G-L Community:
I received this document from a Canadian development worker who spent several weeks in The Gambia. These are
her impressions. Read on.
Abdoulaye
Serrekunda, June 1, 2001
After a three-week stay in The Gambia, I am returning to my homeland, Canada, changed - profoundly so. I
have been overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions since I set foot on this reddish dry soil. I experienced
sheer awe at the vibrant colours and pretty designs of African materials Gambians don with pride, felt
bewildered by the number of people everywhere, revolted by the stark contrasts between rich and poor, moved
by people’s hospitality and friendship, amused by the children excitedly greeting me “Toubab! Toubab!”, then
annoyed that all they see is my whiteness, inspired by people’s stamina and yearning for a better future,
against all odds, and filled with sorrow about the past.
I came to The Gambia to work on a local development project as a consultant. As I expected, my agenda was
very different from the organizers’. It soon became apparent that our priorities were different, and so
rather than urging my partners to go after the objectives I had set, I made a conscious decision to let go
and let God. I asked God to reveal an accurate depiction of The Gambia to me so that I could get a glimpse
into the complexities the country encompasses.
These are some of the “snapshots” that I did not record on film but will be forever alive in my mind:
ź Trying to walk through Serrekunda market and being approached by young men holding up calculators excitedly
petitioning me to sell them my foreign currency. Who is behind this money market?
ź Visiting my friend’s wife and child at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Banjul. The tiny child is visibly
suffering from severe malaria, a disease everyone knows is caused by mosquito bites, and as I sit with them,
I am getting bitten. Susula ama mbete a! I look to the window and notice that the netting is full of
holes. I look at the walls, the beds, the floor, and all I see is dirt. I wonder how a sick person can
recover in a place that constitutes a public health hazard.
ź Watching politicians on television speak about whom is a true Gambian according to recent legislation, i.e.
a person born in The Gambia of Gambian parents. It brings to mind the exclusion of certain contenders in the
most recent disastrous elections in Ivory Coast. I wonder where this wave of African neo-nationalism comes
from and whose interest it serves. It raises questions about my own national identity as a person born in
Canada of Italian parents: if this system were transposed to Canada, would I - or the majority of my friends-
be eligible to vote?
ź Finding myself “caught” unprepared at the market at prayer time. Suddenly noticing hundred of men
genuflecting on mats or on the ground, stopping whatever they were doing to give praise to Allah. For the
first time, I can hear the loud chirping of birds into the area, and then just as soon as silence fell, it is
bustle of business as usual.
ź Taking ride in a taxi on my way home one night. Being stopped by the police for a random search. Hearing
the annoyance of the taxi driver cursing in Mandinka as we drive off because he had to bribe the officer 10
Dalasi to save himself from the bogus charge.
ź Noticing a crowd of people gathered around a vehicle near the market in Serrekunda and detecting its
trepidation. As I pass by, a police officer and military supporter begin to beat a taxi driver. Nobody
intervenes. Is it fear or complacency?
ź Passing by groups of people standing in line for hours under the hot sun to obtain their voters’
registration card. Meeting people who work with the Independent Electoral Committee who are concerned about
their safety as the elections draw near. Listening to a village woman complain that in order to be
recognized as a true Gambian she had to show proof of her father’s participation in the Second World War!
ź Seeing depictions of the President everywhere smirking down at the masses, like Orwell’s Big Brother, and
wondering what is his appeal. Watching hundreds of people run towards the President’s convoy and wave
excitedly at him as he flies by in the most luxurious vehicle I have ever seen, and wondering what he is
doing for the people.
ź Accompanying a friend to different locations in The Gambia and being introduced to a multitude of people
who proudly claim him as brother, husband, father, uncle, and never a mere “friend”. Feeling touched that
this individual is significant in the lives of so many people in so many realms, struck by his humility, and
blessed that he extended his kindness to me too. Realizing that if he were a Canadian, I would have had to
wait for his funeral to know what impact he had on his community because only then would people talk about
him. I would then feel sorry that I had misjudged or underestimated or misunderstood him and berate myself
for not having seen his full potential while he was alive.
