Friday 1 November 2013
Monday 28 October 2013
Monday 21 October 2013
The rainy roads one
For those of you who read more than one Gambian VSO blog
(mainly the Gambian VSOs), there’s a particular gap in my blog posts. Until
now, I haven’t managed a decent write up of the experience of living and more
precisely walking around during rainy season. This is a serious omission,
especially as the rains have had a huge influence on all things Gambian over
the past few months. The rains are now
drawing to a close and so there’s only short time to squeeze this one in.
As a Mancunian/Swansea alumni, rain is my home. Without it I
start to go a little bit gung ho about the weather saying such things as “This
isn’t a storm. Once I went to Manchester for a holiday and it only stopped
raining for half an hour in a fortnight” and trying to wear rubber boots in the
shower just to prove that both clothes and people dry. Yes, I have heard of
tropical storms but I wouldn’t be from Northern England if I didn’t think that
my type of rain is a) generally the most rain like of rain and b) the best
(i.e. easiest to complain about backhandedly by being stoical about the whole
thing). However, I of course also
concede that it rains all the time in Lancashire and therefore over time and as
a developed country we have had to prioritise the development of infrastructure
that facilitates movement during inclement weather. Or, put properly, we built
solid roads with pavements and drains.
However, Gambia is essentially a country built on the edges
of a desert. It is sandy and it is not rich. It hasn’t needed to spend money putting
rocks in the road to make sure its workforce didn’t drown before getting to a
mill, or to make sure the newly milled cotton didn’t become an enormous muddy
sterile pad on a highway miles from the market. It rains for a few hours a day for a few
months a year and the rest of the time it has bigger problems to deal with. And so when the rains come so does the mud. And
the water. And people who are quite happy to shelter for serveral hours far
from home rather than getting wet. I faced disbelief when answering “We just
go, people dry. Sometimes from water up to our knees” to the question “but if
it rains all the time how does anyone get to work?” My cheap sandals have been
glued back together twice. My rain coat is disintegrating.
But it is fun. One night after choir I was walking home with
my friend Mathias as usual. Suddenly the wind rose sharply and waves of dust
started trying to exfoliate our faces. We
took shelter behind a wall, then the drops of water started to fall. Sheltered
in the crook of a wall we were getting wet. Dusty drops were bouncing in every
direction, blown in parabolas by the whipping wind. Eventually I said “let’s
walk, we’ll be as wet as if we stay here”. Instinct tells us to run but of
course this makes no difference to the actual rate of getting soaked due to
maths (speed of person + frequency of hitting drops balances each other out). The
lights went out and, in flip flops, my feet were clinging to unseen mud and
stones, as we dodged cars flying towards us, unseen in the thrashing storm.
There comes a point when you are simply saturated and it’s dark and you are in
the rain far from either house. The
water around us felt like being pelted by a gritter, flaying any exposed skin.
As many years of rain living will teach you, at that point
the appropriate action is to dance and compare songs about the rain. We sang in
the rain, we called the old man out on his snoring, we asked the rain to come
again another day. And eventually, bedraggled, we arrived at Mathias’s family’s
house. His sister Antonia provided me
with a towel and an entire new wardrobe. I unpacked my bag. As I tipped out the
cup of water from the bottom, my iPhone slipped out. Buzzing with an electronical
meltdown it died of exposure. But we had a cup of tea and a new story.
Of course, there was a lovely photo of my street as a river.
Unfortunately it was on the iPhone.
Ringing the changes
One of the elements of volunteering that I was worried about
before arriving was nothing to do with the challenges of living overseas or
making an impact in a different culture. It was sharing a house again. For the
past few years I have lived alone and the freedoms and privacy that gives are
very much appreciated. However, now I would have a housemate, in this case a
Ugandan woman called Agnes. And now, six months later, she has left, finishing
her placement early for personal reasons.
As housemates go Agnes was not a bad one. Of course we had
different ideas about the washing up, the value of spending money running a
fridge permanently or just overnight, and like all housemates she had to put up
with me covering the dining table with enormous paintings most of the
time. Yet, for the first six months of
my placement it was helpful to have an ear to bend about issues and strategies
for pushing changes in our shared workplace, good to have someone to share food
bills and shopping with, interesting to swap tips and ideas on cooking, family
life, cultures and careers.
And, as Agnes left, I was drafted in to help induct the new
batch of volunteers. The group was small, five people and only one of them
female. On their first day I met them in the pouring rain with Amar (another
serving volunteer). Vaguely remembering how disorientating my first few days in
The Gambia were we had a simple walk up the high street and visited a few
supermarkets to get a sense of what is available and where key landmarks are
(OK, so we noted the traffic light but it is fairly central to getting
around). As the storm intensified we
took shelter in a doorway and swapped advice on getting started. This was
mainly “remember to eat and drink” and “try to relax at points, it’s not that
bad”.
Later in the week, now working with upcountry volunteer
Godfrey, I ran a discussion on topics from meeting strategic objectives to
culture shock and sexual harassment. It was a short session, due to start
conversations that would continue into the afternoon of exploring the local
town. However, the day was incredibly hot and the afternoon became a coke by
the hotel pool then moving everyone to the shared house. We took a walk round
the local area, which is also my own, pointing out such essential information
as “this is a corner shop”, “this is the way to the main highway”, “this is a
masquerade but, don’t worry, the child dressed as a whirling monster with the
machete won’t really hurt you”. I left them to settle into the shared house
with a promise to meet in the morning.
Only one task was left on the essential information a
serving VSO must pass on, taking transport. So I met the gang of excited VSOs
in the morning ready for a trip to the capital Banjul. Unfortunately for them, I rarely go to Banjul
and prefer to walk than take transport. Still we soldiered on and it’s a
testament to how settled I am that, while they remarked on how muddy the
streets were after the previous night’s rain, I was commenting on an unusual arrangement
of seats in the van. We passed and
negotiated with hawkers, picked up some cutlery and advice on internet
connections and had a small tour of the sights of the city. I even, in a fit of
longing for home comforts and long Saturday breakfasts in my new solo living
environment, acquired a teapot. I also
acquired cockroach poison whilst my new colleagues were searching out irons and
plates. Priorities do change.
We headed back from Banjul, me smoothly turning getting the
wrong van into another exploring opportunity. We found dinner at a local
volunteer haunt, Omar’s at traffic light, then indulged in that ever present
VSO activity, ignoring each other when you sit in a wifi enabled area talking
to home instead. They bought me cake and coffee as a thank you for the tour and
one commented “yes, she did say she cried on the first night but that it gets
better”. Pretty much sums up the three days I’d say.
The first draft of
this entry, intended for w/c 16th September, died with my phone in a
tropical storm while I was singing in the rain. There are worse ways to go. The rest of the
Monday 16 September 2013
Demotivation
I was expecting it. On returning to The Gambia I knew that, however happy I was to be home, coming back from a holiday would leave me with confused emotions and a drop in my mood. It's a long time to be away from home and I know from experience how hard getting the work done is going to be. And yet, two weeks after coming home a wave a demotivation hit hard.
Naturally tenacious, sometimes to the point of not knowing when to stop, demotivation is not something I'm well equipped to deal with. Partly it was the ongoing tiredness from a residential. In the UK taking time off in lieu of the weekends and evenings worked away from home would be policy. Here it's not and it took time to remember that I know that works. So on Tuesday I spent a day in pyjamas watching films and the rain, treating myself to a mini bottle of wine carried from UK with pasta and Parmesan.
And then this is where the VSO network comes in. I went for a drink with Natalie and Nicola (they invited me for exercise which would have been a great mood lifter but I was still wearing pyjamas when they were warming up). We chatted and I heard tales of love and romance, weddings and washed out walkways. Hungry, we asked someone to find peanuts for us and a smoking bag of hot toasted groundnuts appeared on our table a few moments later. There were about twice the number of nuts as we would've had if we'd bought them ourself in packets but we managed to finish them all off. It was a moment of "ah, there are nice things here" which was badly needed.
The following day I was back at work, still struggling with motivation. A quick trip to the VSO involved greeting everyone and looking cheerful. No post (sigh), forgotten library books, then I decided under "drink as soon as you think of drinking" rules to get water. The kitchen revealed a gaggle of volunteers. When questioned I replied I was demotivated and was sagely advised by Rob "when you're demotivated, motivate someone else".
And so it was that the following day I made sure I asked about issues and listened and advised, I praised others and reminded them of forgotten achievements, I thanked colleagues publicly for compliments. I went to VSO Agnes' leaving do and heard what people were grateful for then I made sure we spent the evening at her favourite beach with her favourite people in the country. It took a lot of concentration to get out of my own despondency and back into what I'm here to do, to be a catalyst for change. But by the end I even thought "maybe extending the placement isn't a 'never never'" idea after all.
Naturally tenacious, sometimes to the point of not knowing when to stop, demotivation is not something I'm well equipped to deal with. Partly it was the ongoing tiredness from a residential. In the UK taking time off in lieu of the weekends and evenings worked away from home would be policy. Here it's not and it took time to remember that I know that works. So on Tuesday I spent a day in pyjamas watching films and the rain, treating myself to a mini bottle of wine carried from UK with pasta and Parmesan.
And then this is where the VSO network comes in. I went for a drink with Natalie and Nicola (they invited me for exercise which would have been a great mood lifter but I was still wearing pyjamas when they were warming up). We chatted and I heard tales of love and romance, weddings and washed out walkways. Hungry, we asked someone to find peanuts for us and a smoking bag of hot toasted groundnuts appeared on our table a few moments later. There were about twice the number of nuts as we would've had if we'd bought them ourself in packets but we managed to finish them all off. It was a moment of "ah, there are nice things here" which was badly needed.
The following day I was back at work, still struggling with motivation. A quick trip to the VSO involved greeting everyone and looking cheerful. No post (sigh), forgotten library books, then I decided under "drink as soon as you think of drinking" rules to get water. The kitchen revealed a gaggle of volunteers. When questioned I replied I was demotivated and was sagely advised by Rob "when you're demotivated, motivate someone else".
And so it was that the following day I made sure I asked about issues and listened and advised, I praised others and reminded them of forgotten achievements, I thanked colleagues publicly for compliments. I went to VSO Agnes' leaving do and heard what people were grateful for then I made sure we spent the evening at her favourite beach with her favourite people in the country. It took a lot of concentration to get out of my own despondency and back into what I'm here to do, to be a catalyst for change. But by the end I even thought "maybe extending the placement isn't a 'never never'" idea after all.
Wednesday 4 September 2013
With thanks for stuff
On the off chance that a packing prospective VSO is following this blog my mind has turned to the stuff I have found particularly useful. One of my many internal contradictions is that I hoard everything as I will find a use for it one day. Those of you who've had homemade cards or wrapping paper will appreciate this, and most of this craft kit was passed on to an imaginative home who see the value of a piece of plastic shaped like a leaf, However, I also have a make do and mend attitude, once making a jewellery holder out of a painted stick with nails in it, and from my mother I've inherited a "with just a bank card to my own money, passport and my own sense I can survive anywhere" attitude. Therefore my thinking when coming to The Gambia was largely "people survive there. I'll be fine". Yet some items of baggage have proved their metal.
1. Scarves
Dad and Eileen bought me a beautiful scarf for Christmas. Blue to match my eyes, with tiny yellow dots, it's perfect for my capsule wardrobe. It's served as an impromptu blanket in the back of a windy pick up (as I write), a beach dress when tied halter neck, covered me from the sun or in favour of modesty and wrapped tightly as insulation to slow the melting of frozen water on a day's hot travel. Another scarf has done time as a laptop bag to general acclaim ("it's very African!") leaving one linen scarf from mum for smart occasions.
2. Swiss Army Knives
The massive advantage of having gadgety folks dating various members of your family is that they value a tool kit. Christmas therefore brought two Swiss Army knives both now in heavy use, one carried around the other at home. Additionally Uncle John found a version with pliers which has mended bag zips, bike frames and desk drawer locks.
