2026
At around 3 a.m. on the second day of 2026, we landed in Banjul and were picked up by a member of our new family. We were more than a little excited. We hardly even knew whether we had a proper place to sleep. But yes – we did.
When we finally arrived, we were welcomed by Lamin, the head of the family, the owner of the ecolodge, and the man who had been the project manager for our building project. I immediately understood why, when I saw where we were going to sleep. Even though the house was not yet finished, our bedroom was beautifully arranged, with a large built-in bed, neatly made up with swan-shaped towels, and other storage furniture. The bathroom next door was also good enough to be put into use.
After we woke up the next day, we were given towel racks, curtain rods, and nicer lighting. All of it delivered with such joy that one’s tolerance level for most things rises significantly. Crooked windows and … no, stop it, Trude, don’t even think about it. It’s not supposed to be perfect. That’s why we’re here. To lower our standards and become even less inclined to get irritated. Because who suffers the most from irritation? Well – oneself. And irritation is often completely unnecessary.
The house is spacious and welcoming, with a porch, a small garden, and locally made garden chairs. The sound of the waves and birdsong, only occasionally drowned out by crickets, both wake you up and lull you to sleep. We will certainly manage to live with a few imperfections. Or charm marks.
There are guests at the lodge. And so, naturally, on a Friday evening, there is music and commotion. The family’s sons – both biological and adopted – bring out the drums and songs, and everyone is drawn into the dancing, whether family or guest. Dancing here is not easy to get the hang of. It doesn’t seem like there are any rules, except perhaps to be as energetic as possible. That quickly sends the “clever brain” into crisis mode. How do you belong in this group? What is the right way to dance? Forget it. There’s no point. Exhausted to the bone, I have to step up and simply let the rhythm override all thoughts about right and wrong. And I think this is healthy. This really puts the mind to the test and pushes the comfort zone aside.
I ask my mind to be quiet so I can listen to my body and its response to the drum rhythms. I look forward to mastering this. To the day when the body understands and the mind stops caring. This is exactly why I am here. To give the mind a break and simply let things flow. To be nature. I so look forward to welcoming guests who need exactly that. Freedom from the mind, in order to sense what the body needs and the courage to dare.
This is going to be good. Challenging and exciting.
I’m glad you’re with us.
Gambia, Kartong, Day 1
Kartong, Gambia, Africa. Life moves slowly – without being boring, believe it or not. There’s a different kind of buzzing life. I got up at half past six to take photos of birds, on the advice of the people running the place. They were of course unaware that I didn’t have the right photo equipment to handle the dim light of dawn, that mirrorless cameras are too slow for bird flight, and that my autofocus had decided to take the day off. I think I’ll just accept that I need to take my time and not stress about missing the perfect shot. Time is something we have in abundance. I guess I’m already influenced. Time is something we have in abundance.
The staff woke up eventually. One went for a swim, while another brought us coffee. The staff are really really simply the extended family, each with different tasks around the compound. There are many small, round huts with thatched roofs, a bit hidden away, but I found them all while searching for birds. What a wonderfully calm place, in its own way. Birds singing and the sound of waves isn’t necesarily what I consider silence, but t brings peace to my soul. So when we were settled at our restaurant table—or the reception desk, depending on how you look at it, since that’s where the internet is anyway—Isha, the manager, brought us coffee and asked when we wanted breakfast. Funny, since we had ordered it for ten o’clock, and it was now exactly eight. “Whenever,” we said, so we got breakfast earlier. The boss himself came by and said: “Weren’t you supposed to have breakfast at ten??? And you didn’t tell me anything?” and laughed heartily. “Time is not important here.” Exactly. That’s what we came for. No stress. Plenty to do, when it feels right. The pace is calm—because it has to be. But 26 children provide more than enough hands to help out.
