Tarrafal, Sao Nicolau, Cape Verdes

Casper fills up with water in Tarrafal

View of Santa Luzia from Tarrafal

Tarrafal is a very sweet village, curled gracefully around a jet beach of volcanic sand. The loud rattle of the surf is never far away as it rakes through the large black stones that edge the shore. A large amount of time and energy is dedicated to the collection of these stones, by men, women and children, carrying them aloft in buckets and grading them into tidy piles further up the beach. Presumably these are used in some form for construction of which there is a lot going on in a low key, bit-at-a-time sort of way. This place is suprisingly busy given its size. A delivery ship arrives daily, offloading building materials and supplies. There is a constant flow of people up and down the seafront. The fish market is bustling. The flavour is decidedly African with a South American twist and a hint of the Canaries. It's obvious that the place has been very poor (and not that long ago) but it's definately rounded the corner on positive development now. The cobbled streets are clean, the cars (mainly pick-ups) in one piece, there are two cash machines, several minimercados and the locals appear to have a goodly amount of leisure time. As I watch the sun dodge the bulbous clouds and come to set picture perfect beside the uninhabited islands of Santa Luzia to the North West I think to myself that the Cape Verdeans have got it perfectly sussed.

The only downside I see to this archipelago is wholly due to my own failure to master Portuguese. I am trying very hard and have learned by heart a number of essential phrases from my English-Portuguese phrasebook. These include the important vai ser operado - you are going to be operated on and better still de-me uma escovadela no casaco - please brush my coat. The problem is that as soon as I start to speak I am met with puzzled and somewhat pitiful looks. My mouth fills with stones. Trying to pronounce the simplest of sentences in Portuguese is true facial gymnastics and good training for anyone planning a future in gurning. But, enough wingeing, I must brush off my coat and get my gurning face into town. Today's missions: dois garraffas de gaz. Let's see what I get...

Two hours later: I was assisted by an unwanted barnacle of a "helper" who has now disappeared with said gas. Now awaiting police to return bottle. Methinks my Portuguesh will be stretched to the max! More anon...

Senegal to Tarrafal, Sao Nicolao, Cape Verde Islands

Casper whittles a bung en-route - intrigued? Read on...

Last beer before leaving West Africa

Yesterday we set off at first light and, fourth time lucky, we made it out of the Saloum without losing the channel and going aground! A long old day tacking up the coast - South of West/East of North - our progress was looking dismal especially when we changed from the coastal chart to the North Atlantic passage chart. Our heading North East would have been OK but for the large pointy bit of land in the way in the lee of which lies Dakar. The tack Westward would have been fine if we were planning a mini break in Venezuela. Two choices lie ahead of us: sail to the Azores via 1) the Canaries or 2) the Cape Verdes. Each solution presents a problem: in the case of the Canaries there is first the problem of clearing Dakar, thereby necessitating a big tack out West. Secondly, once clear of Senegal's capital the wind will be predominantly against us unless we tack up the Mauritanian coast where the heat of the land often bends the wind round to the West. However Mauritania means pirates to me and also the onshore breezes can become quite fierce and of course there is nothing between us and them in the way of protection. In the case of a passage to the Cape Verdes the problem is that they lie far West (meaning valuable Easting lost when the winds are mostly from the North East) and present a somewhat unrelenting barrier of Northerlies at their Northern extremity to break through before catching a Westerly North and East a bit to the Azores. Whah whah whah whah whah. So anyhow, we are sailing to the wind (NNW 15-20k) and it seems to be taking us to the island of Maio in the archipelago of Cape Verdes. The radio forecast predicts a NE in that sector tomorrow so we can then tack up to a more Northerly island which will have internet so we can check the long term weather picture. Sorry, at it again...

