Christmas Cheer

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you. Whatever you are doing, enjoy it all with family and friends in love and appreciation! I’m already looking forward to Christmas 2012 but in the meantime……………..

It’s Christmas eve and I woke up this morning in my “Christmas treat” hotel (the Hibiscus in Brufut) to a chill in the air. It is December after all!  However it was not cold enough to prevent me from eating breakfast outdoors, at the pool’s edge. My usual breakfast here begins with fresh fruit salad wrapped in a pancake with a locally made fruit juice, rich in vitamin C, called wongo. I’m developing a taste for it mixed with ginger. Afterwards Fatu, head of table service, brings two poached eggs, tomato and a small amount of bacon with fresh tapalata bread cut into small rounds. I always save a little of the bread to eat with the delicious runny African honey. A small pot of tea rounds off a meal that staves off all signs of hunger until the evening.

Life here is certainly different to the rather Spartan existence in Soma. The hotel garden is gorgeous and evident wherever guests roam. The tall trees and beautiful bougainvilleas attract delightful small birds, some no bigger than wrens but with such bright coloured plumage. Sadly they are too quick to photograph.

The food is marvellous. As well as mouth-watering breakfasts, the lunch and evening dinner menus are irresistible. I especially recommend the butterfish in lime and capers or sticky chicken. The puddings look great too but I never have any room for one. Perhaps today I’ll just have a pudding and skip the main course altogether!

It won’t surprise those of you who have been following my blog which hotel facility I’ve been looking forward to the most. In fact after 5 hours on the road, plus an additional hour or two catching up with Lucy in a Fajara restaurant, I rushed into my room, dropped my backpack and charged into the bathroom. After a minute or two, I realised, too late, that there was no internal latch on the door.  I could not get out!  As I wondered what to do I became aware of my handbag, still on my shoulder. Luckily in my haste I had kept it with me so I sat down on the tiled floor, lifted the bag onto my lap and searched for my mobile phone while red sand poured out of my shoes into two neat piles on either side. I confidently connected up my lap top to the internet, and Googled the hotel for their phone number.  No joy! Suddenly my assured  euphoria as a techno whiz, fell away and once again I crumpled into “One old lady locked in the lavatory”. I plotted two further courses of action. One: send email to hotel reception, marked Urgent, Help Needed ….and two, the more traditional method of opening the window louvers and calling­­­­­­­ out. As the window faces the boundary wall there was no certainty of success but I still I gave it a try, calling clearly but without panic.

After about six calls (and ashamedly increasing panic) along the lines of “If you can hear me, would you please help” I heard the warm tones of a soft Irish voice. My rescuer, followed instructions to get into my room, locate the bathroom and open the door. He then disappeared too quickly for me to thank properly, obviously thinking I was either embarrassed or mad! Only later did I learn that he was a reporter from The Guardian!  Oh dear! The next humiliation was to report to reception and explain the rather odd email they were about to open. At least we all had a good laugh.

Another lone patron of the Hibiscus has been Mira, a Spiritual Teacher from Germany who is only a few years younger than me. We ate together a few times and despite being of very different character types, found we got on very well. Well enough to chance venturing out for a day or two together. I showed Mira how to travel cheaply as a local rather than a tourist and taught her a few useful phrases in Mandinka.

In return she showed me how to march mile upon mile along the hot beach, climb through thorny bracken, venture through “jungle” dodging creepers and warding off wild monkeys! We also walked along a narrow cliff top path ridiculously close to the edge until we were thrown out of the Nature Reserve by a guide for not coming in through the main gate and paying, like “normal” people.

The days with Mira were exhausting but never dull and she did indeed have the restorative positive energy of her profession. One fantastic evening we went with Sue, Hibiscus proprieter, to a concert in Fajara. The main performer was an extraordinarily talented half Gambian/half English singer called Sohna. She also played the Calabash, accompanied by her father and a wonderfully gifted drummer of only eleven years.  In the foyer of the theatre a local artist was holding an exhibition of his work and accepted Mira’s invitation to bring some pieces down to the hotel a few days later. Lawrence is a Nigerian and his work is absolutely stunning. Mira immediately bought two fabric paintings as it was her last day here but I decided to wait until well into the New Year. I would like to see the full range of his work and take time in choosing. That seems most indulgent. This treat is not yet over and I am already planning the next one.

Tomorrow will be Christmas Day but I will not be spending it at the hotel. Catherine and Mary (Kombos based VSO friends) have planed together as much a full Christmas dinner as circumstances will allow. Yesterday the three of us shopped at a place I never knew existed and could only dream of in Soma. Near the tourist area of Senegambia is Maroun’s Supermarket where we could buy frozen vegetables, cranberry sauce, sage and onion stuffing, cheese and ice cream. Visiting friends and family have already supplied Christmas puds and table crackers. The turkey “problem” will be resolved by Aladdin’s Restaurant who have agreed to supply 6 roasted chickens fresh from the spit. Of course there have been the extra problems associated with Christmas. The more usual issue of insufficient  chairs to seat all ten of us as well as the more unusual one of buying a large bottle of gas, getting it home without a car and connecting it up to the free standing oven without an explosion.

I hope your Christmas goes with a bang – and ours doesn’t!

Every good wish for a happy time now and in the year to come.

With much love.

Three Women in a Boat (and other vehicles)

On Sunday, Lucy Ellie and I planned a day’s visit to Farafenni, north of the River Gambia where we could meet up with three friends living and working in Kerewan and do some unusual Christmas shopping.

The journey, we estimated, would take about two hours, so we set off at 9a.m. beginning with the ten minute walk down to the Soma gely-gely park. Even this part of the journey took twice the time expected as we met many teachers we know, walking towards us on their way to Mansa Konko for training, despite it being a Sunday. In typical Gambian style we were greeted warmly, making an excellent start to our day. Eventually we got to the gely gelies but decided upon a Sept Plas (7 seater) instead, as it was just about to leave.  The driver shot off at high speed which was both alarming and uncomfortable due to the uneven road surface. There was nothing we could do except anticipate each successive bump and brace ourselves, all the while wishing we had not chosen to sit at the very back. Miraculously, we got to the river in one piece. We swiftly paid the driver and headed off.

