds, you name it, all trying to overtake each other simultaneously and only pulling over at the very last moment, often causing us to brake and swerve. People are clinging to the roofs, luggage racks and rear steps in any way possible.

We are stuck behind a slow-moving mini-bus, Andrew espies a rare gap in the oncoming traffic avalanche, pulls over the solid white no overtaking line and is just about to boot it when we discover that he couldn't have chosen a worse place - right in front of a traffic cop! We are pulled over. The cop is almost incandescent with fury and has a good rant at us. For the first time on this trip I forget I can speak French and Andrew babbles vague apologies and excuses in a Franglais mix. The cop demands a 20 Euro fine and I am about to get the money out when his superior comes over, lays his hand on the other cop's arm, tells us not to be silly boys in future and waves us on our way - having Phoebe looking a bit like a proper rally car has obviously had it's advantages!

Coming through the cutely-named town of Bambey I see Jens (a German biker and fellow traveller) and Bob on George's motorbike (his leg is still hurting so he's riding in Banjul Baby and Bob has his bike) at the side of the road. We stop. Bob is in contact with the others who are "just" a short way away. We agree to go with Jens a few klicks down the road to wait for the others when they catch up with Bob. So with Jens we stop outside Bambey. 45 minutes later and still no sign and no contact by mobile. It's now 15:45 and we've wasted a good few hours, so with Jens we decide to just go for it.

We are just south of Kaolack when we hit the worst road we have seen so far, potholes and a ravaged road surface that looks like it's been bombed, it's so bad that the locals no longer drive on the road, but have made their own track parallel to it. It takes another hour to cover 40 km as we weave and zigzag, trying to find a less damaging route through as poor Phoebe is banged, slammed and jolted.

Suddenly and abruptly the road is back to normal and the final 50 km to the border are uneventful, but we fear we will have missed the last ferry when we finally reach the Gambian border at 19:30. The Senegalese procedure on the way out is fortunately much, much cheaper than on the way in and we pass through to our final border barrier just by a big "Welcome to Gambia" sign. Our last border crossing, after all the previous experiences, how hard is this  one going to be? The customs officer breaks into a huge grin when he hears the words "Banjul Challenge" and waves my papers away. He shakes my hand and dismisses the formalities "You are one of us."

But we have missed the last ferry, so waiting in the queue at the ferry terminal we prepare to spend a night unlike any other...