The passage has so far been lumpy, especially when the wind decreases a tad and Impulse hasn't got enough speed to move positively through the oncoming sea. This morning we decided that Melvin was looking a bit fragile hanging off the back so hauled him in over the davits and gave him a good clean before stowing him away in the starboard hull. We both felt pretty quesy after this and the afternoon yawned on, thumping and bumping its way over the stomach curdling waves. The boat's smooth now though, and is carving through the water at 7 knots with just the occasional whack beneath the bridgedeck. We've made pizza and lemon sponge cake to help us through the night. Casper has not been able to sleep yet so I guess that's a long watch ahead for me as a tired skipper is no good to man nor beast.

There are loads of flying fish out here. A real freak of nature, half fish half bird. They have bat-like wings which, once they catapult themselves out of the water, enable them to glide a few feet above the its surface. "Glide" makes them sound like elegant flyers - they are not and natural selection seems to have shortchanged them somewhat in the landing department too. They don't so much land as get swallowed by any old wave that comes along.

Last night the dolphins kept us company for some time. They appeared out of nowhere like a multitude of Halley's Comets, streaking firecrackers lit up by the phosphoresence. Wherever there was movement, the water was bright with light. I have never seen anything quite as astonishing. It was like someone was shining a searchlight upwards from beneath the water's surface transforming the playful dolphins into streaming, glittering comets surrounded by impossibly bright explosions of light.

Day 3, Saturday April 10th

We have got into our stride now, we three. Casper has finally slept - it took a lot of persistence to wake him for the dogwatch last night (who can blame him?). No more wretchedness and little thumping - Impulse too seems to have got back her deep sea legs and is pumping on through the wind and waves. What a brave little boat. I never approved of people calling boats "she" but I just can't help it now - I feel so much affection for her. There are actually clouds out there and I realise now that we have not seen any for at least 5 weeks. The radio forecast announced rain in the Northern sector of the Cape Verdes - shock horror but I suppose we have to get used to it again sometime. The predicted Easterly element to the wind has not come which is disappointing. Our heading is pretty much due West, taking us South of the whole archipelago. If this wind direction persists we'll tack up to one of the islands. The Southern ones are described in the guide book as laregly dry and volcanic making the Northern band, higher, wetter and therefore more verdant, our favorites for a stopover. We will need to take on water wherever we stop and somewhere that does not rely on a desalinator is preferable.

The sunset has colour to it again! Very much appreciated after the sunbleached and washed out Gambian ones. The day was full of activity. Firstly, the leak in the port forepeak (something that has been with Impulse ever since we first set eyes on her but the origin of which is unknown) yeilded several buckets of water over the course of the past few days. Casper valliantly bunged the hole (a nasty job sure to make the saltiest of sea dogs feel unwell) so that, in theory, we'll not need to bail until we next stop. We think that the leak has increased because the volume of water over the bows is greater on this leg than it has been before rather than because whatever is causing the leak has got worse. Secondly, the inner forestay had unpopped itself and needed re-assembling. Thirdly, one of the trampoline battens was trying to do a runner and required coaxing into place and relashing. All three jobs meant that we both were soaked by the time we'd finished. At least it's not cold - yet.

The wind is finally allowing us to point North of West but only a little bit. We are 110nm from the island of Maio which, if the wind remains like this is on our current course. We covered 165nm in the last 24 hours and 300nm (as the crow flies) since we started on Thursday morning - not bad given the amount of miserable tacks we had to do on day one.

Day 4, Sunday

With the overcast dawn came our first sighting of the Cape Verdes archipelago - Maio at its South Eastern extremity. A classic volcanic landscape which the Canaries has taught us to expect of atlantic islands. A stageset of rust coloured shadows, arid and moonlike. The volcano on the island of Fogo is still live apprently, last erupting in 1995. Hard to imagine why people still inhabit these lands. There was a time, some four hundred years ago and until the market moved elsewhere in the 20th century, when the natural salt flats of the Eastern islands kept the islanders in bread and water. Later, Sao Vicente in the North West of the cluster became a vital refuelling stop, in particular for British troops during the Boer War. But the Portuguese, who until 1975 were masters of these islands, levied taxes on the foreigners and they departed, leaving the people of Cape Verdes to face a string of natural disasters. Drought was a frequent problem (and I believe still is). This coupled with overgrazing by cattle, lead to the destruction of much of the useful terrain. Crops failed and the local population became trapped in a cycle of poverty with wide scale famine hitting hard at least once every decade even until the start of the 20th century. Things are better now. Since its first democratic elections in 2001 the Cape Verdes government has achieved a lot especially in the way of securing foreign aid. They are "the good boys and girls of Africa", ranked by the World Bank one of the best governed countries of the entire continent (I suppose the competition is not up to much), the Cape Verdes were admitted to the World Trade Organisation in 2008.

