The happy village of Kantaur

feels like a gypsy camp after tornado and a nuclear bomb

In Upper Gambia, I take a hitch from Janjanbureh (see previous story) and then walk to a village of Kantaur. I have no particular reason apart that it looked interesting on the map. If Janjanbureh was a shock , Kantaur leaves you speechless. Janjanbureh, to a European, could be compared to a big Gypsy settlement in the Balkans. Kantaur, in contrast, feels like a gypsy camp after tornado and a nuclear bomb.

Location-wise, this village could be the touristic gem. It is situatedon riverbank, in a truly paradisiacal setting. To reach the village, I walk two kilometers through stunning landscape.

The paradise ends as soon as the village starts. The first building is the gas station.

The center is composed of demolished, decaying industrial constructions. There are no people.

I find a way to the river bank, naively expecting to see something nice. This is a good idea. I meet some people there who, surprisingly, are not zombies. Unfortunately, horrible smell seems to be coming from dried fish hanging on wire, literally covered with black flies (I will spare you from the most graphic images, here is a nicer one).

A few meters further down the village, I find a large steel gate, behind which hides a lodge catering for foreign tourists. I enter inside. It is nice, with its own access to the river. I order water in the restaurant, meanwhile a boat arrives and there I recognize my new German friends I met yesterday in Janjanbureh. We talk. They have been staying here for a few days for birdwatching. Their dinner is ready. To my disbelief, it is dried fish sauce and with rice. I ask the Dutch whether the fish is local. Yes it is, they are glad to support the local economy. I understood they never left the gate (the dried fish display is literally fifteen meters away). They came by boat and always leave by boat. I open my mouth to say something …. and I close it. The fish is already on the table. Why spoil the experience.

Walking back across the village, I realize I already saw places like this in Romania, Slovakia, Poland and Ukraine. Half-abandoned villages in the regions forgotten by God and the government, where daily life is plagued by unemployment, alcohol and hopelessness. But no, here something is different. A lady sitting on the bench waves at me, asks me to sit by her. Her daughter joins too. I don't yet speak Wolof or Mandinka or Fula, and they speak no English but we take a picture together and we laugh a lot.

I walk back among the palm trees. The sun sets down. The evening brings the smell of burnt plastic and rubber tyres. It is the usual evening smell in every village and every town in Gambia. Every day, in every human settlement, this toxic smoke arrives about 7 p.m.

This meeting made my day. I begin to comprehend: I saw another happy village.

Post Scriptum

The Gambian perspective is really different. I observe that people find joy and happiness where the Europeans would rather see sadness and depression. And vice versa: I saw the Gambians completely blocked and resigned in situation which I would call minor obstacles. We notice different things, we laugh in different situations and we worry about other problems. I am convinced we can teach each other, both ways.

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