Lamin and the Maximum Fine

Unlike encounters with Senegalese police officers — where one is likely to emerge significantly poorer and emotionally exhausted — encounters with Gambian police officers are often a lot more… eccentric.

As in Senegal, Gambian police checkpoints are scattered all over the country, frequently in places where there appears to be absolutely no reason whatsoever for human civilisation to exist.

You can be travelling for miles along a long, dusty Gambian road with nothing visible in either direction except scrubland, wandering goats and the occasional suspiciously confident chicken… and then suddenly, without warning, a police checkpoint will materialise out of nowhere like some kind of low-budget African mirage.

Usually, it consists of a battered sign and two weary-looking police officers sheltering beneath a tree from the ferocious West African sun. If they are particularly fortunate, there will also be an elderly plastic chair involved, and the officers will take turns sitting in it with the solemn dignity normally associated with the throne room of a small kingdom.

The officers almost always wear sunglasses.

This serves two purposes.

Firstly, it protects their eyes from the sun.

Secondly, it makes them look considerably more intimidating than they probably are.

I strongly suspect the second reason is the more important one.

And, more often than not, they are carrying rifles — which does tend to lend a certain seriousness to proceedings, particularly when one is a middle-aged Englishman carrying an expensive camera and sweating slightly more than feels socially acceptable.

Lamin will slow the taxi to a halt beside the officer standing in the road. He’ll lower the window and announce himself in the relaxed, familiar way of somebody who has done this approximately twelve thousand times before.

There will then follow a brief exchange in local language — usually Mandinka — during which Lamin explains where we are going, why we are going there, who I am, and, quite possibly, what I had for breakfast.

The officer will nod thoughtfully.

And then comes the inspection.

The officer will begin at Lamin’s side of the taxi and slowly walk around the vehicle with the measured seriousness of a man inspecting a suspicious package at a railway station. He will peer at the tyres. He will inspect the rear lights. He will look through the windows.

Eventually, he will arrive at my side of the vehicle and stare directly at me through the window.

In my early days in The Gambia, I dealt with this by staring rigidly forwards as though I was attempting to avoid eye contact with a t-rex in Jurassic Park.

If my camera was on my lap, I would discreetly lower it down between my knees as if silently communicating:

“It’s perfectly fine. I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of photographing either you or your alarmingly large rifle.”

These days, however, I’m much more relaxed.

I’ll usually nod at the officer or give a small wave. Occasionally, if I’m feeling brave — and if I think I’ve correctly identified that Mandinka is being spoken — I’ll attempt a greeting in Mandinka myself.

This generally produces one of three responses.

Response Number 1: “Eyor!”

“Eyor!” is the Mandinka equivalent of “Wow!” and is usually accompanied by a look of delighted surprise.

This is the best possible outcome.

It means my Mandinka attempt has been deemed respectable enough to continue the conversation. We’ll revert back to English, exchange greetings, discuss England, The Gambia, the weather and why on earth I keep voluntarily returning to dusty roads and malfunctioning taxis.

All is well.

Response Number 2: Laughter

This is also acceptable.

The officer finds my Mandinka hysterically funny, but appreciates the effort.

The laughter will generally be followed by an “Eyor!” and then the same pleasant conversation as described in Response Number 1.

Again, all is well.

Response Number 3: “What!?”

This is less ideal.

This means either:

1. The officer has absolutely no idea what I just said.
2. The officer is not Mandinka.
3. I have accidentally asked him whether his grandmother is a goat.

At this point, I quickly abandon Mandinka and revert to English while trying not to look directly at the rifle, which suddenly seems to have become alarmingly prominent in my field of vision.

The officer will eventually finish inspecting the vehicle and wave us onwards.

If I have accidentally triggered Response Number 3, Lamin will casually announce several minutes later:

“That man is not Mandinka.”

Ideally, Lamin would provide this information before I attempt my heroic linguistic performance.

But of course he doesn’t.

Still, unlike Senegal, no money changes hands.

No mysterious fines are issued.

Nobody is accused of crimes involving dusty paintwork or incorrectly positioned luggage.

And all is well.

During my very first visit to The Gambia — when I was travelling with a group of teachers — we were stopped at one of these checkpoints on the way to Makumbaya Village.

It was our first ever encounter with Gambian police.

The officer looked into the Lamin’s taxi, adjusted his sunglasses, glanced meaningfully at the large rifle resting casually against his shoulder and asked a single question:

“Do you have any pens?”

