In The Gambia, Simba is not a cute little lion cub who wants to be king. Simba is instead a lion-like masquerade that can only be described as horrifying yet somehow weirdly entertaining. Which come to think of it, is exactly how I felt about the Lion King as a kid.
From a young age, children are meant to work. It is their duty to not only obey, but to consider it an honor to be told to do a job.
I can now carry a full bucket of water on my head without spilling a drop. It is actually much easier than waddling the few hundred meters from the tap to my compound with the bucket awkwardly in-hand.
I don’t think the beauty of this place will ever wear off. In the midst of rainy season, everything here is green. Half the red sandy roads have vanished under wild green grasses. There’s cashew orchards and rice fields and groundnut plantations in perfect green rows. There’s green sprouts that will soon grow into watermelon with green rinds. There’s little green trees with green little limes, and bigger trees bearing oranges with green skin. And then there’s the tallest green trees in all the Gambia that tower over it all, a village just south of the river – Sibanor — my new home.
School starts at half past 8, but on the first day, students wandered in through the gates closer to 9. Not a single child brought paper or a pen. But at least they showed up, which is more than half the teachers can say. Fifteen teachers failed to report, and one came with her baby tied to her back.
