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.