3. Rechargeable lamp
Given the mosquito net, having a lamp that works without constant mains power by the edge of my bed is very handy. Margaret bought me a lamp and I found myself a wind up head torch, both of which have turned my netted bed into a small sanctuary each evening, regardless of the availability of power. I seem to now be used to walking by moonlight but my handbag torch does still have its moments.
4. Bed sheets
The pillows I bought here are lovely but finding sheets to fit the bed leads down either very expensive or very inadequate routes. I had some which served but a too small sheet means a nightly fight with a wandering cover becoming tied up around one's legs. And so, on my last trip to England, my grandparents gave me some old double sheets. The difference this makes to sleep quality is significant, plus who doesn't sleep well at their Gran's house? Additionally the double duvet cover I carried originally serves as a sheet sleeping bag when travelling in unknown levels of comfort and cleanliness.
5. The sanity bag
When I was packing both mum and Lizzy suggested I take one bag to make sure I'm comfortable, containing clothes, toiletries, first aid etc, and one bag to keep me sane. In my case this includes my paints (even if I had to restock on paper), books, and luxuries which I now know includes a small block of Parmesan cheese, a few small bottles of red wine, a rechargeable tiny speaker for my iPod, and some Pukka Three Ginger tea. This sanity bag has served its purpose well, giving me access to my favourite things no matter what is happening around me. I can capture The Gambia in my own way, exploring the colours and texture of newly met flowers by adding huge frangipani blossoms to a bare wall. I can send personalised cards home, make new memories as I drink tea, sate longings for European music or radio podcasts. Long term VSO John has a similar bag with fishing tackle which has given a crowd of us days at the beach and a new skill to try. Most importantly this kit keeps us in a frame of mind where we can improvise and make do for other requirements.
Of course there are other handy items: photos for the wall and a photo album to show new friends, a journal and daily diary, a cup with my name on, a potato peeler, a kindle, and summer pyjamas (light enough to wear, modest enough to allow sleep as the compound boys to walk past my window) Most of this stuff came as gifts from people with a good idea. Other people's thoughtfulness is helping my day to day life. And what makes that especially exciting is that every time I use the gift or the idea I think of the kindness of the person who gave it to me.
1. Scarves
Dad and Eileen bought me a beautiful scarf for Christmas. Blue to match my eyes, with tiny yellow dots, it's perfect for my capsule wardrobe. It's served as an impromptu blanket in the back of a windy pick up (as I write), a beach dress when tied halter neck, covered me from the sun or in favour of modesty and wrapped tightly as insulation to slow the melting of frozen water on a day's hot travel. Another scarf has done time as a laptop bag to general acclaim ("it's very African!") leaving one linen scarf from mum for smart occasions.
2. Swiss Army Knives
The massive advantage of having gadgety folks dating various members of your family is that they value a tool kit. Christmas therefore brought two Swiss Army knives both now in heavy use, one carried around the other at home. Additionally Uncle John found a version with pliers which has mended bag zips, bike frames and desk drawer locks.
3. Rechargeable lamp
Given the mosquito net, having a lamp that works without constant mains power by the edge of my bed is very handy. Margaret bought me a lamp and I found myself a wind up head torch, both of which have turned my netted bed into a small sanctuary each evening, regardless of the availability of power. I seem to now be used to walking by moonlight but my handbag torch does still have its moments.
4. Bed sheets
The pillows I bought here are lovely but finding sheets to fit the bed leads down either very expensive or very inadequate routes. I had some which served but a too small sheet means a nightly fight with a wandering cover becoming tied up around one's legs. And so, on my last trip to England, my grandparents gave me some old double sheets. The difference this makes to sleep quality is significant, plus who doesn't sleep well at their Gran's house? Additionally the double duvet cover I carried originally serves as a sheet sleeping bag when travelling in unknown levels of comfort and cleanliness.
5. The sanity bag
When I was packing both mum and Lizzy suggested I take one bag to make sure I'm comfortable, containing clothes, toiletries, first aid etc, and one bag to keep me sane. In my case this includes my paints (even if I had to restock on paper), books, and luxuries which I now know includes a small block of Parmesan cheese, a few small bottles of red wine, a rechargeable tiny speaker for my iPod, and some Pukka Three Ginger tea. This sanity bag has served its purpose well, giving me access to my favourite things no matter what is happening around me. I can capture The Gambia in my own way, exploring the colours and texture of newly met flowers by adding huge frangipani blossoms to a bare wall. I can send personalised cards home, make new memories as I drink tea, sate longings for European music or radio podcasts. Long term VSO John has a similar bag with fishing tackle which has given a crowd of us days at the beach and a new skill to try. Most importantly this kit keeps us in a frame of mind where we can improvise and make do for other requirements.
Of course there are other handy items: photos for the wall and a photo album to show new friends, a journal and daily diary, a cup with my name on, a potato peeler, a kindle, and summer pyjamas (light enough to wear, modest enough to allow sleep as the compound boys to walk past my window) Most of this stuff came as gifts from people with a good idea. Other people's thoughtfulness is helping my day to day life. And what makes that especially exciting is that every time I use the gift or the idea I think of the kindness of the person who gave it to me.
A trip to Senegal
A week after getting home and I was leaving The Gambia again, this time for Senegal. Since I arrived I have been part of the organising committee for two summer camps run by the Ministry of Youth and Sports. Having missed the first by being in the UK I was keen to see at least one of them in full swing. And, on a personal front, I got a trip to another country.
With learning from past Sarahs I volunteered for the programme sub-committee. Like The Gambia itself, most of the participants are Muslim and we were keen that all prayer times were observed, including for the three Christian young people attending so I was also tasked with making sure their religious observances were met.
We crossed the border after sunset so all I could see of Senegal was a potholed road and sodium lights glowing through distant suburbs. Rufisque, where the camp would be held on the outskirts of Dakar, was still some miles away. Fighting sleep to see the new country it seemed as if every time I opened my eyes I saw the same bush passing the window. Finally convinced sleep would win I curled up into the bumpy Senegalese drive.
The programme followed a pattern of celebration, looking at life skills, playing different sports, creative arts and exploring both Gambian and Senegalese culture. As the theme of the week was Discovering Gambia's Young Talents, we held a talent contest, performed plays and cultural dances, and the participants could try new skills. Of course this was all accompanied by regular appearances of shared food bowls. Perhaps the nicest point for me was one young boy delivering a message with the phrase "Auntie Helen, Uncle Mohammed wants to speak to you". None of my godchildren are old enough to say my name that way yet so I think it's the first time I've been called auntie by a child. Mind you, to the godsons and any other relevant children who turn up I'll be "The anti-Helen".
A youth residential camp doesn't really allow for an exploration of the area in a tourist style. However, we all had an excursion to the Monument to the African Renaissance. This 57 metre high construction is on top of a hill by Dakar airport and shows an African family rising out of the earth (a French - Wollof play on words, sufferance being the suffering they've left, suuf being the ground). The family points into the continent of Africa, enormous baby held aloft by a protective and confident man with his wife, partly also representing the work in the times of suffering, following the gaze of them all. One of the other youth workers and I bought a ticket to take the lift to the man's hat which is also a viewing platform across Dakar. It's enormous, though I was most excited to be up a hill after months of living on an African plain. (Yes, Durham included a hill and yes, I enjoyed that one too!)
I also had a look around the local area, escorted by a trainee priest Alphonse with the Catholic children before mass. We popped into a wedding, met some nuns (and I was roundly instructed by my charges not to become a nun but to have a family instead), then joined the parish for the service. There was more French than Wollof but it was still scattered with music in the local tongue. Alphonse also told us more about Mam Kumba Lamba, the djinn who the local animists believe protects Rufisque and the people of Senegal.
The camp closed with a ceremony and thanks to the organisers, which kindly included a certificate for me. I took the opportunity to practice some final French. We left very early in the morning and again I slept through the dark.
We stopped at day break and I poured coffee for friends leaning on a pick up truck between a verdant ground nut field and a railway track, maize waving in the distance. The morning air was cool and the light pleasant with clear blue skies, signalling a hot day ahead, all be it joyfully. As a freight train passed it may well have been the first train some of these children have seen as Gambia doesn't have a railway.
Dosing through the morning drive I looked out onto Senegal. Our red brown road was cheerfully taken over by round-leaved groundnut plants, throwing a fresh green over the landscape. Occasionally a baobab springs up, a green grey mushroom against fading blue sky. I was struck by the sheer classic Sahel plain image. I might have enjoyed the hill but the flat landscape has become for me my current corner of Africa.
With learning from past Sarahs I volunteered for the programme sub-committee. Like The Gambia itself, most of the participants are Muslim and we were keen that all prayer times were observed, including for the three Christian young people attending so I was also tasked with making sure their religious observances were met.
We crossed the border after sunset so all I could see of Senegal was a potholed road and sodium lights glowing through distant suburbs. Rufisque, where the camp would be held on the outskirts of Dakar, was still some miles away. Fighting sleep to see the new country it seemed as if every time I opened my eyes I saw the same bush passing the window. Finally convinced sleep would win I curled up into the bumpy Senegalese drive.
The programme followed a pattern of celebration, looking at life skills, playing different sports, creative arts and exploring both Gambian and Senegalese culture. As the theme of the week was Discovering Gambia's Young Talents, we held a talent contest, performed plays and cultural dances, and the participants could try new skills. Of course this was all accompanied by regular appearances of shared food bowls. Perhaps the nicest point for me was one young boy delivering a message with the phrase "Auntie Helen, Uncle Mohammed wants to speak to you". None of my godchildren are old enough to say my name that way yet so I think it's the first time I've been called auntie by a child. Mind you, to the godsons and any other relevant children who turn up I'll be "The anti-Helen".
A youth residential camp doesn't really allow for an exploration of the area in a tourist style. However, we all had an excursion to the Monument to the African Renaissance. This 57 metre high construction is on top of a hill by Dakar airport and shows an African family rising out of the earth (a French - Wollof play on words, sufferance being the suffering they've left, suuf being the ground). The family points into the continent of Africa, enormous baby held aloft by a protective and confident man with his wife, partly also representing the work in the times of suffering, following the gaze of them all. One of the other youth workers and I bought a ticket to take the lift to the man's hat which is also a viewing platform across Dakar. It's enormous, though I was most excited to be up a hill after months of living on an African plain. (Yes, Durham included a hill and yes, I enjoyed that one too!)
I also had a look around the local area, escorted by a trainee priest Alphonse with the Catholic children before mass. We popped into a wedding, met some nuns (and I was roundly instructed by my charges not to become a nun but to have a family instead), then joined the parish for the service. There was more French than Wollof but it was still scattered with music in the local tongue. Alphonse also told us more about Mam Kumba Lamba, the djinn who the local animists believe protects Rufisque and the people of Senegal.
The camp closed with a ceremony and thanks to the organisers, which kindly included a certificate for me. I took the opportunity to practice some final French. We left very early in the morning and again I slept through the dark.
We stopped at day break and I poured coffee for friends leaning on a pick up truck between a verdant ground nut field and a railway track, maize waving in the distance. The morning air was cool and the light pleasant with clear blue skies, signalling a hot day ahead, all be it joyfully. As a freight train passed it may well have been the first train some of these children have seen as Gambia doesn't have a railway.
Dosing through the morning drive I looked out onto Senegal. Our red brown road was cheerfully taken over by round-leaved groundnut plants, throwing a fresh green over the landscape. Occasionally a baobab springs up, a green grey mushroom against fading blue sky. I was struck by the sheer classic Sahel plain image. I might have enjoyed the hill but the flat landscape has become for me my current corner of Africa.
Wednesday 28 August 2013
The Leaving Workshop
Weirdly, with just over half of my current placement left and still feeling very new and out of the system, I received an email invitation to a Leavers' workshop with VSO. Confused I checked it was actually intended for me and indeed it was. The aim of the workshop is to make sure volunteers prepare in good time for leaving, both in terms of ending projects and relationships well. And so on Friday morning, having freshly arrived in The Gambia again, off I trotted to a workshop about leaving it.