Yes, because the boss has four wives and a whole crowd of children. Many small ones, but also many young adults. Lots of working hands to build the place, but there’s no stress in sight. Everyone is friendly and welcoming. Nuha showed us around the village and took us to the boss’ own home, so we could see how they lived. One of the wives was there, and she dressed up in her finest clothes so we could see and photograph her. Or maybe she was going to wear them anyway—the women here are often stunningly dressed.
So, we got a grand tour. And afterwards he didn’t even really want a tip. What would he need that for? He didn’t need money. Imagine that. I think we need to let go of some of our assumptions. Not everyone is greedy. Or cynical. Why would you be, if you already have enough? Also money doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with it. That’s what we seem to have forgotten. And that’s also why I’m here. If money isn’t the issue — then what do we prioritise?
Day 2
We had planned a boat trip on the border between Gambia and Senegal, but first I got up very early to photograph birds at dawn. It was too dark for my camera, and the camera was too slow. Also it was too dark for my eyes to observe the colours. But what a calm! Alone on the compound, I explored the whole place. The swell from the sea and the birdsong were all I heard. I just had to decide that time will come and I will end up with lots of photos of birds in the end. That’s how you realise that stress can actually be optional.
We were driven to the border, past border guards, into a fishing harbour. Dozens of narrow wooden boats, fishermen and fish traders. So many bright colours. The captain was also our guide, describing to us everything we saw. What people were doing, how the mangroves and the oysters served as food, paint, and material, the women’s work, the fishermen and the ban on fishing with nets in the river, the birds—he was a birdwatching guide too—and then he showed us the end of Gambia. The southern shore and the sandbank that was the very last bit of land before the river, and then Senegal. We saw the harbour on the other side of the river, or the point where people came ashore. It seemed much less stressful than the cruise harbour in Bergen. I wanted to swim across—it’s not that far. But the others didn’t agree.
We ate an enormous seafood lunch at the harbour restaurant. Lobster and tiger prawns and fish on skewers and crab. Delicious, but far too much food.
Kartong, Day 2 (continued)
Later we had to go to Brikama to withdraw some cash and get SIM cards for Hermund and myself. Cards and transfers are tricky here— cash rules. The SIM card we bought from an elderly woman at the giant market lay on a tiny table beside some bottles of drink she was selling, some full and some half empty. She had to call her bosses to figure out how to give us enough gigabytes.
The market itself was a sight. Outdoors, muddy, streets scattered with trash, yet the women sat there in their beautiful dresses, or strolled gracefully with buckets balanced on their heads, looking just as elegant. Traffic blended with pedestrians, all in one flow. I didn’t dare take pictures—I think, no, I know, people would have been annoyed. But it was a sight worth sharing.
Sheriff drove us to a beach bar—or restaurant—the opposite way from Kartong. My fellow travellers were eager to escape fish for dinner, and they succeeded. I managed to escape more food altogether. But on the way we got to see the rainy season’s impact on the roads. They’re not exactly asphalted. When our Mercedes turned into a boat, our hearts were in our throats, hoping we’d make it back to our lodge. Still, ending the day by the beach is lovely. Shoes off. Let the foam tickle your feet before dinner—or before non-dinner, in my case. I had a glass of white wine. If they’d had fruit juice, I’d have preferred that. Here it’s mostly sodas, beer, or cocktails. Wine is usually not recommended, even by the bartenders. But back at the lodge I got hibiscus juice. I enjoyed it —and supposedly it is very healthy. I’ll take their word for it.
I really like it here. Life feels so much simpler than what we’re used to.
Day 3
I started the day finding a suitable dress for the market in Banjul. A proper dress, not exactly beach-friendly, and just as uncomfortable as I feared as Sheriff’s car broke down and we had to skip Banjul altogether. We went to the beach instead. And took a walk through the woods, finding another way back to Tamba Kuruba. I changed into shorts and a T-shirt. And sneakers, because of a sore foot. This felt just as silly later, when the outing turned out to be to Poco Loco—a rock bar on a beach full of people dressed to party. Oh, the colours! The women were stunning! The men too, although many chose to go shirtless, showing off their six-packs.
