out and about

Saturday, our first non working day since we arrived on the island.  I awoke to the sounds of the scrawny cockerel, the crickets and the insistent chorus that ornithologists must dream about.  The cocoon of the mosquito net gently blew, like a spiders web, against my face. The cool of the day, people already sweeping away the nights dust quietly chatting, discussing their plans for the day, I lay listening and contemplating a cup of tea.  Half past six, the light seeps through the translucent muslin curtains promising another blazing day.

Tea it is.  Across the red concrete floor, already warm to my hardened sand encrusted feet, kettle filled from the shiny new water filter that doubles as a mirror and onto the gas hob. 

Pete stirred, we washed and then the tricky poser, with no sink or drain, where is one supposed to spit out the toothpaste? Potioned and lotioned we’re ready. Turning left out of the compound we hold our fingers ready, two hands are not enough, for a gaggle of dust besmirched children who welcome us under the tree. Women wring their clean washing by the tap, surrounded by chickens, goats and two tethered cows. We progress slowly onto the tarmac road; pass functioning shacks and sheds that boast, generally misspelt, a range of services and delights to find The Gampost.

Five people laze under the tree, making attya, passing the time of day. Greetings to all and we totter into a largish shed, full of boxes, fading notices, battered scales and a metal grill.  Two men follow us in whom we re-greet with more smiles and firm handshakes. George Thomas, the delightfully named black African, and Samba Jabbi try to help us with our purchase of stamps.  We show them our two letters.  D15 each. Sadly numeracy is not high on their list of skills.  Each envelope is discussed at length and on the third attempt we manage to get 5 D2 and 5 D1 butterfly decorated stamps for each. Their helpfulness is not yet complete as they tear each stamp, individually, along perforations and glue them to a decreasing amount of space around the address.  Leaving our missives in their capable hands, for there is no box to place them in, we wonder if they will ever again see the light of day.

Retracing our steps we climb the steps into the market, the smell of fish assaulting our senses. A covered area, full of splinter- endowed trestle tables are decorated with small piles of vendors’ wares, onions, multi shaped chillies, miniscule bags of spices, snail, rotting fish, suspect chicken legs along with unknown growths that could be animal vegetable or mineral. Bravely we buy some shiny purple baby aubergines, tiny first crop tomatoes and Pete’s favourite doughnuts.  Time enough to investigate cooking cassava and other delights.

Next we spot our goal.  Our landlord, Mulai, has told us about a brick laying ceremony, the beginning of erecting a building to house a community peanut-grinding machine.  Foundations dug, cement mixed amid rubble and rubbish worthy of a council dump, four men lent visual and moral support to the one worker as he watered and turned the powder.  Tailors sat at their treadle machines, creating imaginative designs in garish prints, tossing their off-cuts to swell the mountains of garbage as we sat waiting for the dignitaries to arrive. 

The assembly member, wisely dressed in sandy brown, eventually came with his entourage of committee members.  By now an hour late of the appointed time, he stopped and chatted about the islands history and forthcoming projects. Ever the politician (I suspect he is looking for more support that we will we more than happy to give) he asked Pete and I to lay the first stone, which we did to a trickle of applause.  A foundation stone and a new beginning.

Pete’s footnote. As we laid the first two foundation bricks for their new building let us all hope that our lasting legacy to the Gambian people will not be a peanut warehouse that collapses at the first opportunity.