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6
The Gambia
Wherever we go, we seem to go just before trouble occurs. It’s become a bit of a standing joke in the family. ‘Where are you going this time? Ah, better watch out for trouble there’.
The first time that we experienced this was on our trip to The Gambia. We went on a package deal, purely because it was cheaper than a flight only. We had chosen to stay at The African Village Hotel, as it was the only resort owned by a Gambian. The British and Swedish were the main tourists visiting The Gambia. We flew in and were greeted with a traditional Gambian dance and musician group and headed to our hotel. As we were not there as part of a package, we didn’t stay for the introduction pep talk and went out for a walk. Consequently, we didn’t find out that there had been an attempted counter coup at the army barracks over the road the day before, there was some sort of national emergency and ours was the last tourist plane to land. The one behind us was turned back to the country whence it came. We later found out from some of the guests staying at the hotel that tracer bullets went right over the compound. Two soldiers died, apparently – executed, I believe. We put our bags in our room and headed out to explore. That night we had a lovely meal, involving peanuts. Everything in the Gambia involves peanuts. The Gambia has two things – peanuts and tourism. The only odd thing about the restaurant was that we were the only people there – but we did get very good service – full attention from the staff. We visited a little local bar and went home to bed.
The following morning, we weren’t hungry for our complimentary breakfast – as it was so hot, so we took a banana and went out for a wander. We didn’t go to the welcome meeting and walked down the road. We were about to pass the entrance to ‘Gambia Radio, that was being guarded by a number of soldiers, when one of them pointed his machine gun at us and barked ‘you can’t pass!’. ‘Why not?’ we enquired, somewhat perplexed. ‘Only joking!’ the soldier laughed and waived us on! We later discovered that there was a curfew and that tourists were being advised to stay on site – and, no doubt – buy their beer at twice the price of the bars and restaurants outside. The other thing that we learnt later was that people were being offered the opportunity to take the next flight back to the UK.
The first morning we woke up to the strangest noise – like someone rubbing a balloon against the windows. It turned out that these were long-tailed glossy starlings – a fabulous looking bird, yet quite common. They became known as ‘squeaky balloon birds’.
Every day we set off early to go for a walk or catch a bush-taxi, a mini-bus with, invariably, a smashed windscreen, that cost just ten dirham, to do some birding and in the afternoon, we’d return and jump into the hotel pool, where rollers would skim over our heads catching insects and where I ‘saved’ a scorpion-like creature from the pool, only to find it full of the things the next day. There was a bar in the middle of the pool with a little bridge leading to it and one could sit in the water and sip a cold drink. It was bliss.
One day we were walking into the bush, doing our usual amble, bins in hand or to eyes, when someone called out.
‘You there’ We looked round to see a small building with a stoop. On the stoop were several soldiers, one of them peeling himself an orange. They were all armed. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the same soldier, rifle in hand.
‘Morning. We’re birdwatching’ said Peter, brandishing his binoculars. I proffered mine and smiled. The soldier came over and started to interrogate us.
‘Get the bird book, Charley’ said Peter, and I rifled through his rucksack, still attached to his back as he got out the little black policeman’s notebook that he carries everywhere to record all the birds that he sees. Not actually the notebook – he has hundreds of them dating back to when he was about eleven. This would have been The Gambia notebook.
We showed the soldier the notebook with the bird notes in it and The Field Guide to The Birds of The Gambia and Senegal and he looked satisfied. In fact, he looked pleased and then told us of a dove’s nest just opposite the barracks and showed it to us. We looked suitably appreciative.
Peter then noticed the reflective jacket that the soldier was wearing. It had Invetere printed on it. We had a little chat about the fact that these garments were produced in our home town and we all got along well. I then asked if they minded us taking a photo of them. Judging by the look on his face, this was a pleasantry too far, so we smiled and they allowed us on our way. Peter noted ‘dove nest’ in his little book.
Because of the potential problems with the attempted counter coup, all holidaymakers were given the option of flying home as soon as possible. Some were desperate to get out and taking the next available flight back. We were having a grand old time and asked if we couldn’t just extend our stay. Unfortunately, the answer was ‘no’.
We decided take a trip up to Basse – a town up river. Everywhere in The Gambia is either up river or down river. The borders of The Gambia were drawn out (this is possibly apocryphal) from the distance that British ships could shoot their cannon balls. We took a taxi to bus station, via a shop to buy a bottle of water – and then boarded the bus for a long, uncomfortable, interesting and at times terrifying journey. The road was full of potholes, which got progressively bigger and more frequent the further up the road we went. The bus would sway from side to side to avoid crashing down into one but risk tipping over into the acacia trees that lined the road. The bus stopped at every town to allow more passengers to board and others to alight. Most were carrying large bags of vegetables, sacks of grain and there were chickens and goats as passengers too. Refreshments could be purchased at each stop too, with a variety of snacks and drinks – many different depending on the stop. Entrepreneurs would proffer boiled eggs, plastic bags full of water, bags of peanuts (of course), sweets, bread, boiled casava – which was delicious, but I only found it once, much to my disappointment, and doughnuts. ‘Mmm’ said Peter. ‘I fancy a doughnut’ and held out his money through the open window (for this was how the transactions took place) and received a bag with one or two in. Delighted with his purchase and with the appropriate salivation for the anticipation of such a sweet delight he bit into it. ‘Aargh!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Is there something wrong with it?’. ‘It’s fine’ he said. ‘I just wasn’t expecting it to be filled with fish paste!’
