Lamin and the Bottle Tops

I consider every visit to The Gambia and West Africa to be a learning experience.

In fact, every visit is jam-packed full of learning experiences.

Sometimes, the learning is deliberate.

And sometimes the learning is entirely accidental.

Sometimes, I learn something really quickly.

And sometimes, the learning takes many years…many years before I have a sudden revelation; a magical moment when the little light comes on inside my head and I think to myself, “Oh!!! That explains why that thing happened seven years ago.”

Or however many years it’s actually taken before my brain has finally decided to see the value in something odd…or unexplainable…or something I really should have considered asking about at the time.

This is one of those times.

Here we go.

Confession time.

For several years, I threw beer bottle tops at Lamin Barrow.

There. I’ve said it.

I threw beer bottle tops at Lamin Barrow.

I’m going to interrupt myself right now because many of you will already have seen the problem with the above sentence. It’s now screamingly obvious to me.

But, at the time, because of my ignorance, I thought it was quite a funny thing to do.

I threw beer bottle tops at Lamin Barrow.

Not constantly.

That would have been strange.

But often enough that it became something of a tradition whenever we found ourselves sitting outside a bar together.

I would remove the bottle top from my Julbrew, wait until Lamin wasn’t looking and flick it in his general direction.

Lamin did not appear to enjoy this game quite as much as I did.

“Bro! No!” he would say, slightly more indignantly than I had anticipated.

Nevertheless, I would do it again.

Peter playfully flicks a Julbrew bottle top at Lamin Barrow outside a Gambian bar as goats and chickens look on in this illustration from Travels With Lamin.

“Bro! Stop it!” Lamin would cry.

And so I would.

I’d stop throwing bottle tops…at least, until the next time.

But I never quite understood why Lamin was so bothered about it.

After a few years, I eventually stopped doing it.

The novelty had worn off.

And there were much funnier ways to tease Lamin…like hiding his baseball cap in the beer cooler behind a bar, for example.

But that’s another story.

There have been many visits to restaurants and bars over the years.

Especially during my earlier visits when I usually travelled as part of a larger group.

As previously mentioned, my first visit and a couple of subsequent visits were with Newman University Birmingham. On a couple of other occasions, I travelled as part of groups organised by B&C Educational – a business run by the previously mentioned Doctor Des and Pam who, before starting the business with Doctor Des, was also a lecturer at Newman University Birmingham.

Naturally, when you travel in groups like this, a significant portion of your time ends up revolving around one very important question:

Where are we going to eat?

Gambian restaurants and cafés are always varied and never anything less than interesting.

Traditional Gambian dishes are usually available and, if you’ve never visited The Gambia, there are three which you’ll encounter again and again.

The first is domoda, a rich peanut stew which I’ve already mentioned in an earlier chapter and which has become my standard first-night meal whenever I return to The Gambia. It immediately makes me feel as though I’m home.

The second is benachin, often described as “one-pot rice”. Rice, vegetables, spices and either meat or fish are all cooked together in a single large pot to create something far more delicious than that description makes it sound.

The third is yassa, a wonderfully tangy dish made with onions, lemon and mustard, usually served with chicken and rice.

All three are excellent.

Tourists with a more cautious palate need not panic either.

The usual more traditional, international dishes can generally be found: pizza, lasagne, omelettes, curries and, if you’re particularly lucky, chips with a ‘bugger’.

English spelling mistakes in West African menus are a regular occurrence and are often highly amusing.

Whilst being proud to offer a particularly good ‘bugger’, I remain unsure whether this particular establishment specialised in hamburgers or personal insults…or something else.

I never did find out.

A hand-painted restaurant sign in The Gambia advertising a hamburger with the word 'Bugger' misspelled beneath it.

However, on one particular evening at a restaurant called Dominos on Kombo Beach, there wasn’t quite enough of anything.

Not enough domoda.

Not enough benachin.

Not enough yassa.

Certainly no promise of a ‘bugger’.

And, as events unfolded, many of us were to remain hungry for far longer than expected.

It was my second visit to The Gambia in 2012. I was with a group of teachers put together by Pam and Doctor Des of B&C Educational. We’d come right at the end of the tourist season. In fact, I remember that, on the flight back to England – which happened to be the final flight of the 2011–2012 tourist season – the aircraft was only partially full, allowing some of us the rare luxury of stretching out across two or even three seats.

Because it was the end of the season, many restaurants were understandably reluctant to order large amounts of fresh food, knowing full well that, once the tourists disappeared, there would be very few customers left to buy it.

This proved to be the case with Dominos.

Dominos had been used on previous visits by Newman University Birmingham and was well known to B&C Educational as a reliable restaurant capable of feeding large groups…provided, of course, that they knew in advance.

And they did.

Earlier that day, a phone call had been made explaining that a group of around ten teachers, together with local tourist guides and taxi drivers, would be arriving that evening expecting to be fed.

