The Leaving Workshop

Weirdly, with just over half of my current placement left and still feeling very new and out of the system, I received an email invitation to a Leavers' workshop with VSO. Confused I checked it was actually intended for me and indeed it was. The aim of the workshop is to make sure volunteers prepare in good time for leaving, both in terms of ending projects and relationships well. And so on Friday morning, having freshly arrived in The Gambia again, off I trotted to a workshop about leaving it.

Arriving at the office we started with a familiar greeting of old friends in the VSO office glad to see me back safely. Then a tussle with the internet where I tried to email a document to my counterpart having had the very busy week back at work familiar to all those who've recently holidayed. I lost. However I did win in terms of getting a nice coffee and a couple of books from the library which, whilst less professional and world changing, is actually more fun.

The workshop was scheduled to last the morning. It began with a VSO video, several ex-volunteer talking heads on what leaving was like. VSO loves a talking heads video; we'd seen a lot in our pre-placement -training. There's a man who lived in hearing distance of roaring lions in most of them, so it was strange not to see him in this one. However we heard about having not enough time for the paperwork, considered opinions on leaving parties and listened to tales of resettling at home. Then we discussed the practical steps needed (quite a lot of forms and meetings, so there's a record of what happened) and raised concerns, most of which were about sustainability of our work. We also covered what we'd miss, which seems to be the children greeting and dancing with us, the responsibility at work, the camaraderie of the volunteer corps and, for some, the weather. Unsurprisingly the limited choice of beer and food or milk powder didn't feature.

The discussion about our impact as volunteers was more fraught. To be a VSO is to be a catalyst in a society, creating changes. When a stone is thrown into a lake the ripples spread out from the point it entered, stirring even stagnant water. The effects become wider but more shallow the future away from the volunteer they are. It's the image of a VSO. But how does it feel to be the stone? You splash into the water but quickly hit the bottom, unaware of the ripples left above, the oxygen mixed through the liquid as you passed briefly through. A programme planned to change a system takes time. It's a slow process and can take thirty years with a different volunteer each year. We are like these stones. And as people who, as the old cliche would have it, want to change the world, feeling that you had a small impact is often not enough. You created a ripple, but you wanted the whole nature of the pool to alter to your vision. Of course that's the point of the model, it's not your vision, it's the people of the country who just call on your expertise for a short while to achieve their own aims. But even knowing all that, it's not easy.

Although I still feel new I decided to use the opportunity as intended; to actually reflect on leaving and how I'll feel. I was surprised that I am pretty emotional about it. But I am. I have friends here who, after I go, I am unlikely to ever see or hear of again. Yet now I see them everyday. They visit when I'm sick, call just to greet me (and I'm really bad at rendering to return that favour), laugh at me dancing, and send wishes of love to my family in the UK. I will never know what grades Mam Jarra gets, whether Marie Louise gains another godchild, if Sena's building business grows, if Paulina and Nicolas have another baby, won't go to Katy's wedding. And I know where and how they live and that outcomes are not always good.

And so, there were lots of questions I asked myself, about leaving well and about what next in terms of work and life. By the end of the workshop I had a fully expanding mind map, thought provoking ideas surrounded by clouds, plans in the future linked to actions I can take now. But the biggest realisation was that I often hang back from joining in or engaging with people here, scared of causing offence or becoming embroiled in a situation I don't really understand and therefore can't control. I worry that I'll hurt people when I leave if we spend to much time together. But perhaps the opposite is true. This is the one moment in the history of all space and time that I have with these people. At the bottom of the mind map I wrote "your time here is short. Use it well.". I hope I do.

Mangee xontan (I'm happy (possibly))

As I flew over Gambia the dawn light revealed a change. It was green, houses nestled in grass and starkly contrasting my arrival in March. Leaving the plane the country smelt fresh and clean, the pre-dawn air still cool and damp. The familiar landscape all the way home was now carpeted in a foot high layer of plants, ground nuts, maize and grass identifiable alongside the plants I think are peppers and aubergine (these having frequently failed in my own gardening). I was struck that this is a great time to visit the Gambia, made potentially better because the tourist season is closed so it's also relatively calm and quiet.