Peter was the chairman of governors at Decoy Primary school. Mark and Del had told us that the schools in the Gambia were very poor and that they would welcome anything that we might be able to bring as a gift. We had bought pencils and the school had donated a lot of text books that they no longer needed, so half our luggage was made up of school text books. There was a school half way up that we had heard of that we were told would be grateful for some supplies so we got off the bus and wandered off to find someone – unfortunately, it was Friday, and being a Muslim country, the schools were closed. Luckily, we found the Head Teacher and he invited us into his quarters for a chat, a cup of tea and to receive our books. His one room with all his worldly belongings and his bed made us very humbled.
After saying our goodbyes, we made our way back to the bus stop – and continued our journey up river. There was a brief stop half way where we all got out, passengers and bus driver had a break and Peter and I enjoyed the sight of dozens of vultures up close and personal. Back on the road the potholes got worse and the veering side to side more and more unnerving, but we finally made it to our destination. We booked into our ‘hotel’ lolol! Our room consisted of two single iron beds and a rag at the small window. The ablution area was down a dank hall and consisted of a sink that had a massive hole smashed in it (which reminded me of something that terrified me as a small child. Someone had dropped a heavy object into the bathroom sink and it had left a big, black, cracky hole in it. I couldn’t go into the bathroom. I still get shivers thinking of that now) The toilet was, of course a squatter and there were two ‘showers’, one had a wasps’ nest in it and the other barely a dribble of water. We opted for the latter. We went out and looked around the town for something to eat, but nowhere was open as town had no electricity since the generator packed up two years’ previously. We did find a bar – of sorts. A small shack that sold beer and a few men outside playing ‘pub games’ on beer crates. ‘This is us’ we thought and settled ourselves down. After a couple of beers, it was getting too dark to see anything, so, with the aid of a tiny torch, we made our way back to our lodgings where we had a ‘meal of a banana, brought from the hotel breakfast that morning, some peanuts bought on the bus and our water. Again, our only source of light being the micro-torch – one which I had started attaching to my hair, which was plaited, laced with ribbons and beads. This meant that I could have it on whilst visiting a squatter without fear of losing it down the black, stinky hole. We didn’t have a very restful night as there was, apparently, another guest in our room. It made crickety noises all night and, despite getting down on our hands and knees and searching every corner of the room and beneath the only two pieces of furniture, we never did find it. I say that we didn’t get any sleep – we must have got a tiny bit, as we were awoken by a strange pounding noise. We could even feel the thump – thump – thump. We peered out of the filthy window, holding back the tatty rag and saw a couple of ladies pounding grain in a vessel just outside our room.
We had an enjoyable couple of days birding in the scrubland around Basse, before catching the bus back again. We knew what to expect this time, but it didn’t make it any more comfortable. We had planned to stop off at Tendaba Camp – a delightful retreat half way up the river where we could sit beside the tranquil Gambia, sip gin and tonics and watch river life drift by. But first we had to find our way from the ‘main’ road. We got off the bus and sat at the junction hoping that we could flag something or someone down, as it was quite long walk. We saw a man and explained our situation and he very kindly offered to find us some form of transport. While we were waiting a group of children, who had been playing nearby, approached us. They hadn’t seen many (any?) white people and were fascinated by our pink skin and strange hair. One spotted the little torch in my hair and I showed it to him. We all laughed as I pressed the light against his dark skin and it disappeared, but when I pressed it against mine it shone pink!
Our transport arrived. It was a poor, skinny old horse and a flat cart. Reluctantly, we put our rucksacks – thankfully not all of our luggage as we’d left most of it back in Bakau – onto the cart and heaved ourselves onto it. The driver persuaded the horse to move. It was very slow and very uncomfortable, but the poor old horse was by far having the worst time. We both felt very guilty and about half way down the road, we said that we could walk the rest of the way, gave the man the money that we had agreed to take us all the way, thanked him and said goodbye. So, here we were, still not really sure how far we had to go, somewhere on a track in Africa and it was not going to be long before it got dark. As luck would have it, two Land Rovers came down the road and stopped. When they found out where we were going they offered us a lift. It turned out that this was the …………..