ź Fighting chills and a fever in my room one morning, feeling homesick. Suddenly looking up to the
preoccupied faces of four Sierra Leonean neighbours who rushed in as soon as they heard I was ill to express
their concern or, as they said, “our sympathies”.
ź Observing the stunned expression on the face of a young grieving wife, so alone though she is surrounded by
other women who are also mourning the premature death of a teacher who lost the battle to sickle cell
anaemia. Hearing comments that he had to wait three-and-a-half hours before seeing a doctor at the hospital
and died a few hours later, feeling my rage rise up inside me and join with my sorrow.
ź Asking a man who polishes shoes to repair my Gambian friend’s sandals for him after he had already turned
down his own request. Silent consent obtained, watching him take out the glue and fix the shoes,
contemplating why I should have such influence as a Toubab.
ź Being escorted into the offices of an international non-governmental organization’s offices immediately
while Sierra Leonean refugees have clearly been waiting for hours to no avail. Being informed that their
staff members are constantly under threat by God knows whom, and told rather sardonically that unfortunately
nothing can be done to ensure the safety of locals who speak out against the government.
ź Returning from a walk on a little path in a remote area and coming upon a small gathering of people poised
on the other side of a ditch separating us. Remarking the children literally bridge the gap between us,
extending their hands in a sign of welcome to me, the stranger. Being invited to a seemingly spontaneous
Djola wedding celebration, clapping two pieces of bamboo together and watching women pound the ground as they
dance to the drummers under a mango tree in the moonlight.
ź Being asked to sing a song of praise at a small Christian church and soulfully indulging them. Standing in
front of the church while the pastor instructs his members to pray for me, stirred by the concert of voices
sending appeals to God in English local languages and in tongues of angels. Two weeks later, being invited
to pray with Muslims, following their unassuming rituals, touched by their quiet prayers for my safe journey
home.
Perhaps God wanted me to abandon my “Canadian ways” and humble myself. I learned to depend on people rather
than finding my own solutions to everything. At times I felt irritated that I was never alone, but now I
miss that closeness that I shared with people. I thought that I was going to give, but instead I received
kindness, love, friendship and peace. Like most foreigners, I came with the presumptuous intention to impart
my skills; instead, I leave with indelible impressions of The Gambia and its people, which will undoubtedly
reframe my worldview and shape my future life decisions. I wish to thank all of you who extended your
welcome - you know who you are!
Serrekunda, June 1, 2001
After a three-week stay in The Gambia, I am returning to my homeland, Canada, changed - profoundly so. I
have been overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions since I set foot on this reddish dry soil. I experienced
sheer awe at the vibrant colours and pretty designs of African materials Gambians don with pride, felt
bewildered by the number of people everywhere, revolted by the stark contrasts between rich and poor, moved
by people’s hospitality and friendship, amused by the children excitedly greeting me “Toubab! Toubab!”, then
annoyed that all they see is my whiteness, inspired by people’s stamina and yearning for a better future,
against all odds, and filled with sorrow about the past.
I came to The Gambia to work on a local development project as a consultant. As I expected, my agenda was
very different from the organizers’. It soon became apparent that our priorities were different, and so
rather than urging my partners to go after the objectives I had set, I made a conscious decision to let go
and let God. I asked God to reveal an accurate depiction of The Gambia to me so that I could get a glimpse
into the complexities the country encompasses.
These are some of the “snapshots” that I did not record on film but will be forever alive in my mind:
ź Trying to walk through Serrekunda market and being approached by young men holding up calculators excitedly
petitioning me to sell them my foreign currency. Who is behind this money market?
ź Visiting my friend’s wife and child at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Banjul. The tiny child is visibly
suffering from severe malaria, a disease everyone knows is caused by mosquito bites, and as I sit with them,
I am getting bitten. Susula ama mbete a! I look to the window and notice that the netting is full of
holes. I look at the walls, the beds, the floor, and all I see is dirt. I wonder how a sick person can
recover in a place that constitutes a public health hazard.
