the final hours

Postcard blue skies, a light breeze ripples over my bare arms as I sit by the swimming pool, listening to the birds chatter the rustle of the palms and admiring the athletic poses of the lizards as they bathe in the sun.  It is our last few hours in The Gambia before we return to the frozen sludge, which will mark London.

Christmas was extraordinary.  Tony and Anne arrived after a marathon 22 hour journey, removing tights and woollen socks, tired, white faced. We were overjoyed, the flight tracking and uncertainty of conditions at Gatwick soon to be forgotten.  I shed a tear for the millionth time these last few months.  Their arrival heralded the beginning of our holiday and the final stage of our adventure.

Anne is going to write about their time here, but it needs to be said that to share our last few days here with them was very very special.

A volunteer said that if she could have magical powers it would be to take a photograph with a blink.  I just wish to add audio.  So many sights and sounds to commit to memory, sunset on the beach on Christmas Eve, gaggles of children swarming, welcoming white toothed smiles, grubby hands placed in ours, elegant women walking, bundles balanced, children strapped to backs, roasting sun, gritty sand, corrugated iron fences, dark round houses, coconut palms with bottles perched to catch the ‘jungle juice’, bird song…………the list goes on and on.

I think I have written this all before, but the adventure from our first hand gripping journey from the airport to this very moment, assaults the senses and fills me with awe and respect for the people who live here. 

My two favourite sayings:

“It’s not easy, Hawa.”

“Nothing’s a problem in The Gambia.”  

Kombos Beach Hotel

Life here is certainly different. Were you not to venture outside the hotel grounds you might be anywhere in the world such is the anonymity and blandness of the hotel. Generic African woodcarvings and such other “African” bric a brac are the only reminders of what continent you are on. It is a very odd thing to be holidaying in a country you have lived in and, despite trying not to, it’s impossible not to view the tourists and wonder why they came to the Gambia. Moving from pool to TV lounge passing the British and German newsstand on the way many of them don’t seem to venture much into the world outside. 12 months ago I was them – not now. And such a pity because true they would get some low level hassle from vendors eager to make a living but a 10 minute walk away and you will be in the real Gambia that we have to come to love, the part where people ask “How is your morning?” because they care. Where you can eat for a quid or two, relax and soak up being somewhere different.



The hotel is fine – just that, fine. A formula hotel that adds to the “might be anywhere” feeling. 4 3 storey blocks of nice rooms, a restaurant, a bar, on the beach front set in beautiful grounds. They are doing us the room and breakfast for 30 pounds a night = a 50 percent reduction on pleading poverty. The guests, ah the guests. Mostly British or German and mostly overweight, I fear the Gambians must have a very jaundiced view of Europeans whose consumption appears slightly grotesque in such a poor country. There is however one really interesting character, a man straight from a Graham Greene novel. He can be found nightly at the bar dressed in a linen suit that has seen better days but still retains a certain touch of quality about it. He sips whisky and ice thoughtfully, often glancing at his watch as if he is expecting someone to arrive or something to happen. He punctuates this with wanders to the open areas to smoke Dunhill International which he does whilst gazing around before returning to his bar stool and watch gazing. He is slight, 50ish and has a tanned, weathered face that suggests he probably lives here now – I wonder what, or who, he is waiting for?


The change in diet has been welcomed and, along with a hot shower, food is definitely the thing we appreciate the most. Being able to eat salads, steaks, ice cream, of it is such a treat. It’s a shame really that before long they will all just seem normal again. The weather is glorious, the view over the Atlantic is wonderful and the noise of the sea is, always is evocative. Re-reading Treasure Island the setting is just perfect. How lovely to be able to read books in appropriate settings – what would your book and place be?

leaving the island

Leaving the island was hard, lots of tears all round, hard to believe

it was our home. And then the bus! Packed, I had to stand at the
front next to the driver ,so close to the windscreen the peak of my cap
was touching it! 6 hours in, legs aching and fantasizing about the
hotel in 2 hours and BANG - puncture. Have to wait for another vehicle
to arrive with spare wheel as we had given ours to a bus going the
other way. So, 10 hours later, check in and look forward to a steak or
some such only to find the hotel were having an "African Food Buffet
Night". Would you believe it? Sensing our disappointment the waiters
say, "go on try the African food, you will like it."   Really!!!!!

Anyway, had loads of salad, a buublebath a good sleep followed by a mega breakfast.
The Saturday before we left my local school, Sankulay Kunda, put on a programme for us, singing by the children, drummers, dancing, 2 hours of fantastic Gambian entertainment and a speech in which I (Bakary) was described by the headteacher to the children as "our father, our mentor, our teacher, our everything" I may have told you this already but it bears repeating as
am unlikely ever to receive such an introduction again - more tears. What a country, what people, what next?

10am on Monday, we have been away from the island for 26 hours and the “missing you texts” are coming in – it was hard to come here, hard to stay here and hard to leave, make sense of that if you can.

The Programme

We sat, in pride of place, as a faceless tree stamped and stomped towards us, accompanied by the steady impatient rhythm of the beating drums. Soothing words from Omar “It’s okay Hawa, it’s just our tradition”, as I pull back from the sharp machete gliding towards my face. Gathering money on the blade, the Konkuran (man dressed as tree with shielded face and branches attached) moved with athletic agility, backflipping his way around the gathered crowd about 150 strong. This was our leaving programme.

In true Gambian style no one had thought to tell us in advance of our leaving party. After rearranging a few bits we donned our finest gear, Pete his Tobaski attire and me the most beautiful, elaborately embroidered outfit from Mulai and we hopped onto the motorbike and for the final time, rode across the bridge to a nearby school.


We arrived at the appointed time, always a mistake, to find chairs and desks being arranged in a semi circle and two lads balanced precariously up a tree, hacking at branches of the neme tree. Guided to two plastic garden seats we take our place whilst various dignitaries and children come to greet and shake hands. Chatter, laughter, but no beginning to the programme in sight I am dispatched with a young girl as guide to ‘find the women teachers’.


Arriving at the teachers quarters I am enveloped in a bare breasted huge bear hug amid exclamations of my beauty(!) and taken into the small dark room these two teachers call home. There is no room for anything more than a double bed all space being taken by scattered clothes and bottles of lotions and potions of various shapes and sizes. Fatou and the Eustace, or Qu’ranic teacher, are mid ‘bath’ and, thrusting the baby to me, continue to make preparations to go out. Ample bodies are smoothed with oils, hair conditioned, wigs brushed, new clothes squeezed into, high heels slipped on and we are ready to return to the school.