Manoeuvring our way through the crowds along the quay side bitiks, we found the ferry ticket “office” somewhere in the middle. Luckily Lucy knew where and what it was: a rectangular hole about 50 cms by 40 cms, at shin height, below a boarded up window in the side of a building. Lucy is tall and so had to crouch down  very low and tip her head to one side to purchase three ferry tickets from a man, seated in an almost basement room.. It looked so bizarre, I felt we had all been suddenly “flue powdered” into Diagon Alley (Harry Potter). Our tickets cost only D5 each, about 9p. When we got to the water’s edge we could see that the ferry was stationary on the far bank. We had time for breakfast! Ellie spotted a stall nearby where a woman was serving egg tapalata: two hard boiled eggs with mayonnaise, dusted with hot red pepper in half soft baguette type bread. One bite into the deliciously fresh ingredients made us realize just how hungry we were but half way through we stopped. There, just a few metres away was a boatman, encouraging would-be passengers to pay an extra D10 to get into his motor powered long boat avoiding the long wait for the ferry. A few men had already boarded by climbing gingerly over the planks which made for bench style seating and settling in the middle of the boat. We were encouraged not to venture so far but to sit near the driver himself on a plank/seat designed for three. This was too good an offer to refuse and so easy! All we had to do was carefully climb aboard, move a little to our right and sit down. As the boat filled to capacity with about 20 passengers, the driver, Lamin, asked whether the two younger women with me were married. This is not an uncommon approach here. I assumed a captain’s prerogative (as we were aboard a vessel) and immediately “married” off both friends, imaginatively speaking. Lamin expressed regret, saying he really did need a well paid wife!  I explained that VSO volunteers did not meet this criterion.

In the middle of a more easy going conversation, Lamin pulled on the chord to start the engine and gently turned the boat around to start the crossing. The boat sat very low in the water and just as I realised how wide and deep The River Gambia is, I noticed that the other passengers, all Gambian men, were each wearing a life jacket. I looked down under the seat for ours. Not only were there no life jackets, there was no floor. The hull of the boat was exposed, save for about 40 cms of water sloshing to the rhythm of the engine. The life vests must have been issued on entry! A lesson for next time! All we could do on this occasion was finish our tapalata breakfast and cross our fingers. The crossing only took 15 minutes or so and soon we were at the north bank. Once on the other side, the boat was berthed, bow in, due to limited space! This meant that our easy boarding was more than compensated by a challenging disembarkation. Lucy put her back pack on securely and Ellie and I wore our bags like satchels, the straps around our necks and under one arm. We began to climb over the planks, positioning our hands and feet with care but after only a matter of seconds we risked losing our balance and had to pause. The men in front of us were in a rush and went lumbering off, making the boat rock alarmingly. We waited, holding onto the side. When everything settled down, we continued our exit, climbing on and over the seats, sometimes using the narrow piece of wood around the side of the boat as a purchase point for our feet. All the while the absence of the floor allowed us a view of the water filled hull. One slip risked possible injury and the certainty of feet and trousers in a very unpleasant condition for the rest of the day.

But we made it and went on to enjoy a wonderful day. However we made the decision to return home by ferry!

During our time in Farrafeni we all took a donkey cart trip to the Lumo market. Poor donkey! There were 6 of us plus the driver. Together we made a considerable load. We paid only D3 each for the trip. Quite a bargain! Throughout the journey the driver kept shouting instructions, not actually fully understood by any of us, but along the lines of “everybody back” or “everybody move up” according to the terrain, the poor donkey was trying to cross. And so we travelled; shuffling repeatedly up and down the cart which balanced on only two wheels, positioned midway. The cart also juddered as it rolled along but that was due to all the giggling on board!

When we eventually got near to the riverside for the trip back, late in the afternoon, we saw that the ferry was in, so we hurried to buy our tickets and sped down to the docking area. Too late!  The ferry was 10 metres out. Lucy’s long legs had made her the first to arrive at the water’s edge and she dejectedly turned to us, her beautiful face in a frown. Suddenly we heard much shouting from the rear of the ferry. “Which one of us do you choose?” called a cheeky young man in the centre of a line of other ferry deck hands.

“You must choose” the others chorused. “Choose!”.

The ferry was reversing! Lucy laughed and replied that it just was not possible to select one man from such a kind lot.

We jumped aboard and crossed in no time.

Helen of Troy may have set the precedent but turning the Farrafeni Ferry is no mean feat.

It’s not that easy to say either!

A Rather Batty Week

Mr Jeng is very tall and slim with a ready smile and a calm air of authority. Only Quentin Blake could do him justice and draw him with any accuracy.

A highly respected and long serving head teacher, Mr Jeng was recently moved to Pakali Nding Lower Basic School. much in need of his expertise. This morning for the third time in recent weeks I had the pleasure of visiting the school to help draft the School Development Plan.

Each time I go I am collected by Mr Jeng in his car, an old, dark green Seat Toledo which has certainly seen better days but which is still reliable. Never-the-less there is something disquieting about sitting next to such a respected member of the community and watching him “hot wire” the engine to get it started. 

We began the journey alone but soon gained two passengers who had been on the two hour walk to Pakali Nding. This was the morning’s return trip ! As is the custom, Mr Jeng simply pulled the car over and the women jumped in. Everyone exchanged greetings and off we went until we got to their destination at a corner shop. Outside stood a forlorn woman, dispatched by her family to buy the hundred weight bag of rice which lay at her feet. Much to her joy, the boot of the Toledo was opened and with great effort she, Mr Jeng and I managed to lift the bag inside. A short drive brought us to her compound where her husband sat under the mango tree!  I wish we could “hot wire” some of the men here!

