Kusalang again today – the nursery on the Senegal border. It rained last night, shouldn't have because the season has ended, but it did making the journey slightly easier with the rain compacting the sand. Took Phil, ICT VSO, to show him what it is like in the bush. Normal ride through African landscape, herds of horned cattle, donkey carts etc. Arrived to hear the children chanting “welcome, welcome.” It is very moving. The nursery has a lot of resources because it has a UK sponsor charity. These include markers, chalk, paper, card, crayons, construction sets books and more but it is all in a terrible pickle so Bak's arrives to bring some order. A very messy job, dirt everywhere and hundreds of earwigs amongst all the stock – yuk! After 3 hours though, each table had a stock of paper and pencils/crayons and the children were happily mark making and enjoying the colours which they hadn't seen or used before. I was given many pictures, most just paper with every colour on because they don't know how to draw. At about midday breakfast was served – cous and sugar and “fresh” milk. When I say fresh I mean not yet yoghurt although already on the turn which is how they like it. This is eaten, of course, from the communal bowl with what I can only describe as ice cream scoops, very tricky to avoid getting it down your shirt. After breakfast we retired outside for tea to see two goats that had just, literally, just been born. Whilst they were making valiant attempts to stand the mother was licking them clean and eating the afterbirth, I am glad I had already had my breakfast. I know it is natural but it still made me feel a tad squeamish as I am no country boy. Stayed for about another 30 minutes by which time the kids (goats that is) had learned to stand, after a fashion, and they were already beginning to suckle – amazing, I feel very lucky to have been there. Then I got to thinking, I do occasionally, about what a great metaphor the baby goats were for the Gambia. Here is a country struggling, against all odds, to stand on it's own two feet, and wobbling every time it gets to the upright position. If however the Gambia can be as successful as the kids (goats) then perhaps, just perhaps, there is hope. I do so want to believe this because the people here deserve better – they really, really do.
Left Kusalang and headed home happy and tired, past the cattle, past the donkey carts, past the wells, past the villages, past the armed police check and back onto the island. Stopped to buy some tins of pop and went to the office to find Hawa who has been busy doing data entry in the air conditioned office all day. Tomorrow is another day – Hawa is of to a phonics training day and I am trekking in the Jeep finishing off the head count of pupils and teachers in the schools – it will be a long day for both of us but this is all to the good. Africa is extraordinary, death and new life are always very close to hand and today was reminder of new life and even though it was only goats I have to say it was very uplifting.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
History lessons
I sat, waiting for the lop-sided ferry, under the shade of the neme tree watching the ripples form and wrinkle their way over the mighty River Gambia. As I sat I mused over the sights before my eyes that have become common place over the last few months.
The women chatter as they sit on up-turned buckets and gerry cans behind small cloths, laid as though ready for a picnic, displaying their wares of bananas and groundnuts, babies clasped to nipples or snug, like snails tied to mothers back. Dalasi coins exchange hands amid banter and barter. No cards, banks or cheque books here – a cash only society. Toddlers smile shyly at the strange looking creature with white skin. Dare they wave? White teeth show as I wiggle my fingers in reply. Siblings play African hop scotch, rotate battered cans on stick ends or maybe a draught style game moving stones on squares drawn in the dust.
Men sit on the veranda of the dilapidated building showing the history of a once thriving trading post in the middle of the river, brewing attaya and keeping out of the days heat, greeting new arrivals with loud voices and expansive gestures.
Chickens, dogs, and goats roam free, avoiding the occasional stone chucked in their direction to deter them from eating crops. A donkey cart pulls its heavy load of rice bags urged on by small youths who should be in school.
The uniformed school children stand in parallel lines, boys and girls. They are no strangers to corporal punishment or even to the necklace worn by those foolish enough to be caught talking in the local language. ‘The vernacular must not be used in school’ is firmly posted in the school rules alongside ‘teachers must not have improper relations with children’ and ‘mobiles should be on silent in class’.
The ferry remains in the distance but the river is busy. A man wanders down the bank to fill an old oilcan with the murky liquid, small children splash as they bathe, sounds of laughter and reprimand from intolerant adults who urge them to be sensible. Farther down, where the stony bank is less steep, women stand knee deep with their wash tubs of laundry, Omo, bars of soap, small plastic bags of ‘blue’ for whitening and metal wash boards. In, out, scrub, scrub. In, out, scrub, scrub. Rinse and scrub and rinse some more. A stray t-shirt is rescued as it makes its bid for freedom, floating like an inflated doll.
To my right, Wasulo, where many live, small round houses with straw roofs, miniscule glassless windows, corrugated iron doors. Smoke seeps through the air, rice and fish cooking in cauldron style pots upon open fires fuelled with sticks from the scrub laboriously collected and balanced on heads for several kilometres. Farmers tend scraps of land with large blade machetes, axes and hand hoes.
And as I sat and mused I thought of the primary history lessons I have taught in the UK - Celtic villages, transport, Victorian washday, school of yesteryear in Wales, homes of now and then. It’s not history in The Gambia.
The women chatter as they sit on up-turned buckets and gerry cans behind small cloths, laid as though ready for a picnic, displaying their wares of bananas and groundnuts, babies clasped to nipples or snug, like snails tied to mothers back. Dalasi coins exchange hands amid banter and barter. No cards, banks or cheque books here – a cash only society. Toddlers smile shyly at the strange looking creature with white skin. Dare they wave? White teeth show as I wiggle my fingers in reply. Siblings play African hop scotch, rotate battered cans on stick ends or maybe a draught style game moving stones on squares drawn in the dust.
