Lamin and the Peanut Man

On my very first day in The Gambia… I ended up in a police station.

There have, it must be said, been several other visits to various police stations since then. But this one, in January 2011, remains the most significant. Mainly because it happened before I had even been in the country for twenty-four hours.

It felt, in many ways, like the perfect introduction.

I had arrived the previous afternoon accompanied by two long-standing teacher friends, two brand new teacher friends, and a sizeable contingent of students and lecturers from Newman University Birmingham.

For many years, Newman had been bringing trainee teachers to The Gambia as part of their studies—exploring global citizenship, international partnerships, and the kind of educational experiences that look very impressive in course documentation and even better in reality. This was simply their latest expedition.

The plan for the week was ambitious.

The trainee teachers would work alongside experienced teachers from the United Kingdom, discussing curriculum, pedagogy, and how to plan educational visits back in England once they were fully qualified. And where better to think about educational visits than… on an educational visit to an entirely different continent.

It was, as it turned out, a week of relentless, joyful, colourful, emotional overload.

There was no such thing as downtime. Just one experience after another—school visits, cultural exchanges, conversations, observations—and, woven into all of that, visits to key areas of Gambian industry: fishing, aluminium recycling, oyster farming…

…and peanuts.

I will come back to peanuts shortly. They deserve it.

The journey itself had been straightforward enough. A morning flight from Birmingham brought us into The Gambia by mid-afternoon. There was the usual unpacking, orientation, and then, as Newman tradition demanded, an evening visit to Ali Baba’s on the Senegambia Strip.

Food.

Noise.

Laughter.

Bed.

And then—very quickly—morning.

The following day, the teachers and students went their separate ways. We, the teachers, had a slightly different mission: to begin forming meaningful links with Gambian schools. The aim was to create collaborative projects that would benefit both sides—something practical, sustainable, and rooted in real relationships rather than well-meaning paperwork.

Our small group was led by a man called Des.

Or, as he shall henceforth be known… Doctor Des.

Doctor Des was a geographer and Head of Department at Newman University Birmingham. His doctorate confirmed what his general demeanour already suggested: this was a man who knew things. Many things. Possibly all things.

He carried with him an air of gentle eccentricity.

Physically—and sartorially—he looked like a man who had spent a considerable portion of his life exploring remote corners of the globe and had dressed accordingly. Imagine a careful fusion of Doc Brown from ‘Back to the Future’ and Indiana Jones, and you wouldn’t be far off.

And so, on that first morning, under the capable and mildly unpredictable leadership of Doctor Des, we set off to explore Gambian life, culture, education…

…and industry.

Our driver for the day was a man called Lamin Barrow.

And his taxi didn’t work.

Now, most vehicles respond positively to the turning of an ignition key. There is usually a noise, a vibration, a sense of cooperation.

Not Lamin’s taxi.

Lamin’s taxi required the combined pushing power of five English primary school teachers and one university lecturer before it would grudgingly splutter into life like a teacher being asked to get out of bed on a cold Monday morning.

I have often wondered if this was, in fact, entirely deliberate.

“Look at me,” Lamin could have said to his fellow drivers. “My taxi is not powered by petrol. It is powered by teachers.”

There is a certain prestige in that.

Naturally, this mechanical peculiarity gave me ample opportunity to tease our new Gambian friend.

Fifteen years later, I am still teasing him.

He, of course, returns the favour.

And so, with our partially functional vehicle reluctantly operational, we began the day properly—visiting Bijilo Nursery School and Bijilo Lower Basic School, meeting pupils, teachers, and experiencing the rhythm of school life in The Gambia.

By lunchtime, we were ready for food.

And so we found ourselves at Calypso.

Calypso is one of those gloriously improbable beachside establishments where you can relax with a cold drink in hand and a view you won’t forget in a hurry. Set right on the edge of the Atlantic, it offers fresh fish, cold Julbrew, and the gentle soundtrack of waves rolling in—delivered, of course, at that wonderfully unhurried West African pace where time is more of a suggestion than a rule.

But what elevates Calypso from “pleasant seaside lunch spot” to something rather more memorable is one small detail.

Next to the restaurant…

…is a pool.

A pool containing crocodiles.

Actual crocodiles.