Arriving at the office we started with a familiar greeting of old friends in the VSO office glad to see me back safely. Then a tussle with the internet where I tried to email a document to my counterpart having had the very busy week back at work familiar to all those who've recently holidayed. I lost. However I did win in terms of getting a nice coffee and a couple of books from the library which, whilst less professional and world changing, is actually more fun.
The workshop was scheduled to last the morning. It began with a VSO video, several ex-volunteer talking heads on what leaving was like. VSO loves a talking heads video; we'd seen a lot in our pre-placement -training. There's a man who lived in hearing distance of roaring lions in most of them, so it was strange not to see him in this one. However we heard about having not enough time for the paperwork, considered opinions on leaving parties and listened to tales of resettling at home. Then we discussed the practical steps needed (quite a lot of forms and meetings, so there's a record of what happened) and raised concerns, most of which were about sustainability of our work. We also covered what we'd miss, which seems to be the children greeting and dancing with us, the responsibility at work, the camaraderie of the volunteer corps and, for some, the weather. Unsurprisingly the limited choice of beer and food or milk powder didn't feature.
The discussion about our impact as volunteers was more fraught. To be a VSO is to be a catalyst in a society, creating changes. When a stone is thrown into a lake the ripples spread out from the point it entered, stirring even stagnant water. The effects become wider but more shallow the future away from the volunteer they are. It's the image of a VSO. But how does it feel to be the stone? You splash into the water but quickly hit the bottom, unaware of the ripples left above, the oxygen mixed through the liquid as you passed briefly through. A programme planned to change a system takes time. It's a slow process and can take thirty years with a different volunteer each year. We are like these stones. And as people who, as the old cliche would have it, want to change the world, feeling that you had a small impact is often not enough. You created a ripple, but you wanted the whole nature of the pool to alter to your vision. Of course that's the point of the model, it's not your vision, it's the people of the country who just call on your expertise for a short while to achieve their own aims. But even knowing all that, it's not easy.
Although I still feel new I decided to use the opportunity as intended; to actually reflect on leaving and how I'll feel. I was surprised that I am pretty emotional about it. But I am. I have friends here who, after I go, I am unlikely to ever see or hear of again. Yet now I see them everyday. They visit when I'm sick, call just to greet me (and I'm really bad at rendering to return that favour), laugh at me dancing, and send wishes of love to my family in the UK. I will never know what grades Mam Jarra gets, whether Marie Louise gains another godchild, if Sena's building business grows, if Paulina and Nicolas have another baby, won't go to Katy's wedding. And I know where and how they live and that outcomes are not always good.
And so, there were lots of questions I asked myself, about leaving well and about what next in terms of work and life. By the end of the workshop I had a fully expanding mind map, thought provoking ideas surrounded by clouds, plans in the future linked to actions I can take now. But the biggest realisation was that I often hang back from joining in or engaging with people here, scared of causing offence or becoming embroiled in a situation I don't really understand and therefore can't control. I worry that I'll hurt people when I leave if we spend to much time together. But perhaps the opposite is true. This is the one moment in the history of all space and time that I have with these people. At the bottom of the mind map I wrote "your time here is short. Use it well.". I hope I do.
Arriving at the office we started with a familiar greeting of old friends in the VSO office glad to see me back safely. Then a tussle with the internet where I tried to email a document to my counterpart having had the very busy week back at work familiar to all those who've recently holidayed. I lost. However I did win in terms of getting a nice coffee and a couple of books from the library which, whilst less professional and world changing, is actually more fun.
The workshop was scheduled to last the morning. It began with a VSO video, several ex-volunteer talking heads on what leaving was like. VSO loves a talking heads video; we'd seen a lot in our pre-placement -training. There's a man who lived in hearing distance of roaring lions in most of them, so it was strange not to see him in this one. However we heard about having not enough time for the paperwork, considered opinions on leaving parties and listened to tales of resettling at home. Then we discussed the practical steps needed (quite a lot of forms and meetings, so there's a record of what happened) and raised concerns, most of which were about sustainability of our work. We also covered what we'd miss, which seems to be the children greeting and dancing with us, the responsibility at work, the camaraderie of the volunteer corps and, for some, the weather. Unsurprisingly the limited choice of beer and food or milk powder didn't feature.
The discussion about our impact as volunteers was more fraught. To be a VSO is to be a catalyst in a society, creating changes. When a stone is thrown into a lake the ripples spread out from the point it entered, stirring even stagnant water. The effects become wider but more shallow the future away from the volunteer they are. It's the image of a VSO. But how does it feel to be the stone? You splash into the water but quickly hit the bottom, unaware of the ripples left above, the oxygen mixed through the liquid as you passed briefly through. A programme planned to change a system takes time. It's a slow process and can take thirty years with a different volunteer each year. We are like these stones. And as people who, as the old cliche would have it, want to change the world, feeling that you had a small impact is often not enough. You created a ripple, but you wanted the whole nature of the pool to alter to your vision. Of course that's the point of the model, it's not your vision, it's the people of the country who just call on your expertise for a short while to achieve their own aims. But even knowing all that, it's not easy.
Although I still feel new I decided to use the opportunity as intended; to actually reflect on leaving and how I'll feel. I was surprised that I am pretty emotional about it. But I am. I have friends here who, after I go, I am unlikely to ever see or hear of again. Yet now I see them everyday. They visit when I'm sick, call just to greet me (and I'm really bad at rendering to return that favour), laugh at me dancing, and send wishes of love to my family in the UK. I will never know what grades Mam Jarra gets, whether Marie Louise gains another godchild, if Sena's building business grows, if Paulina and Nicolas have another baby, won't go to Katy's wedding. And I know where and how they live and that outcomes are not always good.
And so, there were lots of questions I asked myself, about leaving well and about what next in terms of work and life. By the end of the workshop I had a fully expanding mind map, thought provoking ideas surrounded by clouds, plans in the future linked to actions I can take now. But the biggest realisation was that I often hang back from joining in or engaging with people here, scared of causing offence or becoming embroiled in a situation I don't really understand and therefore can't control. I worry that I'll hurt people when I leave if we spend to much time together. But perhaps the opposite is true. This is the one moment in the history of all space and time that I have with these people. At the bottom of the mind map I wrote "your time here is short. Use it well.". I hope I do.
Tuesday 20 August 2013
Mangee xontan (I'm happy (possibly))
As I flew over Gambia the dawn light revealed a change. It was green, houses nestled in grass and starkly contrasting my arrival in March. Leaving the plane the country smelt fresh and clean, the pre-dawn air still cool and damp. The familiar landscape all the way home was now carpeted in a foot high layer of plants, ground nuts, maize and grass identifiable alongside the plants I think are peppers and aubergine (these having frequently failed in my own gardening). I was struck that this is a great time to visit the Gambia, made potentially better because the tourist season is closed so it's also relatively calm and quiet.
Arriving at home I found a house of stale overheated air, made more unpleasant by a mouldy pan left on the stove. The cockroaches has again claimed the fridge and cupboards. Opening all the windows and doors I dealt with the pan and unpacked. I was bone tired and longingly considered a few minutes sleep. However, having committed to 10am mass for the feast of the assumption, instead I unpacked, reordered shelves and remade the bed with sheets from my grandparents. I then showered, dressed, with a false start as I remembered mosquito repellant and sun cream too late, and walked to church.
It's safe to say I was very sleepy. I'm reasonably sure I missed something in the point of the sermon as it seemed to be about how Mary always made sure Jesus was well dressed and that was the purpose of motherhood which is theologically unproven at best. However, I was struggling to keep my eyes open so the chance of missing something or indeed dreaming the whole thing is quite high. Still, I handed a very pleased choir president the music books sent by my mother and some fudge from the wedding which I'm not sure is a very Gambian taste.
As I drove to the Mendy's house for a feast day celebration I knew I couldn't think enough to follow the language or any names but felt very happy to be back. I spent most of the afternoon asleep as Francine loaned me her bed, then took some sweet wine and sour meat and rice. Sang Gaye asked if I'd missed this food. I really had, though was full before the sheep's head was brought out.
The end of the evening involved a trip to Banjul, a scarily white Mary presiding over the cathedral and a march round the town trying to get a ride home. By the time I reached my home I had also had, from three men I'd just met, two declarations of love and two proposals of marriage. As one of the guys asked why I was laughing I answered "I get a proposal at least once a week" but he still thought his was the most serious and was baffled as to why I wouldn't accept it.
As I fell asleep, for the next thirteen hours as it turned out, I smiled again to myself. In one day I'd had three propositions, shared bowls of food, experienced unquestioned hospitality and struggled to get by in a different language but really enjoying trying. I was certainly back in The Gambia.
Arriving at home I found a house of stale overheated air, made more unpleasant by a mouldy pan left on the stove. The cockroaches has again claimed the fridge and cupboards. Opening all the windows and doors I dealt with the pan and unpacked. I was bone tired and longingly considered a few minutes sleep. However, having committed to 10am mass for the feast of the assumption, instead I unpacked, reordered shelves and remade the bed with sheets from my grandparents. I then showered, dressed, with a false start as I remembered mosquito repellant and sun cream too late, and walked to church.
It's safe to say I was very sleepy. I'm reasonably sure I missed something in the point of the sermon as it seemed to be about how Mary always made sure Jesus was well dressed and that was the purpose of motherhood which is theologically unproven at best. However, I was struggling to keep my eyes open so the chance of missing something or indeed dreaming the whole thing is quite high. Still, I handed a very pleased choir president the music books sent by my mother and some fudge from the wedding which I'm not sure is a very Gambian taste.
As I drove to the Mendy's house for a feast day celebration I knew I couldn't think enough to follow the language or any names but felt very happy to be back. I spent most of the afternoon asleep as Francine loaned me her bed, then took some sweet wine and sour meat and rice. Sang Gaye asked if I'd missed this food. I really had, though was full before the sheep's head was brought out.
The end of the evening involved a trip to Banjul, a scarily white Mary presiding over the cathedral and a march round the town trying to get a ride home. By the time I reached my home I had also had, from three men I'd just met, two declarations of love and two proposals of marriage. As one of the guys asked why I was laughing I answered "I get a proposal at least once a week" but he still thought his was the most serious and was baffled as to why I wouldn't accept it.
As I fell asleep, for the next thirteen hours as it turned out, I smiled again to myself. In one day I'd had three propositions, shared bowls of food, experienced unquestioned hospitality and struggled to get by in a different language but really enjoying trying. I was certainly back in The Gambia.
A holiday in my own life
And so I'm going back to The Gambia. Weirdly there are lots of elements of daily life I can't clearly remember. What is it to have a cold shower everyday and will it take time to get used to it? How muddy will the roads be? How do I make varied meals with limited ingredients? What does Julbrew actually taste like? What is work and how do I do it? Is being hissed at or propositioned that regularly really as annoying as I vaguely remember?
Whenyouwriteasentenceyouincludespacestohelpitmakesense. Or rather, when you write a sentence you include spaces to help it make sense. This holiday has been such a space. Gone were the long walks provoking introspection, the desire to hole up under a mosquito net, the continual sense of accidentally offending someone as cultures collide, the checking every sentence for British English idioms that don't translate to West African English, needing to spell out each thought because the hints used at home don't work and knowing I am also misreading those hints from new friends, the need to back fill information to new friends in each story.
For three weeks I have had instead barely a free moment, luxurious beds providing the deepest sleep of the year, other people's stories unfolding that, on my return, I too will be a part of. I have argued about who gets to pay for comedy clubs, drinks, dinner, cocktails and transport. I have played with children who aren't equally terrified of and intrigued by my skin colour or "cat eyes". I have had my make up professionally done and blow dried my hair, as well as drank many pints in old man pubs with my favourite oldmanpub company, mum, Mags, Helen, Chris and Lizzie. I've walked into art in the shape of a big blue cockerel* (is it a comment on Boris?) and in landscaped gardens picnicking with Kath and Aodhan. I've caught up on politics, bikes and swapped advice with Irene. I've taken a turn around a lido and eaten roast dinner with Anna, opulently opting for ice cream. Kate, Al and I have laughed at realising that for the first time we're all currently both committed to employment but actually unwaged. I've depleted Suzi's wine stock and been reminded what it is to renovate a house, been escorted round supermarkets to get provisions I now know will make a difference to daily life. I've eaten with my family and enjoyed hearing details of their lives, singing old songs and swapping stories. I've seen good friends marry and danced dramatically in a castle, having a perfume fight as if we were teenagers once again. I've missed seeing two particular families but spoken to them and shared woe, work, worries and joys. I've travelled around England and I have laughed and cried with those people I love, advised and been advised, sung and been spoiled.