Men sit on the veranda of the dilapidated building showing the history of a once thriving trading post in the middle of the river, brewing attaya and keeping out of the days heat, greeting new arrivals with loud voices and expansive gestures.
Chickens, dogs, and goats roam free, avoiding the occasional stone chucked in their direction to deter them from eating crops. A donkey cart pulls its heavy load of rice bags urged on by small youths who should be in school.
The uniformed school children stand in parallel lines, boys and girls. They are no strangers to corporal punishment or even to the necklace worn by those foolish enough to be caught talking in the local language. ‘The vernacular must not be used in school’ is firmly posted in the school rules alongside ‘teachers must not have improper relations with children’ and ‘mobiles should be on silent in class’.
The ferry remains in the distance but the river is busy. A man wanders down the bank to fill an old oilcan with the murky liquid, small children splash as they bathe, sounds of laughter and reprimand from intolerant adults who urge them to be sensible. Farther down, where the stony bank is less steep, women stand knee deep with their wash tubs of laundry, Omo, bars of soap, small plastic bags of ‘blue’ for whitening and metal wash boards. In, out, scrub, scrub. In, out, scrub, scrub. Rinse and scrub and rinse some more. A stray t-shirt is rescued as it makes its bid for freedom, floating like an inflated doll.
To my right, Wasulo, where many live, small round houses with straw roofs, miniscule glassless windows, corrugated iron doors. Smoke seeps through the air, rice and fish cooking in cauldron style pots upon open fires fuelled with sticks from the scrub laboriously collected and balanced on heads for several kilometres. Farmers tend scraps of land with large blade machetes, axes and hand hoes.
And as I sat and mused I thought of the primary history lessons I have taught in the UK - Celtic villages, transport, Victorian washday, school of yesteryear in Wales, homes of now and then. It’s not history in The Gambia.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Trekking
Bak's turn to scribe something to inform, amuse and entertain, it's not asking much is it?
OK – trekking for this is what they call visits to schools, once you leave the office you are on “trek” and a whole new set of protocols apply the most important of which is your place in the car. As the least senior person I was allocated centre rear however compared to the bus journeys this was still luxury. So off we set to the farthest schools on the south bank, a 2 hour car drive, the last hour up dirt tracks, through cornfields, villages, where the children all cry “toubab” as they glimpse my white skin. Past monkeys, baboons, vultures, eagles, storks, herons, kingfishers and goodness only knows what else. The purpose of the visits – STABILISATION! It is necessary to visit all 111 schools to verify the number of children so that the correct number of teachers can be posted to the school. The schools submit their numbers but for a variety of reasons these need verification, the figures are almost always inflated. So I arrive with my 3 colleagues and the Head Teacher, who has no idea we are coming, does his or her best to look pleased to see you although of course they are not, these visits are rarely good news for them. My task is to visit the classes and confirm that the number of children in the class matches those marked on the register – occasionally it does. Report back to team leader who is meanwhile in the Head's office checking records. The outcome can be brutal. If there is over staffing, and a class can have up to 50, then the transfer memo for a teacher is written then and there. The Head is asked who they would like to lose and that person is told to report to another school in the region with immediate effect. Thank goodness this doesn't happen at home, I fear I might have reached the Orkneys by now. This all concludes at around 6:30 so the drive home is in the descending gloom and soon it is dark – read on.
I haven't travelled much at night here and this isn't going to change. Even from the safety of a car the Gambian bush by night does not look terribly welcoming. Like a scene from Avatar or a Tim Burton animation the creatures of the night are many and strange. I have no idea what flew, crawled, ran or slithered across our headlights but suffice to say they were many and varied. There were, I am sure, fangs, talons, wings with hooks on the end, bulbous eyes, and a variety of other ways to locate you and feast. I would not like to be far down the food chain here, I don't think you can last very long. There were times when I physically shrunk back into my seat certain that this creature was about to come through the windscreen. And my colleagues, oblivious it all, continued to chat amicably in Mandinka – I try to follow but there is little hope save for the odd word of English that is interspersed amongst the local language. And so having left at 7AM I returned home at 8pm to be greeted by Hawa and a fridge full of soft drinks – not so bad. The night creatures safely locked out I felt safe and secure and happy to be home.
OK – trekking for this is what they call visits to schools, once you leave the office you are on “trek” and a whole new set of protocols apply the most important of which is your place in the car. As the least senior person I was allocated centre rear however compared to the bus journeys this was still luxury. So off we set to the farthest schools on the south bank, a 2 hour car drive, the last hour up dirt tracks, through cornfields, villages, where the children all cry “toubab” as they glimpse my white skin. Past monkeys, baboons, vultures, eagles, storks, herons, kingfishers and goodness only knows what else. The purpose of the visits – STABILISATION! It is necessary to visit all 111 schools to verify the number of children so that the correct number of teachers can be posted to the school. The schools submit their numbers but for a variety of reasons these need verification, the figures are almost always inflated. So I arrive with my 3 colleagues and the Head Teacher, who has no idea we are coming, does his or her best to look pleased to see you although of course they are not, these visits are rarely good news for them. My task is to visit the classes and confirm that the number of children in the class matches those marked on the register – occasionally it does. Report back to team leader who is meanwhile in the Head's office checking records. The outcome can be brutal. If there is over staffing, and a class can have up to 50, then the transfer memo for a teacher is written then and there. The Head is asked who they would like to lose and that person is told to report to another school in the region with immediate effect. Thank goodness this doesn't happen at home, I fear I might have reached the Orkneys by now. This all concludes at around 6:30 so the drive home is in the descending gloom and soon it is dark – read on.