There is something deeply surreal about casually eating grilled chicken while a creature that appears to have wandered in from the Jurassic age lies quietly a few metres away, contemplating life… or possibly you. It does sharpen the senses slightly. You sit a little straighter. You eat a little quicker. You begin to consider—purely hypothetically—your sprinting capabilities on sand.

Fortunately, the crocodiles seem entirely unbothered by proceedings. Much like everyone else in The Gambia, they have embraced a philosophy of calm indifference.

Which is probably just as well.

And so, fuelled by Julbrew and a thoroughly satisfying Gambian lunch—and after confirming that all limbs were still present and accounted for and not inside the belly of some nearby crocodile —we departed from Calypso.

After push-starting the taxi, of course.

Our next destination…

…was the peanut factory.

Ah yes… peanuts.

Or groundnuts, as they are more commonly known in The Gambia — which immediately makes them sound far more industrious and respectable, and far less like something you idly nibble in the corner of a dark, sticky floored Wetherspoons pub.

Out here, peanuts are not a casual snack.

They are serious business.

For decades, the groundnut industry has been one of the cornerstones of the Gambian economy, with vast stretches of land dedicated to their cultivation. During the growing season, you see them everywhere — low, leafy plants spreading across the red soil, quietly getting on with the important task of feeding families and sustaining livelihoods.

Then, come harvest time, the landscape changes again.

Roadside villages become dotted with great mounds of drying nuts, sacks piled high, and people methodically sorting and shelling in a rhythm that feels both purposeful and oddly calming.

But their importance doesn’t stop at the farm.

Peanuts find their way into just about everything — and most importantly, into domoda.

Now, domoda is not merely a dish.

It is an experience.

A rich, deeply flavoured groundnut curry like stew, often served with rice and whatever meat or vegetables are available, it has become my chosen first night dish whenever I return to The Gambia.

You will also find peanuts roasted and sold at the roadside, pressed into oil, or ground into pastes that appear in meals with impressive regularity.

It is one of those ingredients that appears simple…

right up until you realise just how much of life in The Gambia revolves around it.

And so, we were about to learn, first hand, about the Gambian Peanut Industry.

On the way to the actual factory, we were to make a roadside stop and visit local people who spent their days shelling and sorting peanuts in the full, unapologetic heat of West Africa.

As it turned out, we were not destined to reach the Peanut Factory.

Now, I should probably admit that I am what might generously be described as an enthusiastic hobbyist photographer. Over the years, I have spent far too much money on cameras and lenses, and a visit to West Africa seemed like the perfect opportunity to take LOTS of photos.

I had taken plenty that morning.

But the Peanut Factory — and everything leading up to it — felt like the perfect moment to really embrace my hobby.

After a short journey, Lamin’s taxi pulled up beside what appeared, at first glance, to be a scattering of makeshift huts, washing lines, and general roadside life.

But, as is so often the case in The Gambia, first impressions don’t tell the full story.

What looked simple was, in fact, something far more important — a small, quietly industrious hub of livelihood.

Under the shade of a broad, patient tree, people gathered to sort and shell peanuts with a steady, almost timeless rhythm. Sacks were piled high. Hands moved methodically. No fuss. No drama. Just work being done.

And then, quietly, the transformation began.

What starts as a humble pile of nuts becomes something else entirely — pressed and shaped into products like peanut soap. Pale blocks rested in bowls and tubs, quietly proving that nothing here goes to waste.

Perfect, I thought.

Camera in hand, I climbed out of Lamin’s taxi like a man about to produce a National Geographic masterpiece. I was, in my mind, documenting Gambian industry with sensitivity, skill, and artistic flair.

In reality, I was about to cause a diplomatic incident.

In the weeks leading up to the trip, we had all been given a Birmingham Newman University guide to The Gambia. It contained useful information about clothing, equipment, medical requirements, and details of the places we would be visiting.

It also suggested we take photos.

In fact, it said:

“Take lots of photos.”

And why wouldn’t you?

Especially on your first visit to Africa.

What it did not say — and I feel this was a glaring omission — was:

“Immediately after taking said photos, prepare to negotiate their continued existence with the subjects involved, and quite possibly pay for the privilege.”

A small but important detail.

These days, of course, I know better.

If I am going to take a photograph and there are local people nearby, I will gesture with the camera and check whether they are happy. Sometimes I get a smile and a wave. Sometimes I get a firm shake of the head. Sometimes I get the universal signal that a conversation is now required, and that this conversation will almost certainly end with me paying a few dalasis.

