Church
On Sunday one of the daughters in my compound, Juka, celebrated her engagement with a party. Preparations went on all day. The compound was swept and washed. Drinks were brought in. Chicken, rice and sauce were cooked in large black pots bubbling over the fire. I helped with simple tasks, like removing grit from the rice, and it amused the women when I did because these are all women’s jobs. Men do important things like drinking attaya, debating in the shade of a Baobab tree, and occasionally carrying chairs. Guests were both Muslim and Christian as the couple in question represent each side of this particular divide. There is good religious tolerance here; The Gambia is a very Muslim place, but not an exclusively Islamic state.
And considering that Christians comprise less than 10% of the population there are a surprising number of churches here. Many are small outfits with colourful names such as ‘The Flaming Bible Church’ or ‘The House on the Rock’. There is also the ‘Success Chapel’ which advertises on West Coast Radio with promises of good fortune in business and family life. Complementing these semi-independent organisations are a scattering of Catholic, Anglican and Methodist churches and these denominations also operate some of the more successful schools known as mission schools.
I have attended two quite different churches. I was introduced to the Latrikunda branch of the Redeemed Church of Christ by Sylvester and Mercy, a Nigerian couple who run a restaurant near my home (where they sell chicken and rice or fufu with okra sauce for 25 dalasi). The meeting begins with 45 minutes of bible study; then there is an hour of sung worship (no books because many adults in The Gambia do not read – you just have to know the words); finally a long sermon (perhaps another hour) often on a topic relating to business or money. For many, the boundary between sufficient and insufficient provision is a narrow one, so the emphasis on material provision is perhaps not surprising. Some Gambians I have met work hard to bring a little prosperity for their families. Others appear to believe that the most likely route to riches is a handout from a toubab or an NGO, or to send a son to work in the USA or Europe, if they can get in. And there is a belief amongst both Muslims and Christians that God’s favour will bring material success and conversely (and I find this idea uncomfortable) a belief that if you are poor, God has willed it this way.
I have also attended an Anglican church, Christ Church in Serrekunda. They worship in a smart new octagonal building adjacent to their school. Many of the congregation are immigrants from other West African countries such as Nigeria, Ghana, Sierra Leone and Guinea. The service here was an incongruous mixture of African energy and Anglo-catholic tradition. The lively choir wore robes. Hymns were sung to an organ from ‘Ancient and Modern’ books donated by a chapel in Cornwall (presumably when they themselves bought newer books), and then other worship songs were led by a young woman who stood in the centre of the church with a microphone and backed solely by very loud drums. I listened carefully and tried and follow the words (as once again these songs were all sung from memory); I will need time to pick them up. One song “My God is able” reminded me of my Newquay moment a few weeks ago (see Sights and Sounds) as the song began:
My God is a bowl
My God is a bowl
My God is a bowl, to carry me through.
I have experienced a couple of other mis-hearings like this at work. I was chatting to a colleague Sulayman about the time he travelled from Mauritania to Europe, and I laughed when he said he travelled to Spain on a sheep. (I was glad he also found it funny when I explained what I had heard). And on another occasion I attended a midday meeting where the Director of Planning was explaining about a new intranet facility within our building. He began “Welcome to our luncheon meeting” and I perked up immediately, looking around expectantly for the sandwiches. Only later did I realise that the word he had used was “launching” and not “luncheon”.
This weekend, in common with large proportion of the globe, The Gambia switched on to watch the FA Cup Final, the first at the new Wembley Stadium. In 2000 I was fortunate to attend the final Final at the old Wembley. In 2007 my environment could not have been more different. I watched the match from a video club in Talinding, a mango’s throw from the mangroves which line the bolong a mile or two from my house. The club was a single mud-block room, perhaps five metres square. Around seventy of us (and me the only toubab) squeezed in and sat on wooden benches, watching a TV placed on a stand at the front. As you may be aware, a West African scored the only goal of the match, and this became the cause of much joy in our tiny room.
It is hard to reconcile the tough circumstances people face here with the unbelievable wages earned by a few footballers who ply their trade in Europe. I suspect this reinforces the belief held by many Gambians that the streets of London are paved with gold, and as a result working in Europe or America is the ambition of many. There are few banks here, but there are hundreds of places to receive a Moneygram or Western Union money transfer from a relative abroad. Even a modest monthly contribution will make a large difference to a Gambian family. For instance, the monthly wage of new unqualified teacher is 650 dalasi (£13). This teacher might be providing the sole income for a family of ten. Such a family would consume a sack of rice in a month, and this costs 500 dalasi. This does not leave much for fish, vegetables, clothes, soap powder, school fees and transport. But if this family receives even £10 per month from their cousin working abroad, this could cover all these additional requirements. And if they are sent £50 per month, they will be positively rich. So the lure of Europe is strong, and many attempt the journey. The route of choice is to gain entry to Spain by first crossing the ocean to the Canary Islands. But the boats are small and unsuitable for the journey and often lives are lost.
The engagement party was loud and went on late, with drumming, dancing, and plenty to eat. I was kept up late! It was a good way to finish a fun weekend. And now back to work.
