moving 'up country'

We weren’t quite prepared for the renewed culture shock that moving up country would bring.  Leaving on the VSO truck packed to the gunnels with all that one needs to live for three months, buckets, sheets, brushes, toothpaste and toilet paper to name just a bit, we mooched, only an hour late to the VSO office where we signed for Senagalise money (in case of a coup), pristine white mosquito nets and malaria tablets and said our final goodbyes.  The beginning of distancing ourselves from the VSO safety net, the start of the relationship with our employers.

As we bumped and bashed our way along the road, brick buildings, lights and shops were soon replaced by wide stretches of sandy, yellow ochre scrubland, dotted with baobab trees and interspersed with small villages of mud huts and thatch. Some were contenders for ‘the best kept village in The Gambia’, the roofs trimmed to millimetre even edges, swept courtyards and designer fencing around small plantations of bananas and mangos, others were dancing with black plastic carrier bags, fluttering in the breeze like carrion crows, fallen down buildings patched with corrugated iron.  At each was a stone circle enclosing a well, with one or two bedraggled dirty children pumping hard, water splashing into an array of containers which were lifted with consummate ease and balanced with strength and elegance onto their heads for the walk back to their compounds.

On and on we trucked passing dried riverbeds, snakelike, curling their meandering journey through the earth.  Twice we saw troops of monkeys scampering across the road and moving silently into the bush.  Few vehicles, an occasional car or motor bike beeping past us, several donkey carts laden with women returning from market with rice and vegetables smiling and waving, children running alongside us with the athletic grace of long distance runners.  Goats skittered across the road moving at the final moment before impact.  Still further we travelled until we got to the first stop, Soma, where two volunteers, Kate and Lucy, are to live for the next two years.

We opened the doors to be struck, like a physical force, with ‘the trial’ of up country.  Barely able to breathe, we lugged boxes and bags into their accommodation and with neither water or electricity to bring relief from the energy sapping heat.

Another three hours of travel, more goats, donkeys and swarms of school children in brightly coloured uniforms ambling along and eventually we got to the outskirts of Janjanbureh.  An island in the middle of the River Gambia it is accessed by ferry, from either the north or south banks.  Ali, the driver, an amiable easy going fellow, drove with care onto the floating rust sheet and then all hands to the rope as the men (and in this case I was pleased to follow the female lead) pulled the steel cable and we creaked and groaned across the murky water. We slid off the other side.  And there we were, eight hours later, dusty, sweaty, scared, exhilarated and excited - our first experience of our new town.

Banks

I may possibly have previously alluded that Gambian time is different.  On the second day of our arrival we filled in the numerous forms, index cards and proofs of identity needed to open a bank account. Everything, four or five times, with signatures, photocopies of passports, two photographs per person, and yet more signatures, all closely supervised by the VSO accountant. On the second day we filled in more forms, this time to a personal, not business, account.  So here we are, four weeks later, several more pieces of card duly signed and still no account.  As we will be living in the back of beyond, the nearest bank over thirty five miles away, along the most amazing pot holed roads ever to be seen, VSO took pity and gave us two months allowance.  Well that is they gave us a cheque.

Carefully clutching this pristine sheet for the sum of D9040 we went to the bank on Friday afternoon – a mistake as everything stops at lunchtime.  Banks are actually pretty much like the British ones – on the surface - clean, air conditioned, waiting area and queues.  Fifteenth in line I was chilled.  By the time I had waited for half an hour and four or five people had seen their long lost friend and joined them in front of us I was feeling decidedly peckish. Each customer chatted to all the cashiers, at length, greeting and meeting and hand shaking before getting down to business. 

Eventually I made it to the counter and there any suggestion of parity changed.  Behind the counter were wedges of notes, tables and desks like a junkyard, thirty or so people wandering aimlessly and a strange contraption. Needing at least four pairs of eyes to make it work the metal mechanism rotated squeakily to count dalasi notes. Problematic because of varying thickness, density, dishevelment and general grottiness of the paper the machine couldn’t cope, each batch had to be placed in the machine four times and then re counted by hand before being placed in a paper collar.  Slow laborious writing and then they were placed onto a tower, which the great train robbers would be pleased to snatch.  No security just mountains of cash.  When I eventually received my stash it was 4 centimetres thick – yes I measured it.

Clearly, in order to recover, the only answer was to go to the nearest bar for lunch.  Here we bumped into another couple of volunteers and sat with a local larger and cheesy meat pie – absolutely delicious.

The mosque across the road was full to capacity.  Call to prayer. Men in traditional dress swarmed to every available space and a group formed on the steps of ‘Brian Special Barbing’.  I watched as they laid their mats, stood hips touching, like a tin of sardines, moving with the grace, elegance and precision of the Olympic gym team, bending, kneeling and bowing as one.  Twenty minutes later and they disappeared from wherever they came, calm and peace restored.