Like all Lower Basic Schools (primary phase) the school comprises a number of buildings which resemble in their dimension, typical UK “mobile” units. Of course in most other aspects they are vastly different, for example there is no glass in the windows, just large metal grilles. The roof, like most roofs here, is made from corrugated iron, as it is cheap and so effective in withstanding both the hot sun and heavy rains. Inside there is scant equipment save for a blackboard and double desks with attached benches.

All buildings are arranged around courtyard style areas, swept clean so that the red sandy soil provides an easy conduit across the site.  The trees that grow here and there provide much needed shade. Each is surrounded by a circle of small rocks, painted white. A similar boarder runs along the front of the office, creating a garden area for flowering shrubs. A larger garden area has been set aside at the rear to grow vegetables to supplement the basic staples that make up school lunch.

With the exception of the kitchen and the library, the buildings are all classrooms, including the one which also accommodates Mr Jeng’s office, squeezed in between the two upper classes.

We started our day in here, with fresh bread which needed neither butter nor filling and had it with tea in plastic mugs, without milk but with an unbelievable amount of sugar. To work we sat at my small laptop computer, the pair of us perched on a child’s triple wooden bench as there are no chairs for guests. After an hour or two Mr Jeng invited me to see some of the buildings which can no longer be used due to their poor state of repair. Sadly one of these is the library which had more bats (mammal variety) than books. The noise inside was alarming. The roof was truly infested! If further proof were needed it was in the form of a thick coating of white bat droppings on the piles of rotting books. The walls too were streaked from ceiling to floor.

The detail in the School Development Plan to “Renovate the Library” came suddenly into sharp focus. Without ridding the building of bats first, these plans would not get off the ground. The bats had to go! This was the only part of the plan that required financial support, as community help would ensure the building was cleaned at no cost. Like other VSO volunteers in similar circumstances, I was happy to help if the price was right!  Luckily it was, and a local carpenter with children at the school, agreed to pull down the ceiling the very next day.

With these arrangements made and much of the office work done, we happily set off back to the office, arranging to meet again in a few days time.

 By coincidence I spent the intervening day with another head teacher who told me how his extensive office and library block had been similarly infested.

A large man with only one eye, he retold the story of the Battle of the Bats in graphic detail!

Unlike Mr Jeng, he did not feel the need to call in a workman. He simply removed some of the ceiling here and there along the considerable run of the building and sent an army of children up with sticks. Gleefully he described how the battle raged until eventually the victorious army was able to rake up the vanquished into bags and dump them over the fence.

Does anyone actually know Quentin Blake? There is so much material here!

The final part of this “batty” story is that having sorted the stock in his splendid newly refurbished and pest free library, the second head teacher found he has many books he no longer needs. Better still he is happy to pass them on to Mr. Jeng.

Election Day

Thursday 24^th November was Election Day in Gambia. This meant a day off work with another to follow on the Friday, giving every Gambian adult the chance to travel back to their home town to cast their vote. Unfortunately it also meant no electricity throughout polling day. This conserved supplies so that ­­­sufficient was available through the  night for everyone to watch the results on TV.

Ellie decided, despite the holiday, she would still go into the library of a nearby school to continue sorting the stock but for Lucy and me, the day gave us the time to begin cleaning and packing up her house. Lucy has come to the end of her two year placement here and so there was much to do. Amongst other things we had to move the heavy furniture to make sure that the entire floor was scrubbed clean. Our only shock was a very decayed flat mouse! I scraped him up and dropped him in a rubbish bag. Lucy sorted the many materials she has been using to train teachers: pens, pencils, books etc. She will donate these to some of her schools. She also has a head teacher in mind for the parachute I brought out with me. His teacher in Early Years (called ECDs: Early Child Development) has become a very skilled practioner, despite the lack of resources and the children love playing with it.

Much of Lucy’s household equipment she began to give to her neighbours: VSO and Gambian. But knowing what to do with rubbish is quite a problem for us. There are no dustbin men here. Lucy put the unwanted things outside her door as in this way things just “disappear.”  There may be no refuse collection but there is efficient recycling!

While we were cleaning, Mr Fatti, our neighbour called in on us, on his way back from the polling station. He showed us the nail of the little finger on his left hand. It had been completely coloured with black indelible pen by officials to show he had voted. Mr Fatti explained that with such a high degree of illiteracy here, everyone casts their vote by marble. Each voter is given one before going alone into a room with three election boxes in the corner. The boxes bear the party colours and a photo of the leader. In this case, blue for Hamat Bah, yellow for Ousainou Darboe and green for President Yahya Jammeh. Votes are cast by dropping the marble down a narrow chute into the relevant sealed box. This rings a bell which signals the end of the process.

Lucy and I were interested in all that Mr Fatti told us. Meanwhile he was interested in the items outside Lucy’s door. He offered to give a good home to some and also to take the paper rubbish for her and burn it (and thus cremate the mouse!)

Later we went to another neighbour’s house to watch TV and see the results as they came in. It all looked rather familiar with four analysts on the couch with another standing; talking excitedly through a range of graphs that kept appearing on the computer screen behind him. By the time we went to bed it was clear that, as expected, the president would be the clear winner. In fact, when all the counting was done, his party received more than double the votes given to the other two put together.

President Jammeh explained in an interview that his country wanted “Peace and stability” above everything. Talking it all over with friends at work and in the neighbourhood I believe he is right. Almost no-one would jeopardise the peace.

The President’s Coming.

It’s Friday 18^th November and it has been another very busy week. The main focus has been a four day workshop with the national work force of Cluster Monitors, meeting together in our office hall and staying in the hostel we have here. Cluster Monitors act as permanent inspectors/ advisors to groups of about twelve schools.

