letters

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

To our highly esteemed friends and colleagues:

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

Your support and understanding are highly solicited,

Hawa and Bakary Darboe

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

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

books, books books and more books

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

where's the dishwasher?

Instructions for washing up

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

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

3.    Stumble back with flexed muscles to remove batwings.

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

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

6.    Pour in water.

7.    Add washing up liquid.

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

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

10.   Sleep to recuperate.

out and about

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

comfort zone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

House for Rent ???

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

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

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

The Living Room/Dining Room/Kitchen

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

The archway leads to

The Bedroom

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

The Washing area

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

The Shower Room

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

The Pit Latrine

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

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

moving 'up country'

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

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

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

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

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

Banks

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

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

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

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

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

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

motor bike training

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

odds and sods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James' Island

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

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

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

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

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

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