A question for you.  What is essential to equip a house?  VSO have given us £80 to buy everything we need.  What would be on your list?

motor bike training

The five power rangers with shiny helmets, covered from head to foot with leather and denim arrive to meet Sol the quietly spoken motorbike trainer.  Actually he was not quietly spoken for he was not there.  AWOL, we were left with two other cheerful Gambians, one tall good looking lad and the other a cheerful bumpkin of a man given to repeating and embellishing each comment made by the first. Acting, in order to highlight his point, his rubber body became a bush pig, leaping out in front of an intrepid rider - motorbike riding is dangerous.

The handout tells us that we started at 9 on Monday.  Difficult as we pitched up a day late and didn’t get there till ten, courtesy of VSO. Day One of motorbike training. 

An ambient temperature of 36 degrees it wasn’t long before helmet hair, sun burnt faces and arms appeared as we disrobed leaving paraphernalia on the oil stained garage floor and moving onto garden chairs placed for us in the shade of the roof.  From here we tried to hear above the revving of lorries to instructions of bike care given by Laurel and Hardy. 

Eventually Sol arrived.  Clad only in mechanic’s overalls and with a distinct lack of deodorant or teeth brushing he proceeded to repeat everything we had just been told, whilst conversing with unseen voices on the mobile plugged into his ear.  PLANS. (Petrol, lubricant, adjustment, nuts, stopping – see I’ve done my homework)  By now it’s lunchtime and we are metal poker bored.  Gone are the shaking hands and knees.  ‘Just get on with it’ is on my lips as we are told that we would not be riding today.  Feeling brave I pointed out that we needed to finish on Friday so, looking resigned, he agreed that he would watch us start the bike and move in turn so he would know where to begin tomorrow.

I got my comeuppance for being bolshie as he pointed at me and directed me to move the bike. The surprise on his face was a delight as I managed to manoeuvre it backwards and place it in the allocated spot. Everything went quiet.  Engines were switched off, spanners clanged down as all the mechanics stopped to look.  Clearly this is a great spectator sport, watching the newbies fall off. Pete gave a wry smile as for the first time in 30 years I kick started a bike, put it into first gear and moved off without stalling.  Yippee.

And that was it.  Tomorrow we repeat PLANS and if we are lucky get to ride around some stones.  Roll on Monday.

A quick up date........it's now Friday........yer man says to get through deep sand, stand in the seat, look where you want to go, open the throttle and have courage in your heart!

odds and sods

·      A miracle.  Pete’s dyspraxia has been cured.  His improvement in hand eye co ordination means he can now eat and drink without spilling it.  The cynics among us might think that washing his own clothes by hand, in cold water might have helped

·      There is no glass at the windows of our houses.  Just mosquito netting

·      We are going to have a pit latrine when we move to Janjanbureh – oh joy

·      Mosquito bitten legs are not attractive – especially when they are white

·      The Gambian diet has helped me to put on weight – so much for my size zero

·      Next month is the hottest in The Gambia with predicted temperatures of the high forties.  The work rate is expected to decrease from it’s already snail like pace

·      Motor bike training begins on Tuesday, essential before we can be insured.  We learn to ride through sand, mud and flood wearing full protective clothing.  Helmet hair.

·      The first people begin to leave the Big Brother house on Tuesday.  It’s hard living with other people but travel scrabble and poker are great games

James' Island

The River Gambia is vast at the estuary.  If you squint you can just about make land on the other side.  Famous for it’s meandering length into the heart of Africa it is known for it’s access to the coast and the New World plantations, yes indeed for slavery.

We went to see the birthplace and original home of Kunte Kinte and to meet Maryam, a direct descendent.  It was moving.  The museum, itself fairly derelict, tatty and generally sandy told the story of the millions of strong healthy people who tried to flee the Portuguese, French and English who rounded them up by burning their huts.  Rape followed not least because a pregnant woman was worth twice as much.

An original ‘log book’ listed the names, tribes and ages of their captives.  Branding irons were displayed alongside metal contraptions for keeping order.  ‘It is little problem.  The marks clear within four or five days and soon become white lines on their chests.’ Horrific.

We went, by boat to James Island, a tiny speck in the middle of the river. Accompanied by a drummer who sang songs of the sad story with a melancholic rhythm.  He spoke of the need for forgiveness for our ancestors and of love for the new generation.

Across a pier of decaying tree trunks, unsafely wobbling we made our way onto the island. A few baobab trees and the ruins of the fort where the African people were herded and kept in a space fit for a mouse, troublemakers into a deep cell with a ten inch hole for ventilation and light. Many of the captured dived into the river to be eaten by sharks and crocodiles rather than go on the boats. It was a thought provoking time.

Perhaps the most poignant moment was our logistics manager, Ebrima, who refused to go to the fort, kneeling with his shoes beside him staring thoughtfully at the water. ‘you see Liz, it’s like pouring water into the sand.  You can’t get it back but it goes into the history and the very being of our land.’

getting about

We had our first ride in a gelii today. For those uninitiated among us it is a bus – of sorts. Made by finding an ancient space cruiser and removing everything except the frame, add an assortment of home made metal structures, precariously attached, to act as seats, and then beat it to within an inch of it’s life and you get the idea.



