getting about

We had our first ride in a gelii today. For those uninitiated among us it is a bus – of sorts. Made by finding an ancient space cruiser and removing everything except the frame, add an assortment of home made metal structures, precariously attached, to act as seats, and then beat it to within an inch of it’s life and you get the idea.



There’s the determined driver and his assistant who leans out of the door shouting incomprehensible destinations.


It has to be full before the driver will leave. “How much room?” screams our Mandinka instructor. “4” So 8 of us pile in to join a strange array of characters. The woman with the baby glued to her front with multi patterned material wrapped tightly around her ample torso, a cleanly clad youth plugged into his i pod tapping some unknown rhythm against his leg, a British couple on their 5th holiday in The Gambia (parents of an ex VSO), the deodorant less man who hacks grolleys in his throat, a tiny lad returning from school complete with case and gas canister twice his size. Add to this a sack of onions (never mind my feet) shopping bags, the rucksacks and there’s hardly room to breathe. That’s okay the smell makes me reluctant anyway.


So off we go, all 16 of us. The sliding door flies off its runners to be inadvertently caught by the poor soul who has his arm out of the window. (There’s no room for it inside) The back seat rotates to an angle of 45 degrees just before the rear window falls out onto the rope that suggests this might have happened before. We jump, lurch and bump along, every jolt bashing us against our neighbour.


Payment is D5, about 12p. Unzip the rucksack, find the purse buried in its depth and then try to decipher which note was, at its inception, red, amid the brown paper wad, all in a square centimetre of moveable space.


At each stop most people have to alight allowing a tangoed manoeuvre to exchange passengers, until we eventually reach our destination. Serekunda market – but that’s a whole new story.

Just to let you know


Photographs are not always easy to take. For a variety of reasons people are not always happy. We’ve been told that some Muslims are concerned about their souls being depicted, thoughts that we might be trying to make post cards to sell and various other ideas. A man, verbally attacked Pete and then tried to take his camera, for taking a picture of a road sign. Added difficulties downloading them onto the Internet and it’s all a bit haphazard but there are a few (thanks Rob) on


www.flickr.com/photos/walfords

Gambian Time

It struck me last night as I gazed up into a beautiful star lit sky – we’re here.  In Africa.  Pete got on a plane.  We packed, said our goodbyes and we are actually here. We wake up each morning to warmth and mosquito bites and it’s wonderful. 

I saw something on the computer to say there was snow in Wales.  It is hard to remember.  All that seems so far away and, besides people, I miss very little.  In an African cocoon I know nothing of elections, economic depression, football scores or any of the things that come from home.  I have not watched or wished to watch television.

Where we live at the moment there is constant noise, not of traffic or radios but of crickets, birds, children and the constant beat of the drums that abound from all areas of the city.

We have just returned from a shopping trip.  As we leave our house the five of us say good morning trying out our Mandinka on the guard – only to find that he speaks Wolof.  Smiles and English say it all anyway.  We turn right onto the dust track where Sophie a little 3 year old with train track snot and bare feet runs to greet us ‘toubab toubab’ and refuses to leave until we’ve picked her up and made a fuss.  Welcomed to The Gambia by her father we move another twenty yards.  Sand though our sandals, warm and grainy on our feet.  ‘saalaam aleikum’ over and over again as we move like a shoal of fish swimming lazily.

On the corner of our street is a bitiko.  There must be hundreds of these tiny tiny corner shops, nay not shops, huts all over.  They appear as shutters open in between houses, under trees and in the walls.  They sell a strange array of things, some bread, a few eggs, packets of ovaltine, shoe polish, a fuse, maybe a statue or two.  The next day the variety will be totally different.  The constant is the mobile phone credit cards.  Loads of them everywhere.

Left onto the tarmac road with sand pavements.  The sun beats down, high in the post card blue skies.  People sit in small groups under the trees chatting and watching the world go by. Children play with old tyres, wheeling them and jumping in and out.  A gang of youths play football with a battered ball and gates for goals and the usual rivalry and shouted banter.  Always the smiles and greetings.

The ‘five five’ taxi/bus cars beep to announce their availability but we refuse and the yellow and green striped vehicles pass on down the road.

Drop the letter into the post box with no idea when it will arrive.  Right again and we are on the ‘pipeline’ the main road with shops, restaurants, garages and the list goes on.  Still the sand pavements, occasionally, where there are banks or embassies, guarded by men with guns, lazily leaning against walls. 

Into the electrical shop which looks suspiciously like Curry’s on a smaller scale.  There begins the negotiation with Rocky for the rechargeable electric fan we want to buy.  We’ve been told about how much we will have to pay.  It begins with an astronomical price but some strange looks and mention of VSO and there’s a good-humoured discount immediately given.  The exchange of sixty D50 notes (about £40) for the fan.  Money here is filthy, often repaired with staples or sticky tape, which gathers yet more grime and sand. No one seems to bother with the buttoots, the small change.