Dominos assured us everything would be ready.

As it turned out, their definition of “ready” didn’t quite align with ours.

We all settled down, admired the night-time sea view and placed our orders.

There was an impressive variety of food available.

Pizzas…after all, the restaurant was called Dominos.

Fish and chips.

Local dishes.

The sort of collection of meals that would normally arrive gradually over the course of half an hour.

Perhaps an hour, at a push.

This was West Africa, after all.

On this occasion, however, half an hour came and went.

Then another.

Eventually, the first few meals began to emerge from the kitchen.

This should have been reassuring.

Instead, it raised further questions.

Why had only three meals appeared?

And where was everybody else’s?

It was around this point that Keith, a friend of mine and Head Teacher from a school in Dudley, took it upon himself to become our unofficial restaurant correspondent.

Every so often he would slip away and take a sneaky peek into the kitchen before returning to deliver another update.

“There’s a lot of shouting in there.”

A little later he returned.

“They’re arguing.”

Another ten minutes passed.

“I think they’ve run out of food.”

The reports became increasingly dramatic.

By now, we were all far more interested in Keith’s kitchen briefings than we were in our own empty plates.

Eventually the full story emerged.

Dominos hadn’t simply underestimated how much food our group would require.

They had underestimated it spectacularly.

However, at various points throughout the evening, fresh supplies would somehow mysteriously appear in the restaurant.

Whether somebody was dispatched to the local market, another restaurant or a kindly neighbour’s kitchen, I have absolutely no idea.

Food simply continued to materialise in small batches as though the restaurant had entered into some highly secret military operation, with supplies apparently being parachuted in under cover of darkness.

Throughout all of this, I happened to be sitting next to a young taxi driver called Jarrow.

Every time a waiter emerged carrying another plate, Jarrow would look up with renewed optimism.

“This one might be mine,” he was probably thinking, hopefully.

It never was.

Another pizza would rush past.

A plate of fish and chips would be transported onto another table.

Somebody else’s benachin would arrive.

Jarrow would smile politely…

…and resume waiting.

As the evening wore on, I found myself becoming increasingly invested in Jarrow’s dinner.

I’d long since stopped wondering when my own food would arrive.

I simply wanted Jarrow to eat.

By now, every fresh plate emerging from the kitchen felt like another cruel twist in a story whose ending I was becoming increasingly desperate to know.

“Surely this one,” I found myself thinking.

It wasn’t.

By this stage I was seriously considering sharing my meal with him…assuming, of course, that mine ever arrived.

Peter, Lamin and the hungry taxi driver Jarrow wait for their meals outside Dominos Restaurant on Kombo Beach while chaos unfolds in the kitchen and djembe drummers perform nearby.

Meanwhile, down on the beach, a group of djembe drummers had begun playing.

For quite some time they enthusiastically provided a soundtrack to our evening, no doubt hoping that a large group of tourists enjoying dinner would eventually reward them with a few tips.

Unfortunately, we were all completely preoccupied by the unfolding culinary crisis.

Eventually, having received little more than polite smiles and the occasional distracted glance, they packed up their drums and wandered off into the darkness.

I suspect they concluded that we were the least appreciative audience they had ever performed for.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Everyone else was still focused on the unfolding kitchen catastrophe.

I was simply wondering whether Jarrow was ever going to get his dinner.

I’ve come across Jarrow a couple of times since that fateful evening at Dominos.

On both occasions, he’s been the subject of Lamin Barrow’s usual game of,

“Bro! Who is this person?”

Lamin is always looking for an opportunity to test my memory of people I met once, briefly, for ten seconds, over fifteen years ago.

For reasons known only to himself, he seems to find this enormously entertaining.

Normally, I fail.

However, on both of these occasions, I remembered Jarrow immediately.

Not because he’d been my taxi driver.

Not because we’d spent hours chatting.

But because, in my mind, he’ll always be the young man who spent an entire evening patiently waiting for a meal that refused to arrive.

I’m pleased to report that he did eventually get his dinner.

By then, I felt he’d well and truly earned it.

It just took rather longer than either of us had anticipated.

Which brings me quite neatly back to bottle tops.

There was lots of spare time to fill on this particular evening…plenty of time for me to throw a few Julbrew bottle tops at Lamin…and for him to protest in that same slightly more indignant than anticipated manner.

“Bro! Please! Stop!”

Looking back, I probably should have realised he had a rather good reason.

And so, now, it’s time to jump forwards in time seven years…

To April 2019, to be precise.

I was in The Gambia with Damon – a long time teacher friend of mine – and Nibbo – a friend of Damon’s.

Damon had been to The Gambia several times before, but this was Nibbo’s first visit.

We’d been exploring Banjul Market.

Banjul Market is – as is typical in The Gambia – one of those places which appears, at first glance, to have absolutely no system whatsoever.

And then, after a while, you begin to realise that it does have a system.

