Hangin' with the powers that be

Who would’ve thought that I would come all the way out to West Africa’s smallest nation and meet one of its most popular politicians?

‘Uncle’ George, the ex-footballer turned man-who-knows-the-world-and-can-get-anything-done, swung us an audience with the (female) Vice President of the country this week to present the Camp Africa project.

Thank goodness I brought one vaguely decent dress with me, although after forgetting to get it ironed I had to resort to laying it flat on the bed and piling all my books on top.

The meeting was a seriously cool coup and it got me a peek into the inner sanctum of Gambian politics at the State House in the capital, Banjul. I was prepared for stringent security pat-downs and much handing over of identification etc. but apart from the glut of police and national guard at each major checkpoint as we got further into the building, the only thing that attracted any undue attention was the gigantic piece of artwork we had with us as a gift for Her Excellency.

The décor was very much in emerging nation style with lots of early 80s floral stuffed sofas decorated with lace antimacassars and tables with photo albums of previous delegations. We waited in the office of the protocol chap who also had the luxury of a very large TV showing CNN.

Her Excellency was running late so we had a 90-minute wait. Once we’d exhausted small talk three of my colleagues had a little nap while I tried to erase the ravages of heat and humidity that continue to leave me looking like a hot sweaty pasty tourist with bad hair.

We were finally ushered in to a mahogany-veneer paneled office decorated with the biggest green leather sofa suite I’ve ever seen, lots of gold detailing and an ormulu clock or two. And it wasn’t the most intimate of briefings as we has a camera crew, local print media, a photographer, assorted other ministers, our gang of six and some other random people lurking at the back.

HE Aja Dr. Isatou Njie-Saidy has been a doyenne of the local political scene since the last republic, which makes her a major player, and she is well-respected and admired by all. I thought it would be a 10-minute courtesy call but she afforded us a whole 30 minutes of her time and we all got to say our bit before handing over the painting (although we did nearly create an international incident by almost spiking her in the eye with the pointy bit at the top).

Exit stage left.

And to top it all off we made the 10pm news bulletin which showed a wrap-up of the day’s government activity; and there we were, on GRTS (the national TV station), smiling and nodding. Next time, hair and make-up please!

Taxi know-how

Public transportation in The Gambia is in a league of its own. It can be quite daunting for the first-time visitor, but if you’re up for a challenge and love a bit of local interaction then it can be a lot of fun.

The yellow taxis are known as 5-5’s because it costs GMD5 (that’s Dalasi, the local currency) for a short-hop journey on either the Bakau to Serrekunda/Westfield Junction road or the Fajara to Senegambia road. Apparently it’s been GMD5 for years and although they tried to increase the prices last year to GMD6 it didn’t work, as it was just too much of a hassle to sort out change for GMD10.

To get a 5-5 you simply wait on the main road and put your hand out. These are shared taxis so if you pick one up at Traffic Light (this is a crossroads where the first traffic light in The Gambia was installed, hence the name), the cabbie will wait till he has three other passengers to fill the car and only then will you trundle off. Picking them up en route can be hit and miss, but in low season at least, there seem to be hundreds of them around.

My first 5-5 journey was with a delightfully rotund couple dressed up in their Gambian finery and a bandana-ed youth dressed in faux-ghetto stylee. It was a squeeze in the back, I think I had one buttock on the seat and the other barely inside the door, but thankfully it was only a 10-minute journey as we were a full vehicle.

The most amusing journey so far was the ride home from a local bar the other night. After 11pm as a toubab it’s often quite hard to find a 5-5 and so you need to negotiate a rate. We got him down to GMD40 (£1), a drop in the ocean for us, a good fare for him. Lamin (which is the local equivalent of Mohammed and always the name given to the firstborn son in the Wolof language) was a huge reggae fan and sang along to the radio at full volume all the way home, even through three police checkpoints.

If that’s too authentically local for you then the green tourist taxis are still ludicrously affordable, and you’ll get one all to yourself, but where’s the fun in that?

New broom, sweep clean(ish)

Bounding out of bed on my first free Saturday, ready to hit the highway and explore beyond the bounds of Fajara town I was thwarted by a national initiative known as ‘Setsetal’.

As mandated by HE, The President, the last Saturday of every month is national clean-your-compound-and-neighbourhood day. Actually it’s just from 9am to 1pm, but is religiously observed by the 1.5-million-strong population.

I think it’s actually a good excuse for a lie-in and for businesses to open for a half-day only. Major emergency? Need a taxi? You’d be lucky.

When the world finally emerged from its sweeping frenzy, I left Safari Garden expecting to be dazzled by a Singaporean-like veneer of fastidious tidiness – no more rotting mangoes on the street corner or stray plastic bags blowing by, but it all looked pretty much the same as the night before.

My local friends tell me that people do make an effort at home but I guess that if street cleaners can’t get taxis to get to work to pick up their brooms then there is going to be a missing link in the clean-up chain.

I think the Dubai government should implement the same thing, for all sectors of society, and have a task force conducting random checks of local neighbourhoods. Free brooms for all!

Tasty Volunteer 3, Winged Creatures 0

There was a massacre in room no. 4 at Safari Garden last night. I have been most assiduous in ingesting and anointing both body and bedroom in anti-mosquito measures but two gin and tonics and a late night debate on the merits of using marabous (local witch doctors) led me to be a bit careless with the mosquito net.

I knew I should’ve stuck to my usual bottle of JulBrew (the local beer), but at least tonic water has quinine.

So, I fell into bed at midnight to find two of the little devils dive-bombing the net from the outside. Armed with my imported can of PifPaf (I already have my eye on a mega can of the Gambian equivalent, Bop, when stocks run low) it was a case of quickest on the draw wins. Once they are dazed and confused with the fumes then it’s a quick vicious hand swat against the whitewashed wall – sorry Housekeeping – and job done.

