Lamin and the Road to Dakar

It’s become something of a personal rule — possibly self-imposed, possibly unnecessary — that every time I visit The Gambia (and, by extension, West Africa), I have to do something new.

Not just slightly new. Properly new.

It might be drumming on Sanyang Beach as the sun melts into the Atlantic, visiting a garden project in Sankandi in the middle of nowhere, navigating the beautiful chaos of Gambian markets in search of a drum, flying a drone over the Mangrove Swamps and the River Gambia, or heading upriver to Janjanbureh with no real plan beyond “let’s see what happens.”

Whatever it is, it has to feel like an addition to the story.

August 2019 was no exception.

In the weeks leading up to that trip — one of three visits I somehow managed that year — Lamin had sent me a series of photos. He’d been to Dakar Airport in Senegal — Dakar being the capital city of Senegal — to pick up a fare and then driven all the way back to The Gambia.

Now, on paper, that sounds straightforward enough.

In reality, it very much isn’t.

This wasn’t a quick airport run. This was a multi-day expedition involving borders, ferries, long stretches of road that may or may not have been roads, and the sort of logistical unpredictability that would make most people quietly decide to stay at home and have a quiet cup of tea instead.

Naturally, I found it deeply appealing.

I didn’t say anything at the time. I just filed it away — somewhere in that part of my brain reserved for ideas that are either brilliant… or deeply questionable.

Or, more often than not, both.

And so, late one evening in August 2019, I arrived at Banjul Airport.

What followed was the usual ritual.

Customs — which always feels less like a process and more like a gentle test of patience and character.

Then the baggage carousel — that universal moment of quiet anxiety where you try to convince yourself that of course your suitcase will arrive… while simultaneously preparing for the very real possibility that it has decided to start a new life somewhere else entirely.

This time, mercifully, it appeared.

I allowed myself a small internal celebration.

All was well.

If you’re visiting The Gambia and you’re looking to make new friends, Banjul Airport is an excellent place to start.

You won’t have a choice.

There will be baggage handlers ready — very ready — to carry your luggage. Taxi drivers keen to discuss your onward travel plans (whether you have any or not). Chancers willing to share deeply personal life stories within approximately twelve seconds of meeting you, usually with a hopeful glance towards your wallet.

And then, more often than not, there will be someone in a wheelchair — quietly persistent, dignified, and simply trying to secure a few dalasi for food that day.

It’s a lot.

All at once.

And if you’re not quite awake yet, it can feel like you’ve accidentally walked into the opening scene of something you weren’t entirely prepared for.

Lamin Barrow, meanwhile, was there…waiting.

Of course he was.

Although “there” is a slightly flexible term.

On these occasions, Lamin rarely presents himself in a straightforward, easily identifiable manner. Instead, he prefers a more… theatrical approach.

Sometimes he hides behind another person.

Sometimes he hides behind one of the large concrete pillars.

And occasionally, he simply waits — just out of sight — until I look sufficiently confused and disoriented, at which point he appears from nowhere like a particularly cheerful ambush.

We hug.

Every time.

No fuss. No ceremony. Just that quiet understanding of friendship built over years of shared experiences and mildly questionable decisions.

He takes my suitcase, and we walk out into the warm night air, across the car park, and over to his taxi.

All my luggage goes into the back.

I climb into the passenger seat.

Lamin settles into the driver’s seat, pauses for a moment, then turns round with the calm assurance of a man who has done this many times before.

He opens a small freezer box.

Reaches inside.

Produces a cold bottle of Julbrew (at one time, Gambia’s premiere own brewed beer – now sadly no more).

From the glove compartment — as if this were all part of a carefully engineered system — comes the bottle opener.

He pops the cap and hands it to me.

We set off.

Now, it’s worth noting that this level of service is not unusual.

On one previous visit, Lamin arrived with pizza.

A full pizza.

At the airport.

Which, to this day, remains one of the finest arrivals I’ve ever experienced anywhere in the world.

Duukoo kendo, Lamin

(“Good work, Lamin” if you’re not a Mandinka speaker.)

But this time felt slightly different.

I sat there, sipping my Julbrew, the warm air drifting in through the open windows, the road humming beneath us…

…and that idea — the one that had been quietly lurking, biding its time in the more chaotic corners of my mind — finally decided it had waited long enough.

It surfaced.

“Lamin?”

“Yes, bro?”

“I want to go to Dakar… in Senegal.”

There was a pause.

Not a long pause.

But just long enough.

Lamin turned his head slightly and looked at me — the kind of look that suggested he was very quickly assessing whether this was:
a) a serious request
b) a passing thought
or
c) one of those ideas

Then came the faintest sigh.

Barely noticeable.