There’s the determined driver and his assistant who leans out of the door shouting incomprehensible destinations.


It has to be full before the driver will leave. “How much room?” screams our Mandinka instructor. “4” So 8 of us pile in to join a strange array of characters. The woman with the baby glued to her front with multi patterned material wrapped tightly around her ample torso, a cleanly clad youth plugged into his i pod tapping some unknown rhythm against his leg, a British couple on their 5th holiday in The Gambia (parents of an ex VSO), the deodorant less man who hacks grolleys in his throat, a tiny lad returning from school complete with case and gas canister twice his size. Add to this a sack of onions (never mind my feet) shopping bags, the rucksacks and there’s hardly room to breathe. That’s okay the smell makes me reluctant anyway.


So off we go, all 16 of us. The sliding door flies off its runners to be inadvertently caught by the poor soul who has his arm out of the window. (There’s no room for it inside) The back seat rotates to an angle of 45 degrees just before the rear window falls out onto the rope that suggests this might have happened before. We jump, lurch and bump along, every jolt bashing us against our neighbour.


Payment is D5, about 12p. Unzip the rucksack, find the purse buried in its depth and then try to decipher which note was, at its inception, red, amid the brown paper wad, all in a square centimetre of moveable space.


At each stop most people have to alight allowing a tangoed manoeuvre to exchange passengers, until we eventually reach our destination. Serekunda market – but that’s a whole new story.

Just to let you know


Photographs are not always easy to take. For a variety of reasons people are not always happy. We’ve been told that some Muslims are concerned about their souls being depicted, thoughts that we might be trying to make post cards to sell and various other ideas. A man, verbally attacked Pete and then tried to take his camera, for taking a picture of a road sign. Added difficulties downloading them onto the Internet and it’s all a bit haphazard but there are a few (thanks Rob) on


www.flickr.com/photos/walfords

Gambian Time

It struck me last night as I gazed up into a beautiful star lit sky – we’re here.  In Africa.  Pete got on a plane.  We packed, said our goodbyes and we are actually here. We wake up each morning to warmth and mosquito bites and it’s wonderful. 

I saw something on the computer to say there was snow in Wales.  It is hard to remember.  All that seems so far away and, besides people, I miss very little.  In an African cocoon I know nothing of elections, economic depression, football scores or any of the things that come from home.  I have not watched or wished to watch television.

Where we live at the moment there is constant noise, not of traffic or radios but of crickets, birds, children and the constant beat of the drums that abound from all areas of the city.

We have just returned from a shopping trip.  As we leave our house the five of us say good morning trying out our Mandinka on the guard – only to find that he speaks Wolof.  Smiles and English say it all anyway.  We turn right onto the dust track where Sophie a little 3 year old with train track snot and bare feet runs to greet us ‘toubab toubab’ and refuses to leave until we’ve picked her up and made a fuss.  Welcomed to The Gambia by her father we move another twenty yards.  Sand though our sandals, warm and grainy on our feet.  ‘saalaam aleikum’ over and over again as we move like a shoal of fish swimming lazily.

On the corner of our street is a bitiko.  There must be hundreds of these tiny tiny corner shops, nay not shops, huts all over.  They appear as shutters open in between houses, under trees and in the walls.  They sell a strange array of things, some bread, a few eggs, packets of ovaltine, shoe polish, a fuse, maybe a statue or two.  The next day the variety will be totally different.  The constant is the mobile phone credit cards.  Loads of them everywhere.

Left onto the tarmac road with sand pavements.  The sun beats down, high in the post card blue skies.  People sit in small groups under the trees chatting and watching the world go by. Children play with old tyres, wheeling them and jumping in and out.  A gang of youths play football with a battered ball and gates for goals and the usual rivalry and shouted banter.  Always the smiles and greetings.

The ‘five five’ taxi/bus cars beep to announce their availability but we refuse and the yellow and green striped vehicles pass on down the road.

Drop the letter into the post box with no idea when it will arrive.  Right again and we are on the ‘pipeline’ the main road with shops, restaurants, garages and the list goes on.  Still the sand pavements, occasionally, where there are banks or embassies, guarded by men with guns, lazily leaning against walls. 

Into the electrical shop which looks suspiciously like Curry’s on a smaller scale.  There begins the negotiation with Rocky for the rechargeable electric fan we want to buy.  We’ve been told about how much we will have to pay.  It begins with an astronomical price but some strange looks and mention of VSO and there’s a good-humoured discount immediately given.  The exchange of sixty D50 notes (about £40) for the fan.  Money here is filthy, often repaired with staples or sticky tape, which gathers yet more grime and sand. No one seems to bother with the buttoots, the small change.

Back home, still smiling and greeting and the whole outing has taken two hours.  As they say ‘Gambian time’.