My Day
I wake between six and seven. I have now mastered the art of sleeping through the early call to prayer from the mosque (before 5am), but other sounds still sometimes wake me before my alarm. There might be voices in the compound, my neighbour setting off early to drive his taxi, or children yelling. Sometimes I hear the thud-thud women pounding rice in the compound next-door. Most often I am woken by a Common Bulbul chirping in the bush outside my window, a small bird with the most irritating and loud song at dawn. If the water supply is running I take a shower, and the cold water wakes me properly. When the water fails I empty a bottle of water over my head instead; I always have water stored, as the supply can be unreliable for several days in a row.
Ousman collects me at 7:30 to take me to the BESPOR office in Kanifing. On the same journey we also pick up Musa from Yundum and Colom from Barkoteh. On these roads we weave around deep potholes, and Ousman has to avoid cattle, goats, chickens and children on the road. The radio is tuned West Coast 95.3FM, which at this time of the morning broadcasts the BBC World Service African Network. At 7:50 there is a sports bulletin, and then a feature called Who Am I? where a listener from any African country traces their tribal or family heritage, often drawing a contrast between historical and modern eras. At 8:00, West Coast Radio itself takes over, and their first spot is a sponsored feature called Success Power in which a smooth-talking man describes how transform yourself into an amazing success with Gods help in two or three simple steps. After dropping Colom and Musa (and stopping for tea if the journey has been particularly harrowing!) we continue to Banjul, now able to drive fast on tar roads, and Ousman takes me to the Department of State for Basic and Secondary Education (DoSBSE) at the top of ECOWAS Avenue.
Banjul, the Capital of The Gambia, is situated on an island at the mouth of the river. It probably suited the colonisers to build it there, but it is a real hassle for the rest of us. As a result, most new businesses are located in the Kombos, a large urban area of 300 thousand people on the mainland, separate from Banjul itself. The TV station, most banks, internet providers, and trading companies are in Kombos. Most tourist hotels are in Kombos, not in Banjul. My house is in the southern part of this town area, and the airport is further south again. But the seaport is in Banjul, and here also you find the ferry to Barra. This is significant because two important roads start from Barra, the North Bank highway to the upcountry areas of The Gambia in the East, and also the road to Dakar in Senegal, a key trade route. State House, the residence of the President, is in Banjul, and so are most government departments, including my employer DoSBSE.
So Ousman drives me along a dual carriageway on a causeway through mangroves and across Oyster Creek, past the prison and into the capital. Thousands of people travel this road every morning to seek daily work in Banjul. They line the road, desperate for transport, squeezing into minibuses and pick-ups, and climbing onto trucks even as they move. We pass articulated lorries crammed with people precariously clinging to the flat-back trailer. Other vehicles carry opportunist passengers sat on top of the freight of wood, scrap metal, gravel or sacks of rice.
Work begins slowly. Members of my department exchange greetings and this can take a while. Everyone welcomes me and shakes my hand, encouraging me as I attempt their various languages five tribes are represented in my department, so I try not to confuse the Wolof Jaama ngaam? with the Mandinka Kayira be? or the Jola Kasuumaay?, and not to say the Fula Tana ala to the Serrehule man (Xotooranta?). All these mean Peace be with you. This is followed by enquiries about the state of your health, your family and your home. You are not required to give an honest answer to these questions; in The Gambia, things are always fine (Jaama rek, Kayira dorong, Kasuumaay kep, Jam tan, Majam).
Meals are taken at unfamiliar times, and there is soon a break for breakfast. Actually it is misleading to call it a break because this might imply that work has taken place before this, but nonetheless somebody goes out to ring back breakfast, a meat pie, bread with ñeebi bean paste, or sometimes I just have a banana. But breakfast has to sustain me all day because lunch, the main meal, will be taken when workers get home. In Gambian compounds lunch will be a rice dish, possibly with fish or vegetables, and eaten by the whole family from a shared bowl. So after breakfast we continue our work (for more about work see Justin’s Work), until later in the afternoon I am collected again by Ousman and retrace the steps of our mornings journey.
On arriving home, the best way to escape from the heat of the afternoon is to sleep (I must be getting old!). After that I might go to the market just a short walk from my house to buy rice, tomato, aubergine, bitter tomato or mango. The meal I cook for myself depends on what vegetables are available. Or I might buy something cooked at the roadside, such as spicy chicken pieces or fried fish. The chores of daily living (cooking, cleaning, shopping) tend to be time-consuming here, so much of the evening remains for leisure and relaxation. But occasionally I visit a friend, sit under his cashew tree and watch the sun set and the stars appear. Or I can join a group of lads outside my compound who drink attaya and dream of travelling to Europe. Later in the evening, the highway through Latrikunda becomes the focus of nightlife, mainly because it is the one place with streetlights. People saunter in twos and threes, minibus taxis charge recklessly towards Westfield, and traders at the roadside (who have been there all day) continue to sell fruit, candles, bread, and cheap imitation football shirts.
Work finishes at 1pm on Friday so men can attend the mosque at 2pm for the main prayers of the week. During this half-hour on Friday afternoons the roads are clear and it is easy to travel, so I tend to make a dash home to Latrikunda during this time. Then I might begin my weekend with an hour or two on the beach, a swim amongst the jellyfish and crabs, or a quiet doze with something to read. Also at weekends I might visit other volunteers or Gambian friends in other parts of the Kombos, or make a trip to a village or beach a little further away by bush-taxi or bicycle. I sometimes attend church on Sunday mornings, though the 9am start has been known to defeat me. And I keep up with emails at the internet café next door, but it would be a close contest if you tried to judge which was more reliable, the internet connection or the water supply.