ź Watching politicians on television speak about whom is a true Gambian according to recent legislation, i.e.
a person born in The Gambia of Gambian parents. It brings to mind the exclusion of certain contenders in the
most recent disastrous elections in Ivory Coast. I wonder where this wave of African neo-nationalism comes
from and whose interest it serves. It raises questions about my own national identity as a person born in
Canada of Italian parents: if this system were transposed to Canada, would I - or the majority of my friends-
be eligible to vote?
ź Finding myself “caught” unprepared at the market at prayer time. Suddenly noticing hundred of men
genuflecting on mats or on the ground, stopping whatever they were doing to give praise to Allah. For the
first time, I can hear the loud chirping of birds into the area, and then just as soon as silence fell, it is
bustle of business as usual.
ź Taking ride in a taxi on my way home one night. Being stopped by the police for a random search. Hearing
the annoyance of the taxi driver cursing in Mandinka as we drive off because he had to bribe the officer 10
Dalasi to save himself from the bogus charge.
ź Noticing a crowd of people gathered around a vehicle near the market in Serrekunda and detecting its
trepidation. As I pass by, a police officer and military supporter begin to beat a taxi driver. Nobody
intervenes. Is it fear or complacency?
ź Passing by groups of people standing in line for hours under the hot sun to obtain their voters’
registration card. Meeting people who work with the Independent Electoral Committee who are concerned about
their safety as the elections draw near. Listening to a village woman complain that in order to be
recognized as a true Gambian she had to show proof of her father’s participation in the Second World War!
ź Seeing depictions of the President everywhere smirking down at the masses, like Orwell’s Big Brother, and
wondering what is his appeal. Watching hundreds of people run towards the President’s convoy and wave
excitedly at him as he flies by in the most luxurious vehicle I have ever seen, and wondering what he is
doing for the people.
ź Accompanying a friend to different locations in The Gambia and being introduced to a multitude of people
who proudly claim him as brother, husband, father, uncle, and never a mere “friend”. Feeling touched that
this individual is significant in the lives of so many people in so many realms, struck by his humility, and
blessed that he extended his kindness to me too. Realizing that if he were a Canadian, I would have had to
wait for his funeral to know what impact he had on his community because only then would people talk about
him. I would then feel sorry that I had misjudged or underestimated or misunderstood him and berate myself
for not having seen his full potential while he was alive.
ź Fighting chills and a fever in my room one morning, feeling homesick. Suddenly looking up to the
preoccupied faces of four Sierra Leonean neighbours who rushed in as soon as they heard I was ill to express
their concern or, as they said, “our sympathies”.
ź Observing the stunned expression on the face of a young grieving wife, so alone though she is surrounded by
other women who are also mourning the premature death of a teacher who lost the battle to sickle cell
anaemia. Hearing comments that he had to wait three-and-a-half hours before seeing a doctor at the hospital
and died a few hours later, feeling my rage rise up inside me and join with my sorrow.
ź Asking a man who polishes shoes to repair my Gambian friend’s sandals for him after he had already turned
down his own request. Silent consent obtained, watching him take out the glue and fix the shoes,
contemplating why I should have such influence as a Toubab.
ź Being escorted into the offices of an international non-governmental organization’s offices immediately
while Sierra Leonean refugees have clearly been waiting for hours to no avail. Being informed that their
staff members are constantly under threat by God knows whom, and told rather sardonically that unfortunately
nothing can be done to ensure the safety of locals who speak out against the government.
ź Returning from a walk on a little path in a remote area and coming upon a small gathering of people poised
on the other side of a ditch separating us. Remarking the children literally bridge the gap between us,
extending their hands in a sign of welcome to me, the stranger. Being invited to a seemingly spontaneous
Djola wedding celebration, clapping two pieces of bamboo together and watching women pound the ground as they
dance to the drummers under a mango tree in the moonlight.