In short I have had a holiday in my own life. It has been busy and a slightly condensed version of what I usually do as I didn't have to fit work in. And through that I have realised that I love my life, the friendships we have built and the family I live in. Through the break in life in Gambia and the space to stop thinking and analysing decisions have crystallised and I have a sense of purpose and direction again. I'm so excited about it that working hard in Gambia will be the only way to distract from being only at the very beginning of a long path. I am back to myself. As was observed "I know you're better, your ranting about important things rather than things which don't matter".
Gambia, see you very soon. It'll be lovely and fun and busy. I'll make a hundred mistakes and get cross for no apparent reason. I'll rant occasionally and continue my reputation for being "a bit horrible". I'll find parties and evenings and spend time on the beach and think hard about what I can concoct in the kitchen. I'll ask whoever's around most questions in my head, and will work hard to share those skills I have at a pace which suits us both. We'll explore more ideas, paths and possibilities. UK, thank you for my space to think.
* never go for a pun that's that easy
Whenyouwriteasentenceyouincludespacestohelpitmakesense. Or rather, when you write a sentence you include spaces to help it make sense. This holiday has been such a space. Gone were the long walks provoking introspection, the desire to hole up under a mosquito net, the continual sense of accidentally offending someone as cultures collide, the checking every sentence for British English idioms that don't translate to West African English, needing to spell out each thought because the hints used at home don't work and knowing I am also misreading those hints from new friends, the need to back fill information to new friends in each story.
For three weeks I have had instead barely a free moment, luxurious beds providing the deepest sleep of the year, other people's stories unfolding that, on my return, I too will be a part of. I have argued about who gets to pay for comedy clubs, drinks, dinner, cocktails and transport. I have played with children who aren't equally terrified of and intrigued by my skin colour or "cat eyes". I have had my make up professionally done and blow dried my hair, as well as drank many pints in old man pubs with my favourite oldmanpub company, mum, Mags, Helen, Chris and Lizzie. I've walked into art in the shape of a big blue cockerel* (is it a comment on Boris?) and in landscaped gardens picnicking with Kath and Aodhan. I've caught up on politics, bikes and swapped advice with Irene. I've taken a turn around a lido and eaten roast dinner with Anna, opulently opting for ice cream. Kate, Al and I have laughed at realising that for the first time we're all currently both committed to employment but actually unwaged. I've depleted Suzi's wine stock and been reminded what it is to renovate a house, been escorted round supermarkets to get provisions I now know will make a difference to daily life. I've eaten with my family and enjoyed hearing details of their lives, singing old songs and swapping stories. I've seen good friends marry and danced dramatically in a castle, having a perfume fight as if we were teenagers once again. I've missed seeing two particular families but spoken to them and shared woe, work, worries and joys. I've travelled around England and I have laughed and cried with those people I love, advised and been advised, sung and been spoiled.
In short I have had a holiday in my own life. It has been busy and a slightly condensed version of what I usually do as I didn't have to fit work in. And through that I have realised that I love my life, the friendships we have built and the family I live in. Through the break in life in Gambia and the space to stop thinking and analysing decisions have crystallised and I have a sense of purpose and direction again. I'm so excited about it that working hard in Gambia will be the only way to distract from being only at the very beginning of a long path. I am back to myself. As was observed "I know you're better, your ranting about important things rather than things which don't matter".
Gambia, see you very soon. It'll be lovely and fun and busy. I'll make a hundred mistakes and get cross for no apparent reason. I'll rant occasionally and continue my reputation for being "a bit horrible". I'll find parties and evenings and spend time on the beach and think hard about what I can concoct in the kitchen. I'll ask whoever's around most questions in my head, and will work hard to share those skills I have at a pace which suits us both. We'll explore more ideas, paths and possibilities. UK, thank you for my space to think.
* never go for a pun that's that easy
On the occasion of two good friends marrying
When I moved to London ten years ago I fell into a great group of mates. We worked in parliament and had days spent deciding which restaurant to have lunch in and which bar to visit after work, as well as party meetings, writing speeches and suggesting solutions to issues raised in constituent letters. Over time this group provided my housemates in the form of The Flat of Doom, and with Chris, Ric and Gareth I would explore the various delights of south east London. Through it all was Rosalind, Chris's long term girlfriend. Later, when my work moved west, Ros became my housemate. Both flats were some of the best; housemates who cared for each other, who enjoyed each others company, who are genuine friends and who cooked together. I like to imagine my "ah, let's just use champagne for this risotto" equalled the regular joy as Ros texted to see if I'd be home for tea and fancied cheese pasta. Frankly someone who thinks using champagne for risotto is a great idea is my kind of woman.
Chris and Ros are exactly the kind of couple that it's a joy to be friends with. They obviously love each other deeply and worry about how the other is with the kind of care you always want a mate's partner to show. Yet a single person will not feel isolated in their company. There will always be ideas for activities, shared jokes and stories and that excitement that comes with good friends. When they face troubles they work hard to solve them together, even when that itself is hard. Many happy years have been spent in the company of either and both of them. The main fraught point between them could be summed up in the word " marriage".
On their ten year anniversary Chris planned a trip down memory lane, visiting sites they've loved and made memories in. Culminating in Central Lobby of the Mother of All Parliaments he produced a ring and asked her to marry him. Which was lovely and she said yes.
On a standard evening in an old haunt when they asked me to be their bridesmaid I was totally shocked. I actually fell off the chair. They are great friends but like all lovely people their list of friends is long. However, they had honourably decided to ensure that as many people they care about as possible had a role. Later that day I assured Ros I'd do very little organisation and mainly see the bridesmaid role as making inappropriate jokes and opening champagne for breakfast on the day of the wedding. Apparently this was fine.
All this was agreed before I travelled. Many advised me not to come back and I deliberated heavily. Then the thought struck me "if I were getting married on another continent Ros and Chris wouldn't ask 'should we go?' but 'how do we get there?'". And coming back was the greatest decision I've made since deciding to do VSO in the first place.
Dresses fitted over the internet require a little adjustment and shopping for underwear and shoes with my enormous back pack, so big it needs its own chair and is therefore anthropomorphised into Alan, was not the happiest I've ever been. And I then travelled the country without seeing the people at the reason of my holiday until the wedding rehearsal which was strange.
The rehearsal came with a reunion of old friends and friends of friends long missed as cameo players in each other's lives. As the only bridesmaid and naturally being a bit bossy I remembered our steps to pass on to the others. We hit the local pub, restaurant and the late night spots of the exotically named Chester-le-Street. My stories of life in The Gambia became perhaps a little incoherent but it was Chris's night, his close friends (except Ros) sharing old jokes and tales.
After a pedicure Flute Helen and I met the Mother of the Bride. Despite my early protestations about organisation I had been asked to find flowers for hair. We traipsed the market, eventually digging some up from a neglected haberdashers and Brenda suggested a tea in the sunshine of Durham Cathedral Square. This segued into meeting everyone in the pub and early-ish nights all round.
Wedding day dawned. Having woken early I jumped on a train to Chester. Me and many, many cricket fans in the way to the Ashes. Handily this meant the road to Ros (in her grandad in law's house) was lined with ushers. Make up, deciding hairstyles and, of course, opening champagne followed. Perhaps unusually for a wedding morning activity the Northern bridesmaids had to explain the concept of a Corned Beef Pie to those of the south. I took the "maid" idea to heart, removing tags, unpicking labels and pinning in dresses. We then practiced walking in so that it was totally seamless and I stole some safety pins from next door, to go in my pocket with some tissues. That's right folks, a dress with pockets.
Arriving at the church Ros looked radiant. Friends peeped out from the pews and the wedding was underway. I sang loudly and frankly a little sharp, Ros and Chris swapped vows and rings and confirmed it all in law. Flute Helen played a hauntingly romantic piece with confident passion and Lisa read a poem comparing Ros to a skoda which made everyone laugh.
The church was visible from the reception at Lumley Castle. The ushers ushed and everyone drank, toasted and chatted. We took our seats for dinner, casting our votes for first dance as we did so. Well how else would such a couple decide the music? The speeches were perfect. Brenda pitched hers to give a background to the embarrassing moment of Ros's childhood. Chris, who I weirdly have never heard speak in public, was a natural, his lilting tone and steady balance between confident respectful teasing and kind information keeping all in the room happy. I was identified as the most travelled guest and thus named "Gambia Helen" which, as there were at least four attendant Helens, was a necessary title. Victoria as the Best Woman presented a hilarious PowerPoint, the pictures also aptly showing how much Ros loves Chris as she looks on adoringly at his zombiefied face on a tube. The closing sentiment that "these are two of my very best friends and I'm looking forward to the future with them" was palpably felt throughout the room.
Disco, drinking and dancing in political masks followed. Everyone was excited that I had pockets, demonstrating that if the ability to carry my own stuff is such a novelty maybe feminism still has a way to go. If Cinderella was allowed to wear a watch and had pockets I think that story might end much better with her having a lovely life running round the world. Still, as an added bonus, the evening was spent pogoing to mid-90s music in a strapless dress that didn't fall down, avoiding bring sprayed with a particularly sugary perfume and explaining my VSO placement by saying "you know the Pulp song 'Common People'? It's that, and I'm the girl". Ros and Chris both looked radiant and content, secure in their joy at taking the first step in a new chapter.
Still, for that chapter to start the wedding must end. As I shared hugs with both Chris and Ros I knew that it was the last of such a moment for a long time. Trotting down the steps like a forlorn but self sufficient Cinderella a few tears escaped from my eyes. It will be next year before I see these good friends again. And what a night of storytelling that will be.
Photos by Berresford, Chadwick, Longworth
Chris and Ros are exactly the kind of couple that it's a joy to be friends with. They obviously love each other deeply and worry about how the other is with the kind of care you always want a mate's partner to show. Yet a single person will not feel isolated in their company. There will always be ideas for activities, shared jokes and stories and that excitement that comes with good friends. When they face troubles they work hard to solve them together, even when that itself is hard. Many happy years have been spent in the company of either and both of them. The main fraught point between them could be summed up in the word " marriage".
On their ten year anniversary Chris planned a trip down memory lane, visiting sites they've loved and made memories in. Culminating in Central Lobby of the Mother of All Parliaments he produced a ring and asked her to marry him. Which was lovely and she said yes.
On a standard evening in an old haunt when they asked me to be their bridesmaid I was totally shocked. I actually fell off the chair. They are great friends but like all lovely people their list of friends is long. However, they had honourably decided to ensure that as many people they care about as possible had a role. Later that day I assured Ros I'd do very little organisation and mainly see the bridesmaid role as making inappropriate jokes and opening champagne for breakfast on the day of the wedding. Apparently this was fine.
All this was agreed before I travelled. Many advised me not to come back and I deliberated heavily. Then the thought struck me "if I were getting married on another continent Ros and Chris wouldn't ask 'should we go?' but 'how do we get there?'". And coming back was the greatest decision I've made since deciding to do VSO in the first place.
Dresses fitted over the internet require a little adjustment and shopping for underwear and shoes with my enormous back pack, so big it needs its own chair and is therefore anthropomorphised into Alan, was not the happiest I've ever been. And I then travelled the country without seeing the people at the reason of my holiday until the wedding rehearsal which was strange.
The rehearsal came with a reunion of old friends and friends of friends long missed as cameo players in each other's lives. As the only bridesmaid and naturally being a bit bossy I remembered our steps to pass on to the others. We hit the local pub, restaurant and the late night spots of the exotically named Chester-le-Street. My stories of life in The Gambia became perhaps a little incoherent but it was Chris's night, his close friends (except Ros) sharing old jokes and tales.