Their meeting may well have been the subject of this blog but this has been superseded by presidential news.

The President, His Excellency Sheik Professor Doctor Colonel (rtd) Jammeh, has led The Gambia since 1994 and tours his country annually in June but another similar excursion had been arranged for the week just ending, as next week brings the national election.

Immediately the Cluster Monitors left us in the early afternoon of yesterday, their chairs were piled onto the back of a truck and taken off to a school in Soma. It was here last night that a political rally was held with the President himself taking part. Even though our compound (estate) lies on the outskirts of the town, the highly effective speaker system enabled us to feel as though we were there too. All through the evening and well into the night, we could hear speeches, music and the jubilation of the huge crowd.

 Afterwards the President and some of his staff stayed in the governor’s house in Mansa Konko, just a short walk from our office.  The main retinue of staff were hosted in a variety of locations elsewhere.

This explained the situation I found at work this morning. Several dozen people, dressed in green (the president’s party colour) were gathered around on the dry ground outside my office obviously preparing for the day. Some were chatting, others were brushing their teeth or hair (personal or attached Brazilian swathe) and a few were tending washing on a line put up between two conveniently spaced trees, just inside the main entrance. A large green bus was parked at the top of the drive with its bonnet open, receiving the attention of two men with oil cans. Sona, the secretary assisted by a friend, was cooking eggs, onions and meat patties to ensure that everyone started the day, well fed. After taking a few photos, I wandered into the main hall to look for Mamadi but instead found some late risers folding their sleeping mats. Not one was fazed when I walked in. Indeed the welcome was as though I had entered the house of old friends. Suddenly this relaxed atmosphere came to an abrupt end.

It was time to leave!

Washing was folded, bags were packed, farewells exchanged and within minutes the bus was full and reversing out of the drive. A late passenger appeared from the back of the building and ran out after it; his short legs indicating his panic. The driver halted the bus across the drive entrance and the man boarded. There was a brief moment’s tranquillity before commotion erupted.  People began pointing out of the window and shouting up and down the bus in Mandinka. The poor man who had only just got on the bus, had to get off again. He had forgotten the chicken!

When he reappeared for the second time the man was taking his time; a cardboard box tucked securely under his arm moved now and again due to the live feathered cargo, it contained.

At last they really were off.

So too were the Regional Director and Assistant Director, travelling in the director’s car, driven by his chauffer, Omar. Perhaps they were going to join the President at another rally or meeting later in the day. This left the rest of the office staff to wait by the main gates to see the Presidential entourage pass by sometime later. No one knew exactly when.

During the next few hours while we sat, Sohna provided us with breakfast and wonja juice as the sun rose high in the sky, taking the temperature with it. Bunya, the caretaker, brought us each a bag of ice which quickly melted, providing a welcome drink. We laughed and chatted, swapping places and seats but always trying to stay in the shade, necessary at noon even in mid November. Every now and again a teacher would arrive with a pupil, ready for tomorrow’s Hygiene workshop. They were welcomed and guided to their room by Ustas (an Islamic religious title, the Koranic equivalent of reverend) or Mamadi. But the main focus of our attentions throughout our wait was Maryama, office cleaner and assistant cook

Maryama is quite a character and staunch supporter of the President’s party. She was dressed in a traditional Gambian skirt and top made from bright green fabric, printed with the President’s picture and a slogan which declared that, as a patriotic African, she would die for him. However she felt that this was still insufficient. The outfit needed more green. And so she crossed the road to a beautiful tree to break off metre long leafy branches. With Sohna’s help she tied the branches around her waist with a length of fabric, attaching two more to the headscarf wound around her head so that they hung down like floppy verdant ears.

As pupils along the road practised their chants of welcome and a group of women rehearsed their drumming, Maryama danced in the dusty soil. Now and again she chased off fascinated little boys who were even more startled by her speed of movement than by her appearance. We laughed and I remembered another assistant cook “of character” from the past.

From time to time, the air seemed to herald the President’s passing and everyone would rush to the road side with Maryama rustling and bustling  alongside them. But no, the time was not yet! Several times this happened and I began to wonder if the entourage had taken another route.

Occasionally a truck laden with soldiers, wearing white cotton dust masks or a smart police bike would pass but these too were false dawns. And then around one o’clock we heard sirens and unmistakably it was the President’s cavalcade. Vehicle after vehicle sped by and in the middle was a black stretched Limousine. From somewhere came a whole delivery box filled with packets of sweet biscuits. The box landed open on the ground by Mr Choi’s feet and the packets spilled out. Everyone rushed for a portion of the bounty and I was surprised to see that Bunya, so slightly built, was soon cradling three! A small boy of around seven who had joined us earlier, also held one with glee, but it was quickly snatched from him. In fact all the packets were put back in the box to be fully accounted for. Once done by Maryama, the official sharing out could begin. Packets were distributed exclusively to office staff, so the little boy could only watch, sad and unseen.  Well not quite! Just as Lucy was given her packet, she spotted him and I saw her walk over.

The little boy went home happy.

I think President Jammeh will be returning to Kaneli, his home village equally content, this evening.

                 

Tabaski

On the eve of Tabaski I joined Sohna and her younger daughter, Amie, on a trip to the market. We set off from their home, which lies just behind mine and next to the Mosque, just after 11 in the morning and walked along the long sandy road that leads down to the NAWEC junction in Soma. The Market itself lies on the other side of the main street and because of an extraordinarily high volume and speed of the traffic we had to take great care crossing.  However this was as nothing compared to the bustle in the market. The pathways between the stalls are narrow: wide enough for only two lines of people to pass. With so many shoppers eager to buy their last few provisions for the Tabaski feast all movement came to a standstill at every corner and around the more popular biticos or stalls. Sohna, like every woman in her home town anywhere in the world, knew exactly where to get each of the things she needed. Mostly we bought vegetables and fruit. Amie positioned her mother’s basket on her head and despite her delicate frame, happily kept up the pace for the walk back.

