20th April is the birthday of my dear departed friend Dr Trisha Macfarlane. Since I started on this journey I have been thinking a lot about her, how she died and why, taking inspiration to carry on through troubles from the fact that she couldn't. Since I arrived in the Gambia I have sung her song ("For Good" from Wicked) a million times, using the words to scare away hassle as they give me an assertiveness, or more likely a woman singing defiantly at the top of her lungs looks a bit mad. I don't mind, as an aside looking mad is an age old and well researched personal safety trick for lone women. Another friend carries an umbrella to put up when it's not raining for the same effect.
There are so many regrets I have when it comes to Trish which, against the words of the song, still do matter. But more important are the many great memories of her, waiting in the rain in a London backstreet to congratulate Ruthie Henshall on a heartstopping performance in Chicago, becoming allies in choir practices as she held the answer to my burbling thoughts, arguing over an acceptable amount of mascara on her wedding day. Plus the fact that her name makes her wound like a heroine from an American crime series.
She remains my friend, her whole life guiding my decisions. When to jump, when to try against all odds, how to walk alone through strangers. Most importantly, as one who emigrated before me and sharing so many personality traits, her experience is a cautionary tale reminding me how to live and how to respond to an emergency. Thank you Trish, Penblwydd Hapus.
Sunday 21 April 2013
Tuesday 16 April 2013
Cookery by candlelight
Since early April the power in Kanifing has been very temperamental. Which is a polite way of saying notable by its absence most days. Therefore my current adventures are around learning to cope with low or no electric power.
As I sat in my office analysing emerging issues, I was greeted by a knock on the door. A local welder has delivered a charcoal iron for use on power-less days, as everything must be ironed regardless. [see photo - not the normal thing to find on a desk!] It's heavy with a flip lid that bolts down once hot charcoal has been poured inside. The heat pours out of the holes, meaning I will need to find some sort of oven glove so it can be used without harm by Awr (my housekeeper) and, in extremis, by me.
My landlord has already commented that having two candles lit is "so bright" but the value of light here is immense. Locals will even say "there's no light" to mean power, even if they're testing a stationary ceiling fan in the heat of the day. Explaining that sometimes we choose to burn candles to fulfil romantic ideals rather than purely for power seems odd, and many Gambian friends won't use candles at all for fear of fire in a country where the fire service can't be trusted to turn up with a water supply.
However, for illumination candles are my power source of choice, especially once my rechargeable lantern has run down or I feel like a mini adventure. Yesterday this included ensuring thorough cleaning of a grazed knee and shin in darkness after a fall into the raggedy, rocky rubble at the side of a road with powerless street lamps. The morning revealed that I made a reasonable job, even if I do look like an overgrown primary school child.
My favourite new skill is learning how to cook without light. Most recently I attempted to make a pleasant evening meal, a simple onion and tomato omelette and water. [see photo] Despite the fact that the term omelette generally applies to solid eggs rather than a mush, that the onions were full of character due to blackening, and the tomatoes managed to share themselves equally between pan and cooker top, the result was surprisingly edible. Or at least eaten by me. Romantically served by candlelight.
As I sat in my office analysing emerging issues, I was greeted by a knock on the door. A local welder has delivered a charcoal iron for use on power-less days, as everything must be ironed regardless. [see photo - not the normal thing to find on a desk!] It's heavy with a flip lid that bolts down once hot charcoal has been poured inside. The heat pours out of the holes, meaning I will need to find some sort of oven glove so it can be used without harm by Awr (my housekeeper) and, in extremis, by me.
My landlord has already commented that having two candles lit is "so bright" but the value of light here is immense. Locals will even say "there's no light" to mean power, even if they're testing a stationary ceiling fan in the heat of the day. Explaining that sometimes we choose to burn candles to fulfil romantic ideals rather than purely for power seems odd, and many Gambian friends won't use candles at all for fear of fire in a country where the fire service can't be trusted to turn up with a water supply.
