The Gambia – Up Close and Personal
I really enjoyed spending a few days in the ecovillage relaxing and chillin’, as the young uns say. But I also enjoyed a closer contact with nature and the local Yolla people.
I went on a canoe trip on an intertidal zone or swamp region where the Gambia River starts to meet the Atlantic Ocean. The water was brackish and mangrove trees proliferated. Mangrove trees are amongst my favourite flora. I love the idea that they have their roots in mud, grow in and through water and breathe in the air. The ones we passed were very mature and loomed 15 or 20 metres above the water level. They seemed very healthy. It was intriguing seeing the trailing vines the tree puts out from above water to spear into the mud and extend the growth of the tree. You could see the development of this from tiny buds on the branches of the tree to large vertical branches firmly embedded in the mud.
I also like water lilies and lotus flowers as they have this quality of being able to exist simultaneously in several elements. They also invoke thoughts and feelings of beauty as well as entering the psychological and transpersonal realm.
The difference between high and low tide level is about 50 cm or so. We were there at low tide and you could see clusters of oysters on vertical branches or feeder ones, or whatever they’re called. The locals harvest them for their own food and to sell. The canoe rower said that they boil them first because people get stomach problems if they don’t. I guess it’s the brackish water. They’re also much smaller than the ones I’m used to in Ireland. They look quite stunted too.
The canoe was a dugout and looked about 100 years old but was in fact only built 7 years ago. It was probably 15-18 metres in length and was made from a single mahogany tree. It looked very graceful and skimmed across the water. Obviously, centuries, if not millenia, of experience to tap into. There was about 4 or 5 cm of water in the bottom of the canoe and I thought to myself, ‘haven’t they heard of epoxy resin?’ Talk about jumping to wrong conclusions. I couldn’t have been more wrong. They drill a hole in the bottom of the boat to allow the water in. Otherwise, it would dry out in the hot African sum and break apart. The water prevents this from happening. We had a bailing lady on board to bail the boat out otherwise we would sink under the combined weight of we chubby westerners.
The water was very still and reflected the mangrove trees as we silently drifted along in meditative appreciation. We got to a wider stretch of the river and had to row a wide arc to counteract the current from the incoming tide so we could berth. It was interesting watching the water level rise rapidly up the branches holding the oysters. I’m used to seeing the tide rise on the coast where waves signal the progress of the rising water.
Later on that afternoon, I went for a walk on my own to the African village a few km away. The land was greenish, not an Irish green but green when contrasted with the relentlessly sandy desert we had travelled through for the past month. It seemed quite fertile as there were crops of who knows what growing there. There were tall coconut palm trees dotted around as well as many tall, very handsome trees whose names I don’t know. The land was flat and the sky huge and wide. In the distance, I could hear the voices, joyous to my ears, of the people working in the field. They seemed to be all talking at the same time. The soundscape was musical and familiar. I could hear birds singing in the distance and the whispering rustling silence felt like balm to my ears.
As I was walking along I saw four young men approach at a distance. I had a momentary apprehension wondering if I was safe. Memories of passing groups of young black men when I lived in Brixton, in London. Homophobic abuse was common, although not to me.
These lads were completely different. They were woodcutters and were charm itself. I had a delightful time chatting with them and having contact with each of them and getting a good sense of them. They were Yolla people and they taught me a few words of their language. I taught them a few words in Irish. They felt very authentic and without guile or attitude.
I continued walking along the laneway – we would call it a boreen in Ireland; a bothairín or small road. The sun was beginning to set now and I felt quite at peace in this little paradise. I could see the ebbing sun through the beautiful tall trees and hear the birds sing and the musical voices of the field workers.
I thought again of the young black men I knew in London, Bristol and other cities and thought that their ancestors might have come from here, from this paradise. Then I thought how it might have been for them, in this peaceful corner of Africa, to hear the savage cries of Arab slavers working with more bloodthirsty African tribes to capture and enslave these dignified and gentle people. I thought of that terrible door of no return in Gorée Island, at the memorial to slavery. I felt sad. And then I didn’t.
When I got back to the centre following my walk, I got chatting with a young teacher who was working at the local school. He was passionate about education but less so about his future in The Gambia. His pay was about 200 Dalasi a day, about €2.75. I shared some of my father’s history of being a teacher in the new Ireland following Independence. We started talking a bit about Europe and I could sense the hunger in him to get out of Gambia and have the sort of life he imagined Europeans had. Little does he know.
We had a cultural evening offered by the people of the village, mainly drumming and singing with the kids joining in. It was electric and they had amazing rhythm. They seemed to be having the craic too and although it was a bit contrived, it wasn’t too so. It was interesting to see the dances, especially where one of them jumped into the circle and danced with frenetic energy and enthusiasm to the loud sound of the drums. They would then dance out of the circle and someone else would take their place. The look of sheer enjoyment on their faces was completely authentic and genuine. They invited us to join them but while they danced, we moved like arthritic hippopotami…..
More soon possums
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