A Christmas story . . . . Message in a bottle, all the way from Donegal

Donegal Democrat columnist Frank Galligan met Jimmy from Senegal the last time he was in Lanzarote and subsequently ran into singer-songwriter Rory Gallagher in Ardara.

"'From Donegal to Senegal' stayed in my head and as I've been working in a number of schools on the pollution of the oceans (creative writing) and rooting for Senegal in World Cup, I made a Christmas story out of it..." 

Message in a bottle . . . . A Christmas story                       

N’Golo gazed out over the ocean as the sun set over the West African Atlantic. 

Although he always loved the feel of the hot sand through his toes, he was alarmed that the golden stretch between the sea and his village of Goxu Mbath seemed to be getting smaller every year. N’Golo was only eleven but as far back as he could remember, the ocean was slowly but surely getting closer to his home, which sat at the edge of the city of Saint- Louis. Indeed, huge waves had damaged houses a few years before and some people had moved out. His father, Mamadou, had said: “But where can we move to?” 

The villages of Doune Baba Dieye and Keur Bernard had already disappeared and Pilote Barre was also threatened with extinction.

N’Golo’s teacher, Mr Ousmane had told the class that although they lived in ‘The Venice of Africa’, the Italian city was not in mortal danger like Saint-Louis and its villages. He added that all of the vanishing communities were packed into the Langue de Barbarie, a densely populated spit of land that was home to nearly 120,000 people. 

He had also used a long English word, “Archipelago” and explained that Saint-Louis lay dangerously between the fast-flowing currents of the swollen Senegal River and the ocean.  Mamadou was a fisherman like his father and grandfather before him, and although N’Golo was expected to follow suit, his father had cried one evening to his wife Ndeye that the mullet, sardines, bonga and tilapia that once thrived in the mangroves had almost disappeared after the salt water of the Atlantic began encroaching into the river. 

All of this was going through N’Golo’s mind as the sun slipped behind the horizon and he turned to head home. As he did so, a wave crashed up on the beach and he saw a glint in the fading light that seemed to roll along and stop just ahead of him.

It was a green bottle, and N’Golo was about to shrug and move on, when he saw something that seemed to be tied inside. Reluctant to break the bottle and unable to remove what was inside, he rushed home and using his father’s fishing pincers, carefully removed what turned out to be a sheet of paper wrapped in an elastic band. 

He knew the writing was in English and hurried off to Mr Ousmane’s house, where the surprised teacher greeted him at the door. “N’Golo...great to see you, but I’m curious?” 

“Sir, this washed ashore in a bottle. I think it’s written in English!”

Mr Ousmane took the letter, and began to read it in Wolof, the local language:

“To whom it concerns…

My name is Patrick Gallagher and I live in the beautiful village of Downings in County Donegal in Ireland. I am eleven years old and have one year left in primary school. 

My father Jimmy is a fisherman but sadly the fish are disappearing because of massive ships from other countries taking everything in the North Atlantic. Mackerel and herring is all he catches now so my mother, Mary, works in the local factory making tweed. 

I have two brothers and a sister, all older, and our granny lives with us. I also wrote to Santa Claus today but the best present he could give me would be a reply to this letter, if it is found.

My best friend Johnny says I should send it in a plastic bottle as it will not get broken and probably wash up somewhere. But I try not to use plastic as it is polluting the oceans and killing fish and birds all over the world. 

I saw a television programme which showed the horrible amount of plastic which washes up on the beaches of Ghana in West Africa. I can’t remember the name of another country there which gets all the flip flops and sandals washed in from the Canary Islands. 

Johnny says he was on holidays there once and left his sandals behind on the beach. He wonders if they’re in Africa now. I was very proud of the boys and men who gather up all the flip flops and recycle them and make covers for mobile phones. 

If you find this please write to me...Patrick Gallagher, The Pier Cottages, Downings, County Donegal, Ireland.” I wrote this all myself, except for ‘To whom it concerns’. 

N’Golo was spellbound. “Mr Ousmane...his father too is a fisherman! And what about all the plastic that comes in with the waves here? Please, please, show me on the map where he lives!” 

The kindly teacher spun an old world globe, which stood in the corner, until he pointed at a small island near England, Scotland and Wales, and said: “That’s Ireland, now let me check my atlases too...mmmm? There, look... up in the far north west, County Donegal and if I find a more detailed map, I may find Downings. If he wrote this before Christmas, it was four months in the ocean.”

N’Golo was impatient…”Will you write back to him in English, please, Mr Ousmane?”

 “Yes, of course, N’Golo, you write it in Wolof and I will translate. It is getting late now and we will get our class to help us tomorrow. Good night.” 

N’Golo stuffed the letter under his shirt, rushed home bursting with excitement, but before he could share the discovery with his parents and siblings, his mother Ndeye waved him away: “Shhh child! Your father is in bed as the fishermen are going out before dawn...have some supper and go quietly to your bed.” 

N’Golo did as he was bid but found it difficult to sleep with so much on his mind. He heard his father stir around 5.30am and when he left their little cabin soon afterwards, his youngest son sat at their only table with a pencil and paper.

“Dear Patrick,

I am so excited to find your letter in a bottle on the beach near my village of Goxu Mbath near the city of Saint Louis in Senegal in West Africa. I am also very happy that you mention Ghana in your letter as we are only separated on land by the countries of Mali and Burkino Fasa. 

On the coast, we are separated by the Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia and Cote d’Ivoire. All of these countries have thousands of tons of plastic washed up on their beaches every day.

My father too is a fisherman, but like yours, big ships, especially from China, are taking everything from the sea while the mullet and sardines are gone from the mangroves because the salty seawater has invaded our freshwater. 

It is amazing we have so much in common, and Mr Ousmane, my teacher, has translated this letter from Wolof, although the official language in Senegal is French. 96% of Senegal is Muslim so we don’t celebrate Christmas but I’ve seen the pedlars on the beach selling shiny tinsel, metal ornaments and plastic Christmas trees.

My parents are Mamadou and Ndeye, and just like you, I have two brothers, Babacar and Moussa, and a sister, Mariama. Please write again to me…

N’Golo Ba, son of Mamadou, Goxu Mbath, St. Louis, Senegal, Africa.”

When the letter was posted, Mr Ousmane added his own line…”From Donegal to Senegal, what an adventure!”