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 fish has so many bones that eating it is like sitting an exam"

The store cupboard ran dry of milk, coffee and toilet paper at the beginning of this week. Coupled with the fridge containing a jar of tomato purée, two tomatoes, some tap water and an old aubergine, this led to a trip to the shop.

Living on a very constrained budget and with a cash economy is odd. I found myself weighing up between essential luxuries i.e. coffee and milk powder. I didn't have enough cash for both in my purse if I wanted to buy any other food, but I do use them every day as a cup of coffee is my default treat. So I picked one jar of coffee and one toilet roll, then remembered the 7 Delasi milk powder sachets. That'll solve my problem for two cups.

I then headed up to the local market. Serekunda is much bigger and has more choice but is also more hassle and feels like "doing a big shop". Closer to home the Kanifing market has only about 15 sellers and the produce is pretty limited. On this day all the children decided they are scared of white people and started crying as I walked by. Produce is sold in either little heaps or individually. So I bought a heap (four) of tomatoes (D10 = 20p), a heap of onions (D10), a heap of lettuce (D5), a carrot (D5), a cucumber (D5), two bunches of spring onions (D3) and a heap (three) of Bunga fish (D10 - bargain even if the seller kept wiping her daughter's snotty nose with her hand, those fish are ones to clean myself!).

Getting everything home I set about cleaning the fish. Many hours as a child buying fish in Bury Market and preparing it for tea came into force. I cleared the sink and set about washing, de-scaling and gutting the fish. I love how fish scales shine in heaps after de-scaling, glinting dully in the water like tired sequins in a heap on a dressing room floor. I don't feel the same about fish guts but hey, double bagging and hoping for the best seemed to work in getting rid of them. Then, clean fish in the fridge, I made coffee.

Agnes came out a few minutes later. We decided to cook together, as quite often happens. However, given that almost the entire list of easily available fresh ingredients has already been written in this blog, a lot of our food tastes quite predictable. Today however we were in the mood for experimenting. Over coffee we'd been sharing stories of baked, steamed fish wrapped in paper or leaves. With sliced onions, spring onions and carrots frying, Agnes stuffed the fish with tomato and spring onion, ingeniously tying it with a spring onion leaf. Poaching in the pan, we also set spaghetti to cook and waited for lunch.

When I was a child we'd often eat whole fish, the effort of unpicking flesh from bones part of making our meals enjoyable. I've carried this love into adulthood, though admittedly because I always think removing the fillets appears to waste a lot of fish if I can't think of a recipe that requires stock. Bunga fish is very tasty. Unfortunately it is also riddled with pin bones, thus providing a masterclass in eating whole fish. If concentration wavers your mouth is skewered, and the meal is not ever going to be completed in a hurry. Or, as Agnes observed, "eating this fish is like sitting an exam". Mind you, I always did like exams.

Jerry: the shower in a can

The great advantage of my compound is the existence of water tanks on the roof. This means that the shower flows and we can drink easily without much worry. Other volunteers are subject to the variable flow of the water system, which isn't ideal as temperatures rise.

However, for a few weeks we've been suffering issues in the early evening; slow running taps and sputtering showers. On Friday the water stopped altogether. Although it has come back in the evenings, the limited flow has coincided with very limited electricity so the power to pump water to the roof is missing when the water is flowing and vice versa. The tanks are dry.

Luckily, VSO provide jerry cans for this situation. Which means there's water for bathing filled from the outside tap. It was this technique of jerry can, bowl and cup that rescued my morning's ablutions. The cold water drenches a body thats very hot from dealing with tropical heat and it's fairly refreshing (see also horrible and shocking). It's common for most volunteers and in fact I've used the same in the UK when water was a problem due to an irresponsible landlord. However, today's shower was the first time it was vital here. I just hope power and water work together so that I get less of a shock for the morning.

The fragility of life

"It's not like Europe, so many people die in Africa. I don't like it". So said a choir friend this evening, simply expressing a deep sadness. For context, practice on Monday was cancelled due to another set of requiem vigil prayers being said.

Life expectancy here is 54, which is rank 166 out of 188. By contrast the UK is ranked 16th, and Ireland (another small country and former colony) has a life expectancy of 80. In The Gambia the top three causes of death are, in descending order, influenza/pneumonia (13.2%), malaria (11.6%), and diarrhoeal diseases (9.2%). Life expectancy is an average figure, with high infant deaths dragging the expectancy down. If a child survives to age five their life expectancy rises to around 66, depending on gender.* "How do you want them to go?" asked another friend. "When they're old. 50 to 60 is no age to die."

