Hard work and hairy monstrosities

I was invited to attend the graduation of the students of Gaye Njorro Hairdressing Skills Training Centre on Friday 24th May. This included a couple of NYSS corps members, students who our institution has sponsored through course fees and other support. As the representative of NYSS I was invited onto the high table with other people and institutions who'd also provided support.

Fatou Gaye, the proprietor of the centre, is the kind of woman who has a fire and passion to develop her country. She and her staff have taught these young people extraordinary skills in hair braiding, design and creativity. The creative industry of Gambia has a great champion in her work. I was honoured to present a few of the graduation certificates and to witness some amazing art work and hear the connected stories.

One student, Sara Mattison, was from Sweden and had simply decided that she wanted to learn hair braiding skills so emailed Ms Gaye, traveled over and has spent some months at the centre. Her graduation piece was a Scandinavian style monsters head woven from fibre hair extensions. Marie Sanyang made an arch as a present for the President's birthday, whilst Mariama Drammeh created a dress and hat. The photos show some of these creations, apart from the monster which sadly I didn't capture. All in all it was a very impressive body of work presented giving a strong footing for the continuing development of this industry in the Gambian economy.

Marriage and meat

Last week Agnes and I hosted a guest. Aisha is another VSO working as a nutritionist up country who was passing through on her route back from a trip overseas. We talked late into the night about issues mainly covering religion and marriage, which was very informative. Her suggestion is that I take up any offer to be a second or third wife as it gives you independence when your husband is with other wives. Though that's not the model I'm looking for, this kind of perspective is fascinating and exactly the kind of insight into other cultures that being a VSO provides well.

Aisha had a craving for spaghetti bolognese which dominoed into my own hankering. Mince is available here and my plan was to hit a supermarket freezer section. The meat I've seen at market has been covered with swarming black clouds of flies and, though this is undoubtedly what we eat in restaurants, it's pretty unappetising.

However, on my trip to Serekunda Market with Agnes to buy the required vegetables I spotted a man assiduously keeping the flies off a leg of meat. It was probably goat or mutton but looked fairly pleasant, fresh and well kept. So we took the plunge and ordered half a kilo of meat and bone (D120). People sat outside the stall kept saying "buy a whole kilo" but we didn't need that much nor did we have that much cash. The butcher himself laughed at us, threw a bit extra in then convinced us to take a piece of udder to try. His cooking advice was just to boil it and that it's tasty. So I might as well give it a go.

As Monday came I cooked the meat with carrots, onions, tomatoes (which I went to the effort of peeling) and tomato purée. Served with spaghetti it was definitely enough to satisfy the bolognese craving and I managed to get in from work at 6.25, cook and eat and leave the house by 7.05 to be on time for choir.

With the udder I followed instructions, boiling it with the spaghetti. It tasted like a veal steak with a definite background of milk. (see photo) Eating it was faintly disturbing in a way I don't normally find with other meat, I was very aware of where this came from and what it did when alive. Perhaps it's a taste that'll grow on me and, as Agnes says, learning to eat the food they have here is a survival strategy. It's just that some dishes take a bit more work than others.

The Week Part One: A Trip to Basse

Having joined the committee early on I started last week with a "reece" (as Hadders would say) to see the venues planned for a summer youth camp. The plan is to host it in Basse, which is almost as far inland as The Gambia reaches. It is around five hour's drive away and the lack of coastal breeze meant that most people warned "oh Basse? That place is too hot". Still, I was very excited. I'd also be travelling with people from various other parts of the Ministry of Youth and Sports and other partners so it was a good chance to build some professional relationships up.

We left the Kombos in the early evening and headed out of town. At a quick stop in Brikama I watched as hundreds of enormous bats flocked overhead, silhouetted against the deep blue sky. I was completely spellbound.

Our official "services" stop was in Soma. It's a busy hub town with glittering neon lights that lend an atmosphere of a fair at night in the UK. We found food and a toilet break (the less said about that the better, behind a house in the dark with passers by). It was late so, while my colleagues bought various types of Afra (barbecued chunks of meat) I took sweet milky coffee, made mixing Nescafé, hot water, evaporated milk and sugar. Still it was exactly what I needed, and I was very grateful to my colleague who helped me sort it out.

The road to Basse is straight and well tarmaced apart from a small stretch which is still under construction. The warm night wind blew in my face from the open window and I strained to peer into the dark starlit night, loving every minute. The moon rose later and shone a milky tea glow over the ground, bleaching out the stars in the vicinity. At 1.30 I fell into bed in Basse, shortly after making it up with my duvet cover serving as a sheet sleeping bag.

Unfortunately an unreasonably loud mosquito kept me awake and I realised I'd forgotten soap under my morning shower. Added to doxy-nausea the morning was very ropey. Still, true to my training I got up and went to see where the children can play and looked around the hostel. We also visited regional officials to update them on our plans and discuss how to work together.

