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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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!)