I haven't travelled much at night here and this isn't going to change. Even from the safety of a car the Gambian bush by night does not look terribly welcoming. Like a scene from Avatar or a Tim Burton animation the creatures of the night are many and strange. I have no idea what flew, crawled, ran or slithered across our headlights but suffice to say they were many and varied. There were, I am sure, fangs, talons, wings with hooks on the end, bulbous eyes, and a variety of other ways to locate you and feast. I would not like to be far down the food chain here, I don't think you can last very long. There were times when I physically shrunk back into my seat certain that this creature was about to come through the windscreen. And my colleagues, oblivious it all, continued to chat amicably in Mandinka – I try to follow but there is little hope save for the odd word of English that is interspersed amongst the local language. And so having left at 7AM I returned home at 8pm to be greeted by Hawa and a fridge full of soft drinks – not so bad. The night creatures safely locked out I felt safe and secure and happy to be home.
Korop Nursery
Korop is a small Fula village out in the bush. 4 Kilometers from the road it nestles, for the moment, in head height maize, the straw roofs of the round houses camouflaged by the stalks. The groundnut plants abound with their lemon yellow flowers adorned with multitudes of butterflies, which scatter like rainbowed fairydust as we make our way, Sherpa Tensing style, along the disappearing track.
Our destination is a nursery. I hear it before I maneuver the final twist, cries of ‘welcome, welcome, welcome’ and a song to greet us. Children dressed in blue and white check smile and wave with expectant faces. Will we remember the ball we promised them on our previous visit? Of course. Eager eyes watch, resisting the temptation to help, but willing me to hurry, as I delve into my bag for the ball and pump. Eyes widen as the ball increases in girth and nearly pop out completely to see it followed by two more. Such happiness as they run and play harmoniously, barefoot and grubby, caring arms protecting little ones.
Tida beams with pride as we congratulate her on her delightful children, fifty five 4,5 and 6 year olds. Three years of teaching in term time, studying in the holidays and she has finally gained her teaching certificate.
Accompanied by Omar, the cluster monitor, and Pat, the latest VSO visiting his first African school, Pete and I are to help her ‘do something’ with the nursery. Little do they realize the work in store. Small willing hands help to transport empty boxes, plastic bags, rice bags, string, nails, scrap paper, onion netting, our past 3 weeks ‘rubbish’ precariously attached to every nook and cranny of the motorbikes. It’s past home time but the children remain to watch and help. A large concrete room, six small wooden benches and the inevitable lattice windows is to be transformed.
Rice mats are opened and placed on the dusty floor as matting, letter squares fashioned from cardboard, books (many homemade) and a sign for the reading corner. A discarded blackboard, chalk, charcoal and out of date manuals from the office and the writing area is complete. Pat is dispatched with a gaggle of helpers to find stones for number matching and counters, to add to two and three piece shape jigsaws and number cards. Pete and Omar set to, nailing opened cardboard boxes to the walls as instant display boards and suspend string, like washing line, while Tida and I write unlikely childrens’ names, Manure Essa, Momodu Sulayman Baldeh, on name cards and make posters and labels. A corner is set aside for role play, Tida’s bitik, the piece de resistance, a table, empty boxes and bags and small, seven sided silver dalasi coins cut and painstakingly drawn by Phil in a quiet office moment. People from the village wander up to greet, welcome and investigate bringing smiles and community spirit. The place is buzzing.
Four hours later, 25p spent on nails and drawing pins, hot sweaty people and the room is transformed. My favourite part? Sitting back and watching Tida and Omar playing shops!
Our destination is a nursery. I hear it before I maneuver the final twist, cries of ‘welcome, welcome, welcome’ and a song to greet us. Children dressed in blue and white check smile and wave with expectant faces. Will we remember the ball we promised them on our previous visit? Of course. Eager eyes watch, resisting the temptation to help, but willing me to hurry, as I delve into my bag for the ball and pump. Eyes widen as the ball increases in girth and nearly pop out completely to see it followed by two more. Such happiness as they run and play harmoniously, barefoot and grubby, caring arms protecting little ones.
Tida beams with pride as we congratulate her on her delightful children, fifty five 4,5 and 6 year olds. Three years of teaching in term time, studying in the holidays and she has finally gained her teaching certificate.
Accompanied by Omar, the cluster monitor, and Pat, the latest VSO visiting his first African school, Pete and I are to help her ‘do something’ with the nursery. Little do they realize the work in store. Small willing hands help to transport empty boxes, plastic bags, rice bags, string, nails, scrap paper, onion netting, our past 3 weeks ‘rubbish’ precariously attached to every nook and cranny of the motorbikes. It’s past home time but the children remain to watch and help. A large concrete room, six small wooden benches and the inevitable lattice windows is to be transformed.