Arriving at home I found a house of stale overheated air, made more unpleasant by a mouldy pan left on the stove. The cockroaches has again claimed the fridge and cupboards. Opening all the windows and doors I dealt with the pan and unpacked. I was bone tired and longingly considered a few minutes sleep. However, having committed to 10am mass for the feast of the assumption, instead I unpacked, reordered shelves and remade the bed with sheets from my grandparents. I then showered, dressed, with a false start as I remembered mosquito repellant and sun cream too late, and walked to church.

It's safe to say I was very sleepy. I'm reasonably sure I missed something in the point of the sermon as it seemed to be about how Mary always made sure Jesus was well dressed and that was the purpose of motherhood which is theologically unproven at best. However, I was struggling to keep my eyes open so the chance of missing something or indeed dreaming the whole thing is quite high. Still, I handed a very pleased choir president the music books sent by my mother and some fudge from the wedding which I'm not sure is a very Gambian taste.

As I drove to the Mendy's house for a feast day celebration I knew I couldn't think enough to follow the language or any names but felt very happy to be back. I spent most of the afternoon asleep as Francine loaned me her bed, then took some sweet wine and sour meat and rice. Sang Gaye asked if I'd missed this food. I really had, though was full before the sheep's head was brought out.

The end of the evening involved a trip to Banjul, a scarily white Mary presiding over the cathedral and a march round the town trying to get a ride home. By the time I reached my home I had also had, from three men I'd just met, two declarations of love and two proposals of marriage. As one of the guys asked why I was laughing I answered "I get a proposal at least once a week" but he still thought his was the most serious and was baffled as to why I wouldn't accept it.

As I fell asleep, for the next thirteen hours as it turned out, I smiled again to myself. In one day I'd had three propositions, shared bowls of food, experienced unquestioned hospitality and struggled to get by in a different language but really enjoying trying. I was certainly back in The Gambia.

A holiday in my own life

And so I'm going back to The Gambia. Weirdly there are lots of elements of daily life I can't clearly remember. What is it to have a cold shower everyday and will it take time to get used to it? How muddy will the roads be? How do I make varied meals with limited ingredients? What does Julbrew actually taste like? What is work and how do I do it? Is being hissed at or propositioned that regularly really as annoying as I vaguely remember?

Whenyouwriteasentenceyouincludespacestohelpitmakesense. Or rather, when you write a sentence you include spaces to help it make sense. This holiday has been such a space. Gone were the long walks provoking introspection, the desire to hole up under a mosquito net, the continual sense of accidentally offending someone as cultures collide, the checking every sentence for British English idioms that don't translate to West African English, needing to spell out each thought because the hints used at home don't work and knowing I am also misreading those hints from new friends, the need to back fill information to new friends in each story.

For three weeks I have had instead barely a free moment, luxurious beds providing the deepest sleep of the year, other people's stories unfolding that, on my return, I too will be a part of. I have argued about who gets to pay for comedy clubs, drinks, dinner, cocktails and transport. I have played with children who aren't equally terrified of and intrigued by my skin colour or "cat eyes". I have had my make up professionally done and blow dried my hair, as well as drank many pints in old man pubs with my favourite oldmanpub company, mum, Mags, Helen, Chris and Lizzie. I've walked into art in the shape of a big blue cockerel* (is it a comment on Boris?) and in landscaped gardens picnicking with Kath and Aodhan. I've caught up on politics, bikes and swapped advice with Irene. I've taken a turn around a lido and eaten roast dinner with Anna, opulently opting for ice cream. Kate, Al and I have laughed at realising that for the first time we're all currently both committed to employment but actually unwaged. I've depleted Suzi's wine stock and been reminded what it is to renovate a house, been escorted round supermarkets to get provisions I now know will make a difference to daily life. I've eaten with my family and enjoyed hearing details of their lives, singing old songs and swapping stories. I've seen good friends marry and danced dramatically in a castle, having a perfume fight as if we were teenagers once again. I've missed seeing two particular families but spoken to them and shared woe, work, worries and joys. I've travelled around England and I have laughed and cried with those people I love, advised and been advised, sung and been spoiled.

In short I have had a holiday in my own life. It has been busy and a slightly condensed version of what I usually do as I didn't have to fit work in. And through that I have realised that I love my life, the friendships we have built and the family I live in. Through the break in life in Gambia and the space to stop thinking and analysing decisions have crystallised and I have a sense of purpose and direction again. I'm so excited about it that working hard in Gambia will be the only way to distract from being only at the very beginning of a long path. I am back to myself. As was observed "I know you're better, your ranting about important things rather than things which don't matter".