However, for illumination candles are my power source of choice, especially once my rechargeable lantern has run down or I feel like a mini adventure. Yesterday this included ensuring thorough cleaning of a grazed knee and shin in darkness after a fall into the raggedy, rocky rubble at the side of a road with powerless street lamps. The morning revealed that I made a reasonable job, even if I do look like an overgrown primary school child.
My favourite new skill is learning how to cook without light. Most recently I attempted to make a pleasant evening meal, a simple onion and tomato omelette and water. [see photo] Despite the fact that the term omelette generally applies to solid eggs rather than a mush, that the onions were full of character due to blackening, and the tomatoes managed to share themselves equally between pan and cooker top, the result was surprisingly edible. Or at least eaten by me. Romantically served by candlelight.
A long weekend
So the week is worked, new friends made and the war against my office's mosquito swarm has seen many battles with victories on both sides. Blood has been spilled in, well, tiny quantities, photos shared and hours of waiting to see if we can have use of a car to visit our NYSS farm as part of my induction have proved fruitless. The three day weekend has arrived and, perhaps foolishly, I have planned nothing. Also, due to a delay at VSO, I have very little money left in my purse.
Spending a three day weekend well will require practice and forethought, alongside grasping many more opportunities than I currently am. I picked up a couple of books from the
VSO resource library. However, I underestimated my reading speed, especially in a house with the power off all day. By 5 pm on Friday I had finished one and leant the other to my housemate.
Luckily at that point an invitation to a drink at a cheap bar came through from a few other VSOs. Aso Rock is tucked behind the Traffic Light (Gambia's only working set) and has become a VSO haunt, with Julbrew beer for D20, and food for under D100 including a Tupperware box of fried meat on the bar for the peckish. It is the kind of bar known to volunteers and Nigerian expats, but virtually invisible to those with UK wages or local family lives.
At 2.30 I got home, phoning my housemate to let me in as she had our only key to the compound gate. Not exactly the quiet night planned. It was however good to spend time in company of fellow volunteers comparing notes on our week's works.
Saturday dawned and the power was on. Hurrah! As has been an occasional treat I put the film channel on over breakfast. Two movies later I decided to head out. Time seemed to stretch out with every diversion becoming a pebble in the ocean and it was now only mid-afternoon. Last year I'd probably walk or paint or run but I have brought paints without paper, and my last running attempt ended badly. So a walk to Safari Garden for a swim it was.
A swim after a walk in the sun is very refreshing. The pool is small so I have developed a habit of swimming round the edge instead of lengths. This means I can get a good swim but does make me feel a lot like a goldfish in a bowl.
Meeting some other VSOs we decided that a games night was the solution to both lack of money and sleep. Helen, as host, described it as games with drinking. I suggested actually drinking with games was probably more accurate. And so it was. Which led to a 2.30 am decision to go out dancing.
At 5 we bought breakfast and all headed our separate ways, leading into a Sunday of listening to various iPlayer downloads and a Ugandan stew cooked by Agnes, alongside contemplation of the nagging question, "how, when faced with filling a seemingly endless weekend, did I manage to add even more to the hours by failing to get any sleep?"
Spending a three day weekend well will require practice and forethought, alongside grasping many more opportunities than I currently am. I picked up a couple of books from the
VSO resource library. However, I underestimated my reading speed, especially in a house with the power off all day. By 5 pm on Friday I had finished one and leant the other to my housemate.
Luckily at that point an invitation to a drink at a cheap bar came through from a few other VSOs. Aso Rock is tucked behind the Traffic Light (Gambia's only working set) and has become a VSO haunt, with Julbrew beer for D20, and food for under D100 including a Tupperware box of fried meat on the bar for the peckish. It is the kind of bar known to volunteers and Nigerian expats, but virtually invisible to those with UK wages or local family lives.
At 2.30 I got home, phoning my housemate to let me in as she had our only key to the compound gate. Not exactly the quiet night planned. It was however good to spend time in company of fellow volunteers comparing notes on our week's works.
Saturday dawned and the power was on. Hurrah! As has been an occasional treat I put the film channel on over breakfast. Two movies later I decided to head out. Time seemed to stretch out with every diversion becoming a pebble in the ocean and it was now only mid-afternoon. Last year I'd probably walk or paint or run but I have brought paints without paper, and my last running attempt ended badly. So a walk to Safari Garden for a swim it was.