We are heralded by the drums and singing and dancing of the local women. Amazing. They are dressed in a strange array, possibly even fancy dress, including a hat decorated with Disney figures. Gambian dancing is like no other - bum out and fast foot stamping are the order of the day and yet there still remains a grace, an elegance. The inevitable and I did my 10 second turn, red faced and heart thumping, but it was enough to please my audience.

Following instructions Pete and I are ushered into the head teachers office where we are given outfits of matching materials as befits such occasions. Emotional photos ensue and I feel pulled between these wonderful people, sights and events and the longing to hug my children. Powerful stuff.

thoughts and reflections

As a boy born in Sussex, raised until 6 in South East London, a 4 year stint in apartheid South Africa, a further spell in South East London, a year in Germany, 32 years in Cardiff I can now add the best part of a year in Janjangbureh to the list of places I have called home. And what a home it has been, more of which later. I have no doubt that all of my homes have had an influence on me, whether conscious or sub-conscious or possibly even unconscious! For example I understand from others that I have a slight South London accent and I am sure the impact of growing up in South Africa in the 60s had a major impact – not least on my knuckles which were regularly rapped at school – ah happy days! Perhaps even a little bit of Celtic charm has rubbed off and lurks somewhere beneath the brash cockney exterior.

 And so back to Janjangbureh. Living on an island, 10 kilometres by 3 kilometres, in the middle of an incredibly beautiful river in the far west of Africa was never on any plan, it sort of just happened. I'm still not sure how but I think that Jack Daniels and the Internet were the major culprits. Perhaps it goes to show that spontaneity outshines planning by megawatts, I have always thought this anyway although often it's just an excuse to be lazy. It would be easy to wax lyrical and make the whole island and the experience seem idyllic, however those of you who have followed our (progress?) will know that that wouldn't be an accurate reflection of our time here. In fact as a reflection it would be as distorted as one of those fairground mirrors that made you look short and fat.


Goodness knows there have been challenges and you will all be aware of them but lest you should be forgetting our bravery and ability to endure let me remind you of the days that: topped 50 degrees Celsius, the shower floor collapsed, the rat made its home in our house with the lizards, nightly invading insects, weevil infested flour, a diet of aubergines and onions, two tiny rooms so nowhere much to sulk, bucket showers with chickens, bucket showers with tadpoles, insect bites, snakes, malaria, impossibly sandy roads, power cuts, no plumbing, hand washing, boredom, pit latrines etc etc etc. All of this of course was made bearable by the availability of fags and alcohol. (The lesson here, should you ever get drunk and apply to VSO is to research these last two factors very carefully.) And yet here we are, near the end, and having seen off all of the above and the rainy season too. We are now beginning to ponder on those things that we will miss, my list is short, but no less important for that, and looks like this: people, new things and sun. For people you can read all that goes with them, the culture, the interdependence, the friendliness, the comradeship, the humility, the generosity and on and on. These people have had a profound effect on me, I know this is true, I can't quite explain how, I just know I feel different. I am not judging whether the change is for the better or worse. Perhaps that is for others to say, but for myself I am just filled with an enormous sense of admiration for the Gambian people and a tremendous pride in being able to call many of them friends. The sun, well in the middle of your winter I probably don't need to explain. The new things is just that, every day a new bird, a new animal, a new word to learn, a new food to taste, a new smell, a new custom, a new understanding, just so many new things, a wonderful, fulfilling bombardment that at times was overwhelming but in general was just incredible and amazing. For example a 10 k motorcycle to visit a school would likely reward me with a view of the savannah, baboons, monkeys, eagles, herons, vultures, donkeys, horses, sheep, goats, cattle, police check point, army check point, tarmac, gravel and sandy surfaces and even then I might only be half way – I hope you can see how it can all get overwhelming. Stopping the bike in middle of the bush and just sitting – absolute silence only broken by the cry of some unknown bird – amazing. There were many “I don't believe I am really here” moments.




I know when we get home many of you will ask “was it worth it?” This is a question we repeatedly ask ourselves, and the answer once varied from day to day but of late we have felt more positive. I should like to split the question into two parts; was it worth it for us? Was it worth it for the Gambia? The first is easy to answer now – YES. It was worth it because how can you not have learned from such an experience? We come back richer people in every sense except the financial one. The second is so much more difficult but, as I often do, I fall back on my “haven't made things worse” position. I don't believe much in “neutrality” it often seems an untenable position to me and in terms of relationships – which is what we have had with The Gambia - I think they are either positive or negative, never neutral. So I think and hope our relationship with this country, these people, our colleagues, neighbours and friends has been positive, the smiles seem genuine and are huge.


In terms of what we came here to do there is precious little to show, quite how we managed to spend the best part of a year without finding out our job I still don't know. However in our defence there are some extenuating circumstances. For instance a training that I developed in April was approved locally in May and funding approval sent for – still waiting for that. And so it is that things happen, or not, as the case may be and the wheel turns round and round ever so slowly but with a certain style and grace that you can't fail to admire. Speaking of wheels I should like to add my Yamaha 100 AG to the list of things I shall miss (I have a feeling this list may grow). My trusty steed has been just that, aside from one or two punctures the bike has been faultless taking everything that The Gambian roads can serve up and coping wonderfully.


I cannot possibly write this reflection without a special mention for our visitors. Jo, our daughter and husband to be Lester visited in August and Maria came in October. Both visits were so important to us, they gave us something to look forward to, something to enjoy at the time and something to remember. A massive, huge, big, giant thank you to all of them for the love and kindness they showed us and for giving up some of their time and money to share a little of our time here with us. Another big, big thanks goes to the City of Cardiff and more particularly the schools that took part in the appeal that was organised by the Court School. The response was overwhelming and, for those who don't know, 232 KG of pencils, rubber, sharpeners etc. arrived here in late October and we have just finished getting them out to the children in the schools. Thanks to Peter Owen for all his hard work, without him none of it would have happened. And as if that wasn't enough the Court School also raised the money to send the goods and the best part of 900 pounds to donate to projects here – wow! The money has been well spent on nursery buildings, school gates and other really useful infrastructure projects. I know this is becoming an Oscar type speech but I also need to thank my daughter Jo for raising funds to build a new classroom, dressed as a crocodile she ran a 10k and the children in her school raised more than 500 pounds. Thanks to, to Lester whose contribution has provided fencing and a well at the gardens here on the island. I am sure I have forgotten someone so please forgive me if it is you. Suffice to say that you all deserve a big thank you for the support you have shown us in our stay here, we couldn't have done it without you.