After a pedicure Flute Helen and I met the Mother of the Bride. Despite my early protestations about organisation I had been asked to find flowers for hair. We traipsed the market, eventually digging some up from a neglected haberdashers and Brenda suggested a tea in the sunshine of Durham Cathedral Square. This segued into meeting everyone in the pub and early-ish nights all round.
Wedding day dawned. Having woken early I jumped on a train to Chester. Me and many, many cricket fans in the way to the Ashes. Handily this meant the road to Ros (in her grandad in law's house) was lined with ushers. Make up, deciding hairstyles and, of course, opening champagne followed. Perhaps unusually for a wedding morning activity the Northern bridesmaids had to explain the concept of a Corned Beef Pie to those of the south. I took the "maid" idea to heart, removing tags, unpicking labels and pinning in dresses. We then practiced walking in so that it was totally seamless and I stole some safety pins from next door, to go in my pocket with some tissues. That's right folks, a dress with pockets.
Arriving at the church Ros looked radiant. Friends peeped out from the pews and the wedding was underway. I sang loudly and frankly a little sharp, Ros and Chris swapped vows and rings and confirmed it all in law. Flute Helen played a hauntingly romantic piece with confident passion and Lisa read a poem comparing Ros to a skoda which made everyone laugh.
The church was visible from the reception at Lumley Castle. The ushers ushed and everyone drank, toasted and chatted. We took our seats for dinner, casting our votes for first dance as we did so. Well how else would such a couple decide the music? The speeches were perfect. Brenda pitched hers to give a background to the embarrassing moment of Ros's childhood. Chris, who I weirdly have never heard speak in public, was a natural, his lilting tone and steady balance between confident respectful teasing and kind information keeping all in the room happy. I was identified as the most travelled guest and thus named "Gambia Helen" which, as there were at least four attendant Helens, was a necessary title. Victoria as the Best Woman presented a hilarious PowerPoint, the pictures also aptly showing how much Ros loves Chris as she looks on adoringly at his zombiefied face on a tube. The closing sentiment that "these are two of my very best friends and I'm looking forward to the future with them" was palpably felt throughout the room.
Disco, drinking and dancing in political masks followed. Everyone was excited that I had pockets, demonstrating that if the ability to carry my own stuff is such a novelty maybe feminism still has a way to go. If Cinderella was allowed to wear a watch and had pockets I think that story might end much better with her having a lovely life running round the world. Still, as an added bonus, the evening was spent pogoing to mid-90s music in a strapless dress that didn't fall down, avoiding bring sprayed with a particularly sugary perfume and explaining my VSO placement by saying "you know the Pulp song 'Common People'? It's that, and I'm the girl". Ros and Chris both looked radiant and content, secure in their joy at taking the first step in a new chapter.
Still, for that chapter to start the wedding must end. As I shared hugs with both Chris and Ros I knew that it was the last of such a moment for a long time. Trotting down the steps like a forlorn but self sufficient Cinderella a few tears escaped from my eyes. It will be next year before I see these good friends again. And what a night of storytelling that will be.
Photos by Berresford, Chadwick, Longworth
Monday 19 August 2013
Open Arms
The following day brought a walk about with Irene, a nice lunch in China town and a trip to Knutsford to make tarte tatin and listen to divine music with James before a dinner with my Dad. Dad's meal was targeted to hit long forgotten taste buds with chilled rose wine, trout and leeks reminding me of why this is one of my favourite meals. The company of family and catching up on news at the table I grew up at was delightful as ever. Waving at the neighbours peeping in though was apparently "weird".
Several weeks earlier I'd been texting my family. The subject of carbonara came up. I thought that was a year idea then remembered that cheese, cream, bacon and mushrooms are pretty tricky to find and would be left with pasta covered in egg yolk. However, Mags makes an awesome carbonara so, after a pint of ale in a sunny square, we had a night in. Margaret is a passionate and talented cook. As a friend recently commented "what other 13 year old makes souffles?" So it's easy to drop the line "oh, we should've bought pudding" and ten minutes later she's worrying that a chocolate souffle might drop too quickly. Which it never does.
On Friday Manchester was holding its idyllic blue skies with fluffy clouds, temperatures dropping and rising as the shade patterns rippled across the landscape. Katharine had the day off and we decided to have a picnic, including the delightful Aodhan who's also an ex-Mancunian seeking the joys of home. What the Edwardians did for us of course includes green space dotted throughout towns. Nestled in a landscaped valley places in the streets of Didsbury we found a spot for a picnic of pork pies, crisps, lashings of beer and whiled away the hours in tales of music and education and changing lives. My craving for the discipline, complex vocals and epic scores of European music still exists but at least I'm a bit more up to speed on the gossip.
Excitingly my old school chum Peadar got in touch to see if we could meet up whilst I was over. So the evening began with a wine bar by the Cathedral in the warm setting sun, making Manchester's red bricks glow. Weirdly we ordered a Riesling but received a Viognier. Choice of wine being a little novel and being an old favourite anyway I didn't care. Ale and a steak sandwich followed then everyone went home. Mags, a couple of her mates and I decided to play pool instead of sleeping, then ended up in a karaoke bar. Again Peadar proved his metal as a mate by coming back out when he realised the bar was just by his house. As teenagers this was a night we would have described as random.
Saturday was scheduled to see Gran and Grandad. As ever the spread was lavish and various family members popped in for stories and cuddles. My grandparents are lovely and tell many stories of our history. This time grandad was explaining how they used to run the family budget in cigar boxes. I think my little book of planned spending and regular tallies is easier. Apparently gran wasn't very impressed with the cigar box system either. Still, I think I get my story telling from them and am very pleased they are now online so can read this blog.
Most of my family are storytellers but I was yet to hear the tale of Mags' recent trip to South America. So we holed up in a favourite old pub with half pints of Guinness and went through the photos. Hearing tales of new food tried, jumping on salt flats, opinions on the Incas and crowded favelas explored gives a good back drop to stout and I've missed many tales of home. The following day would bring the Walkuffellows and days with old friends, and chance to look from this year's tales to the upcoming adventures for us all.
Several weeks earlier I'd been texting my family. The subject of carbonara came up. I thought that was a year idea then remembered that cheese, cream, bacon and mushrooms are pretty tricky to find and would be left with pasta covered in egg yolk. However, Mags makes an awesome carbonara so, after a pint of ale in a sunny square, we had a night in. Margaret is a passionate and talented cook. As a friend recently commented "what other 13 year old makes souffles?" So it's easy to drop the line "oh, we should've bought pudding" and ten minutes later she's worrying that a chocolate souffle might drop too quickly. Which it never does.
On Friday Manchester was holding its idyllic blue skies with fluffy clouds, temperatures dropping and rising as the shade patterns rippled across the landscape. Katharine had the day off and we decided to have a picnic, including the delightful Aodhan who's also an ex-Mancunian seeking the joys of home. What the Edwardians did for us of course includes green space dotted throughout towns. Nestled in a landscaped valley places in the streets of Didsbury we found a spot for a picnic of pork pies, crisps, lashings of beer and whiled away the hours in tales of music and education and changing lives. My craving for the discipline, complex vocals and epic scores of European music still exists but at least I'm a bit more up to speed on the gossip.
Excitingly my old school chum Peadar got in touch to see if we could meet up whilst I was over. So the evening began with a wine bar by the Cathedral in the warm setting sun, making Manchester's red bricks glow. Weirdly we ordered a Riesling but received a Viognier. Choice of wine being a little novel and being an old favourite anyway I didn't care. Ale and a steak sandwich followed then everyone went home. Mags, a couple of her mates and I decided to play pool instead of sleeping, then ended up in a karaoke bar. Again Peadar proved his metal as a mate by coming back out when he realised the bar was just by his house. As teenagers this was a night we would have described as random.
Saturday was scheduled to see Gran and Grandad. As ever the spread was lavish and various family members popped in for stories and cuddles. My grandparents are lovely and tell many stories of our history. This time grandad was explaining how they used to run the family budget in cigar boxes. I think my little book of planned spending and regular tallies is easier. Apparently gran wasn't very impressed with the cigar box system either. Still, I think I get my story telling from them and am very pleased they are now online so can read this blog.
Most of my family are storytellers but I was yet to hear the tale of Mags' recent trip to South America. So we holed up in a favourite old pub with half pints of Guinness and went through the photos. Hearing tales of new food tried, jumping on salt flats, opinions on the Incas and crowded favelas explored gives a good back drop to stout and I've missed many tales of home. The following day would bring the Walkuffellows and days with old friends, and chance to look from this year's tales to the upcoming adventures for us all.
Welcome to Manchester
When I started university it rained for over 40 days without stopping. This was standard weather. However, on open days Swansea would greet prospective students with glorious sunshine, sparkling seas and rolling green surroundings. Sometimes the rainy towns know how to put on a good show. And so, following suit, Manchester has been doing its best to entice me home.
I arrived in the town after a brief trip to see my grandparents to root me as ever back to the North West. Back pack making me "look very muggable"according to Irene, I went to the town hall to complete the sisterly reunions. Mags allowed me to leave the bag with her and I went shoe shopping, for about ten minutes until Irene showed up presenting a more enjoyable option for the day. The sky was blue and we ex-mancs found a steamy coffee shop, meringue cake and tap water on, well, tap. Old friends joined us to share news, make plans and swap stories. Lizzy, James and I have now gone over the "friends for over half our lives" threshold so giving me the easy company of solid friendship that I was beginning to crave.
Coffee was shared and company changed. It has become a tradition with my sisters to hold a "fake" Christmas if there's any reason we aren't together on the day. This started after our parents' divorce when the phrase "going home for Christmas" suddenly raised more questions than it answered. As we have long since lived in different towns it has become a fixture for most years. It normally involves a nice meal and four Longworth sisters enjoying our company without stress or blame on any side. So Tuesday was Christmas.
The Aumbry in Prestwich was our host. This tiny restaurant in the suburbs where we grew up is decorated in white and gold. Cutlery sparkles on the tables and glasses shine as they catch reflections of candles and tea roses. Margaret then provided further seasonal decorations to our table with tinsel and lights, coordinating Christmas hats and tiny silver crackers. Wearing paper crowns in July did raise a few questions and a debate among the staff about whether they wanted to put a bit of Christmas music on in the back ground. Having already sunk aperitifs backed by Crosby and Bowie and sung our Christmas song we were happy enough without.
Taking the chance to sample the taster menu we were served cheese puffs with crispy pastry that seemed to be filled with Primula, then a take on the Bury Market snack of black beans with vinegar, here deep fried. The taste was of our childhoods growing up here and set up the black pudding scotch egg with ketchup which followed well. Irene's gluten intolerance was no problem apart from us stealing pieces of the cornbread off her plate.
Goat ham inspired groans of "does that taste familiar?" whilst I mentioned again that "I'm just back from The Gambia" and the kale accompanying the beef was the taste of dark green vegetable I dream about whenever potato leaves hit the hob at home. I very almost asked for more. The only disappointment for me was that I had to share around my glass of the Chardonnay served with foamy mushroom soup because I famously don't like it. Otherwise we swapped presents, stories and thoughts, relaxed in our familiarity and with good food to help. The final plate of petits fours had a cheerful Merry Christmas scrawled across it.
Arriving home in a taxi that seemed ridiculously cheap, we laughingly regaled the streets with Christmas cheer. As I ran up the stairs to Margaret's flat my shoe, a smart thirties style beige sandal that I wear everyday due to its ability to cope with walking and looking professional, fell apart. The ankle strap hung on leaving the sole to slap forlornly against my foot in a jerking rhythm. Still, as I attempted to time the slapping sounds with various carols, the Christmas spirit of making the best of life and sharing love and generosity was accompanied by a broken shoe.
