James' Island

The River Gambia is vast at the estuary.  If you squint you can just about make land on the other side.  Famous for it’s meandering length into the heart of Africa it is known for it’s access to the coast and the New World plantations, yes indeed for slavery.

We went to see the birthplace and original home of Kunte Kinte and to meet Maryam, a direct descendent.  It was moving.  The museum, itself fairly derelict, tatty and generally sandy told the story of the millions of strong healthy people who tried to flee the Portuguese, French and English who rounded them up by burning their huts.  Rape followed not least because a pregnant woman was worth twice as much.

An original ‘log book’ listed the names, tribes and ages of their captives.  Branding irons were displayed alongside metal contraptions for keeping order.  ‘It is little problem.  The marks clear within four or five days and soon become white lines on their chests.’ Horrific.

We went, by boat to James Island, a tiny speck in the middle of the river. Accompanied by a drummer who sang songs of the sad story with a melancholic rhythm.  He spoke of the need for forgiveness for our ancestors and of love for the new generation.

Across a pier of decaying tree trunks, unsafely wobbling we made our way onto the island. A few baobab trees and the ruins of the fort where the African people were herded and kept in a space fit for a mouse, troublemakers into a deep cell with a ten inch hole for ventilation and light. Many of the captured dived into the river to be eaten by sharks and crocodiles rather than go on the boats. It was a thought provoking time.

Perhaps the most poignant moment was our logistics manager, Ebrima, who refused to go to the fort, kneeling with his shoes beside him staring thoughtfully at the water. ‘you see Liz, it’s like pouring water into the sand.  You can’t get it back but it goes into the history and the very being of our land.’