I need here to put in a moment that has just happened. I am writing this at 10:30 Monday 29th November, I just had my jacket on to leave on a school visit when news came through to the office that a young female pregnant headteacher, has just died, along with her baby. The atmosphere in the office has changed and all plans for the day have been put on hold. The funeral will be today at 5pm and most people at the office will attend. Death is never far away here, I don't know the cause of death but it is likely that it wouldn't have happened in the UK or possibly even here had she been near the hospital in the Kombos and not posted up-country. This is the first time I have seen the people here so affected by the news of a death – I suppose the double tragedy and the fact that she was here, in the office, on a course last week makes the news all the more shocking.


A little now on our compound where we live and share our lives with our landlord and protector, Mulai, his wife Ma and the five children who are there presently. This number changes as none of the children are their own – it's all very Gambian, but at the moment we have two boys, Seedy (13) Mulai Junior (6) and three girls, Ndela (8) Jarre (14) and Isatou (15). The compound is such a lovely place with them all there and the sound of children laughing must be one of the finest. I should like to bottle it in fact and be able to take a dose whenever I feel the need. Mulai guided and supported us through the difficult first few weeks and he and the family will certainly be missed. We could not have hoped for a warmer reception than the one we have received all year there. For our part we buy food for them whenever we shop, a onion or two, an aubergine, a packet of biscuits, just small things but always very much appreciated. In return, aside from the friendship, we receive frozen drinks, peanuts, peanut butter, eggs, and anything else that they may have a small surplus of.


OK – examples of the “new” I referred to earlier I have had 2 more today. Eventually got out to two schools. At the first I was taken into the village to fix their solar water pump! Those of you familiar with my general technical incompetence will know the futility of this, me, a water pump engineer, well it's new. Then – whilst at my second school I had a call from someone in the office wanting to borrow my bike to do a 30k ride. I agreed and they lent me theirs to get home. What's new, well riding a motorbike with no brakes – how is that for a first?


More thanks now: To our children Jack, Hannah, Ruth and Jo who have just been amazing throughout the planning and the placement and who are working, as I write, on a huge banner to welcome us home; to our good friends, Graham and Ron for always encouraging, taking us to Gatwick at 2 in the morning and managing our bank account in our absence. To Duncan for looking after my bike, to Rob for looking after my car, to Kath Owen for the regular supply of lovely letters and presents, to Jesnie for her amazing weekly e-mails, to Dave (Jock) Morgan for keeping an eye on the house, to Luc and Pete Owen for looking after our garden, to Lyn Hyde for counting the sleeps, to Josh Hyde for his lovely e-mails and kindness – well look, you get the picture, we are but your representatives here, the part of the team that made the journey but a team nonetheless – thank you all. Thanks for the support you have all provided and for helping us realise just what wonderful friends and family we have – we are indeed lucky people. AND NEXT?????????






Bakary Darboe, VSO, PCTT, Region 5 Education Directorate, Central River Region, Janjangbureh, The Gambia, West Africa.

The circle

As I sit here and peer through the small window that looks out on the field beside our house I realize that we have come full circle, the grasses now drying back, the earth parched beneath, the vivid greens of the rainy season well past to be replaced with the dust and sand once more. The mango tree is fruiting, not quite big enough or ripe enough but promises a good crop in the upcoming months.



It’s our last day on the island, this beautiful, friendly special place in the middle of the river and I’m glad we made it through to the end. There were undeniably moments when I so wanted to be back home, to hug my children or have a bath or need a jumper but they are already beginning to fade into the background as the prospect of leaving tomorrow looms like a multicoloured cloud of emotions.


It’s been a year of contrast and excitement, physical and mental challenges and extreme highs and lows. The reason for us being here has, at times, fallen into question but my thoughts on that too have come full circle, past the arc of ‘we should have just sent the money’, and, although the bar of achievement is very very low, I think both Bakary and I have somehow managed to stumble our way across to the finish line with the tiniest of tangible improvement. This, I am told, is the very best that we could hope to achieve in such a small time, the small drips from each volunteers’ input eventually forming a small rivulet and then into a stream which, in turn, affects change.


So I shall turn to packing up our wee home, deciding if there is anything worth returning and remove our batiks from the wall with mixed feelings before venturing out for our ‘programme’, the party that marks our farewell from the island and the beginning of our journey back to the UK.

THE Match

The atmosphere was palpable. Excitement ran through every vein of the 22 boys and 18 girls had been selected for the inter cluster football and rounders teams. Children had been ferried by tractor and trailer, full to the gunnels, since early morn, clutching strip and picnic lunches to be joined by parents, guardians and anyone else who happened to be around.

The sight was one to behold. Nearly 800 people had gathered at the uneven, sunbaked grounds that were to be the site for this event, held in Bakary’s honour, or so they would have you believe. A rumour had been circulated that he was to be the referee. How to loose friendships that had been formed over the year. Luckily an athletic looking man, fully equipped with tracksuit, trainers and whistle stepped into the breach.

 As we waited the girls designed a merry game of bashing a ball onto the roof and standing beneath the corrugate to catch whilst the boys were bantering about the dreaded game as only excited boys can. Head teachers looked calm and collected and chivied their pupils between sips of attaya and handshakes. A good feeling pervaded all.


It began late. Great excitement as someone had provided a new ball – a posh shiny leather one, but sadly no one had thought that it would need a pump as well as an adapter. Person after person attempted to variously tempt and force air through the tiny hole but to no avail. A child was sent to a different nearby school with the important task of finding the necessary equipment and returned on battered bike amidst cheers.


And so it was nearly five thirty rather than the allocated 4 o’clock slot that the teams moved to their mission. The girls in one area, stones as bases, tennis racket and ball at the ready, the boys on the pitch, four tall sticks beaten into the ground for goal posts, slightly older children grasping leaf sticks as linesmen.


At this point we separated, Pete to watch the football, and I the rounders.


It was a merry time, sticks were beaten onto old cans to drum the girls as they ran and screamed. Singing and dancing that would put American cheerleaders to shame for sheer exuberance and enthusiasm. Dust filled the air as bare feet stomped the ground and hands reached to grasp elusive catches. At one point a horse and cart drove across the pitch but no one batted an eyelid. It was hardly unusual.


Meanwhile back at the football the game went on. There was some skillful moves despite the lack of premiership grass. A croquet field it was not. Head teachers lost any semblance of calm and respectability, as they invaded the pitch with the rest of the crowd at each goal, berated the ref and rules and vehemently argued their corner of push or foul. The game went on. The ringers that had been brought in by one side had a clear advantage of being six inches taller and two years more experience which allowed even more shouting and high feeling to penetrate the ever decreasing visibility of the game amid the setting sun and dust fog.


