Tourist
Nothing left to do as to get into the car and leave the
ground. Disappointed I look back once again. My beautiful idea
lies behind me and ahead of me another half a day. Again we
find our way between the sandy roads and rectangular
buildings. As fast as possible to the asphalt motorway, the large
connecting road between Banjul and Serrekunda. The only
fourlane motorway asphalt road of a length of 20 kilometres which
the Gambia owns.
"Have you visited the crocodile-pond already?" Yahya asked. I
nodded my head and he immediately headed for it. We talked
about the weather which brought us to the subject of Holland.
Yahya reminisces. He can remember very well that on April 30th
1980 he travelled from Rotterdam to Wageningen on his way to
his first college-day at the University of Agriculture. Un-
suspecting, except that he was excited and curious about his
new future.
Surprised I react: "Didn't you notice anything?" War was going
on in Amsterdam. No Home no Crowning the saying was". And un-
noticed I smell again the odour of tear gas, hearing again the
dim booming of bricks against police-buses. The screaming of
panic in reply to a charge, the feeling of triumph when march-
ing together over the 'Bluebridge'.
For six months he has studied in Wageningen. To continue he
should have studied Dutch so he finished his study tropical
forestry and agriculture in the United States and meanwhile
earning money as truck-driver. During five years.
We leave the asphalt road and head towards the slums of Bakau.
Narrow sandy small roads, open sewer, small houses with stre-
aming laundry, wash-tubs, children and labouring women. Left,
right, straight ahead. The cloud of dust which we leave behind
the car penetrates the small houses. Again asking the way at
the tiny little shop at the corner. A crooked sign shows us
the way. The small tourist shops with fabrics of batik and
wood-cutting betray us that we are approaching the neighbour-
hood. A gateway with primitive handpainting.
I pass through the gate and behind there a paradisiacal spot
develops. Palmtrees, green and a beautiful build up low small
wall. A young man calls me back and gives signals. Points at a
sign and at a small table at the entrance. Pay first: 10 Dal-
asi. It is written on the sign, so I cannot deny. Patiently I
juggle the money. I am a tourist on a tourist's place. As a
compensation it is said: "Guide is free, but for you it is 10
Dalasi". My tourist guide? Astonished I look at Yahya. He
shows a timid face and a resigned attitude. There he is with
all his certificates. I feel embarrassed. Discriminated by his
own race. A strange presentation. It is as if I have ended up
in a wrong play and they force me to play a role I do not
want. The green becomes scenery, the crocodiles do not resem-
ble.
The next stop is at a joint workshop. A cooperative of artists
try to sell their creations here. There is a relaxed atmo-
sphere. In all other tourist shops they try to pull you in-
side. Looking around peacefully is impossible. Flies and pa-
rasites. Cries and begging. Everything to attract your atten-
tion. And no salesman realises that this creates irritation
and an urge to escape. But here it is calm. The salesman sits
in front of the atelier and works at his batik. I have got all
the time and admire all materials. Wood-cuttings, drums, musi-
cal instruments, jewelry, batik paintings, batik table cloths
with matching serviettes, batik cloths to use for clothing.
Two metres for a blouse and three metres for a dress. We look
at his photo-albums and listen to his story about his ex-
hibition in the United States. We give comments to his latest
designs. Inspired by American art his designs become more
abstract.
I make a selection from the small batiks. It is good to give
away. Various motives. On one of the paintings I see a mask.
"Problems", they explained to me, "one man with two women".
"And one woman with two men?" I joked. I look into the faces
of two surprised men.
Suddenly I have an inspiration. My bedroom curtains need to be
replaced. I try to sort out the batik cloths of three metres
to put beside each other. Not one cloth is the same. In that
case three different cloths. Motives of fish, elephants, oni-
ons, palmtrees, masks, birds slip through my hands. My choice
is made in warm African colours: ochre, dark red, warm yellow
with black and white drawings. The salesman folds the pile as
carefully as possible. In a notebook he writes down from which
artist something has been sold. "Three dresses?" Yahya asks.
"No", I explain, "curtains for my bedroom. When I wake up
light will shine through. Then every morning I can dream about
Africa".
I think I heard a deep sigh behind me.
More information:
Map of Africa and more information:
Map of Gambia and more information:
More travelstories from Africa:
An tour through West Africa
On the motor from north to south
Go back to Liesbet's Atelier
Go outside
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