A swim after a walk in the sun is very refreshing. The pool is small so I have developed a habit of swimming round the edge instead of lengths. This means I can get a good swim but does make me feel a lot like a goldfish in a bowl.
Meeting some other VSOs we decided that a games night was the solution to both lack of money and sleep. Helen, as host, described it as games with drinking. I suggested actually drinking with games was probably more accurate. And so it was. Which led to a 2.30 am decision to go out dancing.
At 5 we bought breakfast and all headed our separate ways, leading into a Sunday of listening to various iPlayer downloads and a Ugandan stew cooked by Agnes, alongside contemplation of the nagging question, "how, when faced with filling a seemingly endless weekend, did I manage to add even more to the hours by failing to get any sleep?"
Life is a roller coaster
Firstly my blog cannot go without a welcome to the world message to the loveable Niamh Grady who was born on 27th March to my dear friends Sarah and Chris. Missing her birth is sad, though it feels significant as I first heard about her conception at the time I had finally decided to quit Oxfam and the start of my own journey to VSO and now we are starting something new together. Plus I would love to be able to help Sarah, who I have seen too little of over the past year, and celebrate with them all. Still, my role as itinerant anti-Helen is set for now and my summer trip home will include meeting both her and Jacob Hassall for the first time newborn friends who are welcome indeed to share and learn about life on Earth.
This week has been a period of adjustment that I was warned about but remains rocky in its midst. Easter Sunday was spent with a church friend, Marie Louise, and her family and was too busy to become melancholic, partly as I hadn't realised that I'd been invited to a baptism at which my friend was Godparent. [see photos] We therefore had three meals; the baptism party, home lunch and home dinner, the latter two within an hour of each other and with a carton of wine. However this lovely hospitality meant I didn't make it to an Internet spot so haven't spoken to my family. When someone is insisting that she is your mum here it is very welcoming and reassuring but it also invites remembrance of my own lovely Mum who, in the same circumstances, would be very likely also to invite a stranger home to join in the party.
As a Bank Holiday on Monday we went to Banjul. A wander round the market included a tourist section where items are repeated ad infinitum yet still each shop keeper wants you to come in and look. Many of the women give me gifts of cheap plastic bracelets, the kind of thing I'd make as a child. One woman asked me to give her a price for a simple bracelet, and was insulted as I snapped "20 delasis", about 40p and around the cost of making it in the UK. At the last one I felt so tired of being seen as a consumer for tawdry things I don't want that I have her D5 "to open her till" as she'd already pressed two bracelets on me. It doesn't make any sense as an action but in the instant felt like rebalancing power towards the businesswoman.
On leaving the market a small boy, about 5, took my hand and asked to come with me. "where's your mother?" I asked. "she's gone for Europe" came the small sad reply. This could either be true and she's battling waves, con men and immigration law on a boat as many do, or a euphemism told to children instead of saying she's died. His friends came to join us, unusually for children on the street, not really asking for anything other than company. We took some photos, had a brief chat, laughed at my Wollof attempts, and left them with the women selling peanuts on the ground. The site of a broken playground on the next corner, climbing ropes scrawling uselessly on the ground, swing seats replaced with cardboard over the bare chains, caused my heart to sink further at the scale of loss faced by these children.
As the week included both a bank holiday and an election, which is also a public holiday, work was condensed to 2 days where we got my objectives worked out and met more people. But another long weekend led to introspection, so I decided to create thinking and personal time with a run.
I was far too ambitious in both distance and pace and, though had remembered a few Delasi which I bought cool water with, had forgotten sun lotion. I ground to a halt which made this the first run I haven't stuck to plan on. My running music got stuck on a track lamenting lost love. My mood darkened in contrast to the sunny day; every shout of hello from the entirely male passers by was met with a glower.