ź Being asked to sing a song of praise at a small Christian church and soulfully indulging them. Standing in
front of the church while the pastor instructs his members to pray for me, stirred by the concert of voices
sending appeals to God in English local languages and in tongues of angels. Two weeks later, being invited
to pray with Muslims, following their unassuming rituals, touched by their quiet prayers for my safe journey
home.
Perhaps God wanted me to abandon my “Canadian ways” and humble myself. I learned to depend on people rather
than finding my own solutions to everything. At times I felt irritated that I was never alone, but now I
miss that closeness that I shared with people. I thought that I was going to give, but instead I received
kindness, love, friendship and peace. Like most foreigners, I came with the presumptuous intention to impart
my skills; instead, I leave with indelible impressions of The Gambia and its people, which will undoubtedly
reframe my worldview and shape my future life decisions. I wish to thank all of you who extended your
welcome - you know who you are!
Serrekunda, June 1, 2001
After a three-week stay in The Gambia, I am returning to my homeland, Canada, changed - profoundly so. I
have been overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions since I set foot on this reddish dry soil. I experienced
sheer awe at the vibrant colours and pretty designs of African materials Gambians don with pride, felt
bewildered by the number of people everywhere, revolted by the stark contrasts between rich and poor, moved
by people’s hospitality and friendship, amused by the children excitedly greeting me “Toubab! Toubab!”, then
annoyed that all they see is my whiteness, inspired by people’s stamina and yearning for a better future,
against all odds, and filled with sorrow about the past.
I came to The Gambia to work on a local development project as a consultant. As I expected, my agenda was
very different from the organizers’. It soon became apparent that our priorities were different, and so
rather than urging my partners to go after the objectives I had set, I made a conscious decision to let go
and let God. I asked God to reveal an accurate depiction of The Gambia to me so that I could get a glimpse
into the complexities the country encompasses.
These are some of the “snapshots” that I did not record on film but will be forever alive in my mind:
ź Trying to walk through Serrekunda market and being approached by young men holding up calculators excitedly
petitioning me to sell them my foreign currency. Who is behind this money market?
ź Visiting my friend’s wife and child at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Banjul. The tiny child is visibly
suffering from severe malaria, a disease everyone knows is caused by mosquito bites, and as I sit with them,
I am getting bitten. Susula ama mbete a! I look to the window and notice that the netting is full of
holes. I look at the walls, the beds, the floor, and all I see is dirt. I wonder how a sick person can
recover in a place that constitutes a public health hazard.
ź Watching politicians on television speak about whom is a true Gambian according to recent legislation, i.e.
a person born in The Gambia of Gambian parents. It brings to mind the exclusion of certain contenders in the
most recent disastrous elections in Ivory Coast. I wonder where this wave of African neo-nationalism comes
from and whose interest it serves. It raises questions about my own national identity as a person born in
Canada of Italian parents: if this system were transposed to Canada, would I - or the majority of my friends-
be eligible to vote?
ź Finding myself “caught” unprepared at the market at prayer time. Suddenly noticing hundred of men
genuflecting on mats or on the ground, stopping whatever they were doing to give praise to Allah. For the
first time, I can hear the loud chirping of birds into the area, and then just as soon as silence fell, it is
bustle of business as usual.
ź Taking ride in a taxi on my way home one night. Being stopped by the police for a random search. Hearing
the annoyance of the taxi driver cursing in Mandinka as we drive off because he had to bribe the officer 10
Dalasi to save himself from the bogus charge.
ź Noticing a crowd of people gathered around a vehicle near the market in Serrekunda and detecting its
trepidation. As I pass by, a police officer and military supporter begin to beat a taxi driver. Nobody
intervenes. Is it fear or complacency?
ź Passing by groups of people standing in line for hours under the hot sun to obtain their voters’
registration card. Meeting people who work with the Independent Electoral Committee who are concerned about
their safety as the elections draw near. Listening to a village woman complain that in order to be
recognized as a true Gambian she had to show proof of her father’s participation in the Second World War!