I left, declining an invitation to stay and chat ("wahtan" a word I've forgotten six times). With Howells's Requiem in my ears, I considered why I hadn't stayed just for a while. Am I avoiding getting deep into the problems here, avoiding hearing people's views and experiences about living with death as a next door neighbour? Is a funeral just another cultural event to me, rather than the heartbreaking loss of a dear friend, made worse by being far too soon?

I have witnessed friends lose their parents too young and I have lost friends myself. Everyone is linked here and so every loss is like those few times in my life I have witnessed and felt real grief, but so much more frequent. Yet surely, in the bigger picture, it is this which illustrates the development I'm working for, not for economic growth as an end but for an environment in which people bury their loved ones when they are old, not simply because they died too soon.

And so solutions begin to emerge for me to investigate. What works? What worked in the UK? Should I be thinking about and devoting time to any of the following, that I have learnt in my career?
- Public health initiatives, preventing problems before they arise, such as access and proximity to green space reduces heart disease, or ensuring landlords are required to keep homes decent reduces asthma, and maintaining sewers to prevent dysentery .
- Educating women. The emphasis is on women not because of any special quality but because of the culturally prescribed roles they often play in caring for children and families, though of course the right to an education for its own sake is vital to well being of all people;
- Having a welfare system that supports incomes, employment, health, sanitation and education. does this need to be based on full or near full employment to be effective and to ensure people still have individual freedoms to decide other aspects of their lives?

And, in light of this what am I actually doing? Which piece in the huge developmental humanitarian jigsaw am I attempting to fill? Perhaps the first step is that, next time, I stay to wahtan.

* Figures from http://www.worldlifeexpectancy.com/country-health-profile/gambia, accessed on 5.6.13.

The first rain

As is well known I grew up in the north west of England, counties which every year give water fresh from the lush green hills to a drought stricken South East. When I first moved away I, like my Biblical forebears, spent 40 days and nights in downpour. That land was of course Swansea, where roads are rivers and bicycle riding involves more swimming than peddling. So rain was my home for many years.

Despite my ten year acclimatisation programme of living in London and environs, where people question whether it will ever stop raining after half a day unlike Manchester where it's seen as showering if it's stopped for half an hour in a week, having no rain at all has been gnawing at my soul. The streets are dry and dusty, I need a sun hat not a rain coat and the only water I feel on my face is from sweating or showering. I have begun to feel like a parched flower wilting in the sun.

According to the tales I've heard, the rains are not necessarily good news. The mosquitos increase and need more blood meals while breeding. The drainage is limited, not having experienced the works of Bazzlegette and his ilk so streets are muddy to the point where VSOs have lost shoes and the street level sewers overflow. The frogs come out and creak through the night like an embarrassing hostel bed. Unwashed roofs are flushed of six months worth of dirt and debris and houses collapse as leaks have developed and are found too late. The humidity rises to unbearable levels so hair smells mouldy when left up. Yet my heart and soul is aching for rain, and the rumour is before the end of May they will arrive.

May 31st arrives. Water is off at home so I visit the hotel for a swim, then a gang of VSOs for a beer. No sign of rain. We take a trip to a local cafe and I order the very English fish and chips, though it arrives seriously tasty with peppered, breaded fillets deep fried and served with coleslaw and spaghetti as a salad alongside chips. It definitely has the Gambian twist. [photos below, apologies for the low lighting]

As I ate the sky began to flash and with three hours of May left, lightning was started flashing in sheets across the sky. We doubted rain and watched the display intensify over the next hour, building in forked elements and increasingly rapid. Speckles of water started to fill the air. Then the rain came.

It fell heavily; relief from the tension of the atmosphere was palpable. I stood outside and danced in it, joined by my friend Abdou who loves the rain too. Then we came inside to watch sparkling curtains glittering from the corrugated eaves with VSO friends, Nicola and Natalie.

The shower was short, well under an hour. Walking home the air smelt of hummus, like Assam tea freshly and strongly brewed. Though I may hate it by the end, this first rain was truly beautiful.

Twelve week blues

Woke up this morning, sweating in my bed. My dreams are still repeating all the stupid things I've said. My mattress is too lumpy and my mind was full of dread. Knew the streets are full of people shouting "toubab" at my head.

Made myself some breakfast, no fresh milk for my tea. A tablet, fruit and bread again the only food I see. The power's off again, there's a dead phone on my knee. Now my coffee's getting cool while my cold shower's freezing me.

Sitting in my office, unknown woman steps right in. She asks me to buy her breakfast 'cos of the colour of my skin. Try to get some work done, but don't know how to fit in. And everybody's asking why my finger doesn't wear a ring.

Later in the evening, heading for my home. Can't face going to the market, such a long, hot way to roam. There are volunteers out drinking, cheap, yeasty lager topped with foam. But I have to go to choir to add more Wollof to my tome.

