Banjul Eyes

Before coming on this trip I had no appreciation for the many small countries that make up Africa - in fact I'll be quite honest - I would struggle if I had to name even half.

The almost schizophrenic carving up of the continent by the colonial European powers in their day has resulted in the boundaries of the many countries that make up modern Africa. So, I suppose I can be forgiven for knowing next to nothing about The Gambia - the smallest country on mainland Africa. It looks like a finger jutting into Senegal, which shares its other borders. Gambia's own boundaries mirror the meandering Gambia River - a River that was of strategic importance during the infamous slave trade.

We docked in the port of Banjul, located on Banjul Island where the Gambia River enters the Atlantic Ocean. The wharf was long and narrow and across from our berth a series of fishing boats were tied up offloading impressive amounts of frozen tuna.

Beyond the dock gates, container traffic vied for position on the potholed dirt road leading out of the port while the craft marketeers gathered in full force, ready to set up shop on the dock once the port authorities gave the OK.

The most striking thing was the colour. The women's costumes and headdresses were so vibrant and many were wearing beautiful necklaces and earrings.

A predominantly Muslim country, the backdrop was the sound of mullahs calling the faithful to prayer - it was Friday.

Today's excursion was to take us out into the countryside to visit a school as well as a family who had opened up their home so that we could experience their communal lives. While Gambia's economy is dominated by farming, fishing and tourism, about a third of the population lives below the poverty line. This was all too evident as we drove through its largest city of Serekunda into the countryside.

Our mode of transportation was somewhat unique - described as "an open-sided four wheel drive that seats about 20 people" - the old converted army truck with its broken seats and thatched roof trundled down the road, throwing us this way and that as yet another pothole was negotiated.

Leaving the town, the road turned into a winding track and the countryside looked desolate. It was still the dry season and the rains were not due for another couple of months. Enormous termite hills flanked the roadway together with various vegetation.

Now and again we would brush against lime and cashew trees as we lurched from side to side over the uneven track. Dust clouded around us as another pothole was missed and errant branches thrashed the side of the vehicle, some dropping their leaves and fruit on us as we ducked to avoid a direct hit.

Eventually we arrived at the school, a compound originally built by the Dutch. The children ran to greet us and sang for us in their classrooms while their teachers explained the educational system.

It was clear that Gambia's educational infrastructure is severely under-resourced and that the school, like so many others, was relying on outside help. A crudely made donations box was passed around and it was with a feeling a great sadness that we saw the hopelessness of providing an educational system like the one we take for granted.

While close to half of the students in the primary school were girls, it was clear during our home visit that women are the providers and the glue that holds their large extended families together.

The men didn't appear to be particularly motivated. The large numbers of children that ran out to wave and yell wildly when they heard our vehicle coming was astonishing.

Returning to Banjul we followed a coastal road, passing a fishing community. The stench of raw fish was strong as well as a more fragrant smell coming from the peanut processing plant, Gambia's predominant export earner.

Back on the dock there was organized chaos as fellow passengers bargained in the makeshift market. The fisherman from the shipping alongside us watched lazily, some stretched out in wheelbarrows that had been used earlier in the day to transport the tuna haul.

All that seemed to be missing from the melee was the aroma of a camp fire or two and cooking food.

And then the scene would have been perfect, underscored by those haunting Banjul eyes.