The Match

It was much anticipated, the annual football tournament in which a dozen or so local teams compete in a league to be crowned champions. The island itself boasts about six teams such is the popularity of football here. For reasons unknown to me one of the teams “West Ham” have aligned themselves with the Education Office and so they have become our team too. Their match was against the Invincibles, other team names include Manchester United and Spain, I guess both of these are inevitable.

Anyway, to the match, a goodly crowd of around 500 turned up at the local pitch, which can best be described as “unplayable”. Think of the worst park pitch you have ever played on, well that was like Wembley in comparison. This pitch consists of 3 surfaces: The central area is dried, baked mud, or just mud if it has rained and the ball bounces crazily in any direction it chooses. This guarantees to make a chump out of the most skilful of players. One side is sand, like beach football, and the other is overgrown grass in which the ball holds up alarmingly. Due to this the ball spends a good deal of time in the air and there was a distinct feeling that you were watching Bolton play. To add to the problems most of the players wore plastic sandals, they cannot afford boots or trainers, no shin pads of course so the whole thing looked very dangerous. Add to this the tackles flying in and a controversial referee and you had a match that boiled up to a late second half melee with players from both sides having to be restrained. This is the one and only time I have seen Gambians agitated. Ah – football, don't you love it? The match ended 1-0 to the Invincibles, a quality free kick with the outside of the right foot curled in from 25 yards – and that was that, much happiness on one side and gloom on the other – ''twas ever thus.

Crowd drift away chatting about “what might have been” and berating the referee – sound familiar? More matches to come, I am looking forward to them with anticipation. 

A vision in blue and purple?

The time has come, as the walrus said, to move to better things and in this case it is clothes.  Always dear to my heart it is strange to have the freedom that not having a mirror gives.  My daily “does this look okay?” is greeted with nary a glance and “fine” and I believe him.  However, an inspection of my meager wardrobe tells a different story.  Articles that were once white tell their story of cold-water washing and the dust impregnated dirt tracks upon which we ride.  Skirts, once smart, are nearly transparent and streaked with sun-dried bleach.  My hair has the makings of a lions’ mane, if it would refrain from falling out.  In summary I look a mess most of the time.

So there it was. The decision made.  We donned our power ranger outfits and sped along the tarmac road to Wassu lumo. Traveling through the verdant grasslands, past lakes of water, scattered with white lilies floating randomly like ping pong balls, overtaking donkey carts laden with potential sellers and buyers, Peter, Mulai and I made the half hour journey.

It was bustling.  People moved and milled, like my African stomach, between stalls of wares, fabrics, food, hardware, shoes, washing powder.  We side stepped large sheets covered with drying tobacco, trays of bananas, iron aged garden tools as we went into the bowels of the market, deeper and darker than we had so far ventured. Wooden framed, palm covered stalls leant like a shantytown. Knock one and they could fall like a stack of dominoes.

Mulai was buying for the bitik, the tiny shop at the end of our compound.  A random selection of goods that reflects its stores, miniscule bags of tobacco, (enough for one cigarette), an enormous bag of dried red fiery chilies measured with a tomato paste can, large bags of ‘minti’ for children buy singly, a lock.  For the compound garden aubergine, chilli and pepper plants were carefully selected, rooted stems placed into a watered plastic bag with due care.  All accompanied, of course, with greetings and banter and bustle and noise and a plethora of colours and smells.

Fabrics and materials were draped over sides, walls, floors, tables.  A child in a sweetie shop I looked, felt, mulled and fantasized.  Would this give me the trendy, Afracanised European look I required?  Clearly and elegant size zero, even tanned, toned and unwrinkled skin would follow.  I fell upon my prey - a batik print of purples and blues, still thick and stiff from wax, together with a royal blue water print.  Oh the vision! 

We are not hard bargainers.  How can we, with all our wealth, try to make someone with so little, drop their price when 50p means so little to us but a family meal for them?  We play the game, but not too hard and leave with the inevitable black plastic bag.

Journey home, across on the ferry and then to meet with the formidable Ma. 

Mulai only has one wife – Ma.  Tall, thin and elegant Ma works hard, running the bitik, keeping the compound immaculate, caring for the family, selling bags of water, bananas, mangos, fruit juice at the ferry port, a veritable hive of industry from six till midnight.  Friendly and smiling she has long ago given up her shrieks of delight as I try my Mandinka to a resigned patient correction of my mistakes. 

Courage in my hand I asked about the tailor.   Yes Ma would come with me.  We left for the stroll down to the market at a fierce pace with greetings firing from all angles like a repeating rifle.  Ma knows everyone.  I catch the odd phrase – Hawa is getting some African clothes.

The market is deserted, except for a few men in small cupboards, littered with fabric remnants and threads of all hues.  They sit behind their treadle machines whilst there is still light enough for them to see.  We march towards a withered, prunish old man, shake hands, greet and I follow Ma’s instructions to sit and stand at appropriate moments.  I listen, without comprehension to a babble of dialogue during which she points to my ankles, my arms and gestures from shoulder to hip.  I nod, not knowing what else to do. A tape measure appears.  One measurement. 

