Nå har vi vært i Gambia i godt og vel en uke, og tiden er vel inne til å oppsummere litt. Det er ikke fritt for at det kan gå litt i surr når det går lenger tid. Det er mange detaljer som oppleves stort i en startfase på et nytt sted. «Så du den fuglen? Heiane, den var helt rød!» eller «de veikantene er jo livsfarlige». Eller det at det går kyr og geiter i veien, eller i hagen, for den del. Alt som blir vanlig etter hvert, er fremdeles kjempestort. At himmelen er så stjerneklar når der ikke er noen lysforurensing. Lyden av sirisser og bølgeskvulp. At strømmen er borte i mange timer og vi ikke har tilgang til Internett. Sånt er trolig sånt som vi blir vant til. Men nå driver vi og legger merke til det.
Vi landet i Gambia lett forsinket, i tretiden, natt til 2. januar 2026. Der ble vi møtt av en forholdsvis opplagt ung mann, sønn av eier av eco lodgen vi skulle til. På kjøreturen ble han oppringt av sin far, som ikke bare ville vite om vi var landet, men som faktisk møtte oss da vi kom frem i firetiden på morgenen. Vi ante ikke hva som ventet oss. Skulle vi bo i en hytte, som sist, eller skulle vi faktisk bo i huset vårt? Jeg våget ikke å håpe på det siste, men det var sånn det var. Huset var ferdig oppført, og vårt soverom og bad var ferdig, flott seng oppreid på en smakfull måte. Blomster i «vaser» (ølflasker kledd i aluminiumsfolie) og velkomsthilsen. På terrassen sto der stoler. Jeg skjønner at Lamin ville møte oss og se reaksjonen. De har sannelig stått på! Her kan jeg leve, kjenner jeg.
Rundt oss jobbes det hele tiden. Det vannes og bygges og plantes og gudene vet hva. Vi ser hvordan kunnskap går i arv og deles. Vårt hus er dyrere enn de andre. Vi har noen fordeler de andre ikke har. Murstein er billig, så det er ikke vanskelig å få laget et hus. Men når det skal ha varmt vann, innekjøkken, treseng med hodegavl, da er det plutselig en annen pris. Vi vet hvem som har bygget huset vårt, vi ser fremdeles når de skal inn og fortsette eller fikse. Det er ikke alt som blir beint, eller varig. Vi må bare akseptere det. Vi kunne selvsagt irritert oss, hvis vi ønsket oss selv så ille, men det er best å la det være. Det er nyttig. Når vi ser hvordan de lærer av feilene de gjør, og kanskje får tid til å rette dem opp, så er det lett å tilgi. Når vi skjønner hvordan mulighetene deres er for å oppnå våre standarder, kan vi ikke annet enn å bli imponert over hvordan de får det til. Musikk til arbeidet. Underlige utfordringer. Ingen papirer å følge. «Tegningene» over huset vi bor i ble jeg presentert for ved fotbevegelser. Her er deres rom, her kommer gjesterom. Når jeg tenker meg om, er jeg usikker på om det stemte med resultatet. Men hvem bryr seg. Det blir utrolig bra. Det ER utrolig bra .
Da vi kom, manglet mye. Det meste. Mye kommer i konteineren, som er ventet å komme 12. februar. En evighet. Vi kan ikke kjøpe sånn som kommer i konteineren. Dermed har vi behov som er teit å dekke ved å handle. Jeg trenger bosspann! Så når vi går en tur på stranden, er bosspann ganske langt fremme i prefrontal korteks eller noe sånt. Øynene skanner stranden. Menn som har sine jobber på stranden kommer for å hilse på oss blekhuder. En av dem selger juice. På The Strip lenger nord er der tusen slike, som alle overbyr hverandre for å få solgt sin juice til deg. Her har vi bare sett denne ene, så vi slår til. Han hadde sikkert åtte appelsiner, en bøtte, et par bord, et par stoler og tak over hodet. Utrolig sjarmerende. Jeg fikk fotografere, Arve fikk spørre og grave, jeg så at der lå rester av palmebladene som var brukt til tak og spurt om jeg kunne ta. (Er du kunstner, spurte han, og akkurat her og nå er jeg vel ikke noe annet, så jeg sa ja). Det endte med at han hugget ned ferske palmeblader til meg og jeg tok det med hjem og laget masse greier av det. Ikke bare jeg, forresten, for når folk ser at jeg gjør noe, vil de hjelpe. Selv om noe var som han som skulle lage fuglehus til moren, for at det er en nyttig ting kan ingen komme fra, så ble der en viss fremgang. Vi laget matte i stedet for bosspann, men noen andre laget spannet. Så ble det såpeskåler og place mats, og noen barn hjalp meg å lage noe underlig kunstgreier vi hengte i taket ute. Palmeblader er utrolig fleksibelt. Det blir nok mer. Når vi får gjester, skal de sannelig få lov til å være med å leke. Mulighetene er uendelige. Er ikke det retreat, så vet ikke jeg!