ź Seeing depictions of the President everywhere smirking down at the masses, like Orwell’s Big Brother, and
wondering what is his appeal. Watching hundreds of people run towards the President’s convoy and wave
excitedly at him as he flies by in the most luxurious vehicle I have ever seen, and wondering what he is
doing for the people.
ź Accompanying a friend to different locations in The Gambia and being introduced to a multitude of people
who proudly claim him as brother, husband, father, uncle, and never a mere “friend”. Feeling touched that
this individual is significant in the lives of so many people in so many realms, struck by his humility, and
blessed that he extended his kindness to me too. Realizing that if he were a Canadian, I would have had to
wait for his funeral to know what impact he had on his community because only then would people talk about
him. I would then feel sorry that I had misjudged or underestimated or misunderstood him and berate myself
for not having seen his full potential while he was alive.
ź Fighting chills and a fever in my room one morning, feeling homesick. Suddenly looking up to the
preoccupied faces of four Sierra Leonean neighbours who rushed in as soon as they heard I was ill to express
their concern or, as they said, “our sympathies”.
ź Observing the stunned expression on the face of a young grieving wife, so alone though she is surrounded by
other women who are also mourning the premature death of a teacher who lost the battle to sickle cell
anaemia. Hearing comments that he had to wait three-and-a-half hours before seeing a doctor at the hospital
and died a few hours later, feeling my rage rise up inside me and join with my sorrow.
ź Asking a man who polishes shoes to repair my Gambian friend’s sandals for him after he had already turned
down his own request. Silent consent obtained, watching him take out the glue and fix the shoes,
contemplating why I should have such influence as a Toubab.
ź Being escorted into the offices of an international non-governmental organization’s offices immediately
while Sierra Leonean refugees have clearly been waiting for hours to no avail. Being informed that their
staff members are constantly under threat by God knows whom, and told rather sardonically that unfortunately
nothing can be done to ensure the safety of locals who speak out against the government.
ź Returning from a walk on a little path in a remote area and coming upon a small gathering of people poised
on the other side of a ditch separating us. Remarking the children literally bridge the gap between us,
extending their hands in a sign of welcome to me, the stranger. Being invited to a seemingly spontaneous
Djola wedding celebration, clapping two pieces of bamboo together and watching women pound the ground as they
dance to the drummers under a mango tree in the moonlight.
ź Being asked to sing a song of praise at a small Christian church and soulfully indulging them. Standing in
front of the church while the pastor instructs his members to pray for me, stirred by the concert of voices
sending appeals to God in English local languages and in tongues of angels. Two weeks later, being invited
to pray with Muslims, following their unassuming rituals, touched by their quiet prayers for my safe journey
home.
Perhaps God wanted me to abandon my “Canadian ways” and humble myself. I learned to depend on people rather
than finding my own solutions to everything. At times I felt irritated that I was never alone, but now I
miss that closeness that I shared with people. I thought that I was going to give, but instead I received
kindness, love, friendship and peace. Like most foreigners, I came with the presumptuous intention to impart
my skills; instead, I leave with indelible impressions of The Gambia and its people, which will undoubtedly
reframe my worldview and shape my future life decisions. I wish to thank all of you who extended your
welcome - you know who you are!
Serrekunda, June 1, 2001
After a three-week stay in The Gambia, I am returning to my homeland, Canada, changed - profoundly so. I
have been overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions since I set foot on this reddish dry soil. I experienced
sheer awe at the vibrant colours and pretty designs of African materials Gambians don with pride, felt
bewildered by the number of people everywhere, revolted by the stark contrasts between rich and poor, moved
by people’s hospitality and friendship, amused by the children excitedly greeting me “Toubab! Toubab!”, then
annoyed that all they see is my whiteness, inspired by people’s stamina and yearning for a better future,
against all odds, and filled with sorrow about the past.