Rice mats are opened and placed on the dusty floor as matting, letter squares fashioned from cardboard, books (many homemade) and a sign for the reading corner. A discarded blackboard, chalk, charcoal and out of date manuals from the office and the writing area is complete. Pat is dispatched with a gaggle of helpers to find stones for number matching and counters, to add to two and three piece shape jigsaws and number cards. Pete and Omar set to, nailing opened cardboard boxes to the walls as instant display boards and suspend string, like washing line, while Tida and I write unlikely childrens’ names, Manure Essa, Momodu Sulayman Baldeh, on name cards and make posters and labels. A corner is set aside for role play, Tida’s bitik, the piece de resistance, a table, empty boxes and bags and small, seven sided silver dalasi coins cut and painstakingly drawn by Phil in a quiet office moment. People from the village wander up to greet, welcome and investigate bringing smiles and community spirit. The place is buzzing.
Four hours later, 25p spent on nails and drawing pins, hot sweaty people and the room is transformed. My favourite part? Sitting back and watching Tida and Omar playing shops!
Teaching in The Gambia
I had to give myself a stern talking to. ‘Take off your European hat. Remember you are in The Gambia.’
We had been led to believe that schools were due to re-open for the new academic year on the 6th September, akin to many similar establishments in the UK. I had pondered, ‘very near Eid,’ and, as if reading my thoughts, the date was put back a week. As the 13th approached I began to sort books and proposals and sharpen pencils with glee, but no, ‘teachers are not yet on the ground – they are waiting for transport.’ So instead of Monday it was Friday before I got to school.
Like Tesco, school buildings follow a plan. Concrete brick terraces with metal shuttered doors and squared lattice-like holes on opposite sides that form glassless windows for light and draught. Corrugated roofs, precariously nailed, insects and the occasional fixed bench and desk adorn the room. Little else, beyond the occasional attempt at a display, often tattered, damp and heat making any attempt at sticking futile. When school is closed they are dull and uninspiring………….but the children give energy and delight.
Teachers, as always, cover the whole gamut of ability, training and enthusiasm. As a profession there seems little status, those with any ‘umph’ using their experiences to enhance CV’s and move on to better pay and better living conditions. A teacher is employed centrally and can be moved anywhere within The Gambia at a whim. For many, this means leaving their families and compounds and moving into staff quarters which are, to say the least, grim, with a capital G. To avoid complaints the allocations are left very late – so late in fact that some still don’t know where they are to teach despite term having begun. It’s confusing to all, especially this year when there are huge changes in the regional office alongside the annual chaos, rendering decision making at a standstill.
Not daunted I pootled off on the old Yamaha to see who is where and what is what and be greeted with smiles and attaya. The well kept school grounds were quiet as I approached slowly, slipping, sliding and sweaty accompanied by a kind lady, small child fastened to her back with brightly patterned fabric. Neither her English nor my Mandinka were advanced enough to explain or understand directions, it was easier to walk the last kilometer with me.
My working day consisted of sitting under a neme tree, chatting with a heavily pregnant teacher, eating ices, small plastic bags with frozen juice. I did gather information of teachers present – the correct number but wrong names. The next school is not so lucky, 100 children and just the headteacher present. It will be October before staff can settle for until then any move is possible. How’s the work? M be ta domang domang, or, I’m on it slowly, slowly.
We had been led to believe that schools were due to re-open for the new academic year on the 6th September, akin to many similar establishments in the UK. I had pondered, ‘very near Eid,’ and, as if reading my thoughts, the date was put back a week. As the 13th approached I began to sort books and proposals and sharpen pencils with glee, but no, ‘teachers are not yet on the ground – they are waiting for transport.’ So instead of Monday it was Friday before I got to school.
Like Tesco, school buildings follow a plan. Concrete brick terraces with metal shuttered doors and squared lattice-like holes on opposite sides that form glassless windows for light and draught. Corrugated roofs, precariously nailed, insects and the occasional fixed bench and desk adorn the room. Little else, beyond the occasional attempt at a display, often tattered, damp and heat making any attempt at sticking futile. When school is closed they are dull and uninspiring………….but the children give energy and delight.
Teachers, as always, cover the whole gamut of ability, training and enthusiasm. As a profession there seems little status, those with any ‘umph’ using their experiences to enhance CV’s and move on to better pay and better living conditions. A teacher is employed centrally and can be moved anywhere within The Gambia at a whim. For many, this means leaving their families and compounds and moving into staff quarters which are, to say the least, grim, with a capital G. To avoid complaints the allocations are left very late – so late in fact that some still don’t know where they are to teach despite term having begun. It’s confusing to all, especially this year when there are huge changes in the regional office alongside the annual chaos, rendering decision making at a standstill.
Not daunted I pootled off on the old Yamaha to see who is where and what is what and be greeted with smiles and attaya. The well kept school grounds were quiet as I approached slowly, slipping, sliding and sweaty accompanied by a kind lady, small child fastened to her back with brightly patterned fabric. Neither her English nor my Mandinka were advanced enough to explain or understand directions, it was easier to walk the last kilometer with me.
My working day consisted of sitting under a neme tree, chatting with a heavily pregnant teacher, eating ices, small plastic bags with frozen juice. I did gather information of teachers present – the correct number but wrong names. The next school is not so lucky, 100 children and just the headteacher present. It will be October before staff can settle for until then any move is possible. How’s the work? M be ta domang domang, or, I’m on it slowly, slowly.
Koriteh
“Bakary,” the muted, unassuming tones of Mulai echo through the evening gloom as his tall willowy silhouette appears at the mosquito netted door. Hands reticently behinds his back his smile lights the room. “This is for you.” A deep maroon outfit, delicate golden embroidery adorning the openings and fastenings. “This is for tomorrow.” Koriteh, the end of Ramadan and fasting – celebrations.