I arrived in the town after a brief trip to see my grandparents to root me as ever back to the North West. Back pack making me "look very muggable"according to Irene, I went to the town hall to complete the sisterly reunions. Mags allowed me to leave the bag with her and I went shoe shopping, for about ten minutes until Irene showed up presenting a more enjoyable option for the day. The sky was blue and we ex-mancs found a steamy coffee shop, meringue cake and tap water on, well, tap. Old friends joined us to share news, make plans and swap stories. Lizzy, James and I have now gone over the "friends for over half our lives" threshold so giving me the easy company of solid friendship that I was beginning to crave.
Coffee was shared and company changed. It has become a tradition with my sisters to hold a "fake" Christmas if there's any reason we aren't together on the day. This started after our parents' divorce when the phrase "going home for Christmas" suddenly raised more questions than it answered. As we have long since lived in different towns it has become a fixture for most years. It normally involves a nice meal and four Longworth sisters enjoying our company without stress or blame on any side. So Tuesday was Christmas.
The Aumbry in Prestwich was our host. This tiny restaurant in the suburbs where we grew up is decorated in white and gold. Cutlery sparkles on the tables and glasses shine as they catch reflections of candles and tea roses. Margaret then provided further seasonal decorations to our table with tinsel and lights, coordinating Christmas hats and tiny silver crackers. Wearing paper crowns in July did raise a few questions and a debate among the staff about whether they wanted to put a bit of Christmas music on in the back ground. Having already sunk aperitifs backed by Crosby and Bowie and sung our Christmas song we were happy enough without.
Taking the chance to sample the taster menu we were served cheese puffs with crispy pastry that seemed to be filled with Primula, then a take on the Bury Market snack of black beans with vinegar, here deep fried. The taste was of our childhoods growing up here and set up the black pudding scotch egg with ketchup which followed well. Irene's gluten intolerance was no problem apart from us stealing pieces of the cornbread off her plate.
Goat ham inspired groans of "does that taste familiar?" whilst I mentioned again that "I'm just back from The Gambia" and the kale accompanying the beef was the taste of dark green vegetable I dream about whenever potato leaves hit the hob at home. I very almost asked for more. The only disappointment for me was that I had to share around my glass of the Chardonnay served with foamy mushroom soup because I famously don't like it. Otherwise we swapped presents, stories and thoughts, relaxed in our familiarity and with good food to help. The final plate of petits fours had a cheerful Merry Christmas scrawled across it.
Arriving home in a taxi that seemed ridiculously cheap, we laughingly regaled the streets with Christmas cheer. As I ran up the stairs to Margaret's flat my shoe, a smart thirties style beige sandal that I wear everyday due to its ability to cope with walking and looking professional, fell apart. The ankle strap hung on leaving the sole to slap forlornly against my foot in a jerking rhythm. Still, as I attempted to time the slapping sounds with various carols, the Christmas spirit of making the best of life and sharing love and generosity was accompanied by a broken shoe.
Sunday 28 July 2013
Play me, I'm yours
On Wednesday I flew back to the UK for a holiday. The flight was very pleasant with good company and a comfortable plane. For five months I've been making new friends so it was a delight to see an long time companion Suzi at Gatwick. One night's sleep later and I had a hot shower, some nice wine and a day in the easy, chattery company of old friends who've been missed for too long. Plus the exotic flavour of strawberry in both ice cream and jam form.
A pleasant evening in London brought the first meeting with a family member as I went to meet Irene as she finished work. Slightly early I had the chance to mooch around an exhibition on Lambeth life, watch a bit of street dance, another exhibit about the Beano, wander through the artisan food stalls, get outraged at the planned closure of the south bank skate park which is an icon of participatory youth work (i.e. they just did it - look at longlivesouthbank.com) and browse a few books. I've missed this part of my culture, the art and vibrancy of London streets. Overlooking it all from Irene's restaurant with a tasty margarita was wonderful, as was being able to inflict my logorrhoea not only on Irene but also on Lizzie and Emma.
Saturday came and, after a few essential tasks and a bowl of katsu don (London's diverse cuisine is also highly appreciated), it was time to wend my way to find my mother. Paranoid about time, I had two hours to spare in St Pancras. And now London culture rescued me once again. There are a number of pianos across town where any one can sit and play. Avoiding the coffee shops and high-end-high-street pseudo-retro kitsch browsing opportunities I dropped my rucksack and perched by the piano. I heard tunes from musicals and movies, two men meeting and experimenting with a blues duet, jazz improvisations of Beatles classics and current chart hits. Then one man played my mum's tune, Moonlight Sonata.
Two hours passed and my rucksack and I rejoined, bought a coffee and joined the train. Gold and green rolling hills are streaming past the window in an English chequerboard. Grey clouds float over white and the late sun glows dimly through as patched horses eat a supper of grass. I appreciate my British identity, the general acceptance of difference (usually), the eccentricity, the landscape and climate that has inspired generations to work for or discover something and occasionally to sit inside when it rains. As usual I am also aware of how much I enjoy being the outsider, the unusual, the independent woman in a new situation. And how that influences the way I am enjoying living in The Gambia. But today my country played music for me, music I have missed despite the playlists carried with me; it gave me flavours of lands far and near and cheerful serving staff who's diversity echoes the food; it spattered me with rain but not too much; it of course asked me to run into a level of bureaucracy I've forgotten and forced me to remember how to win people round. And it has given me what I was craving most, the substantial company of old friends, real and serious conversations that only come with time, and new jokes made with my sisters. And, right now, I'm going to see my lovely mum.
A pleasant evening in London brought the first meeting with a family member as I went to meet Irene as she finished work. Slightly early I had the chance to mooch around an exhibition on Lambeth life, watch a bit of street dance, another exhibit about the Beano, wander through the artisan food stalls, get outraged at the planned closure of the south bank skate park which is an icon of participatory youth work (i.e. they just did it - look at longlivesouthbank.com) and browse a few books. I've missed this part of my culture, the art and vibrancy of London streets. Overlooking it all from Irene's restaurant with a tasty margarita was wonderful, as was being able to inflict my logorrhoea not only on Irene but also on Lizzie and Emma.
Saturday came and, after a few essential tasks and a bowl of katsu don (London's diverse cuisine is also highly appreciated), it was time to wend my way to find my mother. Paranoid about time, I had two hours to spare in St Pancras. And now London culture rescued me once again. There are a number of pianos across town where any one can sit and play. Avoiding the coffee shops and high-end-high-street pseudo-retro kitsch browsing opportunities I dropped my rucksack and perched by the piano. I heard tunes from musicals and movies, two men meeting and experimenting with a blues duet, jazz improvisations of Beatles classics and current chart hits. Then one man played my mum's tune, Moonlight Sonata.
Two hours passed and my rucksack and I rejoined, bought a coffee and joined the train. Gold and green rolling hills are streaming past the window in an English chequerboard. Grey clouds float over white and the late sun glows dimly through as patched horses eat a supper of grass. I appreciate my British identity, the general acceptance of difference (usually), the eccentricity, the landscape and climate that has inspired generations to work for or discover something and occasionally to sit inside when it rains. As usual I am also aware of how much I enjoy being the outsider, the unusual, the independent woman in a new situation. And how that influences the way I am enjoying living in The Gambia. But today my country played music for me, music I have missed despite the playlists carried with me; it gave me flavours of lands far and near and cheerful serving staff who's diversity echoes the food; it spattered me with rain but not too much; it of course asked me to run into a level of bureaucracy I've forgotten and forced me to remember how to win people round. And it has given me what I was craving most, the substantial company of old friends, real and serious conversations that only come with time, and new jokes made with my sisters. And, right now, I'm going to see my lovely mum.
Saturday 27 July 2013
Through the triangle window
Our fellow VSO Julie is an engineer and is supporting the Gambian Technical Training Institute (GTTI) to develop their Higher National Diploma. As part of her work she has been arranging field trips for students so that they can see theory working in practice. Last Thursday she mentioned another of these trips would take place the following day, this time to Banjul Breweries. I asked to join in and so went along the following morning.
Banjul Breweries is a major landmark of my experience. They produce a lot of the soda I drink and of course Julbrew is the standard VSO tipple. The brewery is on my route to choir and I can smell the yeasty scent of brewing filling the warm evening air on a regular basis. Therefore the chance to have a trip around was too good to miss.
The chief engineer and electrical engineer took us around. They showed us the filling line, explaining and demonstrating the safety features. Bottled drinks come in glass which is returned and sterilised before being refilled. There's a date printer which sprays a bar code onto each bottle as it whizzes past, a person who takes out straws before washing and multiple points where defective bottles are checked and rejected.
The staff were fabulous, answering my questions with detail and interest, and keen to assist GTTI to make sure they have well prepared graduates to take on. The students laughed at me saying "at every point you always ask what solution or how could we use that?" but they were evidently fascinated and taking in so much information. At the end of the tour those of us not fasting were offered a drink and all of us invited to return to see the drinks being manufactured. I loved every minute.
Banjul Breweries is a major landmark of my experience. They produce a lot of the soda I drink and of course Julbrew is the standard VSO tipple. The brewery is on my route to choir and I can smell the yeasty scent of brewing filling the warm evening air on a regular basis. Therefore the chance to have a trip around was too good to miss.
The chief engineer and electrical engineer took us around. They showed us the filling line, explaining and demonstrating the safety features. Bottled drinks come in glass which is returned and sterilised before being refilled. There's a date printer which sprays a bar code onto each bottle as it whizzes past, a person who takes out straws before washing and multiple points where defective bottles are checked and rejected.
The staff were fabulous, answering my questions with detail and interest, and keen to assist GTTI to make sure they have well prepared graduates to take on. The students laughed at me saying "at every point you always ask what solution or how could we use that?" but they were evidently fascinated and taking in so much information. At the end of the tour those of us not fasting were offered a drink and all of us invited to return to see the drinks being manufactured. I loved every minute.
Tuesday 23 July 2013
The spring is sprung and the summer is sizzling
When the rain starts it begins with the spatter of tiny drops. These seem to form out of the air at random and at any height, rather than falling from a cloud above. After these first few droplets, the wind picks up and the thunder and lightening rattle through the sky for a while. Then a curtain of torrential rain whisks across the land.
There have been a few rains. These have been mostly overnight and in very short bursts but the water is beginning to collect in hollows in the road. And suddenly the pace if activity is frantic; as if the whole country has breathed deeply for the first time this year and is desperate to make use of this water.
I am accustomed to walking past patches of litter strewn scrubland on my way to work. Occasionally cows would be grazing on one of them but the land has been mainly populated by blackened palms and dried twigs snagged with black plastic bags and the occasional egret picking its way through old rotting refuse. I can judge my mood by seeing if I react by saying "oh what a lovely bird" or "urgh, what an awful mess".
Last week I was surprised. In the course of a single day the biggest of such patches had been cleared and turned ready for planting by women with hand held hoes. Now on every trip to work I see young girls turning the soil in neat rows while their mother follows scattering seed, another patch newly pristine with trees pruned to green leaves, land ready to be turned after the next rain, lime coloured shoots peeping through the earth soon to show their differing forms with a wealth of produce.
The mangos, for long dark and dusty bottle green, are now clashing with themselves by showing fresh leaves in fluorescent hues. The baobab has lost its characteristic look of bare roots reaching into the sky and now looks more like a horse chestnut with strange flowers dangling between the palmate leaves like broken maracas. Fruits are swelling rapidly, oranges have reappeared on the fruit stalls, the still-green grapefruits by my office window are hanging heavily and occasionally a pomegranate is caught silhouetted against the sky.
The insects have started to swarm. Strange flying maggot like creatures get their lacewing like wings caught
up in my hair and clothes as they beat desperately towards the church's fluorescent bulbs throughout our choir practices. I have found an amblypygi (whip spider) dead in my hall way and killed a mosquito on the outside of my net. After a march of the hungry caterpillars across our street, yellow black butterflies dance around the houses.
This has then inspired the frogs to emerge, creaking through the night like a horror movie sound engineer testing a spooky door. There are birds and bats sharing the sky, whipping through the swarms to collect their dinner. The chickens peck excitedly at the flies on the street, teaching their chicks how to take advantage of the glut. A ribbon snake (I think) slithered away from a termite mound as I approached.