On the way we called in on Sohna’s sister, Gas, who works in the local beauty salon. I watched a woman having her hair done by the shop owner, Maryama. The middle aged customer had already had her nails painted elaborately and had false eyelashes attached. She sat on the floor as Maryama wrestled to comb back and fix down her hair in readiness for an additional swathe of Brazilian hair. This is very popular here in Gambia. Hair pieces or full wigs are a usual part of the daily dress and add a very glamorous touch to their appearance.

After a while Sohna, Amie and I completed our journey home. We arrived to find that Sohna’s husband’s young apprentices had thoroughly washed the tethered Tabaski ram who stood gleaming white in one corner of the front garden. As we sat drinking cold water in the lounge, we suddenly realised it was Amie’s eighth birthday. In all the excitement of Tabaski this had nearly passed by un-noticed. It made me think of Chris back home who always values the marking of her Christmas day birthday each year.

The next day was Tabaski itself, Monday 7^th November and I arrived just after 10 a.m. with my vegetable knife in my bag as requested. The ram still stood where I’d last seen him the day before but Sohna was out, paying a brief call on a neighbour while husband, Ousman was at prayer in the Mosque. Gas, was still practicing her hairdressing skills, this time on a friend while Amie and older sister Isatu watched. It was obvious that Amie had been the morning’s first customer as my little shopping partner from the day before had been transformed into a tiny fashion mannequin.

A matter of minutes only passed before both Sohna and Ousman returned, followed almost immediately by a Senegalese man with a toddler daughter and a highly specialised skill.

As I sat on the front porch, pealing and slicing potatoes and onions, I became transfixed, watching the main business of the day. First Sohna’s best kitchen knife was sharpened on the stone front step while an axe style implement was used to break up a small area of the red sandy soil about midway along by the front fence. The Omo bright sparkling ram was led over to this spot and turned over onto his side before being untied. His protestations were mild, almost resigned as he was handled firmly but not roughly by three men: the Senegalese, Ousman and his main apprentice. The ram’s front and rear legs were held together in pairs and his neck was stretched as his head was pulled back. The knife was wielded with swift efficiency and soon the blood ran freely into the disturbed soil beneath. After the cut to sever the main artery, the ram’s head was twisted suddenly to stop any unnecessary suffering. His body juddered and twitched but was held secure by Ousman and the apprentice, still holding the legs down. This ancient ritual was then heightened by a touch of 21^st century life. Sohna’s mobile rang. Like all wives when their husbands are busy with a rather messy job around the house, she took the phone over and held it for him, enabling him to have the conversation without leaving the task in hand!

After some time, the ram’s tail was given a number of strong pulls which signalled the end of the first phase of preparing the meat for the meal. The body was taken over to the edge of the porch and tied up by the neck. This was not messy. There was no dripping of blood as there was none left to drip. The Senegalese man, watched patiently by his daughter and her doll, cut down through the ram’s underbelly skin. He rolled it back and cut it free from the membrane that held the internal organs in place. Cut by cut the entire fleece was removed and placed on the ground. This then served as a hygienic surface to place the joints and cuts as they were removed. Some of these were given away to neighbours. The ribs were jointed as they hung. Nothing of the ram was wasted save the completely inedible pieces and there seemed to be remarkably few of those. The apprentices washed out the intestines in the adjacent field to be added to the “good meat” pile. The face was stripped of skin before it too joined the tripe, lungs and heart in this pile.  The liver was large and rich. This was the first of the meat to be cooked, in oil with spice and onions. Sohna explained that as is the Islamic tradition her husband had been fasting since the day before. The liver would be the meat to break this fast. However, Ousman did not eat it alone and the dish of liver, onions and mustard was shared by all and tasted delicious. As I took my portion with the fingers of my right hand, I could not help but think that the animal from which it came had been alive not more than two hours before.

Sohna cooked skilfully with spices and herbs throughout the rest of the day, before and after the main meal which was eaten around 2.30 p.m. She cooks at the back of the main house in a separate room, joined to the main building by a sack-cloth canopy. In the centre of this building she makes a wood fire, around which are positioned small rocks to support the cooking pot. There is no table or work surface, and no sink either. In fact the water is fetched by the women of the house each morning from the compound nearby. Sohna followed an unspoken routine, cooking certain joints and meats in order, some for today and others to be dried for days to come. Eventually she served up the delicious Tabaski meal of spiced ram on a bed of couscous with pieces of carrot, topped by rounds of fried potatoes. Almost every other day of the year here, rice is the staple food but it is tradition for people from the Gambian Wolof tribe not to eat rice on Tabaski. Several meals, identical to ours, were sent round to neighbours in large food bowls, covered with another. These were delivered by Isatu; her glamorously coiffured head piled high with plates.

After clearing away the dishes and sweeping up it was time to sit and chat together. The children put on their best clothes and shoes to clatter and shimmer their way around the locality looking for Salibu. This is a small amount of cash, given as a treat to help them celebrate further with a trip to the local bitic. It reminded me of the November “Penny for the Guy” efforts of my younger brother Geoff, when he was a boy. Just as Isatu and Aime left us looking for Salibu, the neighbours’ children came to us looking for the same thing.

Before I went home for the night, I called on my compound caretaker and his family to spend some time chatting under the mango tree with them. While we sat, their youngest daughter had her hair done by her older sister, put on her new clothes and joined her friends in the hunt for Salibu.

Eventually I went home exhausted but certain that I had found a type of Salibu in the company of very generous friends who allowed me to share in Tabaski, a religious festival and a very special family day.

