Lamin and the Palm Wine

Lamin Barrow had always refused to get any palm wine for me.

Which is why, in January 2025, I found myself standing by a hot, empty road near the Senegal–Gambia border, calmly observing a bright white, explosively alcoholic geyser shooting into the sky as though it had just been granted clearance for take-off.

It felt, in that moment, like an appropriate time to acknowledge a simple and inescapable truth.

Lamin Barrow was always right.

In the early days of the charity Building Futures in The Gambia, when BFiG Busumbala Nursery School was little more than piles of sand, bags of concrete, hope, good intentions, and the occasional outbreak of confusion, there had simply been too many voices. Too many people with views on how the charity should be run, how the school should be built, and — perhaps most importantly of all in their eyes — how much money should be spent.

These days, things are much more streamlined, which is just as well.

That, however, is another story.

Back then, through all the noise, the posturing, the unsolicited expertise and the occasionally dubious motives, I would always listen out for Lamin’s views and opinions. His thoughts were never delivered loudly. They didn’t come wrapped in ego. But they were always full of quiet wisdom and real experience.

Lamin’s problem was that he “knew his place”.

Or at least, he thought he did.

In his mind, he was merely a taxi driver, and therefore not someone with the right to impose his views on other people — even when those other people were talking complete nonsense. In hindsight, I rather wish he had spoken up more. In more recent situations, I have tried to drum into him the fact that his wisdom and knowledge of all things Gambian means that he absolutely knows what he is talking about — even when confronted by small-minded, petty government employees who have somehow also managed to become village elders and members of the Village Development Committee.

As it turned out, Lamin had already had hands-on experience of managing building projects long before the school really got going. But because he isn’t boastful, and because he “knows his place”, he had never felt the need to tell anyone this. Once I found out, however, it seemed entirely obvious that he should be the one leading on the construction of BFiG Busumbala Nursery School.

And so he does.

And, by Jiminy, since he has taken over management of the Gambian side of the project and charity, it has flown.

More of that another time.

Where was I?

Ah yes…

Palm wine.

One of those wonderfully simple, slightly mysterious West African creations that manages to be both entirely natural and faintly suspicious at the same time.

Out here, it doesn’t arrive in a neatly labelled bottle with tasting notes on the back and a screw cap designed by a marketing team. No, palm wine begins life high up in palm trees, where a skilled tapper climbs the trunk with the sort of casual confidence that would have most of us halfway through writing our will before we’d even left the ground.

A tapper at Makasutu in The Gambia climbs a West African palm tree to collect palm wine which collects in plastic bottles tied on with string.

Near the crown of the tree, the sap is coaxed out — either by cutting the flower stem or tapping into the trunk — and then collected in a container, often something gloriously improvised like a repurposed plastic bottle tied on with rope.

Gravity does the rest.

Slowly.

Patiently.

And then… the magic begins.

Because the moment that sap is exposed to the warm West African air, it begins to ferment.

Naturally.

Immediately.

By the time it reaches the ground, it has already started its transformation from innocent, milky-sweet liquid into something with a gentle but noticeable kick. Fresh palm wine is surprisingly mild — slightly sweet, a bit cloudy, and deceptively easy to drink. But leave it a few hours, or overnight if you are feeling reckless, and it develops a sharper, more sour edge, along with an increasingly persuasive alcoholic content.

In short, it is a drink with a personality that evolves rather quickly.

Which is perhaps why Lamin has always regarded it with the kind of suspicion normally reserved for second-hand car salesmen or overly enthusiastic tour guides.

As a West African Muslim — calm, tolerant, peaceful and, on matters of alcohol, entirely unbending — Lamin’s view on drink was, quite correctly, an absolute and very firm:

“No.”

So his refusal to let me indulge in this particular West African delicacy was, in fairness, understandable.

“It is too strong for you. You are too old!” he would insist.

“But Lamin, it’ll be fine. I can cope. Honestly. I have prior experience with alcohol. I should really tell you about my borderline addiction to rum.”

“No!”

And that was that.

This went on for years.

The problem is that if someone says “No!” to me, I tend to take it not as a final answer, but as the start of a challenge. I had long threatened to get palm wine from another source. I was resolute. I was determined. I was absolutely going to get my own way.

What could possibly go wrong?

THE FIRST THING THAT WENT WRONG

Because Lamin refused to supply me with palm wine, I decided to find an alternative source.

My source was not from The Gambia.

He was a Senegalese man who lived in Senegal.

And his name was Elhadji Diop.

This was exciting.

