Through the pages of her journal, InHabit Travel Studies Consultant Jennifer Wieland has been taking us along on her travels. This month, we’re pleased to share a sixth excerpt from Jen’s travel journal in which she writes from the Gambia. You can find all of Jen’s excerpts here, including those that follow her Camino trek from Le-Puy-en-Velay to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port.

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Above the clouds

The sun streams through my window as we climb above the clouds. The flight is smooth and the views are heavenly. I see the coast of Cornwall, the Isle of Wight, then the coast of Brittany, down to the coast of Spain, over the Canaries, then we hug Africa — the red sands of the Mauritanian desert then over northern Senegal — dried up river veins and crevasses, no sign of towns, only one or two straight lines across the desert - a vague outline of a road linking somewhere to somewhere else. Then it appears, the Gambia River, an enormous artery that divides Senegal in two — and its river banks coming together to reveal the Gambia, known as the “Smiling Coast” of Africa. 

The deluge of the rainy season in the Gambia and the deluge of my recent radiotherapy in the UK, have passed. This trip means freedom to me and what better way to travel than with my dear friend Sareena, who knows the country well.   

‍A friendship built on freedom

Sareena and I met in London. She is British of Guyanese and Sierra Leonean descent and grew up in West Africa. After qualifying as a barrister, her father moved the family to Freetown, Sierra Leone. Freetown in the seventies meant freedom to her. It’s where she met her lifelong friends who now live in the Gambia. This place suits her perfectly, it’s rough around the edges, just like she is (and one of the traits I love most about her). Our mantra for the trip is: “You do you, I do me.” And “we do” like this for the next two weeks. We give each other freedom to be ourselves. 

Our first stroll along the beach takes us through shanty town sea frontage mixed with luxury hotel acreage. The surf is rough and mesmerising. There are colourful fishing boats, surfers and bodyboarders and families enjoying the ocean. The landscape, full of contrasts, meshes together in a curious way. Young Gambian men approach us, asking if we would like a guide. They are friendly and polite, relentless and numerous. An older man on a horse observes us, waiting for a moment of eye contact. Whatever happens here during the precious tourist season must sustain them through the long rainy season when many return to their villages to care for their parents and grandparents. In the face of such pressures, I wonder at the freedom and resilience they’ve found that keeps them smiling.  

‍A dinner among friends

Saturday night, we are invited to Amanda and Jamal’s home in Fajara, a community outside the capital about fifteen minutes drive from our hotel. Sareena’s friends join us; the conversation around the table is fascinating. These friends are Lebanese and Greek, and they have all remained very close since they met in Sierra Leone in the 1970s. We talk about the war in Israel, Gambian politics, religious fanaticism, and the import-export projects of Western Africa. They have lived here for more than thirty years and have the most extraordinary art collection. As an amateur painter and sculptor herself, Amanda supports local artists and fervently advocates for them in every arena possible. I wander around the house in awe, basking in the country’s creative talent. 

Sunday afternoon, we’re invited to their daughter Alexandra’s beach bar for a barbecue and some bodysurfing. Alexandra grew up here, went to school in England, then returned, just like her parents did years ago. She is now the successful owner of two bar restaurants in the area. 

Most days, Jamal bodysurfs in the early morning enjoying the quiet before he heads off to work in the capital. I watch him out on the water. He is serene and graceful, as he communes with his own special world. The ocean is where he finds his own inner freedom, and a freedom from the stress and commotion of his job in the city.   

‍The rhythm and dance of community 

When we return to our hotel, we decide to take a walk along the strip, where all the nightlife happens. Sunday night is quiet except for a local percussion jam session at Sareena’s favourite Senegalese music venue. New musicians from surrounding shanty towns have come in tonight to practice on instruments the venue provides for them. They are incredibly talented, and their music booms through the night air. Their rhythms vibrate, an expression of freedom within this community.   

The group expresses passion and purpose, tradition and liberation, sharing their unique heritage in dance and music.  

During the week there are traditional dance performances at the hotel; narrated dances offer fascinating insight into local traditional rites of passage. The percussion is intense and the dance is highly evocative; the calibre of each performance is stunning. The group expresses passion and purpose, tradition and liberation, sharing their unique heritage in dance and music. They are Gambian dancers and Gambian musicians; it feels as if they are doing what they were born to do. At the end of the show, they invite everyone to join in for the “happy dance.” Sareena agrees, and keeps up with every step, becoming part of the show. I smile ear to ear in admiration.   

One morning, we make a plan with Bash, Amanda’s driver, to go to Banjul. The capital is thriving with a hospital, a university, a market and the busiest port along the Gambia river, but it is clear that there are more people than there are jobs. Some survive  by doing odd jobs, like watching Bash’s car while we go to the market, or showing us the best way through the maze of the market stalls. I buy a salad fork and knife from a young, talented wood craftsman. He has carved the utensils meticulously into profiles of a traditionally adorned couple. He, too, expresses the freedom within himself through stunning artistry, a creative freedom without modern tools or mass production. 