Of course there is the classic story here of a service industry emerging as the archipelago opens itself to tourism (the first international flights began in 2004). The usual trade off will be made between economic gain through tourism and destruction of indigenous cultural markers and natural habitat. Vernacular fishing cottages have been bulldozed to make space for coastal resorts (many unfinished now that the global recession has hit). The should-be-protected sand dunes where loggerhead turtles have for centuries gone to produce their young are being damaged by tourists on quad bikes. The usual story...

We are now tacking up the Eastern coast of Santiago and, all being well, should make landfall in Tarrafal, Sao Nicolau, early tomorrow morning.

Tuesday 13th April

We arrived in Tarrafal, nestled halfway up Sao Nicolau's Western coast, an hour before darkness fell last night. The day had started well with a wind lift and a direct course to our destination. A large pod of spotted dolphins arrived, black at first against the orange glare of the rising sun. As the light softened their beautiful markings were revealed: the white tipped nose, the swept back wave of speckled grey, the wide dark rimmed eyes. Interesting how the dolphins always congregate around the side of the boat that you are on. Quite often I have experimented with changing bows and the dolphins will mostly follow, sometimes swimming on their side directly beneath me gazing up with a big watery eye. I often wonder what would happen if I jumped over the side with them.

It took us AGES to cover the last 25 miles as we lost the wind lift and Tarrafal became absolutely dead into 20 knots of wind and (on one tack) the oncoming Canaries current. The waves, unpleasant benches of rigid water, were snowploughed towards us with military consistency. We resorted to motorsailing which made for a margin of more speed and less discomfort. The wind died completely as we entered the wind shadow under the island.

This morning we awoke late, both very tired. Although the passage only took four and a half days it felt much longer. Sailing upwind puts more strain on the boat than a downwind leg does. Youy are always sailing at the edge of the slot, the margins are smaller. It stretches the crew more. There is the stress of worrying about the boat. There is more to take care of and more to be vigilent about. Simply the day to day life of sailing upwind is less pleasant than sailing downwind. Hatches, which open forwards, are permanently shut. The motion of the boat is more uncomfortable. The boat tends to be noisier. Sitting out on deck is less pleasant - its colder, more hectic and thereful stressful.

Despite this long list of winges I thoroughly enjoyed the passage. Our first day at sea Casper and I sat on deck to muse on what exactly it is that we enjoy so much about being out here. Whilst for some the prospect of losing sight of land is terrifying, we both relish the moment that the land disappears and we are left in a vast expanse of air and water. A jumble of reasons why this is: the immediacy of things, the simplicity (eat, sleep, attend to the boat), the lack of control (the weather does what it wants, always, nothing you can do about it), the sense of control (you are captain, king, queen, parliament of your life at sea), the space, the beauty, the humility it brings. We are frighteningly vulnerable but, paradoxically, experience a sense of strength that is sometimes impossible to muster on land. At sea we are ourselves with few other influences. The complexities of social contact (to fit in, to be this or that) are irrelevant. There is great freedom in this, for us at least.