And we people wait for the rain to release the temperature slightly, waking as the thunder starts to turn off fans and listen to the downpour. In the morning we cover shoes in reddish mud as we extend our journeys by picking around the biggest puddles. The taxi drivers scrub their car tyres clean twice a day. The mud bakes into shapes but soon disintegrates back into sandy soil under the heavy glare of the sun.
There have been a few rains. These have been mostly overnight and in very short bursts but the water is beginning to collect in hollows in the road. And suddenly the pace if activity is frantic; as if the whole country has breathed deeply for the first time this year and is desperate to make use of this water.
I am accustomed to walking past patches of litter strewn scrubland on my way to work. Occasionally cows would be grazing on one of them but the land has been mainly populated by blackened palms and dried twigs snagged with black plastic bags and the occasional egret picking its way through old rotting refuse. I can judge my mood by seeing if I react by saying "oh what a lovely bird" or "urgh, what an awful mess".
Last week I was surprised. In the course of a single day the biggest of such patches had been cleared and turned ready for planting by women with hand held hoes. Now on every trip to work I see young girls turning the soil in neat rows while their mother follows scattering seed, another patch newly pristine with trees pruned to green leaves, land ready to be turned after the next rain, lime coloured shoots peeping through the earth soon to show their differing forms with a wealth of produce.
The mangos, for long dark and dusty bottle green, are now clashing with themselves by showing fresh leaves in fluorescent hues. The baobab has lost its characteristic look of bare roots reaching into the sky and now looks more like a horse chestnut with strange flowers dangling between the palmate leaves like broken maracas. Fruits are swelling rapidly, oranges have reappeared on the fruit stalls, the still-green grapefruits by my office window are hanging heavily and occasionally a pomegranate is caught silhouetted against the sky.
The insects have started to swarm. Strange flying maggot like creatures get their lacewing like wings caught
up in my hair and clothes as they beat desperately towards the church's fluorescent bulbs throughout our choir practices. I have found an amblypygi (whip spider) dead in my hall way and killed a mosquito on the outside of my net. After a march of the hungry caterpillars across our street, yellow black butterflies dance around the houses.
This has then inspired the frogs to emerge, creaking through the night like a horror movie sound engineer testing a spooky door. There are birds and bats sharing the sky, whipping through the swarms to collect their dinner. The chickens peck excitedly at the flies on the street, teaching their chicks how to take advantage of the glut. A ribbon snake (I think) slithered away from a termite mound as I approached.
And we people wait for the rain to release the temperature slightly, waking as the thunder starts to turn off fans and listen to the downpour. In the morning we cover shoes in reddish mud as we extend our journeys by picking around the biggest puddles. The taxi drivers scrub their car tyres clean twice a day. The mud bakes into shapes but soon disintegrates back into sandy soil under the heavy glare of the sun.
Wednesday 10 July 2013
Apologies for the interruption
I recognise the frequency of posts has been slowing. There are a few reasons behind this. Firstly time speeded up in June (happy to debate the nature of time, but for now just believe me). All the volunteers found that established routines and work loads, as well as an increasing number of friends and invitations, seemed to mean we were missing catching up with each other. Secondly the power and water has been in very limited supply, meaning I've been concentrating on essential living tasks rather than writing. Thirdly it's very hot so everything is slower. Finally, well that's the subject of the post.
There's a stage that toddlers go through. It's after the breast feeding and immunisations have caught the really nasty bugs out (hopefully) but essentially the immune system still has a few gaps. This presents itself in some children as a permanently snotty nose. Students repeat the process with Fresher's Flu. I feel there's an equivalent for moving to a new set of bacteria and viruses in a new country. And that's my problem.
I'm not actually ill. What I have had is a series of exciting adventures in growing white blood cells. Or at least so I hope. However, it feels a lot like a grinding, irritating but essentially mild infection. I had to miss choir and keep trying to take up every opportunity then end up spending the next day staring at the wall while I build up the energy to get water. I'm reasonably sure that the local doctor thinks I really enjoy malaria tests whereas what I enjoy is actually knowing I've not got malaria. And capillary tubes, which are used to collect the sample.
Yesterday I went back to choir practice having shaken off the sore throat element. I walked at about half my normal speed. But the earth was newly wet with rain and the air was still cool and refreshing. There was a breath of joy in my heart walking the familiar route and greeting the familiar faces. I often have headphones in on the way to practice, to keep up my walking pace and to give my vocal warm up a structure (i.e. I don't do it properly, I just sing along to some Vivaldi or Badly Drawn Boy). However on Monday I was in the soundtrack that is Africa. Several people offered me a lift, but I assured them that I was genuinely happy in the rain. "I love you" called one such man as he drove away. "thank you. That's always nice to know," I replied.
The practice was long and tiring but still exhilarating to be singing again. The walk home seemed incredibly long at half speed. But, when I finally reached my room, the air was still cool. I made hot chocolate with milk powder and a couple of my treat squares of 70% dark chocolate that stays in my fridge. When I was tired and grumbling that I was poorly as a child my gran would prescribe one key thing: "get a good night's sleep". And so I did.
There's a stage that toddlers go through. It's after the breast feeding and immunisations have caught the really nasty bugs out (hopefully) but essentially the immune system still has a few gaps. This presents itself in some children as a permanently snotty nose. Students repeat the process with Fresher's Flu. I feel there's an equivalent for moving to a new set of bacteria and viruses in a new country. And that's my problem.
I'm not actually ill. What I have had is a series of exciting adventures in growing white blood cells. Or at least so I hope. However, it feels a lot like a grinding, irritating but essentially mild infection. I had to miss choir and keep trying to take up every opportunity then end up spending the next day staring at the wall while I build up the energy to get water. I'm reasonably sure that the local doctor thinks I really enjoy malaria tests whereas what I enjoy is actually knowing I've not got malaria. And capillary tubes, which are used to collect the sample.
Yesterday I went back to choir practice having shaken off the sore throat element. I walked at about half my normal speed. But the earth was newly wet with rain and the air was still cool and refreshing. There was a breath of joy in my heart walking the familiar route and greeting the familiar faces. I often have headphones in on the way to practice, to keep up my walking pace and to give my vocal warm up a structure (i.e. I don't do it properly, I just sing along to some Vivaldi or Badly Drawn Boy). However on Monday I was in the soundtrack that is Africa. Several people offered me a lift, but I assured them that I was genuinely happy in the rain. "I love you" called one such man as he drove away. "thank you. That's always nice to know," I replied.
The practice was long and tiring but still exhilarating to be singing again. The walk home seemed incredibly long at half speed. But, when I finally reached my room, the air was still cool. I made hot chocolate with milk powder and a couple of my treat squares of 70% dark chocolate that stays in my fridge. When I was tired and grumbling that I was poorly as a child my gran would prescribe one key thing: "get a good night's sleep". And so I did.
The end of troy
Whilst knowing no Helens at school, in my adult life I have become accustomed to meeting Helens wherever I go. In fact I have friends and family who "collect" Helens and seem to form entire social networks based on my name alone. For this reason I have long needed a collective noun for Helens. What is more suitable than troy? There was a troy of Helens in Parliament, another troy in the forthcoming wedding party I will join, yet another at my sister's university.
I didn't expect Gambia to be Trojan. Yet at church the Helens were called forward for a blessing a few weeks ago (it's the priest's mother's name, and a Helen had just got married). We also have our troy of Helens in VSO with Dr Helen Moore the paediatrician making up the set.
Helen arrived in the September batch and details of her adventure can be found on her blog, helenvsojourney.wordpress.com. From my perspective she has been a source of information, compassion and entertainment, and a significant lynch pin in planning activities as well as widening our circle of friends and contacts into the ex-pat community. We planned Natalie's hen do together (read about that on Helen's blog) and meant to publish a Trojan blog.
On Friday Helen completed her placement and left for the UK. We gave her a, well, the story is as follows. Among the European volunteers we planned a leaving present. Helen had little spare luggage capacity and we had little spare money. So our first idea was a film of around Gambia, some of her favourite people and some of the phrases and places that build the VSO experience captured on film. Cheap and very portable. The next day Natalie reported that Helen mentioned in passing that she had already made such a film, and had a memory book to ask friends to complete. So far so scuppered by Helen's planning. Plan B was a t-shirt covered in Gambian sayings. With no clear idea of how to get it printed this evolved into asking a tailor to embroider the phrases, onto a flat cloth which could be a sarong. Like all our beach wear Helen's has had heavy use this year and is wearing out.
So we duly tripped to Serrekunda for fabric, picked out a nice blue, refused one proposal (though for reference "a woman needs a husband like a fish needs a bicycle" takes a lot more explanation than I anticipated), got a taxi and went to the beach. That evening, after Helen left, we brainstormed the phrases that might be amusing over a couple of beers, shouting ideas over the Nigerian music of Aso Rock cafe.
The following morning I took the fabric to my local tailor, negotiated a price and spent several minutes trying to explain the concept. Eventually we decided it was a flag and the two tailors laughed with me at the idea. I dropped the money off the following morning and the next day I got a knock at the door pleading for a deadline extension due to the lack of electricity.
The following day another lad brought the finished article to my door. The tailor had taken great care, tracing the sentences onto backing paper, numbering them and laying them in order, selecting contrasting colours of embroidery thread. Unfortunately this meant the front read backwards as he hadn't laid the backing paper back to front. With minutes to go to get to Helen's Beers and Tears do, I checked the paper could be carefully removed, and examined the result. Not bad and certainly a reminder of The Gambia, as well as the trickiness of communicating across cultures. Laughter accompanied showing the other VSOs behind the bar and, most importantly, Helen seemed to like it.
The following day we met on the beach. Helen came into the sea to take her leave and there were hugs all round, timed to avoid being pushed over by the waves. She walked out of the sea and away from Leybato, casting a few looks back.
And so the troy of Helens dissipated. But, by coincidence, the female UK volunteers all have strong connections to Chorlton. I suspect we'll be sharing Eggs Benedict or tapas on Beach Road before any of us really know it.
I didn't expect Gambia to be Trojan. Yet at church the Helens were called forward for a blessing a few weeks ago (it's the priest's mother's name, and a Helen had just got married). We also have our troy of Helens in VSO with Dr Helen Moore the paediatrician making up the set.
Helen arrived in the September batch and details of her adventure can be found on her blog, helenvsojourney.wordpress.com. From my perspective she has been a source of information, compassion and entertainment, and a significant lynch pin in planning activities as well as widening our circle of friends and contacts into the ex-pat community. We planned Natalie's hen do together (read about that on Helen's blog) and meant to publish a Trojan blog.
On Friday Helen completed her placement and left for the UK. We gave her a, well, the story is as follows. Among the European volunteers we planned a leaving present. Helen had little spare luggage capacity and we had little spare money. So our first idea was a film of around Gambia, some of her favourite people and some of the phrases and places that build the VSO experience captured on film. Cheap and very portable. The next day Natalie reported that Helen mentioned in passing that she had already made such a film, and had a memory book to ask friends to complete. So far so scuppered by Helen's planning. Plan B was a t-shirt covered in Gambian sayings. With no clear idea of how to get it printed this evolved into asking a tailor to embroider the phrases, onto a flat cloth which could be a sarong. Like all our beach wear Helen's has had heavy use this year and is wearing out.
So we duly tripped to Serrekunda for fabric, picked out a nice blue, refused one proposal (though for reference "a woman needs a husband like a fish needs a bicycle" takes a lot more explanation than I anticipated), got a taxi and went to the beach. That evening, after Helen left, we brainstormed the phrases that might be amusing over a couple of beers, shouting ideas over the Nigerian music of Aso Rock cafe.
The following morning I took the fabric to my local tailor, negotiated a price and spent several minutes trying to explain the concept. Eventually we decided it was a flag and the two tailors laughed with me at the idea. I dropped the money off the following morning and the next day I got a knock at the door pleading for a deadline extension due to the lack of electricity.