Gambia, see you very soon. It'll be lovely and fun and busy. I'll make a hundred mistakes and get cross for no apparent reason. I'll rant occasionally and continue my reputation for being "a bit horrible". I'll find parties and evenings and spend time on the beach and think hard about what I can concoct in the kitchen. I'll ask whoever's around most questions in my head, and will work hard to share those skills I have at a pace which suits us both. We'll explore more ideas, paths and possibilities. UK, thank you for my space to think.


* never go for a pun that's that easy

On the occasion of two good friends marrying

When I moved to London ten years ago I fell into a great group of mates. We worked in parliament and had days spent deciding which restaurant to have lunch in and which bar to visit after work, as well as party meetings, writing speeches and suggesting solutions to issues raised in constituent letters. Over time this group provided my housemates in the form of The Flat of Doom, and with Chris, Ric and Gareth I would explore the various delights of south east London. Through it all was Rosalind, Chris's long term girlfriend. Later, when my work moved west, Ros became my housemate. Both flats were some of the best; housemates who cared for each other, who enjoyed each others company, who are genuine friends and who cooked together. I like to imagine my "ah, let's just use champagne for this risotto" equalled the regular joy as Ros texted to see if I'd be home for tea and fancied cheese pasta. Frankly someone who thinks using champagne for risotto is a great idea is my kind of woman.

Chris and Ros are exactly the kind of couple that it's a joy to be friends with. They obviously love each other deeply and worry about how the other is with the kind of care you always want a mate's partner to show. Yet a single person will not feel isolated in their company. There will always be ideas for activities, shared jokes and stories and that excitement that comes with good friends. When they face troubles they work hard to solve them together, even when that itself is hard. Many happy years have been spent in the company of either and both of them. The main fraught point between them could be summed up in the word " marriage".

On their ten year anniversary Chris planned a trip down memory lane, visiting sites they've loved and made memories in. Culminating in Central Lobby of the Mother of All Parliaments he produced a ring and asked her to marry him. Which was lovely and she said yes.

On a standard evening in an old haunt when they asked me to be their bridesmaid I was totally shocked. I actually fell off the chair. They are great friends but like all lovely people their list of friends is long. However, they had honourably decided to ensure that as many people they care about as possible had a role. Later that day I assured Ros I'd do very little organisation and mainly see the bridesmaid role as making inappropriate jokes and opening champagne for breakfast on the day of the wedding. Apparently this was fine.

All this was agreed before I travelled. Many advised me not to come back and I deliberated heavily. Then the thought struck me "if I were getting married on another continent Ros and Chris wouldn't ask 'should we go?' but 'how do we get there?'". And coming back was the greatest decision I've made since deciding to do VSO in the first place.

Dresses fitted over the internet require a little adjustment and shopping for underwear and shoes with my enormous back pack, so big it needs its own chair and is therefore anthropomorphised into Alan, was not the happiest I've ever been. And I then travelled the country without seeing the people at the reason of my holiday until the wedding rehearsal which was strange.

The rehearsal came with a reunion of old friends and friends of friends long missed as cameo players in each other's lives. As the only bridesmaid and naturally being a bit bossy I remembered our steps to pass on to the others. We hit the local pub, restaurant and the late night spots of the exotically named Chester-le-Street. My stories of life in The Gambia became perhaps a little incoherent but it was Chris's night, his close friends (except Ros) sharing old jokes and tales.

After a pedicure Flute Helen and I met the Mother of the Bride. Despite my early protestations about organisation I had been asked to find flowers for hair. We traipsed the market, eventually digging some up from a neglected haberdashers and Brenda suggested a tea in the sunshine of Durham Cathedral Square. This segued into meeting everyone in the pub and early-ish nights all round.

Wedding day dawned. Having woken early I jumped on a train to Chester. Me and many, many cricket fans in the way to the Ashes. Handily this meant the road to Ros (in her grandad in law's house) was lined with ushers. Make up, deciding hairstyles and, of course, opening champagne followed. Perhaps unusually for a wedding morning activity the Northern bridesmaids had to explain the concept of a Corned Beef Pie to those of the south. I took the "maid" idea to heart, removing tags, unpicking labels and pinning in dresses. We then practiced walking in so that it was totally seamless and I stole some safety pins from next door, to go in my pocket with some tissues. That's right folks, a dress with pockets.