We awake this morning, expectation in the air, children shrieking, sounds from the mosque reverberating and thunder rolling, suggesting an imminent shower of heavy proportions. Hot and sticky, the temperature will soon fall as the rain drops splatter and splosh onto the already soaked land. Nothing diminishes the excitement as the inevitable sweeping and cleaning takes place with calls from compound to compound planning outings and new arrangements for prayer with the incoming storm.
We wait, a regular Gambian pastime, dressed in our finery until called for. We wait some more and some more. Eventually a call from a golden outfitted Mulai and we are off to mooch through muddy puddles along the streets of Janjanbureh. Extensive greetings, saluting all and sundry we are summoned to see our favourite cluster moniter and graceful headteacher wife. Their children bow and curtsy.
Moving on, we turn into a compound of terraced houses, typical in the area. It belongs to the counselor, his one wife and two children. Concrete brick built, two small rooms with small windows, dark and cooler inside. The lino covered floor, the settee and, somewhat unusually, a television playing Senagalise music. We sit, chat and are made welcome. Wonjo, a purple juice made from local leaves and oodles of sugar is served in recycled bottles. Mulai gives Bubu, the small boy mountaineering his fathers’ legs a red five dalasi note which he secretes in his underpants in lieu of a pocket amid much laughter. Time for more handshaking and we move on.
Children run in the street, chattering and asking for ‘salibo’, charity given at Koriteh. Pink sequins glitters as they twirl, jig and writhe to the music from the local bar. Worth a lollipop to be sure.
We awake this morning, expectation in the air, children shrieking, sounds from the mosque reverberating and thunder rolling, suggesting an imminent shower of heavy proportions. Hot and sticky, the temperature will soon fall as the rain drops splatter and splosh onto the already soaked land. Nothing diminishes the excitement as the inevitable sweeping and cleaning takes place with calls from compound to compound planning outings and new arrangements for prayer with the incoming storm.
We wait, a regular Gambian pastime, dressed in our finery until called for. We wait some more and some more. Eventually a call from a golden outfitted Mulai and we are off to mooch through muddy puddles along the streets of Janjanbureh. Extensive greetings, saluting all and sundry we are summoned to see our favourite cluster moniter and graceful headteacher wife. Their children bow and curtsy.
Moving on, we turn into a compound of terraced houses, typical in the area. It belongs to the counselor, his one wife and two children. Concrete brick built, two small rooms with small windows, dark and cooler inside. The lino covered floor, the settee and, somewhat unusually, a television playing Senagalise music. We sit, chat and are made welcome. Wonjo, a purple juice made from local leaves and oodles of sugar is served in recycled bottles. Mulai gives Bubu, the small boy mountaineering his fathers’ legs a red five dalasi note which he secretes in his underpants in lieu of a pocket amid much laughter. Time for more handshaking and we move on.
Children run in the street, chattering and asking for ‘salibo’, charity given at Koriteh. Pink sequins glitters as they twirl, jig and writhe to the music from the local bar. Worth a lollipop to be sure.
Lester's account
Our arrival in Gambia on August 10th was a sunny one. The weather reports had predicted 10 days of rain that dampened our expectations but the ‘smiling coast of Africa’ was definitely a happy, sunny place. Immediately, the extreme friendliness of the locals unnerved us. Coming from a land where this type of overt behaviour provokes wide berths and scepticism, the fact that every Gambian wants to engage you for hours could have seen our entire 10-day holiday consumed within Banjul International airport. However, there isn’t a catch, a pitch or a spiel, just an inbuilt hospitality mechanism. True, it could get tiresome when all you want to do is move but all they seek is a smile and some banter and then you’re free to go.
Our coach pulled in to the Kairaba Hotel in the Kombo an hour after we’d landed where two very hungry looking Walfords had been waiting expectantly for our arrival. As Jo leapt from the bus into their waiting arms, the ferocity of the embrace made me fear that they’d been counting down the months to eat rather than greet us.
The hotel was a pleasant resort in the main tourist area of Gambia and an apparent land of luxury for Bakari & Hawa (Pete and Liz’s African monikers). They were able to sample a hot shower and use what you and I call a ‘toilet’ for the first time in 7 long months.
Our highlight of the Kombo was our second night. We’d ventured out of town to celebrate a VSO birthday. Pete’s refusal to engage a cab driver who’d offered to deliver, wait and return us – all for the price of an 8 minute London cab ride was to cost us a bra, a flip (half a pair of flip flops) and my proverbial pants.
All initially seemed well as we left the restaurant with a group of around 8 VSO’s and happily trundled home after dinner in search of a cab ahead of the approaching ‘rain shower’. A trundle turned into a trek just as the mother of monsoon storms erupted with us stranded in search of shelter/wheels.
We eventually, mercifully got into a taxi, wetter than an otter’s pocket as the spectacular lightning sporadically made the black sky completely white. The storm was ferocious and within a minute I reckon I’d seen more rain than I did in 5 years in the Welsh Valleys. Mesmerised by the electricity in the sky, I failed to realise that on the ground, the already unreliable electricity grid had capitulated and the roads were plunged into darkness. I was riding ‘shotgun’ and at that point I’d rather be sat in front of one. The headlights would only provide glimpses of vision. The rain was heavy enough to cave the windscreen in and the occasional sky-wide illuminations only clarified that we were indeed driving through a river. We were in the middle of a flash flood. I’m sure there were goats and cows swimming past the cab but I couldn’t prove it and I’m also sure the driver couldn’t prove where the edges of the road were. Nonetheless, he managed to navigate to a petrol station shelter where he discovered he had a puncture. His attempt at replacing the flat failed when his spanner-type implement snapped.