I try to make new friends, don't know who to trust. Everyday I clean my shoes but I'm always full of dust. It takes ages to get ready, stinging repellant is a must. The atmosphere's so humid my hair's almost begun to rust.

This is my story, it's one we all can feel. It's just that point of the process when it starts to get so real. There's no need for any worry, it's all part of the deal. With some pals, some sleep and dinner I'll be back on an even keel.

Celebrating lives

Church last week included an introduction to how major life events are marked. Of course this is in the Catholic community rather than the Muslim community which makes up the majority of The Gambia. However, it's still interesting to observe and take part in. On Wednesday I sang for the vigil prayers for the funeral of a parishioner. This woman, Mary Jaal "Mam May" Njie, had established the Catholic Women's Guild and was obviously a stalwart firebrand of the parish. Tributes to her lasted for over an hour, with the prayers of the Rosary recited and her favourite hymns sung. She had clearly touched many lives, and the church was packed.

The following day I pulled out a black and white dress, which are funeral colours here. Having decided it didn't suit me I'd altered the dress into a halter neck a few days earlier by candle light. Agnes commented that I needed to cover my back to be respectful which meant I spent a very hot day in a jacket and thick black dress with heels. Still, the funeral progressed with flowers covering the coffin, a long heartfelt sermon from the priest. We sang many songs and the coffin was taken to the graveyard next to the church. As I had never met the family I didn't travel to their house, though many others did.

Every choir member is entitled to the choir singing at their wedding. Therefore on Saturday we met at the local church to sing for a girl named Marie and her husband Thomas. The wedding party involved several sets of bridesmaids, older women in purple and a gaggle of young girls in ruched pink dresses with blue satin bows. There was a little bride and groom, children dressed to match the couple, and of course Marie wore a white sparkly dress with veil and satin fingerless gloves.

We sang a lot, including a spontaneous Ghanaian song as this is Thomas' homeland. The sermon considered that both the husband and wife have to obey and respect each other and admonished some husbands think this only applies to the wife. However of course the model of marriage still assumed that could show respect Thomas getting home from his work in time to eat the food Marie had prepared.

I decided to go along to the reception to which everyone was invited, in sharp contrast to the "no plus ones and reserve list" planning seen in UK weddings. In fact another alto, Marie Isabelle, dragged me into a car and made sure I was involved. As an aside Marie Isabelle is highly glamorous, a great dancer and lives in an apartment on her own. By the end of the reception I felt I'd found a kindred spirit, and someone to help me improve my language skills. [ see photo with a rather dramatic green lighting.]

In contrast to a UK wedding it was the older women rather than than the children who were up dancing first. [see photos] We danced around the chairs set up to face what would become the high table when the wedding party arrived. Stamping our feet and clapping mixed up with a bit of salsa style. Of course I ended up surrounded by a gang of young girls swinging our arms about.

A cohort of women served food; snack plates of cake, coconut tart, meat pasty and hot dog, followed quickly by a buffet benachin (fried rice) then later grilled chicken and salads. Men dragged round crates of soft drinks and beer, though to everyone's amusement our hands were empty for the toasts. At 9.30 I wandered home, bone tired, full of food and very happy.

The concert

On Friday night I joined a crowd of fellow choristers in going to a concert by another local church choir. Our own concert will be the last Friday in October so this was a good chance to get some context for that. Particularly, as my friend Tony Badjie [leaning over his chair in the photo] observed, "everyone will come to ours just to see what you do".

I met my friend Matthias [see photo of us in the dark] before the concert, giving me the chance to visit his family (also in the choir)and eat a mango (again eliciting the "wow, you like Gambian food" reaction which is becoming familiar). We then set put to meet Tony, Katy and Joe. As I was clearly a bit confused as to what was happening, Tony have me the Patrons Money, essentially a donation from our choir to theirs, and which meant I didn't have to buy a ticket.

The choir were lined up outside as we entered the church hall and settled down. The came in singing in procession. Their programme covered spiritual and cultural music and they dressed in African dress, changing at the interval into traditional Gambian clothes and beads. Weirdly for me the hall was very noisy and the choir was constantly battling a lot of noise from supporters around the bar, as well as people dancing up to the front to add extra donations in the songs dedicated to their group. Of course, when "St Therese Choir" was called we danced up and threw extra cash in the pot, accompanied by the grumblings of our President Alfred that it's "St. Therese SENIOR Choir".

After the performance, the hall was reset for a dance, grill and beer party. But by that time sleep was closing in and Alfred's offer of a lift home was too good to refuse. And so I went home with thoughts of how much practice I'm going to have to do to get through October's concert, both singing and dancing.