Before Tabaski

Unusually at 8a.m., the office is completely deserted this morning. It is Friday, 4^th November and the official last working day before Tabaski. The American tradition of Thanksgiving comes to mind. As there, here in The Gambia, the country is criss-crossed by generations of people travelling to get back to their hometown for the family gathering.  Everyone has suddenly uprooted and gone: by push bike, motor cycle, car, gelly or donkey cart. The actual timing of the festival varies across the country. In some areas it will be Sunday, in others Monday and will almost certainly extend beyond just one day. Looking around at the virtual ghost town that Mansa Konko has suddenly become, I would not be surprised if normal life were not regained for at least a full week.

All this apart, I do expect The Senior Education Officer, Musa, and the multi-talented secretary Sohna, to arrive within the hour, perhaps when the power is restored for the day; so I wait under the tree by the driveway. Musa works tirelessly; usually late into the night making good use of the electricity that powers his computer. Sohna, turns her hand to anything: typing, various computer programs, cooking, supplying the office staff daily with her home made soft drink called Wonja which is deliciously rich in vitamin C. Despite its fruity taste it is actually made from red leaves.

Sohna and Musa are fairly untypical of the Gambian education work force, because they live locally with their families. Once qualified, education personnel can be posted anywhere in the country to meet the need. They are billeted in extraordinarily basic digs. Many young women teachers also bring their very young children with them too. But Sohna and Musa live in Soma, in houses of their own choosing.

I am reflecting on a very busy time here at work. The office ran two, two-day workshops, with only one day between, starting last Saturday at 8a.m. This first meeting was for the 60 head teachers in the Lower River Region. As part of the schedule, I gave my first presentation and was relieved to have “broken the ice” (a very inappropriate metaphor for the Gambia!). I have come to the conclusion that Head teachers share the same characteristics, no matter where they come from. They are enthusiastic, passionate, argumentative and exhausted! My main work task here will be with them and on their behalf. So it was a pleasure to get to know each other well by the end of the second workshop.

During another presentation on Saturday, a very large and beautifully marked cricket jumped onto the table in front of me, alongside the speaker, the Assistant Director. As the deep male voice rang out, the cricket stood at the front edge of the table, bobbing up and down, bending its long graceful legs. He seemed to peer at the audience, glancing this way and that and, to all the world,appeared to be giving the address.  Often books from the past come to mind. On this occasion it was “James and the Giant Peach”

I was right, just before 9a.m. and even after such an exhausting fortnight my two colleagues, Sohna and Musa arrive. Time to start work………

Travelling to the “Big city”

Last Thursday (20^th Oct) I had an appointment with the Gambian Immigration Authority in Banjul to register for a work permit. A simple task you might think. Hmmmm!

The adventure began when I set off with my VSO colleague, Lucy at 7.30 a.m. on Wednesday, the day before. We walked, to the gely gely garage in Soma town. The area buzzed with throngs of people and vehicles, mostly yellow taxis and gely gelies  (rather old and certainly unglamorous mini buses.). The procedure is to buy a hand written, postage stamp sized ticket from the office and then follow the “apprentice”, a youth of about 15, to the next available gely. These do not run to an actual timetable but set off when all seats are sold. This is why it is best to travel early. Ours took only 30 minutes to fill. We sat at the back, on opposite sides of the rear door, facing each other on rows of seats intended for three people but on this occasion accommodated four. In fact, this is probably so for all occasions!  Intended as a 15 seater, our gely accommodated 21 adult passengers, the driver, the apprentice and four young children.

Next to Lucy sat a very pleasant middle aged man who engaged us in conversation now and again throughout the journey. Next to me sat a beautiful, young nursing mother and her baby. Despite limited means of communication we got on well and shared a giggle or two. On my other side sat the apprentice whom I marvelled at throughout our trip. He was most definitely the one in charge: collecting fares, giving change, dictating whose luggage was deemed suitable for inside and whose had to go up top, as well as negotiating the additional costs involved.

Certain livestock, such as chickens were deemed suitable for inside travel and came aboard, flapping and fussing with their legs tied together. However, once stowed under their owners’ seats they quickly settled, pecking at tasty crumbs on the floor.

Less fortunate were the Tabasci rams. (Tabasci is THE  annual family feast celebration, in early November). The rams have been invited to the meal; indeed they will play a central role!

These poor creatures were hauled and pushed up onto the roof to be secured by the apprentice, who then swung himself off, over and down, through the rear doors to his seat. At every “stop” the apprentice was in action and almost every time the driver left without him. This troubled no one, least of all the young apprentice himself who would simply sprint and jump aboard, unperturbed and without effort.

One such stop in a remote country village was to pick up 6 huge bags of flour, probably weighing a hundred weight each. Luggage, sacks and rams on the roof were speedily rearranged (by guess who) and a team of men simply pushed these massive sacks up the side of the gely. Mission accomplished, the man who had made this arrangement was able to leave the gely.

I felt so sorry for the young man who took his place with us at the next village. He was smartly dressed and showed obvious delight at his luck in gaining passage to Serrakunda (the end of the journey). After ten miles or so, he leaped to his feet having realised he had forgotten something. The apprentice let him off having signalled the driver to stop. He hadn’t the heart to charge anything for the aborted trip and with a generous gesture waived the fare offered. We watched as our recent, if all too brief, travel companion began the long walk back home in absolute dejection.

The first two hours of our journey was along the unmade section of the south bank highway and so we bumped, rattled and swerved our way along. The second part proved kinder thanks to the surface tarmac. Lucy and I got off at The Co-operative, in Westfield, just before Serrankunda Market at 1p.m. After a fifteen minute walk in the hot sun, we dropped off her bags at a friend’s house and caught a seven-seven taxi to La Parisienne for lunch.  By the way, the taxis are called seven- sevens because each passenger pays seven Dalasis for the trip, of whatever length, along a set route. It’s a great way to meet local people and practice our Mandinka. But La Parisienne, provides a small taste of France. For lunch I had a croissant with apricot jam and vanilla ice cream to follow.