Don Simon and chess

Impulse is hobby-horsing on her anchor, the wind blows fresh and Casper is filling up our tanks with the last jerrycan of water. Tomorrow it is for the next step North. The weather picture looks OK although the question remains - can it be trusted? At least the wind strength has decreased and there is evidence already of some Westing in the Northerly pattern that has been somewhat unrelenting of late. Our spirits have been a bit low recently - the unbending wind, the prospect of so many sea miles, the burden of uncertainties which lie ahead. Something had to be done so we've dusted off the chess board and resorted to drinking the wine once (at a time when provisions were abundant, including alcoholic ones) reserved for the purpose of cooking. Amazing how a few weeks with no wine makes a carton of Don Simon taste good. In principle then, tomorrow it is. Our next stop, god willing, will be the Cape Verdes. We hope to be there inside a week and perhaps by then I will have managed to put a teeny dent in Casper's string of chess victories.

Apologies from the post mistress

Dear Friends, thankyou for your blog comments, they continue to make my heartstrings feel tight because home is so very far away. It is so very lovely for us to know that you are all still there. Not long now. It's been a struggle to get online recently hence the rambling and disorderly blog and the dearth of pictures. A shame because there are some good ones. Later perhaps.. I hope this finds you healthy and happy whatever you are busy with and wherever you are. With love x k8

Safe in Senegal

Last night in Senegal

I know the saying goes that even the longest journey starts with just one small step but this is ridiculous! Eight hours sailing and only twenty miserable miles covered. Beating North over the shallows towards Senegal, our starboard tack takes us South of West, and as the day wears on and the wind increases we are pounding into short sharp water which puckers across the surface of the reefs hiding beneath. The sun hangs ominously a hand's width above the greying horizon and we decide to cut our losses. We execute a swift and nerve wracking jibe (the wind is hitting the high twenties and the water is less than 2 metres beneath us). Just before we lose the light we shelter behind a thin spit of sand which falls away quickly, giving us 4 metres to anchor in. The wind continues to howl and the water slaps our underbelly all night long. By morning everything is quiet. Our only companions are the many egrets who shuffle together across the sand and every now and then stretch out their wings, akwardly, as if to help them dry.
The sailing is pleasant today, with a flat sea and a light wind. We tack out, looking for the buoyed channel below Pointe de Sangomar. This will direct us North, between a large sand bar and the white sandy coast of Senegal, to our next anchorage at Dionouar. We see the buoys but they appear to lie in very peculiar places. It just doesn't feel right as we approach - too shallow to start with, there are two green buoys that are strangely close to eachother and, alarmingly, a red marker lies on its side, awash in the island's surf. With haste we douse the main and fire up the engine. I climb to the first spreaders and see clearly, for the first time, the wide channel that awaits us beyond the sandy spit. Ignore the buoys, keep calm and carry on. Just as we enter the channel the tide turns against us so we anchor for a while. A classically beautiful spot: white sand, turquoise water, no-one around. We had time to relax and explore the beach on foot - lots of jellyfish, some the circumference of dustbin lids, pretty shells and birds everywhere. The tide turned again and, amazingly, we were able to sail back to our first anchorage in Africa. It's from here that I am writing now, with an internet connection in the middle of a small creek. At Delta Niominka, 80 miles South of Dakar, we will wait for our weather window.

Typical!

Yesterday, fully fuelled, watered and provisioned, the Captain and I made our final preparations for passage making: washing the grime of nearly a month in Africa off the sun covers, the mosquito nets and the decks, stowing everything away and, pouring over our charts and pilot guides, planning our passage. Finally, and with much regret, we decide against the Bijagos. We are sailing back to England now, inshallah, which means 3000 nautical miles of mostly upwind work. A detour downwind is the last thing we need. Everything is ready to go, the chart table is clear, the fridge is full of pre-made meals, our oilskins are stiffly awaiting action on their hooks, even our brains have at long last snapped into passage mode. But - guess what? When we woke up this morning we were buffeted by a wind that is decidedly stronger than forecast and from precisely the wrong direction! Another day of waiting I suppose...