Back home, still smiling and greeting and the whole outing has taken two hours.  As they say ‘Gambian time’.

i saama

The day begins early with the call to prayer about half past 5.  An incessant tone that is beginning to have some rhythm although the words remain indistinguishable. This wakes the cockerel and he begins to crow in a strangely garbled manner.  I close my eyes to be re awakened with “where’s the toothpaste?” or “have you seen my flip flops?” (Confusingly called thongs by the Australians among us)

I disentangle myself from the mosquito net that magically wraps itself around me each night and wander to the bathroom.  The shower is cold.  The suggestion that cold showers are good is just plain wrong.  (I can’t wait to install the solar one that Ruth gave us) Gasp as the cold water hits me and helps to tame the horns that my hair has formed.  Pete brings a coffee.  Kenco with powdered milk.  It’s okay.  I begin to feel human.

Then it’s lotions and potions time.  First comes the ‘keep the wrinkles at bay’ serum, then the moisturiser, closely followed by the anti histamine bite relief, sun block and finally the sticky DEET.  Layers of protection.  Deodorant - essential, although not used by all.  Dance around until everything is dry and then dress for the day. (fab knickers – thanks Nicky)

I mooch through the outside door, with a nod to fellow wakers who are beginning to stir and swots who are studying their Mandinka ready for their lesson.

It is first light, the sun yet to be seen but is still beginning to warm the earth, with a slight breeze rustling through the trees.  The yard is rough stones but I watch as the flocks of birds form their m and fly across the pale blue sky.  A dragonfly darts in search of water.  The lizard crawls from under the stone to seek the heat of the day.  A sudden thump as a grapefruit relinquishes its grasp to the twig and plummets to the ground.  Some tiny birds with bright red breasts flutter to peck at the fruit with long angled beaks.

Return to the house where breakfast awaits – peanut butter sandwiches.  And so the day begins……………

(for photos see flickr) 

Big Brother House

We have moved from luxury.  No more warm showers, (albethey hunt the drip), clean sheets, cold water from the fridge or meals cooked for us.  We have moved into the Big Brother house where we reside for the next three weeks.  There are seven of us, a varied brigade of middle class (but not Pete of course) companions aged between 60 and 29 who will get on.  

You can but imagine the scene as the bleach white gaggle of 'toubabs' saunter along the road somewhat bemused, trying to undertake the latest task.  The Gambians of all ages, sizes and both genders like to talk to us.  It’s mainly friendly banter, although there are the ‘bumsters’ who will follow and try to persuade you to part with your money, using a wide range of ingenious stories and ploys.  A quick bit of Mandinka and the mention of VSO and they soon leave us alone.  Our challenge is to decide between the two.

The house itself is much more spacious that I had imagined.  There are four rooms with two double beds. Dominated by the inevitable mosquito nets they sport some sort of wicker structure on which to suspend, place or display clothing and a huge amount of sandy dust. (Have I mentioned the sand before?)  We also have a huge living area with four tables and chairs and the kitchen.  Mmmm, the cooking area.  A sink, two ring gas stove, water filter, a fridge and enough microorganisms to build up our resistance for the next year.  We plan to cook in turns, which could be interesting as there is a wide variety of skills and interest in food.  Tonight I think it will be Canti, our resident Indian Canadian, who may stop laughing long enough to cook.  She looks after us all and is totally incredulous at many things we do, say, have or don’t have and then joins in with a merry smile.

So here we are, the seven of us, sitting in the living room undertaking various puzzles, books and card games looking somewhat bedraggled after the first nights sleep or non sleep for most of us.  The new noises are intense, the security guards radio, babies crying, scolded children, call to prayer and the ‘scrawny cockerel……..I’ll ring it’s neck’.  It’s only half seven and we await the opening of the shops to get breakfast, the wi fi cafe and to see what the new day will bring.

Mandinka

“In shallah” or good morning to you and me.

We have a new language to learn. Mandinka.  It’s full of phonic sounds, said loudly and with a big smile.  The training is intense.  Two hours of vocabulary, phrases and new sounds, and we are asked about you all, by everyone, all the time.

“Suu moolu lee?”

“I bee be jee”

It transpires that greeting everyone, at length, is essential as not to do so causes great offense. This means that you have to go through a long ritual about everyone before you can ask if you can borrow a pen. If someone comes into the training room everything stops for half an hour.