Ah, I know this.

“Two hundred dalasi.” 

“Two hundred dalasi?  Too much.  Hawa, give him one hundred dalasi.”

I do.

That’s it.  We leave and will return tonight to pick up whatever it is that I have ordered.  I have no idea but have my suspicions that it might not be quite the image I anticipated.

Things that make me sad

1.    M

A The President

His Excellency Sheik Professor Alhagie Doctor Yahya AJJ Jammeh …….. otherwise known as the President of The Gambia.  Each year he goes on a tour of the country ‘discussion with the people’. This year the bridge was to be officially opened.

The event is surrounded with excitement, building up over weeks.  Families give D300 each, the equivalent of £25, a fortune in this neck of the woods, to ensure there is food and entertainment for all.

We wore the uniform.  

Called aserbe (no idea on the spelling) groups of people all buy a selected fabric and have clothes made. The president’s favourite colour is said to be green. I claim no credit for the choice of target concentric circles, strategically placed in my case, but Pete, Phil and I duly dressed and, looking like the numpties, ventured out onto the streets.

The Janjanbureh population had quadrupled overnight.  People, men, women, youths, children and babies everywhere, milled about, sporting their finest attire.  Official cars sped back and fore with military police flaunting their weaponry, waving guns haphazardly and occasionally saluting.  Officials threw five dalasi notes through sun roofs for the local children to dive for, a lethal scrum of trampled limbs and grazed knees.

Excitement bubbled as sirens blared, engines roared and drums beat out their steady rhythm as people rushed to gain the best view.  Cheers erupted each time the ferry docked but in true Gambian style it took a while (about 2 hours) for the white limosine to arrive.  Placed strategically on the step of the local bitik we stood to see.  A white robed, black faced individual stood waving majestically and, as I waved, our eyes locked.  ‘Strange how people do that’ thinks I, ‘it was like he was looking straight at me’.  Thereupon a hefty uniformed man appeared with a box of 24 packets of orange cream biscuits.  ‘These are for you - from the president – he likes your clothes’.

It’s not everyone who can say they have been given a gift from the President of The Gambia.

Basse

We’ve been on trek again, 100 km further up country to a town called Basse.  Large by African standards, it’s bustling and busy with an assortment of nationalities and languages and numerous shops and stall holders all selling the same.  The centre of a junction of roads leading to Senegal, Guinea Bissau it has become a trading stage post. 

Our job was to research the contribution of unqualified teachers, which are numerous, an NUT and VSO project.  Pete and I travelled out into the bush, across rivers, luxuriating in being driven, to different schools where we were to interview teachers. Welcomed by all, the questionnaire received a variety of reactions. Some gave the look of ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about’ other articulate individuals were confident to talk about the rewards and hardship of their employment.

The scenery could be English, but without hill or dale.  Vibrant green trees amidst fields of growing shoots, streams and rivers idling their way, fences, wild flowers, birds singing.  There remain, however, for those with sharp eyes, tell tale signs that remind us we are in Africa. Palm trees reach tall to the sky, climbed by the intrepid to tap palm wine, a foul concoction not to be recommended.  Peeping in the distance the roofs of the mud round houses with their thatched patterns and points, the well, surrounded by children pumping and chattering, the corrugated iron fences. 

Huge, intricately built termite mounds, the size of several people, litter fields like abstract free form sculptures, oxen pull ploughs back and for across the turf whilst men and women bend over, Steve Davis backed, wielding iron age implements to dig and hoe and plant and weed.  Children help while some mind babies sitting under trees. Cart pulling donkeys, urged by stick wielding youths, carry loads towards their destinations.

A time of industry for all.

A tribute

Most of you reading this will already know what an extraordinary school I work in at home – The Court Special School, Cardiff. This blog is by way of an overdue tribute to all those who work at, with, or are connected in other ways to the school. This blog was prompted by events of the 26^th June 2010, more of which later, but as I said this “thank you” was already overdue. So here goes – Thanks to you all, for everything you have done, through encouraging actions and kind words, for all of those things that have made it possible for us to be here in The Gambia today. I cannot name names, the list would be too long but there isn't a single person there who hasn't made a significant contribution in their own way. I am proud to call you all colleagues and friends.

26^th June 2010 – Fund Raising Day

It started as a simple request for a few basic classroom supplies to help the schools here. Then The Court School became involved and they don't do anything by halves – especially drink! The project blossomed into many schools in Cardiff participating and the collection of things to send became so large that transport costs were prohibitive. If you have joined the dots you will already know what the fund raising was for. Details of the event are not completely known to me but I understand they included; bike sale, face painting, finger printing by the police, chest waxing (honest) bottle stall and so on – wow! Its a small school but as always it has been big on effort and our commitment is that no one's effort will have been wasted. I will use a future blog to say more about how we put the resources to use so for now once again – Abaraka Baake   (Thank you very much.)

Bakary Darboe (VSO) Janjangbureh.