Back to Banjul

Banjul's hazy coastline

Bagging a mud oyster sandwich at Oyster Creek

We had a great sail back to Banjul (beating and double-reefed of course). Making it through the maze of fish pens and nets, our keels grazing the shallows, negotiating the bolon on the flooding tide, we arrived at Oyster Creek just as the sun set. The anchorage here was a bit of a shock after ten days of wilderness. Horror of horrors we could see cars, a vast bridge, a generator rumbled somewhere close by, a siren wailed and fishermen buzzed up and down with outboards attached to their pirogues. We were back in civilisation.
It turned out this was not a bad thing and from Oyster Creek we managed to do a lot. We went to the beach, survived the chaos of Serekunda market, re-provisioned (30 tins of sardines, 3 kilos of cheese, 24 eggs) and basked in the airconditionned luxury of Karaiba Shopping Centre. Back home this would just be a bog standard supermarket selling the usual gear but out here it’s the Gucci of food. It even has ice cream (served in plastic drinking cups). What amazes me is that despite the comparative luxury of Karaiba Shopping Centre the prices are actually lower per item than in the local shops. This seems so unfair given that the poorest here would never dream of setting foot in a supermarket (of which there are only a few in the whole of the Gambia). Local shopkeepers cannot make the economies of scale that the supermarkets can and therefore sell less items for more money. Each shop seems to sell exactly the same products too: "beef" of course, tomato paste, french mustard, margerine, mayonnaise, sardines and the most disgusting looking sweets.
It was time for Mum to leave and although a few tears were shed I knew she had had a brilliant time and that after an action-packed fortnight with basic accomodation and sauna-like conditions she’d be looking forward to a bit of blighty’s bracing weather and the pleasure of home comforts.
Our special guest gone we had no more excuses and set to making ourselves ready for the next leg. Exactly what this looked like was under discussion – Bijagos Islands? (120 miles downwind, meaning valuable northing lost) – the Cape Verdes? (Northwest of Banjul meaning valuable Easting lost) - Dakar? (dead into the current northerly). In the meantime we completed the necessary pre-departure tasks: fuel (check), water (check), sardines (check check check), clear out with immigration (check), obtain weather forecast (check). Nothing more to do now than leave and see where the wind takes us.

