Women in The Gambia

So I’m sitting in our wee living room in front of the fan, which is whizzing like Billy Ho, however he may whizz, reviewing the Easter weekend.  We’ve had friends to stay, Kate and Lucy.  Phil lives nearby on the island and he’s been here too.  It’s been great being able to talk freely, without worrying about greetings, language or political correctness.  We’ve laughed a lot. They are part of our little Gambian family.  It’s strange to think that we are so close, whereas, in Britain, we probably wouldn’t have spoken a word to each other.  Common experiences eh! 

Work is very slow for a variety of reasons and, not being the most patient of people, we want to get on with it.  Easter holidays now so schools are closed and the main people are out of the office for the week too.  We’re hoping that on their return we can have a review and really get things sorted – after all we’ve been here two months already, a sixth of our stay. 

Mulai our muscle packed, skinny landlord is brilliant.  He allows us to let off steam and then smiles sagely and says, “This is The Gambia” and then bustles around to introduce us to the right people and gets things going in whatever way he can. He’s embarrassed to be male for he reckons that it’s the women who do all the work while the men sit under the trees drinking attaya.  Apparently women account for 70 per cent of the economy on the island.

He called for us the other evening. Leading us out of our compound*, alongside our little house, across the gritty ground with goats rummaging amid rubbish and debris we came to a whole new area of African bush. Beautiful long tailed metallic blue birds flittered here and there as dragonflies darted back and for. Yellow headed, purple bodied, lizards scuttled through the dried grasses and over rocks.  We followed narrow twists and turns through limbs and fingers of wood, scratching legs and flip flop adorned feet, chatting amiably about work frustrations and lack of output.

At six the temperature drops a tad but ambling is still best. Half an hour later we spotted an oasis of green in the otherwise ochre landscape. An elderly woman with spindle legs and cataract eyes stood by the gaping hole of the concrete well, hauling up water with a makeshift bucket and lengths of knotted fabric reminiscent on the great escape.  Animated in her one toothed speech she explained that the badly built well was not deep enough to maintain a water flow hence the muddy sludge fifty foot down.  She and the other women need water to irrigate their onions, okra, sorrel and aubergines at least twice a day in this heat.  Their produce feed their compounds and any surplice sold in the market buys the rice.  Surrounded by termite-infested sticks, interwoven with others, the allotments are thriving by determination and hard hard work.

As VSO’s we have access to funding from the British High Commission to support small community projects.  Our predecessor used hers to build a bridge, allowing the women to cross to the rice fields in the rainy season, rather than swim or take a mile detour.  Mulai and the women’s co-operative are hoping for support to re-bore the well and build animal proof, permanent fencing.

We continued on our way to visit the funded gardens a mile away.  It was abuzz with activity and crops.  Bare breasted, muddy women and female children, babies tied to backs, drawing water to quench the parched land and crops, surrounded metal fencing and plentiful wells.  Chatter and smiles.  Plants flourishing with twice daily care and attention, misshapen tools from the middle ages and machetes used with lethal accuracy.  We watched, uplifted and yet exhausted, with incredulity, the energy and physical strength as containers of water were lifted onto heads over and over again.  The heat still radiated from the land as the sun faded in the sky as we wandered like gaggles of geese, back to town, laughing and joking.  Women in this part of the world do not have it easy.

*Everything is so different here.  A compound is a where a mini community live.  It may, unusually like ours, consist of one family but more likely, will comprise of the extended family in an array of accommodation.  Often fenced with pieces of corrugated iron nailed haphazardly together, feeding, childcare and general living are a joint responsibility.  Polygamy is common and men folk are often away with their other wives and children or elsewhere leaving the women to manage on a day-to-day basis.

letters

You may think that the following is somewhat over the top but, as we are getting into the swing of this, our writing style is becoming more Gambian.  Without a word of a lie this is a request written in the way of letters we receive.  The education system and thesaurus have a lot to answer for.

To our highly esteemed friends and colleagues:

We would implore and highly recommend that you visit our most worthy websites. Therein you will find many pictures that you will find both highly informative and highly entertaining. We believe these pictures form a lofty package and your solicitous cooperation in viewing these would be highly appreciated. Furthermore we request your good selves to communicate with us with the highly proficient use of the emailing device and add your honoured names to the ‘followers’ register on the blog.

Your support and understanding are highly solicited,

Hawa and Bakary Darboe

In other words please email us and join ‘followers’ and comment on the blog.