That is fine.

I get a photograph.

Someone gets a little money to help buy food for themselves or their family.

Everybody wins.

But on my first full day in The Gambia…

I had absolutely no idea.

And so I wandered happily into this industrious little scene and started taking photos.

Under the shade of a tree, a small group of women and a couple of men were working with peanuts and peanut soap. I stood at what I considered a polite distance and began taking wide shots — Gambian peanut industry, curious teachers from England, Alex the Guide, and Doctor Des in full flow delivering what I can only assume was a deeply informative peanut-based lecture.

And then I heard it.

A sound which, to this day, triggers in me an almost Pavlovian urge to hide my camera.

“Hey! Hey!”

I looked around.

“HEY! HEY!”

The voice came from a West African gentleman sitting with the women under the tree.

Doctor Des brought his lecture to an abrupt and sensible conclusion.

“No photos! NO PHOTOS!”

The man was now standing, pointing directly at me. He wore a green vest top and a green baseball cap, and he had very quickly decided that I was not, under any circumstances, to continue doing what I was doing.

Everything then happened rather quickly.

Alex the Guide walked over to the man — who had now become The Angry Peanut Man — and tried to calm him down.

The Angry Peanut Man was having none of it.

He shouted.

He gesticulated.

He pointed.

He became, in every meaningful sense, angrier.

The peanut women, who had until then been sitting quietly, understandably decided that something important was happening and joined in with considerable enthusiasm.

Suddenly, the peaceful peanut-processing scene had become a fully fledged community response.

The Angry Peanut Man, now emboldened by the support of a formidable group of West African women, became angrier still.

Alex kept trying to calm everyone down.

Alex was losing.

At this point, Doctor Des decided that discretion was the better part of valour and gathered us back towards Lamin’s taxi, where Lamin sat waiting, quietly observing everything and filing it away for future use.

A very unhappy Alex then joined us.

We hurriedly entered Lamin’s taxi and quickly closed all the doors and windows.

Outside, we could see The Angry Peanut Man and his group of increasingly animated African ladies heading towards us.

“No photos! NO PHOTOS!”

Whether he was still shouting it, or whether I was now simply hearing it in my head, I couldn’t say.

I sat clutching my precious camera as if my life depended on it.

Which, at that exact moment, felt entirely possible.

Alex gestured for Lamin to start the taxi.

Lamin put the key in the ignition.

He turned it.

Nothing happened.

He turned it again.

Nothing continued to happen.

In fact, nothing continued to happen several more times.

Ah yes.

The taxi.

Lamin’s taxi, as previously established, did not operate on conventional mechanical principles. It was teacher-powered.

We would need to push-start it.

And so, despite the oncoming storm of West African rage, we all climbed out and took up our now-familiar positions at the back of the vehicle.

We pushed.

The taxi resisted.

We pushed harder.

Behind us, the women gathered and continued hurling their furious disapproval in our direction. Somewhere in the middle of the wave of outrage, The Angry Peanut Man continued his now-familiar cry:

“No photos! NO PHOTOS!”

Eventually — mercifully — Lamin’s taxi engine spluttered into life.

We abandoned all dignity and scrambled back inside the battered, green vehicle.

I remember sitting in my seat looking at all the seething, fuming faces staring at us through the windows and feeling as though I had become an unwilling extra in some kind of apocalyptic zombie film.

Lamin accelerated away down the Gambian highway with commendable urgency, the seething mass of resentment and indignation still kicking up a colossal fuss behind us.

We all breathed a sigh of relief.

We had escaped.

Briefly.

Because, as it turned out…

that wasn’t the end of it.

Our Official Tourist Guide, Alex, was not happy.

“They should not have behaved like that,” he said. “They should have shown you more respect.”

It was now Alex’s turn to become animated and agitated.

“You people come to our country and you help us. They should show you more respect.”

Now, “you people” is a phrase I have heard many times in The Gambia. It refers to people from other countries and is not meant disrespectfully, as it sometimes might be in England. In West Africa, I have been called “you people” many times, and I know for a fact that it comes from a good place.

We had barely been in Lamin’s taxi long enough for Alex to deliver this irate speech when he gestured for Lamin to pull over.

On the other side of the road…

was a very conveniently placed police station.

Oh dear.

Once again, we all clambered out of Lamin’s taxi.

It was cooler outside the taxi than inside it, which was something.