As a young lad on a bike drew up alongside my matching form shouting hello I said "deedeet! Demal!" ("No! Go away!"). Undisturbed he repeated his greeting. Resisting a strong urge to push his bike over I stopped, and yelled in English "you are a rude boy! Leave me alone and have some respect", having clearly turned into a stereotypical old bag character from an old sexist sitcom. He got the message after a few seconds but I was left wondering exactly what stress level my attempts to settle in are hiding. And when the men around me will learn that women don't want to be bayed at every time they are simply walking down the street.
At that point I made the decision to include in my blog the low points as far as I am able, alongside the joys, observations and anecdotes that will otherwise fill these pages.
This week has been a period of adjustment that I was warned about but remains rocky in its midst. Easter Sunday was spent with a church friend, Marie Louise, and her family and was too busy to become melancholic, partly as I hadn't realised that I'd been invited to a baptism at which my friend was Godparent. [see photos] We therefore had three meals; the baptism party, home lunch and home dinner, the latter two within an hour of each other and with a carton of wine. However this lovely hospitality meant I didn't make it to an Internet spot so haven't spoken to my family. When someone is insisting that she is your mum here it is very welcoming and reassuring but it also invites remembrance of my own lovely Mum who, in the same circumstances, would be very likely also to invite a stranger home to join in the party.
As a Bank Holiday on Monday we went to Banjul. A wander round the market included a tourist section where items are repeated ad infinitum yet still each shop keeper wants you to come in and look. Many of the women give me gifts of cheap plastic bracelets, the kind of thing I'd make as a child. One woman asked me to give her a price for a simple bracelet, and was insulted as I snapped "20 delasis", about 40p and around the cost of making it in the UK. At the last one I felt so tired of being seen as a consumer for tawdry things I don't want that I have her D5 "to open her till" as she'd already pressed two bracelets on me. It doesn't make any sense as an action but in the instant felt like rebalancing power towards the businesswoman.
On leaving the market a small boy, about 5, took my hand and asked to come with me. "where's your mother?" I asked. "she's gone for Europe" came the small sad reply. This could either be true and she's battling waves, con men and immigration law on a boat as many do, or a euphemism told to children instead of saying she's died. His friends came to join us, unusually for children on the street, not really asking for anything other than company. We took some photos, had a brief chat, laughed at my Wollof attempts, and left them with the women selling peanuts on the ground. The site of a broken playground on the next corner, climbing ropes scrawling uselessly on the ground, swing seats replaced with cardboard over the bare chains, caused my heart to sink further at the scale of loss faced by these children.
As the week included both a bank holiday and an election, which is also a public holiday, work was condensed to 2 days where we got my objectives worked out and met more people. But another long weekend led to introspection, so I decided to create thinking and personal time with a run.
I was far too ambitious in both distance and pace and, though had remembered a few Delasi which I bought cool water with, had forgotten sun lotion. I ground to a halt which made this the first run I haven't stuck to plan on. My running music got stuck on a track lamenting lost love. My mood darkened in contrast to the sunny day; every shout of hello from the entirely male passers by was met with a glower.
As a young lad on a bike drew up alongside my matching form shouting hello I said "deedeet! Demal!" ("No! Go away!"). Undisturbed he repeated his greeting. Resisting a strong urge to push his bike over I stopped, and yelled in English "you are a rude boy! Leave me alone and have some respect", having clearly turned into a stereotypical old bag character from an old sexist sitcom. He got the message after a few seconds but I was left wondering exactly what stress level my attempts to settle in are hiding. And when the men around me will learn that women don't want to be bayed at every time they are simply walking down the street.
At that point I made the decision to include in my blog the low points as far as I am able, alongside the joys, observations and anecdotes that will otherwise fill these pages.
Breakfast sandwiches
I don't think I will ever get used to pasta sandwiches. My first exposure to this was one morning at NYSS camp [see photos- breakfast in the tailoring shop and under a tree]. The flavours were nice; spicy and well cooked. But I'm not sure that my Western tastes are going to find pasta a regular sandwich filling and I limited how much I ate, knowing a huge meal of rice and something will follow in a few hours. Also, because I have to eat with my anti-malarial, there's a real danger of developing a habit of four or five huge meals each day. Luckily food here is never wasted and I can always find someone to take my sandwich or other left overs, with the phrase "sur na, jerejef" ("I'm full, thank you").
