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.
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