By 4 p.m it was time to go our separate ways. Lucy returned to her friend’s house in Westfield and I walked to Timbooktoo, a marvellous bookshop where I had planned to meet Mary at 5p,m on her way home from work at the Royal Victoria Teaching Hospital in Banjul. Mary kindly put me up until early Sunday morning for the trip home. But that’s a completely different story. Watch this space!!

My Gambian Day

Here in my little house in Soma, mid way up the country on the south side of the river, my alarm rings at 6.50 a.m. but often I am not fully asleep. Usually I have drifted in and out of sleep for a while, woken by the heat, the dawn chorus and the distant call to prayer. All of these sounds are soothing, making it a pleasant start to each day, especially as I sleep very deeply here throughout each peaceful African night. My rest is aided by a new thick foam mattress on my bed and an electric fan beside it.  This rechargeable fan was bought, on the advice of a friend, before I left the city. Not a night goes by when I am not grateful. The nights are hot and as the evening electricity service runs from 7p.m to 2a.m, it is vital to have a fan to continue to cool the air until dawn.

Once up it does not take me long to get ready for work. I “bath” outside in my secluded yard, wearing the Croc shoes that Pippa gave me as farewell present in July. I soap up and rinse off by throwing cups full of water over me from a bucket. Then I tie back my hair and drink a typical English cup of tea. Typical that is apart from UHT milk which I am now used to. I try to moisturise my face but often it is too wet through perspiration to do this well. I dress always in simple thin cotton and never bother with make up.

Locking the bolt on the metal rear door is difficult but eventually I always manage it. At 7.50  I pick up my large shoulder bag packed with lap top, litre of cold water, small towel and mobile phone and leave by the front door which I must secure with a padlock.

The ten minute walk along the sandy road to the Mansa Konko office is one of the high points of the day. I meet lots of people I am beginning to know; at the fire station or in vehicles as well as the many senior school students who walk alongside me. Traditional greetings of “Salaam Maleekum” and Maleekum Salaam” are exchanged.

My place of work is the Head Office of the region’s education department. My desk is in the office with the Assistant Director's. Ours is the first office in the block and luckily is efficiently air conditioned after 9 o’clock when the electricity is restored for the daytime hours, until 4p.m.

I thoroughly enjoy the company of the people I work with. They have made me very welcome. My main task at the moment is to devise systems to support school management and to this end have been given a brand new computer which should be installed tomorrow. I also visited my first Gambian school today which was only a short motor cycle ride away in Pakilinding. The head master and I were in agreement on so many school issues and he felt very positive about my work here so far. I am sure that this paves the way for far more collaboration to come. VSO believes in “exchange of skills”. Both in the office and at Pakilinding School, I feel we are well on our way.

The afternoon today was spent as usual back in the office with the customary delicious food bowl, served just after 3p.m. This is a large platter of a rice based dish that we all share, using a spoon or fingers (right hand only).

Often I am fortunate in getting a lift back home in the office truck. Alieu drives and we usually pick up a few others on the journey. For them it is standing room only in the back!

The evenings are short. After another cold bath to cool off, and a chat on the veranda with my VSO neighbours, we share a light meal, taking it in turns to cook. At some time we usually go together through the scrubby grass, the 30 metres or so to collect our water from the tap. As we must collect all the water we use, we waste little. Several litres are poured into our water filters, ensuring a good drinking supply, vital considering the temperatures here. Later I spend a short time working on my laptop, either planning work or more usually emailing. I am so grateful to everyone who takes the time to contact me this way. It makes a huge difference to being here. There is always time each evening for other hobbies too.  I am sewing a little at the moment. In an effort to make my little house more welcoming I am making curtains, hanging them on string secured by nails. I chose material from the market that is fresh and cheerful: a plain gingham check in green and white.

Yes my house in dressed in Sarratt School summer uniform!

Journey To Soma

Alieu, our driver was early! We could set off, as planned, from the shared house in Kanefing at 9.45 a.m. in a very loaded truck. Just when it was absolutely full, Alieu tied on four dining chairs!

Our journey on the south road took us through Brikama and on eastward.  We enjoyed two hours of good road; then endured two and a half hours of unmade-up road the rest of the way.

We ate fresh buttered tapalata bread and fruit, drinking water from bottles and bags we had stored in the freezer overnight. After almost four and a half hours, the undulating red soil landscape became lined with electricity pylons, signalling that our destination was close.

Dropping me off was done without ceremony; Sarah had much further to go before nightfall. However despite his other pressures of the day, Alieu ensured that my two ring gas cooker was fully connected and the fridge moved to my place of choice. These two items constitute the kitchen.

As I stood, I slowly took stock of the two roomed house and realised that this was the real start of my Gambian posting. The house is on the northern rural edge of the village, being one of a block of eight. It had been unoccupied for a while and struck me as bleak, dark and unwelcoming. The roof and hence the ceiling inside is corrugated iron. The small front room window and main entrance door are made up of blue metal louvers which restrict much of the light. The brighter backroom is my bedroom. Here the solid metal back door and window shutter can be left open to let in air and light but the mosquito gauzes were in need of a very good brushing. The backdoor opens onto what might be called a yard but is in fact my bathroom. This is where I will bring my plastic tub and bucket for a “bath”. The fixed facility is a hole in the ground toilet. Suddenly I fell into the “slough of despond”. Why on earth had I come here?

 I decided that the best course of action was to get busy and fill the “sideboard” in the front room.

Out went all the much used old stuff that I found, together with the cockroach, the droppings (possibly mouse); on went the Dettol, and in went all my newly bought equipment and tinned food. I then set about re- arranging the modest amount of lounge/kitchen furniture and making good use of in situ wall nails to display my African fabric wall hanging and a few good utensils.

Suddenly, Mr Jawneh, my landlord, appeared to help put up the mosquito net and change the light bulb. Before we could start I had to rearrange the bedroom furniture which in total is: one double bed and one large chest of drawers. Decisions, decisions!