It was a joyous occasion, an opportunity for children, parents and teachers to meet and shout and dance. As for health and safety – don’t even go there. 

A working day

Awoken by a gasp of expletives, the rivulets of icy water ran over Pete’s skinny legs as he emptied the jugs of water for his bucket shower, I snuggled back under the solitary sheet and planned the day in my mind.

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.

Female equality????

Being female in The Gambia is a strange phenomenon. A constant struggle of house work, family life, work, gardening and making ends meet take place, alongside the banter and chatter at the well and mutual support from the other women around. Sharing everything (including husbands) is common place and, for a society which has so little, they take little care of things that are precious. The motorbike that I knocked over snapping the cable aroused the comment ‘oh I have two. The front brake still works’. At home that would have been an insurance claim for sure.



Being a white female is even stranger. I am neither fowl nor beast or maybe both. Accepted as an honoury man at work, my opinion is sought and acted upon, especially in the absence of Pete who is the default person to ask even when it is my area of expertise. I am usually the only woman in meetings of up to fifty. There will occasionally be another headmistress but typically it is me and the men. I think I get a much easier deal than some other VSO’s by dint of my age and having Pete about, both of which appear to make me more acceptable.


At home I feel there is an expectation that I will join in with the women but in truth my language skills, physical strength and will are not up to it. Ma starts at 6 everyday and works till midnight. Me? I need a snooze in the middle of the day when it gets hot. The other night I was talking to Phil and Pete whilst they did the washing up. I had cooked and that’s the deal here. Isotou, one of the new compound residents, a girl of sixteen came in for a chat. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Yes, she thought it was fair that they should take their part but no she could not see any Gambian man doing so.


Mulai makes me laugh. The first to recognize how hard the women work he tries his utmost to make their lot easier, organizing wells and committees for which they will be responsible. He will rush to help me if I go to get the water, carrying the heavy Gerry cans always most solicitous and yet wouldn’t dream of helping Ma although she will be carrying the shopping on her head at the same time.


This line of thought has come to mind today because it is Tobaski, or as we call it at home Big Eid, the Muslim celebration of sacrifice. Mulai, Seedy and mini Mulai have gone to the mosque with Pete, dressed in their finery. Ma and Ndella are cooking, cleaning and preparing the feast that the men will eat on their return. They have new clothes to put on later and may squeeze in a few visits to family but it is mainly the men who will rest and rejoice.

Mini Mulai

Yesterday evening, Sunday 14th November, something very Gambian occurred. Mulai, our landlord, knocked at our door to introduce us to a new family member and so it was that we first met Mulai Junior. a small boy, perhaps 6 or 7 looking completely overwhelmed. As you read on I urge you not to judge, after 10 months here I am just beginning to scratch the surface of the complexities that make up Gambian culture and if I have learned one thing it is – do not judge what you don’t understand.



Mulai (junior) comes from a village called Tabanani, some 10k over on the southern mainland. It is a poor, rural community completely dependent on subsistence farming as a means of eeking out a living. It seems the Mulau Junior’s family have been supported by Mulai Senior for some time, I don’t know how this first happened or why, I don’t think they are blood relatives. Anyway it transpires that MJ’s parents have decided to go to the coast to try and make a better living and so it was that MJ was “given” to Mulai Senior. I use the word “given” as that it is how it was explained to us. So, on a Sunday afternoon a small boy and his few belongings were delivered to Darboe Kunda where he will live as a family member for the foreseeable future. And that is that – he is immediately one of the family and at once is included in all activities around the compound.


And so back to our first meeting, Mulai and Mulai enter so that the little one can meet the toubabs. The boy looks in shock, left with a new family he now has to greet white people who he will hardly have seen before. With no English he looks nervous and unsure, and who can blame him? We offer him a glass of orange juice and he sips not seeming sure how to even drink in our presence. I just wanted to pick him up and hug him but I think that might have been the final straw for the lad so I refrained. Introductions complete he left, no doubt relieved that the encounter was over.


MJ’s future is actually quite bright. Whilst living with Mulai Senior he will go to school, learn English and be generally well looked after and cared for. Furthermore the continuous stream of volunteers who Mulai rents his house too will, no doubt, make sure his future is well provided for. Having said all of this, and having cautioned against judging, it’s hard not to wonder how the boy must be feeling. One can only try to imagine. And his parents – what must they be going through and what does it say about their plight that they are reduced to this. I could go on and on because I think the whole episode reveals much about the society and community that has come to be our home; I can only sympathise and admire them all at the same time.


Footnote: Mulai Junior was very cheery this morning and we spied him playing with our motorbikes and trying on our crash helmets, just what a little boy should be doing when he thinks no one is looking.

Pete's birthday

Yesterday, the 9th November, 55, I know it's hard to believe, and this was by birthday day. Awoke to presents, 2 mugs from fellow VSOs, home made flap jack from fellow VSO and a knock off DVD (Hell Boy, one of my favourites) from Hawa. Oh, and two packets of flying saucers and a card from Kath Owen in the UK and electronic birthday greetings from many friends at The Court School and at home – thank you all.


Work was meeting of local head teachers, 7 of them with myself and Mr.Leigh, Cluster Monitor who you should all know by now. The highlight was a stirring rendition of “Happy Birthday” which omitted all lyrics except those two words. Very moving, I wonder if anyone has had such a serenade before. The thing is they don't celebrate birthdays here, they know the year they were born and that's it. There is no general use of calendars, time is judged by the weather, rainy season, cool season etc. which is both charming and frustrating. Got back home, had a doze, as you do, and at 7pm set off for Bendulas, our local bar. WOW! They had laid tables with cloths, put out flowers and tied balloons, supplied by Hawa, from the trees. All lit by candlelight as there was a power cut it was a remarkable and moving scene. Greeted by Baks, my namesake and bar manager, I ordered 2 beers and said I understood they would not be cold because the power had been off all day. Not a bit of it, exclaiming that my happiness was his concern Baks miraculously produced cold beers all night – I have no idea how he managed this, what a man. Guests began to arrive, Phil, fellow VSO, Chris and Tara, volunteers with another charity and visiting the island for a week, colleagues from work and, wait for it...... The Chief of Police. I know not why or how since I have never met him before however Jibril, that being his name, was, of course, absolutely charming.


