Roots Tour

Outside the museum of slavery

Approaching James Island by boat. This island is about 20% of its original size, as it is sinking in the river.

"Cute Kids; Several Tourists: Welcome. To Roots. Nursery. School. We are Seeking. For Donations. To Complete our Store. And. To Complete Our Toilet. Thank you. Very Much."

On Monday I had Layla and Anisa play hooky from school for what should have been the ultimate educational experience: the Roots tour. We’ve generally avoided the tourist scene in the Gambia, but the big exception we’ve been planning is “Roots” – comprised of traveling from the Atlantic Ocean port of Banjul up the Gambia River by boat to the village of Juffure, traced by Alex Haley as Kunta Kinte’s home, and then to James Island, the last spot in Africa that newly captured slaves would be brutally held before being shipped to America.

Getting There:

Getting there was its own minor journey. After considerable car trouble, we left the Pathfinder at the side of a major road and got in to the next taxi which dropped us at the port gates. The girls and I panted through the shipyards to a large boat that was just ready to leave the dock as we waved it down (itself an experience!). From there we had a lovely ride about two hours up river: enough time to catch our breath, relax, read, and enjoy the scenery around the immense, fabled river. While Layla was reading a surreal high-tech thriller, I had Roots (Layla finished it last week), and Anisa thumbed through The Rough Guide to the Gambia.

As she read, Anisa would periodically let out a small gasp, then a comment like “that is so mean.” The Rough Guide described the Roots experience as “rather overrated” and warned we might be “frustrated.” Based on her experiences of most other things in the country, Anisa thought this sounded too harsh. But the moment we hit land at the village, we saw what the Rough Guide was describing.

Tourist Trap:

As we descended the boat, local “bumsters” (guys mostly in their 20’s who are in the business of befriending tourists) began asking us our names and country of origin, with the transparent goal of securing a “gift” from the tourists (or, ultimately, starting a relationship that might lead to a ticket to Europe or the US). Heading down the dock to the monument for the slaves, the crowd got bigger. Children were grabbing our hands, mothers with small children thrust them upon us to have us take the child’s picture for a fee, and others were hawking school supplies and lollipops so that the tourists he could give them to the schoolchildren (and most likely, re-sell them over and over). It gets so bad that tour operators have someone to “shoo” away these people, but they are ignored.

Then we walked in the village toward the National Museum of Slavery, which the guide told us “you have ten minutes and five seconds to look inside.” On the way we passed two pre-schools in which children had been set up outside to sing for the tourists. In front of them was a large donation box and another large bag to place non-cash gifts, like school supplies. Photos with the kids were extra. After a twenty minute break to buy drinks (twice the amount of time for the museum), we headed toward the compound home of Kunte Kinte’s purported descendents.

An elderly woman sat under a canopy with the tourists around her while the guide described the TV mini-series and passed around yellowed photos of LeVar Burton as Kunta Kinte. For a donation we were welcome to take a picture with the descendant. Then we walked to another compound, accompanied by the crowd hounding for money and shouts of “toubob, toubob” (“white person, white person”) where another elderly woman was sitting under a canopy. She was the first female chief in the village and for another donation we could have a picture with her. The final stop was to the craft market for memorabilia. At one point Layla and Anisa both commented that this was the first place we’ve been in the country where we didn’t see anyone working on anything.

Alternative Guilt Trip:

If anyone is going to travel specifically to the Gambia for a Roots Tour – what some consider a pilgrimage – they should be aware of how commercialized this experience has become. Don’t come with a tour group (we actually didn’t know we were – we went on our own to an independently-operated boat and found a busload of British and Dutch tourists already on board); travel in the later afternoon when the tours have finished; and camp the night in the village so you can meet authentic people. Rough Guide has some suggestions for doing this.

This tour has not always been like this. I visited fifteen years ago, and other locals who had done the tour even just a few years ago did not experience so much harassment.

All of this might be a natural outgrowth of years of tourism among poverty. If you were very poor and saw people who had enough money to take an exotic vacation, wouldn’t you rush to them and do your best to extract whatever you could? Maybe. But perhaps if a meaningful experience were to be set up, utilizing rich aspects of the local culture, like the singing story-teller griots described in Roots and still very much alive today; or dramatic presentations on the life of the village then and now; or dancing and music from the Mandinka tradition; or some interactive demonstrations of the harrowing experience of being stolen from one’s home and loved ones and the ensuing brutality, a great deal more understanding and goodwill (not to mention economic development) could be generated. It’s unfortunate that most of those tourists were eager to leave the village, and probably will not return for that tour.

Preserving and presenting a somewhat more authentic experience for foreign tourists may not be as easy, but it would be worth it. Many local jobs could be generated, as well as long-term ties among those touched by the experience.

Remembering slavery and contributing to the sustainable development of a region where the legacy of slavery is still alive should be among the lasting effects of the Roots journey, not the feeling of wanting to flee a harassing experience. These are two very different types of “guilt trips.”