“Bakary,” the muted, unassuming tones of Mulai echo through the evening gloom as his tall willowy silhouette appears at the mosquito netted door. Hands reticently behinds his back his smile lights the room. “This is for you.” A deep maroon outfit, delicate golden embroidery adorning the openings and fastenings. “This is for tomorrow.” Koriteh, the end of Ramadan and fasting – celebrations.
We awake this morning, expectation in the air, children shrieking, sounds from the mosque reverberating and thunder rolling, suggesting an imminent shower of heavy proportions. Hot and sticky, the temperature will soon fall as the rain drops splatter and splosh onto the already soaked land. Nothing diminishes the excitement as the inevitable sweeping and cleaning takes place with calls from compound to compound planning outings and new arrangements for prayer with the incoming storm.
We wait, a regular Gambian pastime, dressed in our finery until called for. We wait some more and some more. Eventually a call from a golden outfitted Mulai and we are off to mooch through muddy puddles along the streets of Janjanbureh. Extensive greetings, saluting all and sundry we are summoned to see our favourite cluster moniter and graceful headteacher wife. Their children bow and curtsy.
Moving on, we turn into a compound of terraced houses, typical in the area. It belongs to the counselor, his one wife and two children. Concrete brick built, two small rooms with small windows, dark and cooler inside. The lino covered floor, the settee and, somewhat unusually, a television playing Senagalise music. We sit, chat and are made welcome. Wonjo, a purple juice made from local leaves and oodles of sugar is served in recycled bottles. Mulai gives Bubu, the small boy mountaineering his fathers’ legs a red five dalasi note which he secretes in his underpants in lieu of a pocket amid much laughter. Time for more handshaking and we move on.
Children run in the street, chattering and asking for ‘salibo’, charity given at Koriteh. Pink sequins glitters as they twirl, jig and writhe to the music from the local bar. Worth a lollipop to be sure.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Lester's account
Our arrival in Gambia on August 10th was a sunny one. The weather reports had predicted 10 days of rain that dampened our expectations but the ‘smiling coast of Africa’ was definitely a happy, sunny place. Immediately, the extreme friendliness of the locals unnerved us. Coming from a land where this type of overt behaviour provokes wide berths and scepticism, the fact that every Gambian wants to engage you for hours could have seen our entire 10-day holiday consumed within Banjul International airport. However, there isn’t a catch, a pitch or a spiel, just an inbuilt hospitality mechanism. True, it could get tiresome when all you want to do is move but all they seek is a smile and some banter and then you’re free to go.
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
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.
Jo and Lester come to visit
The advent of the new bridge has majorly changed our view of life. The magic green bus travels onto the island and we can now sit all the way to the Kombos. No longer the lingering for the north bank ferry, the painful wait as the gelli gelli fills, the bumpy ride hugging a smelly armpit or two, the precarious journey on an overfilled ferry and then the final bartering for a taxi to reach our destination.
We walked, as if on air, accompanied by Mulai, who ushered us to our seats and organized our bag being thrown onto the roof. We were off to Kombos to meet with Jo and Lester for our holiday. The promise of hot showers, clean toilets and cheese - not even the eight hour bone-crunching journey could daunt our enthusiasm.
The journey was not without it’s stops. Police, immigration and military checkpoints dotted along the route and routine drop off and pick-ups. The goat being loaded onto the bus roof took a while as we listened to his belligerent stampings reverberating through the metal ceiling and the double bamboo bed spied and bought by one eagle eyed passenger caused some pondering – how to get that up. No problem as the ever-helpful Gambians heaved and shoved.
So what does one do on a bus ride of Alton Towers proportions?
I studied heads.
Baseball caps, worn forwards, sideways, backwards, beanie hats sporting varying motifs, bobble hats upon sweated brow, prayer caps with complex embroidery of kabbas and minarets interwoven with symmetrical patters in rainbow threads, straw panamas, woven fulla cones, and that’s just the men.
Women with soft muslin draped gently, starched pleated bows, self matching fabrics wound impossibly with tucks and pushings, wigs of straightened hair with purple streaks, sequined netting glittering beautifully in the light. Hair braided in complicated patterns, tramlines of tight slender plaits squares and swirls embedded in scalps, ended with ribbons and beads or liberated freely from the tight tresses.