I came to The Gambia to work on a local development project as a consultant. As I expected, my agenda was
very different from the organizers’. It soon became apparent that our priorities were different, and so
rather than urging my partners to go after the objectives I had set, I made a conscious decision to let go
and let God. I asked God to reveal an accurate depiction of The Gambia to me so that I could get a glimpse
into the complexities the country encompasses.
These are some of the “snapshots” that I did not record on film but will be forever alive in my mind:
ź Trying to walk through Serrekunda market and being approached by young men holding up calculators excitedly
petitioning me to sell them my foreign currency. Who is behind this money market?
ź Visiting my friend’s wife and child at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Banjul. The tiny child is visibly
suffering from severe malaria, a disease everyone knows is caused by mosquito bites, and as I sit with them,
I am getting bitten. Susula ama mbete a! I look to the window and notice that the netting is full of
holes. I look at the walls, the beds, the floor, and all I see is dirt. I wonder how a sick person can
recover in a place that constitutes a public health hazard.
ź Watching politicians on television speak about whom is a true Gambian according to recent legislation, i.e.
a person born in The Gambia of Gambian parents. It brings to mind the exclusion of certain contenders in the
most recent disastrous elections in Ivory Coast. I wonder where this wave of African neo-nationalism comes
from and whose interest it serves. It raises questions about my own national identity as a person born in
Canada of Italian parents: if this system were transposed to Canada, would I - or the majority of my friends-
be eligible to vote?
ź Finding myself “caught” unprepared at the market at prayer time. Suddenly noticing hundred of men
genuflecting on mats or on the ground, stopping whatever they were doing to give praise to Allah. For the
first time, I can hear the loud chirping of birds into the area, and then just as soon as silence fell, it is
bustle of business as usual.
ź Taking ride in a taxi on my way home one night. Being stopped by the police for a random search. Hearing
the annoyance of the taxi driver cursing in Mandinka as we drive off because he had to bribe the officer 10
Dalasi to save himself from the bogus charge.
ź Noticing a crowd of people gathered around a vehicle near the market in Serrekunda and detecting its
trepidation. As I pass by, a police officer and military supporter begin to beat a taxi driver. Nobody
intervenes. Is it fear or complacency?
ź Passing by groups of people standing in line for hours under the hot sun to obtain their voters’
registration card. Meeting people who work with the Independent Electoral Committee who are concerned about
their safety as the elections draw near. Listening to a village woman complain that in order to be
recognized as a true Gambian she had to show proof of her father’s participation in the Second World War!
ź Seeing depictions of the President everywhere smirking down at the masses, like Orwell’s Big Brother, and
wondering what is his appeal. Watching hundreds of people run towards the President’s convoy and wave
excitedly at him as he flies by in the most luxurious vehicle I have ever seen, and wondering what he is
doing for the people.
ź Accompanying a friend to different locations in The Gambia and being introduced to a multitude of people
who proudly claim him as brother, husband, father, uncle, and never a mere “friend”. Feeling touched that
this individual is significant in the lives of so many people in so many realms, struck by his humility, and
blessed that he extended his kindness to me too. Realizing that if he were a Canadian, I would have had to
wait for his funeral to know what impact he had on his community because only then would people talk about
him. I would then feel sorry that I had misjudged or underestimated or misunderstood him and berate myself
for not having seen his full potential while he was alive.
ź Fighting chills and a fever in my room one morning, feeling homesick. Suddenly looking up to the
preoccupied faces of four Sierra Leonean neighbours who rushed in as soon as they heard I was ill to express
their concern or, as they said, “our sympathies”.
ź Observing the stunned expression on the face of a young grieving wife, so alone though she is surrounded by
other women who are also mourning the premature death of a teacher who lost the battle to sickle cell
anaemia. Hearing comments that he had to wait three-and-a-half hours before seeing a doctor at the hospital
and died a few hours later, feeling my rage rise up inside me and join with my sorrow.
ź Asking a man who polishes shoes to repair my Gambian friend’s sandals for him after he had already turned
down his own request. Silent consent obtained, watching him take out the glue and fix the shoes,
contemplating why I should have such influence as a Toubab.