The following day another lad brought the finished article to my door. The tailor had taken great care, tracing the sentences onto backing paper, numbering them and laying them in order, selecting contrasting colours of embroidery thread. Unfortunately this meant the front read backwards as he hadn't laid the backing paper back to front. With minutes to go to get to Helen's Beers and Tears do, I checked the paper could be carefully removed, and examined the result. Not bad and certainly a reminder of The Gambia, as well as the trickiness of communicating across cultures. Laughter accompanied showing the other VSOs behind the bar and, most importantly, Helen seemed to like it.
The following day we met on the beach. Helen came into the sea to take her leave and there were hugs all round, timed to avoid being pushed over by the waves. She walked out of the sea and away from Leybato, casting a few looks back.
And so the troy of Helens dissipated. But, by coincidence, the female UK volunteers all have strong connections to Chorlton. I suspect we'll be sharing Eggs Benedict or tapas on Beach Road before any of us really know it.
Suma Toubab
When we learnt greetings we included "ana sa xaleyi?" (where are your children?) and the reply, " nun fa, jama rek" (they are there, at peace). When asked "what if you don't have children?" our teacher replied "there are always children, maybe not physically yours but there are always children."
For the past three months as I've arrived home I've been leapt upon by a gang of children. After greeting the older neighbours we usually start dancing in the street, involving lots of clapping, stamping and a song about a girl called Linda in a yellow dress sung by Mam Jarra. The whole street knows my name and expects dancing whenever I pass. I usually oblige.
On the Friday before last I was walking home and decided to explore a different route. The heat rose and, as I turned around and headed for the market, I heard my name called. Mam Jarra waved from the midst of a gang of girls coming home from school. Excitedly she ran up and pulled me into the crowd, introducing me. "suma toubab" (my white person) heard her say proudly as I shook everyone's hand. She then took mine and came to the market with me, turning shy when we met a colleague of mine but immediately back to claiming me as her own when we met a crowd of younger children. She also made a profit of a pineapple juice and piece of fruit which she shared with friends as she passed.
Last Thursday I was in a rush home from work. I greeted the lads drinking attaya but declined the offer of a seat as I was desperate for a lot of water and a shower, and to change my now sweat-sodden dress. As I entered the compound the cries of children met me and I received a hug from Mam Jarra and two small toddlers with sticky hands and faces. The boys playing football in the drive broke off their game, came to shake my hand and quickly got back to it, duty done and each having used the distraction to shift the opposition's goal.
The younger children had a sticker book. Therefore the next half an hour was spent sat on my step whilst stickers were very carefully removed from the book and, more carefully, placed all over my face. At this point my landlord appeared and, with a bemused expression, presented me with a water bill.
I brought out a cup, iced water and some mango for everyone.
"who ever heard of a footballer stopping for mango?" complained the oldest lad.
"it's a Gambian half time orange" I replied.
I then spent fifteen minutes convincing the kids that perhaps the best game to play now is "let's put the stickers back in the book" and escaped for a shower. At which point a sticky paper circle with a green star fell out onto the shower floor.
The following day I bought eggs at the shop. A new customer greeted me. "ana sa xaleyi?". I replied, "nun fa, jama rek". And I knew exactly which children I was talking about, even if I don't know the Olof for "sticker".
For the past three months as I've arrived home I've been leapt upon by a gang of children. After greeting the older neighbours we usually start dancing in the street, involving lots of clapping, stamping and a song about a girl called Linda in a yellow dress sung by Mam Jarra. The whole street knows my name and expects dancing whenever I pass. I usually oblige.
On the Friday before last I was walking home and decided to explore a different route. The heat rose and, as I turned around and headed for the market, I heard my name called. Mam Jarra waved from the midst of a gang of girls coming home from school. Excitedly she ran up and pulled me into the crowd, introducing me. "suma toubab" (my white person) heard her say proudly as I shook everyone's hand. She then took mine and came to the market with me, turning shy when we met a colleague of mine but immediately back to claiming me as her own when we met a crowd of younger children. She also made a profit of a pineapple juice and piece of fruit which she shared with friends as she passed.
Last Thursday I was in a rush home from work. I greeted the lads drinking attaya but declined the offer of a seat as I was desperate for a lot of water and a shower, and to change my now sweat-sodden dress. As I entered the compound the cries of children met me and I received a hug from Mam Jarra and two small toddlers with sticky hands and faces. The boys playing football in the drive broke off their game, came to shake my hand and quickly got back to it, duty done and each having used the distraction to shift the opposition's goal.
The younger children had a sticker book. Therefore the next half an hour was spent sat on my step whilst stickers were very carefully removed from the book and, more carefully, placed all over my face. At this point my landlord appeared and, with a bemused expression, presented me with a water bill.
I brought out a cup, iced water and some mango for everyone.
"who ever heard of a footballer stopping for mango?" complained the oldest lad.
"it's a Gambian half time orange" I replied.
I then spent fifteen minutes convincing the kids that perhaps the best game to play now is "let's put the stickers back in the book" and escaped for a shower. At which point a sticky paper circle with a green star fell out onto the shower floor.
The following day I bought eggs at the shop. A new customer greeted me. "ana sa xaleyi?". I replied, "nun fa, jama rek". And I knew exactly which children I was talking about, even if I don't know the Olof for "sticker".
Sunday 7 July 2013
The list one
Every channel needs a list programme to fill the schedule after a late night when sleep should but won't yet come. HelenUpdates is joining the trend with a new game; Light, Candle, Dark. It's simply a list of tasks and the energy required to perform them.
Every here says "there's no light" when the electricity isn't flowing, as in the more mechanised UK we say power. I think it shows how our cultures and geography mean that we prioritise differently. Though I did try to say "amut lerr" once ("I do not have light") and that was clearly very wrong. As an aside Lerr is my actual name in Gambian, or in sound terms it's xel (pronounced hel) which means mind/spirit/self. All great things.
And to the list:
Toilet - Dark
Shower - candle
Watching ants playing on the bathroom floor - light
Walking - dark (usually)
Walking without falling over - light
Adding credit to the electric metre - light (which can mean waiting for odd clues such as a cut in the background him of generators and then running out in the rain in your pyjamas)
Eating - candle
Cooking - candle
Washing up - dark (though candle is better)
Drinking water - dark
Making ice - light
Pretending there are no cockroaches in your kitchen - dark
Tucking in your mosquito net - dark
Listening to a tropical storm batter round the Kombos - dark with flashes of light (hence unplugging everything before it starts!)
Every here says "there's no light" when the electricity isn't flowing, as in the more mechanised UK we say power. I think it shows how our cultures and geography mean that we prioritise differently. Though I did try to say "amut lerr" once ("I do not have light") and that was clearly very wrong. As an aside Lerr is my actual name in Gambian, or in sound terms it's xel (pronounced hel) which means mind/spirit/self. All great things.
And to the list:
Toilet - Dark
Shower - candle
Watching ants playing on the bathroom floor - light
Walking - dark (usually)
Walking without falling over - light
Adding credit to the electric metre - light (which can mean waiting for odd clues such as a cut in the background him of generators and then running out in the rain in your pyjamas)
Eating - candle
Cooking - candle
Washing up - dark (though candle is better)
Drinking water - dark
Making ice - light
Pretending there are no cockroaches in your kitchen - dark
Tucking in your mosquito net - dark
Listening to a tropical storm batter round the Kombos - dark with flashes of light (hence unplugging everything before it starts!)
Saturday 29 June 2013
If you don't like insects look away now
When I was ten we went on holiday to France. Mum was driving and our babysitter Shelley had come along. Dad was working and joining us later. As our battered red Austin Montego sped through baking French sun shine along the auto route, all was reasonably calm. Then, apparently out of nowhere, an enormous cockroach crawled out and sat on the dashboard. As is the way with scuttling things both Mum and Shelley jumped. How to get rid of it without encouraging hysteria in the car? Mum gripped the steering wheel while Shelley bashed it with the guidebook. Being a cockroach it was of course able to with stand such attacks. Eventually it was bashed to squirming pieces and, in a last ditch attempt to destroy it, pushed into the air blower with the heating turned on full. For the rest of the holiday shards of roasted cockroach would occasionally fly out of the blowers and hit various passengers.
This was my closest cockroach encounter. Until now. Now I thought I'd become reasonably accustomed to seeing carcasses on the bath mat, crushing tiny scurrying specks under my thumb, and seeing running insectoid shadows dive for cover when I enter a darkened kitchen armed only with a candle. I am meticulous about food being in the fridge, in a box or in the bin by the end of each day and all washing up is done and tidied away.
However, over the past few weeks I've lost my nerve. Everywhere I look is another curled up black or brown body, often with antennae twitching. I sit with a colleague and there's one under the desk, I walk to the living room and there's one under the sofa, I go to bed and listen to scratching progress across the ceiling and hoping that my mosquito net is strong enough to stop an enormous roach falling on me.
On Thursday I was feeling very sick and so stayed off work. After a few hours lying on my bed I decided dehydration wasn't going to help. I got up to make everyone's favourite recipe, Oral Rehydration Solution (8 tsp sugar, 1/2 tsp salt and a litre of water). On reaching for the sugar three medium sized cockroaches scuttled out. I shuddered. Then investigated. There seemed to be a camp of cockroaches in the cupboard. I moved some forgotten cereal, obviously something had remembered it as the bag was writhing.
As is sometimes the way with sickness I decided everything needed bleaching and clearing. I stripped the cupboard, confined Agnes' maize flour to sealed containers, threw away anything we hadn't touched in a while, boiled water and finished my bleach by pouring it everywhere. Even the salt and spices got new sealed containers. Every plate, bowl, pan and piece of cutlery was doused in boiling water and every bottle set in sterilising solution (which is a great buy!) the floor was moped and bin bags replaced. When Agnes returned we moved our kit to the living room and sprayed pesticides all round the kitchen. She'd seen the cockroach camp a few days earlier and had been planning a blitz. We sat outside while the fumes dissipated.
The following morning we relined all the shelves and replaced our equipment. At lunchtime I thought a cup of coffee might be in order. As I opened the cupboard I noticed a small figure clinging to the swinging cupboard door... At least the cockroaches are having fun. I might get a pet lizard.
This was my closest cockroach encounter. Until now. Now I thought I'd become reasonably accustomed to seeing carcasses on the bath mat, crushing tiny scurrying specks under my thumb, and seeing running insectoid shadows dive for cover when I enter a darkened kitchen armed only with a candle. I am meticulous about food being in the fridge, in a box or in the bin by the end of each day and all washing up is done and tidied away.
However, over the past few weeks I've lost my nerve. Everywhere I look is another curled up black or brown body, often with antennae twitching. I sit with a colleague and there's one under the desk, I walk to the living room and there's one under the sofa, I go to bed and listen to scratching progress across the ceiling and hoping that my mosquito net is strong enough to stop an enormous roach falling on me.
On Thursday I was feeling very sick and so stayed off work. After a few hours lying on my bed I decided dehydration wasn't going to help. I got up to make everyone's favourite recipe, Oral Rehydration Solution (8 tsp sugar, 1/2 tsp salt and a litre of water). On reaching for the sugar three medium sized cockroaches scuttled out. I shuddered. Then investigated. There seemed to be a camp of cockroaches in the cupboard. I moved some forgotten cereal, obviously something had remembered it as the bag was writhing.
As is sometimes the way with sickness I decided everything needed bleaching and clearing. I stripped the cupboard, confined Agnes' maize flour to sealed containers, threw away anything we hadn't touched in a while, boiled water and finished my bleach by pouring it everywhere. Even the salt and spices got new sealed containers. Every plate, bowl, pan and piece of cutlery was doused in boiling water and every bottle set in sterilising solution (which is a great buy!) the floor was moped and bin bags replaced. When Agnes returned we moved our kit to the living room and sprayed pesticides all round the kitchen. She'd seen the cockroach camp a few days earlier and had been planning a blitz. We sat outside while the fumes dissipated.
The following morning we relined all the shelves and replaced our equipment. At lunchtime I thought a cup of coffee might be in order. As I opened the cupboard I noticed a small figure clinging to the swinging cupboard door... At least the cockroaches are having fun. I might get a pet lizard.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)