“Wait here!” declared Alex. “I am going to fetch that man.”

Alex climbed back into Lamin’s taxi.

Lamin turned the vehicle around.

And they drove off in the direction from which we had just fled.

I stood there watching them disappear into the distance and slowly realised what was happening.

Alex and Lamin had gone back to collect The Angry Peanut Man.

I stood there, still clutching my camera, pondering the enormity of what was about to happen.

Shortly — far too shortly — Lamin and Alex returned.

With The Angry Peanut Man.

He climbed out of the taxi and stormed straight into the police station.

I say police station.

It was more of a dusty, ramshackle roadside building of the exact sort one might expect to find beside a Gambian road.

After exiting the taxi, Alex looked at me.

“Come with me.”

He gestured towards the three steps leading into the office.

I began to follow him.

I looked desperately at Doctor Des, who started walking beside me.

Relief.

I would have a man of experience at my side. A man of wisdom. A man who had surely encountered delicate cross-cultural police matters before. A man who would guide me through this moment with calm authority.

I climbed the steps and entered the dimly lit office.

In front of me was a long desk, behind which sat three very important and slightly dusty-looking police officers.

All three gazed at me impassively.

The Angry Peanut Man, who had been silent for approximately half a second, immediately resumed venting his outrage.

Alex the Guide was there too, reassuringly.

I looked behind me for Doctor Des.

No Doctor Des.

He had vanished.

Presumably distracted by an interesting geographical feature or a particularly noteworthy rock, he had completely neglected to enter the police station with me.

I peered back outside into the bright African sunshine and could have sworn that, in the distance, there was a group of angry West African women surrounded by a cloud of orange dust and peanuts, heading in our direction.

I sighed.

Turned back.

And prepared to face my doom.

Eventually, The Angry Peanut Man finished venting his spleen, and Alex was allowed to speak.

One thing Gambians are very good at is listening to each other’s point of view. In any meeting, people are generally given time to speak without interruption. They take turns. Everyone has their say. It is all very civilised.

And that was happening now.

The Angry Peanut Man had spoken…loudly.

Alex was now calmly explaining his side.

Unfortunately, it was all in a local language — presumably Mandinka — so I hadn’t the foggiest idea what anyone was saying.

Alex finished.

All eyes turned to me.

I offered what seemed to be a perfectly reasonable solution.

“If you wish, I am more than happy to delete any offending images.”

To my mind, this would have resolved the whole unfortunate situation very quickly.

Instead, the officer sitting on the far right — clearly the senior officer — pointed at my camera and gestured that he wished to inspect it.

I handed it over.

Now, I consider myself reasonably experienced with digital DSLR cameras. At the time, I was using a Sony A100, for anyone curious. But even today, there are buttons on my camera whose purpose remain entirely mysterious to me, and which I dare not press.

The senior police officer, however, had no such fear.

He began pressing buttons and twisting knobs with the confidence of a man defusing a bomb using only instinct and optimism.

Presumably, he was trying to find the offending image.

I was acutely aware that he had not yet managed to turn the camera on.

After several excruciating seconds of continued button and knob twiddling, I reached out my hand.

The officer stared at me.

Then handed the camera back.

I switched it on, found the offending photograph, and showed it to him.

There was only one image containing The Angry Peanut Man.

You could just about, barely see him sitting down, amongst the women, in his green vest top and green baseball cap, staring at me balefully.

I handed the camera back and pointed at the image.

The senior officer looked at the screen.

Then he looked at The Angry Peanut Man.

Then back at the screen.

Then back at The Angry Peanut Man.

Then at me.

“I can delete it right now, if you wish,” I said. “It’s very easy.”

“No!”

The response was firm.

It was also the first time any of the officers had spoken since I had entered the building.

Seconds passed.

Long seconds.

Painful seconds.

I became aware that I was sweating heavily. There was no ventilation in that small, dusty, dingy office.

And then it came to me.

I needed to say something.

Something dramatic.

Something memorable.

Something which might, in years to come, be quoted approvingly in diplomatic circles.

Wait for it…

…

……

“I come to The Gambia to make friends, not enemies.”

It was, I felt, a strong line.

Calm.

Diplomatic.

The sort of thing that might one day be quoted in history books.

Or at least remembered by those present as the moment everything turned.

There was the briefest of pauses.

And then…

all of the tension and anger in the room suddenly evaporated.