Now, this was our very first visit to The Gambia. We were inexperienced. Vulnerable. A little frightened. Heavily armed stationery negotiations were entirely new territory for us.

And so, within moments, this police officer had somehow acquired enough biros to open a moderately successful office-supplies business in his home village.

To this day, I still wonder whether he genuinely needed pens or whether he simply realised that a minibus full of nervous English teachers represented the easiest stationery heist in West African history.

Either way, he seemed delighted.

And since then, I can honestly say I’ve never once had to hand over money — or office equipment — to a Gambian police officer wearing sunglasses and carrying a rifle.

Another excellent example of Gambian police eccentricity can be found in Yundum Village at a particularly chaotic road junction.

Now, to a British driver, a junction is generally understood to be a place where one slows down, stops sensibly, assesses the situation, and then proceeds cautiously when safe to do so.

To a Gambian driver, however, a junction is viewed rather differently.

It is seen as a challenge.

More specifically, it is viewed as a test of nerve, determination and horn usage.

Instead of slowing down, most Gambian drivers approach a junction with the firm conviction that stopping is for weaker, less committed motorists. The objective is not to give way, but rather to continue driving with such confidence and relentless horn-blasting that everybody else loses their nerve first.

And so horns begin sounding from every conceivable direction.

One driver blasts his horn to announce that he has no intention whatsoever of stopping.

A second driver responds with an even louder blast to make clear that he also has no intention of stopping.

A third driver joins in simply because everybody else seems to be doing it.

By this point, goats are panicking, pedestrians are running for their lives, and somewhere in the distance a chicken is probably filing a formal complaint.

And if the junction happens to involve a roundabout or multiple converging roads, the whole thing quickly descends into something resembling a low-budget remake of Mad Max sponsored by Toyota.

And standing right in the middle of this magnificent chaos — attempting to impose some kind of order upon the unfolding automotive madness — will be a lone Gambian police officer.

Now, the officer stationed at the Yundum junction is genuinely outstanding value for money.

He does not merely direct traffic.

Oh no.

He performs TRAFFIC CONTROL.

Arms flailing dramatically, whistle blasting furiously, sunglasses gleaming in the African sun, he strides into oncoming vehicles with the swagger of a man who has long since accepted that death is always only one distracted taxi driver away.

At times, he resembles less a police officer and more the conductor of a deeply unruly orchestra composed entirely of taxis, battered minibuses and complete mechanical failure.

And somehow — against all known laws of probability, physics and common sense — it works.

One of these days, I’ll manage to get some video footage of this gentleman in full flow. And, with any luck, he’ll be far too busy waving his arms at speeds not unlike an air traffic controller attempting to prevent the collapse of civilisation to concern himself with arresting me for filming him.

Hopefully.

Once you’ve passed through Yundum, you eventually find yourself approaching Busumbala — and this is where the charity school lies; the home of BFiG Busumbala Nursery School.

For that reason, I’ve travelled this road many times over the years.

And Lamin Barrow has travelled it many, MANY more.

In fact, I strongly suspect Lamin has driven up and down that stretch of the Brikama Highway so often that sections of the road surface now recognise his taxi on sight and quietly brace themselves for impact.

And it is precisely because of these endless journeys backwards and forwards between Lamin’s home and BFiG Busumbala Nursery School that Lamin has, over time, acquired something which all great heroes eventually require.

An arch nemesis.

Her name is Fatou.

She is a Mandinka lady.

And she is the police officer responsible for the particular stretch of the Brikama Highway near the dusty turn-off road leading down towards the school.

Whenever Lamin drives past, Officer Fatou watches him with the calm intensity of somebody quietly waiting for her moment. I suspect she spends large portions of the day hoping that, eventually, Lamin Barrow will commit some small motoring offence serious enough to justify unleashing the full might of Gambian traffic law upon him.

“That woman does not like me,” Lamin has stated on several occasions with absolute conviction.

And so, during my January 2026 visit to The Gambia and Senegal, I somehow — and entirely unintentionally — became caught up in an ongoing power struggle between Lamin Barrow and Officer Fatou.

To explain properly, I need to jump back in time to about a week before I was collected from Banjul International Airport by School Manager Lamin Barrow and his increasingly battle-scarred green taxi.

Lamin had gone to Brikama to attend a musical programme. Gambians tend to use the word programme where we might say concert, performance or gig.