Vi har opplevd konsert og leirbål med musikk og festival. Kultur er viktig. Det er et åpenbart internasjonalt lim. Da vi kom, spilte de opp til dans på eco lodgen vår. Det mest påfallende var en seks år gammel østerriksk jente som tok av på dansegulvet, og hvordan hun ble tatt imot, Mandinkadans er ikke lett å kopiere, men de er ikke så nøye på det her. Hun ble til de grader oppmuntret, og at hun drar herfra med et minne om å ha blitt sett er umulig å tvile på. Rundt leirbålet en annen dag fikk hun spille trommer til messingen av hennes eget navn. Kraften i kultur er udiskutabel. At vi ikke som samfunn forstår hva det har av innvirkning på fellesskap og samklang, er over min fatteevne. Jeg kjenner på at jeg må synge mer åpenlyst, for det er faktisk helt vanlig her, og jeg vet jo godt hvor viktig det er å synge.
Vi merker jo at vi er gjenkjennbare. Vi har vært her før en gang. Da vi spaserte inn i Kartong en kveld, var det flere som ropte på oss. Hun som hadde solgt Arve en lampe lurte på om den virket, siden han ikke hadde vært tilbake og fortalt om det. Han vi traff i september var superglad for å se oss og husket godt hva vi heter. Han ble med oss på bar. Jeg følte det etter hvert litt ubehagelig at vi ikke bød ham på noe, så han gikk nesten motvillig med på å ta imot en flaske vann. Han ville gjerne få tilby oss noe bedre en annen gang. Dette føles så rart. De har så uendelig mye mindre enn oss, og så vil de ikke ta imot noe, men de vil gi mer til oss. For de vil prate og finne en vei til Europa. For i Europa, der har de penger. Og penger er roten til alt godt… Og derfor tar unge menn sjansen på å reise i overlastede båter til Gran Canaria, for å søke lykken, å få en inntekt, så de kan lage et stort, fint hus i Gambia, som de aldri får tid til å oppleve. Mange drukner på overfarten. Flere kommer seg til Europa og får seg en dårlig betalt jobb, og sliter med dårlig samvittighet for ikke å kunne gi til alle hjemme som spør. Det er tydeligvis et misforhold mellom penger og det en del gambiere tror penger er. De tror det er noe som vokser som gress i Europa. Noe vi har uendelig mye av. De tror vi bare kan gi penger, for vår kilde er utømmelig. Barna vil til Europa for å spille fotball profesjonelt, de unge vil dit for å tjene penger. Penger er stress uansett hvor du bor. Det er det jeg vil vekk fra. Pengestresset.
Det er klart at jeg ikke unnslipper penger, men det gir meg et annet perspektiv. De ser helt annerledes på det, og jeg, som overpriviligert nordmann, skjønner jo at penger ikke varer inn i himmelen. Jeg kan spare, jeg vet hvordan man ikke skal ødsle. Jeg gjør det ikke selv om jeg kommer hit. Om de vil jeg skal kjøpe en trefigur fordi de trenger penger, klarer jeg fortsatt ikke fylle huset med ting jeg ikke trenger. Men jeg har en del å gi her hvor jeg bor. Det føles veldig verdifullt. Maling, utnytting av ressurser som skjell og palmer og kreativitet, oppmerksomhet, takknemlighet, glede, det er jeg mer enn villig til å dele. Og verdien av det virker mye større.