It was only 20 minutes later as I dropped off that the whining started up again. One more mozzie had made its way under the net – or was it silently lying in wait? – and was on a revenge mission to avenge its fallen brethren. This time it was a handy flip-flop that saved my hide.

But joking aside, malaria is no joke here. Most of the expats I’ve met who have spent any length of time in the country have all had a bout of malaria at some point, even when taking prophylactics. And apart from the high incidence in small children, Gambians who travel overseas and then return home often succumb to a dose before readjusting.

Achy joints, headaches and flu-like symptoms are often a precursor and the advice is to go get a blood test if you even remotely think it’s malarial. The symptoms occur in repeating eight-hour cycles and if diagnosed early it just takes a course of antibiotics to return to full health but if untreated it can be extremely serious, or even fatal.

From loofah to Wolof

The Gambia is Loofah-ville.

And that's not some wacky Jim Carrey-type character from a Dr Seuss tale.

I'm not much of a botanist and I always thought that loofahs came from the sea or mangroves. Turns out that they actually grow on vines. These vines are the pariah of the tropical garden as they are devilishly cunning and will wind, bind and choke their way through an entire residential compound.

The reason I am now rich with loofah facts is because I won one during a random poolside game of Trivial Pursuit last night. I think it may actually have been a booby prize but when I was handed the long fibrous cone on a stalk I thought it was an ear of dried corn.

But as I 'unwrapped' my gift (yup, how handy is that, they come ready wrapped!) it revealed a ready-to-use dried loofah. Fabulous. It also came with a couple of handfuls of dried seeds that I have been told will thrive in even the most desolate of environments (i.e. Dubai).

So it's loofah gifts all round I reckon. Am going on a trawl of the neighbourhood back gardens tonight to fill a potato sack or three...AED30 in Body Shop? Pah, I'll be hawking them in Meena Bazaar for AED28 a piece.

I've also just had my first language lesson. It's hard to know which local language to opt for out here as there are several including Wolof, Mandinka and Fulla. Wolof seems to be fairly universal though so I am ready with the pleasantries - "Nagadef?" (how are you?); the necessities "Dama kheef" (I'm hungry" and the cautionary "Ba la'lama" (Go away!).

Sarah, the finance and admin manager at ASSET has also asked me to help with the marketing of their cultural resource centre located over the Timbooktoo bookshop round the corner from the office. It's just got a new manager and they are relaunching the cafe, which is already a popular spot for travellers looking for WiFi, but they want to up the culinary offering and also attract the local VSO, other NGO, British High Commission and US Embassy workers looking for a value lunch spot. 

Gosh, there's so much more I could get involved in and I already feel like I'm running out of time even though I've barely stepped outside of Fajara...and still an entire country to get to know.

Working 9 to 5..African style

Ah, it’s good to be a working woman again, albeit on a volunteer basis. I confess that I tossed and turned a fair bit last night – a combination of the four-hour long torrential tropical thunderstorm beating down on the tin roof of my bungalow room, and nerves at the thought of having to train four smart Gambians on the vagaries of PowerPoint, not something I am truly au fait with.

But after a brain enhancing breakfast of fresh fruit – the mangoes here are possibly the best in the world – I was striding off along Kairaba Avenue, backpack secured, sneakers churning up the blood-red sandy earth in my wake and a head full of positive thought.

And after Dubai’s general apathy and my own indulgent malaise it is already refreshing to be meeting people who dispel the African stereotype and who are completely committed to their country and its untapped potential.

The team at the Association of Small Scale Entrepreneurs in Tourism (ASSET) are the new breed of go-getter that Gambia needs to re-energise its tourism offering. Working out of a converted villa in a quiet side street ASSET may be light on resources but is rich with enthusiasm.

Badou and Ndimbalan were first up for training and I emerged from their resource centre over six hours later really feeling that I had helped to expand their already impressive knowledge base with a small insight into slide-based presentations. OK, it’s hardly going to change the world in the long run, but their passion and eagerness really made it a pleasure to help out.
It also helped in making me forget about taking a lunch break which is a definite bonus, as after just three days I am already starting to like the traditional Gambian dish of domoda (a rich groundnut sauce-based concoction slathered over chicken, beef or vegetables) a little too much for my hips’ liking...

Stranger in a strange land

I have a new name, I am Toubab. It’s not peculiar to me nor is it an expression of fondness that I’ve acquired in my first few days under the African sun.

“Hey Toubab,” is the catcall for any and every unfamiliar white person walking the streets of The Gambia. It’s a catch-all term, not malicious, nor confrontational, it simply is what it is. And looking down at my pasty chicken legs I definitely deserve this new moniker.

I also had my first run-in with the delightfully named genre of local jeune homme called a ‘bumster’. These men prey on the tourist as a way to earn their living, from offering above-board and overpriced general assistance to the list of sexual services that has earned the Smiling Coast a less than favourable reputation. It’s not all down to the high rate of unemployment though as it has been preyed upon in equal measure by, shall we say, ladies of a certain age, whose idea of an exotic beach vacation includes some young affordable flesh. And no, that’s not why I’m here.

As it’s ‘off season’ my bumster wasn’t the choicest pick. Probably around my age he was in serious need of some dental work and a script that went beyond mere pleasantries. It didn’t take too long to dispense of the gentleman as my innate ability to fabricate a credible expat existence in any foreign land (long-time resident, husband works for your president, I’m off to meet the minster of xyz, me no speakee Ingliss) seemed to do the trick. Mind you, I was hot, sweaty and wearing camouflage pants, so I wasn’t the exactly the best deal going either!