Tomorrow is another day- Gambia Diary, Day 3

By ENUMA Chigbo _barely slept. We had arranged to meet with our tour guide amiable Adam at 8am. To do that meant we had to be awake at 6.30am – okay for a normal day, but not when you are on holiday. When I have to wake up early the following day I never really get to sleep properly for fear of waking up late and missing out on all the action – standard procedure. I should have slept though…I got to find out at 6.30am that Ndidi's alarm is loud enough to wake the entire floor…oh well, we are dressed and have breakfast at about 7.30am. Still undergoing penance for my sins of the previous day, I opt for fruit and fresh Gambian yoghurt. This time it's paw paw, and very very sweet…Ndidi does her famous omelet – ham, cheese and mushrooms –the mushrooms being the extra condiment I introduce her to. Yes, I had searched the entire restaurant for mushrooms the day before only to find them sitting pretty right before my very eyes this morning, and my dear friend seizes this golden opportunity and gives a part to the man who makes omelets just outside the restaurant…na wa oa… Anyway, true to his word, Adam meets us outside the hotel at 8am. We head off on our roots tour. Gambia is the birthplace of Kunta Kinte, the main character of Roots, written by Alex Haley, said to be his sixth descendant. To get to James Island, where slaves were kept back in the day, we take a taxi to the terminus where we join the ferry to get to a village called Barra. Of course by this time my desire for comfort has been thrown out of the window. I have no choice in the matter anymore. The taxi is not so bad though… we arrive at the terminus and share a room with different people heading towards different destinations. The Oyibos are on tour, some on the same tour as we are, others on Safari tours, which Ndidi says are strictly for Oyibos. I had a good laugh when she said this. It was sometime yesterday on our way back from Albert Market. Adam, whose Gambian name is Ousainu, showed us vultures “sunbathing” at the 22nd July Square, where the country had celebrated their Independence in July 1965. “Vulture's sunbathing?” I asked Adam, where are the corpses or are any animals being killed nearby?” “No,” he said to me. “Here vultures are just like ordinary birds, they just come and laze around. I could take you where you can feed them,” he offered. I obliged. He also talked about feeding crocodiles and baboons, I get very excited. “Enuma, this is for white people,” Ndidi says in her usual manner. I wonder what her problem is…then Adam tells me it's all about wildlife and these animals are not caged. For once, I agree with my friend…me I no bi Oyibo o! Anyway, back to the terminus… most of the black people are heading for Senegal, the atmosphere is laden with the aroma of a particular scent that is synonymous with Northerners. I share my observations with Ndidi. She concurs and tells me it's an Arabian scent. “Do you remember what it's called?” I ask her. “We used to call it Sosorobiac in jest back then,” she laughed. I had a good laugh too as I remembered how naughty we were in our taunt of those who came from the Northern parts of the country. In Federal Government Girls College, Benin City, where I attended secondary school and spent most of my formative years, people from the North were christened Bororos (cattle Fulani) little wonder they hated us then and perhaps still do…somehow, in my mind I wonder if the issues we face down South originate from our insensitivity to our brethren in the North…Lord forgive us all our trespasses! The terminus is very interesting…the hawkers are there, some come and ask us if we want to buy freshly baked cakes all nicely and neatly wrapped in clear nylon. The cakes are of two sizes – cupcakes sitting pretty in their pink and white floral paper cases and pound like cakes wrapped in thicker nylon. We decline. In fact, as I sit in the terminus, I am reminded of Oyingbo and Iddo Bustops in Lagos. In fact the commercial areas in Banjul remind me of Broad Street, Tinubu Square and all adjoining streets in Lagos. The only difference is the Gambians are a whole lot more organized. Here you don't have to constantly look over your shoulders in fear of 'area boys' who are fast becoming the lords of Lagos. And then, unlike Lagos and in fact, Nigeria, with Gambia's population at 1.8 million, you fear no crowd. Perhaps Lagos was like this in the early 70's…a very long time ago… _We wait for about half an hour for another ferry. It comes, but like I said earlier, there is no rush. Officials are on hand to ensure that the passengers from the other side disembark before letting us eager passengers get on the ferry. I watched them come down… in fact I hear the luggage is constant…human beings with various agendas, cars, trucks and animals. Of all the human beings on board, I was fascinated with this foursome – two Oyibo women who looked like they were in their mid thirties or early forties and two very young Gambian men. They must have been in their early twenties, and very ready to give the Oyibo women a good time a la Gambian style eh... It was obvious in the way they stroked their hair and how the boring looking women responded…life at last…I imagined them thinking. These rugged raunchy Gambians had probably touched their hearts and God knows where else in places their fellow countrymen had no clue… Africa my Africa…indeed we are a wonderful people and yes indeed, we will rise again. Anyway, we get on board and are ready to go. We actually leave but yours truly did not realize it. All this while I wondered why we were stationary and the houses around us seemed to me moving around us…bush meat… na una sabid…I like me like that! We