Jarumeh Koto first, just across the river and then onto Jamali the small village in the bush along 5 kilometers of sandy track. Hmmmmm. Pete was driving so I could enjoy the scenery, the bush dying back to its ochre hues, monkeys, baboons, donkey carts and the familiar sight of roofs and smoke denoting a small encampment here and there.
Breakfast, boiled egg, toasted tapalapa and coffee, dress into faded dust encrusted trousers, shirt and well used hiking boots, (those people in VSO who suggested we should ‘dress tidy’ have clearly not been doing this job) and off we go.
The journey to the first school was uneventful, greetings, smiles and routine conversations as we wait for the ferry trip, salute the military at the checkpoint and a smooth trip along the tarmac. Our mission was simply to seek out the headmaster and discuss arrangements to organize sponsorship for a bright, engaging orphan student whose uncle cannot afford his school fees.
Travel outside the Gambia is difficult for those born here, visas nearly impossible to obtain, and unlike a UK passport the Gambian documentation doesn’t hold much weight with the authorities. The potential sponsors want him to have a visa so that, at a later date, he can travel to Europe. Does he have a birth certificate? Of course not. He’s not even exactly certain of the date he was born. He will need to visit the alekelo, or village chief, to get written confirmation, borrow his uncles bio metric ID card, (an incongruous piece of plastic amid the medieval tools and camp fires,) walk 5 kilometers to the island to visit the health centre for verification and have two passport photos taken in the small shack that promises photocopying, laminating and the like.
Firm handshakes, gratitude, promises of on going contact as we say our final goodbye.
Which path to take? There are several that lead off in the general direction the village but no signs to suggest which is the easiest or quickest. Pete picks one and we head out amid the scrub and sheep tracks that are the chosen route. Eventually we slew our way into the school grounds. Silence …..and then………toubab, toubab………and we have wreaked havoc, children standing in their classes, pushing hands through the mosaic windows. No one minds.
We visit the headmaster first and then onto a nursery class where Fatou teaches them letter sounds with rhymes and rhythm – signs that education is moving forward. She has 50 in her tiny classroom, little doots bedraggled in flimsy uniform but generally smiling and engaged. Onto year 6, dominated by girls as they have free education, whereas the boys have to pay a small sum in school fees. A return visit to fulfill my promise to show them photos of my family, pictures of snow gave rise to incredulity and a complete lack of comprehension. I understood why. The sun shines in the blue blue sky and even though I hear word of snow in Cardiff I can’t really believe it.
We are wanted. The children have their lunch of boiled rice which they eat as ‘foodbowl’ hunkered down in groups of 6 around stainless steel bowls, eating skillfully with their hands whilst we play games with 9 teachers under the mango tree. Simple parlour games like I spy, say a word with the ending letter of the previous one, change places if you are wearing blue. They are all new to them and, amid much laughter, an hour flies by. Time for our foodbowl, rice with chillies, which we eat, not so skillfully, before making our departure.
Back to the office where the Whole School Development plan course is in full swing. There is much ‘push and pull’ as they call discussion here, heated debate and misunderstanding which causes much merriment. I have got used to these apparent arguments, which always finish with good humour, a handshake and ‘brother’. By 7 we have finished the task in hand – a prototype plan, great in theory but ‘pie in the sky’ in reality. More foodbowl and then the ride back to our house. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we left.
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