Breakfast at the camp was served at about 10 am with a cup of sweet tea. Before I left the UK a new friend said on adding half a spoon to his mug "when you take sugar in your tea it's like being a social leper" on adding a spoonful to his cup. Here I was explaining that to the young people who laughed; the tea we are served is very sweet with at least 5 dessertspoons in a serving, milky, weak and hot. It is scooped up in plastic cups and can be a pleasing taste to wash down a peppery sandwich. I can't always finish a whole mug though!
Mburru ag neebe on the other hand is a bit of a favourite. It's beans on bread and the version I first had was cooked in a tomato and peanut sauce, essentially a very tasty beans on toast. Still, given that one bread is the size of my forearm, I still only take half. They say breakfast sandwiches are high on the list of things missed by returned volunteers.
Most mornings for me are however greeted with a piece of bread, coffee made with instant granules and milk powder and the obligatory anti-malarial with some refrigerated tap water. The water is safe to drink but definitely nicer chilled, or mixed if I've splashed out on a carton of fruit juice. However, this morning supplies were low so, as a rare treat which very few others would've loved but has been a personal favourite since university, I popped to the local bitik (corner shop, which is literally that, almost a larder on the corner, and everything is passed out from behind a caged counter), bought some fresh tapalapa (French style bread and very close to the top of the list of stuff Gambian does well -see photo) whilst having a brief chat in Wollof. As I walked to work I took some of the enormous peppery radishes I'd bought the previous day and a small pat of softening butter from my bag and created the great breakfast of raddish on bread. It was heaven.
Breakfast at the camp was served at about 10 am with a cup of sweet tea. Before I left the UK a new friend said on adding half a spoon to his mug "when you take sugar in your tea it's like being a social leper" on adding a spoonful to his cup. Here I was explaining that to the young people who laughed; the tea we are served is very sweet with at least 5 dessertspoons in a serving, milky, weak and hot. It is scooped up in plastic cups and can be a pleasing taste to wash down a peppery sandwich. I can't always finish a whole mug though!
Mburru ag neebe on the other hand is a bit of a favourite. It's beans on bread and the version I first had was cooked in a tomato and peanut sauce, essentially a very tasty beans on toast. Still, given that one bread is the size of my forearm, I still only take half. They say breakfast sandwiches are high on the list of things missed by returned volunteers.
Most mornings for me are however greeted with a piece of bread, coffee made with instant granules and milk powder and the obligatory anti-malarial with some refrigerated tap water. The water is safe to drink but definitely nicer chilled, or mixed if I've splashed out on a carton of fruit juice. However, this morning supplies were low so, as a rare treat which very few others would've loved but has been a personal favourite since university, I popped to the local bitik (corner shop, which is literally that, almost a larder on the corner, and everything is passed out from behind a caged counter), bought some fresh tapalapa (French style bread and very close to the top of the list of stuff Gambian does well -see photo) whilst having a brief chat in Wollof. As I walked to work I took some of the enormous peppery radishes I'd bought the previous day and a small pat of softening butter from my bag and created the great breakfast of raddish on bread. It was heaven.
Saturday 6 April 2013
Lumen Christi, to an African beat
Easter arrives. After a perfect Saturday mix of touristy sight seeing, buying an iron, reading and washing my feet [see photo- it was that bad!], I headed over to eat the domoda (spicy peanut sauce) that Nicola and Abdou had spent most of the afternoon preparing and to see her new house. The girls at my local supermarket are missing her and were very impressed to learn of her Gambian cookery skills. So was I, domoda hasn't been a particularly welcome offering at my table so far but this one was nice, with good company as an added extra. [see photo - domoda shared bowl with Helen and Nicola (left-right)] However, I cut the night short to head home and back out for the Easter vigil mass starting at 10 pm.