ź Being escorted into the offices of an international non-governmental organization’s offices immediately
while Sierra Leonean refugees have clearly been waiting for hours to no avail. Being informed that their
staff members are constantly under threat by God knows whom, and told rather sardonically that unfortunately
nothing can be done to ensure the safety of locals who speak out against the government.
ź Returning from a walk on a little path in a remote area and coming upon a small gathering of people poised
on the other side of a ditch separating us. Remarking the children literally bridge the gap between us,
extending their hands in a sign of welcome to me, the stranger. Being invited to a seemingly spontaneous
Djola wedding celebration, clapping two pieces of bamboo together and watching women pound the ground as they
dance to the drummers under a mango tree in the moonlight.
ź Being asked to sing a song of praise at a small Christian church and soulfully indulging them. Standing in
front of the church while the pastor instructs his members to pray for me, stirred by the concert of voices
sending appeals to God in English local languages and in tongues of angels. Two weeks later, being invited
to pray with Muslims, following their unassuming rituals, touched by their quiet prayers for my safe journey
home.
Perhaps God wanted me to abandon my “Canadian ways” and humble myself. I learned to depend on people rather
than finding my own solutions to everything. At times I felt irritated that I was never alone, but now I
miss that closeness that I shared with people. I thought that I was going to give, but instead I received
kindness, love, friendship and peace. Like most foreigners, I came with the presumptuous intention to impart
my skills; instead, I leave with indelible impressions of The Gambia and its people, which will undoubtedly
reframe my worldview and shape my future life decisions. I wish to thank all of you who extended your
welcome - you know who you are!
Serrekunda, June 1, 2001
After a three-week stay in The Gambia, I am returning to my homeland, Canada, changed - profoundly so. I
have been overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions since I set foot on this reddish dry soil. I experienced
sheer awe at the vibrant colours and pretty designs of African materials Gambians don with pride, felt
bewildered by the number of people everywhere, revolted by the stark contrasts between rich and poor, moved
by people’s hospitality and friendship, amused by the children excitedly greeting me “Toubab! Toubab!”, then
annoyed that all they see is my whiteness, inspired by people’s stamina and yearning for a better future,
against all odds, and filled with sorrow about the past.
I came to The Gambia to work on a local development project as a consultant. As I expected, my agenda was
very different from the organizers’. It soon became apparent that our priorities were different, and so
rather than urging my partners to go after the objectives I had set, I made a conscious decision to let go
and let God. I asked God to reveal an accurate depiction of The Gambia to me so that I could get a glimpse
into the complexities the country encompasses.
These are some of the “snapshots” that I did not record on film but will be forever alive in my mind:
ź Trying to walk through Serrekunda market and being approached by young men holding up calculators excitedly
petitioning me to sell them my foreign currency. Who is behind this money market?
ź Visiting my friend’s wife and child at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Banjul. The tiny child is visibly
suffering from severe malaria, a disease everyone knows is caused by mosquito bites, and as I sit with them,
I am getting bitten. Susula ama mbete a! I look to the window and notice that the netting is full of
holes. I look at the walls, the beds, the floor, and all I see is dirt. I wonder how a sick person can
recover in a place that constitutes a public health hazard.
ź Watching politicians on television speak about whom is a true Gambian according to recent legislation, i.e.
a person born in The Gambia of Gambian parents. It brings to mind the exclusion of certain contenders in the
most recent disastrous elections in Ivory Coast. I wonder where this wave of African neo-nationalism comes
from and whose interest it serves. It raises questions about my own national identity as a person born in
Canada of Italian parents: if this system were transposed to Canada, would I - or the majority of my friends-
be eligible to vote?
ź Finding myself “caught” unprepared at the market at prayer time. Suddenly noticing hundred of men
genuflecting on mats or on the ground, stopping whatever they were doing to give praise to Allah. For the
first time, I can hear the loud chirping of birds into the area, and then just as soon as silence fell, it is
bustle of business as usual.