Onwards up the Gambia

Now the tide is with us as we motor on up-river in search of hippos and baboons. Maman is on board and so far we have not had to put a reef in.
Day 4
It was only a matter of time I suppose. The day after I wrote this we stormed up river beating into choppy water with, you've guessed it, a reef in. But only one - two reefs Ruddle had not quite done the business. The trend in the lower Gambia river seems to be no wind before 10 then lots of wind (on the nose if you're heading up) then no wind come 4 o'clock. The tide tables we have appear to be 6 hours out (not the best characteristic for tide tables) so we spent day one confused and frustrated, motoring into both wind and tide. At times the current was in excess of 3 knots. Not suprisingly we anchored up at that point and amused ourselves by swimming behind the stationary boat into our very own wave machine. At dusk we just made it in through the maze of fish pens to the shallow Sami Creek where we barbequed ladyfish (the only ladyfish in the village) and almost set fire to our mosquito net. In anticipation of the attack by flying insects when we reach fresh water upriver we have made what I think must be the biggest marine mosquito net in the world which covers the entire cockpit from stantion to stantion. So far no mozis but plenty of reassuringly named African Killer Bees (which, I am told are harmless - ?).
Day two allowed us more sail, less engine and a favourable tide. We arrived at the tranquil Mandori Creek on the North bank of the river in good time to enjoy the lovely surroundings: tall mangroves interrupted by saltwater rice paddies, shocking green the colour of limes. We were totally alone but for a tremendous number of birds who, once they realised we were harmless, carried about their business unperturbed. A black and white kingfisher was busy catching supper. A black kite circled above us, interested. A fish eagle, with its white underbelly, flew once over us clasping a slippery morsel in its talons. There were herons, egrets and other birds I am too ignorant to name.
Day three was a brilliant sailing day - actually what am I saying, it was just a morning. Having covered close to 60 miles in the first two days of our river trip, on the third we only managed an embarassing 5 and a half. This was because we called an unexpected stop at the village of Tendaba on the South bank on the offchance they might have fresh water and fuel for us. After going aground under full sail (oops) we wrestled Melvin ashore, Mum perched on the bow jostling for space between a clutch of empty jerricans, leaving Casper onboard making a cheese sandwhich and pretending to be afloat.
What a sweet place Tendaba is! We were greeted by a swarm of children who took turns holding our hands as we wove our way down the dusty red 'street' between goats, chickens and lazy dogs Next to the tidy village, complete with suprisingly long pier and cutesey mosque, is a rustic tourist camp which gave us the warmest welcome and helped us fulfill our needs (bread, petrol, water, cold beer and a swim). Heaven. Chores over (Casper lugging jerrycan after heavy jerrycan back to the boat) we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening ashore, lapping up the relative luxury of the camp. The sun set in a hazy sky just after a pod of river dolphins made a brief appearance.
At 8.30 Casper, concerned about a possible lack of water, made a call to get back to Impulse. Timely this was for now we saw why that pier is so damn long - a huge mudflat lay between the camp and our boat. Halfway between the end of the pier and Impy the oars were coming out of the water thick with mud and Melvin's progress felt everso laboured. Another half an hour at the bar and we would have been thigh deep in mud wading home. I'm not sure Mum would have seen the funny side.
This morning we awoke to morning prayer to find that we were again barely afloat. With the depthsounder at zero we tramlined our way off the mudflat to deeper water. Within 10 metres we had 5 metres under us. We've now motored across to the north bank, and are anchored at the mouth of a small creek waiting for the tide to flood. A jumble of bird song resonates from behind the tall mangrove and a white heron is carefully picking its way across the mudflat. Time for breakfast.
Still Day 4 - we anchored off the Southern tip of Elephant island. The mosquitos are starting to become a nuisance as soon as the light fades - thank goodness for the cockpit net!