The lights were out in Kanifing so I showered by candlelight. I also did my make up with a candle propped in the sink and managed to apply both DEET and Chanel without exploding my house. I was also starting to get a bit sentimental about the light in the darkness imagery of Easter when VSO Julie arrived and we hurried off to walk to church, me in my new African style outfit [see photo, I know the make up is slightly wrong, see above!]
We started in the school yard and walked around to the church. As the lights were on in Westfield the church wasn't very dark but it was incredibly windy so there was a lot of relighting each others candles and wax on shoes. Someone, the father of a fellow chorister, had given me my candle as a welcome gift. The ceiling fans were still whirring and my candle continued to stream and I managed to get wax all over the floor. How I managed to make more mess than anyone else is anyone's guess.
The service itself was a mix of Wolof, Latin and English with Jola, Creole thrown into the music. Everyone was in their Easter finery with skyscraper glittery heels peeping out from under the cassocks of readers and choristers dresses. Before I came over I was convinced I'd only need one pair of stillettos and that that was extravagant. Now I feel literally down at heel.
After the service which finished around one everyone wished each other Happy Easter which they do by saying "Deo Gracias" to which I correctly guessed the response of "alleluia". Alleluia is pretty much the response to everything at Easter; we just sung three different musical settings in a row during the service. However, people were still surprised that I knew it, I think they're very surprised there are any English Catholics at all.
I was invited to celebrate with dancing well into the following day. I'd been hoping for an invitation to see what African Easter celebrations include outside church However Julie was tired and cold, and I had an invitation to lunch at 10 the following morning so we got a taxi home. I was cross with myself for taking the sleepy route but glad I had made sure Julie was home safely.
During the service I had my first serious pangs of homesickness, especially for Katharine who I'd normally share such events with, who'd have loved every minute and who would definitely be our dancing if she was here. Due to the shared structure of the mass I knew we were engaged in very similar activities but very far apart. Therefore I decided to find out how much a text home costs. "lumen Christi. Deo Gratias". The reply came as I poured hot water onto milk powder. "Surexit Christus Hodie". And my Easter was complete.
The lights were out in Kanifing so I showered by candlelight. I also did my make up with a candle propped in the sink and managed to apply both DEET and Chanel without exploding my house. I was also starting to get a bit sentimental about the light in the darkness imagery of Easter when VSO Julie arrived and we hurried off to walk to church, me in my new African style outfit [see photo, I know the make up is slightly wrong, see above!]
We started in the school yard and walked around to the church. As the lights were on in Westfield the church wasn't very dark but it was incredibly windy so there was a lot of relighting each others candles and wax on shoes. Someone, the father of a fellow chorister, had given me my candle as a welcome gift. The ceiling fans were still whirring and my candle continued to stream and I managed to get wax all over the floor. How I managed to make more mess than anyone else is anyone's guess.
The service itself was a mix of Wolof, Latin and English with Jola, Creole thrown into the music. Everyone was in their Easter finery with skyscraper glittery heels peeping out from under the cassocks of readers and choristers dresses. Before I came over I was convinced I'd only need one pair of stillettos and that that was extravagant. Now I feel literally down at heel.
After the service which finished around one everyone wished each other Happy Easter which they do by saying "Deo Gracias" to which I correctly guessed the response of "alleluia". Alleluia is pretty much the response to everything at Easter; we just sung three different musical settings in a row during the service. However, people were still surprised that I knew it, I think they're very surprised there are any English Catholics at all.
I was invited to celebrate with dancing well into the following day. I'd been hoping for an invitation to see what African Easter celebrations include outside church However Julie was tired and cold, and I had an invitation to lunch at 10 the following morning so we got a taxi home. I was cross with myself for taking the sleepy route but glad I had made sure Julie was home safely.
During the service I had my first serious pangs of homesickness, especially for Katharine who I'd normally share such events with, who'd have loved every minute and who would definitely be our dancing if she was here. Due to the shared structure of the mass I knew we were engaged in very similar activities but very far apart. Therefore I decided to find out how much a text home costs. "lumen Christi. Deo Gratias". The reply came as I poured hot water onto milk powder. "Surexit Christus Hodie". And my Easter was complete.
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