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Dangers of backtalk
With Gambian police
By GREG LAUFER
of TheColumnists.com
Seeking an escape from my third-year law school regimen, I recently spent a few weeks pursuing an aimless itinerary in Senegal and The Gambia, two interesting countries in West Africa. As I rule, I was welcomed with extraordinary graciousness - but every rule has an exception. I rediscovered this the hard way, thanks to a combination of my own stupidity and the chest-thumping tendencies of Gambian military officials.
The most perturbing aspect of The Gambia may not be the pretentious definite article attached to its name. This sliver of a country is governed by a military junta led by President Yahya A. J. J. Jammeh, a former army lieutenant who since 1994 has made his chubby countenance a feature of billboards in and around Banjul, the village-like, somnolent capital.
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YAHYA A. J. J. JAMMEH ...President of The Gambia |
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As repressive regimes go, Gambia’s (let’s drop the “The”) may not rival the world’s worst, but it scores well nonetheless. As I crossed the country’s northern border from Senegal, I read in my guidebook’s understated style that “it is important to note that your enthusiasm to be in Gambia may not be shared by the authorities. In our experience, the country lives in a climate of distrust.” In another section, the guidebook warns, “In any case, avoid photographing military installations, airports, ferries, ports and government buildings. This is particularly crucial in Gambia, where you are at high risk of having your equipment confiscated, or even of getting arrested.”
Having traveled through nearly 40 countries on five continents, I should have known to take greater heed of this sage advice.
I spent the first half of my morning in Banjul doing what I always do on arriving in a new city: I surveyed the terrain on foot, turning every corner I came upon with no rhyme or reason. I visited a gaudy arch at the city limits that President Jammeh had erected in his honor after his power grab. I sat with three uniformed high school students who told me a bit about teenage life in their country. I even paid a visit to the Supreme Court, where I talked shop with a local attorney and sat in on a humdrum civil proceeding.
The sun was out, the streets were busy, and I was doing what I loved most: exploring. Life was as good as it gets, until I reached the Statehouse, the presidential palace.
A barricade with armed soldiers blocked the main driveway into the complex, which, although visible only diagonally, looked drab. Still, a conspicuous banner draped on a fence next to the entrance intrigued me, if only because its promise-“The Transformation of The Gambia into an Economic Superpower”-was so blatantly hollow. I asked one of the soldiers for permission to snap a photo and got the green light. Within seconds, other soldiers at the gate were hissing at me (hissing is the Senegalese/Gambian equivalent of calling out to someone and is in no way disparaging). As yet unshaken, I went over to them and was promptly led by two middle-aged, husky soldiers into a room next to the guardhouse filled with faded couches. I sat on one while the two soldiers hunched over me.
They demanded to see all my pictures and ordered me to erase the one I had taken of the Statehouse. Naturally, I complied, eyeing the guns peeking out of their holsters. Maybe they would have let me go on the spot had I not begun to protest-rather civilly, I should say, my being detained. They both bore down on me, their faces only inches from mine, and began to shout uncontrollably.
“What you fucking doing in Gambia? You fucking with us? What you fucking take picture for?”
My attempts to answer only fired them up more.
“In English, we say, when in Rome, you do as fucking Romans do,” one of them yelled. “You know that? You think you can fucking take picture of Buckingham Palace? White House?”
Of course, tourists can, and do, take pictures of both every day. I certainly have. The chiding continued.
“We are above the law. You fucking understand that?”
I nodded yes, and indeed, at that moment I understood that and nothing more.
Accompanying their rage were droplets of
spit that lightly coated my face and hair. There was no reasoning
with these brutes. In any case, I stopped trying to talk after
the first minute or so, deciding that a few moments of verbal
release might be cathartic for them and, by consequence, beneficial
for me. I never actually felt that I was in danger. However,
I did think for a time that the older of the two soldiers, whose
arms were flailing about, might slap me in the face, if only
by accident. Humiliation was what I felt, deep humiliation.
Taking the chance of adding even more fuel to the fire, I defended
myself only when they threatened to confiscate my camera, suggesting
that I would have to call the U.S. Embassy for assistance. I
don’t know if this is what set them on a new course or if
they had simply tired themselves out. At any rate, I kept my
camera--minus the incriminating picture--and was told to leave
immediately. I was only too happy to do so.
I had planned to spend several more days in Gambia but decided that I could make better use of my time in cheerier Senegal, where run-ins with military police were decidedly less likely. I spent the rest of the day visiting a vocational center for poor, rural women, talking to a group of idle laborers, and watching over-the-hill white British women shop on the beach for young, black Gambian paramours.
Wherever I went, I kept my camera tucked away in my bag, and didn’t take it out again in sight of anything official-looking until I had crossed back into Senegal the very next morning.
Greg Laufer is a graduate student in law at Cornell University who has toured extensively and has written about his travels for us. This is his eighth column for us.
©2007 by Gregory Laufer. The photo of Gambia's president is courtesy of the official Gambian website. This column first posted March 12, 2007.
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