arrive at the village of Barra 40 minutes later at 10.30am. Adam takes us through the terminus and through the local market to meet our taxi driver, who has been waiting for us. In the market, he stops to grab a quick meal. “Let me buy my breakfast,” he says. His breakfast is steamed mutton and bread. The mutton is steamed in a very interesting way; in large mobile ovens. Interestingly, the mutton is spiced and barbecued on hot coals, it is put into this very unique oven, which cooks it in its own juices. This way, you have a combination of grilled and steamed mutton if I am making any sense. “I'd try it if it was cooked in a cleaner environment,” said my dear friend Ndidi. I wonder who has maggots now! _We get into our taxi and head for Albreda Juffureh, the land of birth of Kunta Kinte. There we will go on a 20 minute boat ride to St James Island where the slaves were kept back in the day. To get to St James Island, we go through different villages by taxi. It's about an hour and half by road. Adam is unable to talk in-between mouthfuls of his fascinating breakfast so the driver is saddled with that responsibility. Not that he minds though. He proudly tells us he's royalty. Mbanyick is his name and his grand- father is Alkali Senghol, his father is the district chief. As we go through villages, Mbanyick gives us the alert. First is Essau village – yes, Essau the character in the bible whose birthright and blessing was stolen by his twin brother Jacob. Ndidi and I don't get it initially as a result of his pronunciation. When asked to spell it, we realize that he's talking about a bible character with whom we are slightly acquainted. “This same bible,” I tell Ndidi. “Yes, oh, she says, we are all jokers, Na one God born us.” I say nothing. Mbanyick does the talking instead. We are enlightened of more villages as we go ahead the long dusty road – Samir, Mendykunda, Dumiadu… somewhere in-between villages, we see a GT Bank sign…all hail my people! And then we continue… the royal driver's mouth in full gear… Rakyidumo, Aljambro, Sidanaunku, Jubakolonce… at this point, I am sleepy and not really getting the names or spellings right, but I am certainly not about to deflate the royal driver's enthusiasm so I let him go on… Lamin, Naimi, Mbante and finally Albreda… phew! Another tour guide joins us but I did not ask his name. He's mandated to take us through the Albreda tour and James Island tours. He has to do it as he's a son of the soil, his right to greatness perhaps as compensation for the robbery of his land. A landmark greets us as we arrive. It's a freedom landmark. It has a cannon and a blue red and white flag towering above it. They said back then that you could gain your freedom if you swam from St James Island to this spot and touched the pole…Ndi ala!e Of course no one made it! Just by this landmark about 15 metres away lies a quaint little restaurant. It's a little beige bungalow with a separate restroom on the outside. To get there, you may have to pay homage to a few donkeys and kick some stupid little cat…I loved it. Again the steward in the restaurant is very friendly. He is not very black. He is an Albino. He says we should place our orders before we go on the boat ride as meals take time to prepare. Ndidi and I both order the garlic prawns. She asks for rice to go with hers, I ask for chips but later change my mind to rice. The Albino finds it all very amusing. He laughs and playfully hits my shoulder. What kind of over familiarity is this? He should thank his stars we don't use them for rituals in Nigeria! Just kidding…he is a very nice man! _We get on the boat to St James Island. There is an Oyibo couple already seated. We exchange pleasantries and move on. The waters are calm, not as calm as my boat ride to Creek Town from the Marina in Calabar a while back but they are very calm, and the ride smooth. The River Gambia stretches across these parts too. We arrive at St James Island 20 minutes later, and our tour guide gives us a little talk. “The Portuguese came to The Gambia in 1456. This place you see (referring to the slave port) was three times larger. Initially, the Island was named after one of them - St. Andrew, but he died of pneumonia. The spot where this cannon is (he points to a different spot about two metres away) was where he was buried. “Trade was very good and word soon got round. The Latvians, (Baltic Germans) came in 1559, and then the British in 1661. They fought the Baltic Germans and won. The Island was then named St James Island, after James the Duke of York. The Island was later attacked by the French in 1779, but the French were unsuccessful. It was finally abandoned in 1829, years after the abolition of the Slave Trade in 1806. James Island is the final destination for slaves before they are trafficked abroad. Slaves are gathered from all over Africa transported to the Elmina Castle Gold Coast (Now Ghana) and sent on to St James Island. “Where we stand now used to be a storey building. The security occupied the top floor, and the ground floor was used as an admin block.” We were shown what was left of the courtroom, the governor's office and other top officials. All this serious business for the trafficking of slaves – human degradation in their own land…God dey!h And then, the most gruesome part – the dungeon where slaves were kept like sardines before they embarked on the journey to the unknown. This dungeon from my estimation could not have been more than 12m2. In this place were kept at least 50 slaves. In this place they 'bonded.' They ate…actually no, they barely ate. Water was passed to them through a hole that overlooked the corridors of the ones who forcefully governed them in their own land. In this place was their