Thus we entered the 3rd phase of our mission back to the hotel. Another taxi pulled up with the downpour still in full flow and whilst he could provide four air-filled tyres, he couldn’t offer us headlights or a MOT certificate. Desperation defeated British safety standards and we jumped in for the 2-mile journey from hell. Windscreen wipers were redundant as the driver followed a sense of direction in the dark rather than rely on sight. Again, flashes of lightning marked out the trees and corrugated iron structures that lined the road and miraculously, after a 10 minute exercise in tension build up, the driver got us back to within 400 yards of the hotel mainly by tailgating a 4x4 that had kindly overtaken us and allowed us to follow in his rear-lighted slipstream.
With the stretch of road downhill to the hotel un-negotiable by car, we attempted it by foot. It was only knee deep but the flow of water seemed to be Amazonesque. Tentative steps were taken and cat-like balance required as Jo lost a flip flop and Liz somehow lost her bra as sheets of water peppered us from above and below. We’ve all heard the phrase “a storm in a tea-cup” but “storm wins a D-cup” is one you’ll never hear again.
We finally made it back to the hotel to discover it had been flooded. Thankfully our rooms were spared. Drenched from head to toe, a welcome brandy warmed us up and I don’t know if it was the alcohol but I’m sure I saw some white bone structures dangling from Pete’s boxer shorts where his legs would normally be.
Our 10 days were filled with amazing memories and some feats of endurance and human spirit. ‘Banjul Belly’ hit both Jo and I at the rather inconvenient time of leaving the pleasant hotel resort, complete with pool, spa, massage, restaurants etc to travel up country. We were heading to the island of Janjanbureh where electricity lives for about 60% of the day and ‘sitting on the throne’ is a luxury literally afforded only to royalty or high-ranking officials. Restaurants don’t exist and the closest thing they’ve got to a swimming pool has hippos and crocs in it. I inwardly prayed that Jo’s eleventh hour vomit as we were all set to leave would render us 5 star bound but her inherited belligerence foiled my cowardly plan.
The seven-hour journey was a bumpy one. Although only 120 miles or so, 50% of that was along dirt tracks with pot holes the size of moon craters. The countryside was green as August and September are the only wet months of the year. We passed through several towns, monkeys and ‘Lumos’ (markets) en route to the small island that Liz and Pete call home.
Of the various towns and villages we passed, Janjanbureh was the most inviting and picturesque and even though it had poverty written all over it, the people were happy, warm and hospitable. The shops and amenities were hardly the most convenient. Simple groceries like eggs, cheese and fresh milk are a few hours drive away if you want them consistently. The number and variety of insects and lizards were particularly unsettling for a yellow bellied westerner yet there was (and is) an enduring and charming quality to the village that enabled me to understand how and why Liz and Pete (anointed Hawa and Bakari by the villagers) could have grown fond of the place.
Their home for one year is tiny by western standards but plentiful for West Africa. Their living space is around 150 square feet consisting of a front room (about 8x8) which functions as kitchen, dining room and living room, a bedroom and then an outdoor wash/relief area. Not a bathroom or toilet but a wash/relief area. Even that simplest and most desirable room was not on the floor plan when these two signed up. The wash area contained a solar trickler (rather than shower), Pete’s wash bucket and the dreaded pit-latrine. The less said about that the better but apparently, the Walfords are thinking of installing one in Cardiff on their return. The wash area has optional frogs, lizards and myriad insects but you allegedly become accustomed to them. In terms of mod cons, there is literally zilch. A stove (which is a fire hazard), fridge, water-filter and fan are as far as luxuries go – and even then, the fridge and fan are restricted by power. In a climate where it can get to 50 degrees Celsius, with no air con, tolerance is a virtue that Pete has picked up and excelled in (and a virtue that clearly Liz always had…). The home sits within a ‘compound’ owned and guarded by their good friend Mulai and his family. Over the three days we were there, we came to know the family and it’s clear that their kindness and companionship have been a key component in Liz and Pete’s endurance and love of the place.
Though both Jo and I had to go native with some ill-fated visits to the pit-latrine and were generally unwell for our entire stay on Janjanbureh, we had an experience to savour (certainly in hindsight). Our 65-hour island incarceration felt like a 6-month stretch. Using the same frame of reference, Liz and Pete will have served over 8,000 hours on Janjanbureh by the time they head back. That equates to 60 ‘Janjanbureh-years’ which happens to be about 10 years higher than the average life-expectancy of a Gambian.
It was fun after it lasted and our return to what I had earlier phrased a ‘pleasant’ hotel was like arriving at the most beautiful, watery oasis after weeks on end in the Sahara. The Kairaba Hotel had suddenly become a palace and we could relax our stomach muscles once again.
We departed on the 20th August and could see and truly understand the misery of the Walford parents as they left us at the Kairaba. A 9-hour non air-conned bus ride to the island awaited them followed by 14 more weeks there (about 18 ‘JJB years’). A tough slog but they’ve definitely broken the back of their stiff endurance test and have plenty of additional viewing material, games and of course, alcohol to drown out the din of the frogs in the wash/relief area. They have some fantastic and wonderfully friendly villagers who provide the heartbeat to life. They also, obviously have each other – the backbone without which they could not have lasted so long. One thing still missing is the brain. If that was there, they’d have fled at least 6 months before our arrival. For that
Our coach pulled in to the Kairaba Hotel in the Kombo an hour after we’d landed where two very hungry looking Walfords had been waiting expectantly for our arrival. As Jo leapt from the bus into their waiting arms, the ferocity of the embrace made me fear that they’d been counting down the months to eat rather than greet us.