Obtaining palm wine from a secret source in a completely different country gave the whole enterprise a thrilling air of low-level international intrigue. It felt as though I were involved in some kind of secretive subterfuge, except with rather lower stakes and a much greater likelihood of personal embarrassment.

I had met Elhadji when I first visited Abéné village in the Casamance region of Senegal in 2024. He owned the accommodation where Lamin and I stayed.

Ah, Abéné…

There are places in West Africa that seem to exist slightly outside of time.

Abéné is one of them.

Tucked away in the Casamance region of southern Senegal, it is the kind of place you don’t simply visit so much as drift into. A small coastal village where the Atlantic rolls in with a steady, hypnotic rhythm, and the days unfold at such an unhurried pace that you begin to suspect clocks are viewed there as faintly passive aggressive. It is, in every possible sense, the exact opposite of Dakar.

And, perhaps not coincidentally, teranga is very much alive and well there.

But Abéné is not merely a quiet coastal retreat.

It is also, quietly and without fuss, one of the beating hearts of the West African drumming community.

Throughout the year, drummers, dancers and musicians from across the region — and increasingly from across the world — find their way there. Not for spectacle. Not for performance. But for something more fundamental. Connection. Learning. Rhythm. You hear it long before you see it — the steady, layered pulse of djembes echoing through the trees, drifting across the beach, and weaving through the village like a second language.

Then, towards the end of the year, things shift.

From December, through New Year’s Eve and into January, Abéné hosts its annual festival — a vibrant, joyful gathering of music, dance and cultural celebration. What is normally a calm and gently rhythmic village becomes something much more energetic. Fires are lit. Circles form. Drumming intensifies. Nights stretch longer. And people from all over the world come together to play, to dance, to learn and to lose themselves, just a little, in the rhythm of it all.

It is, quite simply, one of those places where you arrive thinking you’ll stay for a few days…

…and then find yourself quietly rearranging your plans.

I have friends in Abéné.

My drumming friend Estelle lives there for three to five months every year. Estelle and I are both part of the dunun section — the engine room, as I like to call it — of the West African drumming group Drums Aloud, which I attend every week. For the rest of the year she lives in Leamington Spa, where she spends her time, alongside drumming and the usual life shenanigans, longing for her return to the Casamance region of Senegal and to Abéné village.

My djembe teacher also lives in Abéné.

His name is Malo Sonko, and he is — although he would dispute this himself — a master drummer.

He leads the group Dimbaya — the Mandinka word for family — and has drummed all his life. Djembe. Serouba. Dununba. The whole intricate and gloriously interlocking language of West African percussion. For part of the year he also lives in England, where he teaches, leads drumming workshops, and appears at festivals such as Djemboree and World Wide Drum Camp.

Every time I see Malo, he wears a gentle smile that is both warm and, I suspect, ever so slightly mocking.

I have mentioned this to him on several occasions.

That he appears to be quietly mocking me.

He insists that he is simply pleased to see me, and that I make him laugh.

I remain unsure whether this is reassuring or not.

Nevertheless, since my post-Covid return to West Africa in 2024, I have gone to Abéné each year to visit Estelle and Malo.

Elhadji’s accommodation is very pleasant.

It is one of those wonderfully understated places that doesn’t try too hard, and doesn’t need to. A simple, low-rise compound nestled among palm trees and shade, with sandy ground underfoot and the quiet hum of village life drifting lazily through the air. The open courtyard invites you to slow down and do very little at all — which, in Abéné, is entirely the point. It isn’t luxurious or polished, but it is calm, welcoming and very real — and, importantly, it is there for anyone who feels themselves drawn to the village. Contact me if you’d like to stay there.

Elhadji Diop's holiday accommodation in Abéné in Senegal.

Inside, there are spacious bedrooms with ensuite sinks and toilets.

There is a living room and a TV.

There is water.

Inside Elhadji Diop's accommodation in Abéné in Senegal

There is even a swimming pool in the grounds.

Although the swimming pool is, rather sadly, bereft of water — at least it has been every time I have visited, which does rather reduce its usefulness unless one is especially interested in empty concrete.

An English man lying spreadeagled on his back at the bottom of an empty swimming pool in Abéné Village in Senegal.

There is also a kitchen.

And, very importantly…

in the kitchen…

there is a fridge.

On arrival at the accommodation, while Lamin was parking up his taxi, I immediately entered Elhadji’s expecting to meet him as arranged.

There is an external door which leads into the kitchen and then into the living area. Because it is the polite thing to do when entering someone’s residence in West Africa, I walked through the door, stood on the mat, and removed my trainers. I then walked, shoeless but still wearing socks, into the kitchen.

I stood there and looked around.

Unfortunately, Elhadji was not there yet.