So while Lamin was inside the venue enjoying the evening’s musical delights, his taxi was parked outside.

Now, it is an unfortunate reality that, like in most countries, unattended vehicles in The Gambia can occasionally attract unwanted attention. Sometimes a passing opportunist in need of a few dalasis will break a window and help themselves to whatever happens to be inside — tools, speakers, loose belongings, anything useful or sellable.

But vehicles in The Gambia face another, rather more toddler-adjacent threat.

Children.

Tiny agents of chaos.

Small, highly organised opportunists — many not yet in double figures age-wise — who can descend upon a parked vehicle with the efficiency of a Formula One pit crew and strip removable parts in astonishingly short periods of time.

Wing mirrors.

Indicator covers.

Hub caps.

Windscreen wipers.

Anything not securely welded to the chassis is viewed more as a temporary arrangement than a permanent fixture.

I’ve witnessed this happen on several occasions. One moment Lamin is sitting calmly sipping a fruit juice or milk shake. The next, he has suddenly launched himself into the street at full speed, yelling furiously while pursuing a swarm of pocket-sized opportunistic pirates attempting to dismantle sections of his taxi.

I have occasionally wondered whether, somewhere behind the scenes, lurking in the shadows of the West African underworld, there exists the Gambian equivalent of Charles Dickens’ Fagin quietly co-ordinating an underground empire of highly organised pint-sized delinquents.

And if such a criminal mastermind does not already exist, perhaps it could become another future role for Lamin.

Fagin Barrow — Criminal Overlord.

It has a certain ring to it.

Anyway… back to Brikama.

On this particular evening, whilst attending the musical programme, Lamin was just a little too late to save his taxi from a gang of tiny criminal masterminds.

They stole his rear bumper.

And his registration plate.

Naturally, this was both irritating and expensive.

However, despite now driving a vehicle that looked as though sections of it had recently fallen off during a high-speed chase through Dakar, Lamin continued his normal routine without too much concern. To be fair, in The Gambia it is not unusual to encounter vehicles in such profound states of mechanical distress that their continued existence seems to totally defy the laws of physics.

And so Lamin simply carried on.

He drove to the school several times.

He passed police checkpoints.

He even drove directly past Officer Fatou.

Nothing happened.

Or so we thought.

Because…Officer Fatou had noticed.

Oh, she had absolutely noticed.

Quietly and patiently, she had observed Lamin’s missing registration plate and damaged rear end and was, I suspect, simply waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

And that opportunity finally arrived the moment I landed in The Gambia.

Because now Officer Fatou had spotted something even more interesting than Lamin’s missing bumper.

A white man sitting in the passenger seat.

And that, clearly, changed everything.

We had visited the school as normal. We drove through Yundum past the wonderfully theatrical traffic officer whose arms appeared to move independently from the known laws of physics, continued along the Brikama Highway into Busumbala Village, turned off towards the school and spent time there without incident.

Officer Fatou was on duty.

But she merely watched.

She noticed Lamin’s missing registration plate.

And she noticed me.

Then, on our return journey, just as we were about to pull back onto the Brikama Highway, Officer Fatou finally made her move.

She stepped forward and ordered Lamin to pull over onto the side of the road.

“That woman does not like me,” Lamin restated grimly as he climbed out of the taxi.

I simply wound the window down and settled back in my seat.

By this point, I was already becoming accustomed to situations like this. There is absolutely no point whatsoever becoming flustered or anxiously checking the time in The Gambia. Things happen when they decide to happen and not one second earlier.

And, truthfully, there are far worse ways to pass the time than sitting beside a busy Gambian roadside watching the full glorious chaos of West African life unfold around you — vehicles weaving everywhere, horns sounding constantly, market stalls buzzing with activity, people carrying impossible objects balanced effortlessly on their heads, sheep wandering through traffic with complete confidence, and somewhere nearby somebody almost certainly selling phone chargers, flip-flops and cooked fish all from the same table.

There was an Oscar winning film released in 2022 whose title perfectly summarises life in the busiest parts of The Gambia:

Everything Everywhere All At Once.

After a while, I climbed out of the taxi myself. These days, I have adopted a strategy of walking around West Africa as though I own it. People are generally less likely to immediately attempt to become your best friend, tell you their entire life story, or sell you a highly suspicious Rolex if you wander around looking as though you’ve always been there.

I perched myself casually on the bonnet of Lamin’s taxi and watched the world go by.

