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.
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