But definitely there.

“Yes, bro.”

And that was that.

There have been many conversations like this over the years. Short. Direct. Slightly ridiculous.

And, without exception, they all end in exactly the same way.

The next day was given over entirely to preparations.

Which, in this case, meant Lamin giving his taxi a very thorough once-over.

We headed to a local garage where I took up my now familiar role — passenger seat observer — while Lamin and a small group of serious-looking Gambian mechanics lifted the bonnet and began inspecting the engine with the kind of focus normally reserved for something far more complicated than a well-travelled taxi.

There was particular attention paid to the petrol tank.

This was not without reason.

On a previous long journey, the petrol tank had developed what might best be described as “a significant disagreement with its intended purpose.”

It leaked.

Quite a lot.

But, as Lamin reminded me with admirable calm, this time would be different.

Eventually, everyone seemed satisfied that the vehicle would, in all likelihood, remain in one piece.

We declared ourselves ready.

The following morning — just before sunrise — we set off.

Around 5am.

The roads were quiet, the air still holding onto the last traces of night, and there was that unmistakable feeling of heading off into something that felt equal parts adventure… and mild misjudgement.

The plan, such as it was, sounded reassuringly simple.

Drive to the ferry port in Banjul.
Take the taxi onto the ferry.
Cross the River Gambia — a short hop of only a few kilometres.
Arrive in Barra.
Enter Senegal.
Drive roughly 250 to 300 kilometres to Dakar.
Arrive early evening.
Find somewhere to stay.
On day two, explore.
And then see what happens.

On paper, it’s about a 300-kilometre journey in total — something that, in a different part of the world, might take six hours.

In West Africa, however, time is… more flexible.

The Banjul ferry port at that time of the morning is, oddly, quite beautiful.

There’s a calm expectancy to it — a quiet pause before the inevitable chaos that will follow.

Everywhere you look, there are stories.

Rusted tankers. Massive freighters. Half-sunken boats that appear to have simply given up mid-thought.

And then there are the ferries themselves.

I often sit on passenger aircraft and marvel at how a sleek metal tube manages to stay thousands of feet in the air without immediately plummeting back to earth.

Standing at the ferry port, I experience a very similar thought process.

Except this time, I’m looking at what can only be described as floating collections of rust and optimism… and wondering how they don’t sink the moment they leave the dock.

Best not to think about it too much.

As a precaution — and I use that word loosely — I would always place all of my camera equipment inside a dustbin bag and tie a knot at the top before boarding.

I’m not entirely sure how this would help in the event of a full-scale maritime emergency.

But psychologically, it felt like a solid plan.

The ferry crossing itself is relatively short — perhaps 30 to 60 minutes on the water.

Getting onto the ferry, however, is an entirely different matter.

Queues form. Vehicles edge forward. Progress is made in small, hopeful increments. And time passes in a way that suggests no one is entirely in charge of it.

Eventually, though, we made it on.

And, reassuringly, the ferry did not sink.

We arrived in Barra.

Customs, as expected, took its time — passports checked, conversations had, the usual rhythm of crossing from one country into another.

And then, finally…

We were on the road.

The journey to Dakar itself was long… and, for the most part, uneventful.

Which is exactly what you want.

It’s roughly 250 to 300 kilometres from Barra to Dakar, but distance here doesn’t quite translate in the way you might expect. Roads vary. Checkpoints appear. Livestock wander freely. And just when you think you’ve settled into a rhythm, something unexpected reminds you that this is not the M5.

I remember drifting in and out of sleep — the steady rumble of the tyres, the warmth of the West African air, and the early start all combining into the perfect conditions for unintended napping.

At various points, Lamin informed me — with increasing authority — that in West Africa, tradition dictates that it is extremely rude for a passenger to fall asleep during a long journey.

I remain fairly confident that he made this up.

Entirely.

Although, in fairness, he probably had a point.

He was the one doing all the driving. A bit of conversation might have helped.

I, however, was not much use.

I tried.

But mostly, I dozed.

Looking back, I should have taken more photos.

What I have instead are fragments — half-formed, slightly dreamlike memories.

Dry, orange, dusty roads stretching endlessly ahead.

Then, suddenly, lush green vegetation.

Huge trees leaning over the road as if trying to get a better look at what we were doing there.

And then — unexpectedly — what looked like snow-covered hills in the distance.

Except, of course, this was West Africa.

Not snow.

Salt.

Great mounds of it, glistening under the sun near Lake Retba.

Thousands of workers harvest it by hand — hard, demanding, and often dangerous work — before it’s used across Senegal, particularly in preserving fish for dishes like thieboudienne (a traditional Senegalese dish).

At the time, I didn’t fully take it in.