Arriving at the church Ros looked radiant. Friends peeped out from the pews and the wedding was underway. I sang loudly and frankly a little sharp, Ros and Chris swapped vows and rings and confirmed it all in law. Flute Helen played a hauntingly romantic piece with confident passion and Lisa read a poem comparing Ros to a skoda which made everyone laugh.

The church was visible from the reception at Lumley Castle. The ushers ushed and everyone drank, toasted and chatted. We took our seats for dinner, casting our votes for first dance as we did so. Well how else would such a couple decide the music? The speeches were perfect. Brenda pitched hers to give a background to the embarrassing moment of Ros's childhood. Chris, who I weirdly have never heard speak in public, was a natural, his lilting tone and steady balance between confident respectful teasing and kind information keeping all in the room happy. I was identified as the most travelled guest and thus named "Gambia Helen" which, as there were at least four attendant Helens, was a necessary title. Victoria as the Best Woman presented a hilarious PowerPoint, the pictures also aptly showing how much Ros loves Chris as she looks on adoringly at his zombiefied face on a tube. The closing sentiment that "these are two of my very best friends and I'm looking forward to the future with them" was palpably felt throughout the room.

Disco, drinking and dancing in political masks followed. Everyone was excited that I had pockets, demonstrating that if the ability to carry my own stuff is such a novelty maybe feminism still has a way to go. If Cinderella was allowed to wear a watch and had pockets I think that story might end much better with her having a lovely life running round the world. Still, as an added bonus, the evening was spent pogoing to mid-90s music in a strapless dress that didn't fall down, avoiding bring sprayed with a particularly sugary perfume and explaining my VSO placement by saying "you know the Pulp song 'Common People'? It's that, and I'm the girl". Ros and Chris both looked radiant and content, secure in their joy at taking the first step in a new chapter.

Still, for that chapter to start the wedding must end. As I shared hugs with both Chris and Ros I knew that it was the last of such a moment for a long time. Trotting down the steps like a forlorn but self sufficient Cinderella a few tears escaped from my eyes. It will be next year before I see these good friends again. And what a night of storytelling that will be.

Photos by Berresford, Chadwick, Longworth

Open Arms

The following day brought a walk about with Irene, a nice lunch in China town and a trip to Knutsford to make tarte tatin and listen to divine music with James before a dinner with my Dad. Dad's meal was targeted to hit long forgotten taste buds with chilled rose wine, trout and leeks reminding me of why this is one of my favourite meals. The company of family and catching up on news at the table I grew up at was delightful as ever. Waving at the neighbours peeping in though was apparently "weird".

Several weeks earlier I'd been texting my family. The subject of carbonara came up. I thought that was a year idea then remembered that cheese, cream, bacon and mushrooms are pretty tricky to find and would be left with pasta covered in egg yolk. However, Mags makes an awesome carbonara so, after a pint of ale in a sunny square, we had a night in. Margaret is a passionate and talented cook. As a friend recently commented "what other 13 year old makes souffles?" So it's easy to drop the line "oh, we should've bought pudding" and ten minutes later she's worrying that a chocolate souffle might drop too quickly. Which it never does.

On Friday Manchester was holding its idyllic blue skies with fluffy clouds, temperatures dropping and rising as the shade patterns rippled across the landscape. Katharine had the day off and we decided to have a picnic, including the delightful Aodhan who's also an ex-Mancunian seeking the joys of home. What the Edwardians did for us of course includes green space dotted throughout towns. Nestled in a landscaped valley places in the streets of Didsbury we found a spot for a picnic of pork pies, crisps, lashings of beer and whiled away the hours in tales of music and education and changing lives. My craving for the discipline, complex vocals and epic scores of European music still exists but at least I'm a bit more up to speed on the gossip.

Excitingly my old school chum Peadar got in touch to see if we could meet up whilst I was over. So the evening began with a wine bar by the Cathedral in the warm setting sun, making Manchester's red bricks glow. Weirdly we ordered a Riesling but received a Viognier. Choice of wine being a little novel and being an old favourite anyway I didn't care. Ale and a steak sandwich followed then everyone went home. Mags, a couple of her mates and I decided to play pool instead of sleeping, then ended up in a karaoke bar. Again Peadar proved his metal as a mate by coming back out when he realised the bar was just by his house. As teenagers this was a night we would have described as random.