My favourite? A dapper man, fluorescent yellow pointed shoes beneath full white African garb sporting a bowler – fashioned from an Asda bag.
We walked, as if on air, accompanied by Mulai, who ushered us to our seats and organized our bag being thrown onto the roof. We were off to Kombos to meet with Jo and Lester for our holiday. The promise of hot showers, clean toilets and cheese - not even the eight hour bone-crunching journey could daunt our enthusiasm.
The journey was not without it’s stops. Police, immigration and military checkpoints dotted along the route and routine drop off and pick-ups. The goat being loaded onto the bus roof took a while as we listened to his belligerent stampings reverberating through the metal ceiling and the double bamboo bed spied and bought by one eagle eyed passenger caused some pondering – how to get that up. No problem as the ever-helpful Gambians heaved and shoved.
So what does one do on a bus ride of Alton Towers proportions?
I studied heads.
Baseball caps, worn forwards, sideways, backwards, beanie hats sporting varying motifs, bobble hats upon sweated brow, prayer caps with complex embroidery of kabbas and minarets interwoven with symmetrical patters in rainbow threads, straw panamas, woven fulla cones, and that’s just the men.
Women with soft muslin draped gently, starched pleated bows, self matching fabrics wound impossibly with tucks and pushings, wigs of straightened hair with purple streaks, sequined netting glittering beautifully in the light. Hair braided in complicated patterns, tramlines of tight slender plaits squares and swirls embedded in scalps, ended with ribbons and beads or liberated freely from the tight tresses.
My favourite? A dapper man, fluorescent yellow pointed shoes beneath full white African garb sporting a bowler – fashioned from an Asda bag.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Lunch
Today, the 2nd August 2010, I was unexpectedly invited to lunch and if this didn't turn out to be the most random collection of lunch guests I would like to know. It's a long story that involves a Catholic Father from Senegal who has been working in a school that I have visited a few times. He has been recalled to Senegal so this was a farewell gathering.
Picture the scene if you will - outside in an open roundhouse with thatched roof, sitting around the communal food bowl containing rice, fish and vegetables were the following: Bakary Darboe - VSO, Omar Leigh – Education Officer, Jean Francois - Catholic Father, Matthew Gomez - Head Teacher, Name unknown – head of local power station, 6 chickens, 1 guinea fowl, 1 duck and 2 cats. And, in this Alice in Wonderland scenario, the chickens would chase the cats away for any dropped scraps of food. The languages spoken around the bowl were English (understood that), French (understood a little) Mandinka (understood a very little) and Fula (understood not a word!)
In my wildest imagination I would never have created this scenario – great fun and bewildering all at the same time.
A short BLOG I know but I hope you have enjoyed reading it. It's August now and the rains are almost daily and with them new visitors to our back yard – FROGS, they are OK because they hop away from you when you approach – this is my favourite sort of animal.
So my morning jug shower is now shared with my new found croaking friends who have the added benefit of tucking into the many winged creatures that now also abound, it must be an absolute feast time for anything that likes to dine out on insects. It seems a little harsh that having waited a year to hatch there are so many things just waiting to have them as a tasty snack.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Match
It was much anticipated, the annual football tournament in which a dozen or so local teams compete in a league to be crowned champions. The island itself boasts about six teams such is the popularity of football here. For reasons unknown to me one of the teams “West Ham” have aligned themselves with the Education Office and so they have become our team too. Their match was against the Invincibles, other team names include Manchester United and Spain, I guess both of these are inevitable.
Anyway, to the match, a goodly crowd of around 500 turned up at the local pitch, which can best be described as “unplayable”. Think of the worst park pitch you have ever played on, well that was like Wembley in comparison. This pitch consists of 3 surfaces: The central area is dried, baked mud, or just mud if it has rained and the ball bounces crazily in any direction it chooses. This guarantees to make a chump out of the most skilful of players. One side is sand, like beach football, and the other is overgrown grass in which the ball holds up alarmingly. Due to this the ball spends a good deal of time in the air and there was a distinct feeling that you were watching Bolton play. To add to the problems most of the players wore plastic sandals, they cannot afford boots or trainers, no shin pads of course so the whole thing looked very dangerous. Add to this the tackles flying in and a controversial referee and you had a match that boiled up to a late second half melee with players from both sides having to be restrained. This is the one and only time I have seen Gambians agitated. Ah – football, don't you love it? The match ended 1-0 to the Invincibles, a quality free kick with the outside of the right foot curled in from 25 yards – and that was that, much happiness on one side and gloom on the other – ''twas ever thus.