Immediately, my thoughts turned to the palm wine. Before the trip, I’d spoken to Estelle to arrange the accommodation with Elhadji and—knowing just how accommodating he is—I’d asked her to see if he might also be able to source some palm wine for me.

And so, as I stood in Elhadji’s kitchen, my need to sate my slightly suspect desire for this wondrous and mysterious West African alcoholic delight kicked in big time.

I gazed around the kitchen. Where would Elhadji store my palm wine?

The fridge.

Of course.

I took a step toward it, grabbed the door handle, opened it and peered hopefully within to see if the palm wine was there.

Oh, joy! It was.

It was in an old plastic water bottle and it nestled oh so shyly and temptingly among other plastic bottles of real water.

Woohoo.

At last.

It was like discovering gold bullion.

I could swear that, for the briefest moment, I heard a heavenly chorus of angels singing from on high.

I looked at the bottle of palm wine, lying there seductively on its side.

I felt it calling to me.

“Come on,” it seemed to say. “Try me. TASTE ME.”

Lamin was still outside doing Lamin things.

Elhadji had not yet arrived.

The bottle of palm wine looked at me as if daring me to taste its forbidden delights.

Why not? I thought to myself, after the briefest possible moment of considering whether I had time to indulge.

I have already discussed the merits of West African hospitality.

Of teranga.

I was being invited to share something delightful.

It would, frankly, have been rude not to.

So, I reached into the frosty white compartment and gently — very gently — took hold of the bottle of palm wine and pulled it slowly and delicately out of its chilly resting place.

I held it in my hands, gazing at it as if I were Charlie first laying eyes on a Golden Ticket.

It was refreshingly cool.

Drops of condensation rested on the bottle like tiny shining diamonds.

I placed it against my cheek and a little shiver of delight ran down my spine.

Unusually, however, the plastic bottle felt very firm.

There was no give in it at all.

It was almost like holding a frozen brick.

But the palm wine wasn’t frozen. It was still fermenting. I could see bubbles moving around inside the bottle as I shifted it in my slightly nervous hands.

I should have paid attention to this.

I attempted to stand the bottle on a nearby kitchen surface so that I could find a glass. However, even more unusually, the bottom of the bottle was bulging — almost curved.

It wouldn’t stand up.

I really, really should have paid attention to this.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I started to loosen the lid.

It was tight.

Far too tight.

I gripped it firmly between my fingers and thumb and twisted.

There was a click as the lid suddenly released.

I gave it another half turn.

And immediately the palm wine exploded.

It shot out in all directions horizontally from the top of the bottle as though, after years of confinement, it had suddenly decided to make a desperate bid for freedom.

It sprayed over me.

Over my shirt.

Across the floor.

Over the cupboard doors.

The fridge.

At that moment, when everything seemed to fall into slow motion, it felt as if the palm wine had managed to cover the entire kitchen.

Without thinking, I instinctively twisted the lid back the other way and closed the bottle.

Then I shoved it hastily back into its place in the fridge and slammed the fridge door shut.

Silence.

I took a breath.

And looked around.

There seemed to be a shiny patina of sweet, sticky palm wine over every available surface.

What, exactly, was I supposed to do now?

Lamin was outside.

Elhadji would be arriving at any moment.

And, as is generally required when entering a West African residence, they would both remove their sandals and walk through the door into the kitchen barefoot.

This was a problem.

A very real problem.

Allah (God in Islam), as I understand it, takes a decidedly dim view of Muslims drinking alcohol, and so it is forbidden. He is also less than delighted if they accidentally get alcohol on their bare skin. If this happens, he may refuse to listen to their prayers for the day. I learned this on another occasion, which I shall describe at some point in the future.

So Lamin and Elhadji were about to walk barefoot into a kitchen covered, however accidentally, in an alcoholic beverage.

I needed to do something.

Quickly.

I looked around desperately for a tea towel or cloth of some kind.

Nothing.

This was becoming serious.

I had carried my backpack into the kitchen. Inside it were some clothes I had brought for the short stay. So I opened it, reached in, grabbed a blue short-sleeved shirt, and began frantically mopping every surface around me.

I have no idea how long this took.

Time had become elastic.

But I know I stopped when I heard footsteps.

At that point I was reasonably sure that I had wiped every nearby surface.

I shoved the now sticky, palm-wine-soaked shirt back into my bag and turned towards the door with what I hoped was a pleasant, relaxed smile.

It was Elhadji.

And while he removed his sandals, stepped onto the mat, and then onto the bare — and now suspiciously clean and unusually undusty — floor, we exchanged the usual West African greetings.