Jeg tror vi har havnet på rett sted. På vår eco lodge oppsøker barna oss uten å be om noe. Når de får male eller spille kort, bidra med å lage hull i skjell eller kutte opp palmeblader, er de mer enn fornøyde. De har en beskjeden oppmerksomhet og nysgjerrighet som bidrar til noen magiske øyeblikk. Jeg gleder meg sånn til konteineren kommer, med maling og lerret og godt papir, med garn og gudene vet hva. Og fotballer. Og klær. (og glass! Hver gang jeg kommer har de ett vinglass som knuser etter kort tid) nei, jeg gleder meg til å få bidra positivt.
Vi har vært på noen markeder og opplevd forskjellen på å være turist og å trenge noe konkret til heimen. Det er to forskjellige ting. Vi skal jo ikke ha nips eller noe vi kan lage selv. Vi skal heller ikke bare «kikke» I Brikama, det enorme markedet med enormt masse folk, biler, ting og mat, opplevde vi å bli kjeftet på når vi drasset på kamera. Men når vi bare skulle handle såpe, kniv og vaskeklut, var det ikke ubehagelig i det hele tatt. Ingen maste på at vi måtte sjekke deres bord, bås eller butikk. Det er verd å oppleve, for det er så annerledes. Et folkehav av utrolig vakre mennesker iført de vakreste gevanter – noen har egentlig bare stoffstykker i glade farger. Noen har også ekstremt flotte formsydde kjoler, om de så selger fluebefengt fisk. Siden landet er hovedsakelig muslimsk, går de fleste damer i side kjoler. Da ser det jo automatisk ut som fest. Når barna ser oss, lyser de opp og roper Toubab og vil ta oss i hånden. Det gjelder faktisk ikke bare barn. Vi føler oss som regel veldig velkommen.
Craft markeds er en annen greie. Det er mer turistmarkeder hvor de selger masker og figurer, klær og stoff, og kurver av ulike slag. Lokalt håndverk. Der er det færre handlende, og kamp om kundene. Alle vil at du skal se på boden deres, om ikke for å handle denne gangen men kanskje neste. Men hvor mange trefigurer trenger man, liksom? Vi har fremdeles noen hjemme i Bergen etter Arve sine besøk her for 30 år siden. Maset gjør at vi går før vi har sett alle bodene. Ikke særlig smart markedsføring, akkurat. Det er litt som en fysisk versjon av det vi opplever på sosiale medier for tiden. Stress. Men jeg ville altså ha noe. Maling, en kurv til inspirasjon, en duk til hagebordet. Det som barna skal sitte å male ved, men som ikke ser ut i måneskinn. En duk vil gjøre bordet vakkert når ingen skaper noe der.
Og så var det fiskemarkedet. Vi var der i går. Det er skikkelig sjarmerende, stinker fisk og avslører en relativt farlig fiskeindustri, hvor store trebåter avleverer fisk til unge menn med kasse på hodet. Jeg har blitt fortalt at drukning er et problem. Vi går litt rundt og kikker, en mann ønsker oss velkommen med de vanlige spørsmålene om hvor vi er fra, om det er første gangen her, og tips til hva vi kan se på. Jeg kjenner jeg blir irritert, men målet er jo å finne strategier for ikke å bli irritert, men heller ikke la dem tro at det er smart å være så innpåslitne. Jeg forteller at vi skal være her lenge og er dritgode på å finne på ting selv, og liker overraskelsene det medfører. Når noen unge gutter sier «Give me money» forteller jeg dem at det er uhøflig og at man ikke kan spørre sånn. Håper de lærer. Det kan jo godt være at det er engelsken deres som er begrenset til kommandospråk. Vi kan jo ikke akkurat bare dele ut penger til alle som spør. Da får vi jo ikke råd til å være her.
Vi har vært på the Strip i Senegambia. Turistområdet. Det er greit å se, og av og til er det hyggelig med den slags liv og røre, men der er det sånn tigging og masing som bare er stressende. Jeg håper ikke turistene som kommer dit tror det er sånn det er. For i all hovedsak virker gambiere veldig rause og imøtekommende og positive. De kan være så hjelpsomme at vi vestlige blir mistenksomme. Noen ganger avkrever de penger etterpå, så det kan være greit å være forberedt. Jeg har for eksempel aldri hatt penger ved ankomst, så hvis jeg har gått på do, har jeg ikke hatt penger til hun som står for renhold og dopapir. Det føles ikke godt. Det er jobben hennes, så da synes jeg det er rimelig at hun får en slant. De som bærer tunge kofferter for deg likeså. Andre som bare «tar seg en jobb», som for eksempel å spille dårlig musikk for deg mens du lytter til noe annet, synes ikke jeg det er rett å betale for. Men de setter altså argumentasjonen i perspektiv. I Norge er det mange som sier at folk bare skal ta seg en jobb, men jeg skulle sett det skje der. Det går jo ikke an. Ingen hadde betalt for tjenester de ikke har bedt om.
Men nå er vi altså ikke turister. Vi er hjemme. Vi har et hus med hage, en mann som raker løv utenfor og tømmer den fulle bosskurven (som ble laget av disse palmebladene), noen unge menn som gjør istand et nytt hus ved siden av oss, støper seng i betong og legger fliser rundt, for det er billigst. En slektning som er ekspert på sitrusfrukt kom hit i går og bisto i planting av appelsintrær rett bortenfor huset vårt. Vi har selv både papaya- og banantre i hagen, i tillegg til de bladrike tambatrærne som gir plassen sitt navn. Tamba Kuruba betyr ansamling av tambatrær. Jeg tenker å dyrke tomater og agurk og sånt, så vi kan høste vårt eget. Vi har to minutter til stranden, noe som gjør det forholdsvis kjølig her. Det betyr egentlig bare levelig. Vi trenger ikke bade hele tiden. Det er faktisk så mye bølger at jeg tror jeg må skaffe meg kontaktlinser, for det kan fort gå med noen brillepar. Livet er rolig, vi får tid til å tenke over hva vi trenger, vi får tid til å lage det selv, vi får tid til å tenke og kjenne på behov. Det er det jeg trenger mest. Men altså, mye å ta seg til, mye å glede seg over, og jeg har så lyst til å ta imot gjester snart! Dette må bare deles. Vårt retreat er egentlig bare en annen måte å leve på. Å komme bort fra det vante og se at ingenting trenger å være sånn som er opplest og vedtatt. Våre behov er egentlig noe helt annet enn opptjente pensjonspoeng. Det er ro i sjelen, tid, natur, mulighet til å skape, mestre, prøve og feile. Feiling er nemlig nyttig. Nei, jeg kan fortsette å pludre i det uendelige, men jeg må faktisk ut og få meg en god frokost, bestående av egg, frukt og peanøttsmør. Alt helt kortreist.
Være frivillig, kanskje? Mot kost og losji kan du jobbe som frivillig i managementet i tre måneder!
Vi ønsker også å bidra så mye vi kan når vi først drar til Gambia. Vi kommer til å sende en konteiner, eller flere, med praktiske ting som de trenger der nede, så hvis du ønsker å bidra med noe av det du selv ikke trenger lenger, så er det mange som blir takknemlige for det!
Hva de trenger:
Barneklær. Gjerne fotball-T-skjorter og andre brukte sommerklær.
Bruktklær generelt – til sommervarme
Barnebøker på engelsk
Kjøkkenutstyr Tenk kokekar som tåler åpen ild, glass, kopper, tallerkener, øser – alt. Fryseskap, frysebokser, kjøl med frys
Maleutstyr og annet kreativt. Staffeli, barnemaling, papir, hva som helst
Flatskjerm-TV
Strykejern, elektriske vannkjeler
Matgreier
Møbler, madrasser og dører Spesielt lenestoler og behagelige møbler, fikk jeg inntrykk av. Møbler som tåler litt vær.
Hvis du ser andre måter du ønsker å være til hjelp, må du gjerne si fra, så lufter vi det og ser hvordan vi kan bidra.
Det er ikke vanskelig å være til hjelp i Gambia. Det er et fattig land som trenger det meste. Vi hadde ikke snakket lenge sammen før spørsmål dukket opp, som “kan du svømme?” Jeg som elsker svømme ble da spurt om jeg kunne undervise i det. Det hindrer folk å drukne. Klart jeg kan undervise i både svømming og flyting. Ved synet av mine akvareller utbrøt far i huset at dette ville barna elsket å være med på. Jeg har allerede satt i gang. Jeg spurte Isha hva de trengte på kjøkkenet, og etter en kjapp omvisning tenkte jeg at her kan jeg jo bare stikke innom et loppemarked det siste kvarteret og forsyne meg av restene, for her trengs det meste.
Utenfor hyttene våre var der én stol. For å kunne nyte terrassen ville det være ganske formålstjenlig å ha to, så begge gjestene kunne ha noe å sitte på. Jeg skjønner jo etterhvert at de rett og slett har for dårlig tilgang og råd til nok stoler, og gleder meg som en hund til å kunne bidra med mer. Så etter hvert som folk kommer på besøk og på retreat vil jeg lufte andre ting som dukker opp. Hvis alle monner drar, kan de fleste av oss finne noe vi ikke lenger trenger som kan gjøre stor lykke i et fattig land.
Back to Basics er et overskuddsfenomen. Vi skal ikke bidra med dårlig samvittighet. Vi ønsker å gi folk muligheten til å gi, men andre prioriteringer er like legitime, så alt vi sier er: Hvis du ønsker å bidra, vil vi bidra med vårt for å få det helt frem!
Dessuten er det aller viktigste bidraget du kan gi din positive energi. Gled deg med oss, og vi er alle gladere 🙂
I would like to know what changes you want to see in the world, and what you would do to make them happen.
I don’t know about you, but my dream is that all humans come together in the belief that we share the same basic needs: connection, love, a way to express ourselves, safety, and meaning. We thrive when we can trust our fellow human beings and follow our dreams and ambitions. If everybody had these needs met, no one would feel the need to harm others.
In my view, this has little to do with money. I felt the locals’ curiosity and positivity, and it made me feel safe. I already feel safe—that is my nature. I feel free and happy because I trust. More than anything, I trust that I am enough. Even if my trust is abused, I will still be safe. I dearly wish all humans shared this trust, because it is such a safe place to be. I am not afraid. This is who I want to be in the world. This is what I want to share. When you feel safe, you deeply want everyone else to feel safe—because safety begets safety.
I want to create a safe space for people to meet and express themselves, to just be, to learn, to understand their own limits and abilities. That’s all. That’s what I want my retreat to be. You might want it to be something else. But as long as you agree to the terms, that we all have the right to be ourselves and to figure things out, you are more than welcome to share your dreams with us.
The world needs change. It always has. Change is good. Not always, but there’s always room for improvement. Nowadays we see a world full of symptoms of disease. Overwhelm, burnout, pshysical as well as mental illness – it all points in one direction. We don’t listen. If we listen more to what our bodies are telling us, and we try to make better what is going wrong, we will be the change that we want to see in the world. Don’t blame others. Nothing positive comes out of blame. Make the change for yourself, and you will be happier, others might follow and become happier, but you are your responsibility, so as long as you are happy, that’s enough. Live by example, and others might follow. But they are not your responsibility.
I think this is how the world is going to change for the better. Do what you think is right, and make the world a better place, first for you, and then hopefully it will spiral.
Staying in a very poor country you will leave a little money behind for them to improve their lives slightly. You create hope. Showing them that you like it there, makes them proud. Trying to learn from them empowers them. Sharing your knowledge or worldly goods improves their lives. So little is needed for you to be a changemaker.
This is what I have experienced. We don’t need to go out of our way to help people. What we need to do is just be kind and grateful, and we help both ourselves and the common good. This is what I believe in.
What are your thoughts? What change do you want to be in the world?
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?
In the villageKids in schoolTo the beach
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 dag 2
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.