Eventually Lamin returned.

“Bro. I need you to come with me. I have told her we are working with the school and doing charity business but she will not listen.”

Lamin himself did not appear remotely concerned. Situations like this are simply part of daily life in The Gambia — one more minor complication sent by the universe to ensure nobody becomes too relaxed or complacent.

I followed him towards a small building which appeared to function as some sort of miniature police headquarters. Officer Fatou stood outside speaking rapidly into her mobile phone.

I smiled pleasantly and wandered over.

She was not a particularly tall woman, but she possessed the unmistakable physical presence of somebody who had, at some point in her life, probably wrestled crocodiles recreationally.

I stood before her preparing to unleash the full force of my Mandinka vocabulary combined with what I hoped might pass for mildly affable Hugh Grant-esque charm.

Officer Fatou slowly looked me up and down.

From my sunburnt face…

…to my dusty Adidas trainers.

She then looked directly into my eyes, briefly paused her phone conversation, and uttered two of the most chilling words I have ever heard spoken in West Africa.

“Maximum fine.”

Then she immediately looked away and resumed her phone conversation.

I felt my attempted Hugh Grant persona evaporate instantly.

Again, she spoke.

“MAXIMUM FINE!”

I looked helplessly at Lamin.

He smirked.

“MAXIMUM FINE!!!”

The words were now loaded with such icy fury and grim determination that I briefly wondered whether Officer Fatou had spent her evenings practising them in front of a mirror.

More rapid Mandinka conversation followed with some unseen superior at the other end of the phone.

“MAXIMUM FINE!!!!”

At this point it became evident that Officer Fatou was determined that Lamin Barrow would face the full terrifying majesty of Gambian motoring law.

And, because he was accompanied by a white man, she had clearly concluded that we possessed access to vast hidden financial reserves.

“MAXIMUM FINE!!!!!”

Eventually the phone conversation ended.

A heated discussion followed between Officer Fatou and Lamin. Interestingly, Officer Fatou appeared considerably more emotionally invested in the situation than Lamin himself.

Finally, the discussion ended.

“Okay, bro. We go now.” said Lamin.

We strolled calmly back towards the taxi.

“That woman does not like me,” Lamin reiterated.

Back inside the taxi, I turned to him.

“She kept saying ‘maximum fine’. How much is a maximum fine?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dalasis,” Lamin replied calmly.

At the current exchange rate, this was roughly £2,500.

“What??!!”

“Don’t worry, bro,” Lamin said reassuringly. “She cannot do that. That woman… she does not like me.”

“Well what do we do now?” I asked. “We’re going to be driving this road most days. She’ll just keep stopping us.”

“We go to the police station,” Lamin replied. “Then I apply for a new registration plate.”

And so that is exactly what we did.

Over the next few days we visited police stations no fewer than three times because, on each occasion, the officer we required was mysteriously absent.

Eventually, we ended up at a police station in Kairaba where Lamin was finally issued temporary registration plates.

These consisted of his registration number printed onto pieces of cardboard and then laminated.

Naturally, I immediately informed Lamin that I could quite easily manufacture equivalent replacements back in England and bring them with me next time I visited.

And I fully intend to.

Along with a T-shirt for Lamin bearing the immortal words:

MAXIMUM FINE

EPILOGUE

Lamin later informed me that Officer Fatou had been transferred elsewhere.

And this immediately made me suspicious.

Had Lamin somehow orchestrated this whole thing from behind the scenes?

Had his vast network of Gambian contacts quietly engineered the mysterious removal of Officer Fatou to some impossibly remote and desolate outpost deep within the Gambian wilderness?

Perhaps.

Perhaps Lamin Barrow is, in reality, the Gambian equivalent of The Godfather.

Perhaps behind his gently chaotic charm and affable smile lies the mind of a ruthless Machiavellian criminal overlord quietly manipulating the destinies of everyone around him.

No.

Surely not…

Read the Previous Chapter here:

Lamin and the Learner Driver | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read the Introduction to ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:

👉Travels With Lamin – An Introduction | Building Futures in the Gambia

Find all the other chapters here:
👉Travels With Lamin: Stories from The Gambia and West Africa | Building Futures in the Gambia

Book Lamin and his taxi here:
👉Lamin Barrow Taxis – The Gambia’s Number One Taxi Driver

And find out more about Lamin’s work with BFiG Busumbala Nursery School here:

👉 Building Futures in The Gambia