All was well.

Once again, the world had righted itself.

What could possibly go wrong now?

THE SECOND THING THAT WENT WRONG

We stayed in Abéné for three days and two nights.

I may, at some point in the future, recount the events of that visit in more detail. But not now.

Right now, we are concerned with palm wine.

On entering the kitchen — after all the usual greetings, handshakes, inquiries about family members I have never met, and general exchanges of goodwill — Elhadji opened the fridge and began to explain its contents with the seriousness of a man revealing state secrets.

Top shelf: clean bottled water. This was for Lamin and me.

Second shelf: local water. Also bottled. But, crucially, not for me. This distinction was made very clear.

This important detail, as it turned out, did not properly register in my mind. But that is a story for another time.

And then, on the third shelf…

…the prize.

The bottle of palm wine.

My bottle of palm wine.

I did what any reasonable person would do in such circumstances.

I feigned pleasant surprise.

As though the previous fifteen minutes of panicked, shirt-based alcohol mopping had not happened at all.

I expressed my sincere gratitude to Elhadji for sourcing it for me and agreed to settle up when we paid the final bill on departure.

And then, for the next few days, I did what one does in Abéné.

I visited Estelle and Malo.

I enjoyed the rhythm, the beach, the atmosphere.

I soaked up West African teranga.

I even went to a drumming festival.

Palm wine in an old plastic water bottle - sourced in Senegal in West Africa.

At some point — I genuinely cannot remember exactly when — I sampled the palm wine.

And here is the disappointing truth.

It was… underwhelming.

Slightly sour.

A bit smelly.

And not, in any meaningful sense, “worth the wait”.

All those years of anticipation had built it into something mythical. Something legendary. Something that, in reality, it simply wasn’t.

I suspect it might have been more enjoyable had I been drinking it properly — on the beach, in good company, with laughter and conversation.

Instead, I found myself taking a slightly furtive swig in my room like a mildly guilty schoolboy experimenting with something he had been explicitly told not to touch.

Perhaps, in the future, I will try again.

Under better circumstances.

Nevertheless, disappointing or not, I placed the bottle in the back of Lamin’s taxi for the return journey to The Gambia.

And so, with our time in Abéné at an end, we set off north.

But this time, we were not alone.

As a favour to a friend of Estelle’s, I had agreed to transport some items from England into The Gambia and pass them on to a young lady called Mariama.

Mariama, as it turned out, was the sister of the owner of Tu Casa En Africa.

Tu Casa En Africa is a relaxed, welcoming guesthouse cum hotel set among palm trees and sandy paths in Abéné — a simple and comfortable base for anyone wanting to experience village life, the beach, and the area’s rich drumming culture.

It is also, I suspect, somewhere that will feature rather more prominently in my future visits.

An image from inside the Tu Casa En Africa hotel in Abéné in Senegal in West Africa.

Mariama joined us for the journey.

Lamin driving.

Me in my usual seat at the front.

Mariama in the back, directly behind us.

And so we set off.

As is often the case on long West African journeys, the gentle, humming monotony of the road — combined with the heat, the movement, and the general sense that there was nothing particularly urgent happening — caused me to drift off into a light sleep.

I was awakened abruptly.

The taxi had pulled sharply to the side of the road.

Lamin was holding the bottle of palm wine directly in front of my face.

“Bro. You need to get this outside now.”

“What?” I replied, still half asleep.

“Take this out. Now.”

I took the bottle from him and looked at it.

It looked perfectly normal.

Exactly as it had done when I first found it in Elhadji’s fridge.

Once again…

…I was not paying attention.

“It’s okay, Lamin,” I said, with an entirely misplaced confidence.

“Nothing’s going to happen.” I continued with a slightly smug and patronising smile on my face.

“No. Bro. Go!”

There was urgency now.

Real urgency.

I glanced into the back of the taxi.

Mariama looked… concerned.

I opened the door and stepped out, still carrying the bottle.

The air was hot, dry and still. We were somewhere near the Senegal–Gambia border, located in that vast, open West African landscape where everything feels both very far away and slightly exposed.

I turned back towards the taxi.

Lamin was watching me.

I held the bottle up.

What I intended to say next was:

“Look. Everything’s fine.”

What I actually managed was:

“Look! Everything’s f—”

At that exact moment, the bottle lid shot off.

It flew upwards into the sky at a speed not unlike a NASA Apollo rocket punching through the atmosphere on its way to the Moon.

And immediately behind it followed the palm wine.

A thick, white, pressurised torrent of alcohol erupting into the air like a celebratory prosecco fountain that nobody had asked for.

I stood there holding the bottle.