Gambian Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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