The very flash education offices which have electricity and internet and I spend many an hour.

books, books books and more books

Half past eight on the dot and Bakary and I roared up to the school playground, screeching to halt under the shade of a neeme tree.  Ten lines of children curled like snakes across the sharp stone yard, standing in the mornings heat, smartly dressed in their green and white, singing the national anthem with gusto.  As we stood and watched a few stragglers peered uncertainly around the corner of the building.  How late were they?  Would they be reprimanded?  They scuttled to add to the adders’ length.

Nearly the holidays, teachers and children were smiling.  Today was a match day that is to say a day of continuous playtime and little learning, much like any other. Tests completed and marked, reports written everyone was relaxed to the point of horizontal.  Smiles, greetings, handshakes and two teachers left the school yard for I know not where.  The headmaster was overjoyed.  We were to tackle ‘the library.’

Dressed in florescent pink African garb, complete with embroidered prayer cap, he was delighted with his work of the previous Friday when he had, as promised, organised children to man handle box upon box of books into our new domain.  Swishing elegantly amid the cockerels, chickens and goats he imperiously led us to the building, unlocked the padlock and opened the door with a flourish.

Inside, we spied through the murky gloom and settling dust, hundreds of books piled randomly in turrets on battered tables, wobbling splinter laden shelves and dusty floors.  There was the occasional sign of human life with a sporadic poster or label, but far more promise of mice (let’s be hopeful and assume not rats) termites and lizards.  Oh hum where to begin.

Pete was despatched to get a dustpan and brush, whilst I began

nearest the door and light, to sort. I beavered away to be joined by my intrepid partner as we delved the depth, binning some of the worst gnawed texts and finding some delights, fiction, non fiction, childrens, adults, university professors.  One table cleared and mountains of books slowly began to emerge into some semblance of order and there was space enough to move two benches.

We’d been spotted.  A small cluster of children appeared at the windows and door.  “Toubab, toubab give me book.”  A group of 5 girls came in, fascinated by so many tomes, colours and pictures.  They were not used to handling books, having the opportunity to choose, or to reading.  Not one of them could decipher the cryptic text of even the most basic story despite chanting religiously after their teachers day after day.  It was a joy to watch them devouring the new experience, but work had to continue and we left them to it.

The quiet hum outside became louder and noisier as word went round.  I opened the door. Chaos ensued as the small gathering of children swelled to a mass of hands and faces, pushing and shoving.  Eventually with a lot of hand gestures we managed to exchange one group for another.

The morning progressed, and we became wiser.  Suspicious looking shapes under t-shirts were queried and books returned.  There was no shame or remorse despite our best explanations. Hands and arms uncoiled through the netting to purloin texts until we moved them from temptations way.  For them it was just an opportunity to own something with a few pictures.

Three hours later, a small dent in the castle of manuscripts, covered in dust and grime we shut the doors and windows to return another day.

where's the dishwasher?

Instructions for washing up

1.    Walk across the compound to the tap with yellow jerry can, stopping for several social encounters along the way.

2.    Turn on meter to fill said can, endeavouring not to soak feet.

3.    Stumble back with flexed muscles to remove batwings.

4.    Move two plastic containers from under the giant table to   make a sensible size platform.

5.    Place largish stainless steel bowl on boxes and its lid on the   floor.

6.    Pour in water.

7.    Add washing up liquid.

8.    Wash cleanest things first to save changing water and place on lid drainer.

9.   Get Pete to dry and then decide where to throw the water, the mango tree, the pit latrine or the shower room floor depending on cleanliness.

10.   Sleep to recuperate.

out and about

Saturday, our first non working day since we arrived on the island.  I awoke to the sounds of the scrawny cockerel, the crickets and the insistent chorus that ornithologists must dream about.  The cocoon of the mosquito net gently blew, like a spiders web, against my face. The cool of the day, people already sweeping away the nights dust quietly chatting, discussing their plans for the day, I lay listening and contemplating a cup of tea.  Half past six, the light seeps through the translucent muslin curtains promising another blazing day.

Tea it is.  Across the red concrete floor, already warm to my hardened sand encrusted feet, kettle filled from the shiny new water filter that doubles as a mirror and onto the gas hob. 

Pete stirred, we washed and then the tricky poser, with no sink or drain, where is one supposed to spit out the toothpaste? Potioned and lotioned we’re ready. Turning left out of the compound we hold our fingers ready, two hands are not enough, for a gaggle of dust besmirched children who welcome us under the tree. Women wring their clean washing by the tap, surrounded by chickens, goats and two tethered cows. We progress slowly onto the tarmac road; pass functioning shacks and sheds that boast, generally misspelt, a range of services and delights to find The Gampost.