Crowd drift away chatting about “what might have been” and berating the referee – sound familiar? More matches to come, I am looking forward to them with anticipation.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A vision in blue and purple?
The time has come, as the walrus said, to move to better things and in this case it is clothes. Always dear to my heart it is strange to have the freedom that not having a mirror gives. My daily “does this look okay?” is greeted with nary a glance and “fine” and I believe him. However, an inspection of my meager wardrobe tells a different story. Articles that were once white tell their story of cold-water washing and the dust impregnated dirt tracks upon which we ride. Skirts, once smart, are nearly transparent and streaked with sun-dried bleach. My hair has the makings of a lions’ mane, if it would refrain from falling out. In summary I look a mess most of the time.
So there it was. The decision made. We donned our power ranger outfits and sped along the tarmac road to Wassu lumo. Traveling through the verdant grasslands, past lakes of water, scattered with white lilies floating randomly like ping pong balls, overtaking donkey carts laden with potential sellers and buyers, Peter, Mulai and I made the half hour journey.
It was bustling. People moved and milled, like my African stomach, between stalls of wares, fabrics, food, hardware, shoes, washing powder. We side stepped large sheets covered with drying tobacco, trays of bananas, iron aged garden tools as we went into the bowels of the market, deeper and darker than we had so far ventured. Wooden framed, palm covered stalls leant like a shantytown. Knock one and they could fall like a stack of dominoes.
Mulai was buying for the bitik, the tiny shop at the end of our compound. A random selection of goods that reflects its stores, miniscule bags of tobacco, (enough for one cigarette), an enormous bag of dried red fiery chilies measured with a tomato paste can, large bags of ‘minti’ for children buy singly, a lock. For the compound garden aubergine, chilli and pepper plants were carefully selected, rooted stems placed into a watered plastic bag with due care. All accompanied, of course, with greetings and banter and bustle and noise and a plethora of colours and smells.
Fabrics and materials were draped over sides, walls, floors, tables. A child in a sweetie shop I looked, felt, mulled and fantasized. Would this give me the trendy, Afracanised European look I required? Clearly and elegant size zero, even tanned, toned and unwrinkled skin would follow. I fell upon my prey - a batik print of purples and blues, still thick and stiff from wax, together with a royal blue water print. Oh the vision!
We are not hard bargainers. How can we, with all our wealth, try to make someone with so little, drop their price when 50p means so little to us but a family meal for them? We play the game, but not too hard and leave with the inevitable black plastic bag.
Journey home, across on the ferry and then to meet with the formidable Ma.
Mulai only has one wife – Ma. Tall, thin and elegant Ma works hard, running the bitik, keeping the compound immaculate, caring for the family, selling bags of water, bananas, mangos, fruit juice at the ferry port, a veritable hive of industry from six till midnight. Friendly and smiling she has long ago given up her shrieks of delight as I try my Mandinka to a resigned patient correction of my mistakes.
Courage in my hand I asked about the tailor. Yes Ma would come with me. We left for the stroll down to the market at a fierce pace with greetings firing from all angles like a repeating rifle. Ma knows everyone. I catch the odd phrase – Hawa is getting some African clothes.
The market is deserted, except for a few men in small cupboards, littered with fabric remnants and threads of all hues. They sit behind their treadle machines whilst there is still light enough for them to see. We march towards a withered, prunish old man, shake hands, greet and I follow Ma’s instructions to sit and stand at appropriate moments. I listen, without comprehension to a babble of dialogue during which she points to my ankles, my arms and gestures from shoulder to hip. I nod, not knowing what else to do. A tape measure appears. One measurement.
Ah, I know this.
“Two hundred dalasi.”
“Two hundred dalasi? Too much. Hawa, give him one hundred dalasi.”
I do.
That’s it. We leave and will return tonight to pick up whatever it is that I have ordered. I have no idea but have my suspicions that it might not be quite the image I anticipated.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
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