30 minutes later about a dozen of us by now were treated to an hour of drumming and singing arranged and paid for by the bar staff and colleagues from work. With countless mentions of my birthday and many wishes of more to come they drummed and danced furiously as only the Gambians know how. It is exhausting just watching. Inevitably I was coaxed up to dance, thankfully for all present the darkness hid my pathetic attempts to move in rhythm, a skill which has always eluded me. The show finished with a 20 minute singing of happy birthday in English, Spanish and French, I threw in Welsh just to be different and they immediately tried to repeat it – very surreal and one of those “where am I” moments when reality seems stranger than fiction. All of this took place whilst I was doing a very passable impression of Caerphilly's favourite son. For those of you now very puzzled let me inform you that Tommy Cooper, rubbish magician but genius comic was from Caerphilly and should you ever visit you will see his statue in the town centre. My likeness to said Tom was because I had decided to wear my best African clothes, in which I must say, I look very fetching. However as I was leaving the compound Mulai, my landlord, decided I needed a hat and so it was that Tommy Cooper was reborn. For those not old enough to know what I am talking about just find anyone over 40 and say “Tommy Cooper” they will smile, I promise they will, and probably say “just like that.” Go on try it and see.


And so the day came to a close, a memorable birthday for sure and I retired home for a final smoke and a glass of “Don Simon” a passable red wine that we can get on the island.


Happy, happy days. Where will we celebrate my 56th birthday – I wonder........

How to hold a pencil?

48 huge brown eyes looked at me, wide in wonderment. 24 children squatted around huge, pristine white rectangles of paper placed on the termite ridden, flaking concrete floor, each clutching a wax crayon like a precious gift. Silence as I bent down, showing them, group by group, how to make a mark. Expansive grins evolved from gentle bemused smiles as the red, blue, green, yellow and brown shapes appeared to decorate paper, which was to make the first wall display they had ever seen. Uncertain lines and baby scribble but what could one expect from a first attempt? A shriek. A snapped colour stick caused one small mite to dissolve into tears. My laughter reassured him and placing one half in each hand he continued with enthusiasm. Imagine reaching the age of five and six and never having held a pencil or crayon.



The teacher stood as mystified as his pupils. I found him, like a rabbit in headlights, terrified of the little creatures that he had been charged with educating. Moved from a higher grade he was clueless as to what to do or how to begin to get their attention. Attempts at reciting ‘Capital A, small a, capital B, small b,’ as he banged the blackboard with his stick had proved futile. Enter Hawa to throw his world into turmoil.

We spent a week together, learning nursery rhymes and games, talking of routines and curriculums, planning and schemes of work.

By Friday pictorial rules, a timetable and the children’s work were taped to the peeling walls. I sat and watched him take the class. It wasn’t perfect, (his answering the phone 4 times and leaving the room and children because he was hungry didn’t help, but in a culture where this is acceptable who can blame him?) The children sang, using strange sounding English words, alongside Mandinka, Fula and Wolof. They organized and played games we had taught them and they located the number 2 and letter ‘a’ on the blackboard. As for writing? Well give them a chance.

We were delighted to have our friend Maria to come and visit us last week.  The full on Gambian experience in 6 days, but this is her story.

Maria's blog

Well, I have no idea where to begin and don't think I will be able to express the over whelming journey and emotional roller coaster ride I've just experienced, all be it crushed into 6 days. It seemed so much longer and now such a long time ago.


I will start near the end when I began to write about my experience........



As my journey came to an end I sat on the bus ready for the 8 hour trip back to the city of Banjul, from the town of JJB the home of Bakary and Hawa, (Pete and Liz), B&H. Hawa sees me onto the bus, tells the driver where I am going and to make sure I'm safe. As I turn to walk down the aisle I have a feeling of unease, that feeling I felt that when I first arrived, the overwhelming culture shock and instant feeling of being different. I was the only Toubab (white person) on the bus, noticing as I walked through an array of bright colour clothing, head scarves and hats….the bold patterns of a mix of blue, orange, green, purple and gold. I tried to look casual and inconspicuous. I found a seat next to a woman and her daughter who looked around 5 years old. As quickly as the unsettled feeling came over me it was gone. Only the children stared at me. I found it quite funny for a moment, but then, as if being white wasn't enough for me to standout; I forgot myself completely and stood waving vigorously with both hands, blowing kisses out of the window as I let out my farewell to B&H. They were on the opposite side of where I was sitting so I had to stand up and lean over people; displaying a right emotional affair........I was completely engulfed in leaving the Walfords behind and for myself having to leave West Africa so soon.

On the journey, at the bus stops people trade through the narrow oblong window that sit on top of larger windows that do not open. Women walk around the bus with ‘ice’, plastic bags of flavoured slush, just like a slush puppy, bananas and various other things. Children are passed to strangers for the mother to have a break especially if the mother was standing up. (Attachments with children are very different there). They shared their food and chattered, and chattered. It seemed like they were talking to themselves when someone a few seats down would talk back. At one of the stops there was much excitement about plastic bucket containers filled with curdled milk which was being bought through the window. At one point a man passed through the isle holding a crying LIVE chicken from its feet. The biggest surprise is that the children were silent, for 8 hours on a busy bus. They didn't fuss or say a word. What would they ask for I guess?? So unlike the indulgent western way of entertaining and pacifying your children, the unsettled I'm bored, I'm hungry, how long, cries we are so used to hearing.


I realise that I don't think I can't tell this in a nut shell, there was so much to take in. I will attempt to be consistent but, for those of you that know me, I will undoubtedly flit from encounter to encounter.

I didn't think my adoration for the Walfords could get much bigger until I had a flavour of their life over the past 10 months. Reading their blog is one thing being here is quite another.

On arrival, back on the 22nd I could hardly contain myself jumping up and down to hurry the bus up, so I could get off and meet the Walfords. I ran to find them; it was very exciting and a wonderful reunion. We caught up on tales over food and drink and I laughed at the glee from them both in having basic things, a clean bedroom, a sink, in door tap, hot water and a sit down loo. Hawa was in love with her cheese, o cheese!!! and Baks for his Jack Daniels. It was funny. I could only appreciate the impact of this joy on my return.


Anyway, the next day was running around doing basic errands, bank, shops, pizza, and next hotel. Bakary and Hawa have only had three trips up to the city and although it is a bit of a treat they also have practical things to do when they are there.

As we left our first hotel, I was amused by the state of the transport and surprised that the cars could possibly manage to work.


Bakary seemed in his element of the greeting and bartering way of the Gambians, he relished in their friendliness and genuine desire to help. We hopped onto a jeep like car and as the driver struggled to start the car I noticed the ignition looked like it had been hotwired, hanging out of the socket by the coloured wires. Three other taxi drivers came along to push, but to no avail. We had to take another cab. This one was running yes but had its own unique interior design with no inside door panel and foam and frame haphazardly on display.