When Mr Jawneh left and established volunteer neighbour, Ellie, had been in for another of her many “cheer up chats”, since my arrival, I began to feel better but also felt the sudden “call of nature”.

It was time to brave the hole in the ground outside. The hole is in fact keyhole shaped, situated in the centre of a dome of concrete about 1.3 metres square. Helpfully two footprints are located as markers either side. Using these as my guide I tried out this new facility – and missed!

There will be better days.

Our Last Sunday in the Shared House

I woke with the 6a.m. Call to Prayer.

It was still very dark and, thankfully, cool. As the skies lightened, over the next half hour, early morning bird song filled the air; eventually only the cries of the persistent cockerel remained.

For sometime I lay in my bed surrounded by mosquito netting, enjoying the sounds and the stillness of the Gambian dawn, thinking about starting the last Sunday here in the shared house. There are only four of us here now, since Gareth left for his Kerewan placement, on Thursday. He was always the first up each day, but this morning it was me. I ventured into the bathroom to find that the water was still running. This is always a joyous start as the morning’s ritual is so difficult if the cistern, the sink and bucket need filling from a 20 litre container. This morning I was in luck.

Ten minutes later when I had the kettle on the little LPG hob in the kitchen for tea, I heard a cheery “Good morning” from Liam. I made tea for both of us and the usual incredibly sweet one for our day watchman, Omar who drank his under the stoop at the front of the house.

Morning teatime gives me the opportunity to sort out the water filter for the day ahead. As I sip from the mug in one hand, the other holds one of several 1.5litre bottles. Slowly the water siphons from the lower filter chamber filling each bottle in turn and the new stock can be stored in the fridge. In the African heat there is nothing to beat a long cold drink of clean water. We carry a bottle with us wherever we go and drink frequently.

As the temperature of the day rose, so did Suki and Sarah. After we had all contacted our families back in the UK, we set about clothes washing in buckets, pegging things out on the line in the back yard. When we go outside we often disturb the small lizards and beautiful butterflies that scurry or flutter away, bringing a little magic to a mundane task.

In the yard, Sarah struck up a conversation with our neighbour who was removing a branch of a grapefruit tree that was endangering his roof. She happily accepted his gift of four green, but ripe, grapefruit. Breakfast for the week ahead!

This week will also bring the last part of our motor cycle training, before we go our separate ways “up country”. Liam leaves us tomorrow and the rest of us expect to go next Saturday.

Being together these last few weeks, getting used to the vagaries of the water and electric supply and using Mandinka  greetings to respond to the warmth of our neighbours, has been very reassuring for us all.

Over half of our group of VSO volunteers have houses around the Kanefing and Fajara area and so the “up country” ones of us know can return for a weekend now and again but in more ways than this, the friendships begun here will sustain us through the rest of the year ahead.

I wonder what my home in Soma will be like.

Settling in

After a week and a half here, based in the main VSO office in Fajara near Banjul, I now feel far less nervous than I did before leaving the UK.
Much of this is down to the Gambian community as a whole, the VSO staff here and the group of volunteers who came out with me on 1st September.
I'm sure the nerves may return in a fortnight when those of us who are to be working "up country" undertake the long road journey to our rural homes to begin our work in earnest. In the meantime we continue with our training here. Our first week was in the delightful Safari Garden Hotel, but we have now moved into houses, either as individuals or a group for more autonomous living: shopping, cooking, cleaning and attempting to hold conversations with our Gambian neighbours who are amazingly welcoming and friendly.
VSO's training has been well planned; establishing cultural awareness links, language lessons in Mandinka or Wollof as well as time to socialize as a new team.
We laugh often and learn much, despite (or perhaps even because of) our wide ranging backgrounds, skills and ages. We certainly have much to look forward to in the year to come.
As they say in Mandinka "Tanante", no problem.

Here goes

The end of the summer break looms and I have to admit to beginning to feel rather nervous about the year ahead.
As colleagues and friends prepare to return to school my preparations are for a two stage flight this Thursday to Banjul in The Gambia. I am pleased to say that thanks to a VSO training session earlier this month I know  five other volunteers who will be travelling with me. In fact we will stay together for the first few weeks after arrival for additional training.

Throughout the holiday, friends and loved ones have written, visited or phoned to say farewell. This has been much needed and I have found it very reassuring but also extremely difficult to say goodbye to each one. Sudenly a year seems a very long time indeed.
I have had to remind myself often why I decided to become a VSO volunteer. This helps quell the nerves and re-awaken the excitement. I know I will miss everyone and hope that we can keep in touch by electronic means (To this end I owe many thanks to Dom and his considerable patience).
Bye for now
Chris

Life After Sarratt School

Summer at school traditionally brings celebration, excitement and some trepidation.

The reason for this is the numbers of pupils that always leave us at the end of this term after many years here, our Year 6 class.

Their future destination will impact hugely on their lives and so it was with enormous relief and celebration we learned that every child in the class has been allocated a school chosen by their parents. Most pupils are off to our two excellent local schools, St Clement Danes and Kings Langley. Small groups or individuals are joining superb schools, a little further afield: Rickmansworth, Watford Grammar, Parmiter’s, Queens and St Michaels.

Every child in the class has made a wonderful contribution to life at Sarratt School and is a credit to their family. We know they will continue to thrive and wish them every success at their new school.

Many of you will know that I too am leaving the school at the end of this term, certainly sharing the pupils’ excitement and trepidation at the thought of pastures new after so many years, enjoying the best job possible anywhere. Unlike the children, my exact destination is as yet unknown but I have been accepted by VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) to work developing education provision, somewhere in the Third World.

Like the pupils, I have learned a lot here and hope to put it to good use.

Christine Buck

Head teacher

JustGiving Fundraising Site

To help support my time away with VSO, please visit http://www.justgiving.com/cabuck
Many thanks.