ź Taking ride in a taxi on my way home one night. Being stopped by the police for a random search. Hearing
the annoyance of the taxi driver cursing in Mandinka as we drive off because he had to bribe the officer 10
Dalasi to save himself from the bogus charge.
ź Noticing a crowd of people gathered around a vehicle near the market in Serrekunda and detecting its
trepidation. As I pass by, a police officer and military supporter begin to beat a taxi driver. Nobody
intervenes. Is it fear or complacency?
ź Passing by groups of people standing in line for hours under the hot sun to obtain their voters’
registration card. Meeting people who work with the Independent Electoral Committee who are concerned about
their safety as the elections draw near. Listening to a village woman complain that in order to be
recognized as a true Gambian she had to show proof of her father’s participation in the Second World War!
ź Seeing depictions of the President everywhere smirking down at the masses, like Orwell’s Big Brother, and
wondering what is his appeal. Watching hundreds of people run towards the President’s convoy and wave
excitedly at him as he flies by in the most luxurious vehicle I have ever seen, and wondering what he is
doing for the people.
ź Accompanying a friend to different locations in The Gambia and being introduced to a multitude of people
who proudly claim him as brother, husband, father, uncle, and never a mere “friend”. Feeling touched that
this individual is significant in the lives of so many people in so many realms, struck by his humility, and
blessed that he extended his kindness to me too. Realizing that if he were a Canadian, I would have had to
wait for his funeral to know what impact he had on his community because only then would people talk about
him. I would then feel sorry that I had misjudged or underestimated or misunderstood him and berate myself
for not having seen his full potential while he was alive.
ź Fighting chills and a fever in my room one morning, feeling homesick. Suddenly looking up to the
preoccupied faces of four Sierra Leonean neighbours who rushed in as soon as they heard I was ill to express
their concern or, as they said, “our sympathies”.
ź Observing the stunned expression on the face of a young grieving wife, so alone though she is surrounded by
other women who are also mourning the premature death of a teacher who lost the battle to sickle cell
anaemia. Hearing comments that he had to wait three-and-a-half hours before seeing a doctor at the hospital
and died a few hours later, feeling my rage rise up inside me and join with my sorrow.
ź Asking a man who polishes shoes to repair my Gambian friend’s sandals for him after he had already turned
down his own request. Silent consent obtained, watching him take out the glue and fix the shoes,
contemplating why I should have such influence as a Toubab.
ź Being escorted into the offices of an international non-governmental organization’s offices immediately
while Sierra Leonean refugees have clearly been waiting for hours to no avail. Being informed that their
staff members are constantly under threat by God knows whom, and told rather sardonically that unfortunately
nothing can be done to ensure the safety of locals who speak out against the government.
ź Returning from a walk on a little path in a remote area and coming upon a small gathering of people poised
on the other side of a ditch separating us. Remarking the children literally bridge the gap between us,
extending their hands in a sign of welcome to me, the stranger. Being invited to a seemingly spontaneous
Djola wedding celebration, clapping two pieces of bamboo together and watching women pound the ground as they
dance to the drummers under a mango tree in the moonlight.
ź Being asked to sing a song of praise at a small Christian church and soulfully indulging them. Standing in
front of the church while the pastor instructs his members to pray for me, stirred by the concert of voices
sending appeals to God in English local languages and in tongues of angels. Two weeks later, being invited
to pray with Muslims, following their unassuming rituals, touched by their quiet prayers for my safe journey
home.
Perhaps God wanted me to abandon my “Canadian ways” and humble myself. I learned to depend on people rather
than finding my own solutions to everything. At times I felt irritated that I was never alone, but now I
miss that closeness that I shared with people. I thought that I was going to give, but instead I received
kindness, love, friendship and peace. Like most foreigners, I came with the presumptuous intention to impart
my skills; instead, I leave with indelible impressions of The Gambia and its people, which will undoubtedly
reframe my worldview and shape my future life decisions. I wish to thank all of you who extended your
welcome - you know who you are!
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