By the evening we were off to a little hotel off the beaten track. The taxi driver took us down some narrow sandy roads and we were dropped off at a junction of wider sandy desolate roads. We took as short walk straight ahead passed trees and compounds that are surrounded by crimped metal sheeting that make up most of the fencing, roofing and make shift gate ways. It was like walking through the ghetto. We turned into one of the compounds through the gates, wow there was a tiny little haven,, after a couple of minutes I had to walk back out into the street as everything had become so surreal. Being in Africa with the Walfords was one thing but didn't we just walk down a sandy road that felt like we were in the ghetto? As I walked outside to check myself and that it wasn't a dream Bakary followed. We walked a short distance to the corner where we were greeted by a boy around 10 years old standing with his bicycle upside down playing with his wheel and broken tyre. He explained how his bike was broken and used it for school and began the banter of which Baks was again in his element. Suddenly a few more locals migrated towards us and one guy called out, greeted Bakary by name and as a friend. They had met the last time they had come to the city.


(I tell you Baks wasn't wrong about these people and their genuine desire to help and become your friend).


We then proceeded to follow the man and the boy followed us down the road, in the opposite direction to the hotel, around the corner and into a compound where there was a celebration or as the Gambians call it a 'programme'. It was a naming ceremony where swarms of natives in their finest vibrate clothes come to pay their respects to a new born, women in one compound and men across the road in another, children hanging giggling around us ..''Toubab, toubab''.....and touching us. Baks, as casual as you like, greeting the father and then over to see the mother and baby of course. We then swiftly strolled back down the road and were sat back in our hotel before we knew it. I hardly had the chance to catch my breath it was all so surreal.


The next day we were already for our trip back to up to JJB where Hawa and Baks call home. Our taxi dropped us off in the ferry port market area, bustling to say the least. I must have looked as bemused as a bewildered child. Hawa kept a check on me as she did throughout my stay. We rushed through the market area and the ferry terminal to get a ticket and then waited…….and waited and waited... in the sweltering heat behind iron gates that separated the foot passengers from the transport. It still felt strange being the only white people but no one took much notice. Hawa laid back and practical as always was already trying to negotiate her way through the gates to sort out our ride once we were over the other side of the water.


Once our ferry finally came everybody ran, huddled together in a herd, we just had to stay close and run. Running for seats in the shade and just getting a seat is something; people are hanging and standing anywhere.


A 40 min crossing and a 4hr ride squashed in the back of an 8 seated car, another small water crossing (which is a regular route for them both) and we arrive at their island of JJB a short walk and we are home. We enter their compound which the Walfords share with a local family, Baks and Hawa are happy to be back. Hot, tired and dirty which is the way I will remain for the rest of my stay and the way the Walfords have become accustom to. I look around their two basic rooms turn to Hawa and say, DID YOU CRY WHEN YOU FIRST ARRIVED?!!! I was astonished by how basic it was, I felt for them, no wonder they were like little kids it the city. Wow!!!! Wow!!! Wow!!!


After a rest Hawa took me across to my room, luckily a small hotel/ shale type place directly across the sandy road. ...brown stained ceiling, a working wobbling fan that seemed as though it would fly off the ceiling at any moment, fitted directly next to the bare light bulb so gave a flashing light show, door handles fitted upside down, a trickling shower head that I had to hold, a sink where the water trickle out through the bottom onto the floor. I wanted to cry, this time for myself.... but at least I had an indoor tap and a sit down loo. What was I moaning for....?


It’s amazing how quickly things become normal and we can adjust and accept them. Baks and Hawa's home very quickly became cosy and relaxing. Honest!!!!.... and for me it was just for a few days for these two it is their way of life.


The next day we went on the motor bikes to the market and to see the island and meet the local people that had become friends or colleges of the B&. I hadn't been on a bike since I was in my teens. I was riding with Hawa and Baks had Mulai, his landlord, with him. We crossed the river on a small ferry and onto the empty dirt top road, long and deserted, some parts of the road had a new surface, but mainly dust and sand topped and bumpy. I soon relaxed. It was fun. I could see over Hawa’s shoulder, just fields and road. Occasionally I could see a cluster of thatched roofed round hut houses way out in the fields. How scary it must be to ride these roads alone every day? People would suddenly appear out from the fields where they'd come from surrounding villages, children coming home from or going to school carrying books, a boy with a donkey and cart, women coming from their day farming carrying the crops in baskets on their heads and then nothing. The roads were dead again. Some people hitched lifts from the odd car or van some disappeared into fields, or wondered off the main road onto the narrow slippery sandy tracks that lead to the villages and schools that H&B ride down every day and I was to ride down with Baks the next day.


The markets were a surprise, stalls crammed together selling fabric, fruit, veg, fish, old bicycle parts and tyres and all the tat 'made in china' that you can find all over the world. Broken watches, metal door hinges, in separate piles for people to rummage through. I tell you, it made me feel annoyed at our wasteful world of consumerism, if it’s broken just throw it away and buy a new one. Things and parts for things in the Gambia and, I’m sure, in so much of the world are used to the death. I can only liken the scene to my idea of a mix of Victorian time chaos and medieval living as you see it in the movies, with a random appearance of modernism all muddled up in hustle and bustle, the traders hissing at you as you walk past, just to get your attention of course!! And then there was the live stock section. Bakary likened it to the Wild West.


The ferry was too full on our return from the market so Hawa and I had to get a canoe like boat that meant our bike hanging over the edge and Baks and Mulai in another boat in an identical scene. They both hold on the other end of the bike so as it doesn’t fall in ... it was funny because it was unbelievable, but I did feel for them; sometimes after a long day out on trek to the school this is what they come home to. I don’t mean to be sexiest but double wow for Hawa. I felt for her. She can ride every day alone on desolate dusty narrow roads, never feel clean and then at the end of the day maybe have to get her motor bike hanging off the boat and hold it tight ... what a woman!!!! I was blown away.


The homes were mud or clay like huts with thatched roofs or concrete blocks, two rooms per family, (it was like a living historical medieval village.... and B&H live in a compound like this,) (Can you imagine?) The rooms were just used for sleeping, with people settled in groups usually with extended families that form the compound, which was shielded by stick fencing or, in the town or city, the metal sheeting.


In some places there was power, but it went off at certain times in the day and hasn't reached many of the villages.


The schools, THE SCHOOLS!!!! B&Hs reason for giving up their comforts and secure lives for the year their passion for teaching and to offer their support. As humble as ever they say they have had little to offer, but I witnessed how the community embraced them, appreciated their visits, the staff and children at the schools looked to them and valued their words, the relationships they had formed I can hardly believe this to be true.