In a group of two there’s nowhere to hide and it’s reminiscent of O Level French (not my forte) with list of vocab for homework and tests next day.  So saying the tutor is a tall, thin, impeccably dressed Gambian man who speaks 5 languages and laughs at my poor attempts whilst being very encouraging “abaarake abarte”.  Luckily Pete is in a different group as he seems to find the whole thing much much easier – swot.

We have now covered the dizzy heights of greetings, numbers and on Monday we have the language for market bargaining.  A double whammy of four hours which we will have to put into practice at the market alongside the tutors later in the week.

Housekeeping

This is a general information account, always called ‘housekeeping’ in those terrible INSET days that I have left behind.

Pete and I spend are spending the first week in a hotel, Safari Gardens, which sports a swimming pool, showers, occasional hot water and great food.  On Friday we move to the VSO house where we have to begin to fend for ourselves and haggle for the things we will need to take ‘up country’.  We stay here for three more weeks during which time we have language and cultural training not to mention learning to ride motorbikes on the sand and dirt tracks laughingly called roads.

And then that’s it………move to Janjanbureh to our accommodation about which we know little, and to begin work about which we know even less.

At the moment we have a mobile each but the number will change when we move.  We have no postal address, just a physical one, which is something like ‘opposite the mango tree’ and won’t be able to get one until we find the post office and rent a PO Box.  Internet access is questionable although there are some wi fi café’s here, near the main city.

In the meantime comments on the blogs, e-mails and texts are wonderful to receive so keep ‘em coming please

       Pete and Liz in The Gambia

E-mail: walfords@yahoo.com                                        peterunner@googlemail.com

blog: www.peterunner.blogspot.com

donate: www.justgiving.com/walfords

Immigration Office

"we've got to go"
"what? Now? This is GMT. (Gambian maybe time)"
"Now.  The immigration office is closing in 5 minutes for prayer"


It really was a scene from the No. 1 Ladies Detective agency stories.  We were bundled into a van and driven along the dusty road.  Call to prayer was sounding as we skidded to a halt in the sand.  Picture the sight, 8 white, slightly nervous volunteers pushed into an office the size of a cell and sat squeezed side by side along a bench.  Add two desks, 6 Gambian officials and a fan.  Loud questions, Wolof speakers, papers flapping and wads of cash changing hands.  (It costs 1500 dalasi to get our cards.)


Papers passed from one to another.  A tall man asking about middle names and volunteers still squashed slightly bemused by heat, gloom and loud loud voices.  Then the filled papers were passed the the secretarial assistant.  A woman of traditional stature, clearly over qualified as she thumped an ancient typewriter with one finger.  Typos abounded and were removed with a razor blade to be re mistyped.  Said razor blade was passed back and for a wide variety of purposes, paring nails, cutting string, trimming photos and there was only ever one person in activity at any one time - for of course there was only one blade.


Next came the laminator.  Health and safety would have a field day.  No casing, bear metal and wires and LED's falling over the desk.  A frayed cable plugged into a very suspect plug with a paper clip for added security.  A few taps and still no joy.  More loud voices and heated debate.  "We have to wait."


The man in charge decided to smile and change tack.  He was very philosophical especially around education. "African children are stubborn and need to be hit to learn and have respect"



Eventually we left unlaminated cards grasped in hands, Pete is 1800 years old and my name is Eliz****bet (you can't quite re create it)

4th February

An early start with dear Graham driving us to the airport.  Hassle free flights, long but uneventful.  We met 4 volunteers at Heathrow.  Phil is coming to Janjanbureh with us and he's in IT!  There's hope for us yet.


Banjul airport was like all airports busy, bustling. long queues and waiting and eventually cases and people were piled into the van to take us to the hotel where we will spend the next 6 days.


WOW!  What a drive.  Impossible to explain but a few thoughts

• dark night, long long dusty roads
• mad drivers beebing horns traffic lights
• all traffic stops...........donkeys in the road refusing to move
• beautiful women walking elegantly with small babies tied to their backs with long sashes, pots and sacks balanced as they glide down the street
• settees and tables on the pavement to entice a passing purchaser
• shacks next to the 'American Offices'
• overwhelming assault of sounds, sights and smells

Amazing.

Have to finish as we have a party to go to at the Senegambia Hotel - very posh

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Last days in Cardiff

So here we are then, one more day in Cardiff, things sorted ready for packing, huge anti malaria tablets downed in one, bathroom cleaned and very fond farewells said.  A few tears and lots of butterflies and we leave in the early hours with Graham kindly driving us to Heathrow.


A few technical hiccups but finally I've managed to put loads of photos from the Open Day onto flickr  so have a look and see if you can spot yourself on
www.flickr.com/photos/walfords


In the meantime take care of yourselves as we take that leap of faith towards the heat and excitement that is Africa.