It’s just not your system.

Narrow alleyways weave between hundreds of tiny stalls selling everything from fresh vegetables and colourful fabrics to mobile phones, football shirts, buckets, spices, shoes, pots, pans and objects whose purpose remains a complete mystery to me.

The air is filled with the sound of traders chatting, radios playing, goats braying, chickens clucking, people laughing and frequent enthusiastic invitations to come and inspect merchandise you had absolutely no intention of buying until about five seconds earlier.

It’s noisy.

It’s busy.

It’s gloriously chaotic.

And somehow, despite appearances, everybody seems to know exactly where everything is.

Except me.

Fortunately, that’s one of the reasons I usually travel with Lamin.

As is customary upon a visit to Banjul Market, we’d been to see Haddy – Lamin’s sister – who runs a marvellously colourful and cluttered clothing stall there. Haddy has been very kind to me over the years and I have several very loud Gambian shirts in my wardrobe which are gifts from her.

In the corner of the market, tucked away amongst the maze of stalls and bustling shoppers, sat a little café – a tiny oasis of plastic chairs, cold drinks and the occasional weary-looking tourist seeking solace from a bewildering exploration of the wonderfully Escher-like maze of narrow passageways nearby.

One of the café’s charming little rituals took place before anybody even thought about sitting down. The proprietor would carefully inspect and test each plastic chair, just to make sure it wasn’t about to choose that particular moment to end its useful working life.

In The Gambia, plastic chairs have a habit of leading surprisingly adventurous lives. They’ve often spent years outside in the relentless West African sun, been repaired several times and are expected to carry on regardless.

The proprietor’s scrupulous inspection therefore seemed entirely appropriate.

He would rock the chair gently from side to side, press firmly down on the seat and then, perhaps, give it a little shake to dislodge any dust before presenting it to you with all the quiet ceremony of a man handing over the Crown Jewels.

Only then came the final part of the ceremony: the presentation of the menus. More often than not, these were battered old laminated A4 pages which had, perhaps, managed to survive longer than the plastic chairs upon which we were now perched.

On this occasion, however, the menus weren’t required.

Nibbo, Damon and I would each have a bottle of Julbrew.

“Standard!” as Damon would frequently proclaim.

Sometime soon, I’ll come back to Julbrew – The Gambia’s own brewed beer (sadly, not brewed any more). There’s more to tell about this wonderfully refreshing West African alcoholic beverage.

A bottle of Julbrew beer and a glass beside the Atlantic Ocean on the coast of The Gambia.

Lamin, because he’s a respectful practising Muslim, would have a non-alcoholic drink.

A Coke.

Or a fruit juice.

Perhaps a Malta.

Occasionally, even a milkshake.

Oh…

I’ve just realised.

There’s a clue right there to the whole bottle top situation.

I’m sure it’s glaringly obvious to you…

As, in hindsight, it really should have been to me when I threw that very first beer bottle top all those years ago.

And so we sat.

And we drank.

And we chatted.

Sheltering beneath a battered, sun-bleached Coca-Cola parasol whilst soaking up the hectic, eclectic, frenetic, glorious muddle of a West African market.

Delightfully, the plastic chairs were comfortably bearing the burden of three dusty, sweaty Englishmen…

…and Lamin Barrow.

Life couldn’t really have been much better.

A bottle of Julbrew beer spills over Lamin Barrow's jeans in a café at Banjul Market as Peter, Damon and Nibbo react in shock in this Travels With Lamin illustration.

And then it happened.

Nibbo’s elbow caught his bottle of Julbrew.

It toppled over.

Its contents poured across the table…

…and straight onto Lamin’s left leg.

Within seconds his jeans were soaked.

Lamin sprang to his feet.

His plastic chair toppled backwards.

“Quick! We need to wipe this off me!”

There was genuine panic in his voice.

Once again, this seemed like a slight overreaction.

Not just to me.

To Damon and Nibbo as well.

Then Lamin explained.

As a practising Muslim, the Koran – the Muslim Holy Book – taught him that coming into contact with alcohol was something to be avoided. He told us that, if alcohol remained on his skin or clothing, Allah – the Arabic word for God – would not accept his prayers for twenty four hours. If a Muslim consumed alcohol, then his or her prayers would not be heard for up to forty days.

Lamin has since explained that, in other parts of the Muslim world, these periods may be interpreted differently.

Nevertheless, his reaction suddenly made perfect sense.

Nibbo was mortified.

Fortunately, inspiration arrived almost as quickly as the beer had.

We were sitting in the middle of one of the biggest markets in The Gambia.

Surrounded by clothes.

Within seconds, Nibbo had offered to buy Lamin a new pair of jeans.

Money changed hands.

Lamin disappeared into the wonderfully Escher-like maze…

…and a few minutes later returned wearing a brand-new pair of jeans.

And, at exactly the same moment…

…I finally understood the bottle tops.