Five people laze under the tree, making attya, passing the time of day. Greetings to all and we totter into a largish shed, full of boxes, fading notices, battered scales and a metal grill.  Two men follow us in whom we re-greet with more smiles and firm handshakes. George Thomas, the delightfully named black African, and Samba Jabbi try to help us with our purchase of stamps.  We show them our two letters.  D15 each. Sadly numeracy is not high on their list of skills.  Each envelope is discussed at length and on the third attempt we manage to get 5 D2 and 5 D1 butterfly decorated stamps for each. Their helpfulness is not yet complete as they tear each stamp, individually, along perforations and glue them to a decreasing amount of space around the address.  Leaving our missives in their capable hands, for there is no box to place them in, we wonder if they will ever again see the light of day.

Retracing our steps we climb the steps into the market, the smell of fish assaulting our senses. A covered area, full of splinter- endowed trestle tables are decorated with small piles of vendors’ wares, onions, multi shaped chillies, miniscule bags of spices, snail, rotting fish, suspect chicken legs along with unknown growths that could be animal vegetable or mineral. Bravely we buy some shiny purple baby aubergines, tiny first crop tomatoes and Pete’s favourite doughnuts.  Time enough to investigate cooking cassava and other delights.

Next we spot our goal.  Our landlord, Mulai, has told us about a brick laying ceremony, the beginning of erecting a building to house a community peanut-grinding machine.  Foundations dug, cement mixed amid rubble and rubbish worthy of a council dump, four men lent visual and moral support to the one worker as he watered and turned the powder.  Tailors sat at their treadle machines, creating imaginative designs in garish prints, tossing their off-cuts to swell the mountains of garbage as we sat waiting for the dignitaries to arrive. 

The assembly member, wisely dressed in sandy brown, eventually came with his entourage of committee members.  By now an hour late of the appointed time, he stopped and chatted about the islands history and forthcoming projects. Ever the politician (I suspect he is looking for more support that we will we more than happy to give) he asked Pete and I to lay the first stone, which we did to a trickle of applause.  A foundation stone and a new beginning.

Pete’s footnote. As we laid the first two foundation bricks for their new building let us all hope that our lasting legacy to the Gambian people will not be a peanut warehouse that collapses at the first opportunity.

comfort zone?

It gives me hours of angst and torment; well okay a few moments consideration, as to what to write.  Each moment brings a new event or experience, high or low, and it is impossible to record them all.  We are now in Janjnabureh, ensconced in our lovely small dwelling with the nicest, kindest and thoughtful landlord one could wish for.  We’ve been to the offices and met many many people, with warm smiles, firm handshakes and open generosity.  We’ve walked around the town, chatted to old and young alike, sat on stone steps to pass the time of day with retired teachers, workmen and ‘the youths’. We have our Gambian names, given to all volunteers, so I am now Hawa (rhymes with power) Darbo and Pete goes by the name of Bakary Darbo.  We live in Darbokunda. Mandinka greetings have become almost natural on the lips followed by blind panic as conversation continues.  Visitors for dinner, coffee, cold water or just a chat are a daily occurrence.  We’ve been here three days.

So here I am, another three days past, and as far out of my comfort zone as I could ever have imagined.  This morning Bakary and I sauntered down to the office, with many Salam’s and smiles and handshakes to meet Touray and Andrew.  We were wondering with excited anticipation if we might actually make it to a school and see some of those delightful, chatty, forthright children that we meet as they play in the mud and dust. ‘Trek today’ ‘Right’ ‘Bakary south bank, Hawa North’.  Fifteen minutes to scrabble about, bemoaning the lack of washed clothes, have we got two tubes of toothpaste? hooting car, got to go, swift kiss goodbye. ‘See you Friday’ and off on yet another adventure.

My team had to wait a while for the ferry crossing, not for the faint hearted reverser of cars as they are packed like sardines, as the Minister of Tourism was about to arrive on the Island amid drums and multicoloured fashionable Africans.  Met the governor, the immaculately dressed imam, and onto the boat in blazing sunshine reflecting off the river in silver ripples.  Lush, smooth, tarmac road for a full five minutes and then turn right onto the track.  Not even the driver was sure of the route, doing as all good navigators do, using the previous tyre marks to lead the way.  Through the scraggy bush land, some burnt by hunters, over pelvic floor exercise inducing potholes and bumps we made it to the first school.

