The Omi

Banjul, The Gambia -- Not just any Gambia, I went to The Gambia. This is the tiny country that resembles a geographical finger shoved down Senegal’s throat as if to induce vomiting. The analogy also works for their bilateral relationship because on the rare occasions when these countries work together, the outcome is usually a putrid mess. In the 1990s, the two tried to form “Senegambia” after an apparent realization that owning a river bank does not necessarily make you a country (much like wearing rabbit ears does not make you a Playboy Bunny as I found out). The experiment failed, though, because they could never agree on the correct way to crack open a hard boiled egg, or something of similar significance.

It is surprising that they could not unite around the common goal of selling cheap crap to tourists. My assistant bought a Rolex on the beach with Chinese engraving on the back and was astounded when it broke later that afternoon. The seller started his sales pitch the way most did, by calling out “Happy family!” He made pleasant talk about me and other important topics as he followed us down the beach relentlessly pummeling us with niceness until my assistant was forced to make a purchase just for a few moments of silence before the next hawker caught up with us.

One must put up with these typical annoyances found in tourist-saturated destinations to enjoy the beautiful hotels and beaches outside the capital, Banjul. My quarters were dazzlingly elegant with monkey-filled gardens and three serene swimming pools. However, as The Gambia caters primarily to elderly British ladies looking to get their groove back, the rooms – while well-appointed – contained furniture inappropriate for babies. In an effort to demonstrate this point to my assistants, I took the drastic measure of opening up my lip on the pointy corner of a low-legged wooden table.

Despite the small river of blood and deafening screams which ensued, they declined to select a more infant-friendly environment. I knew I would have to take matters into my own hands and as usual, I triumphed in the face of adversity. I found the courage I needed to let go of furniture and venture into the middle of the room. Therefore, I am pleased to announce that I now count myself among the world’s walkers, or at least among those that walk like Frankenstein’s monster.

Overall, The Gambia is not much more than a brief opportunity to speak English as you drive from one end of French-speaking Senegal to the other, but it will always be special to me as the place I painfully learned to walk. Check back soon to read about my very eventful trip to Guinea-Bissau.

Peace to all,
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler