Waaw, Am Naa Jekker

“So, five people are ok? You are sure we are not going to get stopped?” Olivia spoke in slow and enunciated English to make sure our Gambian taxi driver understood.

The four of us laughed from the backseat, as we squished together to fully close the rickety door. We had spent our afternoon exploring Gambia’s capital, Banjul. After walking around the markets and sitting by the ocean, we wanted to head back to the area around our hotel for the evening. However, it had been difficult to find a taxi. Drivers in Senegal and The Gambia often refused to take five passengers, as they feared being stopped and fined at a police checkpoint.

“This number- juroom- is good?” Olivia asked one more time for verification, her face laced with worry.

“Olivia, trust me, nothing is going to happen!” I reassured her as I tried to scoot over as far as possible.

“Yes, yes. It’s good! No problem! Welcome to Gambia. The Smiling Coast, yeah?” Our taxi driver nonchalantly brushed off Olivia’s worries, switching gears as he picked up speed.

“Well, we passed the prison on the way here so we already know where we could be staying tonight,” Kristen joked.

“Ha. ha guys. But actually, my only form of identification right now is my school i.d. and I don’t know if that would satisfy a Gambian policeman.”

Some of our group had lived through a nerve-wracking experience back in Dakar, when a late-night taxi check for photo identification resulted in threats of arrest and requests for monetary bribes. Still jaded by the experience, Olivia was not quite ready to relive it.

Less than three minutes on the road and the taxi slowed to a stop as we joined a line of cars waiting to be inspected by a police officer. A group of officers in tall, black boots and cargo pants stood to the side, their guns glinting under the bright Gambian sun.

“Kristen, bend down!” I commanded as the girl furthest from the checkpoint window attempted to hunch over in the cramped back seat. The girl next to her tried to cover her with our bags, but due to our nervous giggles and the obviousness of her existence, we decided against the plan.

We drove slowly by the checkpoint without ever fully stopping. Instead, our driver just waved his hand out the window and called out a friendly greeting to one of the guards.

As we drove away a relieved Olivia asked the driver, “Sama xarit? Your friend?”

“Yes, yes. He’s my friend! No problem, no problem.” The driver laughed, impressed at her use of Wolof.

We relaxed a little in our seats, our sweaty bodies sticking to each other as we continued on our way. But, our relief was premature because less than a mile down the road we came to yet another checkpoint.

A similar grouping of guards stood roadside, stopping each car to speak to the driver and look in the windows. The chances of our taxi driver having a friend in both sets of officers seemed slim, and we grew anxious as we neared our turn for inspection.

One guard looked in at the backseat and motioned widely with his hand while astutely noting, “All tuobabs?” He motioned to the side of the road and our taxi driver, a large grin still plastered on his face, pulled over.

“I never should have sent that tweet about Gambia’s dictatorship!” Olivia squeaked, certain her night involved a stay on a stiff prison mattress. The article I read that morning entitled “Gambia- The North Korea of West Africa” came back to me, as Kristen informed us she had no form of I.D. on her.

One of the officers came up to Olivia’s passenger window first and sternly motioned for her to roll it down.

“Hello, would you like to see I.D.?” she asked nervously, starting to dig around in her backpack for her wallet.

The police man’s face looked confused at first as to why she would even be offering to show him proof of identification. Then, he slowly smiled and in a thick accent said, “Oh, no, no. We do not need that.”

He leaned away from the window and called over to his friends who were starting to surround the car. Crouching down again he questioned, “So, what is your name?”

“Olivia. Olivia Hoffman.” She replied carefully, still unsure and on edge as to what was wanted from us. I looked to my left and saw an officer approach. Flustered I cranked open the window, the man’s hand immediately coming through for friendly handshake to all four backseat passengers.

“Nangadeff?” Kristen asked confidently.

The officer began to laugh and as he and Kristen went through the typical Wolof greetings, I tuned back in to Olivia’s conversation.

“We are staying at a guest house. Oasis Relax Lodge, it is in Bijilo. And we are here for seven days but we are leaving tomorrow. We have visas!” She assured him, quickly trying to convey all necessary information.

“Nice, nice. And how you liking The Gambia?” he asked casually, seemingly uninterested in our sharing of what we deemed to be desired information.

“It is very nice,” she responded warily. “Gambia neex na!”

“Wow! That’s good, that’s good- you speak Wolof,” he replied, impressed.

The officer to my left started asking me questions in Wolof. The first half of the sentence tumbled by but I heard the oft-used word jekker (husband).

Taking a risk on my comprehension I said, “Waaw, waaw. Am naa jekker ci America. Yes, I have a husband in America,” with a slight smile on my face.

The officers crowding around the door laughed in amusement but not total disbelief.

“And her? She has a husband?” he said pointing to Hannah next to me.

“Yes, we all have husbands. We are four beautiful, American girls so we all have husbands,” I assured him.

Switching back to Wolof he asked me, “But do you want a Gambian husband? A Gambian husband who is a policeman?”

Completely surprised at the turn this checkpoint adventure had taken, I repeatedly assured him that no, I did not need a Gambian husband as I already had my husband back in the US. Our taxi driver just laughed from the front seat, entertained by the flurry of marriage proposals being shouted into his car.

Olivia was attempting to slowly roll up her window as the officer by her side continued to press her for details as to where we were staying.

“But if you do not give me directions, how can I come see you tonight?” he questioned desperately.

“I can’t explain where the guest house is,” she responded, trying to stifle a laugh. “It is very hard to find. And I do not have a cell phone that works in The Gambia so I can’t take your number.”

“Do you have friends in The Gambia? I want to be your friend!” he informed her.

“I do not need friends from Gambia,” Olivia stated clearly. “I already have friends with me.” She motioned behind her to the full backseat.

“So, you don’t want a Gambian husband?” my own questioner asked in disbelief.

“Jerrejeff, wante deedeet. Thank you but no.”

Kristen chimed in from two seats over, “Am naa jekker bu doole bu suxor! I have a strong and mean husband!”

The two guards nearest us clapped in appreciation, and the more persistent of the two began to flex his muscles, informing us that he too was “bu doole.”

“Okay, thank you very much. It was very nice to meet you,” Olivia said kindly as our taxi driver was finally starting the car again. She finished rolling up her window amid the persistent questions and well-wishes of her admirer. The guards finally moved away, allowing us to careen back onto the road.

Free from the line of romantic questioning we broke out into relieved laughter. We also imagined how shocking it would be if something similar happenned in the US. These on-duty guards, put in place to protect citizens, had certainly broken protocol by professing their love. Furthermore, the quickest way to dissuade their advances was by assuring them we had 'strong and mean' husbands who could defend us. While it may have only been in jest, it was still another adventure that involved men attempting to woo us despite our requests for peace. Although they thought of us as a few, innocent American girls waiting to go back to their husbands, little did they know just who they were dealing with. On our own we had spent the day navigating the stalls at a busy market, then bargained the taxi down from 700 dalasi to 450 dalasi, and finally managed to rebuff their proposals in a third language. Despite their imposing guns and military uniforms, I think the slightly sunburnt, sundress-clad tuobabs are even more of a force to be reckoned with.