Day 5 - the river has narrowed considerably, say 250m across. The mangrove are quite different now - very tall and not so dense, interspersed with something that looks like pampuss grass and could be an edible cereal of some sort. Stopped in Kau-Ur when the tide turned against us. Mum and I walked the 15 minutes into the village past cows with huge horns, goats and donkey carts. It was easy to find the market as it was the main event. We stocked up on veggies and wallowed back as the day reached its heat peak. Back at the river bank, the women were still washing clothes. We bought two parrot fish from a man who'd just hauled up his pirogue for the day and met Maram, the boss lady of the local groundnut factory. After a guided tour and two huge bagfulls of nuts, the tide turn so we lifted the anchor and proceeded upriver. We anchored at the mouth of a small creek. Lots of that pampuss grass, rustling in the wind. The heat is becoming intense now, and persists into the night. You'd think the wind would be a relief but when the harmattan blows it feels like you have your face in front of an open oven door.
On day 6 we motored over a net. A languid looking man sat in a dug out pirogue mid river. We thought nothing of it. As we came abeam of him we saw the tiny polystyrene floats that soon became hooked round the keels. Luckily we lifted the propellors fast enough to avoid any further entanglement. Nothing that a small pair of scissors and a swim couldn’t sort out. The fisherman looked incredibly melancholic and, though we were partly annoyed that he’d made no attempt to indicate the presence of his net to us, gave him something to cover his costs. By the look on his face the 200d we offered him (approx 5 pounds) represented a small fortune, probably enough to finance his retirement and an annual holiday on the Costa del Sol. Onwards. By now the vegetation flanking the river is quite different to that further down river: palms, rice, enormous mahogany trees alongside the usual leafless baobabs. The water is fresh here and I can almost here those atlantic barnacles popping off our hulls in disgust.
At Baboon Islands the heat is suffocating and the tsetse flies a real nuisance. The visual feast however is worth the discomfort as we are surrounded by primitive African jungle which is perfectly mirrored by the glassy river. The trees are alive with life : baboons, vervet and colobus monkeys, chimps and parrots, green and yellow. At low tide we watch a group of hippos bathing. One stands guard, teletubby ears and eyes just visible above the surface of the river. The rest take turns flinging their vast heads back, spraying water everywhere, revealing a huge pink expanse of mouth and emitting an incredibly loud sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. It is really quite magic. Everynow and then, rather disconcertingly, the centurion disappears leaving a massive ripple behind him and a nervous look on our faces. We are careful to maintain a respectful distance but how can we be sure what a hippo considers to be respectful? We must have got it right because all is well. The light is fading so we move on and anchor off the Western end of the islands, just behond a giany mahogany tree in which a cheeky group of chimps are attempting to hide. We spend the sweltering evening listening to the hippos cracking jokes with eachother. Arf arf arf.
There are three reasons we decided not to continue upriver after Baboon Islands. Firstly, the heat was excruciating and the idea of spending any more time in it especially in a dusty place like Georgetown was decidedly unappealing. Secondly, we were coming under pressure given that Mum had to be on a plane from Banjul in a week’s time. Thirdly, our main purpose of coming up the Gambia was to see the hippos and this desire had been satisfied. So, early on day 7 we turned back with the outgoing tide and motored to the busy village of Kuntaur. From here we walked to the ancient buriel stones at Wassu. Such sites are found across the Gambia and Northern Senegal and date back to about 400 ad. In Kuntaur we bought a few more provisions including "beef" which is actually halal chicken luncheon meat. The ex vegan in me could not allow myself to touch the stuff and when I asked Val how it tasted she said "pink". I’m not sure it had ever seen a real chicken.
The next few days is a blur of happy times sailing down river, anchoring as the hazy sun merged with the treetops and not so happily waking up to discover we were aground again. We stopped once more at Tendaba to fill up with water and luxuriate in the tiny pool. We were treated to a visit of the nursery school (I am sure those little ones will eventually grow into those giant desks) where the children, in their scappy pink and blue uniforms danced and sang for us. I can’t believe that in such a poor country parents have to pay for their childrens’ education.
Our last anchorage on the Gambia was perhaps the most beautiful. Tabiere Creek is an isolated spot with just a few fishermen about. The shallows to the West extend a long way attracting a large number of pelicans and flamingos. How beautiful these salmon pink birds are, with their curved beaks and impossibly long legs. They took turns preening themselves and flapping their wings, revealing a bright red and black underside that contrasted brilliantly the soft colour of the rest of their body. After our flamingo safari in Melvin we feasted on a Captain fish brought to us by a croacky fisherman who looked as if he were at least a hundred.