There was however time to knock a few ripening mangos off the trees. The first mango I picked in Gambia tasted like sherbert, sweet and sour and dry all wrapped up in one. It was lovely, though might be better when the fruits are really ripe.

Travelling home my colleagues wondered at my obsession with photographing every new road side scene. Round mud huts are new to me, as are monkeys sat calmly chattering in trees. A friend of mine had described the problems such huts can have in the rainy season as the collapse and families seek shelter in other buildings so I was also interested to gain a little more information on the problems faced.

Still the countryside is truly beautiful. As it turned out not beautiful enough for me to stay awake and I nodded off for a fair stretch of the trip. Probably a good job as I was hoping to attend the choir fundraising dance that evening...

The Week Part Three: Sports Day

As International Workers Day Wednesday was celebrated as a public holiday. This obviously justified my early morning dancing antics and allowed for a lie in. However, it was also a day with a sports day in Banjul which the Ministry of Youth and Sports would be attending. So, as I was eating a late breakfast, my colleague Landing, the Director of the National Enterprise Development Initiative (NEDI), dropped in to make sure we were going.

True to my new policy of doing things and taking up opportunities, Agnes, Julie and I headed out to Banjul. We found NEDI under the sun and joined them. They were very hospitable, providing food and drinks as we watched the build up to the athletics.

The teams started with a procession into the stadium led by a band. It was great to hear brass instruments again and I had to suppress the urge to ask to have a go on one of the trombones. I settled for cheering the teams past as they lined up for the national anthem.

After that the sports began; running and tug of wars starting the proceedings. It was fun to watch the friendly rivalry and celebrations as the police force team vied against the armed forces, Gambia Technical Training Institute against Child Fund. They played into the evening but I left as the sun started to set to meet the VSOs at Aso Rock, to wave Natalie off on her holiday trip to the UK.

The Week Part Two: The Church Dance

I arrived home from Basse at 9.50 pm. We'd driven past my church and I'd seen people moving in the hall where our choir's fundraising Commercial Dance started at 9 pm. Of course as my church friend Mathias had said, nothing would really kick off till after 11 so the hall looked quiet. But, despite my colleagues pointing out that I looked exhausted, the hall looked very tempting.

Julie and Agnes were at my house when I reached it and Agnes offered me the remains of the spicy pea stew they had shared. This is undoubtedly one of the joys of a good housemate; having tasty food cooked and edible when you arrive home late. I was sleepy and a headache was building. But I was itching to go to the dance, to see my choir friends in a new context and because any non-attenders would be charged double the ticket price (D50) which sounded very boring. Plus I'd planned what to wear. But it was closing on 11 pm after a long journey. I was convinced I'd fall asleep on my bed. Eventually I thought "what is it you want to do?" took Katharinic advice of having a strong coffee, shower and 10 minute break, getting my glad rags on and heading out.

Outside I met a friend of my compound with whom I've drunk attaya in the past. He has just bought a taxi, fulfilling his childhood ambition to be a driver. He's very excited and offered me a lift for "whatever I think is a fair price". Leaving him at Westfield with my D50 fare, I stepped out to the party. "you look spectacular" claimed one friend as I bought my ticket. I felt it too, in my green 50s style dress, black stilettos (I knew they were worth bringing!) and red lipstick which was staying on in the cool night air (the heat means it runs during the day).

The dance itself was great. Lines of chairs were on each side of the hall, with men on one side, women on the other. There was a bar and I took a beer but didn't step over my "one an hour rule" I'd created to avoid falling asleep in the corner. There was also a BBQ outside and of course choir friends to greet and dance with.

Unlike in the UK men here aren't ashamed to dance, in fact most I have met totally love it. Paschal (bass) offered to teach me a few salsa style moves which was totally brilliant though I'm hardly up to the standard of my alto colleague, the very glamorous Marie Isabelle. Paschal's dancing style reminded me a lot of my grandad, and then of Irene who is his best granddaughter dancing partner.

Perhaps the sweetest moment was when flamboyant conductor Alphonse asked one of my alto friends Nancy if she could ask me to dance with him. Seeing them chatting and pointing in my direction I looked over at them "hey, Helen, Alphonse want to dance with you" Nancy shouted over. So we did.

And everyone danced the night away in groups and couples mixing about. At 4.30 I got a taxi home, ready to drop on my feet but deliriously happy with my new friends and adventures.

Almost two months in - a note to my family

Congratulations and welcome to the newest members of my extended family, Jo and Jake. Jo married my uncle Tom at the end of April and I now have a step cousin in the form of Jake. This event prompted a mission to send words that my sisters could report to enquirers at the wedding. Due to other events I missed the question so here is my tardy response.

