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.