A vast gravel stone area was fenced with sticks and wire.  The headmaster’s office/classroom was part of a terrace, palm leaved roof and stick walls.  Six classrooms, all about ten-foot square, were filled with seats made of half logs mounted on shorter stubbier ones.  No desks, no space for movement, 45 children per class.  The only décor, a blackboard with numerous multiplication sums far too advanced for the poor scraps trying to complete them.  For those children with books the only marking said ‘poor’ or ‘weak’.  My role for the week is one of inspector.  Oh the dread and fear the very word invokes in me.

The huge headmaster with no prior notice of our arrival was welcoming but his soulful face was near to tears as we asked for registers, teaching plans and timetables.  I could bear it no more and moved to the classrooms, avoiding those with whole class repetition and heading for the most cheerful.  My white-faced presence caused a stir, either fear or curiosity, child temperament depending.  Some were pleased to show me their books of neat handwriting, which they could read uncomprehendingly.  Others tried to fade into the background.  Children’s work and teaching charts skewered precariously onto the stickwalls showed the teacher was trying hard to engage and educate.

The only brick building was that of the kitchen.  The world food programme is big and essential here as many children are woefully malnourished, rickets and deformity abounds.  Sadly no food was being cooked as ‘the school we’re only three years old’ and no one has filled in the form to register.  Gambian time and initiative are unhappily slow.

I could go on and on.  The second school was totally different.  By the time we got to the third the school day was finished so we sat and drank attaya and chatted and passed the time of day and bemoaned Gambian time and how much there is to do, then ate ‘foodbowl’ which was, tonight, the most disgusting mixture of rice smoked fish and green slime. Now I’m here, in bed, surrounded by ants and cockroaches, Pete miles away phone out of charge, head torch firmly fixed, sticky with sweat and DEET, hand invisibility darkness, towel for a sheet on a concrete mattress and happy as the proverbial sand boy.  (Even though I would jump at the chance of a warm soapy shower, a decent cup of tea with skimmed milk, a flushing clean toilet……………..)

House for Rent ???

A delightful bijou accommodation conveniently placed on Janjnabureh Island, with ferry crossings on both North and South Bank.  This richly sought after area has the well renowned Armitage High school from where many prominent politicians and influential writers have graduated with as many as two O Levels, as well as the ramshackle Methodist church and numerous mosques.  Sporting a main drain along one of the side roads it is not the place for drunken leanings, however for 9 months of the year this ditch collects only plastic water bags, crumpled tins and dust.

The well maintained property is self built by Muhai Darbo, who made and fired each mud brick and constructed the domain up to the corrugated iron roof within 5 months.

Access to the accommodation is through a concrete gate into the compound, where there are stones, a metered water tap and a beautiful fruiting mango tree, and a bamboo bed providing shade for the weary traveller.  At the far end, to the right of the long one story building is the veranda, with chipped tiles and a wooden home made constructed table for breakfasting.  The padlock key opens the metal door and mosquito netted inner door to

The Living Room/Dining Room/Kitchen

12’ x 12’  Tastefully painted plaster walls in fashionable shrimp with red concrete floors the room boasts an electric socket with modern fridge, including ice box.  A giant sized table is placed in one corner, adorned with books and working paraphernalia, under which are two plastic storage containers protecting food goods from weevils and beetles.  Above is a detailed Batik crafted by the well known artist Alhaji from the Kombos.  A further wooden storage unit holds tins, crockery and cutlery and the small coffee table has the washing up bowl and drainage lid.  A three ringed gas hob and two arm chairs complete this luxury room. 

The archway leads to

The Bedroom

12’ x 12’  A bed is not needed as the mattress can be placed on the concrete slab in the corner.  Four well appointed nails are ready for use to hang the mosquito net.  A chest of drawers is placed strategically to allow a corner for mops, clothes washing bowls and sweeping brushed.  A washing line, suspended between two nails in a further corner allows plenty of hanging space for clothes.  Door, complete with mosquito netting leads to

The Washing area

10’ x 4’  Washing line, 4 jerry cans, 2 metal petrol containers, huge blue bucket and jug and solar shower warming space

The Shower Room

4’ x 4’  Rough brick and concrete floor give this area a contemporary feel, home to spiders and lizards. With corrugated roof and electric light this is one of the highlights of the dwelling. The drainage hole at the back of the wall allows water to free fall.

The Pit Latrine

4’ x 4’  The continuity of brick and concrete allows this spacious area room for movement.  In the floor is a key shaped hole, with strategic foot prints to assist accurate aim.  A concrete cover with metal handle encourages tapping to remove cockroaches and retains smells within the pit below.  Electric light and roof  give true privacy for the user.

Please note that no extra charge is made for the friendly lizards with heart attacks tail thumping, or for the sudden tunes created as birds land and jump across the metal roof.