Thoughts of baggage allowances, old bank accounts, and whether to have a plane dinner on both flights (I did, the smoked trout starter swung it) had faded into a distant irrelevant haze of the successfully negotiated. Now only to deal with the customs officials (tick, they were brilliantly helpful to weary passengers), meet our VSO pick up drivers (tick, totally cheerful) and try to avoid the porters as suggested by our instructions (fail, but it's almost impossible and, at 4 am and for only a pound, it was worth someone else heaving my "on the baggage limit" cases into the pick ups. Two out of three ain't bad!). By the time of the morning call to prayer I was drifting to sleep at the Safari Garden hotel, my mosquito net lending a romantic yet cosy air which totally fitted my sleepy mood.
I awoke at 8.30 to the sounds of people and wildlife, dozed for a while then drifted my way out to dinner. Unsure on the water quality and without a bottle or any Delasi (poor start to African life!) I took my malaria tablets out to the bar, hoping there was some obvious way of getting a drink and food. The lack of sleep was telling and I set my goal for the day as "1. Be able to get a drink of water when I need one". Small steps! Happily a trip to the courtyard revealed that asking at the bar for breakfast quickly produced water, coffee, fruit, bread, an egg and a successfully taken anti-malarial. Objective one achieved (at least in part!)
As the rest of our group were arriving that evening we set off for a beach day. I was dressed like an Italian widow in a black dress of respectable length, straw hat and obligatory scarf. It didn't stop me running in for a paddle as soon as we hit the beach though! We walked for a couple of hours, stopped regularly and asked our name and homeland, the length of stay and of course would we like to buy some juice. It's a pretty effective marketing technique in baking sun, and my sandy pallor is a give away for a new arrival. After an hour and a half, and several "maybe later" responses, we stopped at an isolated bank of juice stalls.
Mama, our host, moved the table to the shade, given that those of us with bare feet were hopping painfully across the gleaming sand. Ever adventurous I went for orange and baobab, which tastes like a fruity sherbet and was a winner. It was our first taste of Gambian time as we sat waiting for our drinks for about the length of time that a UK coffee shop would consider that we should've drunk up and left. But Mama, Fatou and friends were much more hospitable, providing not only a few language lessons, tasty juice and friendly company but also leaving the stall to give us a tour of the local communal market garden, money changer and guiding us back to the beach.
Wandering back through the shallow edges of the waves, cooling tired and hot feet, we met a fruit seller who we had spoken to earlier. As with juice, the fruit sellers rent stalls and are regulated well. Fatou (another one, it's a very popular name for first born girls) told us about the system while we tucked into a plate of mango, pineapple, papaya and banana. As we walked away, she ran up and gave me a bracelet of plastic beads saying "it's a present from my heart" and refusing payment. It's great marketing but I was truly touched at this simple gesture of welcome and thanks for our custom. I can picture sitting with a bowl of fruit watching the sea for an occasional treat.
So, by the end of day one I had my objective achieved, no sunburn, paddled in the Atlantic and the start of what I suspect will become a mounting collection of bracelets. Not a bad way to start exploring Gambian life!
Photo courtesy of Rao Kadambari
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