Saturday was scheduled to see Gran and Grandad. As ever the spread was lavish and various family members popped in for stories and cuddles. My grandparents are lovely and tell many stories of our history. This time grandad was explaining how they used to run the family budget in cigar boxes. I think my little book of planned spending and regular tallies is easier. Apparently gran wasn't very impressed with the cigar box system either. Still, I think I get my story telling from them and am very pleased they are now online so can read this blog.

Most of my family are storytellers but I was yet to hear the tale of Mags' recent trip to South America. So we holed up in a favourite old pub with half pints of Guinness and went through the photos. Hearing tales of new food tried, jumping on salt flats, opinions on the Incas and crowded favelas explored gives a good back drop to stout and I've missed many tales of home. The following day would bring the Walkuffellows and days with old friends, and chance to look from this year's tales to the upcoming adventures for us all.

Welcome to Manchester

When I started university it rained for over 40 days without stopping. This was standard weather. However, on open days Swansea would greet prospective students with glorious sunshine, sparkling seas and rolling green surroundings. Sometimes the rainy towns know how to put on a good show. And so, following suit, Manchester has been doing its best to entice me home.

I arrived in the town after a brief trip to see my grandparents to root me as ever back to the North West. Back pack making me "look very muggable"according to Irene, I went to the town hall to complete the sisterly reunions. Mags allowed me to leave the bag with her and I went shoe shopping, for about ten minutes until Irene showed up presenting a more enjoyable option for the day. The sky was blue and we ex-mancs found a steamy coffee shop, meringue cake and tap water on, well, tap. Old friends joined us to share news, make plans and swap stories. Lizzy, James and I have now gone over the "friends for over half our lives" threshold so giving me the easy company of solid friendship that I was beginning to crave.

Coffee was shared and company changed. It has become a tradition with my sisters to hold a "fake" Christmas if there's any reason we aren't together on the day. This started after our parents' divorce when the phrase "going home for Christmas" suddenly raised more questions than it answered. As we have long since lived in different towns it has become a fixture for most years. It normally involves a nice meal and four Longworth sisters enjoying our company without stress or blame on any side. So Tuesday was Christmas.

The Aumbry in Prestwich was our host. This tiny restaurant in the suburbs where we grew up is decorated in white and gold. Cutlery sparkles on the tables and glasses shine as they catch reflections of candles and tea roses. Margaret then provided further seasonal decorations to our table with tinsel and lights, coordinating Christmas hats and tiny silver crackers. Wearing paper crowns in July did raise a few questions and a debate among the staff about whether they wanted to put a bit of Christmas music on in the back ground. Having already sunk aperitifs backed by Crosby and Bowie and sung our Christmas song we were happy enough without.

Taking the chance to sample the taster menu we were served cheese puffs with crispy pastry that seemed to be filled with Primula, then a take on the Bury Market snack of black beans with vinegar, here deep fried. The taste was of our childhoods growing up here and set up the black pudding scotch egg with ketchup which followed well. Irene's gluten intolerance was no problem apart from us stealing pieces of the cornbread off her plate.

Goat ham inspired groans of "does that taste familiar?" whilst I mentioned again that "I'm just back from The Gambia" and the kale accompanying the beef was the taste of dark green vegetable I dream about whenever potato leaves hit the hob at home. I very almost asked for more. The only disappointment for me was that I had to share around my glass of the Chardonnay served with foamy mushroom soup because I famously don't like it. Otherwise we swapped presents, stories and thoughts, relaxed in our familiarity and with good food to help. The final plate of petits fours had a cheerful Merry Christmas scrawled across it.

Arriving home in a taxi that seemed ridiculously cheap, we laughingly regaled the streets with Christmas cheer. As I ran up the stairs to Margaret's flat my shoe, a smart thirties style beige sandal that I wear everyday due to its ability to cope with walking and looking professional, fell apart. The ankle strap hung on leaving the sole to slap forlornly against my foot in a jerking rhythm. Still, as I attempted to time the slapping sounds with various carols, the Christmas spirit of making the best of life and sharing love and generosity was accompanied by a broken shoe.