Alex nodded in quiet approval.

The three officers began to smile.

The Chief Police Officer laughed, stood up, and handed my camera back.

“Take it! Take it!” he insisted joyfully.

Meanwhile, The Angry Peanut Man was angry no more. A radiant smile spread across his face like the sun breaking through a dark storm cloud.

He walked towards me, placed a hand on each of my shoulders, and declared:

“You are my brother! MY BROTHER! You must come back to my compound and meet my family. And you may take photos. MANY PHOTOS!”

And so The Angry Peanut Man, the three police officers, Alex the Guide, Doctor Des, all my friends, the Wild Women of West Africa, and I climbed into Lamin’s taxi. We drove to the compound of The No Longer Angry Peanut Man, experienced the full force of West African teranga, and celebrated long into the night.

At least…

that is what I expected to happen.

What actually happened was this…

…

……

“I come to The Gambia to make friends, not enemies.”

There was the briefest of pauses.

And then…

nothing.

I looked hopefully around the room.

Alex the Guide.

The Angry Peanut Man.

The three police officers.

Nothing.

No smiles.

No softening.

No sudden outbreak of international goodwill.

Just the lingering, simmering resentment of The Angry Peanut Man.

I looked down at the floor and shuffled my feet slightly.

My slightly pompous attempt at grassroots diplomacy had, it seemed, gone entirely unnoticed…or ignored.

There followed a heated conversation between the Chief Police Officer and The Angry Peanut Man.

The Chief Police Officer then spoke to Alex.

Alex spoke to me.

If I deleted the offending photograph, all would be forgiven.

This was precisely what I had suggested in the first place.

The Chief Police Officer handed my camera back to me.

I made a slightly over-dramatic show of scrolling, selecting, and deleting the image — as though I were personally dismantling a piece of dangerous international evidence.

The three police officers stared at me impassively.

The Angry Peanut Man glared at me…balefully.

Alex turned towards the door and gestured for me to follow.

I did so, head slightly bowed, like a sullen teenager who had just been caught having a crafty cigarette behind the bike sheds.

And that was that.

All was well.

Or well enough.

But here is the thing.

Despite the fact that I had found the whole situation intimidating and slightly scary — it was, after all, my first day in a completely unknown environment, culture, country, and continent, and I had somehow ended up in a police station — something shifted within me.

A little switch clicked in my head.

And I remember thinking:

“This is going to be fun.”

Looking back, I now realise that was the moment I fell in love with The Gambia.

And so, in all the visits that followed, every time we drive past that fateful tree, Lamin will gleefully point out of the window and ask, with unmistakable mischief in his voice:

“Bro! Do you remember this place?”

What I want to say is:

“Yes. Of course I remember this place. It was the place where we were attacked by a very angry West African man and a rampaging group of West African women. And your taxi would not start because it was broken, so we had to push-start it while surrounded by the Wild Women of West Africa.”

But what I actually say, with the weary resignation of a man who has answered the same question many times, is:

“Yes, bro. I remember.”

And then, a few seconds later, Lamin will point again, this time towards the police station.

“Bro! Bro! Do you remember this place?”

“Yes, bro. Of course I remember.”

Lamin then sits back in his seat with the deep satisfaction of a man who has completed an important task.

He has once again reminded me of my first, fateful — and to him, highly amusing — encounter with the Gambian police.

And so he is happy.

Meanwhile, I sit there quietly pondering the many slightly embarrassing situations I could remind Lamin about in return.

His encounter with the American Ambassador, for example.

P.S. I take absolutely no pride in saying that, upon return to England following the above incident, I used some Undelete software to restore the deleted image containing the Angry Peanut Man.

Here you go.

Can you see him?

Read the next chapter of ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Lamin and the Learner Driver | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read the previous chapter of ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Lamin and the Palm Wine | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read the Introduction to ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Travels With Lamin – An Introduction | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read Chapter One of ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Lamin and the Road to Dakar | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read Chapter Two of ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Lamin and Teranga | Building Futures in the Gambia

Read Chapter Three of ‘Travels With Lamin’ here:
👉Lamin and the Air Conditioning | Building Futures in the Gambia

Book Lamin and his taxi here:
👉Lamin Barrow Taxis – The Gambia’s Number One Taxi Driver

And find out more about Lamin’s work with BFiG Busumbala Nursery School here:

👉 Building Futures in The Gambia