toilet and bathroom; many died from the stench of their insides. _“We need to preserve this site,” our tour guide said. “The place is gradually being eaten by erosion. The Government is doing something about it, but not enough.” Perhaps for the first time I wished I was Government. Preserving this would take a whole lot more than viewing Banjul from top of the city gate. I also wished I had the cash. Alas I am not Government and I have no cash…at least not the kind of cash needed, but I can write the vision down and make it plain on tablets that he may run who reads. "I wan stone these Oyibo people wey dey here” a visibly emotional Ndidi says. “Na dem cause am? They may be full of remorse you know,” I said to her. “In fact na true you talk my sista, wetin come happen to our people wey dey sell our peopleh?” She responds “Ohok…” I answer back. We head back to the boat our countenance obviously very different from the way we came. I start this chat about the tours with the Oyibos. We all agree that it's an emotional experience. Apparently unlike us, this is their second time in The Gambia. They had been six years ago. On our way back the Oyibo woman gives the little boy in the boat with us – a poor Gambian boy a bag of Harribo. I think that's so sweet, the little boy is happy. He looks at her, she waves at him and he smiles. I think, how sweet, until my evil twin inside of me rears her head. “Yeah right…and one packet of sweets is supposed to make up for centuries of robbery in his land I think…. The Holy Ghost instantly rebukes me and I repent. Yes indeed… it's a new dawn… We get back to Albreda and lunch is waiting. Delicious garlic prawns on a bed of Gambian rice. Gambian rice is delicious, perhaps a finer blend of Abakalikil rice in Eastern Nigeria and Ofada rice in the West. It is divine. I finish mine almost immediately, Ndidi struggles with hers. She is an extremely slow eater while I am the exact opposite, and we eat together virtually all the time on this trip so you can imagine…in fact I still mull at the words of the restaurant owner two days ago. As usual, I had finished my lunch and dessert, while Ndidi was still lazily eating her lunch. “You are very good,” he said to me. “You must come back again.” Imagine…was he talking to his 10 year old daughter? I'm not going back!!! We head back to the terminus, through the dusty roads from where we came. The roads are not the best but I have seen worse back home. And then another plus may be they are totally devoid of militants and kidnappers, so, for this reason, I am willing to overlook the dust. The children on the dusty roads get excited as we drive by. Our tour guide throws out sweets to them – sweets we were persuaded to buy at Albreda for this purpose. The children scramble excitedly for the sweets. I'm not sure we have thrown out enough to go around. I think it's all very cute, but the freedom fighter in me says it doesn't make sense that children and other deprived people abide in a land of plenty and live in abject poverty. But then I am not government, neither do I have the cash required to bring them out of poverty, so I hold my peace. Again, we get to the terminus and have just missed the ferry. We are offered seats in the restaurant, where we wait for the next one. Ndidi orders a sprite and I order nothing – too many flies around and there's a smell round I don't quite like. I know…I got maggots. Interestingly, on the table to our left, two teenagers wolf down a plate of rice, while this cute little boy looks on… “See the way dat boy dey look demn” an emotive Ndidi says. I smile and say nothing. I'm tired and all I can think about is the comfort of my hotel room. Mama uwao Ndidi, asks the waiter to find out if the boy wants to eat. He says he has no money, she moves to the rescue immediately. In no time, the waiter brings the little lad a plate of benechinp Finally, our ferry arrives and we get in. The luggage is pretty much the same… only difference is there is a camel on board. We safely cross over to the other side thank God and all are happy, except the camel. I heard grunts, grunts I have never heard from any animal in my entire life. Anyway, we jump into our taxi and head back to the hotel. I barely have enough energy to have a shower and hit the sack. Ndidi has the same full body massage I had the day before. I barely hear the girl come in. Somehow, I manage to drag myself down to dinner. This time, we opt for the buffet. I have a nice tomato soup for starters and as my main dish I have a combo of char grilled chicken in lemon sauce, and beef domoda. It's a local peanut based sauce cooked with either beef or chicken. My friend Ndidi had the chicken version two days ago…if you had read this diary then you will recall that she was asleep and I dared not wake her to ask the name of this dish. I write this from the open restaurant at our hotel while she's half asleep on a deck chair under the shade from two coconut trees just outside by the window from where I type away…this time I woke her up and she gave me the name…tee hee hee!!! I think Ndidi had pretty much the same as I had for dinner, and we both had dessert. Again I will not write this down…but I can authoritatively say that Gambian desserts are divine. We sit around for a while and then go to bed. For the first time in decades, I sleep under a mosquito net. Gambian mosquitoes are legendary. Like their young men, they have no respect for boundaries. They have no fear of insecticides, and even worse - a Najia big babe like me, who is immune to mosquitoes back home. Well, this ain't home, I say to myself as I sheepishly crawl under my mosquito net…tomorrow is indeed another day…

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