The river Saloum to the river Gambia

The winding Saloum, flanked by tight growing mangrove and home to herons, stalks and pelicans, lies between Senegal's coastal capital Dakar and, further South, the Gambia's port town Banjul. Along with its sister rivers the Diomboss and the Bandiala, the Saloum re-introduced us gently to Africa and, perhaps more importantly, educated us in the art of sailing through shallow waterways, unmarked of course, and often subject to strong undertows. On day one we nearly had heart failure when our speed exceeded our depth but as the week progressed this became a banal occurence. Often our speed was 4 times the depth under our keel and on one occasion 8 times (my mouth was a litte dry). In no time at all we began to go aground happily and were quite content to motor on with the echosounder blinking 0.0 like two startled eyes, our keel shoes drawing patterns in the soft squidgy mud like toes in the sand.
The Saloum was useful training because now we are motoring up the river Gambia itself, heading East into the predominant wind and, it would seem again, against the tide. The Gambia appears to defy the world's best tide tables, having a mind of its own, surging whenever it feels like it and in either direction. The river at this point (some 40 miles inland) is still 5 miles wide so that the opposite bank is often not visible. When it is, it is hazy with heat. Today it is a little cooler (it's quarter past nine and 25 degrees) but when we first arrived in the Gambia it was blazing. Sailing into Banjul from Senegal, strangely through a cloud of dragonflies, the sun was unforgiving. Going ashore, I was relieved to hear the locals complaining it was too hot - surely it could not always be this uncomfortable? Our main task was to 'make ourselves legal' - we trapsed around the sizzling and dusty Banjul streets trying to find immigration, customs, the port authority, a Visa bank machine. We had a map but it bore little resemblance to the geographical reality of this chaotic city. No street signs. People were very happy to help us but frequently gave us wooly, incorrect or contradictory directions. Eventually we found the offices we were after. We had been forwarned by a Swiss boat that immigration had made them pay 2000 dalasi for their visas (only 50 pounds to us but a good month's salary to them) and an additional 500d as 'danger money' for visiting the boat (many Gambians cannot swim). So we entered the sticky immigration office with some trepidation. All went well however and we were granted a 28 day stay in the Gambia in return for an Ikea tupperware and a packet of teabags. Bargain. Customs went swimmingly (Casper looked a little uncomfortable when asked "who is the master?" and we settled for the answer "it depends"). The port authority big man was decidedly uninterested in us, instructing a young man who was busy browsing the net for "the world's hottest girls" (apparently all blond) to sell us a river permit (a cost of 20 pounds). By midday we were legal and set off to find an international phone booth and an African lunch.
From Banjul we went to Lamin, a tranquil creek in the mangrove and a hot 15 minute walk to the messy, sprawling but friendly village of the same name. Here we bought the friendship of a family: Alex, David, Sophie and their siblings helped us make the necessary preparations for the arrival of a special guest - my Mum. Without their help, provisioning (food, drink, water, petrol) would have been extremely tiresome and difficult. The Gambia is a poor country that seemingly produces little itself. It relies heavily on tourism and therefore, as an obvious tourist (being white not because I wear socks and sandals), we are easy targets for income generation. Yes, you get hassled here but in no way aggressively so. Nevertheless you must feel robust to deal with the constant attention. When you see how little the country lives on, it is easy to understand that anyone would do the same in their position. The Gambia survives on imported goods, foreign aid and the presence of comparatively wealthy tourists, the majority of whom are from the UK.
Alex drove us around in his clapped out car (a prize posession), filled up daily with a litre or so of low octane fuel, the radiator leaking and the accelorator glitching. He took us to find vegetables (easy enough), beer (a bit more tricky) and cheese (difficult). We had to go to the main tourist area Serekunda for this. The village shops are basic affairs all selling more or less the same thing: powdered milk, mayonaise, eggs (even these are imported), bread, oil. Vegetables are grown on each family compound and so aren't for sale locally.
Poor Africa, we kept on saying. It has so little. What little it has doesn't work very well so a lot of time has to be spent fixing things to stay in the same place rather than being able to move forwards. Things are expensive if they are not produced here. Take fuel - it is roughly the same price as in Europe but each low octane litre is burned up faster by crappy engines in old cars. And then you might be had filling up with fuel, like Alex did, the pump attendant giving him a third less for his money. Perhaps he thought he'd get away with it with us two cash cows chewing the cud in the back.
The official language in the Gambia (which used to be British and still seems proud of this past connection) is English, with indigenous languages being Wolof and Mandinka. For the first two days in Lamin I thought that Wolof for hello was "toubaminty". But only the children seemed to greet us this way. I then witnessed some very white people throwing sweets out of their taxi window presumably meant for the children scrabbling around in a cloud of dust to retrieve them, excitedly screaming "toubaminty". The penny dropped and I asked Alex just to be sure. Toubab means white person in Wolof and minty is pidgin for sweets. It breaks my heart to see these children doing this. The Gambia is living off Europe's cast-offs and its children learn fast to beg Westeners for treats.

We're still here!

Dear all - we are safe and still in the Gambia. Leaving tomorrow for the Bijagos islands of Guinea Bissau (100 odd miles SW of here). Plan to spend a week there then go North to the Cape Verdes (about a 5 day sail). Am hopeful that getting online there will be easier - it's harder here than getting an all over tan in a Cornish winter. Love to you all x k8 n Casper