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WET AND DRY (Gambia 1999) |
| Written by stephen west | |
| Tuesday, 19 August 2008 | |
Samba Wally was a happy somebody. He had saved a little from his monthly salary for over three years and was now the proud owner of a car. Not much of a car, admitted. There were rust spots here and there and the boot did not lock, one door creaked, it had a petrol engine, and the speedo and fuel gauge did not work. But a car nonetheless. Samba Wally was a happy man. He had obtained land and built a house in Kerrsing as soon as he first heard of the new coastal super-highway. Now that the road had been started the price of property in the area had already increased. Not much of a house, admitted. He still had to fit mosquito nets and, although he had water and therefore a flushing toilet and a shower, National Utilities had not yet deigned to bring current to Samba's street. But National Utilities supplies of current were unreliable anyway, so ultimately no more or less convenient than batteries and candles. But Samba thought that the development of the highway might accelerate the arrival of electric power. So, not much of a house, but a house nonetheless, and the mango trees in the garden were growing. But Samba Wally was not a happy man. The rainy season had started and the roads of Kerrsing were dotted with puddles which threatened to get deeper as the season went on. And there was the matter of the service road. When the engineers had commenced the new super-highway they had dutifully and thoughtfully bulldozed and rollered a very convenient access road along side the new road. Samba therefore only had three middle-sized puddles to negotiate in the sand road between his house and the relative security of compacted stone. Then some idiot had come along and dumped a load of sand and brickbats into the first two puddles, and had trebled the size and depth of the third one. For several days he had to leave his car in the compound and walk two kilometres to the taxi-vans to get to work. But, returning to his home one evening by a slightly different route, Samba discovered another way to drive from his house to the access road. Samba Wally was a happy man. But not for long. The construction of the service road had taken place in the dry season, and the route passed Kola Nut Lodge. The management of Kola Nut Lodge, in their wisdom and no doubt in consideration for their guests, had frequently watered the access road at the hotel's frontage in order to keep the dust down. When the rains came, and came with a vengeance that year, there was a series of subsidences, and four enormous dips appeared, each one filled with rainwater to the depth of a man's knees. Add to this particular trial and tribulation the matter of Samba's new route through the village. Some ignorant toubab had tipped a trip of sand at the junction, his purpose being to stop vehicles using that particular road because he did not want his whitewashed walls to be splashed with mud. For the same reason, other selfish and un-neighbourly residents had dragged logs, broken rear axles and a variety of other debris to the sides of the puddles which forced cars to take the middle, and deepest route. Add to this. The children of the village found great sport in throwing stones and broken blocks into the existing puddles, which not only made the water deeper, but also, these unstable obstacles made traction and progress all the more difficult. "I might as well live on James Island", Samba told people with a sardonic grin. He was not a happy man. He managed to cheer up somewhat when he discovered yet another route out of the village avoiding all the previously mentioned hazards. The way involved an extra three kilometres of travel, an extra fifteen minutes on the journey, and he had to skirt two cassava fields. But at least he could drive to work once more. Samba Wally was a happy man. The rains were easing. The sun was shining more each day and the wind was blowing. The puddles were getting smaller. The shorter ways round the village became accessible again, and even the ponds outside Kola Nut Lodge were negotiable. But then. The biggest, most thunderous and spectacular storm swooped, in the day time while Samba was at work. Nobody could ever remember so much water falling out of the sky in such a few short hours. And Samba Wally was not a happy man. He drove towards his house with trepidation. Having backed off from no less than five different routes home Samba finally took his fate in his hands and gingerly nosed into a puddle he had never negotiated before. The car moaned and groaned and spluttered, the engine coughed and water poured over Samba's feet. He slipped the clutch and gunned the engine and frantically turned the steering wheel back and forth. And he prayed. The car made it home, but, as he parked, there was such an air of finality about the loud "pop" from the exhaust. Samba Wally should have been a happy man. The rainy season was over. The new Coastal Super-highway was complete and functional, and access to and from Samba's compound was as easy as pie. The value of his property had rocketed. National Utilities were about to bring current past the front gate. But Samba's car, caked with stinking mud from the fetid further reaches of a stagnant pool, needed a complete strip-down, and a new exhaust pipe, a new fan belt, new starter motor, new gaskets........ And he could not afford them. And there was absolutely no one from whom he could claim damages. Samba Wally was not a happy somebody.
Toubab. Noun. Literally: A man who owns himself, (No debts) . Common vernacular usage: A white man. . Copyright 2008 stephen west |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 19 August 2008 ) |
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