Half asleep. Slightly dazed.

If we ever make that journey again — if Lamin lets me — I’ll insist we stop properly.

Get closer.

Take it all in.

Take the photos I should have taken.

At the moment, all I really have are impressions.

There were moments, too, when I quietly questioned the wisdom of the whole idea.

Long stretches of road passed with no sign of life at all.

No buildings. No people. No obvious help.

Just road.

And heat.

And distance.

If the taxi had broken down — properly broken down — we would have been stranded.

Completely.

There’s no equivalent of the AA or RAC out here. No one to call. No neat solution.

Just the two of us, a car with a known history of leaking petrol tanks… and a very long road in both directions.

At the time, this felt mildly concerning.

In hindsight, it probably should have felt more concerning.

But by then, of course, we were already on our way to Dakar.

And turning back was never really part of the plan.

Which brings me, quite neatly, to Lamin’s taxi.

Or, more accurately, Lamin’s taxis.

He’s had three over the years I’ve known him.

The first two were the classic green 14-seaters — once the undisputed champions of Gambian roads. Back in the day, if it was green and had more seats than seemed structurally advisable, it was almost certainly a taxi.

In general use were also smaller, yellow, “normal” car-sized taxis — and, like the larger vehicles, you don’t see quite as many of them now, which is a little sad. Progress has a habit of quietly replacing things before you’ve quite finished enjoying them.

These days, the roads are increasingly populated by much larger government like vehicles — but also tuk-tuk style machines that buzz around side streets with alarming enthusiasm. You can, of course, travel in one… but you do so with the distinct feeling that you’ve signed an informal agreement with fate.

Lamin, however, has remained consistent.

His taxis have always been green.

Although, in Lamin fashion, always a slightly different green.

Lighter. More metallic. Just enough to suggest that this is not just a taxi… this is Lamin’s taxi.

Step inside, and you are immediately greeted by a familiar feature of West African travel: orange dust.

Not just a little orange dust.
A layer.
A presence.

A fine tangerine coating that settles on everything and becomes, over time, less of an inconvenience and more of a design choice.

The windscreen, meanwhile, has always been cracked.

According to Lamin, this is due to falling coconuts.

If true, an extraordinary number of coconuts have developed a personal vendetta against him.

Occasionally, the cracks look suspiciously like bullet holes.

I have been assured this is not the case.

Then there’s the matter of the window handles.

There are never enough.

Sometimes there is only one.

And like the crown jewels, it is kept under strict supervision — usually in the glove compartment — and only produced when the passengers begin to resemble baked goods left too long in the oven.

I remain convinced that Lamin’s first taxi had holes in the floor.

Proper holes.

The sort through which you could see the road passing beneath your feet and begin to question whether the holes are actually features rather than faults.

I am fairly certain that, with a bit of effort, I could have pushed my feet through and propelled the vehicle along like Fred Flintstone.

Whether this would have improved the overall journey is difficult to say.

That same taxi also featured a wandering seat in the middle row.

This seat had no fixed position and would slide backwards and forwards depending on the terrain — which, in The Gambia, means frequently.

On particularly bumpy roads, the seat would occasionally tip backwards altogether, leaving you lying flat on your back with your feet in the air, contemplating your life choices and wondering whether this was, in fact, a form of experimental theatre. It was like Blackpool Pleasure Beach, but with more dust and fewer safety checks.

Lamin’s current taxi represents a bold step into the modern era.

It has a partial LED dashboard display.

Unfortunately, despite several attempts to intervene, the language remains permanently set to German.

This adds a certain continental flair to proceedings and ensures that no one in the vehicle has the faintest idea what any of the warning lights might be trying to communicate.

The taxi is also equipped with an MP3 player.

Which sounds promising.

However, on one particular visit, it developed a deep and unwavering commitment to a single piece of West African music.

And played it.

Continuously.

For an entire week.

By day two, it was familiar.
By day four, it was inescapable.
By day six, it felt less like background music and more like a carefully designed psychological endurance test.

By the end of the week, climbing into the taxi carried a certain… tension. A sense that one might be about to undergo a highly specialised form of sensory torture more commonly associated with places like Guantanamo Bay — and combined with the lingering suspicion that waterboarding might be next on the itinerary.

And yet, despite all of this — the dust, the cracks, the wandering seats, the German dashboard and the musical loop of terror — Lamin’s taxi did exactly what it needed to do.

It carried us.

All the way to Dakar.

Which, when you think about it, is really all you can ask of any vehicle.

Even one with a questionable relationship with coconuts.

Read the Introduction to ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Travels With Lamin – An Introduction | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read the next chapter of ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Lamin and Teranga | Building Futures in the Gambia

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