Basse

We’ve been on trek again, 100 km further up country to a town called Basse.  Large by African standards, it’s bustling and busy with an assortment of nationalities and languages and numerous shops and stall holders all selling the same.  The centre of a junction of roads leading to Senegal, Guinea Bissau it has become a trading stage post. 

Our job was to research the contribution of unqualified teachers, which are numerous, an NUT and VSO project.  Pete and I travelled out into the bush, across rivers, luxuriating in being driven, to different schools where we were to interview teachers. Welcomed by all, the questionnaire received a variety of reactions. Some gave the look of ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about’ other articulate individuals were confident to talk about the rewards and hardship of their employment.

The scenery could be English, but without hill or dale.  Vibrant green trees amidst fields of growing shoots, streams and rivers idling their way, fences, wild flowers, birds singing.  There remain, however, for those with sharp eyes, tell tale signs that remind us we are in Africa. Palm trees reach tall to the sky, climbed by the intrepid to tap palm wine, a foul concoction not to be recommended.  Peeping in the distance the roofs of the mud round houses with their thatched patterns and points, the well, surrounded by children pumping and chattering, the corrugated iron fences. 

Huge, intricately built termite mounds, the size of several people, litter fields like abstract free form sculptures, oxen pull ploughs back and for across the turf whilst men and women bend over, Steve Davis backed, wielding iron age implements to dig and hoe and plant and weed.  Children help while some mind babies sitting under trees. Cart pulling donkeys, urged by stick wielding youths, carry loads towards their destinations.

A time of industry for all.