Driving north we passed through Tanjeh, a village reeking of fish, thick smoke, and diesel. Clearly from the fishing industry. Not a place I’d want to live. Crowds of people crossed between honking cars and shouting voices, “Fuck you!” and other words we still don’t understand. But it was Saturday, apparently explaining some of the chaos.
We also stopped at Kololi Beach to see if our bartender from last time was working. He wasn’t—Saturdays off. But the woman who sold me a dress and shirts at New Year’s was there. She said she remembered us. It might even be true.
So, Poco Loco. Off-season, so not many white people, but plenty of locals and street sellers. Women carrying fruit on their heads. A man insisting we buy bracelets we didn’t like—“you can give them as gifts.” I thought of every child who could have made better ones with ease. A couple of young men drumming right in front of us, ignoring the bar’s own music, expecting payment. A horse carriage driver looking defeated after a day without income. Honestly, it didn’t feel like a place suitable for a retreat. Not much to learn here. Except maybe how to dress.
It had been a lot of driving already, and time for more—back home. That’s when we got the real rainy season experience. Back at the lodge we had a downpour that rivalled anything we’ve ever seen in Bergen. Maybe. We left our laptops in the restaurant house to avoid drowning them, while we ourselves got thoroughly soaked on the way to our hut. The rain was no colder or weaker than the water pressure in our bathroom shower.
Day 4
The next morning the men woke up with Poco Loco’s revenge. Diarrhoea. Not that we know for sure where it came from, but I enjoyed saying it. That meant no Banjul once again. I changed once more from my Banjul dress to beach clothes—which felt much better in the rain anyway. And honestly, I had already felt we were stressing too much. We came here to slow down, to experience another way of life. So I silently thanked bad internet and diarrhoea for the gift of time.
Birdlife is different in the rain. I found inspiration to paint some watercolours. The paper bubbled in the humidity and I’m not sure they’ll ever dry properly. But the point is to take things as they come, for what they are. The owner himself looked at my paintings and said the children would have loved them. They would have learned to love birds.
The same man also said he would rather see us start a retreat here than buy a plot down the road… Not uninteresting. This could be sustainable. We have a lot to think about.
Senegal
Kartong lies right on the border with Senegal, so of course we had to go. We had already seen the little green dugout canoe on the river, and now it was our turn. This time we went through border control—passports stamped, the whole thing. All done manually, but with kindness and humour, possibly helped by the fact we had an official with us.
The weather was worse that day. “There’s no such thing as bad weather,” we say—so shoes off, wade into the boat, and sit among the crowd of people who didn’t want their photos taken. The river is narrow, I can swim, so my only real worry was my camera. And maybe the others, who might not swim. But we made it safely to the other side where a car waited, ready to tackle the lakes that had formed in the road. Rainy season is beautiful. Green, full of palms. The dry sand was now vivid red mud. Luckily, I had soft sandals that slipped off easily. I went barefoot.
Our first stop was Abene. Arve bought a knife and promptly cut himself, needing the next shop for something to wipe off the blood. I stayed outside chatting in French with a dancer who wanted me to photograph that evening’s performance. We weren’t staying, but it struck me: it’s much easier to speak French with a Senegalese than with a Frenchman.
We walked to the ocean, saw the boats, and then on to Kafountine. Suddenly—“the world’s largest tree,” 2000 years old. A shipyard. A fish landing. I even managed to explain, in French, to the tree guide that while artists should support each other, we can’t keep buying things we don’t need. He understood.
Kafountine was something else. Nothing like what we’re used to. People everywhere, from the whole region. Some furious at the sight of a camera, others shouting to be photographed, proud of their work. Young men carrying crates on their heads, wading into the sea to collect fish from boats offshore. Much of it destined for Brikama market. They even produce ice, to keep the fish fresh for transport. We were fascinated.