The schools were a shock to say the least. I had to work hard to contain my emotions. The bare concrete blocks held around 4 class rooms, some just had one block while others had two or three that were built in a square. Inside there was a blackboard usually full with elaborate English texts which the children would copy into their tatty exercise books using their broken pencils. With the help of B&H some class rooms had began to develop little reading corners and areas where children could play shop and learn moths in a practical form. The school building itself was relative to the standard homes the natives were used to, so I got over that one (kind of) but the hour or so it takes for children to walk to school through the sweltering heat through fields and sandy tracks carrying their scruffy books, was humbling. Most of the staff lived away from their homes and loved ones. The store cupboard was a larger room that stored a pile of fire wood for burning, to cook the children’s’ lunch, along with some broken furniture; a far cry from our crammed store cupboards filled with unused exercise books, ring bind folders, pens, rubbers, etc... God the paper we waste.


The children seemed happy, giving us big beaming smiles; a few were shocked and curious. They touched us and pinched us laughing at our white skin. A few were scared and Baks made them cower and cry while he tried to approach them and play. It was very funny. Oh and they absolutely love the camera. It was a pleasurable day despite the continual culture shock that involved the primitive way of life and the profound state of poverty, yet the people were happy, humble, giving and so so grateful.


All the people I was introduced to were very welcoming. Their landlord gave me a gift that I can only see as a reflection of how much respect there is for both Bakary and Hawa.


The funniest bit, besides the children and cars, was when going to the market Baks had forgotten that he had his land lord with him on the back of his bike. They had stopped off to get the foot rest welded onto the bike. Baks arrived at the river crossing and looking behind him asked where Mulai was insisting that he must have just got off the bike. He had barely stopped and even protested when myself and Hawa said ‘you arrived alone’ ‘but I was talking to him.’ Baks restarted the bike and turned to find Mulai.... then we could see him running around the corner. It was hilarious.


I was quietly amused by Bakary’s new found word 'MAN' at the end of a sentence or a statement. No, he wasn’t trying to be a wanabe Rasta - again it was natural, it fitted, they fitted, they have both beautifully embraced the natives and their ways. How will they readjust? I can see Baks seeking out a new drinking haunt in the old Cardiff bay side.... and Hawa kissing every piece of furniture in their home. The hardest bits were the travelling, the heat, the never feeling clean and the damn mosquitoes ...


There is so much I have missed, I only hope it gives justice and credit to them, sharing my experiences and respect and love for Peter Liz and the strength they have, both individually and as a couple. I can only bow down to them. They have lasted their adventure and survived their challenge, have done some amazing work, taken on all the hardship and grown a love for the people. These last few weeks may be the hardest. They are so grateful for correspondence from home. The parcels and letters they get are a gift of joy and a pleasure. They miss their comforts and loved ones and are aching to see their children.


Pete and Liz, a pride and honour to know you, I can't thank you enough for letting me share a snap shot of your experience and for looking after me so so much....


with much love Maria xxxxxxx

Goats, earwigs and new life - A blog from Baks

Kusalang again today – the nursery on the Senegal border. It rained last night, shouldn't have because the season has ended, but it did making the journey slightly easier with the rain compacting the sand. Took Phil, ICT VSO, to show him what it is like in the bush. Normal ride through African landscape, herds of horned cattle, donkey carts etc. Arrived to hear the children chanting “welcome, welcome.” It is very moving. The nursery has a lot of resources because it has a UK sponsor charity. These include markers, chalk, paper, card, crayons, construction sets books and more but it is all in a terrible pickle so Bak's arrives to bring some order. A very messy job, dirt everywhere and hundreds of earwigs amongst all the stock – yuk! After 3 hours though, each table had a stock of paper and pencils/crayons and the children were happily mark making and enjoying the colours which they hadn't seen or used before. I was given many pictures, most just paper with every colour on because they don't know how to draw. At about midday breakfast was served – cous and sugar and “fresh” milk. When I say fresh I mean not yet yoghurt although already on the turn which is how they like it. This is eaten, of course, from the communal bowl with what I can only describe as ice cream scoops, very tricky to avoid getting it down your shirt. After breakfast we retired outside for tea to see two goats that had just, literally, just been born. Whilst they were making valiant attempts to stand the mother was licking them clean and eating the afterbirth, I am glad I had already had my breakfast. I know it is natural but it still made me feel a tad squeamish as I am no country boy. Stayed for about another 30 minutes by which time the kids (goats that is) had learned to stand, after a fashion, and they were already beginning to suckle – amazing, I feel very lucky to have been there. Then I got to thinking, I do occasionally, about what a great metaphor the baby goats were for the Gambia. Here is a country struggling, against all odds, to stand on it's own two feet, and wobbling every time it gets to the upright position. If however the Gambia can be as successful as the kids (goats) then perhaps, just perhaps, there is hope. I do so want to believe this because the people here deserve better – they really, really do.

Left Kusalang and headed home happy and tired, past the cattle, past the donkey carts, past the wells, past the villages, past the armed police check and back onto the island. Stopped to buy some tins of pop and went to the office to find Hawa who has been busy doing data entry in the air conditioned office all day. Tomorrow is another day – Hawa is of to a phonics training day and I am trekking in the Jeep finishing off the head count of pupils and teachers in the schools – it will be a long day for both of us but this is all to the good. Africa is extraordinary, death and new life are always very close to hand and today was reminder of new life and even though it was only goats I have to say it was very uplifting.

History lessons

I sat, waiting for the lop-sided ferry, under the shade of the neme tree watching the ripples form and wrinkle their way over the mighty River Gambia. As I sat I mused over the sights before my eyes that have become common place over the last few months.


The women chatter as they sit on up-turned buckets and gerry cans behind small cloths, laid as though ready for a picnic, displaying their wares of bananas and groundnuts, babies clasped to nipples or snug, like snails tied to mothers back. Dalasi coins exchange hands amid banter and barter. No cards, banks or cheque books here – a cash only society. Toddlers smile shyly at the strange looking creature with white skin. Dare they wave? White teeth show as I wiggle my fingers in reply. Siblings play African hop scotch, rotate battered cans on stick ends or maybe a draught style game moving stones on squares drawn in the dust.



Men sit on the veranda of the dilapidated building showing the history of a once thriving trading post in the middle of the river, brewing attaya and keeping out of the days heat, greeting new arrivals with loud voices and expansive gestures.