Tell them that I am well, I am here and I am safe. Tell them that I miss our family, our faults and foibles, our talks and concerns, our culture of shared food and story telling. Tell them that people here share what they have generously, and that it reminds me of my grandparent's house. Tell them that I have a friend who's chips taste like Gran's and who cares for me, and I call him my big brother.

Tell them that when I received a welcome card from the Jacksons in my first week there was a tear in my eye and I was so excited. Tell them that the clothes from Audrey keep me smart, culturally respectful, and sun safe. Tell them that my three swiss army knives are all used frequently. Tell them that my rechargeable lamp lets me read into the night. Tell them that I have used some of the Immodium from Tom and Jo.

Tell them that there's a man at church who dances like grandad, and that I went to a church dance that was like in the 50s but that it didn't start till midnight and that I got home at four thirty. Tell them I have friends here who care for me, that when I lost my phone they got a replacement for me while I was at work, that they advise me and we laugh together, that I am only alone when I choose to be. Tell them I've had around 120 marriage proposals since I arrived but so far no one is successful. Tell them sometimes the hassle winds me up and I hide in my house and paint, and sometimes it makes me laugh and gives me company, and sometimes I scold people. Tell them the work is challenging and interesting and all the usual ways of a new job with the addition of 70% of interactions being in a language I can barely speak.

Tell them that my shower is cold but that when the tropical sun hits the water it sparkles like a thousand diamonds, glittering with rainbows. Tell them that I have had less than ten cups of tea in two months and that I know how to make up milk from powder without it going grainy. Tell them that I see new birds every day and that, at dusk, bats the size of crows flutter overhead and stop me in my tracks because they're lovely. Tell them every day I wash my feet twice but they only become completely clean once a week.

Tell them I am coming back to myself and that I carry them in my thoughts and prayers and actions. Tell them I see their faces in my photos every day, I see my Godsons growing up and my friends having adventures with their own families. Tell them that I miss them, that I am grateful to them and that I love them. Tell them I will come home and tell them that I know that I am loved.

Then say "yeah I know, she is being soft". And know that I am laughing with you.

Oranges in the Office

Living with a housemate again after so long living alone is part of the rich tapestry of my VSO experience. We share a lot, food in particular, and are having fun introducing each other to our separate cultures. Agnes is part of the Ugandan cohort of volunteers, which is a big group here. And she was at home in Uganda when I arrived so has returned with a hefty stock of Ugandan food. Through her I've tried millet porridge and dried talapia and she cooks very tasty bean stews. Everything is an adventure, though so far my return offerings of food such as pasta arrabiata and prawns in chilli are yet to make her culinary top ten.

Agnes works on planning and monitoring at the Ministry of Youth and Sports so our jobs are linked. She's been useful in my induction making sure I've met people and can find my way around. She is based at the Independence Stadium, an imposing building conveniently positioned 10 minutes walk from our compound.

I popped in last week to say "hello". I decided to buy a couple of oranges from outside, largely because I'd once again forgotten to put water in my bag. These oranges were huge, and pricier than the standard fare. In my best Wolof I spoke to the woman selling them and just about managed the whole conversation without switching back to my mother tongue. It's not every job that has the luxury of access to a tasty thirst quenching orange on a hot day. We dug in, me using my English habit of peeling and eating seperate segments, Agnes the more Gambian style of sucking the juice out. I can definitely live with the insertion of a few more office oranges into my five a day!

Mangos in Manchester?

The weather is undoubtedly on the turn. I awoke on Tuesday morning to a definite chill in the air and grey skies. The usually blue skies through my window were a desolate grey [see photo]. The contrast of an African setting, with the red dust of the Gambia and the Harmattan winds lining roads and edging buildings, against the sky of a disappointing Manchester summer's day was eye catching after a month of blue backdrops. [see photos, Manchester backed mangos, mosques and meanderings]

As cardigan clad I picked my way to work I saw a man searching through the roadside drifts of litter for anything of remote value. [see photo, he's in the middle ground] As with the beggars surrounding the tourist cafes, my thoughts twisted to know whether to just give him some money. In the UK it's easier to feel ok about refusing money because of the social security system that prevents complete poverty. Here I haven't yet come to terms with what I want to do, even though I find the allowance tricky to live on it is still much higher than the average Gambian income. And this man in the litter wasn't actually asking, he was instead trying to make a living from the resources around him which is what development workers around the world recommend. I settled for a brief greeting as we passed.

The rest of the walk turned my attention to some of the beautiful parts of the Gambia, bare baobab trees with their eerie reminder of English winter, flowers glowing against their nondescript sky, the small garden next to my office where chickens keep the weeds down. These vivid flowers, this desire to make something beautiful, this way of gaining whatever you can from your surroundings, these things played on my mind as I started my working day. Of course, the cloud burnt off within the hour and a blistering hot day with regular applications of sunblock to my nose followed. But some of the questions about life and having an impact here linger much longer than Gambia's experiment with Mancunian clouds.