In the evening, we go to Darboe’s, a restaurant and music venue where locals and tourists come together to mingle, to eat delicious peanut and hot chili curries, to listen to live music and to dance. Tall and elegantly dressed, Darboe sits on his stool outside and invites us in with an endearing smile. He is also a musician who loves to support his musician friends. They play an eclectic mix of reggae, afrobeat, soul, funk, jazz and hip hop. A local character, the rasta biker man, asks me to dance. He is dressed head to toe in rasta colours. His smile is wide and his laugh contagious. We dance; he moves me, twirling me across the floor; and then leaves without saying goodbye, taking off on his colourful, beat up 250cc Honda. He is a free spirit, content to stand apart from those around him. The rest of us dance on.

My body has been through a lot this year, yet I remain positive. It’s my second half, and each day I let go of a little more of what doesn’t matter.

‍Learning from the sea and each other 

I wake up before Sareena and walk down to the beach. I swim, slow and steady, letting my dreams of the night before settle in alongside my thoughts of what the day ahead may bring. In the water, I float and feel every inch of my body submerge and refresh. My body has been through a lot this year, yet I remain positive. It’s my second half, and each day I let go of a little more of what doesn’t matter. I am finding freedom within myself, without time constraints or daily routines. 

The lifeguards are volunteers, who train together and learn from one another. I see some strong male swimmers far out beyond me. One of them is reminded not to go out further. He is now back on shore, exhausted – a slim, tall, velvety silhouette against the dark green and light gray surf. He stands to catch his breath, then walks through the water in search of other swimmers on the horizon. As a collective, their perspicacity intrigues me. They observe each other closely, openly, and humbly. Their faces are eager; they seek, accept, act. They act and react within their group with a freedom rooted in deep trust, and without fear of being overtaken by the ocean’s force.

‍The poetic state

Every day, I experience a new aspect of Gambian daily life and realize that this country is truly a work of art in progress (aren’t we all?). There is so much beauty here in this culture, in and among these people. They remind me of something Patrick Chamoiseau, one of my favourite French writers, said recently when interviewed by Eva Bester on Radio France: 

“Faced with a desperate world, we wonder what to do. As slaves sang to maintain hope, we must remember the power of art; an intensity of lines of flight. I believe in the poetic state. It’s developing a way of living that is so sensitive, attentive, contemplative and compassionate, that we manage to amplify our field of perception and ignore nothing of what is around us. A work of art, if it is not directly denunciative, can trigger, in someone’s sensitive architecture, aesthetic explosions which are precious and can increase lucidity [translated from French].”  

I sense that many Gambians live in this “poetic state” Chamoiseau describes. They are adept at amplifying their lives. Nothing —and no one — in their daily lives is ignored. They seem to find and cultivate purpose in all that they endeavour to do. They create beauty and aesthetic ripples everywhere they go.   

I believe in the poetic state. It’s developing a way of living that is so sensitive, attentive, contemplative and compassionate, that we manage to amplify our field of perception and ignore nothing of what is around us.

The weight of history

We are on a tour to visit Kunta Kinteh Island. This place represents the first African-European trade route to the inland of Africa and the beginning and the conclusion of the West African slave trade. Our guide emphasizes that slavery was central to trade, a system built on exploitation and suffering. Responsibility was widespread, shared by the individuals, institutions, and societies that profited from it. I can’t help thinking of what Octavia Butler says about our divided human nature in her book “The Parable of the Sower:” “Even when we try to do good, be good, there will always be an enemy of good and bad - a distortion of bad and good, a heart of stone and a heart of gold.” 

The guide continues with the grim history of the island, returning to themes of strength, resilience and forgiveness. The statue in the old slave fishing village reads, “Never again.” Millions of Africans were taken from these shores, ending up displaced and uprooted; when slavery ended, many were sent not back to their homes but to random places along this coast. Now, a mixture of tribes live peacefully together here; a young boy with an old bongo drum sits under an enormous baobab tree. He pounds out a percussive tune, his melody rhythmic and melancholic.

‍Our unfinished stories

The ferry boat ride back across the river Gambia feels particularly intense. So many people and so many wares squished together inside. There is baobab ice for sale; it’s cheap and refreshing, a best seller. There are bananas, their odor penetrating through the crowd as they ripen in the intensifying heat. There are underwear, bras, and batik scarves. Once on land, we navigate the crowd and serpentine our way to our jeep. As we drive, we silently take in the countryside, filled with greenery, enormous baobab, moringa and sodium apple trees, and fields of mint which the locals use to repel the mosquitoes that carry malaria. Moringa, I learn, is a miracle tree; it cures malaria, lowers blood pressure and cleans out intestinal bugs like magic. Our guide chews four seeds a day, cultivating wellbeing and freedom within, without western medicine. 

Freedom takes many forms—I see it in creative expression, in community, in remembrance, in persistence. It is within and between us.

At this point in human history, so much is in flux. The Gambia, like all nations, is navigating change in uncertain times. Yet everywhere I look—among those who guide, ride, surf, swim, paint, carve, cook, dance, and make music—I see resilience, creativity, and movement. Freedom takes many forms—I see it in creative expression, in community, in remembrance, in persistence. It is within and between us. 

No country is without its challenges — corruption, inequality, shifting tides of power—that is true everywhere, from the Gambia to the United Kingdom, to America and beyond. No place, no people, are ever a finished story. There is always more to build, more to become. Here in the Gambia, the free and creative spirit is alive and well.