The hotel was a pleasant resort in the main tourist area of Gambia and an apparent land of luxury for Bakari & Hawa (Pete and Liz’s African monikers). They were able to sample a hot shower and use what you and I call a ‘toilet’ for the first time in 7 long months.
Our highlight of the Kombo was our second night. We’d ventured out of town to celebrate a VSO birthday. Pete’s refusal to engage a cab driver who’d offered to deliver, wait and return us – all for the price of an 8 minute London cab ride was to cost us a bra, a flip (half a pair of flip flops) and my proverbial pants.
All initially seemed well as we left the restaurant with a group of around 8 VSO’s and happily trundled home after dinner in search of a cab ahead of the approaching ‘rain shower’. A trundle turned into a trek just as the mother of monsoon storms erupted with us stranded in search of shelter/wheels.
We eventually, mercifully got into a taxi, wetter than an otter’s pocket as the spectacular lightning sporadically made the black sky completely white. The storm was ferocious and within a minute I reckon I’d seen more rain than I did in 5 years in the Welsh Valleys. Mesmerised by the electricity in the sky, I failed to realise that on the ground, the already unreliable electricity grid had capitulated and the roads were plunged into darkness. I was riding ‘shotgun’ and at that point I’d rather be sat in front of one. The headlights would only provide glimpses of vision. The rain was heavy enough to cave the windscreen in and the occasional sky-wide illuminations only clarified that we were indeed driving through a river. We were in the middle of a flash flood. I’m sure there were goats and cows swimming past the cab but I couldn’t prove it and I’m also sure the driver couldn’t prove where the edges of the road were. Nonetheless, he managed to navigate to a petrol station shelter where he discovered he had a puncture. His attempt at replacing the flat failed when his spanner-type implement snapped.
Thus we entered the 3rd phase of our mission back to the hotel. Another taxi pulled up with the downpour still in full flow and whilst he could provide four air-filled tyres, he couldn’t offer us headlights or a MOT certificate. Desperation defeated British safety standards and we jumped in for the 2-mile journey from hell. Windscreen wipers were redundant as the driver followed a sense of direction in the dark rather than rely on sight. Again, flashes of lightning marked out the trees and corrugated iron structures that lined the road and miraculously, after a 10 minute exercise in tension build up, the driver got us back to within 400 yards of the hotel mainly by tailgating a 4x4 that had kindly overtaken us and allowed us to follow in his rear-lighted slipstream.
With the stretch of road downhill to the hotel un-negotiable by car, we attempted it by foot. It was only knee deep but the flow of water seemed to be Amazonesque. Tentative steps were taken and cat-like balance required as Jo lost a flip flop and Liz somehow lost her bra as sheets of water peppered us from above and below. We’ve all heard the phrase “a storm in a tea-cup” but “storm wins a D-cup” is one you’ll never hear again.
We finally made it back to the hotel to discover it had been flooded. Thankfully our rooms were spared. Drenched from head to toe, a welcome brandy warmed us up and I don’t know if it was the alcohol but I’m sure I saw some white bone structures dangling from Pete’s boxer shorts where his legs would normally be.
Our 10 days were filled with amazing memories and some feats of endurance and human spirit. ‘Banjul Belly’ hit both Jo and I at the rather inconvenient time of leaving the pleasant hotel resort, complete with pool, spa, massage, restaurants etc to travel up country. We were heading to the island of Janjanbureh where electricity lives for about 60% of the day and ‘sitting on the throne’ is a luxury literally afforded only to royalty or high-ranking officials. Restaurants don’t exist and the closest thing they’ve got to a swimming pool has hippos and crocs in it. I inwardly prayed that Jo’s eleventh hour vomit as we were all set to leave would render us 5 star bound but her inherited belligerence foiled my cowardly plan.
The seven-hour journey was a bumpy one. Although only 120 miles or so, 50% of that was along dirt tracks with pot holes the size of moon craters. The countryside was green as August and September are the only wet months of the year. We passed through several towns, monkeys and ‘Lumos’ (markets) en route to the small island that Liz and Pete call home.
Of the various towns and villages we passed, Janjanbureh was the most inviting and picturesque and even though it had poverty written all over it, the people were happy, warm and hospitable. The shops and amenities were hardly the most convenient. Simple groceries like eggs, cheese and fresh milk are a few hours drive away if you want them consistently. The number and variety of insects and lizards were particularly unsettling for a yellow bellied westerner yet there was (and is) an enduring and charming quality to the village that enabled me to understand how and why Liz and Pete (anointed Hawa and Bakari by the villagers) could have grown fond of the place.