Chickens, dogs, and goats roam free, avoiding the occasional stone chucked in their direction to deter them from eating crops. A donkey cart pulls its heavy load of rice bags urged on by small youths who should be in school.



The uniformed school children stand in parallel lines, boys and girls. They are no strangers to corporal punishment or even to the necklace worn by those foolish enough to be caught talking in the local language. ‘The vernacular must not be used in school’ is firmly posted in the school rules alongside ‘teachers must not have improper relations with children’ and ‘mobiles should be on silent in class’.

 The ferry remains in the distance but the river is busy. A man wanders down the bank to fill an old oilcan with the murky liquid, small children splash as they bathe, sounds of laughter and reprimand from intolerant adults who urge them to be sensible. Farther down, where the stony bank is less steep, women stand knee deep with their wash tubs of laundry, Omo, bars of soap, small plastic bags of ‘blue’ for whitening and metal wash boards. In, out, scrub, scrub. In, out, scrub, scrub. Rinse and scrub and rinse some more. A stray t-shirt is rescued as it makes its bid for freedom, floating like an inflated doll.


To my right, Wasulo, where many live, small round houses with straw roofs, miniscule glassless windows, corrugated iron doors. Smoke seeps through the air, rice and fish cooking in cauldron style pots upon open fires fuelled with sticks from the scrub laboriously collected and balanced on heads for several kilometres. Farmers tend scraps of land with large blade machetes, axes and hand hoes.

 And as I sat and mused I thought of the primary history lessons I have taught in the UK - Celtic villages, transport, Victorian washday, school of yesteryear in Wales, homes of now and then. It’s not history in The Gambia.

Trekking

Bak's turn to scribe something to inform, amuse and entertain, it's not asking much is it?


OK – trekking for this is what they call visits to schools, once you leave the office you are on “trek” and a whole new set of protocols apply the most important of which is your place in the car. As the least senior person I was allocated centre rear however compared to the bus journeys this was still luxury. So off we set to the farthest schools on the south bank, a 2 hour car drive, the last hour up dirt tracks, through cornfields, villages, where the children all cry “toubab” as they glimpse my white skin. Past monkeys, baboons, vultures, eagles, storks, herons, kingfishers and goodness only knows what else. The purpose of the visits – STABILISATION! It is necessary to visit all 111 schools to verify the number of children so that the correct number of teachers can be posted to the school. The schools submit their numbers but for a variety of reasons these need verification, the figures are almost always inflated. So I arrive with my 3 colleagues and the Head Teacher, who has no idea we are coming, does his or her best to look pleased to see you although of course they are not, these visits are rarely good news for them. My task is to visit the classes and confirm that the number of children in the class matches those marked on the register – occasionally it does. Report back to team leader who is meanwhile in the Head's office checking records. The outcome can be brutal. If there is over staffing, and a class can have up to 50, then the transfer memo for a teacher is written then and there. The Head is asked who they would like to lose and that person is told to report to another school in the region with immediate effect. Thank goodness this doesn't happen at home, I fear I might have reached the Orkneys by now. This all concludes at around 6:30 so the drive home is in the descending gloom and soon it is dark – read on.






I haven't travelled much at night here and this isn't going to change. Even from the safety of a car the Gambian bush by night does not look terribly welcoming. Like a scene from Avatar or a Tim Burton animation the creatures of the night are many and strange. I have no idea what flew, crawled, ran or slithered across our headlights but suffice to say they were many and varied. There were, I am sure, fangs, talons, wings with hooks on the end, bulbous eyes, and a variety of other ways to locate you and feast. I would not like to be far down the food chain here, I don't think you can last very long. There were times when I physically shrunk back into my seat certain that this creature was about to come through the windscreen. And my colleagues, oblivious it all, continued to chat amicably in Mandinka – I try to follow but there is little hope save for the odd word of English that is interspersed amongst the local language. And so having left at 7AM I returned home at 8pm to be greeted by Hawa and a fridge full of soft drinks – not so bad. The night creatures safely locked out I felt safe and secure and happy to be home.

Korop Nursery

Korop is a small Fula village out in the bush. 4 Kilometers from the road it nestles, for the moment, in head height maize, the straw roofs of the round houses camouflaged by the stalks. The groundnut plants abound with their lemon yellow flowers adorned with multitudes of butterflies, which scatter like rainbowed fairydust as we make our way, Sherpa Tensing style, along the disappearing track.



Our destination is a nursery. I hear it before I maneuver the final twist, cries of ‘welcome, welcome, welcome’ and a song to greet us. Children dressed in blue and white check smile and wave with expectant faces. Will we remember the ball we promised them on our previous visit? Of course. Eager eyes watch, resisting the temptation to help, but willing me to hurry, as I delve into my bag for the ball and pump. Eyes widen as the ball increases in girth and nearly pop out completely to see it followed by two more. Such happiness as they run and play harmoniously, barefoot and grubby, caring arms protecting little ones.


Tida beams with pride as we congratulate her on her delightful children, fifty five 4,5 and 6 year olds. Three years of teaching in term time, studying in the holidays and she has finally gained her teaching certificate.


Accompanied by Omar, the cluster monitor, and Pat, the latest VSO visiting his first African school, Pete and I are to help her ‘do something’ with the nursery. Little do they realize the work in store. Small willing hands help to transport empty boxes, plastic bags, rice bags, string, nails, scrap paper, onion netting, our past 3 weeks ‘rubbish’ precariously attached to every nook and cranny of the motorbikes. It’s past home time but the children remain to watch and help. A large concrete room, six small wooden benches and the inevitable lattice windows is to be transformed.


Rice mats are opened and placed on the dusty floor as matting, letter squares fashioned from cardboard, books (many homemade) and a sign for the reading corner. A discarded blackboard, chalk, charcoal and out of date manuals from the office and the writing area is complete. Pat is dispatched with a gaggle of helpers to find stones for number matching and counters, to add to two and three piece shape jigsaws and number cards. Pete and Omar set to, nailing opened cardboard boxes to the walls as instant display boards and suspend string, like washing line, while Tida and I write unlikely childrens’ names, Manure Essa, Momodu Sulayman Baldeh, on name cards and make posters and labels. A corner is set aside for role play, Tida’s bitik, the piece de resistance, a table, empty boxes and bags and small, seven sided silver dalasi coins cut and painstakingly drawn by Phil in a quiet office moment. People from the village wander up to greet, welcome and investigate bringing smiles and community spirit. The place is buzzing.


Four hours later, 25p spent on nails and drawing pins, hot sweaty people and the room is transformed. My favourite part? Sitting back and watching Tida and Omar playing shops!

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.