Later we ate with Lamin’s family, before the skies opened. Crossing the river again, in a dugout canoe, in pouring rain with thunder and lightning, was slightly more nerve-wracking. Especially with toddlers and a motorbike on board. But it’s still a short crossing, and shelter awaited us. Back at border control we got stamped in again. Home, no internet—so no photos uploaded. But there’s not much you can do in the dark without power. Actually, there is very little. Which is quite healthy now and then. I think we went to bed ridiculously early. Which is also good if you want to catch the sunrise.
Bintang Bolong
Sheriff picked us up and we gave Nuha a lift to Brikama. What a chaotic place. We needed cash, but had to try three ATMs before it worked—ducking in and out of traffic jams. Sheriff knows how to drive in this chaos; you need to be seriously bold. On the way we got an amusing glimpse of his relationship with the police. His sister-in-law, I think, is traffic police. She always stops him. This time Arve was the receiver of the scolding—though the Gambians gotthe blame for his failure to wear a seatbelt. Neither were we in the back, but that isn’t required. Either way, every encounter with the police was oddly cheerful.
Sitting next to a local means learning as you go. Along the roadside: big wooden furniture and sofas, clearly for sale. “Can you just stop and buy?” I asked. “Sure,” he said. “Or ask them to build to your specs.” Imagine that—made-to-measure, right on the highway. A darker story: lots of children are hit by speeding drivers. I asked about the penalty. He said if the police arrive late, angry youths might kill the driver. This seems to be an ongoing issue, hopefully rare. But children zigzaging along the main road is common, because that’s where their parents have their stalls.
Before heading back to Brikama for cash, we drove through a “dam” across the road so bad we dubbed it the second Gambia River. How people dared cross in cars is a mystery. A sea of discarded tires explains why a shiny red Mercedes without a single dent shocked me. It won’t last.
All of this just on the way. Eventually we reached Bintang Bolong, in a heat that felt unreal. After checking into our huts, we walked to the jetty where children swam, older ones fished, and elders talked in the shade. The kids swarmed us. A boy asked if we had a football. We didn’t. “They sell them at the shop!” So the whole pack trooped off and we bought a plastic ball. The footballers vanished in a flash; the rest lingered, the boys vying for seats closest to the white men. I got invited to a “wedding” by a woman I chatted with, and had a longer French conversation with a man who owned an orange farm and dreamed of building huts to complement Bintang Bolong when they’re fully booked in season.This was off-season, so we were the only overnight guests. It was great.
As darkness fell, dinner was just right, and we chatted with the girls on duty. Then magic: Arve rushed in—“Drop what you’re doing and come see the sky.” Stars everywhere. The Milky Way as clear as anything. Lightning flickered. Arve read fairy tales to the girls, who listened wide-eyed. More lightning, then the power cut. The heavens grew even brighter. A rustle: “What’s moving back there?” A crocodile slid by our hut, then out into the water. Flashlight-crocodile safari ensued. We went to bed late, hoping the power would return—an overhead fan was high on the wish list. It did, just after we lay down. We slept in a four poster bed under a mosquito net—small comfort after already being thoroughly munched.
We rose for sunrise, had breakfast at the restaurant, then went to see the fishermen. They’d caught a small crocodile! Tied up and everything. After a little strut, the man asked if “boss-lady” wanted to buy it for dinner. Boss-lady is me. I said Arve is our household chef, so attention shifted. Arve did not want crocodile. After some bargaining, he bought it on the condition they release it back into the river. So now Arve owns a crocodile in the Bintang River (the biggest bolong in Gambia).
Monday by the sea
I went alone to the beach because the guys needed to rest—or something—and I was tired of being under a roof. Alone didn’t last. I’d barely stepped out the gate when a flock of little girls joined me. Minutes later I was on a beach chair with a broken life vest as a pillow and small fingers braiding my fine, flyaway blond hair. We had a sweet time before they left, then a young man walked by carrying a post over his shoulder. We chatted. “What are you up to?” I asked. “Building a beach bar for you good people,” he said. And that’s truly how things are made—out of whatever washes ashore. It puts our version of “we can’t afford it” into perspective. We can’t always buy top-shelf things whenever we fancy—but they can still build without money. Think about it: Sometimes money makes us poorer than a lack of money does.