Having been dropped off we made our way to our room, which was pure luxury compared with the previous nights. We had mosquito nets and made our way to the bar, where we did, indeed, have a gin and tonic and went to sit on the jetty to enjoy the view. We met a young couple and a baby there who were working as doctors and, as I’d realised that I’d left my malaria tablets behind in Bakau, very kindly gave me some. Unlike a woman who we’d met while sitting beside the pool who had claimed that she didn’t need anti-malarials as she was only staying for a week and wasn’t going to leave the site, we are very cautious. Did she think that the mosquitos couldn’t fly over the compound wall?! The following morning, we were woken up by what can only be described as German military music. This was a daily occurrence, we learnt – from experience – as, apparently, the German guests liked it. We didn’t. We did, however, enjoy a pleasant boat trip so that we could observe some more aquatic wildlife.
When we arrived back in Bakau, apart from discovering, too late, that Peter had left his much-loved red felt hat in the back of the taxi. We went to try and retrieve it, but to no avail, so, if you’re ever in The Gambia and see a taxi driver in a very battered (no doubt by now) red trilby, give us a call! Before we had left, some other young people with whom we’d gone out for a delicious Chinese meal, returning to their lodgings to continue the party, had given us a spliff. We’d arrived back at our room after a day out birding and they had very kindly posted it under the door before they left for their flight home. Not wanting to take it with us up river, just in case we met with any police activity, we’d left it behind – on top of the wardrobe so that it wouldn’t be found by any inquisitive staff members who may have come in to clean our room. We decided to smoke this before going out for our evening drink by the pool – where evening ‘entertainment’ was provided – including, I seem to remember, some bizarre unicycle tricks. We sat there giggling at the unusual antics on the ‘stage’ – or ‘other-side-of-the-pool’, and then took way longer than would normally be expected trying to decide what we were going to have to drink now and who was going to get it, since collection would require navigating the tiny bridge over part of the pool to the bar. It was eventually me who went, and how I didn’t fall in I don’t know, but I do know that speaking to the barman and trying to get the words ‘orange juice please’ out of my mouth was the most challenging thing that I’d done all day.
The first couple of mornings at the hotel, we had attracted attention from the local hawkers as we left for the day, asking to be our guide or sell us something, but after a few days, they gave up – we’d become part of the scenery, which was fine by us. But the locals knew who was staying where and when we were in the market one day a young man came up to us. ‘Hi!’ he beamed. ‘Remember me? I work as the African Village!’ Not wanting to sound impolite, we responded with a ‘hi’ the tone of which implied that we did, indeed, recognise him. But we didn’t. ‘My wife’s just had a baby!’ he announced proudly. ‘Congratulations’ we commended him. ‘What did she have?’ A girl!’ he said excitedly ‘And I’m going to hold a small party at the village on Friday to celebrate. Would you like to come?’ ‘Of course,’ we said, somewhat honoured by the privilege’. ‘Great. We have palm wine and some food, but maybe you could chip in for some beers’. Of course, we agreed and paid him the equivalent of a few quid. As we walked away, I said to Peter ‘We’ve just been had, haven’t we’. ‘I think we have’ he agreed ‘but it was worth it for such a good scam!’
Like many people, we’ve been ill on our holidays – but sometimes you just know that you are going to be. It was our last night in Bakau and we were flying home late the next day. Friends of ours had stayed here fairly recently – it’s a very good place for birdwatching – in fact a few of the hotels have gardens that are renowned in birdwatching circles – out of our league, price wise – but sometimes people just have lunch there so that they can enjoy the birdlife. In fact, birding is such a big deal they local lads, previously possibly not that interested in our feathered friends have turned bird guiding into a career. Very enterprising and great for conservation. Ask the good ones about a particular bird and they’ll tell you the exact page that it appears in the bird book – Peter can’t do that with British birds after fifty-five years of using it. They will often have binoculars donated by grateful birder tourists, and, of course, this enhances their job prospects. Anyway, our friends had apparently had a fabulous meal cooked on the beach by – well – a chef, I suppose. They’d give us precise directions and, even though they had had fish and I was vegan, they were sure that he’d be able to provide something yummy. We went for a walk along the beach during the day and found the place. We had a chat with the owner about our requirements, and he seemed very happy to oblige. That evening, we had our lovely romantic moonlit walk – well, torchlit actually – and found the ‘restaurant’. All was dark – not a light in sight – but a flickering one gradually appeared and we noticed that a candle was being carried up the stairs. The man greeted us and showed us to our table – on the – er – terrace. Needless to say, we were the only customers. But we weren’t the only ones at our table, as we discovered when a cockroach scuttled across it. The chap addressed us and before informing us that our eagerly anticipated meal was to be a tagine of couscous – one of Peter’s most disliked dishes – he explained that although he had virtually been on his deathbed, he’d got up to cook a special meal for us – and demonstrated the source of his incapacity be using his fingers to pull down the lower lid of his suppurating eye. ‘I’m going to be ill tomorrow’ Peter foretold. He was right. He was very ill. He couldn’t get out of bed and so instead of us going into Banjul to have a look around and but s few presents for friends and relatives, I went out into Bakau alone, leaving Peter to fight off as much of the sickness and diarrhoea that he could – we didn’t want to be refused our seats on the plane home.