Their home for one year is tiny by western standards but plentiful for West Africa. Their living space is around 150 square feet consisting of a front room (about 8x8) which functions as kitchen, dining room and living room, a bedroom and then an outdoor wash/relief area. Not a bathroom or toilet but a wash/relief area. Even that simplest and most desirable room was not on the floor plan when these two signed up. The wash area contained a solar trickler (rather than shower), Pete’s wash bucket and the dreaded pit-latrine. The less said about that the better but apparently, the Walfords are thinking of installing one in Cardiff on their return. The wash area has optional frogs, lizards and myriad insects but you allegedly become accustomed to them. In terms of mod cons, there is literally zilch. A stove (which is a fire hazard), fridge, water-filter and fan are as far as luxuries go – and even then, the fridge and fan are restricted by power. In a climate where it can get to 50 degrees Celsius, with no air con, tolerance is a virtue that Pete has picked up and excelled in (and a virtue that clearly Liz always had…). The home sits within a ‘compound’ owned and guarded by their good friend Mulai and his family. Over the three days we were there, we came to know the family and it’s clear that their kindness and companionship have been a key component in Liz and Pete’s endurance and love of the place.
Though both Jo and I had to go native with some ill-fated visits to the pit-latrine and were generally unwell for our entire stay on Janjanbureh, we had an experience to savour (certainly in hindsight). Our 65-hour island incarceration felt like a 6-month stretch. Using the same frame of reference, Liz and Pete will have served over 8,000 hours on Janjanbureh by the time they head back. That equates to 60 ‘Janjanbureh-years’ which happens to be about 10 years higher than the average life-expectancy of a Gambian.
It was fun after it lasted and our return to what I had earlier phrased a ‘pleasant’ hotel was like arriving at the most beautiful, watery oasis after weeks on end in the Sahara. The Kairaba Hotel had suddenly become a palace and we could relax our stomach muscles once again.
We departed on the 20th August and could see and truly understand the misery of the Walford parents as they left us at the Kairaba. A 9-hour non air-conned bus ride to the island awaited them followed by 14 more weeks there (about 18 ‘JJB years’). A tough slog but they’ve definitely broken the back of their stiff endurance test and have plenty of additional viewing material, games and of course, alcohol to drown out the din of the frogs in the wash/relief area. They have some fantastic and wonderfully friendly villagers who provide the heartbeat to life. They also, obviously have each other – the backbone without which they could not have lasted so long. One thing still missing is the brain. If that was there, they’d have fled at least 6 months before our arrival. For that
, I take my hat off and bow down reverently.
Jo and Lester come to visit
The advent of the new bridge has majorly changed our view of life. The magic green bus travels onto the island and we can now sit all the way to the Kombos. No longer the lingering for the north bank ferry, the painful wait as the gelli gelli fills, the bumpy ride hugging a smelly armpit or two, the precarious journey on an overfilled ferry and then the final bartering for a taxi to reach our destination.
We walked, as if on air, accompanied by Mulai, who ushered us to our seats and organized our bag being thrown onto the roof. We were off to Kombos to meet with Jo and Lester for our holiday. The promise of hot showers, clean toilets and cheese - not even the eight hour bone-crunching journey could daunt our enthusiasm.
The journey was not without it’s stops. Police, immigration and military checkpoints dotted along the route and routine drop off and pick-ups. The goat being loaded onto the bus roof took a while as we listened to his belligerent stampings reverberating through the metal ceiling and the double bamboo bed spied and bought by one eagle eyed passenger caused some pondering – how to get that up. No problem as the ever-helpful Gambians heaved and shoved.
So what does one do on a bus ride of Alton Towers proportions?
I studied heads.
Baseball caps, worn forwards, sideways, backwards, beanie hats sporting varying motifs, bobble hats upon sweated brow, prayer caps with complex embroidery of kabbas and minarets interwoven with symmetrical patters in rainbow threads, straw panamas, woven fulla cones, and that’s just the men.
Women with soft muslin draped gently, starched pleated bows, self matching fabrics wound impossibly with tucks and pushings, wigs of straightened hair with purple streaks, sequined netting glittering beautifully in the light. Hair braided in complicated patterns, tramlines of tight slender plaits squares and swirls embedded in scalps, ended with ribbons and beads or liberated freely from the tight tresses.
My favourite? A dapper man, fluorescent yellow pointed shoes beneath full white African garb sporting a bowler – fashioned from an Asda bag.
We walked, as if on air, accompanied by Mulai, who ushered us to our seats and organized our bag being thrown onto the roof. We were off to Kombos to meet with Jo and Lester for our holiday. The promise of hot showers, clean toilets and cheese - not even the eight hour bone-crunching journey could daunt our enthusiasm.
The journey was not without it’s stops. Police, immigration and military checkpoints dotted along the route and routine drop off and pick-ups. The goat being loaded onto the bus roof took a while as we listened to his belligerent stampings reverberating through the metal ceiling and the double bamboo bed spied and bought by one eagle eyed passenger caused some pondering – how to get that up. No problem as the ever-helpful Gambians heaved and shoved.
So what does one do on a bus ride of Alton Towers proportions?
I studied heads.
Baseball caps, worn forwards, sideways, backwards, beanie hats sporting varying motifs, bobble hats upon sweated brow, prayer caps with complex embroidery of kabbas and minarets interwoven with symmetrical patters in rainbow threads, straw panamas, woven fulla cones, and that’s just the men.
Women with soft muslin draped gently, starched pleated bows, self matching fabrics wound impossibly with tucks and pushings, wigs of straightened hair with purple streaks, sequined netting glittering beautifully in the light. Hair braided in complicated patterns, tramlines of tight slender plaits squares and swirls embedded in scalps, ended with ribbons and beads or liberated freely from the tight tresses.
My favourite? A dapper man, fluorescent yellow pointed shoes beneath full white African garb sporting a bowler – fashioned from an Asda bag.
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