The conversation reminded me we’d promised to stop by the neighbouring beach bar. So after Hermund got a haircut and Arve a shave—and we’d done what little digital admin was possible between outages—we headed over. Just in time for the rain. And lightning. And thunder. And much more rain. Another adventure. We cleaned them out of Gambian beer. Not because we drank much, but because they had little. I had a good talk with the server about people who risk the sea crossing to Spain in search of a future they can’t find here—and drown on the way. Youth unemployment is sky-high. Many can’t picture a future in Gambia. It’s heartbreaking, because there’s so much potential that isn’t being tapped.
Power came and went; water rose on the bar floor. A brief lull let us hurry back to Tamba Kuruba, where everything was dark. We couldn’t even see who was around. No power, no internet—yet the magician Isha still produced dinner. We made makeshift lanterns by putting phones under bottles until someone braved the storm for candles. Lightning and thunder raged. After dinner, Nuha asked if my foot still hurt from when I twisted it earlier. It did—and it was still swollen and blue. It was hard to tell what was what: bites, sun, swelling. He started massaging with tiger balm. Oh my. It hurt. I remembered Sheriff’s claim that women who’ve birthed twins have special powers and can step feet back to health. I told Nuha. He acknowledged the saying, but didn’t seem convinced. He’d learned to massage hard to get the “dead blood” moving. My foot looked deformed after, but I think it helped. We’ll see.
Morning without power
Next morning: still no electricity. Time to think about the tougher parts of living in the Gambia. No power is no joke. I thought of the elderly man with the beach bar south of here—the one who raked his stone floor neatly and shaped a heart at the entrance, proudly showing me his kitchen: a tiny room with a gas ring on the floor. He showed us his old home that had burned down; he has to earn money to rebuild it, but hand-to-mouth means everything takes time. Insurance is out of reach. So much is scarce here, and I ache to help in small ways that make life simpler—without barging in, without pretending I know best. I want to show, in practice, that we’re one big family, sharing what we can. The most striking thing is that just by being here and buying from them, we help. And if we help them make it easier for us to be here, we help them too. Retreating to rural Gambia to find calm and balance isn’t just a private luxury; it’s a true win-win. I’ve never seen people so happy about tourism—so proud to show off their country—so glad that someone helps put rice on the table. You see it in the children, raised to cheer when they see us. They deserve something back that doesn’t recreate our problems. These are myy thoughts on an early morning, grey light only, with an outrageous chorus of birds announcing a new day.
Bored of heavy rain and no power, we decided a drive might lift our spirits. One of the sons drove us (Arve wanted to, but ah well) as far south as we could go, through astonishing amounts of water on the roads, to a Chinese fish factory. Not like home. People likely work there under poor conditions for a pittance—but perhaps better than nothing.
After that, Gunjur. Like the fish landing in Senegal, only smaller. The sea was much bigger today. I watched waves crash over the fish carriers and asked whether people drown here. Yes, they do. On long, shallow beaches with constant surf, few Gambians learn to swim. It doesn’t help when they later risk overloaded boats in search of a future. We’ve met many who lost a friend, child, or sibling last year.
We went to a restaurant of our driver’s choice—run by his friend and his mother. Not bad at all. They had only one cold Coke, but who needs Coke? The food was good and nicely presented. Tablecloths matched the chair covers. And—magazines on every table! Not just any: a Norwegian collector/antiques magazine. “Pretty pictures of pretty things,” the lady smiled. She’d bought them off a container. It doesn’t take much to make a difference!
Back “home,” power soon returned and I could continue my digital bits and pieces.
We took a walk on the beach before dark, found a stranded turtle and odd fish washed ashore. We stopped by a beach bar not yet opened or repaired for the season and got a full demo of how to build a bar out of what the sea has to offer. It has to be rebuilt every season because the rains wreck it. That’s fine—“that’s just how it is here!” The owner was proud as a peacock.
Second-to-last day in Kartong
Time to explore our own village. Hot and dry, plans made—wait! Three small children came to greet the toubab, and suddenly I had three little ones glued to me, curious about what I was doing on my laptop. Forget blogging. I had to show them all the photos I’d taken. The littlest chattered away in Mandinka; the oldest tried out her English: “Snake.” They shouted all the names of sisters and brothers I’d photographed while they were working nearby, including themselves. Great excitement. Until they spotted my “fabulous” watercolours. Okay. I know what happens next. My heart melts, and my grown-up (professional) watercolours are sacrificed to three sweethearts dipping my brushes into a vodka bottle filled with water. Paint and paper from Panduro became the most beautiful art under eager little fingers. Eventually the toubab men started nagging that we had to go. We did, and the children followed us all the way home to their place—waving, smiling, proudly showing their paintings to everyone we passed.
We bought green oranges at the market and peeked into tiny shops just to see what imported oddities they carried. You don’t really “go shopping” here—only for necessities. Eventually I did find 100% juice. In a couple of months, it’ll probably be sold on the beach. We turned left to check something Google listed that we suspected was gone—correct. Instead, we ran into the man who cut Hermund’s hair and shaved Arve at Tamba Kuruba, and then two young girls selling popcorn. Why not? We bought a bag each. Suddenly we were swarmed by children shouting “Toubab!” and after a bit I realised they wanted some. We handed out single kernels to delighted kids until an adult asked them to give us space. We moved on. People called out hellos in all sorts of languages. “Ça va?” “Hello!” “How are you?” “Soumolé?” I tried “habaraka bake” and they laughed—I’d clearly picked the wrong language. A few older women invited us to join next time they went to the rice fields. I answered “ha!” and they were thrilled. Yes, we had a translator of sorts—guides pop up everywhere and want to help. This one lived with the father and sister of a friend who drowned last year, and they invited us in. The old man had to go pray at the mosque before chatting. When we left, they were sad we wouldn’t stay to eat. But after hearing a raw story of poverty, the need to pay for what we eat felt pressing. We ended up at a village restaurant. They’d flipped the menu due to lack of ingredients—no Thursday specials today. Benachin was on offer. The Asheim brothers drank some odd sweet juice drinks; I got a litre and a half of water. It’s all or nothing here. We bumped into the man we’d met by the school earlier; he tagged along. His job was to fetch firewood by bus twice a day and sell it in the village. He’d given up fishing after his brother drowned. These stories never came with a plea for anything—just life told straight. The food was decent, and when we asked for the bill we got a torn scrap with “600” scribbled on it. About 80 NOK for two portions (Arve and I shared), the drinks, and three coffees. That sounds affordable to me! 😀
So our days swing between heartbreaking and wonderful, beautiful and sad—but kindness and curiosity meet us everywhere. It truly feels like people are glad we’re here. They benefit from us being here. When we buy something that feels absurdly cheap to us, it might cover dinner for them. Many live hand-to-mouth, so every little bit really does help.
I really believe in this kind of eco-tourism. Coming here and buying directly from people gives us perspective and gives them income.
Back in Bergen
After three weeks in the Gambia, our bed feels especially soft, our ceiling gloriously free of water stains, the air fresh—but cold—the shower hot (!), and our flat extravagantly luxurious. Best of all is feeling that we can handle both worlds. And gratitude—some say it’s the single most important prerequisite for happiness. What can we say then, except that we are unbelievably, unbelievably lucky. Lucky to start out with so much, to be allowed to experience how others live, to feel how everything has its upsides and downsides, to see that human beings share the same needs for belonging, love, safety, and meaning—and that there are many routes to that end. I feel deeply grateful, and deeply happy.
Thank you, Gambia. We’ll be back soon!
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